[He is no stranger to the hooks of pain that dig into him upon the first strike. Experience has seasoned him to anticipate what it is like beneath Cy's hand, but it is never the same twice — and even if it is, even if this is a position they've taken before, the sensation never fails to blot out his mind like dark ink. This time, Cy doesn't have him count the strokes, and soon he's carried off on waves of blistering pleasure with each strike.
It hurts. It is brutal, the brush's slender wooden handle precise enough to leave pink welts quick to bruise, his skin like pale ripe fruit beneath the severity of the implement Cy wields. Sasuke's mouth hangs open; he's less cognizant of the sounds he makes and so they spill unfiltered, gasps of breath building into a rhythm that, eventually, edges close to hiccups and sobs.
Pain makes it easier in such a controlled context, so he feels no strain, no withholding of the tears that stick dark lashes together. Cy likes to see him cry, and it's not difficult to let himself do so now where it would have felt insurmountable anywhere else. And the refrain of please don't and please stop simply become please, please, please — a senseless litany on his tongue.
If he was counting, if they were going slowly, perhaps he might have been able to hold onto a shred of his own self-composure. But the assailment leaves no room for rest, for air, for thought — and Sasuke feels the very moment of defeat, shaking and crying facedown on the bed, striping come into a hot mess under his hips.]
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It hurts. It is brutal, the brush's slender wooden handle precise enough to leave pink welts quick to bruise, his skin like pale ripe fruit beneath the severity of the implement Cy wields. Sasuke's mouth hangs open; he's less cognizant of the sounds he makes and so they spill unfiltered, gasps of breath building into a rhythm that, eventually, edges close to hiccups and sobs.
Pain makes it easier in such a controlled context, so he feels no strain, no withholding of the tears that stick dark lashes together. Cy likes to see him cry, and it's not difficult to let himself do so now where it would have felt insurmountable anywhere else. And the refrain of please don't and please stop simply become please, please, please — a senseless litany on his tongue.
If he was counting, if they were going slowly, perhaps he might have been able to hold onto a shred of his own self-composure. But the assailment leaves no room for rest, for air, for thought — and Sasuke feels the very moment of defeat, shaking and crying facedown on the bed, striping come into a hot mess under his hips.]