Once a Nerd Ch. 12

"Mmph!"

My entire body lights up like the fucking Griswold's house. It was only marginally harder, but my ass feels seared on a flattop where he struck. It went...straight to my dick, what the fucking shit—

crack! crack!

"Hah! God—nngh!"

Just as hard, two consecutive blows. I can feel my back trying to bow against the brace of his arm, and my muscles ache from a tension I can't bleed out. Dean's just as tense. His quad is hard and fluttering where it's pressing into my belly, and his abdominals clench ever so often. It's...painful, but not unbearable. He's being careful not to hit on the same spot over and over, rotating around the four quadrants of the cheek. I nearly jump out of my skin as two more strikes come, dead center. Thus far, it's the most strength he's used, and electricity crackles up my spine.

"Hngh! Dean, shit—!"

Without my asking for it, he initiates a short break—stroking and massaging the flesh he'd just tenderized. He exhales raggedly, and his cock feels like a piece of rebar digging into my hip.

"It's so...red already, I've barely fuckin' done anything." He sounds somewhere between amazed and strangled, like he's barely holding it together. He squeezes my right cheek roughly, and I groan into the bit of comforter I've caught between my teeth. The rounds of my ass have never felt so sensitive before, as it's not a place on my body to see excessive, pointed stimulation. Now, Dean simply grabbing at it puts a boil in my lower stomach.

"You're soaked, you know that? I can feel it dripping down my leg. Did it feel that good?"

Realizing he's right, I want to shrivel up and die. The rosy hue of shame burns in my face, chest, nape, all down my back. I'm blushing with my whole body, and if that doesn't make everything so much worse.

He spreads my ass apart with the one hand, and humiliation is a coagulant in my throat when he breathes a short, excited laugh. "Your hole looks so needy, Sam. It's never been neglected like this, huh?"

"God, Dean, just—stop fucking around!" I beg, straining against the clamp he's got me in.

"You think you're in a position to say shit like that?" To emphasize said position, Dean fastens the hook on my legs, dropping more weight through his forearm. "I'll fuck around all night if I want to."

The pad of his thumb bears down against my hole, and for the longest time, he does little more than apply a light, scrubbing pressure. To keep those despairing noises at bay, I focus singlemindedly on cycling breath through my nose. He's always, always looking for a reaction. He gets off on watching me fall to pieces, and the longer I can deprive him of that, the better I'll feel about all of this. Predictably, those convictions fly out the window when he sinks into me.

My hips twitch back of their own mind, and Dean's not deaf to the relieved gasp whistling through my teeth. When he pops out, hand vanishing, you'd think my entire world had gone up in brimstone and hellfire.

I twist angrily in his grip. "Dean, fuck—!"

He laughs, and my nerves settle at the snick of a lid—lube. "Christ, relax, Sam. I promised you'd like this."

"This...fucking position is—it's—"

"Deal with it, okay? It'll be worth it. You know what to do if you want me to let you up."

I do. It's one word away. If I spit our safeword at him, he'll stop. He'll let me go. But, as he spreads my inner muscle with an increasing number of fingers, we both know I won't. Not over this, anyway. Ultimately, I trust him. If he says it's worth it, I trust him enough to persevere through this act of abasement. Dean's never failed in making me feel good. He excels at it, and for this play in particular, he put effort into learning the right way to do things.

Besides, it's over now.

He's stretching me as thoroughly as ever—dragging his fingertips against my walls, stimulating my prostate until I'm trembling through the sweet, twanging build-up of an orgasm. He's about to burst too. There's no way he won't fuck me after—

"How'd it feel earlier? Was it too hard?"

"Hah? Nngh, no, it was—it was fine."

"Alright, good, let's go again."

—what?

"Dean, wait, I thought—!"

When his hand comes down out of goddamn nowhere, the force of Mjölnir behind it, a sobbing cry is throttled from me. Is it because his hand's...wet? Is that why it feels like a lashing of fire? My vision blurs, and I'm ashamed to cry over something like this. It was just so—fucking sudden!

"Color."

...color?

