PUNISHMENT FOR YOUR ASS || Lucian and Kit

The atmosphere in the club «Obsidian» was thick, almost tangible. Dark marble floors reflected the muted light of crystal chandeliers that hung too high to truly illuminate anyone’s face. Deep burgundy leather sofas, walls panelled in black wood, candles in tall bronze holders — everything here seemed designed to make conversations quieter and glances heavier. The air smelled of expensive whiskey, cigars, leather, and the faint metallic tang of other people’s power. On the far upper floor, behind frosted glass panels, was the private VIP section. Only their own were allowed here. Even the music reached this place muted, as if through deep water. Somewhere in the distance glasses clinked softly, someone laughed too quietly, black-clad waiters moved almost soundlessly, as if they themselves were part of the interior.

In the farthest corner, at a low table of black stone, two men sat.

Lucian Ashford lazily turned a heavy crystal glass between his long fingers. The amber liquid barely diminished — he took tiny sips, as if he enjoyed the ritual more than the taste. His dark red hair was slightly tousled, the silk shirt the colour of a raven’s wing unbuttoned at the top two buttons, gold rings chiming softly with every slow movement. He sat perfectly straight, yet somehow appeared relaxed. Only his eyes — half-lidded, cold, with a faint trace of amusement — watched everything around him. He never looked directly. He observed. Sometimes his gaze lingered for a fraction of a second on faces at the bar, then slid further, as if noting something invisible. His fingers continued to slowly rotate the glass, candlelight playing in the amber and reflecting off the rings.

Kit Rose opposite him had long since stopped pretending. Several glasses stood on the table in front of him, mixed with tequila, whiskey and something toxic green. He drank a lot and fast, gesturing broadly, laughing loudly, almost provocatively. His black-and-white hair was messy, the leather jacket discarded over the back of the sofa, chains and piercings glinting on his neck. He looked as if he might jump up at any second and punch someone — or fuck them. Possibly both. The air around him seemed to vibrate with barely restrained energy. From time to time he drummed his fingers on the table, as if he couldn’t sit still. Occasionally he threw his head back sharply, exhaling smoke from the cigarette he had already lit between drinks.

For several minutes they simply sat like that. Lucian was silent. Kit drank. There was no tension between them — rather a familiar, almost domestic silence of two people who knew each other too well. Kit sometimes threw short glances at his friend, as if checking whether anything had changed in his face. Lucian only slowly raised the glass to his lips.

“Seriously, Luci,” Kit finally leaned forward, slamming his palm on the table so that the glasses clinked softly. Liquid from one of them splashed dangerously over the rim. He didn’t wipe it. He just looked at his friend, waiting for a reaction. “Those bastards at the docks are dragging their feet again. I’ve already warned them twice. Next time I’ll just go and cut their throats. No more of your pretty plans.”

Lucian didn’t answer at once. He slowly finished his tiny sip, set the glass down with a quiet, almost gentle sound, and only then raised his eyes. The gaze was heavy, calm, like water in a deep well. He tilted his head slightly, as if examining his friend from a new angle. His fingers rested on the edge of the table, tapping almost inaudibly.

“And then I’ll have to clean up your mess. Again.” The voice was quiet, velvet, lightly mocking. Every word stretched out, as if he deliberately gave Kit time to hear it. “We don’t cut, Kit. We pressure. Slowly. Until they crawl to us themselves.”

Kit leaned back, throwing his head against the sofa. The chains on his neck tautened. He smirked — wide, dangerous, showing too many teeth. For several seconds he simply stared at the ceiling, as if deciding whether it was worth arguing further. Then he leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his knees. His fingers drummed on the table faster and faster.

“Ugh, boring. Sometimes I just want to... smash everything to fucking pieces.”

Another pause settled between them. Longer than before. Lucian picked up the glass again but didn’t drink — only turned it, watching the light play in the amber. Kit drummed his fingers. The VIP section around them continued its quiet life: glasses clinked somewhere, someone laughed softly, black-clad waiters moved almost soundlessly. Kit stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, reached for a new glass, but never took it. He just looked at his friend, as if waiting for him to say something else.

