Figging: Anal Discipline

From Despoiling Harry, we have a vivid description of M/m figging and spanking, in the story For Your Own Good:

Harry’s fingers were near his face. “Smell that?”

“I can’t smell anything,” he said with another noisy wet sniff.

“It’s ginger. Peeled. Know where it’s going?”

“Wh–no!”

“You’re such a good guesser.”

Draco gave a yell as Harry took hold of his buttocks and pulled them apart, deliberately sinking his fingers into the abused flesh. “Ow ow ow ow!”

“Just you wait.” Something blunt and wet nudged at his arsehole–much cooler than anything else that had touched him so far. A push, another, and it was inside him, was shoved in deeper until the ring of muscle closed down around a narrower neck set into the thing. Draco shuddered as Harry released his buttocks and stepped back, leaving the plug of ginger snug inside him.

“Now. Think your arse can take more?”

“Take more what?”

“Yes, I suppose it’ll have to.” Sound of something going swick through the air.

Then something hit him, hard. “Ow!” He jerked against the restraints. It had crossed his arse in an awful line, but the tip had struck like a knife on his arse. He craned his head around to look; it looked like a cane, but springier–taken from a tree, he guessed.

And Harry swung it hard enough to make him look away in panic. “Ow!” he yelled again as it struck, tip biting into the right side of his arse just under where it had hit the first time. And the length of it felt like it was going to welt his buttocks no less.

These were not coming as quickly as the paddling or the spanking had. Which was not a lot of comfort; he could tell that these blows required attention, to get them to land where you wanted them.

That was about the point when he noticed the effects of the ginger.

He’d thought it would sting. It did. But slowly; slowly getting his awareness that something uncomfortable was happening inside his bunghole, slowly starting to burn in that way that felt cool rather than hot, like ice that never warmed with your body temperature, and never numbed you, either.

The cane swacked down on him again. Even as he yelled, he felt the icy burn in his anus flare. Fuck! It was like lemon juice and menthol and pepper all at the same time, and yet it had its moments when it was worse, and when it receded. What the hell?

It took three more swacks of the cane before he realized. When the cane hit. When he clenched his buttocks each time it did. He tightened around the ginger and the burn would eagerly attack the lining of his arse. Oh, fuck.

“Don’t clench,” Harry said, chiding softly, just before he struck again.

Draco howled, clenched of course, and exploded, “Let me do it to you and we’ll see how well you do!” He hung over the sofa back–ribs not the least concern now–panting, thinking that was definitely not the right thing to say, under the circumstances.

But he doubted anything he said would have made it worse. Another swack. The burn went through his arse inside and out, both across and through–he didn’t know which was worse. Another. He hissed, tried to bite at the sofa upholstery, told himself not to clench at the next blow. Another. Oh, fuck, it was worse, not clenching one’s arse; the cane seemed to cut six inches deeper. Another. Ah, fuck, no, the fire of the ginger was worse! Fuck fuck fuck, which was it?

Harry’s fingers were on the ginger plug. He was taking it out–fuck, no, he was rotating it inside him, no, moving it back and forth a little, no! And then he’d stopped, left it where it was, and set his palms on the globes of Draco’s welted, red-hot arse, and pushed them together around the ginger, holding them there as Draco screeched and begged and suffered the full effects of the ginger and came within a hair of calling Harry the most evil fucker on the planet and threatening to kill him. Draco really, really didn’t want to go back to the beginning on this one.