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whumblr · 1 year

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I honestly feel that Jay deserved more of a punishment for the collar incident. Perhaps that severe belting Zayne was thinking about?

I think you've got a little something there, yes, right there on your hands, a little red-- So, this is the bad ending :D To this continuation.

Home is where the hurt is: Part 1

Lenient

Zayne’s hand teasingly traced over the belt, slowly unlooping it from Jay’s neck, and exploring Jay’s set-up with a curious expression on his face. Fingers brushed over the shock collar, where the end of the belt rested under the prongs, effectively protecting his skin from painful zaps.

Jay held his breath, carefully watching him. And just when he thought the expression would turn to admiring and he was waiting for the dark chuckle to follow, Zayne’s expression tightened instead.

His hand, caressing the belt up towards his throat – as he would have with Jay wearing a tie – suddenly gripped the leather in a fist. His eyes snapped up to Jay’s and he yanked it away from under the collar.

“You goddamn defiant little shit,” he nearly growled and he doubled the belt over in his hands, pulling it taut with a snap. “That’s it. I’ve been way too lenient with you lately. Take off your shirt.”

Jay actually recoiled. Opened his mouth but realised he couldn’t beg his way out of this. His fingers shakily reached up to the collar, where the prongs bit into his skin again; fully ready to zap him into oblivion as soon as he started to protest.

It was true, though. He had started to get comfortable with Zayne practically running this household and turning from torturer to annoying torturous roommate. If it wasn’t pain, he could tolerate it. Zayne had had other methods of keeping him in check and lately mostly let him get away with a well-placed threat or some other non-violent punishment. He seemed content on controlling Jay through testing his limits, but more the limits of his patience.

And Jay’s fear had slowly dwindled from paralysing to relenting. Settling firmly down in ‘annoyance’ territory.

But not now. He was very much afraid now.

And so he did what he hadn’t done in a while.

He got to his knees. Voluntarily.

Or well, not voluntarily as much, maybe more that he got to his knees without prompting.

He clambered out of bed, eyes wide, shaking his head, and stood in front of Zayne for a moment looking up, pleading with his eyes. And then he sank down. Hands outstretched, still shaking his head.

“Tell me,” Zayne ordered, almost impatiently. But his eyes twinkled as Jay’s knees hit the floor.

Jay closed his eyes for a second, inhaling, exhaling, and preparing for the pain.

“Please—” Pain shot right through him, fast as a bullet crashing through his veins, and he managed to keep his cry to a whimper. “—don’t,” he finished as soon as he could speak again. Another zap of pain but he clenched his teeth and looked up at Zayne.

But there was no mercy to be found in those dark eyes this morning. No little nod, no tilt of the head, no sly grin. No begging or kneeling would get him out of this.

Zayne bent over to him and Jay had to suppress a yelp as Zayne’s fingers slid over his neck, gripped the collar tight, and pulled him up high on his knees. The collar dug in Jay’s throat, constricting his windpipe, the prongs biting into his skin.

“Take off your shirt,” he hissed in Jay’s face as Jay struggled to breathe. He abruptly let go.

Jay slumped over at Zayne’s feet, scrambling back up into a kneeling position. Then his trembling fingers slid down and tried to find the hem, pulled the shirt over his head and he dropped it to the floor. He curled a finger under the collar and pulled at it, glancing up at Zayne to have it removed.

But Zayne just raised his eyebrows, as if he was actually surprised Jay had the guts to ask for it, and very slowly he shook his head.

And at that, Jay’s fear coiled in his stomach. And fell like a lead weight when Zayne pointed a finger at the bed, without a word.

“Please,” he whispered, no longer caring if the words activated his vocal cords. After all, the alternative was much, much worse. “I’m sorry—”

“Yeah, I bet you are.”

Jay shakily got to his feet. He quickly averted his eyes from Zayne’s cold gaze, and with a shiver in his breath glanced down to where Zayne twisted the leather in his hands. Cursing himself he lay back down on his mattress.

Fuck, how could he have been so stupid. Yeah, no, he wasn’t sorry. Sorry he got caught maybe. And usually Zayne kinda liked it when he fought back, even in the stupidest ways. Hell, most of the time he encouraged it.

