by Jane Davitt

Jim's hand has struck Blair's ass five times today, playful swats delivered in full view of the neighbors, a passerby in the street, the receptionist at Atlas Security, the bullpen, and finally Simon.

Each time, the light, brief touch has sent a shiver and a sizzle through Blair that he's had to keep hidden. It's harder to do than keeping quiet when he's getting spanked, something Jim occasionally demands of him, for the first dozen slaps at least.

Jim's doing it to remind him of what they did the night before, but Blair doesn't need reminding. His skin is taut, berry-cherry red, and sitting down without wincing is an exercise in will power.

So is keeping the reminiscent grin off his face.

"I'll make the sixth one count," Jim murmurs as he passes Blair with an armful of files.

Blair catches his breath, a whimper escaping him that he couldn't have held in if he'd tried.

He gets it in the elevator, heading for the basement, the truck, home, and their bed.

It's hard, an uncompromising crack, all sound and fury. It rocks him forward into the waiting cradling clutch of Jim's other hand that caresses the promising swell of Blair's erection with intent and purpose.

He steadies himself with his palm flat against the cool wall and tries to breathe through the arousal and the deep throb of his bruised, spanked ass.

"You can take more," Jim says in his ear. "Lots more. When we get home, we'll see how many, hmm?"

Blair gathers his thoughts enough to nod and wonders if Jim really has any idea just how far Blair wants this to go…

Something in the sparkle in Jim's eyes, the bounce in his step as he hurries Blair over to the truck, tells him that Jim does.

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