Against the deep blue of the bedroom wall, the dark wood of the paddle was like a patch of shadow. A few months earlier, Michael had hung the paddle on a nail hammered in with three sharp taps, after threading a loop of leather through a hole bored in the handle. The paddle swung gently back and forth and then settled into place.

Waiting.

Steve was waiting, too. He'd been told to kneel, facing the paddle, and that was what he was doing, perfectly still, the bed behind him, his naked body warm and relaxed now that he'd stopped fighting the emotions that had brought him to this place.

It had been one hell of a day. One petty annoyance after another and the speeding ticket on the way home had been the point at which he'd broken. The cop had let him rant and swear, argue and defend himself, and then written the ticket, handed it over, and murmured, "Go home, Steve. My shift ends in an hour. Get naked, kneel down. You know where. And one more word from you now and you'll spend the night gagged."

Steve closed his eyes for a moment, remembering what Michael's words had done to him. He hadn't said anything after that, his anger diverted into an arousal that each passing moment had honed to a sharp edge it would take Michael hours to blunt and smooth down.

He could feel his cock throb with each breath he took, feel his skin tingle in the breeze coming through the open window. Michael would close it when he came in, and draw the heavy curtains, so that the rush of traffic outside faded to a hum and Steve could make all the noise he needed to. If he got too loud, Michael would know -- Steve would be past caring -- and the gag would take care of that.

Freedom to scream was a gift Steve hadn't known he wanted. Michael was the only person to ever give it to him, wrapped up in an awareness of Steve's needs that left him wondering how he'd gotten so lucky. Michael didn't just love him, Michael knew him, saw him clearly, always had from that first meeting in a bar when Steve had gotten in over his head with a blind date who gave him the creeps and decided to leave. He'd walked away and caught Michael staring at him, the interest behind the speculative gaze enough to turn his steps away from the door and over to Michael's table.

Steve had come a long way since that first, cautiously hopeful conversation. Six months ago, he wouldn't have obeyed Michael to the letter; he'd have come in, grabbed a beer, taken a shower, maybe jerked off, still moody, still tense. He might have gone naked to his knees a few minutes before Michael was due home, but that was about it. Good enough.

Except Michael always knew when he'd been less than perfect in his obedience, and no, it wasn't good enough, not for Michael and not for Steve.

Tonight, he'd walked through the door, paused only long enough to check for phone messages in case Michael had any further instructions for him, and stripped down as he hurried to the bedroom. The sweat had cooled and dried on his body as he knelt, and he could smell it, each breath bringing him the reek of a day filled with frustration.

His legs were numb now, but he wasn't thinking about that. He wasn't thinking about anything but the paddle hanging on the wall.

<i>"I'll use it when you need it." Michael stroked the flat surface with his fingertip. "I'll know when the time's right and so will you. Until then, you'll have to make do with my hand. Is that a problem?"

"You know it isn't." Steve grinned and brought Michael's hand back until it lay on his ass, fingers spread, flexing slightly. "Now? Please?"

"Later, babe." Michael smiled at him. "When you've come so hard your brain's offline."

"Love it when you talk geek to me, Mr. Policeman."

"And I thought it was the cop-issue handcuffs."

Three times, the paddle had been unhooked from the wall. Once when one of Steve's friends had been killed in a fire and his dreams had been filled with the crackle of flames and hoarse screams until the harsh, flat slap of the paddle had drowned them out. Once, Michael's mouth twitching with amusement, on Michael's own birthday, after Steve had spent too long insisting that on this one day, Michael should be the one bent over Steve's knee.

And once, like tonight, when Steve had been about to fly apart and Michael had given him an appraising, thoughtful look, and then walloped his ass until the sting and throb of punished skin had been all that he could think about.

"I should kick your ass, not paddle it." Steve blinked and took his gaze away from the paddle to meet Michael's frown.

He swallowed and tried not to make it a gulp. He hadn't heard Michael come in; how weird was that? Normally, he'd have to be hip-deep in programming to be that oblivious to his surroundings. "About that…"

"Tell me, tell me, you wouldn't have mouthed off like that to just any uniform who'd pulled you over."

