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Crowley no longer needs to watch the clock, counting down towards 2 pm and the walk down to the C-Suite. His body has an internal awareness that brings his work to a close just before he needs to rise and straighten his clothes, smooth his hair, in preparation for his afternoon engagement.
More often than not, Crowley knocks on Fell’s office door at the stroke of 2 pm and today is no different.
“Come in, Crowley.” Fell calls out from within.
He lets himself in and pushes the door closed behind him. Fell is in his desk chair, reclining and reading through loose pages of paper. He doesn’t look up as Crowley crosses the room and that gives Crowley an extra couple of seconds to think.
His usual chair is where it always is, as inviting and comfortable-looking as ever, but Crowley doesn’t want it today. He wants to try something different, to see what happens when he changes the script a little.
Fell looks up as Crowley passes the chair, walking around the side of the desk instead. He can feel Fell’s eyes on him but he can’t afford more than the briefest glance to check his expression. It’s curious and amused which is encouraging.
As soon as Crowley is on Fell’s side of the desk, he drops to his hands and knees to crawl the last metre or so to Fell’s feet. He sits back on his heels, shins pressed into the soft carpet, and rests his hands in his lap, feeling suddenly self-conscious and unsure.
“What’s this, dear boy?” Fell has the hint of laughter in his voice and it sends heat rushing to Crowley’s cheeks.
A gentle hand traces his jaw from the ear to his chin where it grips and forces his head up to meet Fell’s gaze.
“I asked you a question, Crowley.” The humour is gone, replaced with steel or granite. Something hard, grey, and cold.
“I- uh, it was an impulse. Felt right, like I wanted to be here.” Crowley says all too quickly, tripping over his explanation.
Fell closes his eyes as if he’s absorbing Crowley’s answer and storing it carefully in his mind. His grip softens and switches to a soft petting of Crowley’s cheek.
“Very well,” he says after a moment of silence, catching Crowley’s eyes again, “we can discuss this later if you’d like a change of protocol. For now, be a good pet and stay there while I finish with this proposal.”
Crowley relaxes with this guarded approval and lets the tense breath flow out of him. He rests his left cheek against the outside of Fell’s left knee and enjoys the sensation of firm strokes over his hair. Fell’s fingers work into the half-ponytail and it pulls just enough to make Crowley scrunch his nose and hum in discomfort. Instead of letting go, Fell pushes forward until his fingers are directly under the hair elastic holding Crowley’s style in place.
One sharp flick of the wrist sends the elastic pinging across the room and jerks Crowley’s head back, hard. He sucks a breath over his teeth, hissing in protest of the pain and is about to look up at Fell to question the cruelty when he’s guided back to rest against Fell’s knee. With his hair now loose about his face, Crowley finds that Fell’s petting transforms into a deeper caressing rub. His fingertips work at Crowley’s scalp until he thinks he might begin to purr.
Above him, Fell continues to read his document. The only sound is the whisper of pages being picked up and laid down as he reads and soothes Crowley into a relaxed, boneless state.
After 2 pm, Crowley has no concept of time. He might have been on his knees for minutes or hours, it doesn’t matter because Fell is touching him and his small act of submission has been accepted. When Fell draws his hand out of Crowley’s hair to sort out the papers on his desk and return them to their folder, Crowley whimpers at the loss.
“Needy little thing today, aren’t you?” Fell smiles down at him once the document is away.
Crowley blinks, trying to clear the fog that has settled in his brain.
“Not needy, no. Sorry.”
Fell’s top lip curls at Crowley’s apology, a sign of his distaste. For a second, Crowley is about to apologise for apologising but he catches himself just in time, biting back the ill-advised redundancy.
“What shall I do with you today, Crowley?” Fell muses and Crowley knows that this isn’t a question he’s expected to answer.
He watches as Fell stands and crosses over to the drinks trolley. There’s no cheery inquiry as to where Crowley’s liquid interests lie today, Fell just begins mixing a drink and sets out two tumblers for it. With a thrill, Crowley realises that, by his actions, he’s started their scene earlier than usual and choices that he might usually get to make have been taken away from him. Just his simple input into his drink for the afternoon is denied and Crowley loves how it makes him feel, like Fell is taking control and looking after him so Crowley doesn’t have to think about it. It’s freedom.
Fell returns and places the drinks on the desk, not handing either one to Crowley.
“Time for the clothes to come off, now,” he instructs.
Crowley scrambles to comply, pulling his t-shirt over his head before he’s back on his feet. Any self-consciousness he once had about being nude with Fell has long since evaporated, Fell has made him feel so safe and protected in this space of theirs that he doesn’t need to hide anything. His clothes are folded and sit on his boots in a neat pile beside Fell’s desk.
