Cruel to be Kind

by Jane Davitt

He stared at the mark his hand had left on bare skin. Five lines of red and a ragged-edged palm print, stark against the pale background of an ass that hadn't been exposed to the sun for a long time.

That had been harder to do than he'd thought it would be. He wanted this. Craved it. Knew that the sting was fleeting and the mark would fade -- and he still hadn't struck as hard as he could have, he'd still pulled back, hesitated.

He tried again, gritting his teeth until the slap landed and then moaning, his mouth open, his facial muscles slack with pleasure. God, he was so hard. He could come from this, just from this. He'd been hard as he thought about it, hard as he stripped and positioned himself, the mirror behind him, mute, indifferent, efficiently reporting. Glancing back over his shoulder and seeing the color rise had left him shaking, a sound torn from his throat that he didn't recognize as belonging to him.

He should have felt ridiculous, on his hands and knees, balanced awkwardly as he raised one hand and did it again and again and oh --

Oh, that had hurt and he gasped, his hand dealing out one sizzling slap after another, all on the same spot, the skin smarting, scarlet, his traitorous hand rising and falling as if it didn't know it was his ass it was punishing.

He was sobbing now, his breath tear-thick, his cock jerking, his balls tight. He tried to shift the place his hand landed, but that first slap had been just right, the only place where his twisted-back hand could connect with a complete palm and finger contact.

Over and over -- and he spared the mirror a glance and saw the five lines had merged and spread, a flame of fever across his throbbing ass.

He stopped with an effort of will and dragged his hot, merciless hand around and wrapped it around his cock.

Held it and came, collapsing to his belly and fucking the sheets he lay on with mindless, spasmodic thrusts, reduced to nothing but this scream of wanting.

When he'd finished, he lay quietly, breathing in salt-wet air, his face pressed against the damp pillow, his hand trapped under him, still loosely curled around his softened cock.

It had been good, but it hadn't been enough.

But it was still better than asking Jim to do it, his face hot, his voice begging, and seeing the wince in Jim's eyes and feeling the gentle, tentative, useless taps that were all Jim could bring himself to inflict.

They hurt.

They hurt so fucking much.

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