His hair is finally let go but he can still feel his scalp burning. It's nothing compared to what's happening, though. He knows it. He can feel it in the air, he can practically taste it--Liam is like a storm, and there's no true way to pacify him.

Those fingers down his back, down his neck--they feel nice, and in a strange way, that's scarier than the other's words. But he's keeping up, he's focusing on the words, staying in the moment. He's not sure how many he can take. He's not looking forward to it, but Mike can't mess up--if he does, he's going to wind up in a state even worse than this straight jacket and a riding crop.

He's about to say yes when the crop hits his ass with full force. His yell is more of a surprised whine, his whole body snapping forward. He can feel it lingering, the dull, thudding pain, and he tries to focus on anything but how the sound was still ringing in his ears.

Liam is pausing things. Mike's brain scrambles to keep up.

"One, sir," he breathes, shakey and uneven. Wants to say so much more, wants to tell him to stop. The words die in his throat.