At that moment a man in a black suit approached their table — one of the Ashford men. He stopped at a respectful distance and slightly bowed his head. In the VIP section even footsteps sounded muted, as if the air itself knew how to stay silent. He waited. He didn’t rush to speak. Only when Lucian slowly raised his eyes to him did the man clear his throat lightly.

“Mr Ashford. Forgive the interruption. There’s a problem at the eastern warehouse. The shipment has been delayed. Word is someone on the inside leaked information. Two of our people... haven’t answered.”

Lucian’s face didn’t change. Only his fingers paused for a moment on the rim of the glass. He slowly set it down, ran his thumb along the edge as if wiping away invisible dust, and only then took out his phone. He dialled the number without hurry. He spoke quietly, almost affectionately, but every word was precise and cold as a blade. Kit remained silent the whole time, only watching his friend, occasionally rubbing the back of his neck.

“Deal with it. Today. Quietly. If necessary — use Kit’s people.”

He ended the call, placed the phone next to the glass and stared at the black screen for several seconds. Then he raised his eyes to his friend. The gaze softened a fraction — barely noticeable. He didn’t rush to let Kit go. First he simply looked, as if assessing how wound up the other already was.

“Go. Entertain yourself. I need a couple more minutes.”

Kit was already standing. His movements were sharp, hungry. He grabbed the jacket, threw it over his shoulder, adjusted the chains on his neck and smirked widely. For a second he lingered, looking at Lucian as if waiting for him to change his mind. But the other was already looking away again, sunk in his own thoughts. Kit snorted, shook his head and only then turned.

“Finally. I’ve been sitting here like some bitch.”

He went down to the main floor. The transition was tangible: the music hit him in the bones — heavy beat, low frequencies that vibrated in the chest. The crowd moved, glistened with sweat and expensive perfume, faces and hands flashed past. Kit walked through it more slowly than usual. He wasn’t searching. He was simply looking. Sometimes he stopped, glancing around as if evaluating prey. Sometimes he smirked at someone’s back. Sometimes he took a glass from someone else’s table and took a sip without asking. No one objected.

And then his gaze caught.

A guy a little further away. Tipsy, moving... interestingly. Not trying to impress anyone, just existing. Freely. Too freely for this place. The shoulders, the line of the neck, the way he swayed slightly to the music. Kit stopped. He didn’t approach at once. First he simply watched. The corner of his mouth slowly climbed upward. His gaze grew heavy, hungry, almost proprietary. He took a few more steps, weaving between bodies, until he was close enough. Then closer still. Then he stopped right beside him.

He loomed over him with his full height. Shadow fell across the guy. The scent of leather, cigarettes and alcohol mixed with the other’s. Kit didn’t rush to speak. First he simply stood there, looking down, as if giving time to realise who was in front of him. Then he tilted his head slightly, studying.

“Hey, pretty.”

The voice was low, rough, with a clear smirk. Kit leaned a little closer, one hand braced against the wall next to the guy’s head, casually trapping him in a small space. He waited. Not long. Just gave a pause. Then smirked wider.

“You standing here all alone looking this pretty? Or already waiting for someone?”

He didn’t wait for a long answer. He simply reached out, touched the other’s wrist — lightly, almost playfully — and tugged him gently toward the dance floor.

“Dance with me. Don’t look like that. I don’t bite... right away.”

Kit smirked even wider, already turning and leading the guy deeper into the crowd. The music hit harder. Bodies around them moved, collided, glistened. Kit didn’t let go of the wrist. He stood opposite, close, almost flush, and started moving — roughly, confidently, without extra grace. A hand settled on the other’s hip, fingers tightening slightly. He leaned closer, breath hot, voice nearly drowning in the music.

“Just like that. Don’t be shy. You move well... for such a pretty thing.”

He turned the guy so his back pressed against Kit’s chest, pulled him closer. Hands settled on the hips, guiding the rhythm. Kit laughed — low, satisfied, right into the other’s ear. Sometimes his lips almost brushed the neck, but he didn’t kiss. He only breathed. Sometimes he lightly bit the air near the skin, as if teasing.

“Like it?” he asked after some time, when the song changed to an even heavier one. “Or do you already want me to take you somewhere?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He simply turned the guy back to face him, took him by the chin with two fingers, forcing his face up, and looked carefully once more. The smirk grew wider, more dangerous.

“Alright. Enough sharing with the crowd.”

