Spencer Lake grips the wooden paddle hard as James Holt kneels on the locker room bench, his ass raised for the first sharp strike. The paddle cracks against Holt’s exposed cheeks, leaving red marks where the paddle’s edge bites deep. Holt braces himself on the bench, muscles tensed as Lake delivers another controlled blow, the sound sharp and deliberate in the confined space. The bench’s cold metal presses into Holt’s knees, holding him steady while Lake’s rhythm never falters.
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