Archive of Our Own

Dear R,

Seems like ages since you set off. Does your employer truly intend to travel for four weeks, and must he really have you with him the whole time? I suppose I shouldn’t complain, as I recall that your job-related travel once worked out particularly well for me. But I’m less fond of it now. Wouldn’t want you to visit a great house somewhere and meet someone you like the look of better than me.

I’m sorry to report that things have become somewhat chaotic in your absence. With no one here to keep me in line, I go to bed whenever I feel like it, and I often don’t sleep more than a couple of hours. I skip meals. I think incessantly about something I’d like to do for you. Interferes with my work, the amount of time I spend thinking about it. I’ll not name the act here, as I’m not inclined towards vulgarity. But you might be able to guess.

Please hurry back.

Yours Fondly,

T

Dear T,

You don’t know how dearly I long to see you. I’m sorry to hear of the tragic disarray into which your life has fallen in my absence. Allow me to gently remind you that I do expect you to eat full meals at least twice a day and go to bed at a reasonable hour. Should you decide to let chaos reign, the consequences when I return will be considerably less gentle. Think carefully about how you wish to proceed.

With greatest love and affection,

R

P.S. I’d never find anyone I like the look of so well as you. What nonsense.

Dear R,

I’m writing this at 3 a.m., which seems a reasonable enough hour to me. Does a tin of biscuits count as a full meal? If it’s the full tin?

Fondly,

T

T,

Did you really waste the cost of postage just to goad me? 

Ardently,

R

R,

Wasn’t a waste, not to me. I’d better get on to the shops—I’m nearly out of biscuits. 

It’s hardly my fault I lie in bed each night thinking of that thing I’d like to do for you. How could I possibly sleep, with that on my mind?

Wish you were here to keep me in line.

Yours (Yes?),

T

T,

Mine always.

When I’m through with you, you’ll wish I’d stayed in Scotland indefinitely. Go to bed.

Entirely Yours Too,

R

R,

Would never wish you were anywhere but with me. 

T

The letters are enjoyable, but they can’t scratch the itch Thomas has had since Richard departed on a royal tour with Their Majesties. Sometimes he gets like this, where he just craves a punishment from Richard with every cell of his body. He wants to kneel, wants his head buried between Richard’s legs, wants his hair yanked, wants to be put across Richard’s lap and have his arse smacked until he can’t breathe for the sting. He wants to beg and mean it.

Knowing Richard will be gone so long makes the craving all the worse. He goes to sleep each night imagining his mouth around Richard’s prick, Richard gripping and pulling his hair until his scalp throbs. Imagines trying to sit for a meal with his jaw and arse both aching. Richard smirking at him, but being solicitous as well. No matter how much Richard teases, he always takes good care of Thomas when he's sore or tired out from their games. Thomas misses that part too.

He rereads Richard's letter, a smirk playing at his lips. If Richard was afraid, when they first started this business with the rules, that Thomas would find it distressing to be disciplined, he needn’t have worried. Sometimes it’s Thomas sheepishly admitting he’s only had time for a piece of toast all day, and Richard rolling his eyes, slinging an arm round his waist, and giving him three or four sound swats on the seat of his trousers before sending him to the table to eat something substantial. Other times, when Thomas has broken the rules more deliberately, he makes a more serious confession, and Richard gives him a more serious spanking. The pain rarely approaches what they get up to when they play. It’s the ritual that does it for Thomas—seems to motivate, calm, and steady him in equal measure. He’s more likely to have lingering soreness from how tightly Richard holds him afterwards than from the spanking itself.

He’s not sure teasing Richard about their “real” rules is the best way to get the sort of harsh treatment he’s craving. But Richard seems fine with making a bit of a game of it right now. Thomas has in fact been eating and sleeping just fine. But Richard doesn’t need to know that. 

Dear T,

It’s been several days since you’ve conveyed any alarming information regarding your chronic self-neglect. Does this mean you’ve started doing as you ought? Next time I’m required to travel, I think I'll put you over my knee before I leave—certainly it’ll be the first thing I do upon returning, but perhaps I should have taken preemptive measures as well. 

Things are quite lonely without you, do you know? We’re kept so busy here, I'd hoped that would be a distraction, at least, from missing you. But it’s not.

This act you wish to perform—I’ll not make my guess here, as I’m not inclined towards vulgarity either. But if I’m correct about what it is, I now spend a great deal of my time imagining you performing it. And however beautiful you are in my imaginings, I know it will pale compared to watching you in the flesh, as it were.

How are things at the shop? I know you anticipated high sales this month because of that toaster with the timer in it— Are they flying off the shelves?

I want to hear everything that’s been going on. You could tell me how fast your fingernails are growing and it would be more interesting than an afternoon spent in the company of Miss L.

Love to You,

R

Dear R,

As a matter of fact, I do have some news. I was going to wait until 

He stares at what he’s written then scribbles it out. It’s not as if he can send the letter like this, so he crumples the paper and gets a fresh one. There’s something he wants to tell Richard, so long as Richard doesn’t… It’s not that Richard will be upset, exactly. But it might hurt him in some small way. And Richard’s the sort to pretend it doesn’t. It’s to do with the shop, and nothing is for certain yet, so perhaps Thomas shouldn’t say anything until he knows more.

Still. He wishes Richard were here so he could blurt it out, and then they could talk it all through together. 

R,

I do like the idea of being put over your knee before you leave next time. Would like it even better if there wasn’t a next time. But I have to ask, what will that teach me other than that being a brat gets me exactly what I want? Might need to think of something harsher.

Just writing that makes him hard. He longs to take down his trousers and relieve the ache. But he’d need Richard’s permission, and short of ringing one of Scotland’s grandest estates to enquire of His Majesty’s dresser whether he might be allowed to bring himself off this evening, there is no immediate way to obtain that permission.

He could simply disobey, and then take the consequences.

But he doesn’t want that. Teasing Richard about eating only biscuits is one thing. Wilful disobedience seems another. 

I’m sorry things are lonely there. I’d suggest befriending a bagpipe player or some such, but I worry you’d become enamoured of the skill they’ve got with their mouths. I don’t need any competition, thankyou. Are you well? Eating and sleeping enough? You’re not the only one who can worry, you know.

Things are going well at the shop. We’re actually selling more of that new mixer than we are of the toasters. But the toasters will catch on, you’ll see.

My fingernails are quite short, as I recently cut them. I can measure them, if you like.

Yours Very Fondly,

T

He wonders if he should add a P.S. asking permission to…

No.

If Richard wants him to bring himself off, he’ll say so. Having to wait for Richard’s orders makes the game that much more enjoyable. Or so he tells himself as he climbs into bed still aching. He spreads his legs but doesn’t touch, just studies the tenting at the front of his pyjama trousers and imagines Richard's head between his thighs. Rolls onto his stomach, gasping a little as he inadvertently—or perhaps on purpose; certainly on purpose—rubs against the mattress. If Richard were here, he’d get a smack for that.

He could keep going. Simply move his hips until he comes, no assistance necessary from his hand. But he stays still. Images Richard praising his restraint. 

Good boy, Thomas. You're very good. 

T,

Are you saying I need to come up with another punishment? You know, I once read a rather eye-opening erotic novel in which a figging was visited upon the poor heroine. Always thought that seemed an effective punishment for a brat who insists on obstinacy.

Well, Thomas will be re-reading that phrase, ‘a brat who insists on obstinacy,’ a hundred times or so before he falls asleep tonight. Likely working his fingers inside himself while he does. Richard didn’t say he couldn’t do that. Only said not to touch his prick or come without permission.

I’m just fine, love. If anything I’m too well-fed here, and you’ll have more of me to grab about the middle when I return. 

I haven’t much time and I want to get this out with the next post, so let me just say I love you. I’ll write again as soon as I can.

Yours,

R

R,

And what is figging? Can't pretend I'm not intrigued. My reading material is apparently quite tame compared to yours. As I’ve said, I’m not inclined towards vulgarity. Pure as the driven snow, me. Please take care in your reply not to offend my delicate sensibilities—I’ve had only a crumb I found on the floor to eat all day, and I wouldn’t want to faint.

T

Dear T,

Think you’re clever, do you? Next time Mrs A is out of the house, I’d like you to take Gladys and give yourself ten hard whacks, and imagine they’re coming from me. I can see you reading this and thinking what a silly idea. Can imagine you scoffing. But I know you’ll do it. Know you’ll sit down to supper with your bottom smarting, and when you do, I want you to know that’ll be Queen Mary’s bloody tea party compared to what I’m going to do to you when I return.

I suppose I’d better not tell you what figging is. Wouldn’t want to be accused of corrupting an innocent.

Love,

R

R,

Corrupt me, you bastard. 

T

Thomas isn’t joking, he’s got no idea what figging is. Richard sends him another letter detailing the act, and Thomas’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. He knew the man was a menace in the kitchen, but this abuse of the noble ginger root is a step too far. Thomas starts to reply and say so. But then he rereads several times the part where Richard describes how the heat from the peeled root might begin to arouse the miscreant. And another part describing how trying to clench against the invader would only release more of the burning juices. Good Lord, Richard’s got an even more devious mind than Thomas ever imagined. Thomas feels a bit inadequate, really. But then, what’s the point in feeling foolish for what he doesn’t know when he could simply enjoy getting an education?

He doesn’t reply, not immediately. When he goes to the shops that evening, he stares at the pieces of lumpy ginger root at the coster’s stand. Tries to imagine one of them peeled and whittled into the shape Richard described, then inserted into his arsehole.

A shiver runs through him. He can’t tell if he’s horrified, or…something else. He swallows and hastens away. Returns a few minutes later and studies the ginger again. A plan is starting to take form. He’s got a way to turn this around on Richard, he thinks.

Dear RE,

I was at the shops yesterday, and I purchased a rather impressive piece of ginger root, trying to determine if I could see the appeal. Or the a-peel, as it were. It’s sitting on the worktop now. If you were here, I might ask you to try all that you suggested with it. But you’re not. So I’m thinking some evening this week, I’ll peel it myself and figure out just what it’s good for.

Yours,

T

P.S. I did as you said with Gladys. It wasn’t the same. But my backside did smart quite pleasantly when I sat down to a proper meal and again when I climbed into bed at the most reasonable of reasonable hours.

The response is one of the fastest he’s had from Richard.

T,

Don’t you dare use it without me. I want you to leave it out where you will see it, multiple times per day, and each time you look at it, I want you to think about it going up your bottom. Want you to think about how it’ll make you squirm, and about how you’ll get smacked for squirming. Think about it going in and out of you, like my prick. 

(But much smaller, of course.)

Well done on your proper meal and bedtime. I know you think it’s just me worrying too much, but bear in mind your landlady does sometimes inform me that you look tired, or pale, or thin. I don’t know where she got the idea it’s my duty to do something about it, yet to talk to her you’d think you were a neglected waif, and I the matron of the orphanage who refuses to give you sufficient gruel. Please don’t land me in hot water with her, as she’s been sharing gardening tips with me, and I don’t want to lose her advice. I mean for us to have a garden someday, at our cottage.

Perhaps we’ll grow our own ginger root.

R

Thomas does leave the ginger on the worktop. And he does think about what Richard described. Many, many times per day.

When he re-reads the most recent letter, he tries not to feel an ache at Richard’s comment about the cottage. Or the niggling worry about the news he’s got to tell.

