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“One.”
It’s the lighyest of switches, supple, miracled to sting enough that that plump Celestial bum squirms enticingly, not so much that it’ll leave more than a slender mark. The cry as it snaps home is a muffled gasp, and the angel shudders but doesn’t jerk away.
She hadn’t expected that this would make her almost instantly wet, would make her so aware of her touch-hungry breasts brushing against the schoolmarmish, pintucked black shirt. She really ought to have paid more attention during the heyday of the British public school.
(She supposes the masters didn’t do what she did before they began: fondle the generous swell of buttocks as she bared them, tracking a nail where she’d promised there’d soon be stripes, feathering a fingertip up the sweet cleft. His breath was already hitching with anticipation, though he tried to still it.)
“What did we say you’d earned? Nanny remembers ten. One for promising to do the washing-up and forgetting” – it was a perennial problem; books were so distracting – “two for ignoring Nanny’s messages – “ He never had got the hang of checking the mobile. But Crowley, if pressed, would confess that he knew that, and had left those voicemails and sent those texts with a flutter in his stomach, knowing that he was filling out the number of infractions they’d negotiated, starting with these silly peccadilloes.
“Ten, Nanny.”
“You know this is for your improvement.”
“Yes, Nanny.”
He’s leaning against the desk at Nanny’s command, jacket off, trousers pooled around his ankles, shirttail stuffed under the hem of his waistcoat to leave his arse uncovered. The narrow welt straddles both cheeks, just below the dimpled small of his back.
The mark from the next crosses it, a geometry lesson traced on tender pale flesh in vivid pink. She wants to touch it, to feel the heat of it, to know whether it will comfort or burn when her finger traces it, but it’s only the second. She contents herself with trailing the last limber inch or two of the wand across the intersection of the stripes, feeling a little echoing tremor in her thighs at the long faint sucking intake of breath that provokes. It's almost the sound he'd make on being presented with an unexpected delicacy.
She hadn’t expected this to make her want.
They’d struck a bargain. Hell does torments for keeps, something like this would just be a morning pick-me-up, but she’d hesitated to go even this far: I don’t like the idea of hurting you, angel. Heaven, though, has other ways of wearing down a spirit: the long disapproving silences, the clipped tones of disappointment, the aridity of what was once a realm of love, reduced to grinding rounds of righteousness, scolding, dismissal.
It’s the kind of place where a person could get to the point of saying Just hit me if I’ve done so wretchedly, get it over with, don’t break me by inches this way.
He’s never said it in exactly those words. But it’s something the demon knows for a truth; if centuries of exchanging assignments hadn’t told him enough, that hour Upstairs made it clear. Just hit me – which, of course, they eventually did, and Crowley still has to stuff down a boiling need to crack Archangel bones and suck the marrow when he thinks about it. He’s not nice.
But the angel asked for this. At your hands, darling, it would be something entirely different.
So she runs the switch over the thick thighs with their moire pattern of stretch-marks, almost caressing, and says “You know Nanny does this because she loves you, don’t you? She gives you a bit of correction to make you better.”
“Yes, Nanny.” And his hips rock even as the knuckles of the hands gripping the desk edge whiten; the tremulous intakes and exhales don’t sound like pain, not yet.
“Three.”
The crisp sound as the switch connects, a little harder as she gets the measure of it, sends a little jolt between her legs, and there’s the slow luscious creep of moisture seeping into her knickers; she feels the slickness as she changes her stance. Tries not to let the quicker sound of her own breathing carry.
“That’s for taking credit for so much of Nanny’s hard work. She’s been put to so much trouble for you.”
(“I've been thinking, and I don’t know if I’ve properly learned my lesson. There might be nothing for it but that swishing.”
Crowley’s eyebrows almost leave the room. Nanny clearly hadn’t been ready to recommend this. He puts down the phone he's been aimlessly fiddling with.
“You sure?”
“I fear so.”
Aziraphale flirting is a doomsday weapon. That little pout is enough to bring kingdoms to their knees; Crowley doesn’t stand a chance.
“You know, I taught classics for a few semesters in one of those places. It was after you… while you were asleep. A job Heaven had for me. I was the only master who wouldn’t swish his pupils.”
“ ‘Course you were.”
“But I heard the boys talking. Bragging about who could take the most and which of the masters went at them hardest. Almost as if they... learned to like something about it.”
“We’re not scoring points here, angel.”
