Later, Durmonyás wondered if he would have been so agreeable if Bakszén hadn't said it after doing his infernal best to get Durmonyás off three times in a row, the third time by application of techniques that still made Durmonyás blush to remember.
It had a way of putting a devil right out of good sense.
"I suppose," Bakszén said, reaching over the side of the bed and picking up his whip, running it through his fingers in that weirdly caressing way he had when he was sulking, or thinking, or even simply bored, "I suppose I can't whip you anymore, now that we're fucking."
Durmonyás, still in a pleasant haze and possibly distracted a little by Bakszén's abs, had retained just enough common sense to twist the truth in self-preservation—it was never a good idea to give Bakszén too much truth to work with. "Whatever," he muttered, propping his head on Bakszén's shoulder and closing his eyes. "You're the boss. I know how much you love that st— thing. If you want to dress me up in white and call me Józsiás, I’ll say ‘hey.’"
Bakszén's answering grin was far too gleefully toothy to justify the warmth in Durmonyás’s chest, but then, he’d never had the best judgement where Bakszén was concerned.
The truth was, he had to admit later, watching Bakszén uncoil the whip with a fluttery feeling that he refused to call anticipation, there was something obnoxiously hot about Bakszén focusing on something he was good at. And for all his posturing and long history of coming up with truly terrible ideas, he did know what he was doing with that cursed whip. Even on his angriest days, he'd never really hurt anyone with it. Most often it served as punctuation for the shouting, cracking next to the ear of whichever unlucky devil had to cower to appease him.
Durmonyás had become an expert at delivering the required cowering to get Bakszén to shut up, but somewhere deep inside he didn't really mind a little sting, a crackling stripe of heat across his shoulders, the heady rush of expectation and the dizzy relief that followed each fall of the whip.
He closed his eyes and tried to relax, waiting, but the next blow never came.
Or at least he wouldn’t mind so much if Bakszén would just stay focused.
“You’re not supposed to enjoy this,” Bakszén said, in a completely boner-killing tone of irritation. “You’re supposed to be begging for mercy at my feet, you miserable dirt-clod hero.”
Sometimes he really wished Bakszén didn’t have such a one-track mind.
Okay, he could do this without rolling his eyes or thinking about how Józsiás would probably laugh himself to death if he saw this little pantomime. “Oh please,” Durmonyás said, wiggling his ass a little to remind Bakszén of the ultimate goal of the charade. “I never should have thought I could defeat you. Please don’t hurt me, your devilishness. Mercy.”
“Much better,” Bakszén said, still blissfully immune to sarcasm. The whip cracked once, close enough to Durmonyás’ ear to make him wince a little. “Perhaps I will consider mercy, once you are suitably chastised—Józsi.”
If only chastisement involved more whipping, less talking.