Crowley stands, waiting for direction and watching Fell as he considers the contents of his cupboard of kink. Apparently reaching a conclusion, Fell hums happily to himself and begins to pull out a number of implements and laying them on his desk.
Some of these Crowley recognises, the paddle with its deceptive holes, the tawse that still sets off a primal fear response in his chest, that lovely riding crop. There are many more that Crowley hasn’t been acquainted with, canes, lengths of soft-looking leather, many-tailed floggers, and more besides. Once they are all displayed neatly, Fell calls Crowley over.
His heart thunders in his ears as he looks over Fell’s buffet of punishment, a lump in his throat won’t go down no matter how many times he swallows.
“What are you thinking, Crowley?” Fell asks gently, his hand resting against the small of Crowley’s back.
“Uh, not much.” Crowley’s mind is a blank slate of panic waiting to take shape.
Fell tuts and picks up one of the implements. It’s a solid wooden handle with a wide twist of suede-like leather hanging from it. He gives it a flick and the tip cracks, not unlike a bullwhip. Crowley jumps at the sound.
“What kind of answer is that? Try again.” Fell’s hand is on Crowley’s back once more, petting him from between the shoulder blades to just above the curve of his arse.
“I’m terrified, sir,” Crowley swallows again, searching for the words he needs. “I don’t know what half of these are and so I don’t know what to be most afraid of.”
“Was that so hard?” Fell asks with an edge of the bastard in his voice.
“No, sir.”
Fell lays the implement back with the others and brushes his fingertips over the whole collection with something like pride.
“I thought it might be interesting to experiment with sensations, to see what delights and what is too much for you. There really is a marvellous variety of impact sensations represented here and I should like to be able to better cater to your tastes during our sessions.”
Crowley envies the way that Fell can just say these things without stumbling or blushing hotly. Perhaps it comes with practice, Fell does have significantly more experience, has had more time to adjust to this world.
“OK, so you just want to try these all out on me and then, what, I’ll tell you what I think?” Crowley asks, hoping he’s got the gist of what Fell is suggesting.
“Something like that, I suppose. How do you feel about that?” Fell’s voice is as gentle as the hand on Crowley’s back.
“Uh, I think I feel alright about it. Maybe a bit overwhelmed? I trust you to look after me, but there’s a lot here.” Crowley’s hand rises to his mouth, seeking to settle his nerves by chewing on a thumbnail.
Fell sighs and reaches across to take Crowley’s thumb from his mouth.
“Stop that.”
“Huh? Oh, sorry.” Crowley responds on impulse, barely aware that he’d been biting his nail.
“This is rather a lot, and I probably won’t use all of them once I have a feel for any trends in your reactions,” Fell explains, picking up the earlier thread. “However, you may take any of these implements off the desk and I will put them away.”
Crowley blinks stupidly, thrown off by the choice he is being offered. He imagines scooping up the whole collection and handing them back to Fell just to see his reaction, but he knows that would be foolish for so many reasons. Besides, Crowley needs new bruises again and this is a sure-fire way to get a magnificent collection.
He looks over Fell’s display and tries to imagine how each might feel on his tender, exposed skin. There’s a very thin cane that makes Crowley’s eyes water just to look at it, he picks it up and offers it back to Fell.
“Very good, Crowley. Thank you.” He turns to put the cane away, gesturing for Crowley to keep looking at the desk.
It feels like passing a test he hasn’t studied for, trusting Fell at his word and having that trust rewarded almost immediately. Crowley suspects that had he left all the implements on the desk, Fell would have been disappointed. Feeling bolder, Crowley picks up a steel ruler and a flogger made of heavy chain. He hesitates over the selection of canes and eventually reduces the number by about half, leaving what he considers to be a decent range without terrifying him. Content, he hands the rejects to Fell knowing that his honesty will be rewarded.
“Good boy,” Fell says as he takes them from Crowley. “You did very well, although...” He trails off, one eyebrow lifting in question at the continued presence of the tawse. “That surprises me.”
Lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders, Crowley gives the answer he’s been rehearsing since his hand first passed over it.
“I want to stop being afraid of it.”
“Oh, Crowley,” Fell sounds so unbearably fond that Crowley thinks he might just melt into the carpet.
With the discarded toys packed away, Fell finally offers one of the drinks to Crowley. He lets him take a sip before removing it again and putting it back on the desk. Fell takes a much larger swallow of his own drink and smirks at Crowley’s put-out expression.