R,

Well, I wish I could promise I’ll obey. But with no idea of when I’ll see you again, I might grow impatient. And how would you even know? What if I were to use it on myself one night, then purchase a replacement before your return? Suppose you’d find out soon enough, though, because I’d confess the second you looked at me sideways. I’d want to tell you every detail of what it was like. Tell you how I whispered your name while I worked it in and out of me, and had to cover my mouth to keep from making noise. I hope you wouldn’t be too hard on me—surely you understand how desperate I am. Who could blame me for needing to take a knobby bit of root as a lover in your absence?

I’m sorry to say Gladys’s impact didn’t last the way yours might have. It’s growing late as I write this, and I know I ought to get to bed, but I’m missing you particularly terribly. I sleep better with you beside me.

Love,

T

T,

We’re finally in Perthshire. What stories I’ll have for you when I return. Miss L indulged in a glass of wine last night and, while the full tale is best told face-to-face, let’s just say our Miss L may harbour some Highlander fantasies. Make of that what you will. I’ll let your curiosity burn.

Would you really confess to me so easily, sweetheart? Or would I have to find a way to get it out of you? Can't tell you what it did to me, that part of your letter.

I’m well. Tired, certainly, but you know I like to stay busy. The hardest thing is missing you. I enjoy thinking of how we’ll address the matter of your eating and sleeping habits, as well as your new knobby lover. Could you not replace me with something a bit more imposing than a bit of root? What about a substantial gourd of some kind?

You know I would give anything to be sleeping next to you.

Dare I enquire about your behaviour of late, as well as the status of that ginger root? I will say I'm quite impressed that you haven't whinged even once in your letters about not being permitted release. If you'd like to give yourself some relief tonight, you may. So long as you promise to think of me. And tell me just how you did it, next time we're lying together.

With Love,

R

R, 

Been above reproach, me. Since you’ve been gone so long, I went ahead and used that ginger in a curry. Alas, alack. 

I was grateful for your permission and did make use of it. But, as with Gladys, it's not the same without you. I'm still distracted by thoughts of all I'd like to do for you. I’d need a firm hand and a great deal of motivation to get my mind out of the gutter. What’s all this about me taking a gourd as a lover? Have you other produce-based fantasies you’ve not shared with me?

Blimey, Miss L’s got a better chance of making it with one of her sewing machines than with some burly Highlander, hasn’t she? But good for her, I say. We all need a bit of fantasising to get us through the day. Speaking of which…

I’m yours to command when you return. I mean it. If I haven’t made it clear enough already, I don’t want you to hold back. I’m yours, always. Make sure I know it.

T

T,

If Miss L runs off into the mountains with a bloke in a tartan skirt, I’ll be nothing but happy for her. And for us all.

Gladly to all you said, my love. Gladly. You’ll have reminders of who you belong to on every inch of your body. And you’ll have your behaviour addressed so thoroughly, you’ll never think to be anything but an angel ever again.

All My Love,

R

R,

Hard to take your threats seriously when you’re four thousand miles away.

T

T,

Four hundred. Enjoy your last few days being able to sit.

R

R,

Wouldn’t matter if it was four bleeding inches, it would still be too much.

T

He’s in Mrs A’s parlour having tea one afternoon when the doorbell rings. Mrs A goes to answer it, and Thomas stills as she exclaims, “Mr Ellis! Mr Barrow didn’t say you were back.”

He hears Richard’s hearty voice: “No, no, I didn’t tell him. Wanted it to be a surprise.”

Thomas is surprised, wonderfully surprised, and it’s all he can do not to rush to the front hall and take Richard in his arms right there.

Then his gut twists as he realises he’ll now have to answer for the rather significant volume of letters in which he teased and provoked and then invited Richard to do something about it.

“Well, come in.” Mrs A sounds nearly as delighted as Thomas feels.

“I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion,” Richard’s footsteps creak through the hall. “Is now a bad time?”

“Not at all. We’re just sitting down to tea. Oh, Mr Barrow will be so happy. He’s spoken of nothing but you since you left.”

Thomas flushes. Not true. Surely he’s spoken of more than Richard. 

Maybe not.

He’s been careful what he’s said, at least. Been circumspect.

He hopes. 

He’s already half out of his seat, but shoots the rest of the way up as Richard appears in the parlour doorway behind Mrs A.

“Mr Ellis.” He curses himself for that breathless tinge to his voice.

“Mr Barrow.” Richard looks well. A bit tired, perhaps, but handsome as ever, and with that small smile playing on his lips; God, Thomas has missed that. Missed everything about him.

He really ought to do something besides stand at attention like he’s back in the army. 

“It’s good to see you,” Richard prompts.

“And you.”

Mrs A knows about them, ’course she does. Richard claims she’s known for ages. Just, they’ve got to keep up appearances.

“How was your trip?” Thomas asks more smoothly.

“Long,” Richard says. Mrs A starts to pull up a third chair, and Richard gallantly hurries to do it for her. “But Scotland is beautiful, to be sure.”

Thomas sits back down.

It’s somewhat excruciating at first. The three of them and the secret-that’s-not-a-secret between them. It’s not as if they’ve never had tea together. But they’ve never done it when Thomas was so completely incapable of keeping his eyes off Richard. He wants to bury his face in Richard’s suit jacket and inhale the scent of the outdoors and the train station and the starch of his shirt underneath, the aftershave along his jaw, the pomade in his hair, and the familiar, indefinable smell of him.

“So,” Richard says to Thomas once he’s drained a cup of tea and chatted with Mrs A about the play at the Haymarket she’s attending tonight. “Didn’t you say in your last letter you’d drafted a proposal regarding new inventory for the shop?”

For a second, he thinks Richard is serious. Then he cottons on. “Yes. I did.”

“Do you want to show me what you’ve written out?”

“You only just got back,” Thomas protests. Eager though he is to be alone with Richard, he does spare some thought for self-preservation. One thing to fantasise about punishment, quite another to actually pay the piper. “Relax a little. Have a second cup.”

Richard stares intently as Thomas grabs the teapot and fills his cup. Thomas pretends not to notice.

After a few more minutes of chatter, Mrs A insists she’s got to locate her hat and gloves for the theatre, as she’s meeting Miss Ludlow beforehand and they’re going for a walk in the park. The back of Thomas's neck prickles with nervous anticipation. Richard’s as gentle a bloke as Thomas has ever known, but when given permission to do what he likes with Thomas, what he likes often turns out to be quite diabolical. 

“After you, Mr Barrow,” Richard says politely as they exit the parlour.

Of course Richard is going to march Thomas ahead of him up to the flat. Thomas considers baulking, hanging back, asking Mrs A more questions about the theatre. But nothing he can say will get him out of this, and so he heads for the stairs. He can feel Richard’s gaze on his arse as he ascends.

As soon as they’re halfway up, Richard takes hold of his arm. A jolt goes through him as Richard grips a little harder, squeezes. Thomas has no doubt that if Mrs A weren’t still in the house, he’d be swatted up the steps and into the flat, then hauled over Richard’s knee without ceremony.

As it is, he’s dragged inside by his elbow, and God, the rush of heat between his legs is everything he’s been craving these past few weeks. His prick is already hard, his bottom clenching as he imagines just what Richard intends to do to it. 

Richard shuts and locks the door.

The first thing he does is kiss Thomas, hard enough for Thomas to swoon like a heroine in a film. There are no words for how much he’s missed this. He kisses back hungrily, not caring about the clash of teeth or noses. He manages to turn his moan to a shuddering whimper as Richard slides a hand down to his arse and squeezes. Richard pulls him closer, then claps that same hand on the back of his thigh as their tongues nudge together. Thomas feels such a pull between his legs he has to stifle another whimper, and that small sound seems to spur Richard to thrust his tongue deeper. As if by mutual agreement, they shrug out of their jackets, Richard tossing his aside before reaching round as Thomas is still trying to free his hands from his sleeves. Richard grabs a fistful of the fabric and twists it, effectively binding Thomas’s wrists behind his back. It's a drug, that. A spike of nerves and arousal so heady he closes his eyes against it, his desire to fight back warring with his need to surrender.

He struggles for an instant and then goes still, letting Richard use his mouth as he wishes, helpless as Richard begins to rub against him, muffling each of Thomas’s moans with a kiss. Eventually, Richard helps him the rest of the way out of his jacket and tosses it to the floor. He whispers in Thomas’s ear, “You’ll not have an arse left when I’m done with you. Take your trousers off.”

Thomas wouldn’t have thought his prick could get any harder. But those words do it. A pinch to his backside jolts him into action, and he scrambles to get his shoes and trousers off while Richard goes to the worktop.

Richard picks up the piece of ginger root that has been Thomas’s only companion for the past week. “So it is real.”

“’Course it’s real. Did you think I made it up?”

“Thought you might have been teasing,” Richard admits.

Thomas steps out of his trousers, keeping an eye on Richard, who’s holding up the root like a tiny Excaliber he’s just yanked from the stone. “‘Is this a dagger I see before me…’" Thomas recites, and he doesn’t miss the way Richard’s lips twitch before he turns to glare.

“Aren’t you in enough trouble?”

“Don’t know why. All I’ve done is keep you entertained on your journey.”

“I’ll entertain you in a minute. Get your pants off too, you won’t be needing those.”

Thomas’s stomach swoops. He obediently removes his underwear and sets them with his trousers. Places his hands at the back of his head the way he knows he’s supposed to—for all the good compliance will do him now. The hem of his shirt rises with the movement, exposing his erection. Richard lifts his brows, but, in true Richard Ellis fashion, doesn’t allow the sight to distract him from the task at hand. He has a small paring knife and is peeling the root with a speed and ease that would make any cook jealous. Thomas whistles. “How is it that you can’t boil water without creating a national emergency, but you peel that like you’re—”

“I would stop there, Mr Barrow. You’re not to speak until spoken to.”

Thomas shuts his mouth and watches Richard work.

“I’m going to finish peeling this,” Richard says conversationally, “and stick a bit of it up your bottom. You’re going to be bent over the bed with all that heat up your arse, wishing it was my cock inside you, wishing you could be fucked good and proper. Knowing as soon as Mrs A leaves I’m going to take you over my knee and spank you with it still in you. And every time you clench around it, it’s going to burn more. You’re going to spend the whole evening sore and hard and completely without relief. I promise you.”

Thomas has to press his thighs together at that. He could probably come from words alone, if he isn’t careful. He’s breathing hard, hair falling over his forehead, gaze locked with Richard’s. He doesn’t believe the ‘without relief’ bit for a second. More likely Richard will make him come hard enough to see stars.

“Why not make me suck your prick while I’ve got that inside me?”

Richard’s eyes go wide for an instant, but he recovers quickly. “I told you not to speak.”

“Unless spoken to. You did speak to me, Mr Ellis—not to be impertinent, but you did. Anyway, I’m only trying to help. Might encourage me to do a thorough job, if you say you won’t take it out till I’ve made you come. And we wouldn’t have to wait for the old lady to leave. You’d just have to be quiet while I suck you. Which we both know is no small feat for you.” He smirks.

Richard eyes him coolly, but the effect is rather spoiled by the flush in his cheeks and his dilated pupils. “Bloody good idea. On your knees.”

Thomas can’t believe how long he’s waited to hear those words. He kneels at once, directly at Richard’s feet.

