i’m sorry but someone pressing their boot against my bladder until i piss myself then blaming me for not being able to hold it because i’m just a dumb pet/kid is always gonna be the hottest thing ever
//religious kink, baptists' weird thing against catholics??? idk i just work here, spanking, ambiguously southern au, butt plugs, slut shaming, cumming hands-free
//etho/bdubs/impulse
"You think you can just blow into town, spoutin' whatever the hell you want, and you can get away with it?" Bdubs hisses in his ear. "I don't give a shit who that girl was, she ain't in my Bible!"
Damn Baptists with their Protestant Bibles. But Etho's wrists are still caught by that other guy, with the brown, shorter cropped hair and typically chipper voice. Behind–behind the woodshed. And all Etho wanted was to have a new home to stay outside of his. Get closer to the Lord, even this far south.
"I don't know what they do up in the north, 'n I don't care," Bdubs continues, his hands so huge and warm on Etho's ribcage. "But smartasses down here–they get the leather strap."
"Behind the woodshed, even," Impulse says, his voice holding in his laugh (and Etho thought he was the worst actor, here.)
"Behind the woodshed," Bdubs confirms.
Impulse leads him to the wood panels, makes him bend over a little. The dappled sun through the branches makes his skin warm, even when Impulse undoes his belt and drops his Levi's and boxers. Four hands grope Etho's body, his chest and sides and belly and ass and thighs. Taking stock of him like he's a hog in a butcher's house.
"I just–I think your Bible is incomplete," Etho says. "I think it's missing a few books–"
"God told King James what He needed to tell His story of Jesus, 'n that's all we need! None of that, flippin', Catholic stuff." Fingers over his asshole. They rub, rough. It feels so, so wrong to be talking like this, here and now, feels so wrong to have his asshole played with while Etho's thinking about God. "Are you Catholic?"
"No, I just have a major in–"
"I've got a major need," the whisper of a leather belt sliding through Levi loops, "To make sure you fit in with the rest of the folks here. We don't do none of that confession stuff here. Nobody needs to come between you 'n the Lord."
"I'm not Catholic, for christ's sake!" Etho yelps.
Impulse's damned hands are still on Etho's ass, finally withdraw, just to return, slicked up. Two fingers shove inside his ass–(thank God Etho gets it up the ass regular, he might be a bit touchy otherwise about how rough he gets with him)–and then, a thicker plug. Enough to ache, even when he's not clenching. Cute little reminder, he supposes.
"That's lookin' good, isn't it, Impy?" Bdubs murmurs. "I mean, he ain't got the best ass in the world, but it shows off how good his hole stretches around a plug, alright."
They are telling the truth. Even working out, Etho just doesn't have a lot of meat on his ass.
Enough, at least, for Bdubs' purposes.
"Hold'em," Bdubs orders.
Impulse does. Keeps a steadying hand on the back of Etho's neck, arranges his hands so that they're all perfect and level where they rest on the shed siding, his ass sticking out.
God, Bdubs is loving this. "Good boy," he crows. "I've always heard, like, across the ponds, nuns 'n monks 'n stuff, they always did some crazy things to repent, huh? Kneeling on rice, or they'd wrap barbed wire around their legs and it'd dig in, or, uh, what's that, when you flog yourself–"
"Self-flagellation, sir?" Impulse supplies.
"Yeah, yeah. Ooh, I like 'sir' a lot. Etho, take notes. But, nah, we never do none of that here. Y'know what we do?"
"No, sir," Etho says.
"Good 'ole fashioned country arse beatings. That's what we do down south. Gotta be so embarrassing to need it like ya do, huh?"
"...Yes, sir," Etho murmurs.
A chuckle. "But ya do. Say it."
"I need it, sir."
"Again."
Shit. <em>Bdubs</em>. Etho continues. "Need you to show me what it's actually supposed to be, here. How to act. How to behave."
"That's what community's for," Bdubs agrees.
Doesn't say anything else.
The belt just goes flying into Etho's ass, leather singing through the air.
"Ah–oh, oh, oh, o-one, sir," Etho murmurs. He hit harder than expected for a first strike. A lot harder. Even in general, really.
"I appreciate it, but I can keep track just fine on my own, sweetheart," Bdubs says, voice sweet like the pitcher of tea in the fridge. "In the south, we don't do arbitrary numbers. We go until asses are blistered and lessons are taught."
So hot, so hot, Etho's cock is hard, bobbing. Another five hits and he's going to start dribbling for sure. "Yes, sir."
"That's right. You're gonna do just fine here."
Another hit, one that makes Etho moan. Nevermind about the five hits thing. His cock is beading up with precum already. Out here in the open, in the backyard.
It's Impulse who comments, "He sounds like a whore, sir. Didja pick'em up off the side of Sixty-One, sir?"
