He's naked when they reach his bedroom. His bedroom. England can't remember the last time he felt so humiliated. They could at least have let him fold the clothes, instead of leaving them in crumpled heaps in the hall. He shivers as Scotland directs him to kneel on the rug. He can't remember the last time he felt so turned on, either, if he's being strictly honest with himself.
If he were drunk enough not to have meant it, he reasons, he would have been too drunk to cast the spell.
"Right handsome, that is," Scotland says, somewhere behind him, with far too much relish.
"Mm. Is the spell keyed to both of us, or just you, d'you think?"
"Try it."
"Right. Hands behind your back," Wales says.
Engiand's hands lift and clasp behind the small of his back. His knuckles rub against his knobby spine. "This is ridiculous," he says, and tries to think of something unsexy. The Prime Minister, that's - damn it, it won't do right now, Heath's almost handsome, in that distinguished sort of way. He settles for the American president. Shifty fellow, almost slimy, if he puts his mind to it. It nearly keeps his breathing steady.
Wales, he observes with somthing like dread, is peering under his bed, with the air of a housekeeper checking for bad dusting. What he comes up with, with a satisfied noise, is a wooden box, plain and polished and bound with brass. "That is private," England snaps.
"Oh, good. Where do you keep the key?"
He answers helplessly, "Nightstand."
Scotlsnd, amazingly and annoyingly enugh, ruffles England's hair. "We know it's private. Else it wouldn't be locked."
"Well, I wouldn't want North - " He breaks off. The embarassment and anger and helpless arousal churning in his stoumach are joined by a thick dread. His hands clench. "Scotland. Where is Northern Ireland?"
"A ways west of the Isle of Man," Scotland answers, and when England starts to growl, goes on: "But in the sense ye meant, out with friends. The lass does have friends, ye ken. She'll be back sevenish."
"When we will break for supper," Wales adds. He has the box open on the nightstand, having moved England's lovely Art Deco reading lamp to the floor to make room, and is looking through it with a critical eye. He lifts a thing that had been a present from France, shakes his head sadly, and sets it back. "After which, well, we'll simply have to be silent, won't we. That's all the important questions, I think. Don't speak again without permission."
England opens his mouth to protest, but of course he can't.
Scotland comes into view - his shirt undone, but trousers thankfully still in place - and pokes at the box. He's just as flushed as England. It can't possibly be for the same reason. Hf pulls out some rather nice prints his brother had acquired in Tokyo, goes pale, and puts them back. Then he pulls out the riding crop. That seems to satisfy him. Or maybe not, because his next words are, "Why is there a riding crop in with his toys?"
"Because England has alarmly public-school tastes for someone who's only ever been to university," Wales answers. England feels his shoulders tense in anticipation. "Go on, give him a good thrashing. He'll stiffen up at last, he must have been imagining Harold Wilson naked or the like." He's been paying attention? "Oh, don't look at me like that, you're no virgin."
"No," Scotland says, "but mostly I like people screaming in pleasure, ye ken. What've ye two been doing?"
"Nothing whatsoever, I'm afraid. Give it a go." He must be getting annoyed, Wales always goes polysyllabic when he's annoyed. England allows himsef a very brief feeling of victory.
It lasts until Scotland, with a shrug, brings the crop down on his shoulders.
The sting of the first dozen isn't much, he's used to worse, Scotland is going easy on him for someone so strong. But it's enough to bring every nerve to attention. And other things. He finds himself leaning forward, trying to curl up and hide his stiffenng cock. He whimpers; they didn't say he couldn't make noise.
"Well," says Scotland, sounding presently surprised. Then he does it again, harder.
When he stops, England is panting and moaning, and Wales is holding out a flail with a dreadful smirk.
"Red Shall Thy Petals Be" (2/10?)
He's naked when they reach his bedroom. His bedroom. England can't remember the last time he felt so humiliated. They could at least have let him fold the clothes, instead of leaving them in crumpled heaps in the hall. He shivers as Scotland directs him to kneel on the rug. He can't remember the last time he felt so turned on, either, if he's being strictly honest with himself.
If he were drunk enough not to have meant it, he reasons, he would have been too drunk to cast the spell.
"Right handsome, that is," Scotland says, somewhere behind him, with far too much relish.
"Mm. Is the spell keyed to both of us, or just you, d'you think?"
"Try it."
"Right. Hands behind your back," Wales says.
Engiand's hands lift and clasp behind the small of his back. His knuckles rub against his knobby spine. "This is ridiculous," he says, and tries to think of something unsexy. The Prime Minister, that's - damn it, it won't do right now, Heath's almost handsome, in that distinguished sort of way. He settles for the American president. Shifty fellow, almost slimy, if he puts his mind to it. It nearly keeps his breathing steady.
Wales, he observes with somthing like dread, is peering under his bed, with the air of a housekeeper checking for bad dusting. What he comes up with, with a satisfied noise, is a wooden box, plain and polished and bound with brass. "That is private," England snaps.
"Oh, good. Where do you keep the key?"
He answers helplessly, "Nightstand."
Scotlsnd, amazingly and annoyingly enugh, ruffles England's hair. "We know it's private. Else it wouldn't be locked."
"Well, I wouldn't want North - " He breaks off. The embarassment and anger and helpless arousal churning in his stoumach are joined by a thick dread. His hands clench. "Scotland. Where is Northern Ireland?"
"A ways west of the Isle of Man," Scotland answers, and when England starts to growl, goes on: "But in the sense ye meant, out with friends. The lass does have friends, ye ken. She'll be back sevenish."
"When we will break for supper," Wales adds. He has the box open on the nightstand, having moved England's lovely Art Deco reading lamp to the floor to make room, and is looking through it with a critical eye. He lifts a thing that had been a present from France, shakes his head sadly, and sets it back. "After which, well, we'll simply have to be silent, won't we. That's all the important questions, I think. Don't speak again without permission."
England opens his mouth to protest, but of course he can't.
Scotland comes into view - his shirt undone, but trousers thankfully still in place - and pokes at the box. He's just as flushed as England. It can't possibly be for the same reason. Hf pulls out some rather nice prints his brother had acquired in Tokyo, goes pale, and puts them back. Then he pulls out the riding crop. That seems to satisfy him. Or maybe not, because his next words are, "Why is there a riding crop in with his toys?"
"Because England has alarmly public-school tastes for someone who's only ever been to university," Wales answers. England feels his shoulders tense in anticipation. "Go on, give him a good thrashing. He'll stiffen up at last, he must have been imagining Harold Wilson naked or the like." He's been paying attention? "Oh, don't look at me like that, you're no virgin."
"No," Scotland says, "but mostly I like people screaming in pleasure, ye ken. What've ye two been doing?"
"Nothing whatsoever, I'm afraid. Give it a go." He must be getting annoyed, Wales always goes polysyllabic when he's annoyed. England allows himsef a very brief feeling of victory.
It lasts until Scotland, with a shrug, brings the crop down on his shoulders.
The sting of the first dozen isn't much, he's used to worse, Scotland is going easy on him for someone so strong. But it's enough to bring every nerve to attention. And other things. He finds himself leaning forward, trying to curl up and hide his stiffenng cock. He whimpers; they didn't say he couldn't make noise.
"Well," says Scotland, sounding presently surprised. Then he does it again, harder.
When he stops, England is panting and moaning, and Wales is holding out a flail with a dreadful smirk.
--