This is, in many ways, the worst. He knows it. The lashes, the cuts, those all form a fine, keen webwork of agony that laces itself over nerves and slowly tightens. He's done it. Has felt it. He knows. But he's also been beaten, been beaten so badly he can barely move, and he knows this is worse.

And he knows it's right.

He keeps moving, covering ground. The front of Dean's thighs, then around to their backs, to his ass, confining himself to the meat but not sparing it at all. Wanting to draw out the screams. "Say it again," he says, his voice still deeply, bizarrely calm. "Say it."