That's it... now keep up. [he terribly, pointedly, rubs his thigh against Hector's bare cock, the pleated fabric of his kilt bunching up from the friction. He strikes Hector again, four.]

Unless you can't control yourself and cum, first. From being punished, no less, tt, tt... [he's mockishly woeful, he's just fine with that. Another strike and then another, five, six, before Hector could even count the former. Keep up, keep up! So many distractions, though... another of Everett's unfair games, it seems.]