"I wouldn't!" Steve protested and then paused. "Well… I wouldn't have gotten so personal."

Michael sighed and scrubbed his mouth with his hand, gray eyes weary, his dark hair cropped too short to be rumpled, but a long way from perfectly smooth. "You'd have gotten more than a ticket if you'd done that. So where was the fire? You were doing twenty over the limit in a built-up area, you know."

Guilt seeped past the pleasure of having Michael home and safe. He hadn't really taken in what Michael had recited in a monotone, a muscle jumping in his cheek. "I was distracted. See, at work, well, it began before that, when I slept through the alarm after you'd left --"

"I don't care," Michael interrupted. "You had a bad day. It happens. You don't get to drive as out of control as you would've been if you'd been drinking."

"I'd never do that," Steve said and meant it. He shifted position, aware of his protesting muscles now that he'd been unceremoniously jerked out of his meditative haze.

"Stay where you are," Michael told him. "I'm not ready to deal with you yet. Too fucking pissed."

"My legs have gone to sleep."

That got him an eye-roll. "You know better than to let them get that way. They start to, then you get up, walk around, get back into position. You knowthat."

"Yes, but --"

"Do it now."

Standing up hurt. Walking -- stumbling -- around the room, with the blood flowing back into his legs, pins and needles sharply agonizing, hurt, too. Michael closed the window and drew the curtains, just as Steve had known he would, and then watched him walk, arms crossed over his chest, his face expressionless.

Kneeling down again made Steve wince, but Michael just nodded. "Better. Now, where were we? Oh, yeah. You were out of control. You go off into your own world and you're blind and deaf, you know that. You're not fit to drive like that. Next time, you stay where you are and I'll come and get you when my shift ends. Or you take a cab home; sure, it's expensive, but it's cheaper than a fine."

"You're not going to lose the ticket, are you?" Steve said, resigned to that inevitable consequence. Michael wasn't a saint, but he drew his lines carefully when it came to his job. Fixing tickets fell outside the favors he'd do for a friend.

"It's been taken care of."

Steve turned his head to stare at Michael. "What? But you never do that." Understanding dawned. "You paid it?" The ticket had been a couple hundred dollars. It would have been an exaggeration to say that Steve earned twice what Michael made, but not by much. Paying the fine wouldn't leave Michael penniless, sure, but still…

"Looked at one way, I'm the one who deserved the ticket. I'm supposed to see when you're getting worked up and stop it happening." Michael's voice was flat. "Looks like I screwed up because it sure as hell took more than one day to get you like this. So, yeah, I'm annoyed with you, but I'm really fucking furious with myself." His gaze went to the paddle on the wall. "And that's staying there until I get over it, because paddling your ass isn't supposed to be a punishment." A faint smile warmed his face. "It's supposed to make us both feel good, right?"

"Right," Steve agreed in a whisper. "God, I -- I need it, Michael. Really fucking need it."

"So do I," Michael said and sounded as if he meant it. "You have no idea how much. You're not the only one having trouble at work. There's this new captain in Vice and he's asked for half of my department--" He broke off. "You know what? I'm going to take a shower, have a beer, and cook us supper. Forget about it all."

"Sounds good," Steve agreed cautiously. "What about me?"

Michael glared at him. "You can stay there while I shower and then take one yourself. You look like you need one. Smell like it, too."

"Waste of water."

"Maybe. But you don't get to shower with me."

"You're still pissed?"

Michael's teeth flashed in a tight grin. "Big time. You're the reason I can't get a blow job in the shower, remember?"

Steve frowned. "Logically, that doesn't make much sense," he began and then caught Michael's eye. "I'm going to stop talking now."

"Good plan, Steve."

Michael walked into the bathroom that led off the bedroom and Steve was left to listen to nothing but the hiss of water hitting Michael's naked body.

Fuck. This wasn't going the way he'd planned it at all. He'd pictured Michael yelling -- he wasn't sure why; Michael rarely raised his voice -- and then a paddling, himself repentant, gasping for breath, or even a spanking over Michael's knee, followed by sex that would leave them both mellow and relaxed.

