[ the demanding tone does a lot to ease Tim’s nerves. He knows, of course, that it was him who asked for this, that there’s a twisted desire in him to punish himself for any perceived slight or minor sin. He can't see himself objectively enough to apply the proper punishment, that’s what a priest is meant to do, but in the absence of one, Quentin will do fine, despite Tim’s bratty poking at the boundaries. It sounds like he knows what to do, and it feels like it too, the hand pressing down between his shoulder blades keeping him steady, grounded in his body as he nods. Counting, a simple rule, a task he can succeed at. ]
One.
[ He grits his teeth through the gasp that might have otherwise left his mouth, determined to be on time with his count, but he’s not so controlled on the next one. It comes quicker and sharper than he’s expecting it, without enough time to breathe, so he flinches away from it as he counts out two with a voice far more steady than he feels. Hurriedly, he corrects himself, jutting his ass back out, curving his body to make it as appealing a target as possible.
So it continues, the smack of Quentin’s hands against his blotchy red cheeks stinging harder each time, whether he means them to or not, as Tim’s skin grows more sensitive. To push past the pain, he pulls his focus to other parts of his body. His hands, twisted in the blankets, balling them around his fists. His eyes, the lesser sting of tears forming, as of yet unshed, but he’s only at eight now, rubbing his face against the bed so he can diligently keep up with his count. His toes curling with a sort of arousal he can’t explain, that he ought to be ashamed of, but he can’t bring himself to feel that right now. Tim’s not feeling anything now except for his body, his vessel for all things good and bad, perfect in God’s image. He feels in tune with it because of the pain, it pulls him back into his body when he would otherwise retreat into his mind and all the confusing mess housed within it.
The next slap, even harder than the last, doesn't make Tim gasp or yelp, but moan, deep and gutteral. His face, already flushed almost as red as his ass, goes darker, reacting to being perceived as getting off on this all on his own despite his blissful mindlessness. ]
Ten.
[ Breathless. His cock, hard and bobbing beneath him, is dripping a sticky line of pre onto the bed that he hasn't noticed or tried to relieve. ]
no subject
One.
[ He grits his teeth through the gasp that might have otherwise left his mouth, determined to be on time with his count, but he’s not so controlled on the next one. It comes quicker and sharper than he’s expecting it, without enough time to breathe, so he flinches away from it as he counts out two with a voice far more steady than he feels. Hurriedly, he corrects himself, jutting his ass back out, curving his body to make it as appealing a target as possible.
So it continues, the smack of Quentin’s hands against his blotchy red cheeks stinging harder each time, whether he means them to or not, as Tim’s skin grows more sensitive. To push past the pain, he pulls his focus to other parts of his body. His hands, twisted in the blankets, balling them around his fists. His eyes, the lesser sting of tears forming, as of yet unshed, but he’s only at eight now, rubbing his face against the bed so he can diligently keep up with his count. His toes curling with a sort of arousal he can’t explain, that he ought to be ashamed of, but he can’t bring himself to feel that right now. Tim’s not feeling anything now except for his body, his vessel for all things good and bad, perfect in God’s image. He feels in tune with it because of the pain, it pulls him back into his body when he would otherwise retreat into his mind and all the confusing mess housed within it.
The next slap, even harder than the last, doesn't make Tim gasp or yelp, but moan, deep and gutteral. His face, already flushed almost as red as his ass, goes darker, reacting to being perceived as getting off on this all on his own despite his blissful mindlessness. ]
Ten.
[ Breathless. His cock, hard and bobbing beneath him, is dripping a sticky line of pre onto the bed that he hasn't noticed or tried to relieve. ]