Kit took his wrist again — more firmly this time — and led him away from the dance floor. The crowd parted. They climbed back up to the VIP section. The doors closed with a soft hiss. The music grew quieter, the air heavier. Kit held him by the shoulders, almost pushing him forward, and smirked widely as he looked at Lucian. He didn’t speak at once. First he simply stood so that Lucian could see everything clearly.

“Yo, look at this pretty face!”

He squeezed the guy’s cheeks with his fingers, a little harder than necessary, forcing the lips to part slightly. His thumbs stroked along the cheekbones, as if assessing. Kit’s gaze was hot, amused and dangerous all at once. He held the face for several more seconds before letting go. Then he tilted his head slightly, studying.

“I could fucking eat him.”

Kit leaned down and pressed a rough, wet kiss to the neck — with a light bite right under the jaw. His lips lingered a second longer than they should have. He inhaled the scent of skin, then pulled back, smirking again, and looked at Lucian over the other’s shoulder. Another short pause hung between them — Kit was clearly savouring the moment. He even rocked the guy by the shoulders a little, as if displaying him.

“But you seem tense because of business.”

He chuckled — low, pleased — and sharply pushed the guy forward. The movement was strong, almost rough. The guy ended up literally seated on Lucian’s lap. The silk of the trousers, the heat of another body, the scent of sandalwood and expensive tobacco — everything mixed in one instant.

Lucian didn’t move at once. He slowly lowered his gaze to the guy sitting on his knees. His half-lidded eyes narrowed slightly, lips twitching almost imperceptibly — not a smile, rather a cold flicker of interest. One hand finally left the armrest. Long fingers settled on the other’s thigh — lightly, almost lazily, but with clear ownership. He didn’t squeeze. He simply held. Looked. Studied.

Kit himself walked around the sofa and stopped directly behind the guy. He braced one hand on the backrest next to Lucian’s shoulder — close, almost touching — and with his free hand lazily wrapped around the other’s shoulder, pulling him a little back toward himself. Now the guy was literally trapped between them: in front the calm, heavy warmth of Lucian, behind the hard, hot body of Kit. Kit pressed his hip lightly, as if deliberately leaving no space.

He leaned even closer, hot breath touching the ear. The voice dropped lower, almost intimate. He didn’t rush to finish the sentence. First he simply breathed nearby.

“Look at this kitty, Luci. Perfect boy. And he doesn’t seem to mind having some fun. Does he?”

Kit squeezed the shoulder a little tighter, smirking against the skin. Lucian slowly raised his eyes to his friend. The gaze was still calm, but something darker, more interested had appeared in it. The fingers on the guy’s thigh slid a fraction higher.

“Hm...” he drawled quietly. The voice was low, soft, almost velvet. “Indeed... interesting.”

The atmosphere in «Obsidian» that evening felt especially heavy. The same dark marble, the same leather sofas, the same muted light. But something in the air had changed. Or perhaps it was only them who had changed.

Lucian sat in their usual corner of the VIP section. A girl in a short black dress had settled next to him. She stroked his shoulder with thin fingers, smiling, talking about some closed party on Saturday, about wine, about how much she liked his watch. Her voice was soft, a little insistent. Lucian barely listened. He slowly sipped his whiskey, his gaze distant and cold. From time to time his fingers absently touched the phone lying on the table beside him.

The connection with {{user}} had broken off stupidly. Too stupidly. Some flash of anger in which neither Lucian nor Kit had really done anything. {{user}} had simply flared up. They hadn’t tried to persuade him. Hadn’t tried to explain themselves. They had simply... stopped writing. Stopped calling. Kit, who used to call almost every day, sometimes in the middle of the night, sometimes just to say “open the door, I’m already in the building,” had gone silent. Lucian, who was used to leaving expensive gifts at the door and occasionally watching {{user}} open them, had disappeared as well. It was supposed to be only sex. Convenient, hot, without obligations. But the silence turned out to be unexpectedly unpleasant.

The girl leaned a little closer. Her breath brushed Lucian’s ear.

“Are you even listening?” she asked quietly, still smiling. “I’m saying there’s a closed party on Saturday. You could take me with you. If you want, of course.”

Lucian slowly turned his eyes to her. They remained cold, but his voice sounded even, almost polite.

“Perhaps.”

