1. The Crop It’s more for the sound, that wicked black crop. It wasn’t bought at a proper tack store, not this one. But it cracks so satisfyingly. And the impacts, layered atop each other, make the skin blush and start to burn just a little.
It’s like fire, flashing across the skin in a moment.
It’s also the faint humiliation of it, having an implement once designed for a horse to chastise him, to make his skin warm all over. He doesn’t cry but he bites his lip nearly through as it cracks across his skin, his backside and just below it and even on the inside of his thighs, leaving a kiss that burns for a single moment.
He pants and shudders as the leather flap brushes over his hot skin. And there’s a hand ruffling his now sweaty hair. The low voice saying, “There’s a love. Can you get up on your own?” The voice is low but not echoing, not coming from a long way off from the rush of blood. It’s low and almost pleasant under the smoke-created rasp.
He does roll over himself and there is pleasant warmth all across his backside but no real pain. And there’s milky tea and custard creams, even if there will be biscuit crumbs on the patchwork quilt made with all green and gray and white cloth. New Zealand breathes over his tea and England’s sweat damp hands, peeled of their dark tight gloves, rubs his back in gentle spirals.
2. By Hand He likes fighting but he still holds back a little bit. Until there’s the time when England’s sharp (very sharp!) fingernails dig into his wrists and into a just perfectly tender spot that makes pain scream right up the arm with just a little more pressure. The supercilious voice becomes a growl, low and not so much threatening as promising. “Don’t you cross me, lad,” that sharp voice whispers, as clear as a shout.
And a palm tapping his arse, briefly, before being brought back and swung forward, impacting with as much noise as force.
The sting is perfect – driving into him his position (on the lap of someone almost a half a head shorter). There’s sometimes no chance to breathe or pause or even think about it as the slaps come in percussive spurts. There’s no counting, no ritual here, only the smacks that don’t end, that have no real rhythm.
“I don’t need to make you do that,” is the unspoken message. “I am doing this and you are going to take it.”
Then the soft hand on the small of the back. Not on his red arse, but right on the small of his back, gentle and curled and starting to stroke.
There’s no crying but he has to catch his breath. He gulps down air and then there’s rubbing just above and below, stimulating the muscle and blood flow. It’s going to be red for a while but he doesn’t so much as wince as he levers himself onto a wicker chair later and has tea and spice cake from a tin.
He doesn’t complain that it’s a little stale but he makes a note to bring a pavlova next time. Just because.
3. The Cane England’s wrists are knobbly and thin but they are strong and deft just like the clever thin fingers that wrap around the leather bound handle of the rattan cane. The whipping noise is warning enough and it makes him tense. The whistle means it’s going to be a hard blow, not the silent sweep that leaves a sting and a low burn. No the whistle means that there’s going to be impact and then the pain flaring up within seconds as blood rushes to the site of the new welt.
He wonders if England likes having to pick up the cane once in a while and if there’s an irony here for a country that now doesn’t allow this to happen. He would bring it up later but it makes England’s lips tighten in a not entirely pleasant (not even for perverseness) way.
The cane has to be savored just as England has to deliberate. It’s a biting pain and he tenses in the beginning and at the middle, as sometimes it swings, whistling but never impacts. Then the silent sweep upwards, hitting him just below the ass, on top of the back of his leg. He doesn’t scream at that particular blow (he swears he doesn’t). But the pain shoots upwards and downwards and he has to brace himself again on the chair he’s against.
In the end, he never does bring up laws and historical repression afterwards when they’re eating butter tarts and England has just consented to firing up the percolator that is a fascinating remnant from the 70s. Over the slightly muddy but somewhat passable coffee that has gritty, toothachingly sweet sugar crystal bits left in the bottom of the mug, they usually talk about gardening instead (and those rather lovely fringed striped tulips near the front lawn that perhaps Canada could have a sample of?).
4. The Belt The feeling of the leather of his own belt sliding against his hip, sliding from the belt loops, makes America shiver. That’s the beginning of it. England could very well get a belt but this is somehow even better. You make your own punishment, England used to say and emphasizes it.