Thoughts are shapeless and fuzzy. I'm not sure what he means or wants. My stomach feels heavy as an anvil. Skin, buzzing. When I do remember, I'm stumped. I can't decide what side of the line I've crashed on. Is it too painful to feel anything good? Or, did the pain synthesize into something too good to explain? My erection hasn't flagged. Instead, it's grown uncomfortable where it's pinned to Dean's thigh. Sticky, wet.

"I-I...I don't know!"

"We'll keep going until you do."

This time, the strikes come fast and too many to count. Where his arm was previously braced against my back, his left hand now makes a vise at the base of my skull. I can't move, and the helplessness of it almost numbs me with terror. He sticks to the pattern from before, never hitting the same place twice in a row, but it's a game of Simon I'd never win. Later, I'll marvel at the control he exercises over his own strength, because the force behind his hand falls somewhere between unbearable and unpleasant. Not too much, not too little.

The fleshy underside of my ass causes a special delirium, as the blows shoot through my midsection and land in my groin like sparks spraying from an acetylene torch. There's no chance at swallowing a sound now, and Dean must be delighting in it. Every deafening crack punches something from my throat, mostly tight screams threaded with tears. When I start to lose more breath than I can catch:

"Red! Red, red, fuck, please—!"

He stops immediately, and my ass blisters. It throbs, burning hotter than the surface of the motherfucking sun. "Good job, baby, that's it. Breathe, Sammy, come on. You're takin' it so fucking good, baby. I'm so proud of you."

Overloaded with sensation, I flinch violently at the flattening of his palm to my lower back. He slides warm, gentle patterns from my hamstrings to between my shoulder blades, and I can feel the rampant tremors more clearly as they bounce off his palm. All the while, he's washing deep, threadbare praises over me: beautiful, brave, perfect. He doesn't stop the ministrations until my shaking does.

"Do you want me to stop?" He asks, and from his tone, I know my word is sacred law.

I couldn't tell you up from down. I have no idea what I want or need. Dean's strong, and it hurts much worse than I could've prepared myself for, but he's—he was right. I'm so turned on, I'm fucking dizzy with it. My cock is an ache impossible to ignore, pounding with blood and need. It isn't just the pain. It's everything. This subservient position. Being at the mercy of Dean's whim while simultaneously holding his leash. Trusting him to know my thresholds better than I do.

"Dean—" I hate the crackle of my own voice. "...make me cum, please."

"Do you trust me?"

"I trust you, I do—" Gasping into the bedspread, I grind myself shamelessly against his thigh. Pride has no place in moments like this, and I'll never admit it sober, but it feels so goddamn good to let go of it. Head dumped out. Desperate to please, eager to be pleased in return.

"I'll always take care of you, Sammy. I'll always make you feel good. Relax, okay?"

My eyes blow at the feel of something cold, tapered, and artificial pressing against my hole. I can't help but stiffen, locking up to prevent entry of an unknown. "Dean! What—the fuck is..."

"Relax."

Did he...hypnotize me while I slept? There's no other explanation for all that tension melting away on command. He resumes pushing it in, stretching my rim uncomfortably wide, and realization smacks me into the next dimension. That stupid, fucking plug. Oh, fuck, no, no, no way—

"Nngh! Hurts—!"

"It's almost in, baby, you can take it. Be good for me, Sammy." He squeezes my throat lightly, and I know it's supposed to be reassuring. It...is.

I smother a sob in the blanket as it pops through, shifting my hips to facilitate a quicker adjustment. It feels a hundred times bigger than when last used, inflating my insides. The pressure is just shy of my prostate. He's not loosened around me at all, and I'm teetering the edge of outright misery. Tears burn in my eyes anew.

"Ready?"

"Yes, yes, fuck, please!"

Was I actually ready? No, never. When he set it to vibrate at the strongest tier, I wasn't ready. When he cracks his palm against the underpart of my ass, I'm so not ready, I nearly seize. I can't describe the noise I make, because it doesn't sound terrestrial through the whine in my ears. In this final round, he does hit me in the same spot—over and over and over again. The plug shoves deeper on every swat, and the tip of it lances at my prostate. Scream muffled in memory foam, I squirm wildly to get away. Surely, an orgasm like this will rip me apart cell by cell.

Jolting, stinging, whitehot ecstasy like I've never felt. Like something's wrong. Like I'm imploding, dying for real. My senses deaden, and I have no concept of anything external. Not even Dean. It's all static and cotton. It's scary. I'm scared.

