Day 18: Avi/Mr. Blue Eyes--Spanking
He is by nature a patient person. It’s what he’s been shaped into—years of Arasaka conditioning had seen to it, and his innate personality had contributed the rest. But even his patience has it’s limits, and shortcomings.
Particularly when his partner seems to have a limitless supply of it.
He’s kneeling under the man’s desk, chin resting on his thigh, hand gently stroking his hair, almost enough to lull him into relaxation. Almost, but not quite. Perhaps on a normal day it would, and not one where he’s craving attention, or a distraction. The third time he shifts, the man’s hand stills, a pause to let him get settled, and then the motion continues, until he moves again, knees protesting at their position.
“You’ve been working all day.”
The man still regards him, clearly waiting for an elaboration.
“I think it’s time for a break.”
“I’ve been working for an hour and thirty four minutes.”
He opens his mouth to respond and he’s cut off.
“What’s gotten into you today?”
You. You’re under my skin, like a virus.
The look he receives suggests disbelief, but he chooses not to push.
He lets his shoulders sag in relief, posture slipping into something more natural, no longer on alert.
“I didn’t say we were done.”
He freezes, examining the others face for any hint of what’s coming next, perturbed when he doesn’t find one. For how much he believes he can predict others, the man seems to take quiet delight in subverting his expectations.
“You were impatient today. Distracting.”
There’s a part of him that wishes to argue, try to turn his words back on him, find a way in which he feels justified, in his behavior, in their agreement. But he also can’t deny the truth in them. So he waits, listens, gaze fixed steadily on him.
He’s unhurried, deliberate in how he moves, sitting on one of the couches, gesturing him over, words firm.
“In front of the windows?”
“You should have considered better, if this was going to pose an issue.”
His hands move to his shirt, already starting on the buttons, when the man’s voice cuts in.
Movements hurried, he doesn’t linger, abandoning gracefulness in lieu of haste, and anticipation.
“You’re going to lay across my lap, and you’re going to count. Five for every time you argued, and two for every time you moved without permission. If you lose track of them, or miss one, we start over. And an additional five.”