The belt is not one of the really nice ones he had gotten from Italy. It’s soft from use, one of the holes nearly torn through, the edges cracking a little. It’s thick and brown and the buckle is tarnishing silver.
And England always takes the time to make it into a loop, pinching it shut at just the right space but swinging it and hitting a hand just to get used to it. The heavy sound of the leather meeting skin makes America shudder.
“Well, lad?”
It’s maybe more humiliating, that idle remark that’s weighed with a lot. A way out, a way to just head out the door and not speak of this again. It’s kindness that’s cruelty and maybe England doesn’t quite notice that. Or maybe England does – a long time has a way of helping you develop special ways of cruelty.
“Yes,” he breathes.
And the leather comes slapping down. It’s a lick – it hits and flees, flowing away. It starts out for the noise first, to make the skin start blushing, then it’s harder and the pain is sharper, deeper. And somehow, England knows when it’s almost too much, when it’s going to hurt so bad that he can’t stand it all but when the burn fades, the belt is there again, lashing at reddened skin.
There’s no tea but a glass of water. There’s checking for bleeding, there’s maybe a hesitant hand on the back. England hands back the old worn belt and then, almost kindly, tells him to take off the button up because a button is getting loose and really, shouldn’t you keep an eye on these things?
(ooc: -Impact play is nothing to mess around with but it’s quite fun (if that’s your kink). Research, research, research, and above all, communicate! -Title taken from a BBC article about England’s S&M scene. -I like to think of this happening at England’s cottage because it amuses me to think of this stodgy English gentleman in his cottage with lovely garden with pruned roses delivering chastisement behind the slightly worn green-painted front door. -I somehow imagined New Zealand liking custard creams as a concession to childishness – I myself don’t like them too much because they’re very sweet and bland at the same time. I prefer chocolate digestives. -Butter tarts are a Canadian sweet. I haven’t had one but I’ve heard on good authority that they’re delicious. Legality – so in the UK, there’s a law stating that an adult cannot consent to bodily injury, which means that technically, BDSM is illegal. Of course, try telling that to London’s S&M scene. Canada on the other hand has explicitly said that consensual, conscious BDSM is legal (but still rules that an unconscious person cannot give consent, even if activities were agreed upon beforehand). I’m not a USUK hardcore fan but I think the relationship has a LOT more baggage to it than England’s relationship with the other former colonies. While Australia would never admit his sexual proclivities, he’s not necessarily ashamed of them. America on the other hand…)
I am this close from getting on one knee and asking you to marry me, because this was more than I ever hoped for.
It's full of fic goodness and fulfilled requester's wishes, just the way every part has its own distinct atmosphere, how every colony not only has his own punishing instrument but how England approaches them completely differently according to their needs and even adjusts the aftercare to their character. Canada receiving the cane that is (relatively) the most painful of the tools mentioned is a particularly nice one. I loved how the identity of the ex-colony isn't revealed until the very last moment in the first three parts, the hints strong enough to leave a tingling suspicion only.
The details just add richness to the writing, England's gloves and sharp nails, sugar crystals in tea (I wonder if the fact sugar comes from the very same canes is just a coincidence), stale cakes, belt buckle of tarnishing silver. The ending with the the shirt button is perfect in every way, and extremely fitting for my personal headcanon for England's and America's relationship as well.
In short, you did the great deed of making the OP of this extremely happy and satisfied and, as I hope, many others as well. Go and treat yourself to something good, kind and talented authornon, you deserved it.
I'm glad you liked it so much, requester. This is one of the few times I've actually written about spanking (as opposed to general smut).
The sugar thing is based on a kitschy English coffee culture, where they used to apparently sell these massive brownish "coffee crystals" that never could dissolve properly. My headcanon is that England ritualizes coffee nearly as much as tea but in a much more leery way.
The detail, the characterizations, and the mindset behind each snippet from each country is just wonderful. I forgot to second this prompt, but I'd very much been waiting for a fill and this was better than I could've hoped for! If OP doesn't marry you I very well might! Honestly though, I love the lack of an in your face sexual theme, and the fact it's more about finding the comfort in having control taken from you for a moment.