He’d imagined something like a good playful paddling, that full round arse presented to touch and smack, the delectable wriggling against Nanny’s lap that would inevitably come of it. But no, Aziraphale’s ready to go full Eton-and-Harrow.
“I can’t explain it, Crowley,” he says, his eyes shining – Heaven, Crowley would do anything when the angel turned those eyes on him – “I want this. It’s all right, of course you should stop any time if you don’t feel right about it. And I’ll have a word. Something to say so you’ll know I need to stop. So anything else I say in, ah, the heat won’t leave you guessing.”
He hesitates a moment, then nods: “All right.” Aziraphale beams. Dear Lord, that little wiggle. "What'll it be? Antichrist? Gabriel?”
“I love you,” said Aziraphale.
“Love you too, angel.”
“No. I mean that’s what I’ll say. It’s perfectly true, after all, and not something you’d normally say to mean stop that.”
Crowley gives a slow nod. “Promise you’ll use it. Know you.”
“Yes. You do.”
It’s meant as a grateful kiss, but Crowley doesn’t expect to flame up as he does, thinking of Aziraphale submitting to correction, accepting it, enduring it. From him.
“We’ll work out the details. Thank you, my darling.”
They hadn’t had any plans for that afternoon anyway.)
“Four.” She makes him wait for it a little this time, wonder when it’s going to to come. “For lying so incorrigibly. From the very first. If She won’t chastise you, then Nanny will.”
She gives it another two heartbeats before drawing an abrupt stripe that’s more sound, a whistling slice through the air, than impact. The angel jumps back a little.
“Hands on the desk. We’re not nearly done.”
“Yes, Nanny.”
“And when we are, you’ll give Nanny proper service with that wicked tongue.” Just the friction of her knickers as she shifts her weight's enough to pull an unexpected sound from her own throat. She wants to rub herself through the skirts, rides out the urge.
“Five. Possessing a mortal without so much as a by-your-leave. Is that how an angel behaves?”
“No, Nanny.”
She’s getting a little alarmed – the newest marks are starting to flame, the first two to darken – but he emphasizes his No with a headshake, leans forward over the desk to present himself utterly. The stripe follows the as yet unmarked crease below the solid buttocks, and his head snaps up.
“Thank you, Nanny.” She can just glimpse his expression, eyes closed, lips parted.
Six is for sending Heaven so much falsified paperwork. Seven for being a slothful little glutton (Crowley loves him for it, but Heaven battered him over it, and it’s on the list they negotiated). His legs are trembling now, but she can sense how much of that is the same tremor through the centre that she’s feeling, the pulses spreading into her belly -- imagining how that crisscrossed rump will radiate heat into her hands, a web of raised welts under her fingertips, a Braille of desire. Eight for taking foolish risks and making Nanny worry, what were you thinking running off to Paris?
The tip of the switch runs from one heel up to the cat’s cradle of stripe marks, makes him hiss as it travels across them; describes the same journey up the other calf and thigh, detouring lazily this time, letting him guess.
Letting Nanny collect herself.
“Nine,” she says huskily, as she flicks it back with a whooshing noise. She gives him a moment, in case he's had enough, but he only steadies himself, obedient. “For being a lascivious little strumpet. Flaunting yourself so, distracting Nanny.” The switch barely glances along the swell of flesh at the side of the hip, below a soft delicious crease of belly fat, but he makes a little stricken sound this time. She waits for the words, but they don’t come.
“Ten, just to remind you to mind Nanny always.” His whole bum’s fiery red now, the crosshatch of marks turning dusky. He pants softly, like someone who's taken too hot a mouthful, not even trying to conceal the way his hips are rocking forward, the tightening of the cheeks. The last smack is loud, brings a little sob bursting out.
For a moment there’s nothing but the sound of the angel’s breathing, each inhale a deep shiver.
“One more,” he quavers.
Nanny’s not sure. “We agreed – – “
“One." His head's down, lip bitten. "I deserve it.”
“What for?”
“I denied you. The worst thing I've ever done.” Nanny stiffens. At the faint sob in the words, the shudder. “Please. I’m so close.”
The stern-governess voice falters. “Angel. You can’t say that. Not for that, never for that.”
“I want you to take it from me. Just the one.”