If I don't survive it, what a way to go.

When I come to, I'm no longer fettered across Dean's thigh. Slumped across his chest instead, his heart rolls a slow, steady rhythm beneath my cheek. I tune into it. Long enough for his BPM to achieve normalcy, not long enough for a clean-up job. We're practically glued together for the amount of fluid between us. My voice is shot, because it cracks in three separate places when I go to speak:

"Hey—"

"Don't move yet." Dean murmurs.

"...why?"

"It's only been a minute, maybe two. You shouldn't push it."

"Who's—" My throat's skinned enough to demand a cough. "—fault is that?"

"You liked it though, right?"

"I thought I was dying."

His chest jumps, a huff for a laugh: "You always say that. That was—fuckin' nuts though."

It occurs to me, Dean's dick had nothing to do with any of this. We didn't actually fuck. I shift slightly, and I'm surprised to find his cock mostly soft where it's squished under my thigh. Insecurity twists in my chest. Was I so unsightly, it...turned him off?

"What...what about you?"

"What about me?"

"You didn't cum."

"I did?" He says it in a question, like it should be obvious.

"What—when?"

"When you did."

Dean's never, not once, cum untouched. He was using both hands on me, so he wouldn't have been able to jerk himself off. Is he lying to spare my feelings? Shame blows my ribs out, and my brows collapse in a scowl. Like I haven't cried enough, my eyes are stinging again.

"Don't...don't lie about it. If you didn't—"

"Hey, hey, are you...crying? Sammy, what's—"

I drag my head up to look at him, and his expression is one of total bafflement.

"Did I—" Fuck. "...was it bad? For you?"

Dean gapes at me like I've sprouted a fifth limb, but he sobers when reading the frailty in my face. His hands smooth up and down my back as he explains: "Sam, that was the hottest goddamn thing I've ever seen or been a part of. I thought my heart was gonna explode. I held it in as long as I could, but you kept rubbing against it. When you came? I busted so hard, thought I was gonna lose a nut. I've never...seen you like that before."

"Like...what?"

"Just...gone. You're always trying so hard to hold it in, hold yourself back. I knew you'd probably like it, but I didn't think you'd lose your mind like that. It was...fucking amazing."

Halfway through the spiel, I get embarrassed enough to return my cheek to his chest. I believe him, but at what cost?

"What time is it?"

"...nine?" He guesses.

"I wanna sleep."

"Let me clean you up first. I've gotta change the bedding, too."

"You do? Why?"

Dean rumbles a laugh: "Sam, do you have any idea how hard you came? I mean, you lost more than your mind. There's probably not a drop of liquid left in ya."

"Are you—are you shitting me right now?"

—

What a way to start the weekend.

Not only did Sam let me do it, but what a fucking turnout. Every bit of what I told him was true, and what I'd imagined the week before didn't come close to last night's reality. It was all I could do not to paint his back prematurely. God, he was gorgeous. He's always gorgeous, but breaking him of ego and restraint over my knee? Feeling the answering burn in my hand as it smashed off his perfect, pretty ass? Listening to him cry his fuckin' heart out? Christ, the way he gushed?

I mean, that's a lifetime of spank material.

Unfortunately, we can't make a habit of it. He was genuinely miserable in the shower, and his poor ass—it'll bruise. It's already bruised, actually. I checked. It's eight shades of 'Dean beat my ass last night', and he's not going to love that when he wakes up. He's sleeping on his stomach, and he always sleeps so minimally. Once he finds a position, that's it. The blankets are tucked around him as they were last night, not a wrinkle of difference. It's early, maybe eight. My phone confirms it: 8:12 AM. I'm surprised at myself for having slept this late, as I've always been up with the chickens. We turned in early, too.

Sliding from the fresh sheets, I decide a cup of coffee for myself is in order. I won't start Sam's until he shows signs of life, as it'd be pointless if it's cold. Coming down the hall, I dig the meat of my palms into my eyes, stifling a yawn. Oversleeping usually leaves me sluggish—

"Long night?"

"Holy shit!"

Probably not the first thing I should've said to Sam's mom, sitting primly on the couch.

I'm wearing pants, at least.