Richard continues his work, the strips of peel dropping to the floor in front of Thomas, making his belly tighten with anticipation. He is a bit nervous, really. Sort of wishes he'd tested out the root before this, just to know how bad it will be. He doesn't want to make a fool of himself if it turns out he can't take it. As he watches the scraps of peel fall, he leans his head against Richard’s leg. Richard pauses. 

Thomas closes his eyes as Richard cups his cheek, pressing him closer. Richard’s hand smells gingery; his thumb slides to the short hairs at Thomas’s nape and rubs. Thomas breathes in, then out slowly, revelling in the knowledge that Richard is really here, is home. 

Richard clasps the side of his head a little more firmly, then resumes peeling. “Go bend over the edge of the bed,” he says after a moment.

Thomas rises at once and goes to the bed, bending over, making a bit of a show of it.

“Legs apart.”

He shuffles his feet outward. The bed’s low enough that, braced on his forearms like this, his arse is raised high. His prick stiffens as he recalls times in the past he’s waited here just like this for Richard to fuck him, or punish him.

“Hold yourself open.”

Thomas shifts his weight from his forearms onto his shoulders as he reaches back and holds himself spread. Suddenly he’s far less confident, nerves taking over, his stomach seeming to fold in on itself at Richard’s footsteps behind him.

Richard flips the tails of his shirt over his back and holds the peeled root down for him to see. It’s only a little thing, really—smaller than he expected, though he supposes size isn’t really the point. A tapered bulb, maybe twice as thick as his thumb, a narrow neck and a flared base—just as Richard described. Thomas licks his dry lips. “Am I supposed to be admiring your whittling skills?” 

He shuts his eyes, expecting a pinch, which Richard often resorts to when he can’t swat for fear of Mrs A hearing. But Richard merely retrieves the Vaseline from the bedside table and uncaps it. Thomas’s belly contracts again. Richard wouldn’t have suggested figging if he wasn’t sure Thomas could take it. 

If only Thomas were quite so sure.

Richard slicks his hole—mostly the rim, but one finger teases inside as well, probing deep enough to make Thomas grunt. Thomas forgets his nerves, pushing his arse back shamelessly. His shoulders are starting to ache, but he keeps himself spread wide.

“Have you had your fingers inside yourself while I’ve been gone?” Richard enquires.

“You didn’t say I couldn’t.” He’s mildly alarmed.

“I know. I just wondered.” Richard crooks his finger gently, and Thomas’s body goes taut.

“Once,” he says on a huff of breath.

“Only once?” Richard pushes in to his last knuckle, then draws slowly out.

“Ah… More than once.”

“Why did you lie?”

A sudden, dizzying pressure right at that sensitive spot inside him. His breath bursts into the quilt. “Didn’t want you to think I wasn’t waiting for you.” He licks his lips, shifting, trying to get that pressure in a different place. “I didn’t come, though, except for the night you said I could. Followed the rules.”

Richard thrusts his finger in small, steady movements, and Thomas presses his lips together on a sound of discomfort. “Mm. Wonder if, once your hole’s burning from the ginger, I’ll get any more confessions out of you.” Richard withdraws, smacks Thomas on the arse, and then presses the tip of the root to his arsehole. Thomas doesn’t mean to resist, exactly. His body tenses of its own accord; he bites his lip at the unfamiliar sensation of something entering him that’s not a part of Richard. His backside still smarts from the slap, and he’s not in a hurry to earn another just yet—not until he knows how bad this is going to be. He forces himself to breathe and bear down.

The ginger doesn’t burn right away. At first it’s cool and damp, its texture somewhat blunted by the Vaseline. Richard works it in and out for a moment, pushing it a little deeper each time, and Thomas knows he’s being given the chance to say the code word. He grits his teeth. This is nothing he can’t handle. 

Richard pushes firmly to get the widest part in. Thomas is stretched for a second, then his arsehole tightens round the narrow bit, and the thing is inside him. And after a few seconds, he feels it. More of an itch at first. Then a sudden, breath-stealing sting, like vinegar on a wound. He clenches, even though he’s warned himself not to, and another wave of burning comes on. 

There’s no way he’s getting through this with his pride intact. He releases his arsecheeks and grips the quilt instead. Twists his hips, rocking up and down then side to side. He flushes as he realises Richard is watching him wave his arse about like the bloody Union Jack. He can’t yelp or moan without risking being overheard, so he tries to muffle his harsh breathing in the quilt.

At first, he thinks it helps to hold still. Then he decides it’s preferable to move—keeps his mind off the burning. Then he concludes there is no good option. He laces his hands over the back of his head to keep himself from reaching back and plucking the horrid thing out. Dips his spine, then arches. Goes up on his toes, then back down. 

“This is absolutely everything I dreamed.” The smugness in Richard’s tone would be unbearable if Thomas’s mind weren’t otherwise occupied.

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Thomas forces out. As though he himself isn’t. His prick, which had flagged briefly during the insertion, is fully hard again, and now that the initial shock has worn off, he's beginning to find the experience rather stimulating. His arsehole stings, a constant reminder that he’s not as full as he could be, that what he needs is Richard's cock—but deeper inside he’s on fire, and that’s almost like a fucking in and of itself. There’s a rhythm to the waves of heat, and his hips move steadily, chasing the burn. He gasps, then exhales with great feeling. He arches his back again, holding the position for longer this time, moaning into the quilt.

“Should have brought a tawse back from Scotland,” Richard comments. “Or a hunting whip. Could have flogged that bottom while you wave it around.”

Thomas groans, trying to still the bottom in question. But as soon as he succeeds, he gets a pinch to the lower curve of his right cheek, which hardly seems fair. He clenches, which makes the root burn more, which sets him writhing again.

Richard takes pity and rubs his arse lightly, and that helps a great deal. Strange, though: the touch is soothing, but it’s not where he needs to be soothed. But it's close enough that he almost thinks if he could just shift in the right direction, Richard would be able to reach the ache inside him and quiet it. He sighs and goes mostly still, shuddering as Richard strokes slowly up one thigh and then down the other.

“What a brat you were,” Richard remarks softly. “In your letters.” 

A thread of warmth drops down his spine, joining with the heat between his legs. The low purr of Richard’s voice, the gentle touch even as he scolds, the unrelenting smart deep inside Thomas; the indignity of it, the way he can't seem to stop making a display of himself, puts a matching fire in his face and neck, and suddenly he's hot all over, shifting his weight from foot to foot with no way to cool down or get Richard's eyes off him. Richard chuckles softly, and Thomas is convinced his whole body will go up in flame.

“Clear I’ve let you get away with too much for too long.” A whisper like a caress. “You need to be taken well in hand.”

Thomas presses his groin against the edge of the bed, unsure if he’s trying to rub off or prevent himself from coming.

“You need this punishment,” Richard tells him, as though that’s not bloody obvious.

Richard strokes his right thigh so lightly that Thomas shivers. And, unwittingly, grips the root. He’s got to stop doing that. He groans as his arsehole begins to smart anew. Presses harder against the bed as Richard’s fingers drift to his inner thigh to tease. He squirms as Richard strokes the sensitive place, featherlight, sending pleasure all the way to his scalp, making his balls draw tight and his buttocks tense—and Richard laugh. Thomas whimpers and rocks his hips just slightly, wanting more but knowing better than to beg. Richard obliges, cups his balls and rolls them carefully before squeezing just hard enough that Thomas has to muffle a yelp. His arsehole spasms around the ginger as he tries to hold back an orgasm. He resists the urge to close his legs, knows that won't go well for him. Instead he jiggles up and down, giving in to the humiliation of trying to fuck himself on the firmly-seated root.

Richard pushes on the base of it, and Thomas gasps, prick throbbing. The burn has gentled, become a persistent, driving heat; he needs to be fucked, needs to rub his cock against something, anything, even sandpaper, if it will distract him from the sensation. His breathing grows rapid and shallow.

“How do you feel?” Richard asks, plucking at the end of the root, tugging until it stretches Thomas again.

“Like I need to be fucked,” Thomas replies at once.

Richard bursts out laughing. He gives the root a few light pulls and pushes, which is nothing like being properly fucked but does scratch the itch for a moment.

“May I rub on the bed?” He doesn’t care if it’s an undignified question. He’s desperate.

“No. But you may kneel and suck my cock.”

He can’t get to it fast enough. He stands, gripping the root with his arse, because he can only imagine what Richard will do to him if it falls out. Sinks to his knees like he’s been dying to do, like he’s thought about every day and night for the past four weeks, his face level with the bulge at Richard’s crotch. He exhales, enjoying Richard’s small flinch as warm breath hits his trousers.

“Beg me,” Richard says softly.

Thomas looks up. “Please? Please, can I suck you?

“Why should I let you?” Richard can’t quite keep his voice steady.

Because you’re going to go mad if I don’t? Thomas thinks. But, like a good boy, he continues begging. “I need to. I really do. I’ve been thinking about this every day since you left, and think about it most every day of my life anyway. I want to make you feel good.” He places a hand on Richard’s thigh. “I know I haven’t behaved well, but I’m already being punished, aren’t I, with this thing up my arse? Promise, it’ll remind me as I’m sucking you that I—I need to listen better. Do what you say. Don’t punish yourself to punish me.” Richard clearly likes that; his exhale is soft, almost a moan. “Let me give you what you need.” He nuzzles the front of Richard’s trousers and looks up again, imploring. “Seems like you really need it.”

“Get on with it,” Richard growls.

Thomas bites back a grin. He loves when Richard grows impatient, when that calm slips and he becomes desperate enough to rap out orders.

He unbuttons Richard’s flies and tugs his trousers down. Undoes the tie at the waistband of his drawers; Richards looks painfully hard, cock jutting, flushed and swollen. Thomas gives one last glance up then takes him in his mouth. And god, it’s incredible, the way the burn in his arse makes him suck harder and faster, like that will somehow alleviate his own discomfort. “Hands behind your back,” Richard orders, breathless, and Thomas obeys at once, clasping his hands at the small of his back and using only his lips and tongue. 

Richard’s having quite the struggle to keep quiet, resting one hand on Thomas’s head like he’s not sure whether to push him back or yank him forward. At some point, they hear the door downstairs open and then close as Mrs A leaves, and Thomas laughs softly before redoubling his efforts, sinking deep into pleasure at the way Richard’s prick fills his mouth, presses on his tongue. Richard grabs his hair and tugs, and Thomas briefly sees shadows behind the lids of his closed eyes. He’s almost disappointed when he has to pull off for a moment to breathe. Richard is no longer quiet, his moans encouraging Thomas every bit as much as the burn in his bottom.

“Clench on it,” Richard orders, and Thomas obeys, tensing his arse and moving his hips to get the heat to flare. He moans loudly around Richard’s cock, and it twitches on his tongue in response. Richard once again grasps what he can of Thomas’s hair and twists, and Thomas groans from the depths of his body.

Then Richard begins scolding, a string of filthy, delectable threats that make Thomas clench around the root over and over, dizzy with shame and need.

“You’ll remember, when we’re done here, who gives the orders,” Richard concludes, giving his fistful of Thomas’s hair a shake. “You’ll be bent over and used any way I can think of.” His voice breaks, the words dropping off into a bout of desperate panting as his hips jerk.

Thomas takes Richard deep as he can, using his tongue along the length of his shaft, then lapping the underside.