Stupid of him. No matter how much he fucked up, Michael wouldn’t handle it that way and Steve didn't really want him to; he just wanted the peace that followed the pain and the connection that he felt when he was in position for a spanking, Michael close by, a calm, strong presence.

He'd have them both eventually, Michael wouldn't stay pissed for ever. He just hadn't realized that he wasn't going to get them right away. He glanced down at his cock, only half-hard now, and sighed.

His concentration was shot to hell and staring at the paddle only served to remind him of what he was missing, so he closed his eyes.

You're not the only one having trouble at work.

Michael's words echoed in his head and made him frown. If Michael was beating himself up for missing cues, the same went for Steve, who hadn't realized that Michael was unhappy in a job he usually loved. Whether it was fixable or something Michael was going to have to live with didn't matter; Steve should have at least noticed and offered whatever comfort he could give.

Even if it was just a blow job -- and why should Michael have to go without one of those just because he had an asshole for a boyfriend, dammit? Steve stood, intending to go to Michael, just as Michael came back into the room, his dark hair sleek and wet, his skin flushed and beaded with water. A towel was wrapped around his hips, doing nothing to obscure the lines of a body that had made Steve fall to his knees more than once, ready and willing to worship.

"You need a break again?" Michael asked, his concern plain even though Steve could see that he wasn't off the hook yet. Hot water could only do so much to cool someone down.

"No, I just -- I was going to go to you."

"After I told you not to?"

Steve arched his eyebrows. "We don't do this around the clock," he reminded Michael. "Which sounds like another way of saying that you're not the boss of me, but I guess what I really mean is that I get to take care of you, too, and maybe tonight you need that more than I do."

He watched Michael absorb that and felt the tension build until Michael nodded an ungrudging agreement. "Yeah. You're right. This isn't really a scene; not when it started the way it did. I shouldn't have told you to come home and do this."

"Oh, you should have," Steve told him. "It helped. Big time."

"Really?" Michael narrowed his eyes. "So why end it?"

"Because you need to…" Steve waved his hand around aimlessly. "I don't know. Chill? Start over? And you can't do that in a scene that began with you angry with me, so we take a break, and then both of us get what we want."

Michael moved closer, the heat from his skin like a caress on Steve's body. "What do you want?" Michael asked and touched him for the first time since he'd walked in, his hand skimming up Steve's arm and back again, a light, possessive touch that was all it took for Steve to get fully hard again.

"Oh, God, you know what I want," Steve said and didn't care that he was putting it all out there for Michael to see. Months of being with the man had brought him to the point where he could do this and not worry about coming over as too needy. Michael liked being wanted.

"Tell me." Michael leaned in and mouthed Steve's neck, low down, where it met his shoulder, and made him shudder, goose bumps breaking out. "Got to tell me, sweetheart, you know that. Rule number whatever the fuck it is."

Steve moaned, the sound meant to be a chuckle, but Michael was biting now, sharp scrapes of his teeth over sensitized skin. "Seven, I think -- God, Michael, let me, want to, let me suck you… please?"

He would have done anything, but that was what Michael had asked for, as much as Michael ever did ask for anything, and his mouth was ready to reshape itself around Michael's cock, his tongue eager to lick and tease and do whatever Michael told it to, until words went away and all that was left was the harsh, sweet sound of Michael's breath caught between a whimper and a groan.

Michael kissed him, soft and wet, the lap of his tongue against Steve's permission enough, instruction enough. Steve went to his knees and waited, his body shaking with eagerness, for Michael to tug at the towel and bare himself.

"Oh, I'll let you," Michael murmured, his voice tight, controlled, all the annoyance gone. "I'll fuck your mouth until you can't taste anything but me, and don't even think about coming, because I won't. Not yet. And you don't get to until I have."

Michael stepped back and left Steve facing emptiness. The protest that rose to his lips went unspoken because Michael was walking over to the paddle and unhooking it from the wall, the towel he wore discarded on the way with an impatient yank. Steve watched it fall to the floor and then glanced up at Michael's ass, firm and tight, the skin paler there. He'd marked it with his mouth the week before, bitten it red, bruised it gently, when Michael had asked to be rimmed. He'd taken forever to get to the point where his tongue was anywhere near Michael's hole, obeying the order to take his time until Michael was panting, writhing, his hands clawing at the bed covers.

