“Hand or crop, baby boy?”
It’s not really a fair question. Gagged and on his knees, face shoved against the mattress, wrists cuffed behind his back, it’s difficult for Stiles to answer one way or the other.
But then, if it was fair, Derek wouldn’t enjoy it half as much. He digs his fingers into the scruff at Stiles’ neck and pulls him up an inch, two, three. Just enough that he can see Stiles’ face as he repeats the question, can watch his boy’s eyes flick to the crop and linger there before Derek drops him back to the bed.
The crop falls against his palm, a smack that echoes in the twitch of Stiles’ thighs. Oh, he wants, so desperately Derek can smell it, lust and sweat and precome heavy in the air.
The scent curls into him, twining around Derek’s tongue like a kiss, and he can’t wait any longer. Can’t make either of them wait.
The crop falls, laying a fine line across the firm flesh of Stiles’ ass. Sensitive skin goes momentarily white, flushing a brilliant scarlet as blood rushes to the surface.
Stiles moans, muffled by the gag but still teasingly audible to Derek’s ears. He puts another stripe down, dick throbbing at the way Stiles pushes into the contact, begging for each stroke.
“Oh, baby, you’re so good, such a pretty little slut for me, aren’t you? Want more?”
Stiles nods against the mattress, frantic, the movement traveling up his body, rocking his hips, and Derek lets the crop swing.
His arm is sore, Stiles’ ass a mess of welts, before Derek’s satisfied, before the need to take overwhelms the urge to tease. Stepping up close to the mattress, Derek rests one palm against hot, puffy skin, bites his lip against the way Stiles sobs.
Christ, Derek’s so hard he nearly comes just from relief as he slides his zipper down, freeing his dick. Then it’s hard and fast and brutal, not more than a few white-hot minutes before he’s coming, howling, curling over Stiles and painting pink skin with a different kind of stripe.