Household Discipline

Llewelyn disciplines his house guest for being rude at dinner.

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Rated E, 2.5k, M/M. Everett Llewelyn and Aidan Thornton originally appear in Archival Management. Older man/younger man, D/s, age gap, discipline, spanking, some mild voyeurism and humiliation before an audience.

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There’s an itch all over Aidan’s skin, and it’s been thick all over him like static electricity since some time last Friday. He doesn’t remember what exactly triggered it — they were chatting about going out in the staff room, that’s all, and he hasn’t been out in a long while. Once he stopped using, he really only went out at night to find someone to fuck him, and once he stopped fucking outside of Doctor Llewelyn’s home, he stopped going out basically at all.

“I can always arrange for Fairway to stay up late to allow you in, if you miss it,” Llewelyn had told him whilst driving him home that afternoon, and Aidan had shook his head.

“I don’t think I do,” he’d muttered, because he hadn’t, and he still doesn’t think he does now. When he thinks about it, when he thinks about drinking that much and all the dancing, how hot it always gets on the dance floor, the mess in the crowd, having to queue up for his drinks and then having to fucking pay for them, and not getting as much as he wants, or what exactly he wants, because he’s gotten used to all these stupid vintage cocktails and punches that are served at Llewelyn’s dinners, and normal bars and clubs don’t serve them.

Maybe he’s getting older, slowing down, maybe it’s that, and maybe he never really liked it at all — maybe it was just a means to an end.

Thinking about that, not wanting to actually go to the club, that hadn’t made the itch go away, the feel of static charge building up between every hair across his body, the ache in the back of his throat. He doesn’t think he’s even picky about what he wants, at this point, whether he wants to be up or down, just knows that his body feels too tight and too constant and too —

All over him.

It feels like a shell he’s trapped in, one that he can’t clamber out of.

He’d gotten drunk last Saturday, drank at the dinner table until the bottle was finished, and then he’d eaten a good portion of a very boozy trifle, and then he’d kept drinking. Llewelyn had told Fairway not to give him any of the expensive stuff, and the butler had dryly said he never did when “the boy wasn’t in polite company, sir,” and that had made Llewelyn laugh.

It hadn’t been the same, getting that drunk alone — maybe it was the lack of music, the lack of pounding bass, the lack of a press of bodies to lose himself in, because he’d still felt too in-his-body, still too attached to it, still too trapped.

On Tuesday, after work, Aidan had gone out bowling with some of the girls from work, and that had been nice — on Wednesday, after work, he’d gone to the gym. He’d been so exhausted afterwards, aching all over, that on Thursday Doctor Llewelyn had actually leaned his head in the doorway and barked at him to get into the car to go to work until Aidan had limped out of bed and all but fallen into the passenger seat, shoddily dressed.

He took Friday off — he had the lieu hours from working over time — so that Saturday, his body was halfway put together.

The static had eased a bit in the gym, and had been staved off during the exhausted phase afterwards, and then, it had come back with a vengeance.

It’s made him irritable.

Sharp.

“Ha,” Llewelyn huffs, and the sound is dark and hot on the back of his ear as Llewelyn bends him hard over the dinner table, which has been cleared of plates and its cloth since they retired to the other room for port. The last of Llewelyn’s dinner guests have left, and now it’s just the two of them — the two of them and Fairway, who is still tidying away clean cutlery into the dining room drawers. “You have not been irritable and sharp, young man — what you have been is downright rude.”

“I didn’t mean to — ”

“I couldn’t care less what you meant to one way or the other,” Llewelyn says crisply, and reaches to undo Aidan’s trousers, dragging them down.

“Sir!” he hisses, looking scandalised toward Fairway, who doesn’t so much as flinch at the noise, let alone turn his head, and Doctor Llewelyn ignores him, shoving his head down hard against the wooden surface of the table, his cheek pressed against it. “Sir, please, not here, not — ”

“It’s been three weeks since you came into my bed, boy, do you realise that?”

“I’m sorry,” Aidan gasps out, and he feels shame, feels drowned in it, feels disgusted with himself and utterly helpless.

“I’m not asking for an apology, I’m asking if you realised it,” Llewelyn says — he’s pushed Aidan’s shirt up to his midback, and his trousers and underwear down around his knees, so that Aidan’s cock is on the table, Aidan’s cock on its way to hardness, and he doesn’t know if it’s the shame or the fear or just the fact that he’s naked and Llewelyn is holding him down. “When did you last go to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, hm?”

