𐙚 “Bent & Broken” - Brian Ho 𐙚
Kinktober Day 3
wc: 3.7k
Genre: Smut MDNI 18+
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, BDSM themes, Spanking, Impact play, Breath counting, Orgasm control, Dirty talk, Light humiliation, Use of honorifics (“sir”), Restraint, Edging, Praise kink, Aftercare
You try very hard to be good for exactly three minutes.
Brian’s desk lamp throws a neat cone of light over his keyboard, the rest of the apartment warm with rain-glow and the soft hiss of the oven’s preheat. He’s in a hoodie with the sleeves shoved to his elbows, jaw tight like he’s chewing on a problem. Your job, obviously, is to distract him from being a responsible adult.
You start small. You fold yourself into his office chair backward and spin once, then twice, letting your socked toes skim the floor in slow circles. He glances over—one look, quick and fond—then back to the spreadsheet. You set a glass of water on the coaster by his elbow because you know he’ll forget he’s thirsty; he drinks without looking and slides the empty glass absentmindedly to your side like he’s paying a tax.
You steal his mouse for no reason at all.
He stills. You can feel the pause as if the air has weight. Then, calmly, “Give.”
You hide it behind your back like a five-year-old. “Make me.”
His mouth curves. “Last chance.”
“You always say that.”
He flips the laptop shut with two fingers. For a beat he just sits there, hands idle on the closed lid, watching you in the lamplight while the rain slow-taps the window. Something in his attention changes temperature. Your pulse answers.
“Stand up,” he says, voice even, no raise, no push.
Heat slides into your face and low in your stomach at the same time. You set the mouse in the middle of the desk like a peace offering and get up. The chair rolls back a half inch. Brian does not move yet. He lets the moment settle around your ankles like water.
“How are we doing colors?” he asks.
“Green.” Your voice is already softer than you meant it to be. “I’m green.”
“Good.” He rises. The chair creaks, the floorboard under his weight complains, the lamp makes that faint electric hum you only hear when everything else is quiet. “Bedroom. Hands on the mattress, bend.”
There’s no play in it. No theatrics. He just walks ahead of you, and you follow because he said to and because some part of you started as soon as he closed the laptop.
The bed is a mess of blanket and half-flattened pillows. The window is cracked, the rain louder here, a thin cool thread in the room’s warm air. Brian shuts the door with a click. He points to the foot of the bed. You brace your palms on the edge, bend from the hip, settle your weight through your arms until your body knows where to put itself. He steps behind you and skims one palm down your spine, quick and firm, not petting—marking position.
“You want to play while I work,” he says, tone conversational in a way that is worse than a shout. “So we’ll play my way.”
He hooks his fingers into your waistband. Denim drags over your thighs. The air kisses skin and you flinch because you can feel your own heat. He makes a quiet approving sound and adjusts your stance with his foot—wider—then nudges your left ankle a fraction back. You breathe out because it feels like a frame locking.
“Counting,” he says. “Clear voice. Miss a number, we restart. If you move, we add five. If you reach back, we add ten.”
“How many?”
“Until I decide you’ve learned.” He puts his hand on the small of your back. “Ask me to begin.”
“Please,” you say, cheeks burning, electricity gathering under your skin. “Please begin.”
The first slap lands low and sharp. It is not a warning tap. It is a line. Your breath jumps. Heat blooms immediate and bright, a clean pain that spreads and sits. He waits, hand resting heavy over the sting.
“One,” you say, and already your voice isn’t steady.
The second lands higher, the third a precise mirror on the other side. You count them because he told you to. Four bites into the same spot as one, stacking the heat like coals. Five skips to the other side, not quite symmetrical. Six drops right where your skin is fresh and you swear into the duvet without meaning to.
“Louder,” he says. “You want to brat, you can say your numbers like a big girl.”
“Six,” you say, louder. Your cheeks are hot enough to fry an egg. He rewards you with his palm pressed flat to the ache, not soothing exactly, just proving he sees what he’s making.
Seven, eight, nine—he builds a pattern you only understand in the half-second before it lands. You brace. You still jolt. By twelve your thighs tremble. By fourteen you realize you are soaked and that the wet doesn’t embarrass you; it incriminates you, and that thrills you harder than you want to admit.
“Color,” he says, and his voice is still controlled, still easy.
“Green.”
“Count.”
“Fifteen.” Your voice breaks and you catch it, swallow the crack, start again. “Fifteen.”
“Better.”
Sixteen, seventeen. You lift your head without meaning to and he notices because he notices everything.
“Head down.”
You put your forehead on the duvet. He lands eighteen at the top of the curve where the sting lives longest and you choke on the breath you meant to count with.
“What was that?”
You hate him. You love him. “Eighteen.”
“Try again.” He taps twice, light as drumming, exactly where it burns. “From one.”
“Brian,” you say, a plea and a protest and a prayer.
“From one,” he repeats, and you hear it now—a line of iron under velvet, strict in a way that takes your breath away because he does not move, he does not negotiate, he just holds the frame and expects you to fill it.