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Grief from neighbors [1a/1]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-20 09:52 pm (UTC)(link)It’s more for the sound, that wicked black crop. It wasn’t bought at a proper tack store, not this one. But it cracks so satisfyingly. And the impacts, layered atop each other, make the skin blush and start to burn just a little.
It’s like fire, flashing across the skin in a moment.
It’s also the faint humiliation of it, having an implement once designed for a horse to chastise him, to make his skin warm all over. He doesn’t cry but he bites his lip nearly through as it cracks across his skin, his backside and just below it and even on the inside of his thighs, leaving a kiss that burns for a single moment.
He pants and shudders as the leather flap brushes over his hot skin. And there’s a hand ruffling his now sweaty hair. The low voice saying, “There’s a love. Can you get up on your own?” The voice is low but not echoing, not coming from a long way off from the rush of blood. It’s low and almost pleasant under the smoke-created rasp.
He does roll over himself and there is pleasant warmth all across his backside but no real pain. And there’s milky tea and custard creams, even if there will be biscuit crumbs on the patchwork quilt made with all green and gray and white cloth. New Zealand breathes over his tea and England’s sweat damp hands, peeled of their dark tight gloves, rubs his back in gentle spirals.
2. By Hand
He likes fighting but he still holds back a little bit. Until there’s the time when England’s sharp (very sharp!) fingernails dig into his wrists and into a just perfectly tender spot that makes pain scream right up the arm with just a little more pressure. The supercilious voice becomes a growl, low and not so much threatening as promising. “Don’t you cross me, lad,” that sharp voice whispers, as clear as a shout.
And a palm tapping his arse, briefly, before being brought back and swung forward, impacting with as much noise as force.
The sting is perfect – driving into him his position (on the lap of someone almost a half a head shorter). There’s sometimes no chance to breathe or pause or even think about it as the slaps come in percussive spurts. There’s no counting, no ritual here, only the smacks that don’t end, that have no real rhythm.
“I don’t need to make you do that,” is the unspoken message. “I am doing this and you are going to take it.”
Then the soft hand on the small of the back. Not on his red arse, but right on the small of his back, gentle and curled and starting to stroke.
There’s no crying but he has to catch his breath. He gulps down air and then there’s rubbing just above and below, stimulating the muscle and blood flow. It’s going to be red for a while but he doesn’t so much as wince as he levers himself onto a wicker chair later and has tea and spice cake from a tin.
He doesn’t complain that it’s a little stale but he makes a note to bring a pavlova next time. Just because.
Grief from neighbors [1b/1]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-20 09:53 pm (UTC)(link)England’s wrists are knobbly and thin but they are strong and deft just like the clever thin fingers that wrap around the leather bound handle of the rattan cane. The whipping noise is warning enough and it makes him tense. The whistle means it’s going to be a hard blow, not the silent sweep that leaves a sting and a low burn. No the whistle means that there’s going to be impact and then the pain flaring up within seconds as blood rushes to the site of the new welt.
He wonders if England likes having to pick up the cane once in a while and if there’s an irony here for a country that now doesn’t allow this to happen. He would bring it up later but it makes England’s lips tighten in a not entirely pleasant (not even for perverseness) way.
The cane has to be savored just as England has to deliberate. It’s a biting pain and he tenses in the beginning and at the middle, as sometimes it swings, whistling but never impacts. Then the silent sweep upwards, hitting him just below the ass, on top of the back of his leg. He doesn’t scream at that particular blow (he swears he doesn’t). But the pain shoots upwards and downwards and he has to brace himself again on the chair he’s against.
In the end, he never does bring up laws and historical repression afterwards when they’re eating butter tarts and England has just consented to firing up the percolator that is a fascinating remnant from the 70s. Over the slightly muddy but somewhat passable coffee that has gritty, toothachingly sweet sugar crystal bits left in the bottom of the mug, they usually talk about gardening instead (and those rather lovely fringed striped tulips near the front lawn that perhaps Canada could have a sample of?).
4. The Belt
The feeling of the leather of his own belt sliding against his hip, sliding from the belt loops, makes America shiver. That’s the beginning of it. England could very well get a belt but this is somehow even better. You make your own punishment, England used to say and emphasizes it.
