Watching Chase move beneath his hands is addictive. It’s actually distracting. He’s still thinking of the way he’d moved when he was groping his ass, the way he leaned into it, straining against the ropes to get more. And that sound he’d made as he rubbed down between his cheeks… he’d been half tempted to lord that over him, talk about ’and you say you won’t beg?’ But he hadn’t been sure he could find the voice to do so. So he stays silent.
Chase’s ass had been warm beneath his hand when he stopped, when he switched over to the crop. He knows it’s different, knows it’s not the hard, jarring slap of a hand or the harder blow of a paddle, but it’ll sting. Sharp and biting as he amps it up from light to harder, hard enough that he can see he’s beginning to leave welts. He’s careful and he has good aim, so they’re scattered. Evenly distributed across the deep pink of his ass. Here and there, the chains skim low enough that House can tell that he’s going to have a hell of a time sitting tomorrow. He’s trembling and he’s loud and it sounds like it hurts, but it’s definitely on the good side of pain, nothing alarming, nothing that is remotely telling House he should stop. So he doesn’t. He just keeps on going, varying the intensity and the timing until finally he stops and there are a few long seconds of nothing. Then, he trails those metal chains along the top of those striped pink cheeks, letting the tips of them trail up towards the small of his back. Then he stops. There’s nothing for a moment.
Then House is walking to the bed, tosses the crop down on the bed near the lube and picks the paddle up and turns, and if Chase is looking up as he approaches, he’ll see that House is unmistakably hard in his jeans. Watching Chase take everything he’s given him so far is turning him on, but this isn’t about him. It’s about Chase, it’s about pushing him as far as he needs to be pushed. That doesn’t mean he can’t get off on doing it.
The first blow comes without warning, and it’s hard and jarring. Everything up until now has been a warm-up, that’s clear now. The holes in the paddle mean it hits harder, hurts more, and it’s leaving circular marks on his ass. He varies how it hits, where it lands, and how hard. Sometimes it’s not so hard. Sometimes there’s a pause, so that Chase doesn’t quite know when it’s coming. Sometimes it’s harder, louder, shocking in the still quiet of the room. House is breathing harder now, audible, and if you’re listening close enough, you might be able to pick out the fact that he’s aroused. This isn’t easy, it’s taking a lot out of him. His arm is getting tired, but he doesn’t want to stop because he can tell they’re getting close, from the sounds that Chase is making and how he’s moving, squirming in the bonds like he is. They’re getting closer to that boundary of too much, and he’s going to carry him through.
no subject
Chase’s ass had been warm beneath his hand when he stopped, when he switched over to the crop. He knows it’s different, knows it’s not the hard, jarring slap of a hand or the harder blow of a paddle, but it’ll sting. Sharp and biting as he amps it up from light to harder, hard enough that he can see he’s beginning to leave welts. He’s careful and he has good aim, so they’re scattered. Evenly distributed across the deep pink of his ass. Here and there, the chains skim low enough that House can tell that he’s going to have a hell of a time sitting tomorrow. He’s trembling and he’s loud and it sounds like it hurts, but it’s definitely on the good side of pain, nothing alarming, nothing that is remotely telling House he should stop. So he doesn’t. He just keeps on going, varying the intensity and the timing until finally he stops and there are a few long seconds of nothing. Then, he trails those metal chains along the top of those striped pink cheeks, letting the tips of them trail up towards the small of his back. Then he stops. There’s nothing for a moment.
Then House is walking to the bed, tosses the crop down on the bed near the lube and picks the paddle up and turns, and if Chase is looking up as he approaches, he’ll see that House is unmistakably hard in his jeans. Watching Chase take everything he’s given him so far is turning him on, but this isn’t about him. It’s about Chase, it’s about pushing him as far as he needs to be pushed. That doesn’t mean he can’t get off on doing it.
The first blow comes without warning, and it’s hard and jarring. Everything up until now has been a warm-up, that’s clear now. The holes in the paddle mean it hits harder, hurts more, and it’s leaving circular marks on his ass. He varies how it hits, where it lands, and how hard. Sometimes it’s not so hard. Sometimes there’s a pause, so that Chase doesn’t quite know when it’s coming. Sometimes it’s harder, louder, shocking in the still quiet of the room. House is breathing harder now, audible, and if you’re listening close enough, you might be able to pick out the fact that he’s aroused. This isn’t easy, it’s taking a lot out of him. His arm is getting tired, but he doesn’t want to stop because he can tell they’re getting close, from the sounds that Chase is making and how he’s moving, squirming in the bonds like he is. They’re getting closer to that boundary of too much, and he’s going to carry him through.