His breath’s heavy, his back arched. Nanny bites her lip, can’t bring herself to speak it, finally: “You know what this is for – ” Hesitates another moment; then: “No.“
The switch hits the Wilton carpet. She regathers her governess voice. “Nanny’s quite done with correction for today. You’ve done very well.” She closes the distance between them, tips up his chin. “Give Nanny a kiss, and promise to be good – “
But he’s still trembling, leaning on the desk more for support than in obedience now, the hem of his shirt thrust out in front. She strokes the tip of the jut, feels the unyielding hardness; he’s keyed up to the bursting point.
“Are we hiding something here? Show Nanny.”
Her own hands are a little uncertain as she undoes the buttons. He’s splendidly erect, already leaving a spreading damp spot on the shirt, the thick cock bucking a little as her fingers brush it.
“Is this for Nanny? To thank her? It’s much too pretty to hide away.” Admiring, but also comforting. You’ve done very well. She draws a tiny circle on the wet tip with her forefinger. “What shall we do with such a thoughtful gift?"
Nanny’s hands – small and delicate, soft and subtle – stroke up the warm shaft, turn him to face away from the desk. She realizes he’s leaning only on the heels of his hands, his arse an inch from the desk edge, too tender for the moment to take weight. She feathers the lightest of strokes across it as she works him.
“So lovely of you. Thanking me for this – “ a harder rake of her nail over the road map of penances – “and this and this.” A little pinch, and he thrusts into her hand with a gasp. Even this desperately hard, the head’s got a sweet crinkly texture, like silk crepe, that goes full and shiny, trickling out a little tear of anticipation, when she pulls up from the base with a snug grip. Another gout, enough to make a film of slick in her palm. Aziraphale’s not going to last long. She knows that brow-creased look of concentration, as if he’s trying to remember the location of some rare codex, the tongue-tip slipping between the lips. “That’s a good boy for Nanny, give it here,” she croons. And then there’s come pumping milky over her knuckles, spattering the crisp black of her shirtsleeve, the thicket of blond curls at the base of his belly, and he’s pulling himself to her shoulder, sobbing with little aftershocks.
“Ssshhh,” she whispers, cradling his head in a sticky hand. “Sssshhh. Nanny’s got you. Nanny’s got you.” There’s damp heat filtering through her shirt, and it’s tears too, a reply muffled, unintelligible against her shoulder. It’s a moment before he pulls in another long breath, huffs it out.
“Know you do. You do. Trust you." His hand feels for hers. "Only one I could ever trust.”
She hikes up onto the desk edge, rocking a little as he clings to her. “You’re a good angel. A very very good angel. The very best angel.” And bloody mangled pustulent bollocks to anyone who says anything else, she adds silently.
Night’s almost engulfed the skylight; only the desk sits in a little pool of light. After a while she senses how muzzy he is, as he never is, half asleep on his feet.
“We should go upstairs,” she says, and snaps.
The switch is left behind on the carpet.
The light in the flat’s dim, the tartan duvet a suitably ridiculous thing to be lying half on, half under.
Nanny’s still-flickering arousal is something to save, to bank, to be returned as tenderness, because right now all she wants to do is cherish him. It helps to change back, so that it’s Crowley who emerges from the kitchen with a spoon and some chipped ice. The snifter of Armagnac’s barely stayed in the angel’s hand, tilting and sloshing, and it’s simpler to swirl the fragments of ice into it, hold them to his lips.
He’s lying on his side, to take his weight off the stripes. The ends of his hair and his belly are damp where Nanny sponged him off with a warm flannel, telling him what a lovely sweet mess he was.
“All right?” Crowley says after three or four spoonfuls. “Enough covers?”
“Plenty, dear. Mmm. ’s you that’s always cold.”
“Got you.”
The blond head burrows into a crooked arm raised against the pillow. His soft throat’s open, vulnerable, precious.
“You’ve had nothing,” he says thickly, eyes closed, after a few moments.
“Get myself a glass in a bit.”
“No. I mean – “ The hand not tucked under his head reaches out a little blindly, trails up Crowley’s thigh.
“In the morning.”
Crowley nudges aside the bedclothes, touches the curve of the flushed rump, lightly, feeling the lingering heat. “I love you,” Aziraphale mumbles. It takes a moment to register before Crowley jerks his hand away, but the angel catches it and moves it back.
“Didn’t mean stop.”
He presses the demon's fingers - no longer small and delicate, but still gentle - against the spiderweb of weals.
“We’ll find a new word. Need those too much.”
Crowley sets the snifter on the bedtable and turns out the light.
finis