That swat elicits a short barking laugh, the grin that comes with it not fading as he follows Chris' prim direction, straightening his posture and putting a hand to each post. The bed is large and at the limits of how far he can reach comfortably but he manages, curious about what exactly Chris is expecting him to weather that would make standing upright a trial. He knows better than to ask.

The image of Chris' threat dancing in his mind's eye puts a quick hitch in Hawke's breath, imagining himself tied to the posts as he is, stuck facing in on a bed while Chris lays amongst the plush covers, fingers buried in himself and head thrown back in cries of ecstasy in a show for Hawke that he'd not be allowed to interact with, just torturously watch. That might make him beg, he thinks, if he were of a mind. He'd try bargaining first, appeal to Chris' lust and the things he knows the cleric loves to take of him, but Chris has a will stronger than steel and unless Hawke truly pleads with him, he's certain his lover would simply let him writhe for as long as he liked, making a mess of himself and then smirking in that self-satisfied little way he does when he gets exactly the reaction he knew he would.

Hawke would beg. He'd offer anything just for a touch, if Chris teased him that way, and they both know it.

At full hardness now for the his fantasy running away with him, Hawke takes a steadying breath and tries to just focus on the present. Stand here. Feet shoulder's width apart. Do as he's told. "Yes, messere."