Chapter 15

Aidan yanked on the leash. “You can’t stay upright? On the ground, then. Hands and knees. Like a good pony. My good boy.”

Ink gasped out loud as the command hit, that incandescent line of fire under the banshee’s voice, and fell to the dirt, on hands and knees in the apple orchard, hips up.

Aidan bent over him, gathered his tail up, stroked it—silk through his fingers, an onyx spill that he wanted to feel and play with more—and tucked it over to one side, out of the way.

Nine. Not harder, but equally hard. Centered. Over that now-exposed delicate hole.

Ink cried out, and cried out the number, and began crying for real, after that. His cock swung between spread thighs, harder than ever and leaking copiously, dribbling long pearlescent streamers all the way to the ground.

Aidan knelt beside him, dropped the belt, and pleaded, “Was that okay?”