Cade flinches when he's tapped on the shoulder, but quickly becomes aware of what's happening. He nods as he presses the flats of his hands against the wall, and when prompted, obediently replies, "stop." There's a bit of impatience to the word as well-- his stomach has been twisting itself in knots since he arrived, and now that they're finally on the verge of getting it over with, it seems like Zevran is stalling. Cade braces himself, willing it to start.
"I am going to strike you three times and then check in." After that- it depends on how these strikes go. Zevran allows the haft of the cat to slip back into his grip, swinging it a few times to aquatint himself with the weight of it once more. It's been some time since he's done this and he would rather not swing too hard or too soft- one was as bad as the other in such circumstances as this. Two, three more swings through the air until he is satisfied with the weight of it, the flick of the knotted ends, before he adjusts and strikes the meat of Cade's back with a sharp hiss and crack of leather on flesh.
Maker, just do it, Cade agonizes, nodding absently when Zevran keeps talking. Of course, he nearly jumps out of his skin the first time he hears the cat whistle through the air to hit nothing, and he looks over his shoulder in frightened bewilderment until he realizes what Zevran is doing. Oh. ...all right.
That prepares him more for the actual contact, though that in itself is enough to take his breath away. This is a very different sensation than when he does it, and for a moment he isn't certain he hasn't just been stabbed, but the lingering burn after the strike (without the telltale trickle of blood or horrible residual pain) betrays the truth. Apart from the gasp, however, he keeps quiet.
He gives Cade a moment, half a moment to adjust to the sting, to say something- when no word comes and the initial blow has had time to sink in and truly needle at nerves? Zevran swings again, striking the opposite shoulder with neat symmetry. Not as precise as dagger work- but he was well acquainted with leather and how it moved, and this is a favored tool for those he kept company with that enjoyed such things.
True to his word there is that same space of time for the sting to sink in before he brings the cat across both patches of reddened skin, crossing over the abrasions. Then? "How are you doing, Cade?"
And here he thought he was tough. The second stroke garners another sudden intake of breath, and the third a yelp, but he holds his position, tears stinging his eyes.
"I'm fine," he says to the wall, his voice a little higher and less certain than before. But he knows what to do to make it stop, and he's not bloody going to.
"Do you think you can take, say, fifteen more?" Zevran rests the head of the cat between Cade's shoulder-blades, eyeing the blooming welts. "Perhaps twenty. I am not certain just yet- you are terribly fair and go red so easily after all."
The touch on his back causes Cade to flinch again, but then he nods, making sure the motion is clear. He grits his teeth and steels himself-- he can do it, and he will.
"Alright." If he's sure- then Zevran falls back to begin swinging. There is the same pause as before between each strike- a sharp crack across either side of Cade's back, creating a lattice of welts over his shoulders and in between. Little by little fair skin blooms red with raised welts under Zevran's careful eye and precise blows. Too much could break the skin, too little dissatisfying.
Another faltering cry escapes Cade when Zevran starts up again, but he manages to compose himself at least a little, ducking his head and clenching his jaw as the elf proceeds. Considering how badly he's shaking, it's borderline magnificent that he's able to continue holding the position-- but on the other hand, perhaps he's just that committed. Cade does what he's told. That's what gives him meaning, and if he were to just not do what he was told, then everything would be even more of a mess than it already is. Making a mess of things is seemingly his only talent beyond obeying.
Each lash stings as much as the first, and periodically, when one hits just right, he yelps or whimpers accordingly. He's aware of it happening, but has to make a mental note to be embarrassed about it later, since he currently has more pressing issues than worrying about preserving his dignity. This might be the most vocal he's ever been.
There is something to be said for the resolve of a man against pain. The clench of muscle, the subtle flinching, the bitten back cries? Zevran takes a great deal of care to keep himself separate from what is being done as to not shift the tone into something that Cade does not want. Normally there are other games, other sensations that come into play. Gentling or hands or filthy words dripped into an ear-
But this is all Cade has asked for.
This is all Cade shall receive. The steady, unyielding strike of the Cat against his shoulders over and over, finding pale patches of skin not yet marked, places that make him whimper. Fifteen blows in and Zevran pauses, listening to Cade's breath before weighting the need for another five.
Cade is all right, though less so than he'd like to be. All the same, he wanted punishment, and that's what he's getting, so he's not about to complain or regret a thing. His eyes are streaming openly now, his breath hitching with the effort it takes to not just break down and weep again, but he also feels strangely warm, not just along his back, but... more or less everywhere. Hazy, fuzzy, and blessedly devoid of the usual tension and worry, like a waking dream. He wants to chase it, even at the expense of further pain. "More," he feebly suggests.
