forthedog | Gentle impulsion

Entry tags:

hobbes,
pr0n

Gentle impulsion

It's been a long time since he's done this. In some sense he's never done this.

He's had Eostre bound, blindfolded. He's been bound by her in his turn. And there had been the afternoon in her hut, with the belt, with Tom on his knees. And long before that there had been other times, times with a lot less warmth and a lot more disconnect. They hadn't been bad, not really, but they hadn't been close to this.

Or to what he imagines this could be.

It's close to half an hour since he'd left Tom in the compound. He's sitting on his bed, facing the door and waiting. Next to him is a coil of rope, his belt, his hunting knife. He's not sure what he'll use. Maybe he'll use none of it, this time. But he wants Tom to see them, as best he can in the flickering light of the two candles burning in saucers on the makeshift table beside the bed. If he doesn't use them, he wants Tom to be aware that he can. Anytime.

He realizes that it's a lot, that they haven't done much in this vein since the first baby steps that one afternoon weeks ago, that Tom might simply turn and leave if it's too much.

It's a risk he's willing to take, now. He curls his hands into loose fists and waits.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"What's going to..." he starts to ask, but stops, watching him. Seeing. He swallowed hard. The weed had made that afternoon fuzzy, and out of focus, but he remembers the stinging slap of Mike's open hand. But this...was something completly different.

He didn't say anything else. He just ducked his head and braced his arms, eyes a little wide and a little wild.

The belt is a pleasing weight in his hand. It's worn and old; for a long time it was the only belt he had, taken with him when he'd run past the fence that first time, and he'd counted the notches as he'd had to wear it tighter and tighter as years of good meals burned off him. It had marked the time.

Somehow it seems fitting that he'd use it for this. He slides the end through the buckle, loops it around his wrist and curls his fingers around the strap.

Start light. For the love of God.

"Remember your word," he says, and the belt swings almost gently across the back of Tom's upper thighs, barely a slap.

Hobbes jerked forward slightly as the first blow landed. He hung his head and blinked rapidly, making a soft, scraping sound that was entirely breath.

Domini. "I...I remember," he panted, pushing back his hips in anticipation.

"Good boy," he breathes, and this time when the belt hits flesh it's harder, an audible slap, still not hard enough to leave welts but hard enough for Tom to feel it.

When he stops to think about it he still doesn't know why he likes this, why causing pain to someone he loves is this overwhelmingly satisfying. But it is, and he does, swinging the strap lazily through the air. When he sees Tom's hips twitch, his breath catches.

Beautiful.

Now this is the part that hurts, that isn't familiar, and it's all Hobbes can do to brace himself, mouth open in shock or pain.

"I..." he breathed between strikes, the skin already hot, flushed. There's something undeniable about letting go like this, letting the pain mean something than just hurt, letting it hurt so that he didn't have to think. He didn't have to anything except what Mike said.

"I...Mike, I just..."

"Don't speak." That coolness is back again in his voice, the order given dispassionately as the belt connects with the meat of Tom's ass. "Say the word if you have to. Otherwise be quiet." He doesn't want distractions. He wants to hear the sound of leather on flesh, Tom's gasps and hurt sounds, his own shallow breathing.

God, it's been so long since he's done this. It's all he can do to hold it back.

He tries. He does try to be quiet. There's the kind of pain he's used to...the pain of going for too long with out sleep, the pain of being hungry, the pain of a bullet when you thought you were safe...

The stinging slap isn't pain as he's known it...but it's deliberate. It's even. It just makes him want to give in....surrender.

When the next blow lands, he gasps, but nothing else.

He's proud of him. Briefly he wishes that he could just show it. The way he's taking it, the way he's holding himself in check... and it's not hard yet, but at the next strike it's getting there, and when the belt leaves Tom's skin he sees an angry welt rising in the candlelight.

He licks his lips. He wants to leave marks. Marks are sort of the point of this, really.

He's breathing harder, swinging harder, still holding onto his control but it's going to have to stop soon. Part of him is still worried. An even deeper part of him is sleeping. And he has no desire to wake it.

He cries out on the next blow. He can't stop it. Between the thudding of his chest and the look he can feel Mike giving him, resting on his shoulders like a weight, it's no hope. His ass is pink, sensitive, taking more abuse as the belt falls...

It just pushes out of him, like something that had been contained for a long time and fighting, and he shouts, eyes screwed tightly shut.

He trusts Mike implicitly, but that doesn't mean that he has any idea what happens now. Shaking a little, Tom drew a sharp, shallow breath.

The cry. God, yes, that. He'd told Tom to be quiet, but in some ways it had been a lie, because what he had really wanted was this. To hear him let go enough to give him this. To hear him in pain. He's heard that before; he's had to put pressure on a wound to keep him from bleeding to death and he's half carried him out of danger when he'd fallen and broken his ankle, but none of those sounds have been like this.

It's freely endured. Freely given.

He stops then, standing and staring at the welts rising on Tom's buttocks and thighs, the belt held limp in his hand and his breath very loud in his ears. "All right," he whispers. "Enough, now."

When Hobbes opens his eyes, his vision is blurry. His shoulders ache from holding himself. He has absolutely no say, save one word, and...this was it. You only knew so much about yourself until you'd been pushed, and here? Now? He was being slid along rails.

"kay," he breathed, just on the edge of hearing, shoulders burning, the welts throbbing, looking back over his shoulder at Mike with his eyes huge and waiting.