“Oh…fuck…”

Thomas hums his approval at Richard’s cursing, pleased with himself.

A gentle push on his forehead. “Stop, Thomas.”

That deep voice moves through him, and he stops, his lips still around Richard’s prick. The taste and heft of it still on his tongue, making his mind hazy. If he could get away with just a little more…

He flicks his tongue experimentally and gets a tug on his hair sharp enough to spike pain across his scalp. “What did I say?” Richard asks, pushing deeper into Thomas’s mouth.

Thomas breathes steadily around his prick, willing himself not to choke or come. Richard leaves him there for what feels like eternity, and Thomas does try very hard to stay still, to obey. It’s a struggle not to squirm; his eyes water. Richard releases his grip to massage Thomas’s scalp where he's pulled. Thomas closes his eyes.

“Good boy. That's better.”

Thomas lets out a soft sigh through his nose.

Richard steps back, cock sliding from Thomas's mouth.

It almost hurts, seeing Richard so hard, knowing he could bring him off given another minute or so. But he lets Richard help him to his feet. The burn from the ginger has dulled, but his whole body is overly warm, and his head spins like he’s been hauled from his bed in the middle of a dream. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and waits, breathing harshly, for things to come back into focus. 

“Alright?” Richard whispers. 

Thomas nods without looking at him. His vision has a strange, kaleidoscopic feel to it. Richard’s still holding his arm, steadying him. If his face is anywhere near as red as Richard’s, they must look like two tomatoes on a vine. He attempts a laugh. “Bit dizzy.”

Richard kisses his temple. “Come here a moment.” He pulls Thomas into his arms. Thomas is aware of how fast his heart is going, how rapidly his chest moves with his breath. He gasps, then exhales into Richard’s shoulder as Richard slips his prick between his thighs to rut. Thomas squeezes round the ginger, and it feels good, having something shifting in his arse while Richard fucks between his legs. He tries to ride Richard’s prick, but the rhythm is off, so he stays put and lets Richard do as he likes.

Except Richard reaches between his cheeks and twists the root, getting him moving again. Like a bleedin’ wind-up toy, isn’t he? He bucks as Richard plays with the ginger, tugging it nearly out and then pushing it in while Thomas tries not to rise onto the balls of his feet each time. He concentrates on keeping his thighs close together so Richard can have his pleasure.

He ought to know Richard by now, but somehow he still isn’t expecting the slap on his arse and jumps about a bloody mile. He grinds against Richard for all he’s worth, their pricks now rubbing together, no thought in his mind but bringing himself off.

Richard’s got self-control enough for both of them, thankfully. He stops and nudges Thomas’s chin up for a kiss as he makes short work of Thomas’s waistcoat and shirt. “Undress me,” he orders quietly, once Thomas is fully naked. Thomas removes Richard’s tie, unbuttons his waistcoat then slides it off. He fumbles at the buttons of Richard’s shirt. His fingertips feel as if they’re buzzing, and as he struggles for the third time with the middle button, he laughs and dips his head, resting his cheek against Richard’s chest, inhaling the scent of the starched fabric.

Richard laughs too, the vibration gentle against his cheek. He hugs Thomas to him again, tightly enough he could move any way he chooses and simply take Thomas with him. Thomas isn’t aware of how hard he’s hugging back until Richard grunts in discomfort. He loosens his hold—but not much.

A brush of lips against his hair again. “I know,” Richard whispers. “Too long to be apart.”

Thomas nods without speaking.

“Do as I say now, love,” Richard says, so softly that the back of Thomas’s neck flushes. Warm hands rest on his hips. “Be good for me.”

Thomas lifts his head and kisses him, the sort of kiss that makes Richard close his eyes, that gives Thomas the power for a moment. After it’s done, they rest their foreheads together, lips touching. Thomas starts to lift his chin to ask for another, but then dips his head again, drawing a deep breath. He steps back to finish the buttons and remove Richard’s shirt, grateful when Richard lets him explore for a few moments. He runs his palms over the hard chest, the defined muscles of his shoulders and upper arms. Kisses all of his favourite dips and ridges, worshipping.

“Thomas.” Said quietly, but there’s no mistaking the warning.

He has to remind himself not to rush. To take his time removing Richard’s shoes, then the trousers and pants pooled round his ankles. His socks and garters.

This is the sight he’s been waiting to see: Richard fully naked, prick flushed and still glistening from Thomas’s work on it.

But before he can ask permission to touch everywhere, Richard rasps, “My turn,” then backs him to the bed and pushes him down. Climbs on top of him and, without preamble, licks his palm and grasps Thomas’s cock. “Hold still.” 

As though there’s any chance of that. Thomas barely keeps his hips from thrusting upwards as Richard strokes him; he settles for tensing first one arsecheek then the other, over and over, hoping the movements are subtle enough not to get him in trouble. But then he can’t resist pushing his arse more firmly onto the mattress, trying to get more pressure on the base of the ginger root, to feel it deeper inside him.

“You keep wiggling like that,” Richard warns, “I’ll pin your legs and really give you something to squirm about.” He works Thomas faster.

Thomas manages obedience for all of five seconds before he gasps and moves in time with Richard’s hand. It’s the ginger; he’d be able to obey otherwise, but the pressure in his arse and the vestiges of the burn conspire to make his hips roll. 

“You’re moving an awful lot.” Richard grins and lowers himself to kiss his chest.

Thomas arches, his thighs tensing until they tremble. “Can’t help it.”

“That so?”

“Feels…very good.” He gasps as Richard strokes his prick. “Oh…oh, Richard, please…”

“Keep this up, and I’ll be forced to deal with you most harshly.”

Thomas’s laugh ends in a groan as he tips his head back. Richard nips his collarbone.

“I’m being good. Richard, please.” He whimpers at another soft sting from Richard's teeth. “I’m being good.”

“You’re still bloody squirming.” Richard sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Only a little.”

“So I should punish you only a little?”

“No,” Thomas half whinges, half laughs. 

Richard kisses his chest again, one side then the other. “I should punish you a lot?”

“No.” Thomas’s eyes fall closed, and he smiles. He loves the teasing, the attention. It brings him to that place where he belongs entirely to Richard, nothing to do but give himself over.

He opens his eyes as Richard scoots up on his knees and forearms, body enclosing Thomas’s. Richard kisses the side of his throat, then nuzzles where he nipped earlier. Thomas exhales, gazing at him. He’s forgotten how to speak, how to think, how to exist anywhere but here. “What should I do with you, then?” Richard whispers.

“Be nice to me,” he murmurs. 

“Ah. Like this?” Richard kisses his cheek. Next, his lips—a soft, quiet kiss that has Thomas’s spine bowing as Richard very lightly sucks the tip of his tongue. Thomas lifts his head off the pillow as he seeks more, and Richard deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue over Thomas’s and drawing the softest moan. His right hand, still on Thomas’s prick, gives a light tug, and then he uses his fingertips to push back the foreskin and expose the crown. Thomas gasps without taking his lips from Richard’s, hands clenching into fists on the quilt. Richard’s tongue strokes his, and Thomas sighs but doesn't move.

Richard gently breaks this kiss. 

Thomas’s head falls back onto the pillow. He tries to swallow through his gasping. But he doesn’t ask for anything. 

“Missed this lovely prick.” Richard slides the skin back again and rubs the slit with the pad of his thumb.

Thomas’s balls draw tight; his arse seizes around the root. He clenches his jaw with the effort of holding back.

Richard leans in to trail kisses down his neck and chest, shifting inelegantly down the bed to kiss his belly, then his groin. Brushes his lips along his shaft and smiles at Thomas’s sharp inhale, and then kisses the head, suckling at the foreskin.  

“Oh…oh…” Thomas's thighs tense. He’s going to lose control, no question.

He groans as his prick is enveloped in wet heat. Richard rests one forearm across his thighs and the other over his belly, pinning him firmly. Thomas’s throat works, his thighs flexing, then his calves, then his feet. He rubs his arse against the bed, trying to get the root to shift just where he wants it. But it doesn’t quite touch that spot inside him, just burns with renewed vigour. Richard encircles the base of his cock with thumb and forefinger, then takes him as deep into his throat as he’ll go.

And as he does, he reaches between Thomas’s splayed legs and pulls on the root. Thomas’s gasp becomes another moan as Richard matches the rhythm of his mouth to his hand, fucking Thomas with the root and sucking him hard. Thomas draws his legs up; theres a bit of fumbling to get them onto Richard’s shoulders. Richard kisses one inner thigh then the other, and Thomas almost wishes he hadn’t chosen this position—Richard is so easily distracted by his thighs. Sure enough, Mr Ellis is now busy sucking a bruise onto the sensitive flesh of his right thigh, rather than taking Thomas down his throat again. Thomas grabs a hank of his short hair—a dangerous move, to be sure. He tugs only lightly, trying to give the suggestion...

Richard takes the hint with a soft laugh, giving his thigh a last kiss. “Going to pay for that, brat,” he says before refocussing on Thomas’s cock. He takes him down easily, and then swallows around him, forcing Thomas to again use every ounce of control he possesses. Richard frigs him with the ginger hard and fast, until Thomas’s breathing shallows. A cry catches in his throat; his lips remain parted as he attempts to gulp air. Richard clamps round the base of his cock just as he tugs the ginger nearly all the way out, the tip resting at Thomas’s rim, stinging there.

They’re both completely still, waiting. Thomas’s prick pulses against Richard’s tongue. He’d beg if he could remember how. The slightest twitch of Richard’s lips, and then the root is forced inward, hard. Thomas nearly folds in half, his torso lifting off the bed. He doesn’t come, though. Doesn’t grab at Richard’s head or any such. The muscles of his belly quiver, and he’s breathing with desperate, harsh sounds.

Richard traces the swollen vein in Thomas’s shaft with his tongue. Thomas closes his eyes, keening as Richard works the root inside him, spreading the burn.

Finally, Richard relents, releasing his prick with a wet pop.

“Good, Thomas,” he murmurs, breathless. He kisses Thomas’s belly again. “Doing so well, love.”

Thomas collapses back, eyes closed. His prick, flushed and wet, stands straight up.

Richard blows a soft stream of cool air onto it, and Thomas flinches but stays still. “Beautiful control.” Richard is speaking softly enough to put him into a trance.

He tries again to swallow. “Can you...say more of that?” he whispers, too lost in the moment to be properly embarrassed that he’s asking.

“’Course.” Richard strokes his belly lightly. “So beautiful like this. Trying to hold back, wait for permission. So obedient. Almost makes me forget I’m supposed to be punishing you.”

Thomas drags in a shaky inhale. “Almost.”

“That’s right, almost.” Richard’s fingertips drift downward. “My good boy.” He doesn’t quite touch Thomas’s prick. But he’s so close. He traces along the crease of Thomas’s thigh and pelvis. “Stand up. And don’t you dare let that fall out of you.”

Thomas slides his legs from Richard’s shoulders and slowly rolls to where he can sit up, the sudden pressure on the base of the root making him wince. He rubs the side of his head as the change in position sets the blood pounding in his skull.

“Slowly, love,” Richard cautions.

Once Thomas is standing, Richard takes a seat on the edge of the mattress and pats his lap. “Bend over here.”

Thomas grins a little woozily. “I don’t dare say no.”