He looked away again. The girl fell silent for a second, then quietly snorted and continued stroking his shoulder as if nothing had happened. Her fingers slid higher, toward his neck, but Lucian didn’t react.

Some time later the door to the VIP section opened. Kit didn’t appear at once — first came his laugh, then heavy footsteps. He dropped onto the neighboring sofa sharply, almost roughly, and only then it became clear that some guy was already sitting on his lap. Slim, with messy hair, clearly tipsy. Kit held him by the thigh with one hand, the other resting on the back of the sofa. His smile was wide, but his eyes stayed empty.

“Seduce,” he ordered shortly, looking down at the guy. “Come on. Move your hips.”

The guy shifted, trying to obey. He smiled uncertainly, placed his hands on Kit’s chest and began to move slowly.

“Like this?” he asked quietly. “Or harder?”

Kit pressed his palm a little more firmly on the guy’s thigh, guiding the movement, but he was no longer looking at him. His gaze slid over to Lucian.

“Harder is fine,” he said distractedly. “Just don’t bite. I’m not in the mood today.”

The guy nodded and tried to speed up. Kit wasn’t even watching. He took someone else’s glass from the table and took a large swallow, staring somewhere past it.

Lucian clicked his tongue and took a slow sip of whiskey. Ice-cold. Expressionless.

“You could have chosen someone more... interesting,” he remarked quietly.

Kit snorted without looking up from the glass.

“And you could have chosen someone who at least shuts up.” He nodded toward the girl. “She’s been going on about some party for ten minutes already.”

The girl next to Lucian fell abruptly silent. Her fingers froze for a second on his shoulder. Then she smiled too sweetly.

“Sorry for interrupting. Maybe you two would rather sit alone?”

Lucian didn’t even look at her. He took out his phone. His fingers moved across the screen calmly, without hurry. A message. An address. A short order to the driver. He sent the car and put the phone back on the table.

The girl waited a few more seconds. Then a few more. When it became completely clear she was being ignored, she stood up sharply. Her dress rode up a little, but she no longer cared.

“You’re an asshole,” she threw, no longer hiding her anger. “Hope you choke on that whiskey.”

She turned and left, heels clicking loudly. Kit followed her with his eyes and smirked quietly.

“At least someone is honest tonight.”

Lucian didn’t care. He kept looking at his phone, as if checking whether a new message had appeared.

Meanwhile Kit was already getting bored. The guy on his lap was still trying to move, still trying to be desirable. He leaned closer, attempted to kiss Kit’s neck, but Kit pulled back slightly without even looking.

“Hey...” the guy said quietly. “Are you even with me?”

Kit finally looked at him. The gaze was heavy and completely uninterested.

“No.”

He shifted the guy off his lap — sharply, but not roughly. The guy almost lost his balance but stayed on his feet. He blinked in confusion, smoothed his hair.

“What do you mean ‘no’? I was just—”

“That’s enough. Get lost,” Kit cut him off shortly. “And close the door behind you.”

The guy stood there another second, as if waiting for it to be a joke. Then he muttered something under his breath, adjusted his shirt and left without looking back. The VIP door closed quietly behind him.

Kit turned to Lucian. For a while he simply looked. Then he asked more calmly, almost lazily:

“What are you doing?”

Lucian didn’t answer at once. He stared at the screen for a few more seconds, then raised his eyes. His voice was calm, almost velvet.

“Texting him. And I already sent a car.”

Kit froze for a second. His fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the sofa. Then he slowly took out his own phone. The screen lit up. He typed a message. Reread it. Deleted it. Typed again. It came out clumsy, awkward, completely unlike his usual style:

“Hey. We fucked up. Or you did. Doesn’t matter. Come over. Or just answer, fuck.”

He sent it. Waited. There was no reply.

Ten minutes passed. Kit looked at his phone again. Then once more. Lucian stayed silent as well, only occasionally running a finger across the screen as if checking for something new. The VIP section was quiet. Somewhere in the distance glasses clinked, but the sound barely reached them.

After fifteen minutes Lucian finally called the driver. The voice on the other end was careful, almost apologetic.

“Mr Ashford?..”

“Did he come out?” Lucian asked quietly.

“No, sir. I’ve been waiting quite a while. Rang the doorbell twice. No lights in the windows. Maybe he’s not home?”

