First to Last

by Jane Davitt




The first one always hurts the most. It shouldn't; the last one should, when his ass is toasted, steaming, screaming, and his breath is harsh and tear-choked in his throat, each gasp an effort, each pant timed, not to the needs of his body but the rhythm Blair has set.

Blair owns him by then. In total. Absolute. He doesn't exist in any capacity for those brief moments, but to be the man Blair is spanking. That's all he is. Not the cop, not the sentinel, not even Jim Ellison, not even Blair's partner, lover, friend.

He's nothing but waiting, wanting skin and hunger. Nothing but Blair's.

God, he loves that feeling so fucking much.

Midway through isn't any picnic, either. Blair's gotten into his stride by then and his hand is sure but not sore, implacable not tender. Jim always knows when Blair's hand starts to hurt; he can feel the slight flinch as hot palm meets his reddened ass and wishes he could tell Blair to stop.

Not that Blair would. Not that Jim could.

But, no, it's that first one he remembers. It's the anticipation (Blair always makes him wait so long for it, never rushes it, never) as he settles himself across Blair's knees, positioned perfectly, his cock tucked neatly out of the way, half-hard already, because he's naked and Blair isn't and that's… oh, God, that's such a fucking turn on, that deliberate placing of himself as the vulnerable one.

Sometimes, not often, Blair lets him get naked and then adds something; a twist of leather around one ankle or wrist, maybe, tight enough that Jim can feel it make a complete circle, perfectly equal pressure against bone and tendon, loose ends trailing, tickling. It's one more thing to ignore, one more obstacle to overcome before he can't feel or hear or sense anything but Blair's hand on his skin.

Once, it was a collar, buckled into place, looser than the leather, not tight at all, but still… He'd been standing when Blair fastened it; kneeling a moment later, brought down by the weight of it, helplessly nuzzling into the heady, rich heat at Blair's groin, lost in emotions too wild to permit him to lie still.

Blair had held him, crooned nonsense to him, one hand stroking Jim's damp face, the other drawing down his zipper, taking out his cock for Jim to suck on, grateful, greedy, the act for once calming him as much as the spanking would have done.

What he loves best, which is why he doesn't get it often, because Blair's good at balancing withholding and granting a wish, is to be spanked wearing something of Blair's. A T-shirt usually, tight on him and short, exposing his ass quite nicely. He breathes in the mingled smells of Blair's sweat and everything he's come into contact with during the day, and feels surrounded by Blair, which makes it easier to slip into that place where he belongs to Blair.

Too easy.

Maybe he won't ask for that again.

Anticipation. Yeah, that's good. That shivery silence as Blair waits, his hands still on Jim's back, the warmth from them saturating skin. Then Blair starts to touch him, his hands roaming carelessly, casually, petting and patting, probing and testing. It's the only truly humiliating moment of the encounter and Jim fights it, resents it, glories in it for what it is; a push in the right direction.

You're mine, Blair's telling him with that twist of his fingers in Jim's short hair, yanking his head back. All mine, he says as a finger corkscrews remorselessly into Jim's hole, spit-wet, bone dry, doesn't matter; both hurt. Mine -- and now the hands gentle, caress, because Jim's done something that makes Blair think he's accepted that and Jim's never quite sure that he has, not then, not that soon, but it doesn't matter. Blair always knows.

Yours, Jim mouths, unheard, incredulous, happy. God, he is.

And the first slap lands.

And it hurts, just like he wants it to, just like it should.



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