Aidan bites his lip, because even more shame bubbles in his veins, and his stomach rolls.

“You want to use — there’s no surprise in that,” Llewelyn says. “You’re an addict. Drinking doesn’t cut it for you — and as for whether you’ve wanted to be high or low, I can tell you precisely what you’ve been craving: you’ve wanted the ketamine.”

Aidan’s mouth feels dry, and he thinks about what he’s been trying not to let himself think about for the past two weeks, thinking about being out at a party or in a club or just laid on the floor of someone’s fucking living room and his head not pounding, thinks about everything feeling so much slower, blurrier. He thinks about the world swaying beneath him, feeling at sea in the best way possible, feels like everything cooling down.

“I haven’t taken any,” Aidan says, his voice coming out tiny and small.

“I know that,” Llewelyn says, and his voice is surprisingly gentle. It can be, sometimes, can be warm and honeyed and just a little bit sweet, and Aidan wishes he had crawled into his bed, the last while. He hasn’t. Hasn’t dared. Has felt like he’s bothering the old man, being around him at the office all day long and then being in his car to go home with him and then coming home to Llewelyn working or reading and not wanting to interrupt him, not wanting to make the old man unhappy with him by just — “Less of the old man, please,” Llewelyn says, less gentle.

“Stop reading my fucking mind, and it won’t be your problem.”

“You see that?” Llewelyn asks coolly. “Rude.”

And brings his hand down with a blindingly loud clap.

Aidan yelps, the force of the blow shoving him across the table, his elbows skidding just slightly against the wood. The pain is sudden and stark, a hot lick over his skin where Llewelyn’s palm has landed, and Aidan presses his fingertips hard into the tabletop, trying to focus himself with the pressure.

How long’s he been in Llewelyn’s house now, nine months, a year? They’ve had a lot of sex, and some of it has been rough in the way he’s always liked, has been bruising, has left marks on him. Llewelyn has spanked him before in bed, and a few times has made Aidan bend over his desk in his home office, or over the back of the bed to spank him more like this — a few times, he’s used a leather paddle, and once, a wooden cane.

He thinks of the cane now — that had been just after a Christmas, and Llewelyn had called it a masochist’s treat, and it had been one. It had been good, had made his body sing with pain and it had been sharp and glorious.

“Can I — ”

“You think you’ve earned it?” Llewelyn asks in a whisper.

“No,” Aidan mutters, and Llewelyn hums.

“No,” he repeats. He brings his hand down again against Aidan’s left buttock, then his right, smacks him on one and then the other, and Aidan grabs helplessly at the table as Llewelyn keeps bringing his hand down again and again and again, and fuck, how is it that he’s got such soft, pretty hands, hands that he moisturises, hands that he never so much as lets get dirty with ink, and yet he can hit so hard and with so much stamina?

He’s whining when, presumably in response to his thoughts, that Llewelyn starts hitting him twice as hard, and then he stops when Fairway stands across from them at the table, one hand behind his back, and clears his throat.

Llewelyn stops, and Aidan’s backside burns with heat, feels like it’s fucking on fire, and he’s grateful for break — his eyes are burning too, tears threatening at the corners of his eyes as he risks a look up at Fairway’s face. Fairway isn’t looking down at Aidan, is looking politely, blankly forward.

“What do you need, Fairway?” Llewelyn demands.

“A cloth, sir, for the… drip?”

“Oh, of course,” says Llewelyn, and rather than keeping his palm pressed to the back of Aidan’s head, he grips him by the hair instead and pulls him upright — Aidan stares humiliatedly down at his own hard, dripping cock, and watches Fairway shake out a napkin and lay it down where his dick had been resting on the table surface. As soon as he leans forward, a droplet of transparent precome drips onto the fabric instead of onto Llewelyn’s expensive antique dining table that Fairway spends so much time cleaning and polishing. “Thank you, Fairway.”

“Not at all, sir. Anything else, sir?”

“Lay out a balm in my room, if you would — Mr Thornton will be in my room tonight, if you want to take the time to strip his sheets tonight rather than on Monday, as scheduled. That will be all.”

“Very good, sir. Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Fairway,” says Llewelyn pleasantly, and as Fairway turns on his heel, Aidan calls spitefully after him, “Good night, Fairway!”

