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"Get...out," he panted: a rough, halfway broken sound. In his defense, Amora's lovely new toy had something of a potential to break him in half.
She pouted. "Oh, Loki, why must you always ruin our little games?" The riding crop, which had been trailing along his bared collarbones with a feather-light touch, was brought up to snap smartly against his left cheek. Loki rolled with the stinging slap, not yet far gone enough to lean into it, but spread-eagled by the chains as he was, there was not far that he could go. Even this slight flinch nearly tore his opposite arm out of alignment.
It was more fun than he'd had in months, to say the least.
"Because you always manage," he retorted icily, trying to think past the bolt of heat that shot from the bruise on his cheek straight down, "To bring up the subject of dearest Thor at the worst possible moment."
"It was merely a question," Amora tittered, with a completely unapologetic grin.
Snarling as she landed another bruisingly sharp blow, lower this time, he took a deep breath through the nose. "You are not allowed to change into my brother and fuck me with the handle of his weapon. I do have some...standards, after all."
"You just don't want to admit how much you crave it, Trickster," she crooned, circling around him until she left his field of sight entirely. "His hands on you like this. He would be so gentle with you, until you begged and taunted and he gave in and--"
"I told you to get out, Amora, and I don't wish to repeat myself." His voice was steadier now, a tendon pulsing in his jaw.
Sniffing petulantly, she stopped, but nevertheless snapped the crop against his ass, hard. "I thought I was giving the orders tonight."
A faint grin twisted the sides of Loki's mouth. "My obediance is earned."
She made a soft noise of understanding, and the riding crop travelled a smooth path up his spine to rest on the curve of his neck. Loki's head fell forward, inviting. "So you wish to be brought low first?"
He said nothing, but a low chuckle rumbled in his throat, cutting off in a rapid inhalation when Amora began her assault in earnest, a rain of blows falling on his back and shoulders. She was truly lovely, with her uncanny ability to surprise him in fulfilling both of their needs according to a pair of extremely unique tastes. Loki's back arched, arms straining against the bonds holding him upright, as something else strained for as-yet unfulfilled attention.
"I am a prince," he spat venemously, "Of a race of gods." Amora struck rythymically, knowing that he knew exactly when the next blow would land and could not avoid it even if he wanted to. "I do not bow."
Something very much like an amused giggle escaped Amora as she continued her bruising ministrations. "I will at very least need you to kneel when you pleasure me with your mouth, later," she warned. "You know how much I love your silver tongue, pet." Her long-nailed fingers reached out to brush away the dishevelled mass of hair and stroke the bruise on his cheek from before, leaning her chin on his straining shoulder, the whipping coming to an abrubt end that left Loki trembling slightly in pain and thereby immense pleasure.
Tongue darting out to taste sweat and leather and magic on the tips of her fingers, he felt her inhale sharply. "Draw a little blood first and we have a deal," he grinned.
"Oh, Loki, I don't know why I haven't found a way to keep you yet," Amora sighed, leaning forward with the length of her body pressed to his abused back as her fingers curved into claws. "You're so delightfully creative."
The Trickster shuddered and let out a needy sound when her fingertips broke the skin near his hipbone, eyes rolling back in his head. Amora's laughter sounded, a warm breath on the shell of his ear, and he stilled. "Mention Thor again and all bargains are forfeit," he hissed warningly.
Amora huffed in disappointment, then ran her teeth along the join between neck and shoulder. Oh, but he did so enjoy their little games.