Fell rolls up his sleeves and Crowley is mesmerised, immediately forgetting his sulk at the sight of those strong, pale forearms. The chair that Crowley usually takes is quickly turned around and pushed against Fell’s desk so if Crowley were to sit, he’d have his back to Fell’s seat.
“Kneel here,” Fell pats the chair. “Elbows here,” and he indicates the desk.
Crowley’s half-hard already as he climbs onto the chair and Fell makes a sound behind his teeth that sounds like disappointment. It stings until he returns with a blanket and lays it over the back of the chair so that Crowley’s cock won’t leak its shame all over the upholstery. It’s thoughtful in a visceral kind of way that Crowley is helpless in the face of.
Fell moves him about, positioning him until Crowley is resting his head on his crossed arms, his hips flush against the back of the chair, and his arse presented for Fell’s entertainment. Briefly, Crowley pictures the view that would greet anyone who walked into the office at this moment.
“Alright, Crowley,” Fell says at last, “I’m going to warm you up to start with and then we’ll begin properly. I’ll show you each tool before I use it and we’ll discuss it afterwards. You must use your word if it gets to be too much. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Above him, Fell hums in pleasure and Crowley feels seen in a new and not-entirely unpleasant way, like he’s more naked than just not wearing clothes.
A warm palm strokes over Crowley’s buttocks, rubbing heat into his skin before smacking him smartly. Crowley gasps at the first impact, burrowing his face into his arms to keep his noises muffled. This plan is foiled when Fell sinks his hand into Crowley’s hair and holds his head up as open-handed blows rain down upon Crowley’s arse.
“I want to hear all your delicious noises, dear, don’t hide them.” Fell chides just before releasing Crowley’s hair.
He strokes Crowley’s backside with a firm hand, kneading the muscle until Crowley whimpers and pushes back into him.
“I think that means we’re ready for the next part.”
From where Crowley is positioned, he can see all the toys laid out from which Fell makes his selection. He must be feeling kind because his first choice is the riding crop, something Crowley is already intimately familiar with. Fell shows it to Crowley all the same, making good on the expectations he’d set.
The first few swats are light, gentle, and pleasant. Like scratching an itch. Crowley relaxes into them just as Fell turns up the intensity. He yelps at the sharp little slaps, holding himself as still as he can under this attack. Finally, Fell lands three cracking strikes across the backs of Crowley’s thighs, narrowly missing his balls. Tears prick at Crowley’s eyes as much at the pain as at the thought that he has so much more of this to go.
Fell leans against the desk and strokes Crowley’s back with one hand.
“Thoughts?” He asks.
Crowley has to search for the controls to his mouth before he can answer.
“Yeah. Uh, good.” Crowley shakes his head like he can reset his etch-a-sketch brain and find an answer that Fell will accept. “I like when it’s a bit slappy, it stings but not too much. The last three were, um, a surprise?”
He prays that Fell doesn’t need any more from him as he simultaneously dreads giving his reports on the last few implements.
“Very good, Crowley.” Fell combs his fingers through Crowley’s hair and drops a kiss onto his shoulder blade.
It relaxes Crowley exactly as much as Crowley knew it would, turning his bones back to jelly. He makes himself focus on Fell as he picks up a flogger made of dozens of soft leather strands. It hangs before Crowley’s face and he reaches out to touch it with tentative fingertips.
“Ready?” Fell asks.
Crowley nods and watches Fell disappear behind him. The flogger swishes through the air, announcing its approach before the impact. Crowley likes that, likes hearing the thing displace the space around it on its way to hit him. At first, the blows are light, glancing, almost caresses. Crowley knows better than to assume this is all it can offer. Soon, Fell has a vicious figure-eight motion going that thumps into each of Crowley’s cheeks. It’s heavy and dull in a way that Crowley thinks he could tolerate forever, right up to the moment when he sees his mistake and has to breathe through each impact. Fell slows, bringing the flogger away from Crowley’s bruised flesh.
From the way that Fell is panting behind him, Crowley guesses that Fell must have been putting his all into these strokes. The temptation to preen is snuffed by Fell’s hand on Crowley’s hot buttocks, reminding him of the game they are playing.
“Heavy, solid, really good.” Crowley gasps as his review and Fell smiles at him.
The bamboo cane has Crowley rearing up and yowling in pain from the first strike. He takes five strokes before he’s sobbing and begging Fell not to hit him again. He doesn’t use his word but he’s also not playing when he pleads. The cane goes back into the cupboard and Fell cradles Crowley’s head as he sobs out a barely coherent report.
“Sharp. No. Like cutting.”
Fell hums tunelessly and strokes Crowley’s hair until he’s breathing normally again.
