[One, thank you sir. Two, thank you sir. Three, thank you sir. The words fall out of his mouth, an automatic refrain of subservience that separates the air between each of those hard, resounding slaps. If part of his mind is aware just how loud they are, and just how poorly these rooms are insulated from noise, there's no space for humiliation or self-consciousness to live in his mind by the time they've progressed even a quarter of the way through his punishment. It simply — slides right out of his head, a sideways tilt into floating, bottomless dark. They are in an office after hours. He cheated on a test. He is grateful for the attention, the time, offering his body in repayment.
His entire world is narrowed to the sensation of that hand on his ass, each blow a fire lashed across bare flesh. It begins as a pale sting and gradually builds to the dull, pulsing sunburn of hurt, and then Cy keeps hitting him, and a barrier of composure risen up somewhere within himself — a foundation so pure, so inherent, scaffolded close to the center of what makes him — begins to shake, threatening to splinter. After the first ten, Sasuke takes even, ragged gulps of air to keep his focus in line with the task of counting. As they near halfway, these breaths become shorter and unsteady, hitched in the spaces where pain doesn't begin to put down its roots. Twenty-five, and he becomes aware of his entire lower body like a flame has been pressed down onto him, its delirious heat melting his skin like pale wax. Thirty — and that barrier rattles as if made from sticks built on sand, and then —
A sob rips out of his throat around thirty-one, thank you sir. It isn't because his body cannot bear the pain. His closed fist attests to this. He's handled worse hurts, pain that has put him into comas and pain that has created whole new nightmares, but in this moment it's as though he's realized that he doesn't have to. The resistance wipes away, sand under a wave of blistering pleasure.
Those little pauses, the touches that remind him of a world beyond the burn of slaps, ground him deeper into the moment. He feels possessed. He feels owned, and through the final nine strokes he hands himself over to that ownership, sobbing in those choked-wet gasps facedown against the bed, eyelashes thick with hidden tears. The simulated struggle never ceases; he tries even harder as they near the cusp of forty, fighting every hit, unwilling to tire — a show of spirit that is too natural to him in this state of broken-down submission. He's barely aware of it.]
no subject
His entire world is narrowed to the sensation of that hand on his ass, each blow a fire lashed across bare flesh. It begins as a pale sting and gradually builds to the dull, pulsing sunburn of hurt, and then Cy keeps hitting him, and a barrier of composure risen up somewhere within himself — a foundation so pure, so inherent, scaffolded close to the center of what makes him — begins to shake, threatening to splinter. After the first ten, Sasuke takes even, ragged gulps of air to keep his focus in line with the task of counting. As they near halfway, these breaths become shorter and unsteady, hitched in the spaces where pain doesn't begin to put down its roots. Twenty-five, and he becomes aware of his entire lower body like a flame has been pressed down onto him, its delirious heat melting his skin like pale wax. Thirty — and that barrier rattles as if made from sticks built on sand, and then —
A sob rips out of his throat around thirty-one, thank you sir. It isn't because his body cannot bear the pain. His closed fist attests to this. He's handled worse hurts, pain that has put him into comas and pain that has created whole new nightmares, but in this moment it's as though he's realized that he doesn't have to. The resistance wipes away, sand under a wave of blistering pleasure.
Those little pauses, the touches that remind him of a world beyond the burn of slaps, ground him deeper into the moment. He feels possessed. He feels owned, and through the final nine strokes he hands himself over to that ownership, sobbing in those choked-wet gasps facedown against the bed, eyelashes thick with hidden tears. The simulated struggle never ceases; he tries even harder as they near the cusp of forty, fighting every hit, unwilling to tire — a show of spirit that is too natural to him in this state of broken-down submission. He's barely aware of it.]