Saint. My dear pookle that provides me with all I could ever read. Please, if you will, write me some swissdew. With a side of overwhelmed dew and dominant Swiss. Thank you.
He makes him count. Always. Each hit of his hand against Dew's ass is counted aloud, so Swiss can hear how his tone goes from breathy to strained, while he clutches at the bedsheets and feels his brain slide offline. Dew presses his hips against the mattress, something sweet to ease the sting of Swiss's hand on his bare skin. It's a risk to take, as he hasn't been told he's allowed, but Dew has never been able to resist the allure of pushing the envelope. Testing. It's almost a shame he enjoys this so much, hoping he gets a bit bruised and even if it's uncomfortable to sit on the hard wooden pews for midnight mass, is it really so bad to get an extra reminder of what they've done?
"Sixteen," Dew huffs, startling with the next spanking. He feels somewhere else entirely, almost floaty. Waiting for the next one, and when all he gets is a sound from Swiss instead, he looks back and knows immediately he's messed up; Swiss is wearing a smile that cannot be mistaken for kindness.
"Wrong," Swiss says. "That was fifteen."
"Shit," Dew says, and shoves his face back against the bed, bracing himself for whatever ends up coming next. No point in apologizing, he thinks, but he does anyway. Futile. It won't get him anywhere, and if he's being entirely honest, he wouldn't want it to.
"Sorry?" Swiss parrots, and trails a gentle hand over a reddened cheek, almost lovingly. It inspires nothing more than a twist of dread, darkly exciting low in his stomach. "Not yet, but you will be. No blood left in your brain to remember your numbers?" Swiss continues to feel him, adding the barest hint of blunt nails on the next drag upwards. "Maybe we should restart."
"If that's what you want," Dew says, and- listen, he's well aware he's goading him. He is very cognizant of how Swiss will react to that phrasing, but when you've got fire running through your veins, playing with other fires is a difficult habit to break.
"Wasn't really asking for approval," Swiss says, and traces a finger between the cleft, suggestive and pleasant enough that Dew cannot help himself from grinding against the bed again. It's so gentle, so tender. Poisoned honey, as Swiss is so good at offering him. "Thanks anyway." The hit is expected, but it's hard. The smack cuts through the stillness of the room, matched by Dew's yelp.
"One," he says, and barely has enough time to draw another full breath before the second and third come in quick succession, every bit as painful and thrilling and awful. It's going to get him sweating he realizes as Swiss continues. His skin feels hot from the hits, prickly, matching the burning of his cheeks against the cool sheets, hands twisting in the fabric by the time he reaches the count of ten.
Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.
His eyes are damp at fifteen, cursing a blue streak with number sixteen after he manages to speak it, his shoulders and back tense. It's rougher than Swiss has been with him in quite some time, and with each hit to one cheek and then the other, the way the sensation compounds has his breath hitching. Number twenty is the worst, the hardest yet, forcing a small whimper that he can't keep in.
"Wrong," Swiss says, sing-song and so goddamn pleased with himself. The tone and correction drip ice down his spine, and shocked, Dew shoves himself up to glare at him.
"It was not," he grits out, but the thread of nervousness takes the edge off his tone, exposes him. Swiss continues to look amused.
"I'm telling you it was wrong," he says, scratching over the reddened skin painfully, before he grabs a handful and squeezes, digging his fingers in further, wrenching a sad sound out of him. He's going to be bruised for sure, and if past experience has taught him anything, Swiss will grab him and dig into the marks to make it hurt all over again.
"I know I got it right," Dew argues, "I didn't fuck up."
Swiss sighs, and brings his free hand to his groin, palming himself through his trousers, and Dew zeroes in on the motion, mouth going dry when he sees just how hard he's gotten from hitting him. He's in the same boat, cock red between his legs, and from how he's leaning on his arms, it would be easy to balance on one and reach to jerk himself off. The look on Swiss's face tells him that he won't be getting away with that like he did the little humps he'd done earlier.
"If I tell you it's wrong, it's wrong," Swiss says. "And we'll restart as many times as it takes."
It clicks into place then, as Swiss lands another hard hit and Dew collapses back down, screwing his eyes shut as he gives up one. Dew will never get it right, even if he does.
The next twenty have him out of his mind. Skin electrified, mind blank, sheets dotted with a few tears he can't blink back. It hurts, it hurts so fucking much and he can't decide if he wants to do another round or if he wants Swiss to say he counted correctly this time. Swiss offers no feedback at all when twenty is spoken, just goes back to scratching, as if that somehow counts as giving him a break.
