#obell

Colm amused himself by delivering a couple of lashes that hit them both the same time, as if he was trying to stitch their backs, asses and thighs together using blood. Dutch was gritting his teeth as he struggled against his restrains, Micah was chewing on a patch of the bedcovers. Satisfied at their increasing signs of weakness, Colm put his gun back in its holster. But his hunger had grown so foul it wouldn't be satisfied until the boys broke.

The thin lines on their skin were like red lips pressed tightly together, and he found himself wanting to make them part into openly grinning gashes, a reverse of their current expressions.

"Remember to breathe, boys. We're just getting started."

There was the sound on leather on skin, sometimes two in a row and more often randomized, but Colm hadn't done all that accounting for nothing and he remembered the number of lashes he gave them.

When the first twenty lashes were done, Micah and Dutch were whining and sweating, full of red cuts, leaning their chins on the mattress in search of a softness they didn't deserve. Dutch had a wobbling noise on every inhale, and Micah had breathy whimpers on every exhale. But they weren't turned off. Colm had been inside of them – their mouths, their asses, dragging himself across their skin like a sacred disease – enough times to know how they worked.