The belt is not one of the really nice ones he had gotten from Italy. It’s soft from use, one of the holes nearly torn through, the edges cracking a little. It’s thick and brown and the buckle is tarnishing silver.
And England always takes the time to make it into a loop, pinching it shut at just the right space but swinging it and hitting a hand just to get used to it. The heavy sound of the leather meeting skin makes America shudder.
“Well, lad?”
It’s maybe more humiliating, that idle remark that’s weighed with a lot. A way out, a way to just head out the door and not speak of this again. It’s kindness that’s cruelty and maybe England doesn’t quite notice that. Or maybe England does – a long time has a way of helping you develop special ways of cruelty.
“Yes,” he breathes.
And the leather comes slapping down. It’s a lick – it hits and flees, flowing away. It starts out for the noise first, to make the skin start blushing, then it’s harder and the pain is sharper, deeper. And somehow, England knows when it’s almost too much, when it’s going to hurt so bad that he can’t stand it all but when the burn fades, the belt is there again, lashing at reddened skin.
There’s no tea but a glass of water. There’s checking for bleeding, there’s maybe a hesitant hand on the back. England hands back the old worn belt and then, almost kindly, tells him to take off the button up because a button is getting loose and really, shouldn’t you keep an eye on these things?
Grief from neighbors [ooc]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-20 09:54 pm (UTC)(link)-Impact play is nothing to mess around with but it’s quite fun (if that’s your kink). Research, research, research, and above all, communicate!
-Title taken from a BBC article about England’s S&M scene.
-I like to think of this happening at England’s cottage because it amuses me to think of this stodgy English gentleman in his cottage with lovely garden with pruned roses delivering chastisement behind the slightly worn green-painted front door.
-I somehow imagined New Zealand liking custard creams as a concession to childishness – I myself don’t like them too much because they’re very sweet and bland at the same time. I prefer chocolate digestives.
-Butter tarts are a Canadian sweet. I haven’t had one but I’ve heard on good authority that they’re delicious.
Legality – so in the UK, there’s a law stating that an adult cannot consent to bodily injury, which means that technically, BDSM is illegal. Of course, try telling that to London’s S&M scene. Canada on the other hand has explicitly said that consensual, conscious BDSM is legal (but still rules that an unconscious person cannot give consent, even if activities were agreed upon beforehand).
I’m not a USUK hardcore fan but I think the relationship has a LOT more baggage to it than England’s relationship with the other former colonies. While Australia would never admit his sexual proclivities, he’s not necessarily ashamed of them. America on the other hand…)
OP
(Anonymous) 2013-04-20 11:11 pm (UTC)(link)It's full of fic goodness and fulfilled requester's wishes, just the way every part has its own distinct atmosphere, how every colony not only has his own punishing instrument but how England approaches them completely differently according to their needs and even adjusts the aftercare to their character. Canada receiving the cane that is (relatively) the most painful of the tools mentioned is a particularly nice one. I loved how the identity of the ex-colony isn't revealed until the very last moment in the first three parts, the hints strong enough to leave a tingling suspicion only.
The details just add richness to the writing, England's gloves and sharp nails, sugar crystals in tea (I wonder if the fact sugar comes from the very same canes is just a coincidence), stale cakes, belt buckle of tarnishing silver. The ending with the the shirt button is perfect in every way, and extremely fitting for my personal headcanon for England's and America's relationship as well.
In short, you did the great deed of making the OP of this extremely happy and satisfied and, as I hope, many others as well. Go and treat yourself to something good, kind and talented authornon, you deserved it.
Re: OP
(Anonymous) 2013-04-20 11:32 pm (UTC)(link)The sugar thing is based on a kitschy English coffee culture, where they used to apparently sell these massive brownish "coffee crystals" that never could dissolve properly. My headcanon is that England ritualizes coffee nearly as much as tea but in a much more leery way.
Re: Grief from neighbors [ooc]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-21 06:38 am (UTC)(link)Re: Grief from neighbors [ooc]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-21 07:36 am (UTC)(link)