But Jay had to admit, there was a line between outright disobedience, defiance, and fighting back. Especially when Zayne was in a bad mood. And yeah, maybe he crossed it.

He tried to control his frantic breathing. This was gonna hurt. This was going to hurt so bad. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the blow.

The belt crashed hard over his back and forced out a scream. Electricity immediately followed. It burned through him, as fast as the lash on his back seared through his skin. Another hit landed. And a rhythm of internal and external pain rocked his body.

Zayne just watched. Cold eyes taking in how Jay’s body spasmed in the afterglow of the lash and soon after went rigid with electricity. How he tried and miserably failed to keep his screams contained. Zayne timed the lashings well and without rhythm; sometimes waiting for the electricity to subside, giving Jay time to recover, other times landing another hit mid-scream and watched as the two tortures blend together.

And Jay forced his screams into words. “Please!” Words that drew out in stuttering sobs, words that were effectively cut off by the collar or turned into garbled screams again.

It was an endless cycle that, after a while, continued without a break. Pain weaved into a constant; his back burned and the collar just kept firing hot electricity as he couldn’t control his voice. Even before the pain of a shock subsided, another either already zapped through him as he was still screaming, or it lay in wait, waiting for the belt to strike again.

His lungs couldn’t keep up. He couldn’t breathe and had to gasp for air; activating the collar that again forced that precious air back out.

At some point he vaguely registered that the beating had ended. But that didn’t mean his torment had come to a stop.

His back was firing hot and he squirmed on his stomach with every zap, making a desperate effort to control his voice. But even when he buried his whimpers in his pillow, the collar mercilessly picked up on it.

“Zayne…” he groaned. “Please…. I—AHh! I can’t--!”

Without a word, Zayne pulled the little remote from his pocket. He held it up and after a beat, as if deliberating whether Jay deserved the mercy, deactivated the collar.

“—ankyou…” Jay gasped out, now allowing himself big gulps of air. Exhausted muscles wanted to relax and slump into the mattress, but pain kept his body taut and fear kept it alert. There was no reprieve yet.

The mattress shifted under him but he barely flinched; his mind gave a sharp jolt but his body was unable to follow.

Zayne sat next to him on the bed. He didn’t say a word, didn’t shush him or cooed soft words that it was now over. He just waited as Jay, heaving and squirming, forced himself to calm down.

A finger, cold in contrast, ran lightly over his spine and Jay hissed and twisted away. A full palm now pressed down on the small of his back, encouraging him to stay down, and slowly, agonisingly slow, his hand slid up over the inflamed skin, wavering from its path up to avoid small cuts and drops of blood, until it came to a stop at his neck.

With a soft click, Jay felt the pressure around his throat literally fall away and he could scream in relief.

“’msorry,” he barely groaned instead.

“I know.”

Tag list: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @hurtmebeautifully @rougenoirofthepurpleterror @susiequaz12 @whump-me-all-night-long @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @im-just-here-for-the-whump @restrainthenmaime @freefallingup13 @whatwasmyprevioususername @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @firewheeesky @redstainedsocks @hold-back-on-the-comfort @whumpawink @break-so-beautifully @approach-me-and-ill-cry @painsandconfusion @afabulousmrtake @wormwriting @soopytime @whumpedydump @pickleking8 @itsmyworld98

#whump #whump writing #belting #defiant whumpee #shock collar #torture #angst #my writing #hiwthi #home is where the hurt is #hiwthi drabbles

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strictpleasure · 6 months

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#belting #discipline

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batmanie · 3 months

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Rip apart/Sew anew - Scriddler

The Riddler was weeping, sitting in a darkest corner of his spacious hideout, his back pressed against the cold, basement wall. Scarecrow stood over him, avoiding any sudden movements, simply observing this sad picture of a complete mental deterioration.

Almost every inch of empty surface inside the abandoned orphanage was painted green with riddles, equations, and question marks – the writing was on the wall, in a very literal sense.

“I can’t…” Edward muttered to himself, his voice hushed, his hands covering his head in a protective gesture. “...can’t do it… It won’t work… Why doesn’t it work? Why?”

