[ By twelve, he can no longer stifle the leaking from his eyes either, his face flushing blotchy and red to match the angry, red color of his ass. Furiously, Tim rubs his face against the sheets, trying to swipe away any evidence that he might not be able to handle it. He can. He wants to, he needs to, if he can't pay his penance, if he can't finish this out, or have faith that Quentin's decided on an appropriate punishment, then he'll never get back to his own room free of the baggage of the last few weeks. The last few months. ]
Fif-teen.
[ On a shuddering inhale, his body tensing from the sharp pain of another strike against slapped-raw cheeks. Tim takes the moment to savor it, to feel it as he ought to, even as it gets close to being too much. To be so aware of his body is its own kind of pleasure, he keeps drifting to these other parts of him, spreading the sharpness throughout. His thighs, flexing to keep his ass up in the air and exposed. This throat, gone dry from all his open-mouthed gasping. His cock, hanging heavy but ignored, until Quentin says otherwise.
Tim tenses with the hand on him, expecting another hard smack on angry flesh, but it's gentler, if only just. He soothes the sharp pain into a throbbing ache, like pressing into a bruise. The needy mewling that squeaks out of his mouth as Quentin's mustache tickles against those sore spots would be humiliating if it were anyone else. ]
Y-yes, you can.
[ As Tim asked, as he stressed the need for. He reaches for the pillow after all, something to muffle the low, whorish noise into, only to pull away from it again, devoted to the rules they've set. Sixteen, seventeen. But the tongue makes him tremble, and cry out, forget all decorum and chase the wet heat on his hole as soon as it's gone, jutting his ass out and in the air even higher, the arch of his back more dramatic as he babbles simple phrases in the absence of any touch. Yes, thank you, please, oh God, Quentin, and variations thereof. ]
no subject
Fif-teen.
[ On a shuddering inhale, his body tensing from the sharp pain of another strike against slapped-raw cheeks. Tim takes the moment to savor it, to feel it as he ought to, even as it gets close to being too much. To be so aware of his body is its own kind of pleasure, he keeps drifting to these other parts of him, spreading the sharpness throughout. His thighs, flexing to keep his ass up in the air and exposed. This throat, gone dry from all his open-mouthed gasping. His cock, hanging heavy but ignored, until Quentin says otherwise.
Tim tenses with the hand on him, expecting another hard smack on angry flesh, but it's gentler, if only just. He soothes the sharp pain into a throbbing ache, like pressing into a bruise. The needy mewling that squeaks out of his mouth as Quentin's mustache tickles against those sore spots would be humiliating if it were anyone else. ]
Y-yes, you can.
[ As Tim asked, as he stressed the need for. He reaches for the pillow after all, something to muffle the low, whorish noise into, only to pull away from it again, devoted to the rules they've set. Sixteen, seventeen. But the tongue makes him tremble, and cry out, forget all decorum and chase the wet heat on his hole as soon as it's gone, jutting his ass out and in the air even higher, the arch of his back more dramatic as he babbles simple phrases in the absence of any touch. Yes, thank you, please, oh God, Quentin, and variations thereof. ]