Richard returns the grin. “That’s showing some sense.”

He comes to Richard and stretches out across his thighs. Richard wraps one arm around his middle and rubs his bottom with his other hand. Thomas sighs in relief, though he doesn’t fool himself it’s going to last long. His breath hitches as Richard’s hand dips between his legs. Richard rolls his balls with an agonisingly light touch, then lets his fingertips play along the soft skin behind.

“Stop teasing,” Thomas mumbles.

“Do you give the orders here?”

“Well, sometimes I do. But it never seems to go well for me.”

Case in point: the smack he gets.

“Do you give the orders here?” Richard repeats.

“No, Mr Ellis. I do not.” His arse tenses as Richard lifts his hand again.

But Richard merely gives the root a slight push. “I think a good hard fucking would remind you of your place.”

“With that tiny thing?”

“I hope, for your sake, you mean the ginger root.”

“Of course, Mr Ellis,” he says innocently.

Richard smacks him again, and Thomas sees exactly what Richard meant about receiving a spanking with that thing inside him. There’s no way to keep from clenching, the swats stinging as they do, so his arse just keeps milking more of the burn from the root. He lets one leg slide off Richard’s lap so that he’s straddling the knee. He expects to get in trouble for it, but Richard only whispers, “That’s the way. Let me see.”

Thomas spreads his legs wider so Richard can have a view of the base of the root, see exactly where it disappears inside him, and the way he grips it when Richard strokes the backs of his legs, or swats him hard enough to make him jump.

Richard draws the ginger out again, runs the tip up and down Thomas’s cleft, letting it rest against his hole for a moment. He can’t help himself, he writhes against Richard’s knee, pleasure and discomfort building fast.

When the root is pushed back into him, Thomas hisses through his teeth. It’s a funny-shaped thing, not at all like a prick. “Not quite doing the job, is it?” Richard asks, sliding it out again and then pressing it gradually back in. “Ask me for what you really want.”

“Your cock,” Thomas pants.

The words aren’t even fully out when the root is plucked from his arse and cast aside, and he’s shoved off of Richard’s lap and bent once more over the edge of the mattress. His arsecheeks are parted roughly; he barely has time to draw breath.

Richard breaches him in one long, smooth stroke. His mouth falls open in a silent cry of shock. He’s still slick with Vaseline, so it’s not painful. But it is startling, the sudden fullness, and the force with which Richard buries himself, pushes past the slight resistance from Thomas’s body. 

“Oh…” he breathes.

“To your liking?” Richard asks politely, as though he’s enquiring about a meal Thomas has ordered at a restaurant. 

“God, please. Yes…”

Richard stays buried in him without moving, until Thomas whines and tries rocking his hips for stimulation. Richard grips his hair as he draws back, then thrusts into him so hard that Thomas’s knees buckle. “Are we clear yet about who’s in charge?”

Thomas gulps a breath. “This is your idea of a hard fucking? You’ve barely moved. Getting lazy, Ellis.”

He pays for that; Christ, does he. Richard’s palm cracks down on one cheek, then the other as he rides Thomas mercilessly, driving into him until Thomas grabs the quilt and twists it, biting it to keep from crying out. But his breathing has become so rapid, he has to spit out the fabric to get enough air. 

“Oh—oh…” He moans as Richard finds just the right angle to make him feel he’ll come apart.

Richard smacks his arse and fucks him faster.

Thomas clenches his teeth until the breath bursts out of him as Richard’s thighs slap against his over and over. 

“Feel like behaving yourself yet, brat?”

Thomas moans, that word, the memory of ‘a brat who insists on obstinacy…’

But the strain in Richard’s voice suggests it’s as much a struggle for him not to come as it is for Thomas. What if Thomas were to drag this out, refuse to learn his lesson? He grins into the quilt. Which of them has more self-control? 

Richard, Thomas has to concede. He winces at another sharp swat. He’s already feeling thoroughly punished, and he’s not sure how much more Richard has planned. Perhaps it’s best to let Richard win this particular battle. He’s about to say something contrite when his breath is stolen by a change in angle, and an even harder series of thrusts that set the legs of the bed scraping the floorboards, the frame creaking precariously. 

Thomas chokes out a sound that isn’t any word in the English language. He finally managed a breathless, “Yes, fuck, please…”

Richard obliges until Thomas worries they're going to put the bed through the wall.

“Ah…alright, alright…Oh! Alright, please…”

Richard pulls out gradually, the slide of his prick an agonising pleasure.

He pushes back in so slowly that Thomas can feel each millimetre. When Richard hits the spot that makes Thomas’s hips jerk, he angles himself and uses tiny thrusts, so that he’s raking that knot of nerves, making Thomas yelp and moan. “Who’s in charge here, Thomas?”

“You are,” Thomas answers at once. “Oh! You are. Richard, oh, God, you are. You are.”

Richard stops. “That’s right.” He pats Thomas’s hip, each pat nearly hard enough to be a swat. “Good lad.”

Thomas pants frantically into the quilt, closing his eyes as Richard’s hand rests on his throbbing backside. “You know I could feel it?” Richard murmurs. “The ginger, the traces of it, on my prick?”

That sends a flood of arousal through Thomas's entire body. “God,” he whispers again.

“Stung like the dickens, made me fuck you harder.”

“You still feel it?” His voice is muffled in the quilt.

“A little,” Richard says, the words drifting out on a sigh followed by a shuddering inhale.  

Thomas grips Richard’s prick with his arse and rocks back on it gently; Richard’s breath hitches. When he does it again, he gets a soft, “Oh.”

“What’s the matter,” Thomas murmurs. “Don't want me to make you come?”

“Not yet.” The words are strained, not much conviction behind them.

“I think you do.” Thomas moves back and forth, fucking himself on Richard's cock.

“Thomas...”

“What are you going to do about it?” Thomas challenges.

Another swat snaps his head up, and Richard continues fucking him like he’s got the stamina to last for days, leaning over, his body heavy enough atop Thomas’s that Thomas can’t quite find the best position to rub off on the bed—because at this point, he would take whatever punishment he earned if he could just get some relief for his cock. He lets out a long, rough cry into the quilt as he accepts that he has no choice but to endure the overload of pleasure without the stimulation he needs to bring him over the edge.

Eventually, he exhausts himself trying to find a way. He goes still, letting himself be fucked into oblivion and occasionally encouraged with a slap on the flank.

“Good, Thomas.” Richard acknowledges the surrender. “That’s right. Let me.”

Thomas moans and buries his face in the quilt. His thighs sting fiercely where he’s been swatted. He’s losing his erection as frustration and discomfort start to edge out pleasure. His next inhale is nearly a sob. He cries out at the next swat, legs trembling.

He doesn’t realise he’s whispering, “Please stop, please, oh fuck, please…” until Richard halts. His hand slides across Thomas's shoulders and down his sweat-slick back. 

“Stop really?” Richard asks.

“I…”

Richard starts to ease out.

“Don’t stop,” Thomas whispers, not sure what he wants.

“We’re stopping just for a moment. You’ve done wonderfully, love. Just breathe now.”

Richard eases out. Thomas doesn’t mean to gasp as he does; it’s not like it hurts. Just, any sensation right now is too much. Richard makes a sympathetic noise, and Thomas isn’t even annoyed at being coddled. His skin feels made of needles.

Richard’s palm sticks slightly to damp skin as he rubs Thomas’s shoulders. Thomas tries to breathe, but the air shudders out of him before it’s fully in his lungs. Richard strokes down to his tailbone and circles the small hollow there. He eventually nudges Thomas up onto the bed to stretch out. 

Thomas cautiously rolls onto his side. Richard slides one arm underneath him and drapes the other over him, holding him from behind.

“Good boy,” Richard murmurs. “Take your time.” 

Thomas grips the arm Richard has placed over his midsection and squeezes gently. After a few moments, he inhales, tries to laugh. “That was something.”

Richard kisses his nape. “Something good?”

“Yeah. Blimey, you didn’t hold back.”

“Did I hurt you?”

Thomas shakes his head. Squeezes Richard’s arm again. “Didn’t say the word.”

“Did you want me to keep going?” 

He hesitates. “I don’t know.”

“Seemed like you could use a break. We’ll get back to it in a minute.”

Thomas experiments with pressing his arse against Richard’s thighs, trying to reawaken the soreness. “How did you not bloody come?” he demands.

“It was a struggle, let me tell you. Could ask the same of you.”

“Well, I didn’t because you told me not to, and I always do as you say. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Richard agrees.

Thomas nestles back into him. “Incredible.” He yawns. “Been wanting this for so long.”

The response is another kiss to his nape. “I’ve missed you. You have no idea how much.”

“Have some idea.” His breathing gradually slows as he relaxes. He shifts, trying to press even closer to the warmth behind him. Feels Richard’s erection at his back and begins to move his hips more rhythmically. 

“You just rest,” Richard chides.

Thomas’s prick has softened even though he hasn’t yet spent. His heart is still going fast. Richard strokes his belly in slow circles, the sensation very soothing.

“Feels good,” Thomas murmurs. 

Richard switches to circling with his fingertips for a moment, then uses his palm once more. Thomas gives a deep sigh.

“Was it alright, really?” he asks Richard after a few minutes. “The trip?”

“It was. Tiring. Hard to be away from you. But it was fine. How did you fare here, really?”

“Fine. Going to be a refrigerator in every house before too long, if sales at Lantry’s are any indication.”

“Mm. The future’s at our doorstep, is it?”

Thomas rolls to face him. He can’t get enough of looking into those eyes; it’s been too bloody long. “There is something…maybe some news. Nothing for certain yet.”

“What’s that?”

He hesitates. He knows Richard will be pleased for him, he just doesn’t want it to seem like he’s considering a future different from the one they’ve been planning together. But it’s probably best to just spit it out. “Mr Lantry’s wanting me to take over more managerial duties. The flat above the shop needs some work, but he’s going to look into having that work done, and then letting me rent it, cheap. It’d be private,” he hastens on. “It’s just the shop and the flat, in that building.”

Richard smiles broadly. “Thomas, that’s wonderful.”

“I’m not forgetting about the cottage. This is only for now. Easier to get things done at the shop if I live right above.” And easier for us to fuck uninterrupted, he almost adds. “Until we’re ready to move somewhere.”

“Of course. My God, Thomas, look at you. He’ll be turning the whole bloody enterprise over to you in no time.”

“Don’t get too excited. Nothing’s for certain, as I’ve said.”

“Still.” Richard kisses him. “I’m so pleased for you. You deserve it. All your hard work.”

A warmth spreads through his chest even as an old familiar dread reaches up and catches it like the string of a drifting balloon. They shouldn’t count their chickens yet; there’s still plenty he could do to make Mr Lantry second guess this plan. It’s less about how hard you work in life, more about whether people like you—and he’s not so good at that part. It’s a miracle he hasn’t so much as butted heads with the old shopkeeper in all the time he’s worked there.

Yet trust Richard to want to celebrate something Thomas hasn’t yet achieved. He manages a smile. “Singing my praises when there’s still a lot to punish me for.”

“Ah, well. You’ll be punished most harshly and celebrated most thoroughly, I can assure you.” Richard plants another kiss on his brow. “We’ll go out. Next night I can get away, we’ll go for dinner somewhere.”

“It might not even happen,” Thomas repeats.