Scarecrow could see that his right hand was injured, blood from a shallow cut on a side of his palm was oozing into Edward’s messy hair, staining his forehead, and dripping down his face.

Riddler didn’t seem to notice that at all, he just sat there with his knees close to his chest, as if he wanted to make himself look smaller, to shrink, and to disappear from existence.

“Why? Why? WHY?” Edward wailed, tears streaming down his hollow cheeks. “I tried, and they still don’t act the way I programmed them to. I can’t get it right! I don’t know how... I’m a failure! A cheater! Stupid, stupid, stupid…”

Read the full chapter here -> https://archiveofourown.org/works/19347592/chapters/135425050

Warning for a triggering content: psychological torture, abuse, violence, mentioned suicide attempt, and child abuse.

#scriddler #angst #edward nygma #riddler #jonathan crane #scarecrow #batman #bat-mania #temarcia #batman fanfiction #my story #arkhamverse #belting #discipline #dark stuff

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oliviaasks · 4 months

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When you and your sister get in trouble. Dad takes the belt to your bottom in the living room, while mom spanks your sister in her bed room.

#spankee #spankher #spanko #bare bottom #domestic discipline #spankable bottom #belting #belt #strapping #father #role play

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xsweetxpeachx · 11 months

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Photo of the last time you belted yourself?

Light work

#need someone to do it for me #!!!#bruises #belting #asks

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a-painful-ordeal · 9 months

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4. Endless Lists of Don't do That Again.

CW: implications/references to non-con/sexual assault. References to burning. References to slavery. Botched escape attempt. Beating with a belt. Fear of non-con. Non-consensual stripping.

“Just keep your head down, alright?” Was the last thing Trygve told Evan before showing him to the kitchens. And that was exactly what Evan intended to do. At least until he got the opportunity to run.

Over the next week, he’s given a variety of jobs, though by far the worst one is turning the spit that meat is cooked on. The hours on end of turning the meat on the heavy iron spit makes his back and neck ache; the proximity to the fire leaves him with blisters on his hands but worst of all, the smell makes his hip scream and nausea seep into his throat.

The kitchen itself is huge with at least 20 other people all scrambling to get things done. At first, he expected that at least a few of the kitchen people would be here voluntarily, but the stone-faced guard at the door, and the silence, other than hushed whispers attempting to coordinate jobs, suggested otherwise.

Evan’s job gives him a good view of the kitchen, and the repetitive nature allows him to make notes. When the guards changed. How can careful they are. At what stage they seem to get tired and distracted. Where the spare food ends up.

The guards seemed to change as the preparation for a meal ended. The kitchen itself had only a few small windows for natural light, and very few of them were allowed to leave their place in the kitchen outside of latrine breaks. Most of the staff also tended to sleep in the kitchen rather than elsewhere. This meant that the meals were the best attempt at keeping track of the hours that passed. So, the guards were likely changing every 3 or 4 hours.

The guards' distractibility seemed to alter depending on who was there. Some didn’t leave their posts at all, whilst one, slightly greasy-looking man seemed to take a liking to one of the maids, choosing to spend parts of his shift escorting her out of the room for a while.

Evan can only guess what was happening from the twitchy fear on her face before she was called away, and the blank expressions after she’d been brought back. The other kitchen staff seems to cover her absence seamlessly, and with her return small, discreet hand squeezes are exchanged. Evan meanwhile finds himself imagining several different ways it could be possible to ram a knife through the back of the fucker’s throat. It’s a surprise no one had even tried it yet.

Over the week, Evan uses his proximity to large amounts of food, to slip extra off plates. He stashes it in a small corner near where he sleeps. However, for anything that looks particularly perishable, Evan makes the quick decision to eat immediately. He needs to put on some weight if he’s planning on lasting any time without food. Evan has spent years watching how M works. How she uses her large dress to conceal what she’s taken. Evan is clumsier than her and a large shirt isn’t quite as good, but he seems to make it work.

***

The week passes, during which he hears whispers of a large celebration that is being held. The work on the day is more hectic than normal, and Evan feels his bones and joints hate him. The day goes on and food preparation dies down, and the kitchen seems to slump collectively.