“One,” you whisper, and the slap lands. Heat flares. “Two.” He ghosts his palm over the sting and your skin jumps under his hand like it knows him. “Three.”
The count becomes a rope to hold. Four through ten unspool in a rhythm he writes on your body, even when he breaks it on purpose to see if you’re paying attention. You are. You are nowhere but here, in your breath and your skin and the relentless way he refuses to be swayed by your little sounds. Eleven, twelve, thirteen—your voice steadies almost against your will. Fourteen, fifteen—your knees threaten to buckle, and he slides his hand to your hip and pins you down with a grip that says stay.
“Sixteen,” you gasp, and he hums praise that you feel in your spine like a current.
“Seventeen.”
“Louder.”
“Seventeen.” You bite it out. He gives you a sharp one for honesty, and you gasp the last number around the sting. “Eighteen.”
He stops. The quiet hums. You float in it, trembling, breath working in uneven pulls, skin alive from the small of your back to the backs of your knees.
“Hands stay where they are,” he says, and you hear him move—one footstep to the side, the rustle of him rolling his sleeves higher. “If you reach, we start again.”
You curl your fingers into the duvet and hold.
His palm returns to your heat and you flinch at the contact because the skin is singing. He leaves it there until you breathe, then slides two fingers between your thighs and pushes in. The stretch makes your eyes water. You are open for him instantly, slick and greedy and ruined. His laugh is soft and cruel at once.
“Greedy little thing,” he says. “All that noise and you’re dripping on my hand.”
You try not to make a sound. You fail.
“Count to twenty,” he says, and his hand is inside you and his other palm presses the small of your back and there is nowhere to go.
“How—”
“Breaths,” he says, and the word is a command and a kindness both. “You’re going to breathe for me. You’re going to feel every inch of my fingers. You are not going to come until I tell you to. Understand.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what.”
“Yes, sir.” The honorific rolls out of you like a natural law. Heat blooms under your skin at the same time his thumb settles on your clit and does not move, just presses, steady and cruel.
“One.” You breathe in, out, count it. He presses deeper, curls just once. Your knees buckle a fraction and his hand yanks your hip back into place, not harsh, unarguable.
“Two.” You feel the way your body clutches at him because it wants more, and he does not give it; he gives you exactly what he wants to give and no more. “Three.”
“Don’t rush,” he says. “That’s my job.”
Four, five, six—your breath has a sound now, a wet open thing that makes the air in the room feel heavy. Seven, eight—he rubs the heel of his hand against your clit, just a tiny drag, and the hot spark shoots up your spine and shatters across your shoulders.
“Nine,” you gasp, and your voice shakes so badly you have to bite the duvet to hold it together. “Ten.”
“Color.”
“Green.” It sounds like you had to find the word in the dark.
“Good. Eleven.”
You obey. Twelve. Thirteen. It becomes a climb and a fall at the same time. Your thighs shake. Your fingers ache where you’ve fisted them in the cover. Your face is wet and you don’t know when that started. Fourteen. Fifteen. He shifts angle by a hair and the world changes shape.
“Sixteen,” you say, and then—“Seventeen—oh—seventeen—” and you hear your own voice tear and can’t stop it.
“Slow it down,” he says, steady as a metronome, the press of his thumb relentless. “You’re not done.”
You drag a breath in like it’s heavy. “Eighteen.” He crooks again and it’s like he’s scooping the orgasm up in his hand and refusing to hand it to you.
“Nineteen.”
“Ask.”
“Please.” You don’t know what you’re asking for because he already has his fingers inside you, already has the pressure on your clit, already has your whole body held in his grip. It doesn’t matter. “Please let me.”
He waits half a second, a full second, the exact length of the cruelty you can bear, then: “Twenty. Be good and come.”
You come so hard you forget how to hold your body together. It rips through you from inside, hot and shaking and bright, your voice breaking into the duvet because he told you to be loud and you can’t manage anything but this. He keeps the pressure steady through the first wave, the second, the third, until you are wrung out and stuttering, until the contractions go from claws to flutters and your legs stop trying to leave you.
He eases his fingers out slow. Your whole body feels like a struck match cooling. You stay folded over the bed because you don’t trust your knees.
“Hands,” he says, and his voice has shifted again—still Brian, still the strict line under everything, but the sharpness has softened around the edges. “Up.”
You push up onto your forearms. He catches your waist when you sway.
“Color?”
“Green,” you say, shivery and small. “I’m green.”
“Good girl.” The praise lands like the warmest thing in the room.
He steps away. You hear the bathroom faucet. He is back with a washcloth warm as a bath, with a bottle of water that drips on your wrist, with a small jar you’ve seen him stash in the bathroom cabinet and never questioned. He presses the water into your hand. You drink. He waits until you take three swallows, then sets it on the nightstand and eases you to your side, then your back.
“Stay.”
He pushes your knees up a little and cleans you carefully, efficient but gentle, the warmth a balm on tender skin. When he touches the cloth to the heat across your ass you hiss and he stills, palm flat on your thigh until the sound dies. The aloe is cool and clean-smelling; he rubs it in with careful circles, not lingering to tease, just tending to what he made. He kisses the sore spots as if he can pull the heat into his mouth and keep it.
