#choosing
Choose
I am so grateful to @fallingstormphoenix for reminding me just how much I love the trope of the whumpee being forced to choose the implement that will be used on them ( and @gentle-and-fierce I know you love this trope too).
And yes, choosing one that is too lenient would be seen as insubordination, and only punished harder, because they should know what they deserve, and how dare they try to get out of the full punishment.
But choosing the most painful tool that there is? A whip with metal tips maybe? That’s defiance. Handing it to the whumper with a smirk, everything about them screaming ‘I’m not scared of you. Do your worst. I can take it.’
Do they start to regret it when the pain overwhelms them, when they can’t stay quiet anymore? Maybe when they’re on the verge of begging, they wonder if it was all worth it or if they lost more pride than they ever gained.
And after, when they’re lying on the floor of their cell, barely able to lift their head without the agony coursing through them? Do they regret it then? Will they learn for next time?
Teaser
“Master.” Occuldous asked one day, as he’s kneeling on the plush rug under his master’s feet. He looked up at the tall, muscular man lounging on the leather couch in his underclothes. The large living room was lit only by the projector, showing a football game on the screen The man didn’t respond to his voice so Occuldous asked again.
“Master?” His voice was quiet and timorous. Master seemed to be in a good mood and he didn’t want to anger him. But he’d been wondering, and Master was so smart, Master would know the answer to all his questions.
Master grunted in response. “Get me a beer.” He ordered, poking Occuldous with his foot.
“Yes, master!” He scrambled to his feet and ran to the fridge, hoping they had beer still, they had to have beer. Nothing made Master angrier than there being no beer. He sighed in relief when he opened the fridge to find one more unopened bottle. He grabbed it and the bottle opener from the drawer and brought them back to Master.He knelt on the ground again and popped it open in front of him. Master didn’t like when he opened the bottles in the kitchen, he would yell and throw the bottle and mumbled things like “poison” and “fucking stupid goat” while Occuldous picked up glass shards from the floor and wiped up the frothy liquid. Goat. That’s what Master would call him, with his lip curled in disgust, like Occuldous was a piece of dog shit that had somehow found its way onto the expensive imported rugs.
Master took the bottle from his hands and took a long sip. “What do you want?”“Master? Ma-May I go outside to-tonight?” Occuldous’ throat got tight and he tried to force the rest of the explanations out. “M-master, m-master, please, it-t’ll m-make my n-next sh-show better, I-I’ll b-be able t-to p-put on a big- bigger per-performance. I-it’s t-th d-day t-the com-comet-.”
“Get the crop.” Master’s voice is tight and angry. He’s sitting up now, the beer is on the end table.
“M-master p-please, I-I-I j-just w-want to see t-the comet-t,” Tears welled up in Occuldous eyes, as he looked up at him, begging. “P-please m-master, p-please? I-I w-won’t ask ever ag-gain, p-please?”
“Get the crop!” Master’s voice is thunderous now and he aimed a harsh kick at Occuldous’ stomach.
Occuldous doubled over, dry heaving, he couldn’t throw up on Master’s expensive carpet, he couldn’t do that, the carpet was expensive, more expensive than him. “y-yes master.” Occuldous coughed out, staggering to his feet, still clutching his stomach.
Master kept a collection of whips and crops and collars in his room. Each one was different and Occuldous could tell them apart from feel when Master used them. It was always a trick when Master sent him in to get one. If he chose one too soft, Master would beat him until he couldn’t move without pain, would beat him until he bled, even if the instrument had no sharp edges. If he chose one that was hard, then Master would beat him less but each blow would hurt more.
He had to choose one that was in the middle, nothing made of soft rough-out leather, like the whips Master carried during shows, nothing with braids that would leave individual welts with each turn of the braiding pattern.
Finally, he picked up a smooth leather crop, it was sturdy and firm, but it wouldn’t split his skin and leave blood on the floor that he would have to clean up. At least he wouldn’t have to clean blood up.
He carried the crop back to Master and handed it to him. Master stood up, towering a foot and a half over the diminutive Occuldous. Occuldous turned around and put his hands on his shoulders to prevent himself from trying to blow the blows with his hands, biting his lip and squinting his eyes shut to keep the tears in
Master grunted. “Strip.” He barked, his voice sharp.
“S-sir?” Occuldous’ voice shook.
POP.
The crop connected with his back sharply and he yelped, arching against the pain as he quickly scrambled to take off his shirt.
“All of it.” Master ordered when Occuldous looked up at him. “I want you to remember this lesson. You don’t ask for anything, you especially don’t ask to go outside, you filthy goat.”
Occuldous trembled as he stripped off his pants and trousers. He looked up at Master again, his solid black eyes glistening with tears. “Y-yes s-sir.” He whispered, crossing his arms over his chest and turning around, his bare back, crisscrossed with hundreds of lash marks both healed and unhealed, exposed to his master.
“Don’t move boy.” Master growled. “10 more lashes for every time you move.”
Occuldous nodded. Why had he ever even dared ask? Why had he allowed himself to think about seeing the comet? He was so stupid, so stupid, just like Master said. A stupid goat who couldn’t even learn to be good.
(Tagging@castielamigos-whump-side-blog@0idril0@imagination1reality0@thatsthewhump)Ajagrjshshhd qjjsg3jwjsgdjwjqcxjskansvwjqbdusbsnsjdnsbdbwhwksbd ensk ahhhhhhh poor bby