“Do you want to continue?” Fell asks, ever so gently.
Crowley sniffs and wipes his face on his arm before nodding.
“Yeah, I do.”
Fell picks up the paddle with the holes and Crowley relaxes at the sight of another familiar implement. His cock twitches with the memory of how that last scene had ended and he groans into his arms. The cool wood glides against his skin, drawing out some of the heat.
Again, Fell starts with gentle taps and builds up gradually. It’s bearable, if uncomfortable. The tears don’t seem to want to stop, no matter how Crowley feels. There’s none of the degrading dirty talk this time, no soft lap to thrust against, Crowley’s cock is left straining hard and pressed against the blanket-covered chair.
“Ugh, frustrating!” Crowley whines, wriggling his hips when Fell asks for his thoughts on the paddle. “Good, solid, hard, but so frustrating!”
Fell laughs and tucks Crowley’s errant hair behind one ear.
“Because you came last time I struck you with this?” He asks, looking too pleased with himself.
Crowley wants to kiss that look right off his face, he realises with a jolt. No, not quite. He wants Fell to kiss him until he is making quite another face entirely.
Crowley nods, trying to ignore that train of thought.
“That was rather a different situation, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose,” Crowley admits, reluctantly.
Fell moves away then, putting the paddle back in its place. Crowley sees him hesitate with his hand over the remaining canes and his pulse starts to race, pounding in his ears. With an almost invisible nod, Fell appears to reach a decision and scoops up the four canes still on the desk. He puts them straight into the cupboard, catching Crowley’s eye when he turns back and winking.
“Don’t think I’m being soft on you, dear boy. We’ve learned enough about canes for today.”
Crowley’s insides do something complicated as his stomach sinks and his heart soars, a mixture of fear and joy fighting within him.
The collection is starting to grow sparse, Crowley realises. The tawse is still there, curled in an almost threatening pose. Crowley knows that he isn’t going to enjoy that but he won’t let it torment him any more.
Fell must notice where Crowley’s gaze has fallen because he chuckles and knocks the tawse with a finger.
“Not just yet, my dear. There are still so many more courses.” Fell picks up the leather toy he had snapped earlier.
He holds it out for Crowley to inspect before cracking it against the back of Crowley’s thighs. He yelps at the impact but it’s a sort of blunt sting, not as sharp as the cane had been and lighter than the flogger. Once Fell finds his pace, Crowley manages to work out how to breathe through the worst of the pain, hissing and wincing when Fell strikes a particularly tender spot. He knows that he’s still crying, fighting it seems like a waste of effort.
It’s the same story through a lighter flogger and a perspex paddle, Crowley can bear the pain but he’s somewhat beyond finding pleasure in the act. His mind wants to empty, to let him just experience peace and Fell’s attention but he has to answer all these questions and so he can’t turn off.
Finally, there’s only the tawse left and Crowley knows that Fell has left it for last on purpose. He doesn’t want to be afraid but, fuck , he is. They used it on children, he remembers, it can’t be that bad, surely. It’s only pain, not anything that will permanently injure him. Crowley repeats this like a mantra, his lips moving in silent prayer.
“What’s going on in there, Crowley?” Fell perches on the edge of the desk and rests his hand on Crowley’s shoulder.
It’s a herculean effort but Crowley makes himself meet Fell’s eyes.
“I’m just, um, y’know. Preparing. Psyching myself up.” He tries to offer a cheeky grin but it falls short.
“Crowley, you know that I won’t sugar coat this for you. What’s coming is going to hurt. It’s going to hurt a great deal and I doubt that you’re going to enjoy it. But it will be brief and I will take such good care of you afterwards.” Fell sounds so serious that it unsettles Crowley. He wants to brighten Fell’s mood again, to make him proud. “I’m going to strike you ten times and no more. I think you can take it, for me, can’t you?”
Crowley swallows around his traitorous tears and nods one more.
“For you, yes, sir.”
Fell smiles and smooths his hand over Crowley’s arse as if he were assessing the fitness of a racehorse.
“Ten and no more.” Fell repeats.
Crowley settles back into position and tries to breathe.
The first blow stings like a well-aimed slap. The second is a trail of fire across his skin that refuses to fade. The third strike feels like it’s split his skin open and he howls his pain. By the sixth stroke, Crowley thinks he might have gone blind or his eyes are squeezed shut so tightly that his eyelids have welded shut forever. By the ninth strike, Crowley can’t remember how to breathe in anything other than ragged sobs that move his whole torso.
