Against the deep blue of the bedroom wall, the dark wood of the paddle was like a patch of shadow. A few months earlier, Michael had hung the paddle on a nail hammered in with three sharp taps, after threading a loop of leather through a hole bored in the handle. The paddle swung gently back and forth and then settled into place.

Waiting.

Steve was waiting, too. He'd been told to kneel, facing the paddle, and that was what he was doing, perfectly still, the bed behind him, his naked body warm and relaxed now that he'd stopped fighting the emotions that had brought him to this place.

It had been one hell of a day. One petty annoyance after another and the speeding ticket on the way home had been the point at which he'd broken. The cop had let him rant and swear, argue and defend himself, and then written the ticket, handed it over, and murmured, "Go home, Steve. My shift ends in an hour. Get naked, kneel down. You know where. And one more word from you now and you'll spend the night gagged."

Steve closed his eyes for a moment, remembering what Michael's words had done to him. He hadn't said anything after that, his anger diverted into an arousal that each passing moment had honed to a sharp edge it would take Michael hours to blunt and smooth down.

He could feel his cock throb with each breath he took, feel his skin tingle in the breeze coming through the open window. Michael would close it when he came in, and draw the heavy curtains, so that the rush of traffic outside faded to a hum and Steve could make all the noise he needed to. If he got too loud, Michael would know -- Steve would be past caring -- and the gag would take care of that.