Ah, there it is. Zevran wasn't certain if Cade knew such a reaction was possible- if that was why he chased the punishment or if he truly desired to be hurt for wrongs he has assumed to have done. He flicks the tails of the Cat back over his shoulder for a moment to consider the expanse of Cade's back, his breathing, how he yet holds himself against the wall. More is quite possible.
More is very doable.
"As you like." There is no need of a firmer hand, here. The current pattern has been working well- Zevran lays into Cade's back to deepen the welts, half a mind on the Cat, half on Cade and his reaction to each strike.
The brief pause gives Cade a moment to come back to himself, but then it begins again, that awful, wonderful warmth creeping into every aspect of his being. He's still flinching and making the small, distressed noises on impact, but they're more routine now, nothing that he's either trying to prevent or enhance. His eyes close and his breathing levels out into a rhythm matched to the strokes, his mind falling more easily into that place he nearly had a moment ago. He doesn't care about anything, and for someone who spends every waking moment caring too much about every tiny thing, it's quite a relief. He idly wonders if this is some form of magic, and then decides it doesn't matter.
Fifteen becomes twenty- twenty becomes twenty five as Zevran continues to work across the skin of Cade's back, watching his breath even out, watching him shift from here to that safe, floating space where nothing and no one may touch him. Until he is given sign that Cade cannot stand this any longer-
Cade gives no such signal, and as it continues, he barely reacts anymore. He does, so slowly it's barely noticeable, lean forward slightly-- his arms have grown tired from holding himself up, and he bends them enough that he can rest his forehead against the wall. The coolness of the stone against his overheated face, playing counterpoint to the fire on his back, evokes a gasp-- of surprise, not pain.
No skin is broken, no sign from Cade that this is no longer wanted as he was well and truly drifting- and Zevran comes slowly to the final four strokes of the cat.
Crossed over the mass of welts and red- Cade would be bruised for a week solid even with the potion. It is a beautiful thing to see. Satisfied with his work, with Cade's drifting Zevran flicks the cat back up over his shoulder, the handle hanging freely as he speaks. "Cade- you need to come sit before you fall over."
True to his word, even if he'd rather simply move him by hand, Zevran does not touch him.
Cade nods absently against the wall, taking his sweet time recognizing what he's been told to do. That part of him isn't turned off, however, so after several long moments he straightens up from the wall and dutifully makes his way back to the chair. He sits on his shirt as if it weren't there, cups his hands over his face, and sighs deeply into them, pushing them through the curls on the top of his head as he lets it drop.
Still floating happily, not so exhausted that giving him something afterward would end in choking. Excellent. Zevran sets the Cat aside and pulls his own chair close- not touching, but close enough that he is a presence in this floating space of Cade's, voice winding in low praise as he drifts. "You took that so well, I am proud of you for asking for more, for standing against it, for taking it beautifully-"
Nonsense, more or less, just a constant sound to help ground him as he drifts gradually back into his skin.
Cade takes a few more deep breaths, then looks up slowly, face still red and sweaty from the exertion. His eyes are red too, the dried tears making them dry and itchy. Nonetheless, he gives a small smile, as though Zevran's words are the only thing he's wanted to hear for his entire life.
As quickly as he acknowledges his happiness, the pain drifts back into his consciousness and registers appropriately as the flaying he just received. "...ow," he observes, as though this concept is entirely novel, pulling a face to match it.
"Ah, there you are. You've been floating for awhile." Quite nicely too. Without missing a beat Zevran offers a skin of water- all that sweat, all those tears? It'd be easy to become dehydrated if left alone. Cade seems well enough to hold the skin on his own. "You see why I said you should take something afterward? Forty lashes, Cade, I have never done that with someone on their first time with that Cat."
Pride and warmth curl in his voice- he is proud of Cade for standing up against that sting, for finding that safe, quiet place within himself and drifting. It's magnificent.
Cade thanks him quietly as he takes the water, and drinks it with more gusto than he would have initially thought necessary. When he lowers it again, he looks briefly into Zevran's eyes, his own expression back to is usual worry-- he's looking for deception, someone boosting him up to get them out of their hair. But he doesn't see any, and doesn't know how to respond to that.
"..really?" he asks, his voice quiet and skeptical.
"Most are drifting well enough by twenty or tap out around twenty five if they have not yet begun to float. To get there or at least the edges of it- to ask for more and mean it?" He shakes his head, pulling an apple from the bag at his side, cutting it in wedges with the flick of a knife he'd had on his person. The first wedge is offered to Cade without comment, but the implication he ought to take it is there.
Cade accepts the apple when offered, pensive while Zevran speaks. He winces as he draws his arm back, the smallest movement causing his back to protest most painfully. "Ahh," he whines, but turns it into the beginning of his next question. "the.. floating is..." He's trying to piece together what he experienced with what Zevran is telling him, and he pops the apple piece into his mouth as he considers. "...what is that?" He's never in his life felt anything like it.
