This is an indescribable torture. The severe pain on my back came one after another, and each slap made my body have strong spasms, making me want to struggle and hold something tight. But my reason was nailed to the spot by that ridiculous order.

I didn't dare to touch any part of his upper body, and I even became cautious when breathing, for fear that my heavy breathing would blow any fiber on his shirt.

I could only press my forehead against his thigh like a humble dog with a broken spine. The fabric of the trousers had a cold and rough touch, mixed with his faint woody perfume, which crazily penetrated my nostrils.

"Crack!"

"Crack!"

The sound of the belt waving echoed in the quiet room, monotonous and cruel.

Schroeder's breathing was still terrifyingly steady. He was like a detached executioner, coldly controlling the rhythm and power. He didn't even have to look at me, just feel how often I was shaking in pain between his legs.

"It hurts...Schroeder...it hurts..." I finally couldn't help crying.

Tears burst down the bank, instantly soaking the fabric of his trousers. I felt so ashamed, but I couldn't help it. I didn't dare to look up, because I knew that if I did, I might collapse into his arms and wrinkle that sacrosanct white shirt.

I could only shrink down as hard as I could, pressing my cheek tightly against the edge of his trousers. Sweat dripped down my forehead and mixed with tears, dyeing the dark gray fabric a deep dark color.

What made me feel even more desperate and broken was that in this extreme restraint and pain, my body betrayed me again.

That familiar, shameful heat rose in my belly again. Since I was strictly prohibited from touching his upper body, all my senses were forced to focus on the pain and the small area in contact with his suit pants.

Every time the belt fell, it brought not only pain, but also a strange, numb electric current that ran along the spine and down the lower body.

I'm hard. Even more thorough than last time.

Between his straight trousers and under his cold gaze, I fell into extreme lust because of the pain and the forced restraint.

"You're crying, Peter."

Schroeder's voice finally came from above, with a hint of husky sex appeal.

He stopped lashing. A hand fell gently on the back of my head. His fingers were woven into my sweat-soaked hair. It was an almost gentle soothing movement, which was in fatal contrast to the violence he had just done.

"Lift your head," he ordered.

I raised my head slowly and shakily. My face was covered with tears and sweat, my eyes were red, and I must have looked extremely embarrassed. And he still looked that well-dressed and spotless. The white shirt was still as smooth as new, without even an extra wrinkle.

His deep eyes reflected my unbearable look, and his gaze moved slightly downwards, landing on my body that was trembling slightly due to emotion.

"You did a great job, Peter." The corner of his mouth curved into a dangerous smile, "You didn't wrinkle my shirt. To reward you..."

He suddenly threw away the belt in his hand, grabbed the edge of my pajamas with both hands, and pulled down hard.

"No-" I exclaimed briefly, but was immediately overwhelmed by a huge sense of shame.

I was completely exposed to his gaze.

He didn't touch me with his hands. He still maintained that tall stance. He just spread his legs slightly, and then, with his knees in dark gray trousers, he gently and undeniably pressed against my most vulnerable place.

"Since we are helping each other..." He lowered his head, his eyes so dark that they seemed to absorb all the light, "Then move on your own. It doesn't matter if it stains my pants, but remember, don't touch my shirt."

This sentence completely defeated my last psychological defense.

I completely collapsed in extreme shame and longing. Like a madman, I buried my face in his trousers, crying and enduring the severe pain that remained on my back, and climaxed under the rough friction of his fabric.

Tears, sweat, and those turbid white liquids made a mess, all rubbing against the edge of his expensive trousers.

I collapsed on the floor, gasping for breath, and my mind went blank.

I don’t know how long it took, but Schroeder finally moved. He took a few tissues from the table next to him and wiped the stains on his trousers roughly but carefully.

Then, he bent down and pulled me up from where I was lying on the ground.

He didn't say anything, just wrapped his arms around me. This is a hug. But it was a hug through cold cloth.

His arms were strong, but I couldn't feel any warmth. That white shirt without a trace of wrinkles was like an indestructible ice wall, isolating us. I leaned on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat, and my nose was filled with the scent of his sensible and cool perfume.

"Do you feel better?" He patted my back, his tone returning to his usual casual and calm tone among roommates.

I closed my eyes and swallowed the bitter tears back into my stomach.

"Yeah." I replied hoarsely.

"That's good." He let go of me and turned towards the bathroom, leaving a straight and cold back.

"Peter," he stopped at the bathroom door without looking back, his voice was particularly clear in the empty living room, "Don't think too much. We are all bottom, this is just to meet physiological needs."

I stood there, looking at the dark water stain on the edge of his trousers, and clenched my fists hard.

"I know." I said word by word to his back and myself, "This is just..."

If you tell a lie a hundred times, will you even believe it? I have no idea. All I know is that on this night when white shirts are not allowed to be wrinkled, we are all desperately using this excuse to hide the monsters deep inside that are growing crazily and about to get out of control.