[The breathless edge to Hector's voice captures his attention, unexpected, putting a hint of a smirk on his lips.]
You and I alone.
[He purrs. In reaching for the bottle, he clumsily bumps it with his knuckles and knocks it off his chest. It lies at his side, cool glass pressed to his ribs, while his fingers smooth down his belly and over his bulge.]
You shall be stripped and bound to a beam first... [he palms himself, kneading] ...I should like you to be properly introduced to the bite of the whip.
[The castle dungeon had had all manners of tools to rival those the Church reserved for heretics and blasphemers - and among them, whips with tails and some without, others woven with shards of metal and bone and meant for tearing ragged flaps of skin and meat away on every stroke. There's as much beauty, at times, in simplicity as with brutal efficiency; he'd wanted to savour the experience laying every stroke with precision and care, inflicting as much pain as possible without ending the punishment prematurely. Of course, the presence of a fairy would help.]
A simple leather one would do. And when you could no longer bear to stand, you would be bound to a sawhorse, naked as the day of your birth.
[The scene unfurls in the darkness behind his eyes, fresh and bright: laying kisses over Hector's raw, wealed back, staining what little skin left untouched behind his hungry lips; wandering behind him, where the sawhorse forced Hector's taut, quivering legs apart, and sliding an oil-slicked candle up the split of his cheeks before easing it inside him. Lighting it and letting it burn slow, wax puddling over the floor.
Half the pleasure would be in the build of anticipation for the both of them: pacing, humming to himself while lazily swishing the whip around. Feinting, twice in a row, just to watch Hector's body tense and wobble anxiously before the next snap lifted him onto the tips of his toes, sizzling stripes overlapping.
Blood pounds in Isaac's cock.]
...You might even come to enjoy it.
[It hangs in the air like a promise, a smile in his voice. He shifts onto his side after a minute, contemplating Hector through half-lidded eyes - the sort of long, unblinking look that can lay a man bare. Then he closes the distance with a lazy stretch of his arm, nails hooking into Hector's trousers. That he might've drank too much to be effective is a real possibility, but there's enough to be done with fingers alone, if that's the case. Hungry flesh wouldn't say no to the attention.]
no subject
You and I alone.
[He purrs. In reaching for the bottle, he clumsily bumps it with his knuckles and knocks it off his chest. It lies at his side, cool glass pressed to his ribs, while his fingers smooth down his belly and over his bulge.]
You shall be stripped and bound to a beam first... [he palms himself, kneading] ...I should like you to be properly introduced to the bite of the whip.
[The castle dungeon had had all manners of tools to rival those the Church reserved for heretics and blasphemers - and among them, whips with tails and some without, others woven with shards of metal and bone and meant for tearing ragged flaps of skin and meat away on every stroke. There's as much beauty, at times, in simplicity as with brutal efficiency; he'd wanted to savour the experience laying every stroke with precision and care, inflicting as much pain as possible without ending the punishment prematurely. Of course, the presence of a fairy would help.]
A simple leather one would do. And when you could no longer bear to stand, you would be bound to a sawhorse, naked as the day of your birth.
[The scene unfurls in the darkness behind his eyes, fresh and bright: laying kisses over Hector's raw, wealed back, staining what little skin left untouched behind his hungry lips; wandering behind him, where the sawhorse forced Hector's taut, quivering legs apart, and sliding an oil-slicked candle up the split of his cheeks before easing it inside him. Lighting it and letting it burn slow, wax puddling over the floor.
Half the pleasure would be in the build of anticipation for the both of them: pacing, humming to himself while lazily swishing the whip around. Feinting, twice in a row, just to watch Hector's body tense and wobble anxiously before the next snap lifted him onto the tips of his toes, sizzling stripes overlapping.
Blood pounds in Isaac's cock.]
...You might even come to enjoy it.
[It hangs in the air like a promise, a smile in his voice. He shifts onto his side after a minute, contemplating Hector through half-lidded eyes - the sort of long, unblinking look that can lay a man bare. Then he closes the distance with a lazy stretch of his arm, nails hooking into Hector's trousers. That he might've drank too much to be effective is a real possibility, but there's enough to be done with fingers alone, if that's the case. Hungry flesh wouldn't say no to the attention.]