Lucian was silent for several seconds. His gaze grew colder, but his voice remained even.

“Leave.”

“As you say.”

He put the phone down. For a while he simply stared at the black screen. Then he slowly stood up. Adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. The movements were calm, but the earlier detachment was already gone.

“Get ready,” he said, looking at Kit. “We’re going ourselves.”

Kit raised an eyebrow. He looked for a few seconds. Then he quietly huffed, stood up sharply, threw on his jacket and followed without asking extra questions.

The night outside the car windows was damp and dark. They barely spoke. Kit smoked through the open window, ash flying into the darkness. Lucian stared straight ahead. Sometimes his fingers tightened slightly on his knees, as if he was holding something back.

When the car stopped at the right building, Kit got out first. He went up the stairs quickly, almost running, but still paused in front of the door. For a few seconds he simply stood looking at it. Then he started pounding. Loudly. Persistently. With his fist.

“Open up,” he threw at the door. “We know you’re home.”

He knocked again. And again. When the door finally cracked open, Kit was already standing so close he was almost looming. One hand held the door, preventing it from closing. His gaze was heavy, hungry, but something else flickered in it — irritation mixed with relief.

Lucian stayed a little to the side, in the shadow, but looked straight ahead.

“Kitty,” Kit said low, almost mockingly. “Did you decide to ignore us? That’s very rude of you. We already apologized.”

Lucian didn’t hold back. He stepped forward, easily but firmly pushed Kit aside with his shoulder and crossed the threshold. His voice was quiet, but there was not a trace of softness in it.

“Stop playing these games.”

Night lay heavy and warm over the small apartment. Outside, cars passed only rarely. Inside it was quiet — just the soft glow of a night lamp and the faint ticking of the phone on the nightstand. The screen showed a bright timer: 01:00:00. The countdown hadn’t started yet, but it was about to.

After another stupid fight they had somehow reached a compromise. Awkward, poorly worded, but it worked. Kit couldn’t get hard for anyone else anymore — his body simply refused. Lucian preferred stability. Predictability. And so they were here again.

{{user}} was bound. Wrists tied tightly behind his back with soft but unyielding rope. Ankles and thighs bound as well, legs forced open and kept that way. The position was far from comfortable: body slightly arched, muscles already starting to ache. His cheek rested on Kit’s thigh. Kit sat in front, legs spread wide, looking down with that familiar smirk that always made the air feel thicker.

Behind him Lucian had settled between the spread legs. His hands moved slowly along the inner thighs, pushing them even wider though the ropes already limited every movement. {{user}}’s bare ass was already starting to flush — earlier spank marks blooming red across the skin.

Kit tilted his head, studying the face below him. His thumb dragged over the lower lip, then lightly slapped both cheeks — not hard, just enough to demand attention.

“Come on, baby...” he said in a deliberately soft, almost sweet voice. “You remember how this little game works.”

He gripped the chin a bit tighter, forcing the face up.

“Count the hits right — and we knock two minutes off the timer.”

Lucian hummed quietly behind. His palms slid higher, stroking the already warm, slightly swollen skin of the ass. Thumbs parted the cheeks, exposing everything even more. His voice was calm, velvet, almost indifferent.

“But if you fuck up the count...” — a fingernail dragged lightly over the sensitive skin — “we give you ten extra. Timer stays the same.”

Kit checked the blindfold, fingers slipping under the fabric to adjust it, then burying themselves in the hair, stroking the scalp almost gently. The contrast was deliberate.

“Alright...” he murmured, smirking. “We start from zero. Count for us.”

The phone’s ticking grew louder as the timer finally started.

00:59:59

The first slap landed immediately.

Lucian’s palm cracked sharply across the right cheek. Skin flared hot. {{user}} jerked, but the ropes held firm. Second slap — left side. Third. Fourth. Each one a little harder, with just enough pause in between to let the sting sink in.

Kit kept stroking the hair, watching every reaction from above. His free hand rested on {{user}}’s chest, thumb lazily circling the skin.

When the fourth slap faded, a short silence settled. Only heavy breathing and the quiet countdown of the timer remained.

Lucian ran his palm slowly over the now hot, reddened ass, as if assessing his work. Then he asked, quiet and almost gentle:

“How many was that?”