As hard as this is, House is still careful, and Chase appreciates that. It's not in that frustrating way, but simply making sure he doesn't push him too hard too fast, that the crop doesn't break skin by layering welts on welts. Chase isn't against bloodplay, but he doesn't think that's what House is angling for here, right now. It hurts, stings, burns livid on his skin, but it's not remotely too far, enough, to the point where he wants House to stop, even just on the surface. His breath comes as half of a sob when House finally stops, and the stillness leaves him shaking, and then he does sob, voice rough and wrecked as he trails the tips of those chains up over the curve of his ass to the small of his back. His ass is burning hot and the chains still feel cool and he can't help the noises that slip from his mouth.
Chase might not beg, but he's incredibly reactive, although that fact likely doesn't surprise House. The blond's blue eyes are glassy, not quite to the point of tears, but House is pressing him hard, pushing him toward the breaking point, and Chase needs that. He watches him as he moved to the bed, setting the crop down and picking up the paddle and he can't help the way that his eyes linger on that bottle of lube and he wants it. He wants it more when House walks back toward him, and he can see that he's hard, and that fact makes his body jerk, wanton.
Then the paddle hits his ass and he cries out, sharp and loud at the impact, as it hits hard, lighting up the welts that the crop left scattered over his skin. It hits hard, leaving splotchy marks on his skin from the holes. House keeps the paddle moving, inconstant, varying both the force of it and where it lands, the pace, so that sometimes Chase almost thinks he's done only to have the paddle hit harder than before and steal another cry from his mouth. He can hear the arousal in his breath, and Chase is losing his grip, he's crumbling.
He's at that point where he wants it to stop, but he needs it not to, the point where everyone else gives up. He's at the limit, his ass a bright red, marked with welts and those speckled dots of lighter color. He's squirming, and Chase wont say stop, wont ask, but it's there in his body language as much as his arousal is. His cock is hard and aching, but thankfully the position holds it safe from the abuse of his ass. His face is damp, eyelashes wet as he shakes, the noises he makes almost incoherent. He's fraying, breaking, and it's terrifying, because he's never been pushed hard enough to where he can't hold on, where he comes apart.
He's not begging yet, but he wants to, he's close, so close. Pleas on the tip of his tongue.
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Chase might not beg, but he's incredibly reactive, although that fact likely doesn't surprise House. The blond's blue eyes are glassy, not quite to the point of tears, but House is pressing him hard, pushing him toward the breaking point, and Chase needs that. He watches him as he moved to the bed, setting the crop down and picking up the paddle and he can't help the way that his eyes linger on that bottle of lube and he wants it. He wants it more when House walks back toward him, and he can see that he's hard, and that fact makes his body jerk, wanton.
Then the paddle hits his ass and he cries out, sharp and loud at the impact, as it hits hard, lighting up the welts that the crop left scattered over his skin. It hits hard, leaving splotchy marks on his skin from the holes. House keeps the paddle moving, inconstant, varying both the force of it and where it lands, the pace, so that sometimes Chase almost thinks he's done only to have the paddle hit harder than before and steal another cry from his mouth. He can hear the arousal in his breath, and Chase is losing his grip, he's crumbling.
He's at that point where he wants it to stop, but he needs it not to, the point where everyone else gives up. He's at the limit, his ass a bright red, marked with welts and those speckled dots of lighter color. He's squirming, and Chase wont say stop, wont ask, but it's there in his body language as much as his arousal is. His cock is hard and aching, but thankfully the position holds it safe from the abuse of his ass. His face is damp, eyelashes wet as he shakes, the noises he makes almost incoherent. He's fraying, breaking, and it's terrifying, because he's never been pushed hard enough to where he can't hold on, where he comes apart.
He's not begging yet, but he wants to, he's close, so close. Pleas on the tip of his tongue.