[That is embarrassing. He is action bracket embarrassed for you. He is [embarrassed]. Real men threaten blood only when they mean it.]
'the hell--is that an order? Disgusting. You sound just like Vater when you start to hiss and talk like this, now THAT'S unbecoming, someone as scrawny, as pathetic a man as you are, don't deserve to resemble him in anyw--[He's not expecting the blow to land before he's even properly back in place, and so he crashes inelegantly against the hay, jolting foremost with the force of the blow slamming against him. Processing the strength behind the stroke first, then the sound next, absolutely startled by it, for a moment believing it to truly be a gunshot, the pain initially begining as a searing white pain that makes the tender skin of his upper thighs feel as if he's indeed bleeding.
It has him frozen, unbreathing with shock, before his heart begins to beat again and the burn spreads, a fiery, pulsing throbbing sting that he realizes with a gasping wince that he will feel whenever he sits. Fuck. He's writing against the hay in the moment you take to wipe your boots off and collect yourself, his knuckles white as his fingers claw into the hay to brace himself. A vision of shifting, recalcitrant legs, the lines made by his buttocks seesawing rather attractively as he clenches and adjusts his weight fruitlessly in an attempt to ease the pain. Tense beyond tense, the underlying muscles visible in his legs, buttocks. Breathing heavily now, panting. That'll be enough riling you for the night he thinks.]
I thought that was six--[Growling in an undertone he doesn't quite dare say loud enough for you to hear clearly as you lean heavily on him. Feeling a chill run through his body that sparks a warm, delicious electricity to course through him, feeling excitement himself riding the coat tails of his trepidation. He is not ready, not at all, but the blows come, and he melts against the hay as they do with a curse that's disguised as a prayer and masking a moan. Spread properly, a proper, perfect target for that crop. Obediently still and quiet at first, but as that crop travels across his ass and legs, burning him with heat, pain and color, he starts to flag, starts to squirm.
His fingers are the first to betray him, nearly losing control and having them jerk backwards twice to attempt to shield himself from the relentless assault igniting a fire across his ass. He manages to prevent humiliating himself both times however, forcibly redirecting the first lapse of control to abandon his modesty, pulling his shirt above his shoulders to be clenched in his fists, revealing the muscles working at his back, the sweat glistening on his skin, exposing his growing excitement standing at attention between his legs. Preventing the second lapse and any more by forcing his fingers of his remaining hand into his mouth to be pressed between his teeth to stifle the soft cries threatening to spill from his lips.
His legs are the next traitors to his dignity, kicking and nearly buckling as blows land too close to already existing welts, and soon he loses count even with your ringing announcements of the number. His mind disorientated with pain blended with mounting arousal, he is only aware of the steady slap of the crop against him, the intensifying sting spreading from buttocks to his thighs, the pleasurable throb of his hardness growing shamefully with each strike, and the oppressive heat of the barn that seems to grow as the sky darkens and the storm worsens. There's a clap of thunder as the storm breaks and he follows suit, crying out sharply at a blow that by passes a moving leg, and wraps around his inner thigh, too close to sensitive bits for comfort.]
ACH--FUCKIN' CHRIST--[unable to control himself anymore, a hand slipping between his legs to cover where that blow landed too close to intimate spaces. Brushing against his own erection as he does so, groaning in both frustration and embarrassment as he does and wincing, squirming in a way that suggests more than pain. DESPERATE for a reprieve without admitting that he has had enough punishment, knowing they are not quite at fifty. Time for a game of petty diverting, his voice not quite as steady as he'd like it to be, cursing the tremor of unshed tears present within it, the hint of pleading.]
Y-You--A-Aren't you--Aren't you hot, hah?! D-Don't you want to take off that stupid woman's coat or something?!
no subject
'the hell--is that an order? Disgusting. You sound just like Vater when you start to hiss and talk like this, now THAT'S unbecoming, someone as scrawny, as pathetic a man as you are, don't deserve to resemble him in anyw--[He's not expecting the blow to land before he's even properly back in place, and so he crashes inelegantly against the hay, jolting foremost with the force of the blow slamming against him. Processing the strength behind the stroke first, then the sound next, absolutely startled by it, for a moment believing it to truly be a gunshot, the pain initially begining as a searing white pain that makes the tender skin of his upper thighs feel as if he's indeed bleeding.
It has him frozen, unbreathing with shock, before his heart begins to beat again and the burn spreads, a fiery, pulsing throbbing sting that he realizes with a gasping wince that he will feel whenever he sits. Fuck. He's writing against the hay in the moment you take to wipe your boots off and collect yourself, his knuckles white as his fingers claw into the hay to brace himself. A vision of shifting, recalcitrant legs, the lines made by his buttocks seesawing rather attractively as he clenches and adjusts his weight fruitlessly in an attempt to ease the pain. Tense beyond tense, the underlying muscles visible in his legs, buttocks. Breathing heavily now, panting. That'll be enough riling you for the night he thinks.]
I thought that was six--[Growling in an undertone he doesn't quite dare say loud enough for you to hear clearly as you lean heavily on him. Feeling a chill run through his body that sparks a warm, delicious electricity to course through him, feeling excitement himself riding the coat tails of his trepidation. He is not ready, not at all, but the blows come, and he melts against the hay as they do with a curse that's disguised as a prayer and masking a moan. Spread properly, a proper, perfect target for that crop. Obediently still and quiet at first, but as that crop travels across his ass and legs, burning him with heat, pain and color, he starts to flag, starts to squirm.
His fingers are the first to betray him, nearly losing control and having them jerk backwards twice to attempt to shield himself from the relentless assault igniting a fire across his ass. He manages to prevent humiliating himself both times however, forcibly redirecting the first lapse of control to abandon his modesty, pulling his shirt above his shoulders to be clenched in his fists, revealing the muscles working at his back, the sweat glistening on his skin, exposing his growing excitement standing at attention between his legs. Preventing the second lapse and any more by forcing his fingers of his remaining hand into his mouth to be pressed between his teeth to stifle the soft cries threatening to spill from his lips.
His legs are the next traitors to his dignity, kicking and nearly buckling as blows land too close to already existing welts, and soon he loses count even with your ringing announcements of the number. His mind disorientated with pain blended with mounting arousal, he is only aware of the steady slap of the crop against him, the intensifying sting spreading from buttocks to his thighs, the pleasurable throb of his hardness growing shamefully with each strike, and the oppressive heat of the barn that seems to grow as the sky darkens and the storm worsens. There's a clap of thunder as the storm breaks and he follows suit, crying out sharply at a blow that by passes a moving leg, and wraps around his inner thigh, too close to sensitive bits for comfort.]
ACH--FUCKIN' CHRIST--[unable to control himself anymore, a hand slipping between his legs to cover where that blow landed too close to intimate spaces. Brushing against his own erection as he does so, groaning in both frustration and embarrassment as he does and wincing, squirming in a way that suggests more than pain. DESPERATE for a reprieve without admitting that he has had enough punishment, knowing they are not quite at fifty. Time for a game of petty diverting, his voice not quite as steady as he'd like it to be, cursing the tremor of unshed tears present within it, the hint of pleading.]
Y-You--A-Aren't you--Aren't you hot, hah?! D-Don't you want to take off that stupid woman's coat or something?!