No Limits

by Nicki Bennett

  “What’s this, then?” Devon’s voice was harsh as he strode into the room, the makeshift robe they’d nicked from Wardrobe swirling around his trouser legs. “Lewd behavior again, Mr. Webster? And profanity on top of it, Mr. Braedon? That will double your punishment.”

  The two perpetrators stared at him in wide-eyed shock. “On your feet!” Devon ordered sharply, hiding his grin as they scrambled to stand before him. “I didn’t tell you to dress, Braedon!” he added when Jonathan started to pull up his pants. “Since you found it necessary to undress to break this school’s code of conduct, you can face the consequences the same way.” He eyed the damp cotton of Kit’s white briefs—purchased especially for today’s games—and the softening but still wet length of Jonathan’s cock with scorn. “What do you have to say for yourselves?”

  “It’s all my fault, Sir,” Kit said immediately, not looking at the headmaster. “Don’t punish Braedon, Sir.” This hadn’t been in the script they’d talked about, but Kit knew this was his fantasy they were playing out, not Jonathan’s, and he wanted to give his lover one last chance to opt out. Not that he expected Jonathan to agree—or Devon, for that matter—but he needed to make the offer.

  “That’s not true, Sir!” Jonathan interrupted. “It wouldn’t be fair to punish Kit when I—when I was the one being—being—”

  “Being pleasured?” Devon drawled. “Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself, Braedon, because I doubt either of you will enjoy what I’m about to do to you.”

  “What are you going to do, Sir?” Kit asked in a small voice, stomach jumping at the anticipated answer. He could feel the muscles in his arse tightening already in preparation for the cane.

  “You know the penalty for transgressions, Webster,” Devon snapped. “Half a dozen stripes on your bare bottom.” He watched the bulge at the front of the younger man’s briefs thicken at his words and barely hid his smile at Kit’s reaction. “Go fetch the cane from my office.” He nodded toward their bedroom, where he’d left the switch he’d selected lying across the bed.

  Kit resisted the urge to stick his hands in his pockets as he trudged with mock reluctance toward the “office.” The thought of baring his arse and presenting it for his caning had him hardening, much as he’d done when Devon had spanked him a couple of weeks ago. “Yes, Sir.”

  “And you, Braedon—three stripes for you, since Webster was the instigator.” Jonathan opened his mouth to protest, but Devon glared him down before he could speak. “I didn’t ask you to comment, boy! And three more for the profanity you uttered. Say anything else and I’ll add more.”

  Jonathan subsided, his expression sullen as he slouched awkwardly, his trousers bunched around his knees. Devon gave him a smart crack on his ass, making Jonathan’s head snap up in shock. “Stand up straight, Braedon! In fact, go stand over there in the corner. You’ll have a good view of Webster’s punishment so you’ll know what you can look forward to. And don’t slouch, or you’ll earn yourself more stripes.” Jonathan shuffled away, taking the position Devon ordered as Kit returned carrying a slender length of rattan about a yard long, the handle wrapped in leather.

  “Here you are, Sir,” Kit said, handing the headmaster the cane, his head still bowed respectfully, hoping not to make matters worse. He snuck a glance at Jonathan standing in the corner, the tip of his cock just peeking out between his shirttails. Kit knew his own would be begging for attention the moment the headmaster ordered him to lower his pants.

  Devon’s fingers curled around the cane, and he took a swing that cut the air with an audible hiss. He saw Jonathan’s posture stiffen where he stood to the side, but his main attention was focused on Kit, whose eyes widened. His olive complexion paled at the ominous sound—but his cock twitched noticeably, the damp spot growing on the front of his briefs. Devon paused, considering how best to position Kit to minimize the strain on his back, though the silence would only heighten Kit’s tension.

  The whoosh of the cane brought back memories of classmates made to suffer such punishments when he was a boy in school. Kit had always skated just shy of the line to end up in the front of the class being punished, but his classmates had generally considered the stripes as marks of pride afterward, so he figured it couldn’t be too terrible an experience. His cock twitched as he waited silently for the headmaster’s next order.

