More Than Enough

by Jane Davitt

"More." There's a flat, dry desperation about the demand and Jim closes his eyes, guilt rising. Blair should be sobbing out that word, screaming it, his voice choked with tears, hoarse and broken. Jim loves it when Blair's volubility is reduced to husky, shattered syllables, panted out between moans, punctuated by whimpers.

They both do.

This, though -- this isn't right. It doesn't sound right. Blair's not enjoying this. Can't be, or he wouldn't keep asking and asking --

Jim stares at Blair's tilted-up ass, splotched red, stained with bruises, and absentmindedly rubs his hot hand over his thigh, soothing the sting in his palm against his jeans. He's moved from hand to paddle, paddle to crop, but the sting's still there in his flesh and so is the heat.

More? He can't do much more, not if they want Blair to be fit for work the next day.

"More," Blair pleads frantically and it's more than Jim can take.

He goes to his knees on the floor behind the armchair Blair's bent over. Ropes, strum-tight, hold Blair in place, wind across his body. When the ropes are taken away, Jim will be able to see the marks they've left on Blair for hours, days if he really tries; scuffmarks on skin, twisted fibers flattening sweat-damp hair, patterning it in ways Jim chooses carefully. The soft, loose pouch of Blair's balls will hold the marks longest, making Jim fondle them with a dark, obsessive pleasure, lick them, tracing the rope's path over and over.

Secret marks. Not even Blair can see or feel them after an hour, but for Jim they linger.

He has to end this session and that means making Blair cry, the only coda they need. He flicks his nail against the taut flesh of Blair's ass, a warning, nothing more, and then takes a deep breath…bites hard. Leaves teeth marks in bruised flesh and watches the shocked, hurt skin change color and texture with an assessing, detached objectivity. No blood wells up; no tears fall; he'd hear them roll down Blair's face and splash onto the chair's cushion. He uses his mouth again, this time to kiss, and then spreads Blair's ass wide, exposing more bruised skin, swollen and hot, running from Blair's hole to his balls, a stripe of vulnerable, baby-soft paleness darkened by a precisely administered series of blows. No part of Blair is off limits but his face and hands and even then, Jim finds ways --

Blair's fingers can be sucked wet, bitten gently, his nails kept trimmed to Jim's specifications. His hands can be bound, palm to palm, immobilized all day, leaving Blair reliant on Jim to an extent that arouses them both unbearably. Feeding Blair by hand, bite by bite, or holding his dick as he pisses, a clear stream of liquid going where Jim directs it…brushing a strand of hair back from Blair's flushed face…

And if he can't mark Blair's face, he can stuff his ears, bind his mouth, blind him with dozens of kisses against the quivering curve of fragile eyelid, held closed by a whispered command. Can wrap leather around Blair's eyes, a fringed blindfold so that each movement leads to a fugitive tickle of touch from a dangling strip, maddeningly unpredictable, a fly-buzz.

Blair hates that blindfold. Jim loves it. They use it often, because Jim's learned over the years that giving Blair what he wants isn't always what Blair wants.

And now, as he kneels and parts Blair's ass cheeks, opening him up for the cruelly tender lash of his tongue, liquid and soft when Blair craves sharp and hard, Jim proves he's learned that lesson well.

Blair can't come; hasn't been allowed to for days, but the insistent thrust and push of Jim's tongue soon has the tip of his dick coated with a messy slick sheen. Jim can taste it, smell it with every breath, precome mingling with the earthy, dirty reek and tang of Blair's ass.

He doesn't stop until he can smell salt tears and when he can, when Blair's sobbing out, 'please' not 'more', when Blair's bound body is jerking helplessly, climaxing without ejaculating, his mouth open, lips bitten raw, Jim eases back onto his heels and catches his breath. He licks at his lips and swallows, his dick a hard, suffering spike he wants to drive into Blair, but he hasn't earned that.

Blair had to ask him for more. Fuck, that had hurt to hear.

He whispers an apology against Blair's hair as he unties him, says it again as he washes Blair clean.

Says it until Blair glares at him and drops to his knees  in the shower to suck Jim off with an irked, annoyed ruthlessness about his lips and tongue that soon melts to a forgiving, luscious welcome.

Jim still doesn't let Blair come.

In the morning, maybe, leaving wet sheets to scent the air, or in the truck on the way home, a silent, solo show for Jim's eyes only, parked in a quiet street, semen spreading darkly across the front of Blair's still-fastened jeans, his hands tucked behind him, Jim urging him to climax with harsh, crude words peppered with endearments.

He doesn't think about when and how too much. Blair will let him know when he's ready, and this time, Jim will be paying attention.

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