Evan finally has a moment to breathe as the fire dies down and the pan scrubbing subsides. His knuckles had blistered from the heat and then been scrubbed raw in the dishwater. He moves across the room to a small pan of cool water that he uses to soak his bloody, painful hands.

That’s when he notices it. The guard is gone. The man had been here most of the time, but he had been sloshing back a couple of glasses of wine towards the end and now… there was no one else there. They were probably all at the feast… and…. Oh. A small surge of adrenaline bubbles into excitement. He, however, forces himself to stay calm as a half-drafted escape plan begins to be cobbled together. He lets it simmer whilst he covers up the second wind of energy that he’s experiencing by shifting his expression to one of exhaustion.

He moves his way slowly through the kitchen towards where he’d been collapsing most days to sleep, unnoticed by most of the exhausted people. As he passes, he picks up a silver plate, like the sort that they had been using today to serve food on.

He quietly and fluidly takes out some of the food he’d been quietly stashing and lays it neatly on the plate. Now the trick came down to confidence. Confidence that he was where he was meant to be. How confidently and precisely could he navigate his way through the building?

He weaves his way through the kitchen, keeping his head down. He can be certain the people here are too tired to care. And he doubts they’d hand him in. Not really. The guards were who he had to be wary of.

He exits the kitchen, scanning left and right before choosing the right corridor. Where he’d first entered had been heavily guarded. So, he may have better luck going in the opposite direction.

He threads his way through the corridors. Trying to prevent himself from speeding up as adrenaline pounds through him. There’s a momentary pause as the corridor bleeds into huge, grandiose halls. It’s more glamour and money than Evan had ever really seen in one place. Even compared to when he still lived with his grandparents.

The walls are decorated with expensive portraits and are lit by large candelabras Music and chatter echo from where the feast is going on. Right. He stops blinking in awe and wills himself to relax and think. Best to avoid that route then. He changes direction and begins moving through the halls and away from the large dining room.

Evan manages to get a good distance away from the party. He follows to where

the doors should be logically. Away from kitchens and dining rooms. Somewhere near a staircase. Rounding a corner his eyes fall to two large doors.

The entrance.

That’s when he hears footsteps and laughter. His breath hitches. But he forces himself to push through. Keep calm. Keep steady. Keep walking. He wills himself to remember that if he looks like he belongs. It’s no one will notice.

The steps get closer and closer, he steps to one side to let them pass respectfully. Heart thumping away in his chest. Praying they couldn’t read minds.

Two guards, clearly a little too drunk approach and begin to pass him.

Evan exhales as they keep walking and begins to move towards the doors.

The steps stop.

Keep walking.

“Hey… the feast’s this way.” A guard calls over. His voice slurs slightly from the alcohol.

Evan keeps walking. Slow. Steady. He’s doing a job. There is a reason he’s going this way. He has a purpose.

“Hey! Didn’t you hear me?” the guard calls at him.

Evan stops. His heart is in his throat. There are two choices. Run or pretend. Play along and certainly get caught out… or…. The door is so close. He has a head start… it could be so easy. Pretend or…

He breaks into a sprint. Food scatters to the floor. He finds himself gripping the plate tightly as he does.

It takes a second for the alcohol-addled guards to process what’s happening.

Evan reaches the door and goes to wrench it open, as two large men barrel towards him shouting. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The door opens and as quick as a street cat, he’s out the door. His feet pounding against the cobblestone.

Despite the alcohol, the guards close the distance with ease. Hands lunge to grab at him.

Evan takes the opportunity and frisbees the plate off in a wild direction. His only weapon clangs as it cuts into the brow of one of the guards. “Fuck!” spits the now very, pissed-off guard, rapidly blinking, trying to keep the blood from dripping into his eyes.

Evan digs his toes into the stone path as he bolts for the gate. A huge weight body slams into him. He hits the ground with a crunch as the full body weight of a man is on top of him. All Evan can do is put his hands out to stop smacking his head into the cobblestone.

“Look! He tried to make a run!” The guard on top of Evan proudly declares, gripping the boy’s hair and yanking it to one side. “You thought you could try and get away, did you?” The smell of liquor on his lips is strong.

