Letting Go

by Jane Davitt




Blair's crooning to him, a running commentary as his hand (hot, still hot; it'll hold the heat of Jim's punished skin for hours) smoothes lotion across even hotter flesh. Jim's recovered enough to be able to feel the lotion thin out, spread, melting like butter on a sizzling skillet.

It tickles.

He can feel where the gag he wore has chafed the corners of his mouth; he prods them gingerly with his tongue. He didn't want the gag; Blair likes to hear him beg and babble and cry out, and Jim, well, Jim wants Blair to have what he wants at times like this, but the neighbors are home and it was just too risky. And he can feel the ache in his fingers because Blair wasn't feeling kind and made him hold onto the railing without cuffs to help him, promising --threatening -- to stop if Jim let go. Jim doesn't know if Blair would have or not; he didn't let go.

Blair's feeling better now. Jim's given him that release even as he took his own. Because Blair can't yell at his students, can't hit them, though God knows they deserve it… though they don't deserve this.

This is just for him.

He sighs as Blair's slick fingers dip deeper, slide inside him. Oh, yeah. Blair's feeling better.

He sees them sometimes when he calls by Rainier to pick up Blair. Sees them saunter by, or rush, arms crowded with paper and books. They barely notice him but he looks and wonders: was it you? You who sent Blair home to me, forehead creased with a headache, eyes hard and angry? Was it because of you I knelt and offered my ass, stripped and bent over, endured a hand or a belt, whip-thin or palm-wide? Was it you?

And he finds himself thinking thank you, just as he says it to Blair when it's over, just as Blair says it to him before they begin.


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