Fairway doesn’t dignify that with a response, doesn’t even give him a little wave over his shoulder, and Llewelyn laughs.

“Aren’t I supposed to grow on him, after this long?” he asks.

“Apparently not,” says Llewelyn. “You do not refer to your elders, when they visit this house and sup at my table, by such diminutives as old man or you old bastard, no matter how irritating or arrogant they are. Not even Doctor King.”

“I also called him a corpse-fucker,” Aidan points out, not without a little shame.

“I’ll forgive you that,” Llewelyn says. “That was funny.”

“So you’re done spanking me?”

“Oh, no,” Llewelyn says. One of his hands is sliding slowly up and down his back, and his arse hurts, and he’s waiting for Llewelyn to stroke that abused flesh instead, but he isn’t. It just… hurts. “There’s the matter of that port you swallowed down like it was cough medicine — and for what reason, precisely? To prove a point as to your constitution?”

“That was rude?”

“It was stupid — and wasteful.”

“Sorry.”

“And as for the rest of it — not attending meetings, not asking for sex or comfort or even discipline? Have you forgotten, boy, that rather the point of you being in my home is so that help is forthcoming when you need it?”

“You shouldn’t have to help me — Ow!”

He actually coughs at the force of that blow, at Llewelyn hitting him so hard he felt like some of his organs were going to pop out of his mouth, and the tears well over now, and he starts to sob properly as Llewelyn keeps hitting him, keeps laying smack after smack on his cheeks, on his thighs, layers them like burning parcels of heat nestled against and under the skin, and his cock is so painfully hard even though it hurts, because it hurts.

His skin is singing, but at least it feels like it fits, doesn’t feel like it’s weighing him down any longer, that staticky feeling off him and out of his head, and he buries his face in his arms to keep on crying as Llewelyn hits him until suddenly, he stops.

Aidan heaves in a gasp, filling his lungs with it, and then he whimpers when Llewelyn’s palm rests on his arse cheek and then rubs it in a very slow, excruciatingly hot circle — it’s partway between agonising and comforting.

“Good boy,” Llewelyn says quietly, again in that gentle voice. “You’ve done very well.”

“Even though I called King a corpse-fucker?”

“In part, because you called him a corpse-fucker.” Llewelyn leans down, and Aidan grunts at the pressure of Llewelyn’s body over his, blanketing him, at the painful rub of Llewelyn’s expensive suit trousers against his burning arse, and the cool balm of his belt buckle where it touches against the skin. “But if you do it again within mine or his earshot, I will make you regret it.”

“Yes, sir,” Aidan says, and then laughs, the giggle falling out of his mouth — his body feels loose and easy, all his limbs like jelly even though it still hurts, and Llewelyn presses a kiss to the side of his jaw, and that makes Aidan start laughing again.

“Can you walk?” Llewelyn asks.

“Uh huh,” says Aidan, wiping at one of his eyes with the heel of his hand, and he tries to stand — his jellied legs go out from under him, and before he can fall Llewelyn catches him under the backs of his knees and his shoulders, whisks him clean off the floor and carries him bridal style out from the dining room and toward the stairs. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, sniffling, wiping under his nose.

“Oh, you’re not sorry yet, young man,” says Llewelyn softly. He’s smiling slightly as he says, “I’m about to lay you out in my bed, and after applying a balm to your sore backside, I’m going to fuck you until I reach completion, and I expect to wring two orgasms out of you before I reach my own peak.”

“I think I love you,” says Aidan blearily, and Llewelyn actually laughs at him, the sound ringing through the stairwell.

“You’ve no idea what love is, boy,” Llewelyn murmurs, but he’s smiling as he says it. “But you know what pain is, and soon enough, you’ll know the meaning of obedience too.”

Aidan shivers, and then he shifts in Llewelyn’s arms, wrestles with the old man until his legs are wrapped around Llewelyn’s waist and his arms around his neck, and Llewelyn shoves him back against the wall outside of his own bedroom. The two of them are nose to nose, and this hurts his arse, a little, because the brocade wallpaper is textured and a bit rough, but it’s also cool, and that’s soothing.

“Still thinking of me as an old man, are you?” Llewelyn asks, and instead of answering him, Aidan pulls him into a kiss, and Llewelyn laughs against his mouth.