Kinky Ryden Smut Oneshots

On The Sixth Day

Warning - Spanking, dubious consent, and BDSM themes.

Ryan was on the couch again, sighing heavily, the ember on the joint in his hand almost having flickered completely out. It was day six of sitting around and doing nothing, day six of not writing and not showering and not charging his cell phone. He wished he had the drive to at least feel bad about it, but it was all nothing. He ate. He smoked. He pissed. He slept. He watched movies. He smoked some more.

The circle kept going and going and who was he to throw off the perfect rhythm of it? 

Ryan reached out and picked up his cigarette from the coffee table, lighting the joint again and cocking his head to the side as he heard a noise. Knocking? Someone was knocking on the door. He wished he could have yelled that it was open, but it wasn't. He swore mentally because it took too much effort to swear out loud and pushed himself up from the couch, looking through the peephole before opening the front door.

Brendon did not look happy to see him.

"You're ignoring my texts," he said, pushing past Ryan and walking into the house, making a face at the dirty clothes and papers all over the floor. He was messy, but Ryan was pushing it.

"I'm not," Ryan said distantly, slowly shutting the door and locking it. "I'm ignoring everyone's." His words were so mumbled that Brendon could hardly understand him. "Phone's dead."

"Ever heard of charging it?" the boy snapped with an eye roll. "And when was the last time you showered?"

Ryan shrugged, taking another drag. He knew the answer, of course, he just didn't want to waste the breath to give it.

Brendon moved toward him, pulling the joint out of his hand and taking a drag, then moving to put it in the ashtray on the table, arms crossed as he turned back to Ryan again. "Come here," he said, eyes serious, voice stern.

Ryan shuffled forward, somewhat confused. Was he about to get scolded?

The younger boy brought a hand up, slipping it under Ryan's chin, his eyes staring into his, peering, narrowing. Then his hand dropped and he sat down on the couch, grabbing Ryan by the arm and pulling the boy over his lap, face down on the cushion, ass up. His hand came down without any warning and Ryan cried out, for once not caring about the amount of energy it took to make the noise.

He squirmed, trying to get away, but Brendon's other hand came up around the back his neck, pushing his face into the couch, holding him there. "Count them," he said sternly. "Do it perfectly or we're starting over."

Ryan was still squirming when Brendon's hand came down again. He didn't say a number so Brendon tugged the plaid pajama pants the boy had been wearing for the past week down his legs, along with his boxers, completely baring his backside. His hand came down again and Ryan almost screamed. "Count them or we'll be here all day," he repeated, voice dark.

Ryan whimpered, but when Brendon's hand came down again, he heard the boy mumble'one'. "Say the next one loud enough for me to actually hear you," he said.

The older boy pushed himself up somewhat on his elbows so that his mouth wasn't pressed against the cushion, able to make himself audible. He wasn't sure why he was going along with it, except that seemed to be no alternative. When he felt Brendon's palm again, he tried to say 'two' as clearly as he could. Perfectly, Brendon had said. 'Do it perfectly.'

Ryan couldn't figure out why he was starting to get hard. He knew Brendon could feel it and he was flushing, his face almost as pink as the skin on his ass where his boyfriend's hand was still coming down, alternating between either cheek. There were up to eighteen now, plus the ones Ryan hadn't counted before. "Getting excited?" Brendon asked dryly, his hand coming down again.