Evan struggles. Trying to shift the weight off him, the guard moves so his knee is in the small of Evan’s back, and he kneels over the top of him. His hand remains in Evan’s hair, gripping it painfully and forcing the boy’s head to the floor. “I wonder what sort of reward we’ll get for this.” The tone is low, and sickly.

Evan’s mouth goes dry and his mind flashes blank as fear creeps its way through his body. No. Gods no.

A kick to the ribs pulls him out of it making him gasp. “Fucking prick” the guard with the cut brow snarls. He slams two more into the boy’s chest.

“Excuse me!” Evan’s hair is released, as the man pinning him down sits up to look at his colleagues.

“That little shit just cut me. You can save-” he gestures wildly “-Whatever this is, till later! Right now. He’s mine.”

There’s a long, elongated sigh from above. “Fine.” Evan feels his hands being pinned but the pressure from his back is gone for a moment, only to be replaced by the feeling of hands at his waistband.

The fear is back. Colder than ever. He goes to kick but feels a shoe pressing his legs down. He attempts to crane his head around but all he can see is the dark evening sky.

His breeches are dragged down and there is a small jangle of a belt being unbuckled.

Evan goes still, the fear makes him sick and-

There’s an audible crack as the belt contacts the bare skin on his lower back and upper thighs. Red-hot pain shoots into the back of his throat. The leather stings uncomfortably and the shock causes his lungs to rake in more air.

There's another strike and another, layering themselves on top of one another. Burning and stingy, aching and throbbing. The leather cuts through his skin, ripping jagged, bloody lines into the boy’s pale lower back. The impact of the leather tears into him in a pain that leaches its way through his body and into his throat.

Evan feels the desperate urge to cry but as each strike drives air from his lungs, he finds that he can’t.

After what feels like hours, there’s a pause. Some sounds of shuffling. Before two, very weighty strikes come down. The guardsman is clearly putting his whole shoulder into it as he does. A large chunk of metal scours bruises into his flesh, as the belt buckle is brought down on the boy’s body.

Finally, after an eternity. It stops. Evan lies there. Panting, pain ringing out through him, and tears begin to well in the back of his throat. The pain throbs in the gentle breeze, but the humiliation feels worse. The heat of being held down and beaten like a petulant child, and the fear of what else they could do, rises in his cheeks as he swallows back tears.

He is pulled to his feet, hands pinned behind his back to stop him from running.

“Good. That’s a lot better.” Bloody brow seems more relaxed. “Take him to Lord Maynard then? I’m sure he’d want to know about this little escape attempt.”

Evan’s captor sneers “Oh so you get to do what you want with him and not me?”

“Yes. Because getting in trouble with the lord is not my priority tonight. Come on. And let him pull up his fucking trousers. I don’t want anyone to think I’m that drunk. Even if you are.”

Evan quickly pulls his waistband back. The fear is back. Like hell does he want to see this lord… But he has very little choice as he is marched back into the manor and into the loud feast room.

The room is lit by blazing torches, food that Evan had been working with a few hours’ prior litters the table, mostly still intact due to the quantities.

On entering, some of the chatter dies down. A rather large man, at the head of the table, makes his way down “What is the meaning of this?” his voice demands the attention of the room.

The bloody brow takes a step forward whilst the other guard, forces Evan to his knees, by kicking in the back of his legs. “We found this boy trying to run.”

The Lord paces slowly towards Evan, looking him over as he approaches. “This is the new one, is it not Sir Ademar?”

The hulking knight who had bought him looks up and sighs very slowly “Yes, my lord. It is.”

Lord Maynard approaches before finally stopping in front of Evan. He hums slightly, as Evan glares back in defiance.

Sir Ademar looks to his lord “He was stationed in the kitchens, my Lord.”

Maynard looks at Evan a bit longer before smiling. “Have him reassigned to me.” His gaze pierces through Evan’s very being before he looks to the guards “Take him to my chambers. And remember to lock the doors.”

The guards nod as Evan is pulled to his feet.