“Thomas.” Richard studies him far too acutely. “Even if it doesn’t, you can still be pleased the idea was bandied about, and we can still go out.”

“Just feels like I’m inviting things to go wrong by celebrating too soon.”

He expects Richard to tell him he oughtn’t think that. But Richard says, “Feel that way too, sometimes. Like I’ll attract the attention of the Fates if I get too far ahead of myself in my wanting and hoping. But as we’ve just established, I’m in charge here. And I say it’s alright to be proud of yourself, no matter how it turns out.”

Thomas snorts. Richard’s grin is infectious, and before long, Thomas is returning it. “Alright. You’d better take me somewhere fine, then.”

“The finest.” Richard kisses him.

Is Richard really not hurt that Thomas is considering new living arrangements when they’re supposed to be getting a place together? Or is Richard just hiding those feelings, the way he does more often than he’ll admit? He’s an odd one, Richard Ellis. In some ways an open book, and in others…

Thomas winces as he stretches.

“Sore?” Richard asks.

Thomas hesitates, then nods.

“Come here,” Richard murmurs, pulling him even closer.

“You’re not done with me, though?”

Richard laughs. “You want more?”

“You promised to make me beg.”

“I did make you beg.”

“I haven’t seen you in a month, make me bloody beg again.”

“Very demanding, for someone who’s in the most terrible sort of trouble.”

“What choice do I have, when you won’t take the hint?”

“What is it, exactly, that you want more of? Because, let me tell you, I’m still a bit winded. Climbing the stairs at the Palace isn’t half such a workout."

“I want to have trouble sitting for the next few days. Want to think of you every time I try.”

Richard stares at him for a moment. Then he slides his arm out from under Thomas and sits up. He all but hauls Thomas with him as he swings his legs over the bed.

Now Thomas is dragged properly over Richard’s knee—not lying across his thighs or bent over his hip, but over Richard’s knee with one leg clamped between both of Richard’s, and his hands braced against the floor to prevent his nose from touching the wooden boards. He’s startled enough by the suddenness that it takes him a second to realise just what a target he’s giving Richard with his arse up in the air like this. He tries to bend his knees, get his backside a little lower, but Richard’s got him firmly pinned.

And then Richard’s spanking him like he’s got a piston in place of an arm, smacks raining down so fast and hard the sting steals Thomas’s breath. He manages to twist nearly onto his side, his free leg kicking out, but Richard slides an arm between his legs, grips his cock and balls, and hoists him back into position. Thomas makes a strangled noise at the rough handling, his indignation lasting until his arse is set alight again, and then all he can do is yelp and twist and attempt to negotiate.

“Richard…Richard…ow…ow!”

It’s not his finest negotiating.

“Teasing me for weeks on end.” Richard delivers a half dozen more swats, then stops. “How many times a day did I imagine doing this?” He taps Thomas’s thigh. “Hmm? Giving you exactly what you were asking for. Thinking how you’d squirm and turn red and try to bring yourself off against my lap.” He scrubs his nails roughly over the sore skin.

Thomas winces and tries to scoff, but it’s shaky at best. “You won’t even let me do that,” he protests, trying without success to rub against Richard’s leg. “See?”

Richard claps his hand firmly on Thomas’s left arsecheek and squeezes, giving it a bit of a shake. “Because you were badly behaved. And that means I’ll decide exactly when you come. If I let you.” He slips his hand between Thomas’s legs again to demonstrate just how little control Thomas has. With his left leg pinned and Richard’s arm snug around his waist, Thomas has no outlet for the building pleasure as Richard toys with his balls. He groans, kicking his right leg, and makes another attempt to buck.

“Mh-hm,” Richard says, as though in agreement. “You keep trying. I like the show I’m getting.” He guides Thomas’s prick and balls backwards between his legs and leaves them there on display against his thigh. Then he parts Thomas's cheeks and places his thumb just under Thomas’s still-aching hole. Massages the sensitive spot.

Thomas is so deliriously pleased about the situation he can scarcely think straight. The arm around his waist disappears, and he receives a swat he’ll be feeling for days. Another teasing rub just behind his balls, then a smack on his left buttock that makes him grunt. He tries to push back against Richard’s thumb, move his hips so the touch will be where he needs it, right at his hole, pressing inside. He hears a soft moan from Richard, and is revelling in that small victory when the next slap lands on his right side.

Richard pulls him against his body and goes back to spanking him. “Ow! No, Richard!”

“What did you ask me in your letter? Was a box of biscuits a meal?” Richard swats hard and fast at the very crest of Thomas’s arse, and Thomas yelps and clenches, trying to move his legs enough to cross his ankles.

“A tin,” Thomas says, very quietly. "A tin of biscuits."

Well, that goes over about as well as expected.

Richard pauses to trace the swollen patches of skin with the edge of his thumb. “What do you think the answer is?”

“It was a joke. Ow!” he protests, when Richard pinches right where Thomas is sorest. “It was a joke, I—” He starts laughing helplessly as Richard resumes swatting. “I ate other things—Richard! I ate other things too. For God’s sake, let me…”

“So you were lying to me,” Richard says, not quite disguising his amusement as he spanks harder. “I see.”

“No, it wasn’t…” Thomas trails off into laughter once more, trying unsuccessfully to free his leg. “Don’t you know what a joke is?”

Richard stops smacking, which somehow feels far more ominous than anything he’s done so far. “No, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of such. Care to explain?”

“I…would not,” Thomas says, panting. He braces himself for the swat he’s sure will follow. But Richard only rests his hand where he’s been swatting; Thomas can feel the heat from his well-spanked arse reflected against Richard’s palm.

“What a tone. Is that really how you want to talk to me while you’re in this position?” Richard runs his nails lightly over the swollen backs of Thomas's thighs, making Thomas flinch.

“I can’t…”

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t help my tone. It’s just how my voice is.”

Richard lifts his hand, and Thomas’s breath hitches in anticipation of another whacking. But Richard rubs gently, the touch a welcome relief. “I see. And how many hours did you sleep last night?”

Thomas hesitates. Richard gives him a warning pat, which jolts the words out. “Two at least.”

Richard spanks back and forth rapid-fire. Thomas yelps, then spends the next minute protesting, groaning, assuring Richard he’s joking, but to no avail. He’s out of breath, his arse as sore as it's ever been, when Richard finally stops and pats him on the thigh.

“Go and fetch me your razor strop, Mr Barrow.”

That sends a thrill up his spine, puts a heat in his neck and forehead that feels like fever. “But—” 

“Don’t argue. You’ve been asking for this in every letter since I left.”

His prick is so hard it aches. There’s nothing in the world like Richard fully taking charge. “Not for this.”

“Mm. What have you been asking for, then?”

For an instant, Thomas is genuinely embarrassed. “I missed you, is all.”

“I missed you too. A great deal.”

“Just wanted a bit of attention,” he mutters.

“You’ll have more than a bit.” Richard pats him again, a little too firmly. “I mean to pay you proper attention all night. Now go get that strop.” He parts his legs, freeing Thomas. Thomas stands, off-balance as the blood rushes away from his head. Richard steadies him with a hand on his elbow. 

“Careful, there.”

Thomas can feel the light scratch of pomaded strands of hair that have fallen across his forehead. He must look a sight. The flush in his cheeks makes his skin prickle, and he gazes down at Richard with what’s likely the world’s most foolish grin. 

“Could kiss me instead.” 

“Ah, well, there’s an idea,” Richard says, getting to his feet.

Thomas steps forward, and Richard kisses him with considerable zeal. Thomas can’t help pressing his pelvis against Richard’s. 

“Go. Get the strop.”

“Can’t distract you, can I?” He’s so genuinely happy, caught up in the giddy warmth of this. 

Richard smiles again, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’re very distracting, as you well know. But you are going to get your bottom strapped for your behaviour. Go on.” 

The words bring on a wave of pleasure that Thomas has to hold strong against. 

Deciding further argument is unwise, he goes to the hook on the wall and takes out his razor strop. He comes to stand in front of Richard, who has seated himself on the bed once more. Richard snaps his fingers and holds out his hand.

Thomas starts pass him the leather, but stops. “Think you should keep in mind this thing hurts.”

“I’ll bear it in mind, certainly.” Richard wiggles his fingers.

“And that I love you.”

“How nice to hear. I love you too.”

“And that I have behaved well. At times. In the past.”

Richard lifts his brows sceptically. “What’s that got to do with now?”

“Just something to think about.” Thomas makes to hand off the strop once more, then pulls it back. “Any decision yet on the—ah, me bringing myself off against your lap?”

“Well, I can’t say this dilly-dallying is helping your cause.”

“I’m just wondering. I noticed you weren’t wearing your good trousers, earlier. The ones you’re vain about. So maybe you were counting on having me—”

Richard grabs his wrist. “Listen, Sherlock Bleedin’ Holmes—” He tugs the strop out of Thomas’s grip. “That’s enough.” He bends Thomas over his thigh, clamping his legs once more. He pins Thomas’s right wrist behind him, then flicks the leather across Thomas’s arse. Thomas lets out another yelp that turns into a spill of laughter. He clenches, bracing for the next crack.

“Stick that bottom up and take it properly.”

Thomas tries, but Richard’s words produce such a surge of heat in him that he ends up squirming to rub on Richard’s thigh. He knows he’s going to pay for it, and sure enough the strop whips his arse dead centre, which only makes him squirm harder.

“We can make it the strop and the spoon,” Richard suggests. “If you can’t hold still.”

The doubled leather bites into the broadest part of his backside. He gasps at the sting. Barely has time to exhale before it lands again. He’s teased Richard plenty before, but has never felt quite so much like a brat getting his comeuppance. The noise he makes at the next crack is embarrassingly high-pitched. Richard is smacking the crease between arse and thighs, ensuring that there’s not a single position in which Thomas will be able to sit later without feeling this. Then he moves higher, to the crest of Thomas’s arse, and Thomas moans, shifting his hips, wishing Richard would move his legs together so Thomas could rub against them.

“Said you wanted my attention, did you?”

Thomas pants. “I missed you,” he repeats.

“I missed you too. If you can’t tell.”

“Funny way of showing it.”

“I expect you to behave when I’m not here.” 

The leather catches him on the thighs. Thomas presses his legs together just as Richard hoists him by the hips, lifting his bottom higher then giving him a few quick, sharp flicks. It’s not a very hard whipping—Richard knows how to make it sting a great deal without causing any lasting pain—and Thomas’s belly curls with pleasure after each initial bite of the leather.

“Oh God,” he breathes. “Please.”

“Getting quite red. I’ve missed this sight.” 

Richard brings the strop down vertically along his cleft, and Thomas jolts, a cry stuck in his throat. Richard grips his left arsecheek, squeezing as he pulls it to the side; Thomas goes rigid then, unsure of Richard's intentions. He grips Richard's ankle just as Richard pops him lightly in a very sensitive spot with the end of the leather. His balls draw tight, the urge to come overpowering.

“Don’t you do it,” Richard warns. He smacks the length of Thomas’s cleft again.

“Ow,” he whispers, meaning it, and Richard takes the hint at once, giving him a last, lazy flick before setting the strop aside. He caresses Thomas’s arse, soothing. Thomas flinches at even the light contact. 

“We’ll finish with my hand.”

“Hope that means what I think it does.”

“Cheeky,” Richard murmurs. “What happens to cheeky articles such as yourself, Thomas?”