  Eyeing the chair Jonathan had been sitting in when he entered, Devon nudged it forward with his foot until it was positioned where he wanted it. “Bend forward over that,” he instructed. “Take down your trousers, hold on to the back, and don’t let go until I tell you.”

  Kit followed the instructions to the letter, letting his trousers and briefs drop to his ankles before reaching for the back of the chair. The air in the room was cool on his bare backside, making him hyperaware of his partial nudity. He was sure that was the intention. It certainly had the effect of making his cock stand up and take notice.

  Devon’s eyebrows rose, and he didn’t try to hide his smile as Kit shifted into place as ordered, his bare arse lifted temptingly. “This excites you, boy?” he growled, using the tip of the cane to stroke up the underside of the younger man’s erect shaft. “Think you’re going to enjoy it?”

  “No, Sir,” Kit replied automatically, even as his body made a lie of his words, his cock twitching eagerly at the currently painless touch. Devon arched an eyebrow at him. “I don’t know, Sir,” Kit replied more honestly, “but….”

  “You needn’t think I’m going to take it easy on you.” Devon flexed his wrist, the movement vibrating up the supple length of wood to stir it against Kit’s cock. “You think sucking cock makes you a man? Let’s see if you can take your punishment like one, then.”

  Watching from the corner, Jonathan bit his lip to keep from asking Devon to let him take Kit’s blows, or at least to let him go first. He understood that Kit wanted this; more, that Kit needed to prove, to his own satisfaction, that his lovers accepted that he didn’t need to be coddled. That didn’t mean it would be any easier to watch.

  “I’ll do my best, Sir,” Kit answered hoarsely. Devon truly was a master. Each little brush of the cane, each comment, stretching the moment out, wound Kit’s nerves tighter and tighter until he was all but vibrating with an odd mixture of anticipation, fear, and desire. He could feel Jonathan’s gaze on him as well. He glanced back over his shoulder, seeking his lover’s blue eyes. He read the concern there, even across the room, and wished he could reassure Jonathan again that he was here willingly, but he didn’t want to say anything that would shatter the illusion they’d created. He settled for a tremulous smile, hoping that would fit the character and meet his goal.

  Not missing the exchange of glances between the two “schoolboys,” Devon twitched the cane one more time, sending Kit’s cock bouncing against his belly, before drawing it back. Instead of swinging it, he brought it to rest almost tenderly against Kit’s backside, letting the silence build until even Jonathan was stirring with restlessness. Then, without warning, he flexed his wrist, the length of rattan jumping up and making contact again with an audible crack.

  “Oh, fu—fu—fu—fudge,” Kit stuttered, trying to stop the expletive before it turned into another blow. Unable to stop himself, he reached for his stinging backside, rubbing at the smarting flesh. His erection wilted with the pain, but he was determined to see this through. And he was quite sure Devon would reward him for it later.

  Gentling his swing, Devon delivered a warning rap against Kit’s knuckles, just enough to sting. “Move that hand or you won’t be using it for a week,” he warned. Kit snatched his hand back quickly, revealing a vivid red welt across the fleshiest part of his buttocks. The corners of Devon’s lips rose in the ghost of a smile; he hadn’t lost his touch. “Very pretty,” he purred, glancing up at Jonathan, who was watching with wide eyes. “Five more,” he reminded, raising the cane again. “Count them out, Webster.” The rattan whistled and a second line blossomed, parallel to the first.

  “Tw
o, Sir,” Kit gasped as the second strike landed. He almost called a halt, but Devon’s words echoed in his head, and for the first time, he truly understood the mentality of a sub who would accept something uncomfortable in order to please his Dom. This had started at his request, but it was more than that now. He wanted to make Devon proud of him, wanted to wear his master’s marks. His head dropped as he panted slightly through the pain, waiting for the next blow to fall. To his surprise, as he let himself go, the pain faded enough to make room again for the same pleasure he had known when Devon spanked him.