“Of course, My Lord.” Sir Ademar nods before gesturing to the half-orc, Trygve, to pour his wine. Trygve begins to pour, but for a moment he locks eyes with Evan. A look of frustration, sympathy, and pity. The message is clear. I told you to keep your head down.

-------

AN: And now we can move to needlessly tormenting my boy! :D Shout if you spot a typo or want adding to the tag list!!!!

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@sunshiline-writes @kixngiggles @pumpkin-spice-whump

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blurryeyeswhump · 7 months

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When I hear the knock at the door I know it’s him immediately. Even the sound of his knuckles against wood is weak, hesitant, terrified.

It’s after 11 pm. He isn’t expected, and apparently couldn’t even be bothered to call or send a text first. He’s just hoping I’m awake and not busy and in the mood for him. I am. I set down my third glass of whiskey I’ve barely had a taste of and walk to the door in no hurry.

I open the door to him pocketing his hands quickly, no doubt wringing them just seconds ago. There’s a warm wind whipping through his long, messy, dark, hair. He’s uneasy.

“Hi, Milo,” I say. He’s looking behind me expectantly, hoping to be let in.

“Hey,” he says quietly, “I was hoping- I mean, if you were up— I just wanted,” he stops and tries to swallow down the anxiety gripping his throat before wincing a nervous smile at me.

I’m going to make him say it.

I lean against the door frame and cock my head a little. I say nothing. I want him to do it by himself. He’s a big boy despite the way he has to look up to meet my eyes.

“Silas,” he says, defeated, and it’s a plea all in itself. His stormy eyes now staring straight through my chest. Those eyes are something else. Like pitted cross-sections of steel.

“I need you,” he says.

“To what?” The words leave my mouth before he finishes.

“To hurt me,” he says before sucking in a shuddering breath. He’s looking at the ground now.

I let the silence sit between us just a few moments longer and then I speak.

“Alright,” I say. I step back and hold the door for him to slink inside. I shut and lock the door and watch him stare at the now closed exit. Reconsidering?

He looks back at me and I start walking wordlessly toward the cellar door. I whisk the glass of whiskey from the table and down it on my way down the hall. He follows me. When I open the door I gesture for him to go first and he does.

It’s been a little while since I’ve seen him. He’s only ever come here. I’ve never been to his place and the only time I ever saw him out in the “Real World” was when I unknowingly showed up at the restaurant he works at. He looked like he’d seen a fucking ghost. Taking mine and my date’s order, beads of cold sweat forming on his temples, stumbling over his words, and still likely covered in bruises under his white collared shirt. I ran him ragged that night and the uppity, blonde bitch I was entertaining was all too willing (or too engrossed in her phone to care,) to allow me to abuse the waitstaff. I haven’t been back and he’s never mentioned the fact that I stiffed him.

I follow him down and when he’s three steps from the bottom I plant my hand between his shoulder blades and shove.

A cry rips through his throat and stops abruptly when he hits the ground. The sound is replaced by coughing as he gags against the the dust wafting up from the impact and gasps to find the air that was knocked out of him. I step around him and set my now empty glass on my workbench.

“Jesus, Silas,” he sounds almost annoyed.

“Undress,” I say.

“What?”

“Take your. Clothes off.”

This is new. I’ve never made him do this before. I’m feeling adventurous. He might act shy but he’ll do it. I find it hard to imagine something he wouldn’t do for me. He’d lick the dirt off my shoes if I told him to, I’m certain of it. I’ll tuck that idea away.

He’s pulling himself to his feet. Nothing broken from the fall it seems. He turns and looks at me, maybe gauging how serious I am.

“Do you need help?” I ask.

He huffs through his nose and turns his back and starts unbuttoning his shirt. While he’s busy I grab a pair of cuffs and hook them through a latch I drilled into the wall. I did it just for him. I pop the latch shut and turn around to see him standing now in his underwear and socks.

His cheeks are red hot.

“Everything?” He asks.

“Everything.”

He looks down and uses his heels to drag down and step out of his socks, and then he looks up at me once again. It takes no more prompting and his thumbs dip into the waistline of his boxers. He peels them off and I steal a glance at the dark little trail of hair and his nervous cupped hands hiding the rest. I meet his eyes and smile a little.