Cheeky articles get their bottoms smacked till they’re begging, apparently. And Thomas does beg, unashamedly. Tries to kick out, tries to pull his wrist from Richard’s grasp. But at some point, something shifts. Richard’s not lecturing anymore, and Thomas isn’t answering back, or struggling. After the sharper sting of the strop, Richard’s hand feels stunningly good, creating more heat than pain, sinking Thomas deeper into submission. There’s something much more intimate about being punished this way, in a way that they both feel. Richard’s palm has got to be throbbing too. This is about as far as they’ve ever gone with a spanking. Thomas is lost in it, his backside aching, his breathing harsh but slow. He kicks out at a particularly sharp smack.

“Stop that, Thomas. Right now.”

Richard’s voice is low and serious, and while he doesn’t speak loudly, there’s such a firmness to the words that Thomas instantly goes still. Except for his prick, which twitches at the reprimand.

“Good,” Richard praises. And then slaps Thomas’s arse as hard as he ever has.

Thomas winces, biting his lip.

“Very good.”

Another slap, just as hard. 

He’s tempted to move, to brace himself in case there’s another swat coming. 

But he stays put. 

Two more like that. His backside goes numb for several seconds, and then the numbness gives way to throbbing. “Hurts,” he whispers.

“I know,” Richard says quietly. “But look what a good boy you’re being, taking it as you are.”

How quickly those words work their magic; Thomas’s whole body is at once suffused with warmth, with the need to show Richard just how well he can take this. He lowers his head, seeking the darkness of the quilt. 

Another hard smack, lower, nearly on his thigh. He tenses for a few seconds, then exhales, relaxes, lets the pain be part of that warm feeling inside him. He gets a matching slap on the lowest part of his other cheek.

He knows what’s coming next and tries not to clench.

Sure enough, Richard slaps the back of his left thigh, and Thomas stops breathing for a second, mouth open with the shock of it. Then he makes himself inhale, and he thinks of Richard, of doing this for Richard, being good for Richard. Richard’s palm cracks down on his other thigh. His face contorts; he pants harshly, hoping he can have a break now but steeling himself in case it keeps on.

Richard’s hand rests on his extremely sore backside. “Thank you, Thomas,” he murmurs. “Beautifully, beautifully taken.”

Thomas exhales slowly, trying not to be too obvious in his relief.

Richard strokes with just his fingertips, tracing light patterns, a maddening sensation in its own right. Slides his hand under Thomas’s shirt to rub his back, and Thomas lets out a soft sound of gratitude. 

“Proud of me?” he whispers on an impulse. He’d really like to hear those words right now. 

“Very,” Richard assures him. His fingers drift gently up his spine. Thomas sighs. He’s hot and tired and relieved. And so in love. “Incredibly proud of you.” Richard slides his hand between Thomas's legs. “Lift up,” he whispers.

Thomas raises his hips and lets Richard fondle his prick.

“God, you feel so good.”

Thomas can’t speak for a few seconds, caught up in the rising pleasure of the touch.

“Why don’t you show me how much you missed me?” Richard suggests.

“How?” Thomas whispers.

“Bring yourself off on my lap. Why do you think I wore the old trousers?”

Thomas laughs. “Knew it. Must say, I’m glad we did away with trousers though.”

“I want to feel you spend on my thighs,” Richard agrees, voice soft.

“Help me?”

“How, love?”

“Give me some encouragement. Yeah?”

“Get going then,” Richard says, with a light whack where Thomas is sorest.

Thomas starts moving his hips, seeking the rhythm that’ll give him what he needs. Every few seconds, Richard spanks him. Most of the swats are feather-light, almost frustratingly so. But every now and then he gets a good sound one that makes his hips jerk, makes him rut harder. He moans as Richard’s fingertips move along the back of his balls, up to his arsehole.

Richard holds his cheeks spread and smacks his hole with two fingers, and Thomas comes hard, mouth pressed to the crook of his elbow so that he won’t shout loud enough to alert the whole street. Richard spanks him gently through the orgasm, not permitting him to stop rutting until his prick is sore from chafing against the hair on Richard's thighs, and from being pushed again and again through its own mess.

“Alright,” Richard murmurs, and at last lets Thomas rest.

Thomas lets out a long, shuddering sigh, resting his weight on Richard’s thighs. He can’t believe how deeply his muscles ache, how heavy his head feels.

“Come here.” Richard’s voice is low.

He can’t move. Richard strokes him a while longer, then repeats the request.

He rises with some effort, trying not to wince. He sits carefully on the bed with his weight on one hip, letting Richard pull him close. Richard kisses the top of his head. 

“All mine,” Richard whispers.

Thomas shuts his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Feel alright?”

He nods. “That bloody hurt.”

“Too much?”

“No. Would have said.” He presses his forehead to Richard’s shoulder and inhales. He’s confused by all he feels: satisfied, awed, a little resentful of how hard he was smacked. Proud of and sorry for himself at once. Wants sympathy but doesn’t want to be coddled. He’s embarrassed, but only a little. Fishing for reassurance and annoyed with himself for it. Knowing he’s loved and wishing he was normal but also not wanting to change a thing about himself, about Richard, about who they are together. His chest is suddenly tight enough to make his exhale difficult. “Just hurts,” he mumbles.

That means more than he wants it to. Richard tightens his arm around him, rubs between his shoulder blades, and the moment passes. 

What is all this in his head?

“Want me to take care of it?” Richard whispers.

Thomas hesitates, then nods into Richard’s shoulder.

“Stretch out.” Richard kisses his jaw before drawing away. 

Thomas arranges himself on his belly, arms around one of the pillows and cheek resting against it as he watches Richard fetch the tin of arnica cream from the bedside table. He closes his eyes. Feels the dip of the mattress as Richard sits on the edge. Richard opens the tin, then sets one hand on Thomas’s thigh and spreads the cream over his arse with the other. The arnica works its magic quickly, and Thomas lets out a long sigh of relief.

“That alright?” Richard asks.

Thomas nods, opening his eyes.

“What was the book?” he asks eventually.

“Hmm?” Richard murmurs. 

“Where you learned about figging. What was the book?”

Richard's hand stills for a second. “You think I remember the title? Not exactly what’s stuck with me about it, love.”

Thomas grins and arches his back at a particularly pleasurable stroke. “Just wondering how you learn all these things. I used to think myself quite worldly, you know.”

“Thought you were pure as the driven snow.”

“Might have been a bit of an exaggeration.”

“You don’t say.” Richard massages the cream deep into Thomas’s aching muscles. “Don’t know. Something French. Le Plaisir de Claudette or some such.”

“Feel naive, compared to you. Wouldn’t even know where to purchase such a novel.”

Richard snorts.

“Had you done it to anyone before?”

“No,” Richard says quickly.

They’ve talked in the past about Richard’s interests and when they started, how he figured out how to do the sorts of things he does to Thomas. But while Richard has always answered Thomas’s questions, he doesn’t say as much on the subject as he would about…well, damn near any other subject.

Richard works delicately over a tender spot. “Got quite an imagination, I’ve told you. If I see even a suggestion of something that catches my fancy in a novel or photograph or film, my mind…extrapolates.”

“So you imagine doing things to me? Things you’ve read about?”

“It's been a while since I’ve read that sort of novel.”

“But you…you think up things you’d like to do to me?”

“I do.”

“You share all of it with me?”

Silence.

“You don’t?”

“I share a lot of it with you. But I share it as the opportunities arise. Like you do with me.”

“Had you thought about the…figging before?”

“Believe it or not, no. Just popped into my head when you said I’d need to think of a harsher punishment. But then I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“What’d you picture, exactly?”

“Just what I told you. The way you’d squirm. The sounds you’d make. How beautiful you’d look bent over taking it. All of that.”

Thomas doesn’t respond right away. It’s quite pleasing, imagining Richard imagining him. In his own fantasies over the years, he’s never considered that, precisely. Being the object of such specific desires. A bloke seeing him not just as a means to an end, but envisioning how each part of him will react to pleasure, or pain, or both. 

“I didn’t take it very well,” he says—fishing a bit, and he knows it.

“I disagree. Thought every moment of that was stunning.”

Thomas tries not to flinch as Richard finds a welted spot on his thigh.

“You look so beautiful, serving me.”

Thomas’s breathing quickens. The words give him a soft, warm thrill from the base of his spine up to his crown. He wouldn’t have been ready to hear them even a few months ago. But he knows now that they don’t mean what he’d feared: that he looks right brought low, debased. “I like to,” he mumbles.

“I know,” Richard whispers back.

Richard works on him for a good long time, until Thomas is sprawled completely limp. Then he pats Thomas’s leg and screws the lid back on the tin. Rises to return it to the drawer. Thomas gathers his courage and grabs the second pillow to stuff under his hips while Richard’s back is to him, so that when Richard turns, his arse is raised in invitation. “God,” Richard whispers. Thomas settles his face in the pillow and waits. Hears Richard approach, and then there’s a gentle hand on his nape, sliding downwards. 

He spreads his legs further.

Richard climbs onto the bed and runs both hands down his back, then leans forward to plant a trail of kisses along his spine. Strokes Thomas’s hips, his inner thighs, coaxing his legs wider. When Richard takes him, it’s as gentle as the punishment was harsh. Thomas is still tender inside and out, but he revels in the ache. He floats, carried by the feeling of being claimed, still caught up in the hazy warmth of the game. The fucking doesn’t last as long as he might have expected, given how slow the thrusts are. Richard speeds up as he comes, using a gentle touch on Thomas’s sore arsecheek rather than a swat to get Thomas to tighten around him. He settles his weight gently over Thomas when he’s done, breathing hard. 

Thomas drifts, as content as he’s ever been. “Wish you didn’t have to go anywhere. Ever again.”

Richard makes a sound of agreement and eases out, rolling onto the mattress beside him. Once more he strokes down Thomas’s back to his bottom. 

Thomas’s breath catches, but he lets Richard touch.

“Still sore?”

“Give you a thrill to know that I was?” 

He can feel Richard’s grin. “Maybe. I like knowing there’s evidence all over you of what I’ve done.” He squeezes very lightly, stopping at Thomas’s hiss of discomfort. “Poor boy,” Richard murmurs.

Thomas scoffs. “Not like you feel at all sorry for me.”

“I do,” Richard insists. “Don’t like to see you hurting.”

Thomas bursts out laughing. “Then why do you do what you do to me?”

Richard laughs too. “Well, it’s great fun in the moment. And you certainly seem to enjoy it. But that doesn’t mean I can’t sympathise.” He strokes the much-abused flesh again, and Thomas settles his head on the pillow, facing Richard. 

“Sore from the ginger,” he murmurs. “And from your cock. Sore everywhere.”

“Did my job, then,” Richard says, a little hoarsely. 

“You did. Feel very, very…” Thomas isn’t sure what he wants to say but knows it’s alright not to say it well. In the wake of a game, he’s got the sort of permission that a few pints might afford—to admit things he doesn’t usually, and to admit them inelegantly. “Like I’d do anything for you. But sad, that it’s over. Waited a long time for it. And it was perfect. I want to do it again, but I know we can’t. And you’re tired, I can tell.” He laughs softly. “Feel like I’d do anything you say, though. Anything you want.”

