A/N Depicts a D/s relationship.

I pull on the third T-shirt, the cotton feeling cool for an instant, disturbed air trapped between the thin fabric and my skin. It's the sort of detail Jim would be aware of, but at moments like this, I feel like a sentinel, my skin alive -- well, it's always alive, I guess, but I'm not usually paying this much attention to it.

When Jim's focused on me like this, that intensity spills over, splashes me, gets me wet.

Gets me hot.

I work my hair free of the neck of the T-shirt and then stand tall and let Jim look me over. The T-shirt is all that I'm wearing and I can feel the hem brush against the base of my cock, the curled hair surrounding it. I hold still. I'm already half-hard just from being appraised; I really don't need that whisper-brush of cotton.

Jim sits at the end of the bed, looking thoughtful, his lips pursed slightly, leaning forward a little. He straightens and lifts one hand, his fingers sketching out a circle. Obediently, I turn for him, slowly, letting him see all of me. I pause when my ass is facing him, knowing that he wants to see it, and let my eyes close, savoring the moment, this part of the day's routine.

The T-shirt's hiding nothing. When he gave me the spanking that starts most of my days, it was with a languid, deceptive lack of haste. The slaps moved through what felt like honey-thick air; fell with a soft, muted beat; the first six didn't hurt much at all.

But they were all in the same place. All of them. They didn't vary in speed, in force -- and by two dozen I was sobbing, squirming helplessly, held in place across his knees by his arm and a leg hooked over my thrashing ones.

I feel unbalanced now as I stand, knowing Jim's looking at the scarlet hand print and the cool, untouched cheek he ignored. I want to see it, too, knowing that the contrast will excite me as much as it satisfies him, but there's been no opportunity to look.

Sometimes, unexpectedly, Jim will say casually, 'small' or 'medium' and I get to ask him for something that I want right then; a treat, an indulgence. A kiss would count as small and it's usually my first choice, though I don't get to be specific. Jim always seems to know what kind of kiss I'm in the mood for, though and I get it; a drowsy sweet slide and glide, his tongue flirting with mine -- or a bruising, violent bite of a kiss that leaves my mouth swollen, tingling, my heart thudding wildly.

Today, I'd ask for a mirror and time to stare.

"Yeah," Jim says and I complete the turn. "That one."

The shirt I'll be wearing, along with the rest of my outfit for the day, is draped neatly over a chair in the corner of the room. Jim usually dresses me, tweaking a seam straight, playing with the lie of a collar, his fingers deft with zipper and buttons. He likes to know exactly what's touching my skin and to walk through the day knowing that I'm wearing what he picked out, the way I brushed my teeth with the toothpaste he likes to taste, for the exact length of time he specified.

I know that chair. I've stood, my hands on the back of it, ass out and up, legs spread wide, and felt the bite of a crop, the lash of a belt. I've knelt in front of it, hands tied behind my back, and felt Jim's hand stroke through my hair, over and again, until my neck ached from wanting to bend, love weighing me down.

I've sat on it, the wood smooth against my skin, and waited for Jim to come home, the minutes ticking by between his phone call and the scrape of his key in the lock, my anticipation choking me until I hear his step on the stairs and then there's nothing left to feel but joy.

Jim stands and walks over, his grin a quick, wicked flash of teeth as his hand drops to my cock, working it fully erect with a casual, knowing grip that brings the blood rushing to my face as well as my dick. I'm so exposed when it comes to him. If he weren't a sentinel, I don't think that would change in essence, just degree, but he is and he reads me, every twitch, every hitched breath, every tear. I'm left with nowhere to hide, no option but honesty.

When my balls are snugged up high and tight, the head of my dick wet, shining, he releases me, kisses my mouth with a possessiveness that I can taste when I lick my lips afterward, and yanks the T-shirt hem down. He dries off my drooling, stupid cock, that should know damn well it's not getting any with Jim's shift starting soon, and then steps back. I skin out of the T-shirt -- Jim's T-shirt -- and watch as he pulls it on over his head, his broad chest flexing, making my mouth water. God, he's so fucking hot. I tell him that with a look I know is worshipful, shit, adoring, and he smiles, a hint of shyness showing, unexpected, sweet.

He smoothes the T-shirt down and reaches for a crisp blue shirt to wear on top of it.

Jim likes knowing what's touching my skin -- and he never goes anywhere without something of mine touching his.

That's not a small treat, or a big one -- that's everything.


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