��Knees.” I say jingling the cuffs attached to the wall.

He sighs through pursed lips and walks over to his spot.

“Back facing me,”

He kneels facing the wall and rests his forehead against it after offering his hands up to me. I lock him in and step behind him. He’s got a cute, fat little ass. Almost girlish. I never would have guessed.

I crouch down and he shifts uneasily. My fingers trace down his back, up his arms. I’m searching for evidence that I’ve been here. Some already yellowed bruises are still just barely visible. Like I said it’s been a little while. Some thin shimmery scars as well. What to do?

I could take a belt to his back. Open his skin up with a box cutter. See how red I can turn his ass.

Maybe I should keep him forever this time. The thought is amusing enough that I say it out loud. He huffs out the ghost of a laugh that’s bound up tight with a nervous apprehension.

“Would you like that?” I ask, and before I reconsider, I press my lips against his spine and goosebumps erupt down his back.

“I bet I could get really creative if I had you here all the time. Maybe I could even out-crazy you, hm? How long would it take for you to have enough pain that you get sick of it?” I speak against the back of his neck and then bite down hard on the spot where it meets his shoulder. He chokes down a whine and pulls weakly at his restraints.

“Hey, Milo?” I coo softly.

“Yes?”

“Would you ever want me to fuck you?”

It hangs in the air and he seems to hold his breath as the chills down his back reignite.

This has always been one thing. Since the moment I met him, he wanted pain. He wanted to hurt and cry and scream and be denied the mercy he begged for. Nothing else has ever come up.

Maybe it’s the liquor, maybe it’s not but I’m tired of wondering if he wants more and imagining the sick, delicious ways I can use it against him if he does.

“Speak, Milo,” I slide a hand around him just let it rest on his thigh. He leans back against my chest, gasping when I touch him.

“Yes!” He says as if I reached down his throat and dragged the word out myself.

I snicker against his ear.

“For how long?” I ask, and he answers immediately.

“The whole time,” he’s breathless.

“Oh you fucking little pervert,” I say and I kiss his neck while he squirms, “I have an idea,” I continue.

“Maybe, one day I’ll bring you upstairs, I’ll tie you up and gag you and throw you in the bedroom closet. Then I’ll fuck someone while you listen. That might be fun.”

I hear him sniff and I grab his hair and crane his neck back so he’s looking up at me. Tears. Just barely, but they’re there.

“Awwww, no? You don’t like that? You want me all to yourself? I was thinking about the blonde girl I brought to the restaurant. Remember her? Gorgeous, right?”

He nods weakly.

“Yeah, I thought so too,”

If this was going to work, it worked by now so I decide to check. I slide the hand on his thigh closer and closer to the center. He starts to whine and I cover his mouth with my left hand. My right hand inches closer and closer to its destination between his legs and ah! — there it is. He’s hard, painfully so. He winces and closes his eyes. I give him a little squeeze.

“Ohhh. You are really fucked up, huh?” I say before kissing the back of his head and letting him go. I stand up and he presses his forehead to the wall again. I cannot even begin to imagine the humiliation burning in his veins right now, let alone imagine enjoying it.

I’ve had my fill of psychological torment tonight. We’ll revisit this next time. I want screams now.

Without another word I grab the belt I left draped over a chair down here last time, fold it on itself, and start in on him. He screams and starts crying immediately since he was already so close to begin with. After ten or so consecutive strikes to his back I pause and he’s wailing out something nearly unintelligible. I can only tell from spending so much time with him in this state that he’s begging for me to keep going. He’s shaking violently and his arms are yanking at the cuffs hard enough to leave marks but he’s begging, so I oblige. I can feel myself hitting harder than normal but he’s really inspired me tonight. A few more and I pause only long enough for him to hear me speak.

“Tell me thank you,”

He does and I can tell he really means it.

#whump #whump blog #whumpee #my post #whumper #intimate whumper #masochist whumpee #masochist #asking to be hurt #non-sexual sadomasochism (gone sexual???)#silas and milo #nudity #psychological torture #belting #cutting mention #improper restaurant etiquette

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