Richard continues stroking his arm, not speaking for a moment. “Oh, love,” he says eventually. “I…” His voice catches. Only slightly, but Thomas hears it. 

Alarmed, he props up, trying to get a better look at Richard’s face. “Something the matter?”

“It’s alright.”

He rolls onto his hip, wincing as his arse makes contact with the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Brings up feelings for me too, playing these games. That’s all.”

“Bad feelings?” Thomas demands.

“No, no. Very good ones. Come now. You know I’ve had moments like this before.”

“You don’t usually sound like this,” Thomas says warily. Sometimes Richard will sound a bit dreamy, like Thomas gets, hazy and deeply affectionate. But this seems different.

“It’s alright,” Richard repeats. “I’m so very glad to be with you. I didn’t like being apart. And it’s quite moving for me, to hear you say all that. See all that you do for me.”

“Well, come here, then. You just let me hold you awhile. It’s only fair.”

Richard hesitates, then climbs under the quilt Thomas holds up. Thomas settles facing him and wedges one arm under his ribs. Drapes the other over him and tugs him forward until they’re skin-to-skin. “That’s the way,” Thomas says. “You rest, now.”

“You’re the one that’s been through it. You need time to sort through all this and come down from the clouds, I know you. This is likely to stir up a lot.”

“Rest,” Thomas says firmly.

Richard’s into all that, the psychoanalysis stuff. Thomas has never met anyone so interested in why people do or feel the things they do. Certainly never met anyone even fractionally so interested in what he himself is feeling and why. Thomas isn’t really sure why it matters. Sometimes he’s an arsehole and sometimes he’s not so bad. Isn’t that enough for Richard?

But Richard is right about how playing the game can bring feelings to the surface. Not always memories. Just…feelings. At times, they’re too fast and too many to keep track of. Other times, he’s stuck in just one. And so he’s come to—well, he’s always appreciated—the time Richard spends with him afterwards, simply holding him. Like they’ve got nowhere to be. Occasionally he can hear Richard’s stomach growling when they’re lying together, or else he glimpses whatever book Richard has splayed open on the bedside table and wonders if Richard’s itching to get back to it. But Richard never rushes the part afterwards just so he can get round to eating supper or finishing a chapter. Never acts bored or annoyed or anything.

And slowly, Thomas has shed his embarrassment over how much he likes what comes after. Craves it. So long as Richard doesn’t mind holding him, then it’s alright for Thomas to let him do it. To want him to do it. He can lie there once the game is over and simply feel. That’s an odd thing. To be giddy or angry or melancholy or so fucking in love that it hurts, or all that at the same time…and not have to do anything about it. Not have to put a direction to it. Richard’ll keep rubbing his back, stroking his hair, whatever, while Thomas feels those things all at once. 

He’s worried that Richard doesn’t get enough time to feel what he needs to. Isn’t Thomas always taking up all the attention?

He needs to remember to keep an eye on this sweet, foolish man. Not let him pretend he can manage bloody everything. 

“Love you,” Thomas mumbles after a moment. He can’t believe he used to be afraid of saying it too often. Afraid the words would lose their power if he said them as frequently as he wanted to. He doesn’t worry about that anymore. He never gets tired of saying them, or hearing them.

“I love you too. And I loved your letters. I’d never felt so homesick, so far from where I wanted to be. Not even during the war. You made me feel like I was here. Like you were with me.”

Thomas swallows. “Shouldn’t have risked it, maybe, putting so much in writing. But it was fun. You’re sweet with me, even when you’re far away. Felt lucky.”

I didn’t know you felt alone. If I’m supposed to say when I’m feeling blue, you should too. 

“Didn’t know you were feeling so homesick,” he ventures.

“Well, I’ve usually been fine wherever I am. But this time I kept thinking…what am I doing? Why am I still in this job? I don’t want to be away for weeks at a time. I know what I want for myself. What am I waiting for?”

Thomas freezes, unsure if this is, in some way, about the flat above Lantry’s. If Richard is saying he’s ready for their future together, but Thomas is holding them back by considering the shopkeeper’s offer. 

He decides not to dwell on it for now.

But then he thinks on it some more. It’s not going to help either of them to sweep this under the rug. “It’s okay, you know, if it—if it was a bit of a shock, me saying I'd take the flat at Lantry's.”

The pause is just a little too long. “No. That’s not what I—”

Thomas kisses him to stop him spouting any half-truths. “It’s okay,” he repeats.

Richard sighs against his lips. Draws back a little to look at him, “I am happy for you."

“I know.”

“Promise?” Richard asks softly. After a moment, he continues, “It’s more that I feel I’ve let you down. That it’s my own—inability to figure out what to do when I leave the Palace that's keeping us from moving forward. And so I don’t blame you in the least for moving forward without me.”

Thomas snorts and kisses him again. “Nothing in the world you won’t blame yourself for, is there? It’s a certain kind of vanity, that.”

“Oh, I’m ten kinds of vain, Thomas. We both know that.”

“I don’t see it as moving forward without you. I think it’s a step towards where we both want to be, is all.”

“I understand. Really, I do. And it is wonderful. You couldn’t deserve it more. God, think of the privacy.”

“Only you’ll miss flirting with my landlady.”

Richard grins. “A bit, yeah.”

Thomas strokes his cheek.

“I like what she’s teaching me about gardening. Once you’re wealthy from running your shop, perhaps I can tend to the grounds of our cottage in exchange for my room and board.”

Thomas doesn’t fall for the joking. Richard really is nervous. And Thomas can appreciate that this is Richard’s way of showing how comfortable he’s grown with Thomas. If Thomas has become more confident, better able to say what he's thinking, Richard has become better able to do the opposite: show Thomas the moments he’s uncertain, where he doesn’t know what to say or do.

Richard is silent for a moment. “Often wondered if I might be good at the talking part of working in a shop.”

“You’d be good at the talking part of anything.”

A laugh. “Suppose so.”

“You’d be brilliant at it. Half of the job is just talking to every Tom, Dick, and Harriet about their lives. You sympathise with Mrs Horseface about how her husband doesn’t want a refrigerator, and you’ve as good as guaranteed she’ll go home and be back tomorrow ready to buy the most expensive model. I’m not so good at that part. When I talk to people, I sound…”

“What?”

“Like a salesman.”

“Aren’t you?”

“You know. Like I’m trying to get them to buy more than they came in for. You could convince them to buy half the store and have them thinking it was their idea.”

“You make me sound like quite the swindler.”

“Mean it as a compliment. You’re genuinely kind. You like talking to people. You could do it just by being you. That’s all I’m saying.”

Another pause. “If you do set up a shop of your own, would you ever want to try putting me in front of the customers, to see what happens?”

Thomas can’t hide his surprise. “Would you want that?”

“I…” Richard stops. Thomas has scarcely ever seen him so shy. “Sounds like something I might be fit for, doesn't it?”

He supposes he shouldn’t be as surprised as he is. The idea makes quite a lot of sense. And it’s…well, it’s almost too wonderful to think about. Frightening, yes, because if anything ever went wrong between them, they’d be so tangled up in each other’s lives there’d be no finding the separate threads and pulling them apart. But that fear is trounced by sheer wonder. “You’d really want to help me run a shop?”

“Frankly, I can't think of anything finer. You—you're always saying you'd rather be working behind the scenes at Lantry's. I’d be quite happy to be front and centre. But I don't want to… This is something you’ve worked hard for. I don’t want to horn in.”

“That’s what it would be, would it?” Thomas asks, with a bit of an edge. “Sharing this with me? Horning in?”

“Could I be granted a bit of clemency for phrasing things badly? I—I'm not—”

“Come here and I’ll show you clemency. What are you like?” He places a hand on the back of Richard’s neck. “What’s got you stuttering and stammering, hm?”

“If I tried and wasn’t much good at it…what would you do with me?”

“Cast you out in the street to starve, I suppose. What do you mean, what would I do with you?”

“I don’t want to drag us both down. If it turns out I’m not fit for anything other than doing up buttons.”

“Ought to whack you over the head.” 

Richard grins at him. “Maybe you’d rather whack me somewhere else.”

Thomas lifts a brow. “You certainly deserve it. What would you do to me if I was going on about how I’m not fit for anything but doing up buttons?”

“I'd have something to say about that, I suppose.”

“You suppose,” Thomas says dryly. But his voice is soft when he says, “You’re being a bit silly, you know.” He slides his hand between Richard’s shoulders and scrubs with his nails.

Richard bows his head forward on the pillow, sighing. “Of course I know.”

“What is it you’re afraid of? That you’ll never convince a single person to buy a toaster?”

“Never stop doing that,” Richard murmurs as Thomas continues scratching.

“Answer the question, then.”

Richard moans softly, tipping his head further down so Thomas has more access. “That this was my idea—us leaving our jobs and moving to a cottage and all that—and what if I’m the one who can’t make it work.”

“You think I’d blame you? If it took you some time to find a job that suited?”

“I’d blame me.”

“And what will you say if it’s me who can’t get the business off the ground? That I’m to blame, for ruining our new life together?” 

“Oh, bloody— I see the trap I set for myself. But no, never.”

“One rule for you and one for me, is it?” Thomas is a little miffed because he knows it's true. They do have different parts to play, and there are different rules for each of them. But this part shouldn't be different. “I can’t be expected to meet such a high standard, but you can?”

“No, that’s not…” Richard sighs as Thomas stops scratching. “Thomas,” he whinges softly.

“It’s our life. Not yours to plan and execute to perfection. A long life together, Richard, I hope. Not some royal dinner you’ve got to run around like a headless chicken to pull off, and then it’s over. We’ll figure it out, however long it takes.”

“You make a lot of sense.”

“I do, don’t I?” Thomas rubs his back more slowly.

“And you’re perfectly right. I’ll try to stop being so…”

“You can be ‘so…’ as much as you like. I’ll still keep you around.” Thomas uses his nails very lightly between Richard’s shoulder blades. “But I am going to tell you what's what.”

“Mmh,” Richard whispers.

Thomas moves up Richard’s neck and tugs gently at the short hairs at his hairline, then runs his fingers up through his hair to scratch his scalp. Richard groans. “How long were you going to go without telling me any of this?" Thomas asks.

“It was supposed to be you sharing your good news with me. I made it about my foolishness, and I’m s—”

“If you apologise, I will shove you off this bed.”

Richard laughs. “Please don't. I’m too old to have exerted myself the way I did today. I’d never survive a fall on top of it.”

“Listen to you. Got one foot in the grave, have you?”

Richard tips his head down again so Thomas can set his chin atop it. His blood is still thrumming through his veins. They could run a shop together. Live together, be together. Why bloody not? He could try to tell Richard all he feels about that. Or, he could address the more pressing issue: “That better not be the last time you fuck me like that, Ellis.”

“I'll have to keep training, to stay in shape,” Richard says, muffled. 

“Christ, now it's me who might not survive.” He holds Richard tighter. “You tell me when you need something. I mean it. And you let me do this for you, sometimes.”

“I will.” The words are soft and sincere.

“Because we both know who’s really in charge here.”

“You, by four hundred miles.”

“Four thousand,” Thomas corrects. 

“Four thousand,” Richard agrees. “Wrapped round your finger. Always.”

“So long as you know it.” Thomas gathers him closer. Richard’s probably near to stifling, pressed this hard against Thomas. But Thomas would rather Richard struggle for air than spend one moment of this night feeling alone.