It is one of the better apples he has managed to charm from the kitchen, fresh and sweet and crisp rather than mealy and soft. Zevran cuts himself a wedge to nibble upon while he considers a coherent answer. "It is different than merely enduring pain for pain's sake. Hang me up and torture me when I know I am helpless and they mean to break me? I go somewhere that I cannot be touched. But like this? When I know a word would have me free, when I trust in who holds the lash? I go somewhere else- I drift. Everything in the world falls away. Guilt, Pain, Fear. It all no longer holds me down, I float in my skin."
Cade is silent for a time, taking in what Zevran says and considering it for what may seem like an excessive stretch of silence. He's not used to speaking much; he's used to his commentary being entirely mental, unasked for and therefore unspoken. Finally, he appears to draw a conclusion-- or at least, he finds the thing that's been preventing him from reaching one. "But if you enjoy it..." he says measuredly, clearly struggling with this, "...how is it punishment?"
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Cade braces himself, willing it to start.
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...all right.
That prepares him more for the actual contact, though that in itself is enough to take his breath away. This is a very different sensation than when he does it, and for a moment he isn't certain he hasn't just been stabbed, but the lingering burn after the strike (without the telltale trickle of blood or horrible residual pain) betrays the truth.
Apart from the gasp, however, he keeps quiet.
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True to his word there is that same space of time for the sting to sink in before he brings the cat across both patches of reddened skin, crossing over the abrasions. Then? "How are you doing, Cade?"
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"I'm fine," he says to the wall, his voice a little higher and less certain than before. But he knows what to do to make it stop, and he's not bloody going to.
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Cade does what he's told. That's what gives him meaning, and if he were to just not do what he was told, then everything would be even more of a mess than it already is. Making a mess of things is seemingly his only talent beyond obeying.
Each lash stings as much as the first, and periodically, when one hits just right, he yelps or whimpers accordingly. He's aware of it happening, but has to make a mental note to be embarrassed about it later, since he currently has more pressing issues than worrying about preserving his dignity.
This might be the most vocal he's ever been.
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But this is all Cade has asked for.
This is all Cade shall receive. The steady, unyielding strike of the Cat against his shoulders over and over, finding pale patches of skin not yet marked, places that make him whimper. Fifteen blows in and Zevran pauses, listening to Cade's breath before weighting the need for another five.
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His eyes are streaming openly now, his breath hitching with the effort it takes to not just break down and weep again, but he also feels strangely warm, not just along his back, but... more or less everywhere. Hazy, fuzzy, and blessedly devoid of the usual tension and worry, like a waking dream. He wants to chase it, even at the expense of further pain.
"More," he feebly suggests.
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More is very doable.
"As you like." There is no need of a firmer hand, here. The current pattern has been working well- Zevran lays into Cade's back to deepen the welts, half a mind on the Cat, half on Cade and his reaction to each strike.
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He's still flinching and making the small, distressed noises on impact, but they're more routine now, nothing that he's either trying to prevent or enhance.
His eyes close and his breathing levels out into a rhythm matched to the strokes, his mind falling more easily into that place he nearly had a moment ago. He doesn't care about anything, and for someone who spends every waking moment caring too much about every tiny thing, it's quite a relief. He idly wonders if this is some form of magic, and then decides it doesn't matter.
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Or he breaks skin-
Or he hits the count of forty-
Zevran shall continue.
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The coolness of the stone against his overheated face, playing counterpoint to the fire on his back, evokes a gasp-- of surprise, not pain.
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Crossed over the mass of welts and red- Cade would be bruised for a week solid even with the potion. It is a beautiful thing to see. Satisfied with his work, with Cade's drifting Zevran flicks the cat back up over his shoulder, the handle hanging freely as he speaks. "Cade- you need to come sit before you fall over."
True to his word, even if he'd rather simply move him by hand, Zevran does not touch him.
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Nonsense, more or less, just a constant sound to help ground him as he drifts gradually back into his skin.
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As quickly as he acknowledges his happiness, the pain drifts back into his consciousness and registers appropriately as the flaying he just received. "...ow," he observes, as though this concept is entirely novel, pulling a face to match it.
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Pride and warmth curl in his voice- he is proud of Cade for standing up against that sting, for finding that safe, quiet place within himself and drifting. It's magnificent.
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"..really?" he asks, his voice quiet and skeptical.
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"So yes, really."
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"Ahh," he whines, but turns it into the beginning of his next question. "the.. floating is..." He's trying to piece together what he experienced with what Zevran is telling him, and he pops the apple piece into his mouth as he considers. "...what is that?" He's never in his life felt anything like it.
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Finally, he appears to draw a conclusion-- or at least, he finds the thing that's been preventing him from reaching one.
"But if you enjoy it..." he says measuredly, clearly struggling with this, "...how is it punishment?"
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