“One more, Crowley. You’re doing so well for me.” Fell calls from a million miles away and Crowley tries to focus on his voice as the tenth blow lashes against his tortured flesh and he dissolves into incoherent, hiccupy sobs. He buries his face in his arms and wails, inconsolable and wounded.
Fell is beside him with a blanket and a cool glass of water, he holds the glass to Crowley’s lips and helps him drink. The blanket is wrapped around his shoulders before Fell lifts him and carries him the few steps over to the chaise.
Instead of laying Crowley on his front, as he has many times before, Fell sits and cradles Crowley in his lap, stroking his hair and kissing along his hairline.
“You did so very well, my dear, my darling boy. I’m extremely proud of you for taking that. Rest now, it’s OK, I’ve got you.” Fell murmurs into Crowley’s hair as he holds him.
Crowley groans and shifts in Fell’s lap, his cock still hot and hard despite his distraction. Fell wraps his soft hand around Crowley’s erection and strokes it up and down.
“Is this want you want? Does this help?” Fell’s voice is gentle, not teasing or mocking as he eases some of the tension in Crowley’s body.
“Please,” Crowley chokes, pressing his hips up as much as he dares.
It’s all the encouragement that Fell needs and soon he’s bringing Crowley over the brink of his orgasm, letting him spill over Fell’s hand. The tears that follow surprise Crowley all the way back into sobs and he feels so very small and vulnerable in Fell’s arms.
“Hush, hush, I’ve got you. You’re safe, I’ve got you.” Fell holds Crowley just that little bit tighter.
The soothing monotone of Fell’s insistent repetition worms into Crowley’s head and begins to smooth out the worst of his upset.
He hurts, but Fell has him, Fell is proud of him, he did well. His breathing calms and evens into a normal rhythm. Finally, Crowley feels like he can look up at Fell without choking on his whole heart.
“Thank you,” Crowley offers through his sniffles.
Fell beams at him and buries his face in Crowley’s sweat-damp hair.
“Oh no, my dear. I must thank you. You did so well for me.”
Crowley wants to laugh at that but he doesn’t have the energy. Instead, he finds a smile to wear and for a moment everything is so perfect that a secret thought bubbles to the surface of Crowley’s mind and bursts into reality.
“I love you,” Crowley says softly.
Fell’s expression changes in an instant, the sunny and indulgent smile is gone, replaced with a thunderstorm of anger. Crowley panics in the face of it, wondering how to backpedal with this mistake and make it right again.
He’s dumped unceremoniously on the chaise before he can start babbling, twisting onto his hands and knees to plead with Fell for forgiveness.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! I’m loopy from the beating, that’s all. Please, you have to believe me!” Crowley tries whatever he can to get Fell to listen.
“Oh Crowley, I do believe you and that’s rather the problem. I told you what my boundaries were when we started this and you have violated them. I am disgusted.” Fell stoops to pick up Crowley’s clothes and shoes and brings them over to him. “Get dressed and leave, Crowley. This is over.”
“No, please,” Crowley gapes like a goldfish. “You can’t mean it, please, please , don’t kick me out.”
Fell doesn’t look at him again, instead putting away the last evidence of their session as if he could put away all memory of Crowley ever being in the room.
At a loss for what else to do, Crowley struggles into his clothes, hissing as his tight trousers graze up over his tender arse. When he sits to pull on his boots, he bites his lip against the pain, bites until he tastes blood.
“Please,” Crowley tries once more, distraught at being turned away now.
Fell doesn’t respond other than rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. Crowley takes a step towards him, his hand raised in a silent plea, but the agony of rejection is too much to endure again. He rubs at his face and turns for the door, knowing how he’ll look when he leaves the C-Suite and skulks back to his cubicle. Well, it was about time to look for new pastures anyway, Crowley tries to console himself.
He wakes with a start, cold sweat soaking his bedsheets and hair. Crowley rubs the sleep from his eyes and peers at the time on his phone. 2 am. The dream had woken him, that awful, hurtful dream. His heart is pounding like a jackhammer and Crowley can’t shake the feeling that he has to go somewhere, has to leave the room. He pads out to his kitchen for a glass of water and tries to shift the image of Fell’s anger and disappointment in him.
Just a dream, no need to get so worked up , Crowley tells himself as he swallows large gulps of water. At least he knows better than to admit something so stupid to Fell, better to just follow his lead and appreciate what he is given.
As Crowley climbs back into bed, he skims a hand over his arse as if checking for the remnants of a thorough beating. He knows that he’s currently bruise-free, something Fell has promised to correct during their meeting today. When Crowley drifts off, he’s thinking of the dream pain of the tawse and trying to ignore the pain in his heart.