Yowzah Oneshot Collection (1)

149(M)

               Only If For a Night

                 crystalsoulslayer

“Please? Just for tonight?”

She smiled indulgently. “You don’t get whatever you want just by asking, sweetie.” River brushed her palm over his forehead, wiping sweat away, and he’d have purred if he could.

“What about begging?” the Doctor asked, slyly. “If I beg?”

Suddenly stern, she smacked him once, hard, on the arse, and he yelped with a little start. “Don’t even think about it. You only get to beg if it’s something I’m inclined to give you.”

He slumped a little, defeated. “It’d be nice, though,” he said, trailing fingertips over his balls and shivering at their sensitivity. “For both of us. It’d stop me kicking,” he pointed out, halfheartedly.

She slapped his hand away and, obediently, he moved it back to his cock, stroking slowly. He wasn’t allowed to touch the head, so he merely moved up and down along the shaft; his other wrist was cuffed to the headboard, so it couldn’t misbehave.

“Ready?”

He nodded, bending further forward and burying his face in the pillows. This was going to hurt.

The first strike landed just below the humbler, making him jump and yelp again. She could hear his labored breathing, muffled by the pillows, and asked gently, “Too much?”

“Nuh-uh,” the Doctor replied, with a little wiggle of his hips. His hand had quickened on his erection for a few seconds after the blow, but had resumed its steady pace once more.

The second strike landed over his arse, and this time he merely twitched, though again his hand quickened, his breath hissed between his teeth. She waited to deliver the third, this one a vertical stroke to the perineum, until he’d calmed, and got a shuddering, half-swallowed scream in reply.

The Doctor loved the cane. He’d once told her, half-joking, that it came from his days at the Academy. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t from the punishments themselves, which were frequent and highly unpleasant, but from the company he got afterward. The Doctor was a connoisseur of comfort sex. By the time he was in his mid-twenties, canes and sex had become so inextricably linked in his mind that even a decade of therapy couldn’t disentangle the two. He gave up before long. It was a convenient association.

They settled into a steady, slow rhythm. The Doctor could withstand quicker blows, of course, and had done so many times over the course of his thousand years, but River didn’t like him to break so much as bend.

When his arse was striped red, pink, black, and blue, she decided to stop, as her arm ached fiercely. His hand trembled around his straining, painful cock, and she gave him leave to stop. He dropped his hand with a sigh, slumping forward further still.

Next was the lube, applied drop by drop to the finger-spread, clean pink pucker nestled between the twin pale swells of his buttocks. What little escaped rolled, cold and clear, down to the humbler and vanished beneath it. He cooed happily, rocking back and forth onto her finger, when she dipped a single lonely digit past the rim, fucking him slowly with it. She shifted to sit by his side instead of next to his feet, fingering him with one hand and tousling his sweaty, disarrayed hair with the other. He pouted and hummed, driven beyond words by sensation.

“You’re not ready,” she reminded him.

“Make me,” he whined, pressing back into her hand. “Like the burn.”

“Well, I don’t,” she said firmly, driving the point home with a light smack to his trapped balls. He shrieked and pulled away, uncuffed hand clutching hard at his pillow. She watched a bead of sweat form on his temple and slide down his cheek, murmuring, “Which is why you can’t sleep in the humbler. I’m not doing anything that could cause permanent damage.”