  Jonathan’s nails bit into his palms, his fists clenching harder when the second blow fell. His cock softened as he watched, finding nothing erotic about seeing Kit suffer. If the cane were marking his own backside, maybe, but watching Kit struggle against voicing his pain was more difficult for Jonathan than taking the strokes himself. He wanted to close his eyes, but he knew he needed to keep watching, owing Kit the acceptance of his wishes even as he’d asked Kit to accept his own desire to have Devon fist him two weeks ago. At least now he better understood why Kit had reacted the way he did. Watching was completely different than experiencing.

  The pause between blows gave the heat a chance to spread over Kit’s arse so that the sting eased slightly. When the third blow still hadn’t fallen after almost half a minute, he turned his head, seeking Devon’s eyes and the reassurance that he had not somehow disappointed the schoolmaster.

  Devon knew what Kit’s glance was asking, but he refused to be rushed, waiting until the dark head turned away again before raising his arm. The cane whistled a third time, the evenly spaced mark a perfect mirror of its predecessors. Kit’s gasp was louder this time, the pause longer before he managed a choked, “Three… Sir.”

  Kit’s head hung between his arms as he tried to breathe through the spreading pain. He’d made it halfway. He could make it the rest of the way. He simply had to. He couldn’t disappoint Devon by calling uncle halfway through the scene.

  Devon paused, his hesitation this time less about ratcheting up the tension than assessing Kit’s condition. The three welts would be throbbing fiercely, though he’d been careful not to strike hard enough to break the skin. He knew exactly how Kit’s arse would feel—as if it were on fire, the slightest breath of air as he moved enough to fan the flame even higher. He had his doubts as to whether his lover could bear another three blows, but assuming he knew what Kit could handle was what had led them to this point in the first place. Rubbing his wrist, he glanced across the room to where Jonathan stood in the corner, eyes fixed on Kit’s face, his teeth worrying his lower lip. This was nearly as hard on Jonathan as it was on either of them. Suddenly wanting the session over with, Devon flicked his wrist again, adding a fourth mark, lower this time, close to the crease where Kit’s arse met his thighs.

  Kit moaned when the fourth blow fell, his knees buckling slightly as the pain washed over him. He opened his mouth to try to count the blow, but he couldn’t make the words come out. He took a deep breath and tried again, but he simply could not do it. “Frodo,” he gasped instead, stomach churning at the thought of opting out of the scene early, but he simply could not take another blow, much less two. He looked over at Jonathan, seeing sympathy on his face, then up at Devon. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

  The session ending as soon as Kit uttered his safeword, Devon dropped to his knees beside the chair, the cane falling forgotten from his grasp. Knowing better than to touch the reddened backside yet, he ran a soothing hand through Kit’s hair. “You’ve nothing to apologize for,” he assured him, fingers tracing Kit’s jaw, lifting his chin to meet his gaze. “Nothing—and nothing to prove. You know your limits, and you were smart enough to recognize when you reached them.” He motioned Jonathan over to join them, his other hand closing over Kit’s where they still gripped the back of the chair. “Jon, go fetch the jar from the dresser. It will help ease our kitten’s tender backside.”

  Sinking to his knees, careful to keep his arse far away from his heels, Kit leaned toward Devon, needing the touch to reaffirm his Dom’s encouraging words. The tender use of the most intimate of the nicknames his lovers had given him helped ease some of his fears, but the scene had left him uncertain. He’d been so confident he could handle this, and to have that confidence shaken left him in need of comfort. From both his lovers.

  Devon wrapped his arms carefully around Kit and smoothed his palms up and down the trembling back. “Proud of you,” he murmured, hoping Kit knew he meant more than just his ability to bear the blows. Recognizing that he couldn’t assume Kit would understand, he clarified, “Proud that you trusted me enough to use your safeword.”

  Jonathan knelt beside them, offering the open jar of salve to Devon. He wasn’t sure if it was acceptable for him to speak yet, but he let his free hand curl around Kit’s where it hung at his side, offering his own silent comfort.

  Not releasing his grip on Devon’s waist, Kit reached for Jonathan as well. “I’m sorry you got left out,” he said, remembering how he’d felt watching Devon and Jonathan together. He didn’t want a repeat of that now. Not when they were finally back on track again. At least he hoped they were still on track after this fiasco.