“Too much?” he asks. Not anxious. Just checking.
You shake your head. “It was… a lot,” you say truthfully, and then find a better word. “It was… right.”
“Good.” He sets the jar aside, wipes his fingers, then slides up onto the bed and pulls you into him. The hoodie smells like rain and laundry and him. The harshness is gone so fast it makes you swim; what’s left is steadiness, the exact shape of safety you crave after you’ve been held down and asked to be better.
“You were impossible,” he says into your hair, amused again like the guy who steals your ice. “And then you were perfect.”
“I messed up the count.”
“You picked it back up.” His thumb sweeps at your cheekbone and finds damp. He kisses the tear track and does not make a joke. “That’s what matters.”
You lie there while the rain writes soft lines on the window. He breathes slow. Your body finds the rhythm and meets it. When your brain starts to come back, the edges of you tingling, you angle your face up.
“Do you…” You clear your throat. “Do you like me bratty.”
His mouth crooks. “I like you honest.” He taps the inside of your knee under the blanket. “Sometimes honest looks like bratty. Sometimes it looks like the way you obeyed so fast you couldn’t breathe. Both of those belong to me.”
Heat flares all over again, not the panicked kind, the molten kind. You nod against his chest. He hums—contented, satisfied, the note he makes when something fits exactly where he planned it.
You lay there long enough for the oven timer to beep in the other room and die. He doesn’t move to get it. You don’t either. The kit—washcloth, aloe, water—sits like a tidy inventory at the edge of the nightstand. The room smells faintly of mint and clean skin, the air cooler now against the heat blooming under the aloe.
Eventually, he shifts. “Roll,” he says gently, and you obey, slow, ginger, tits skimming the sheet, ass lifting a fraction whether you mean to or not. He drapes the blanket over your hips and lays his palm over the curve of one cheek. You tense automatically and he laughs low.
“Relax.” He rubs, slow, warm. “Just a handprint for me.”
You feel the faintest pressure, not pain, something closer to a stamp. He lifts his palm and looks down at his work like an artist stepping back from a canvas. Whatever he sees pleases him. He leans down and kisses the place, mouth briefly open, reverent.
“Back,” he says, and you roll again, face to him. He tucks you in, fixes the blanket around your shoulders with absurd care, thumbs the damp hair away from your temple.
“Tomorrow,” he says, and the strict line glints in his eyes even while everything else about him is soft, “if you try that foot thing again, you’re counting leather.”
Your breath stutters. “Brian.”
“Not a threat.” He smiles, small and sharp. “A syllabus.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re mine to instruct.” He kisses you slow enough to erase the word insufferable from your vocabulary. “Sleep.”
You shut your eyes because he told you to and because your body has spent what it had and is happy to ride the residue. He holds you while you fall, one hand at your nape, one palm shaped to your hip like a promise. Just before the dark gets deep and easy, he speaks again, voice low, not for effect, just for you.
“That was my hand,” he says. “Next time, if you want to gamble, we’ll make sure you don’t sit right for a week.”
You huff a laugh that’s half whine, half want, and he chuckles, pleased that you’re still listening. He kisses your hairline to sign the night off. Somewhere in the apartment the oven gives up and cools, the rain shifts direction, a car passes and is gone. In the bed, the sting settles into warmth, and the warmth settles into a shape your body would like to keep.
Morning has the good manners to arrive late. When you open your eyes, the window is a pale square and Brian is a line of heat behind you, his breath finding the back of your neck in quiet even pulls. Your ass aches when you shift. A pleased sound you didn’t authorize escapes. He wakes at the sound like you summoned him.
“Color?” he mumbles into your skin, still halfway under.
“Green,” you say, and you’re smiling because your mouth does that automatically where he is.
“Good.” He kisses the bruise of his teeth on your shoulder you didn’t realize he’d left. “Kitchen or captivity.”
“Kitchen,” you say, heroic. He laughs into your back and releases you.
You attempt standing. Your body remembers the lesson and sends a hot reminder through you. You make a sound that is not dignified. Brian leans against the doorframe with his arms folded, eyes lazy and satisfied.
“Hurts,” you say, accusatory and fond.
“Educational outcomes achieved,” he says. “Pancakes?”
“Please.”
The please makes him grin like you just did a trick. He pads away, barefoot, hoodie sleeves shoved up again, already humming as if last night was just a well-executed plan and not the best kind of ruin. You follow at a slower pace and watch him move around your kitchen like he lives there—which he does, in all the ways that matter. Every time you shift your weight, the ache lights and you glow inside it.
He flips the first pancake and glances up. “How many breaths do you think you can go before you say please again,” he asks lightly, as if inquiring about coffee.
You meet his eyes over the heat of the stove. You hold his gaze for one heartbeat, two. Your body remembers his hand and gives the answer for you. You lick your lips.
“Not many,” you admit.
He looks smug and unbearably sweet. “Good,” he says. “Then we’re both learning.”
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Taglist: @17ha @moonstruckbae @galaxy4489 @notinthemoodbeach