"Looks painful," Swiss comments, and though Dew might be miserable, he can take some solace in the way his tormentor's voice is lower, clearly aroused and- he's probably so much harder now. Desperate to fuck him now, surely. Not continue this charade. Neither one of them are endless wells of patience, and hopefully Swiss isn't about to turn over a new leaf now. Dew takes slow, deep breaths to steady himself, in through his nose and out through his mouth. "You should see how pink you are here. You can give yourself a couple strokes, if you want."
Dew is shoving a hand between his legs without hesitation, grabbing at himself awkwardly, shifting onto his knees a fraction, just to give himself some access. It's a testament to his brand of fucked up that he's as hard as he is throughout all of the spanking, burning hot in his hand, sticky at the tip as he pulls at himself roughly. Swiss laughs at the desperation, and abandons the scratching to sneak his hand under to tickle his balls. The undignified squeak of surprise happens before Dew has time to realize he's making it, the way the fingertips touch him making him clench.
"What a pretty hole," Swiss murmurs, and Dew's face burns further as he realizes of course Swiss can see the way he's made it wink. It makes him feel so exposed-
Swiss forces his shoulders down with a heavy hand in the middle of his back, and Dew loses all room he has to stroke himself properly, and caught underneath.
"Ass up," Swiss orders, and Dew can't help himself:
"I don't think I can take more," he admits, even as he does so, putting up no fight at all. "Hurts, it- fuck, I'm really fuckin' sore." To his dismay, Swiss is back to grabbing at his cheeks, rough and cruel, and he really isn't sure how he can take another round of spankings if Swiss is going to be just as heavy handed. But he will, if that's what he wants. His brain is so fuzzy. It's out of his hands, as it were, if Swiss continues to decide that he can't count, but this is so much rougher than they've played in so long, and maybe this will be the last round? Maybe, he thinks, as Swiss spreads him and leans in to spit on his hole, maybe he looks to enticing now for him to resist moving on to fucking him proper.
"How much does it hurt?"
"S'bad," Dew slurs, steeling himself for more. He's earned something nicer by now, right? Or maybe his reward will be limited only to having made Swiss happy by his suffering. He could be okay with that, probably. If Swiss tells him he's impressed or proud with how he did afterwards, that would probably be enough. His head is swimming, nervous for the next hard hit. He'll have to bury his face to muffle the sounds he'll make next, because he knows he's moments away from yelling with it.
"More specific."
"I can feel your handprints," Dew says, with difficulty. "I'm gonna be feeling them for a while."
"And whose fault is that?" He pinches, and Dew whimpers.
"Mine." The pinch repeats and he very nearly bites through his tongue.
"You need me to kiss it and make it better?"
Something sweet and tender. Thank fucking god. Yes, he'd like something gentle, some kind of reward for the pain, for his ability to keep still and let Swiss treat him like this. He's so fucking hard, if Swiss could wrap a big hand around him and make him cum, he'd be okay suffering through Swiss fucking him while it was all too sensitive and too much. Without another thought, without considering the words, he agrees, with a yes please.
Swiss has dipped down, spread him further, and is dragging a tongue over Dew's hole, and the regret blooms. He does cry out, tries to shuffle away, but Swiss holds him fast.
"Fuck, Swiss, you can't-"
"Pretty sure I can," he says, repeating the wide lick, and Dew feels so small. So fucking useless, desperate to crawl away against the shame of having a tongue right there, desperate for Swiss to continue because despite the embarrassment, the feeling of violation to be pleasured like that, it feels so fucking good and he can't stand it. He could press himself back against Swiss's mouth. He won't, but privately he longs to.
Swiss continues to lap at him, and Dew's legs begin to tremble finely, body tense, holding his breath randomly as the sensation of being rimmed has him forgetting how to draw proper breath. Maybe he had fucked his counting up after all? It was his fault and not a game? Swiss pushes his face in closer and slithers his tongue faster and Dew cringes, cock throbbing, hole fluttering- and Swiss feels it. No way to hide.
He feels insane. Sick with shame and how much he loves it, sure that fluid is beading at the tip of his dick, mirroring the way unwilling tears start gathering on his lashes. With a lewd sucking sound, Swiss pulls his head back.
"It's this or getting spanked," Swiss says, and nips sharply at his ass. "You pick."
vaporwave
blakekathryn
stormborns