  “Don’t be,” Jonathan answered, stroking Kit’s cheek after Devon took the jar from him. “I would have taken them for you if I could, but I’m just as happy to skip them. If Devon doesn’t mind?” he added, his gaze moving from one lover to the other.

  Devon shook his head, dipping up a generous portion of the balm. “I know this wasn’t your scene, Jon,” he said. “Not really mine either, truth be told. School couldn’t have ended soon enough for me; I don’t feel any special need to relive those memories.” Gently, he spread the cool salve over the welts on Kit’s buttocks. “That help some, sunshine?”

  Kit nodded, shifting experimentally as the salve eased the burning somewhat. “I messed things up again, didn’t I, asking for more than I could handle?”

  Setting the jar aside, Devon shifted to kneel beside the chair, taking Kit’s hand in both of his. Dealing with his sub’s emotional state was often more crucial than tending to the physical aftereffects, especially when a scene ended the way this one had—the damage could be far worse if he mishandled it. “You didn’t mess anything up,” Devon assured him, his gaze holding Kit’s, filled with love and pride. “Let’s get you off this chair and into bed, and then we can talk about it. Your back and your backside will thank you for it.”

  Jonathan rose to his feet, one hand still holding Kit’s, the other cupping his elbow to help him stand from his bent-over position. He didn’t miss the wince as Kit’s back straightened; his gaze flashed worriedly to Devon, who nodded in reassurance. “C’mon, Kit, bed sounds good to me too right now.”

  Kit let them help him into the bedroom, still too unsettled to do more than follow where they led. He wanted to believe their reassurances, but a part of him still felt like he’d failed his Dom. He stood still as Devon unbuttoned his shirt and helped him finish undressing. His back twinged and his arse ached. And his heart pounded as he waited to see if Devon or Jonathan would pull away.

  As Devon dropped Kit’s clothes onto a chair, Jonathan helped Kit ease down to the bed and shift onto his side. The position kept Kit’s arse clear of the mattress and gave Jonathan his first close-up view of the angry red welts marking it. He bit back the instinctive words of sympathy before they could escape his lips, reminding himself that Kit had asked for this, partly to prove he was stronger than he thought Devon and Jonathan considered him. The last thing Jonathan wanted was to say anything that Kit might interpret as pity or condescension. Instead, he lay on the bed behind Kit, careful not to brush against the enflamed skin, and pressed a gentle kiss on his shoulder.

  Devon joined them on the bed, facing Kit and Jonathan. He slid an arm over Kit’s waist, the other hand tipping up Kit’s chin to meet his eyes. “Better now?”

  Kit started to nod, but Devon’s piercing gaze refused to let him lie. Midmo
vement, he changed the nod to a shake of his head.

  “You don’t have to pretend to be strong for us,” Devon murmured, relieved that Kit felt safe enough to give an honest answer. When Kit started to speak, he leaned in to stop the words with a soft kiss. “We need to talk this through. First of all, if you’re thinking you disappointed me by safewording, don’t. Do you remember when I told you about Blaine?” It still wasn’t any easier for Devon to talk about that experience, but he had to put Kit’s well-being above his own unease. When Kit gave a hesitant nod, Devon continued. “I knew the cutting was more than Blaine could take, but he wouldn’t safeword. He was more afraid of Robert than he was of what I was doing to him.” Even now, Devon’s gut ached with remembered shame. “I don’t ever want you to feel that way.”

  “I’m still a lousy excuse for a sub,” Kit muttered. “I can’t lose myself in our scenes the way Jonathan does.”

  Startled at Kit’s admission, Jonathan shook his head in protest, but a concerned glance from Devon stopped him before he could speak. He squeezed Kit’s shoulder instead, hoping the gentle touch could convey his loving support without words.

  Devon slid a hand beneath Kit’s chin, raising his head to meet his gaze. “Is Jonathan a better actor than you because he was cast as Arthur and you were cast as Percival?” When Kit didn’t answer, he continued, “You’re two different men, Kit. There isn’t a single right way to be a sub, and it isn’t a competition. Don’t ever think I want you to be anyone but yourself, even—especially—during a scene. We each bring something unique into this relationship, and we each take something different from it, remember?”