He drops the belt. He lets it go; it just slides off his wrist and hits the floor. It's the easiest thing. What's coming close to frightening him about all of this is how eerily easy it is.

He steps forward, bends so he's not blocking the light with his body, and his hands settle high on Tom's hips, carefully avoiding any welts. For the second time tonight he's examining, but this is less detached and far more intent, and under the coolness is something like worship.

Slowly he leans in and traces a welt with his lips. Not a kiss. Nothing that hard. Just a ghost of contact.

"Jesus."

The word comes out of him broken, astonished. Mike has done this to him, but no one else has. It's still new, unfamiliar, and his skin hasn't ever felt like this before, scalding hot under Mike's lips, the promise of his mouth...

He made a pleading noise, spreading his legs farther, tilting his hips, trying to look over his shoulder at Mike, at what he would look like, kneeling there.

Beautiful. Of course. It always would be beautiful.

He smiles again. He can't help it. He can feel what Tom's body is asking for, begging for, like he's said it aloud. Maybe he doesn't need to train him to like any of this. Maybe it's all already there.

His lips trail teasingly down and over Tom's tailbone, and as his tongue flicks out and tastes sweat his thumbs scrape down over angry red flesh, wanting to make it rawer, angrier.

Pleasure and pain. First separately. Now together.

It doesn't feel good, not really. It burns and it aches and it's not pure, not even close. It's...dirty and wrong and he's lost in it. There's really no coming back from it now.

"Please...." he whimpered without meaning to, pressing back against Mike's mouth, spreading his legs.

"What did I tell you?" His fingers tighten; maybe it's unfair, because he hadn't done anything about it a few seconds ago. But if he wants to be arbitrary about this he supposes that Hobbes will just have to take it.

Or end it. Somehow he doesn't think that's likely, though.

"Shut up," he growls, and when the palm of his hand connects with Tom's ass it's carefully aimed, slapping the stripes that his belt has left. It's different than a whipping; that had been for his own pleasure and this is about discipline.

But that doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy it too.

"...fuck," Tom whimpered, eyes watering, his lashes getting damp with what he couldn't hold back. After a horrible, shaking moment, he lowered his head, bottom lip caught firmly in his teeth and braced him self, waiting. Trying to anticipate Mike and falling far short.

Just the one slap, more a warning than anything else, and then he waits with his lips inches from Tom's skin and his hand on his ass, waiting until he feels it slip loose. Until he feels him give over.

He doesn't think he'll have any more trouble.

He's made his point. No sense in dragging it out even further. He spreads Tom's cheeks apart, leans in and gives him a long, tortuously slow lick.

He really shouldn't enjoy this as much as he does.

He doesn't make a sound, but his breath feels heavy in his mouth, like it's the loudest thing in the world, even if he can hear the candle crackle and the sound as Mike's mouth contacts skin. His whole body aches, his shoulders, his ass, his back from the way he's bent over...

But it doesn't matter. Not when it feels like this...

He pushed his hips back hopefully, eyes completly closed.

The first lick is long and hard and treading the edge of aggressive, hard like his hands have been, hard like his cock is, though somehow throughout all this his head has risen above that, and while he feels the lust in a physical way it's distant, contained.

But now with his tongue turning rapid little spirals around the almost delicate pucker of Tom's asshole the physical rushes back in with a roar and he groans thickly, feeling the heat pouring through his veins like a dam's been broken. He wants. He wants to take this body in a way that's not detached touches and blows.

But not yet. He's not finished.

It's almost too much. It's hard to wrap his mind around. His dick is heavy and hard, despite the pain, despite the coolness. He hasn't ever considered Underneath that was another level, and that was trust and the sense of being totally utterly cherished.

First, though, you needed the trust. Hobbes bent further over and pressed his hips back, not making any noises but begging with every inch of his skin.

He makes a sound that's closer to a muffled growl than a groan. He presses in with his tongue. One hand drops from Tom's hip and reaches between his spread legs, cupping his balls and weighing them briefly before moving on to stroke clumsily at his dick. Not enough to let him come. Enough, he hopes, to make the pleasure overtake everything else.

He's about to be cruel, he thinks. Maybe very much so.

"You like this?" he gasps, pulling back and licking his swollen lips as his hand gropes and jerks. "Tell me. Tell me, you little bitch."

There's a heavy, breaking break that pours out of him when Mike's hand slides over his dick, jerking him. It's something, god, it's something that he needs. For the moment, it's just enough.

He sobs quietly, choking on it. But he does manage to nod.

He nods, even though Hobbes can't see him. He's satisfied.

At least one of them should be.

It's too easy to get lost in just looking at this. The candles turn everything warm gold. Tom's back curves in a graceful line when he arches, the muscles of his shoulders standing out in abnormally sharp relief. He's seen him from this angle so many times now.

The first time he'd looked like fucking marble. Perfect. Pristine.

He'd taken care of that, hadn't he?

"Get up." His hand slips away from Tom's cock and lands hard on his ass again. "On your knees. Don't make me tell you twice."

He feels the look, through everything else, the pain, the pleasure, the shame that's not quite shame. He feels that look, and knows that he's submitting, letting this wash over him, but it's still him that's in control. He couldn't stop it when ever he wanted.

Which he doesn't, not even now, scrambling down onto his knees, so hard he's aching, so naked that he's forgotten how to blush. He closes his eyes and opens them, looking up at Mike, still fully clothed, perfect. Cold now, but he knew the other side enough to keep any fears locked firmly away.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject