[The strike comes down, and all of the air he's schooled into an even rhythm gusts out upon impact. There is a moment where it becomes clear to him why Cy prefaced the newness of this first time, why there is a secondary safeword in his fist — because disciplined instinct drills a hole through him like a nail under a hammer. It takes force of will not to struggle, not to twist and escape the sharp, starry pain that lashes the bare skin of his ass. The sound alone is vulgar in the quiet room, but beyond that is some part of him curled around a core of defensiveness built into who he is. The part of himself that has kept him alive.
It doesn't even hurt, not yet, not outside a dull burn like he's stood in the sun too long, and that fades quickly. It doesn't need to hurt. There is an anticipatory response shored up against the thought of pain — the expectation that it will come sooner rather than later. What makes the difference here is that he knows the source, and he trusts it, and there are parameters. And he can say,]
One.
[— knowing exactly how many moments of pain are left.]
no subject
It doesn't even hurt, not yet, not outside a dull burn like he's stood in the sun too long, and that fades quickly. It doesn't need to hurt. There is an anticipatory response shored up against the thought of pain — the expectation that it will come sooner rather than later. What makes the difference here is that he knows the source, and he trusts it, and there are parameters. And he can say,]
One.
[— knowing exactly how many moments of pain are left.]