“1 … 2 … 3 … 4 …” Blaine’s strained voice peters behind the off-beat staccato rhythm of the switch coming down hard on his swollen, uncaged cock.

“Don’t tense your face, pet,” Kurt commands. “You’ll get wrinkles. Count the swats off with an open mouth and a relaxed jaw. Round out the vowels.” He crouches to Blaine’s eye level and demonstrates. “It’s good practice for the stage.”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” Blaine opens his mouth and drops his lower jaw to his chest, stretching stiff muscles and relieving the pressure that’s been building up with his teeth clenched tight.

“Don’t dilly-dally, pet. We haven’t got all day.” Kurt slaps Blaine’s bare ass cheek with his own switch, cut from the same willow tree as Blaine’s. Blaine rolls his shoulders, blows out a breath, and braces to start again.

“… 5 grrr!” The first blow is always the hardest, though the ones after that are sons-of-bitches, too “… 6 … 7 … 8 …”

“And don’t speed up. It won’t get you to the finish line any faster, I promise you.”

Blaine exhales sharply twice, one for each of the last two slaps of this set. “… 9 … 10 grrr!” Blaine shudders, and drops his arm.

“Don’t let your switch hit the floor, pet!” Kurt snaps, rushing forward to rescue the tip before it makes contact with the floor. “You’ll get germs on it. You don’t want the germs from your feet touching your dick, do you?”

“N-no, Sir,” Blaine stutters, lifting his tired hand holding the willow switch like a violin bow, hovering above the erection that Blaine has been maintaining with the help of Viagra and his Dom’s hand. “Th-thank you, S-sir.”

“Let’s try ten more. And don’t be limp-wristed,” Kurt says, delivering a stinging blow to Blaine’s wrist. “And remember, I need to hear that branch snap.”

Blaine chews his lip, attempting to redirect the throbbing in his cock elsewhere in his body, but it’s no use. With as artificially hard as his dick is, there’s no soft, pliant flesh to absorb the blows. Worse than the sting of sliced flesh is painfully swollen sliced flesh – every surface bared with nowhere to hide, no folds to protect against the attack.

“1 (snap) … 2 (snap) … 3 (snap) … 4 (snap) …” Blaine cries each number, every crack of his switch harder than the last to achieve that ricocheting sound that Kurt uses to measure Blaine’s success.

“No, no, no. It’s not about force, pet,” Kurt criticizes. “It’s about technique. If you do it right, you maximize your strike with little in the way of travel from your wrist. That way, you don’t end up with carpal tunnel. Here …” Kurt kneels to the side of him “… let me demonstrate.”

Mind muddied, his cock blistering, Blaine doesn’t even think to beg Kurt to reconsider before his Dom’s switch is raining blows on his cock – once, twice, over and over, painting welts that have already formed a darker shade of red.

“… 3 … 4 … 5 … 6 …” Kurt counts out loud. His switch strikes in rapid and even succession; his wrist and hand barely move as the branch thwap-thwap-thwaps against Blaine’s skin.

Blaine grits his teeth, dry lips pulled over them till they come close to splitting. Throat open wide, he screams silently in his mouth, all breath and no voice trapped behind his grimace. His eyes water, unblinking, as he tries to push the pain away, but there’s nowhere to push it to when every hit narrows to the same few inches, which burns like lemon juice on paper cuts covered in fire ants and bleach.

“… 7 … 8 … 9 … 10, and we’re done. See, pet?” Kurt stands, and Blaine catches himself before he can fall forward. “It’s all about technique. When you perfect your technique, your arms won’t get tired as quickly.”

“Y-yes, S-sir,” Blaine pants. “Th-thank you, S-sir, for t-teaching me. I pr-promise to r-remember.”

“Very good, pet,” Kurt coos, running his hand through Blaine’s hair, lightly damp with sweat. “Excellent. But practice makes perfect. So, take a deep breath in … let it out … and let’s begin again.”