Bdubs laughs, belts out singing, "'N God said, 'you can do watcha want, 'Dubs, but, oh, next time ya see me cummin' you better run, 'n Imp said–"
"'Where do you want this whippin' done?'" Impulse sings, apparently picking up on the tune.
"'God said, 'out there, on Sixty-One''," and Bdubs strikes the belt into Etho's ass–over and over, fuck, fuck, six times.
Etho hisses, eyes watering, mask wet under his lips. Shudders.
"That's right," Bdubs says. "Such a pretty whore God gave us. Takin' what you're given, that's right, that's what we like to see."
More harsh passes on Etho's ass. Hard enough to snap through the air, one after another, reddening, bruising, welting, all the above.
Impulse keeps talking to Etho, too. Lecherous things, or words of praise, convincing him he can keep going (or still going on about Highway Sixty-One for some reason–Etho's not sure he gets that part of American culture) as the belt moves lower. Sweat's starting to soak Etho's tank top, dribbling down his bare thighs into where his Levi's are around his ankles. Southern United States is a far, far cry from Canada; it gets so damned humid, here, temperatures climbing almost to forty degrees off a thermometer and the wetness in the air pushing the feel past it. It's hell for Bdubs and Impulse, who seem to be used to it by now, and it's the worst kind of suffering for Etho.
The leather cards vicious into Etho's thighs, and Etho's panting, can't get the thick air in, he moves one of his hands off the wall and Impulse almost grabs for his wrist before he realizes Etho's opening the bottom of his mask.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Impulse avert his gaze, quite deliberately turn away. "Do you need a breather? Some water?" he asks.
"Nah, nah," Etho says.
"You're sweatin' buckets, man, you gotta keep the fluids up. Bdubs?"
Bdubs had paused, too. "Uh, we can definitely call it here. He ain't gonna be able to sit for a week as is."
"My thighs, too," Etho says, as a reminder. "Wanna repent, be a good slut for you, uh-huh?"
He can hear Bdubs' quick inhale. "Let's do it, then."
A little giggle. "Hope you're ready!" Impulse calls, mocking.
"Shaddup! You'll be next, Impulse, 'n I'll make Etho's backside look like a frickin' watercolor wash in comparison to yours!"
Impulse leans into Etho's space. "Hey, I don't do art, what does that mean?"
"So, like, a wash is just a flat layer of paint, usually watered down a lot, so, basically, he's saying that–"
Etho gets cut off by another strike, makes him moan.
Even though he's fine, Bdubs turns up the pace even more, doesn't let one thigh rest before the other's been smacked and then the first gets smacked again. It hurts, the blood thrumming through Etho's body. It hurts.
"Bend over more," Bdubs calls, too-soon.
Etho does. His ass sticks out more, his cockhead dripping fresh on the ground like the spicket that Bdubs' always going on about fixing on the side of the house.
"I wanna make your ass <em>remember me</em>," he says, hisses the last words, and then the belt nails Etho across his ass cheeks, right at the plug.
"Sir," Etho moans, moans so loud, and then he's cumming all over the woodshed siding. The sting in his ass–
A hand on it, two hands, digging into his cheeks, instead of on his cock. Impulse knows how to treat him right. Each squeeze makes another spurt of cum splatter, makes Etho keep making his sounds–it's so humiliating, cumming this hard, the pleasure pounding his body off a whipping, but it feels so damned good, too.
"That's a good boy, made all good for us," Bdubs murmurs. There's a rag at his cockhead, wiping it off. "Impulse, take him inside, 'n I'll make sure his cum don't stain real quick."
Impulse does, starts boiling water on the stove for the bathtub. Etho runs cold water into some of it, and then, by the time Bdubs is done, they're dumping the pots inside, filling it up.
Three of them in a tub, even one that's as big as two hog troughs put together, means they don't need that much actual water, and they make the most of it. Washing each other, Impulse and Bdubs extra careful on Etho. It's sweet of them.
"Apparently, next week, the feed store's gonna get some more eggs for baby chicks," Bdubs says when they're getting out. "Is that, is that somethin' we still want–"
"Yes, sir," Etho says.
Bdubs leans up and kisses him on the lips. Just a peck, but the sound echoes.
"You did amazing, by the way, Etho," Impulse says. "Back in the city, I never saw anybody cum just off a whipping. You're so good for us."
Eloquent as always, Bdubs chimes in, "Yeah, what he said."
in season 11 bdubs should combine his dual loves of homewrecking and the legal profession and become a divorce lawyer. divorces will be enforced for everyone regardless of whether couples were ever married or not. falseren divorce that forces them to acknowledge the weird thing they've got going on. xb and keralis divorce so they can remarry on a beach because they didn't get the chance to the first time around. when jimmy visits bdubs performs a divorce in absentia and for the first time in years when jimmy joins a server where scott is, a ring doesn't show up on either of their fingers.
he goes up he goes down ;3 @torches-for-days - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
