Burn, Baby, Burn

by Jane Davitt

The logs burning in Carlton's fireplace shift and tumble, sending a cloud of sparks flying up the chimney and a muffled puff of smoke into the room, fragrant, soon dissipating. Carlton takes a sip of scotch and purses his lips. Does he need to throw another log on?

Leaning forward, his hand braced against the arm of his chair, he considers Spencer's ass. It's darkly pink, and the exposed, vulnerable skin, creased, furred over with hair, of his balls is verging on red, but his thighs seem to be protected somewhat.

With a grunt, he leans over and puts his hands on Spencer, dragging him forward a few inches so that the footstool he's lying on squeaks against the floor. Better. Spencer's thighs are bathed in a rosy glow of firelight, struck and spanked by heat.

Spencer whines, gasps, but Carlton has gagged him so he doesn't know if the protest is in the form of a curse or one of Spencer's frankly unconvincing attempts to cajole him with sweet-talk and promises they both know he won't keep.

Carlton doesn't care. Punishing Spencer for breaking his word is more satisfying for both of them, and when it counts, when it matters, Spencer doesn't promise, he just does it.

That's good enough.

Maybe one more log… He picks it up, a solid chunk of wood, the bark rough against his hands, the way Spencer's ass feels sometimes after a long session with the paddle, and Spencer's eyes widen, his head shaking violently.

Carlton smiles, feels it curl his lips.

"What's the matter, Spencer? Can't take the heat?"

He sets the log aside and strokes a fingertip down the sweet, proffered curve of Spencer's ass, testing the trapped heat there.

"I could fry an egg on this," he comments, not seriously, but there's something about the way Spencer tenses that makes him reconsider. He can't see Spencer's cock, but he knows that it's just gotten harder, is maybe leaking -- dirty little boy that Spencer is -- over the leather footstool. That's not a problem, of course. Carlton will simply make Spencer lick the leather clean afterwards, then make him polish it in a more conventional way the following day, until the room's redolent with the smell of oranges from the cream that keeps the leather supple and Spencer's arm is aching.

"Move and I'll send you home," he says, the only warning he'll give, and goes into the kitchen.

The egg, brown, cool from the fridge, is heavy in his hand as he crouches beside Spencer, showing it to him just to watch the shamed, needy flush of longing pour down over Spencer's face. He kisses him for it, his mouth hard against the leather gag barring the way to Spencer's mouth.

Then he uses Spencer's head to crack the egg and lets it drip and spill, glutinous and golden-white, over the sizzle of all that scorched, burning skin.

It doesn't cook, not at all, but it slides down the crack of Spencer's ass, and coats his balls, cooling them just a little, though the humiliation making Spencer jerk and twist and quiver makes up for that small mercy.

Carlton drags the palm of his hand over Spencer's ass, crooking his fingers so that they score the skin above Spencer's hole and below it. He corkscrews one finger into the hungry, greedy opening, a rough, mostly dry thrust that makes Spencer lower his head and arch his ass, wanting more.

That won't do at all.

With a flurry of slaps, Carlton drives heat deep into Spencer's ass, heat from his hand, not the fire, a burn and bite that's personal. He's hard, he's aching. When he's turned Spencer's ass the perfect shade of red, he'll take away the gag and replace it with his cock, fucking Spencer's mouth leisurely, his hands twisted through Shawn's hair, the dying heat of the fire something he can use as an excuse for the flush on his face.

And then it will be midnight, and he can wish Shawn a Merry Christmas and give him the pair of socks that Shawn's already opened and tossed in the trash twice.

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