For once, it'd been fun to be in control, and the spanking he'd gotten later to get them back to normal had been the perfect thank you.

"I think we're going to change things tonight," Michael said, back in front of Steve, his cock up and interested, the paddle in his hand. "Just a little. You okay with that, Steve?"

"Change things how?"

"You're so cautious. Don't you trust me?"

Steve glanced up. "You taught me how to be both. Careful and trusting. I don't say thank you half enough, but I owe you for that."

Michael exhaled and then went down on one knee, his free hand cupping Steve's face. "God, when you say stuff like that, you just -- you don't know what it does to me."

"It's true." Steve brushed his lips over Michael's and felt a surge of tenderness when Michael's hand held him in place so that the kiss could be returned. "And I trust you, sure I do. Why wouldn't I? You take better care of me than I do, always."

"I try to, anyway." Michael moved to the bed and sat on the edge of it, then turned Steve so that he was kneeling between Michael's legs. The paddle, he placed across his lap, where it drew and held Steve's gaze until Michael said softly, "Look at me."

"Yes, Michael." The acknowledgment slipped out easily, as easily as Steve felt himself relax into a willing obedience.

"You like it when I use this on you, don't you?" The paddle was raised an inch or two and then fell back with a muted slap against Michael's thighs. "No, you love it. Remember when I took it down and made you kneel beside me and watch me polish it? You came just from that and it didn't even touch you."

Steve bit his lip hard to hold back the moan. Fuck, that had been hot… The white duster against the dark wood, and the smell of oil; the careful attention Michael had given to the task… all of it arousing him to the point that when Michael had leaned over to kiss him, the paddle in his hand, Steve had arched up into the kiss, come spilling from his cock as rare tears stung his eyes. He'd never felt so out of control of his body; the climax was one nothing, not even a direct order from Michael, could have stopped. He still wasn't quite sure why it'd gotten to him so much seeing Michael lavish attention on one of their toys. "Yes."

"But I don't use it often. Would you like it all the time?"

"No." That didn't take any thought. Steve shook his head to back up the single word and when Michael gave an encouraging, questioning murmur, continued. "I'd never want to give up going over your knee and the paddle feels better when you've got room to swing."

"You mean it hurts more," Michael said dryly.

"I can take it, you know I can."

Michael lifted the paddle, hooked it over his finger by the loop of leather, and let it swing between them for a few seconds. He slipped the loop off his finger and began to play with the paddle, petting it absently with the tips of his fingers and stroking its surface. "You push yourself too hard, babe, but yeah, you can take a lot. And when you get to your limit and want more, well, you can't push me past it, so it's all good."

"It's very good when you actually do it," Steve said pointedly, hoping to provoke Michael into dragging him up and over Michael’s knee for a few swats. He was trying to stay outwardly calm, but the paddle in Michael's hand and his own position, kneeling, the thrust of Michael's cock right there, so close… he was going to lose it soon. Start begging.

"We need to work on your patience," Michael said in what had to be a tease. "I'm hungry and you need to shower and eat, too."

Michael had a habit of spinning things out that Steve had to admit could lead to some explosive sex when he relented, but tonight it verged on sadistic. Pointing that out to Michael wouldn't get more than a grin and a drawled, "And your point would be?" so Steve didn't bother.

Instead, he held Michael's gaze and said quietly, "Please?" trusting to Michael to gauge his desperation and need well enough to get that he really, really couldn't wait. Not tonight. He was held down by threads, slender but numerous, and he needed to break free, but he couldn't do it alone. He needed the surrender, needed the pain that followed, burning, cleansing.

He needed Michael.

"Finish telling me why you don't want this every time." The firm set to Michael's mouth was enough to make Steve change an objection to an answer.

"It's what you use when things get bad, mostly. Using it all the time would mean I'd feel as if -- as if I was stuck in a rough patch."

Michael bit his lip, a rare show of indecision when they were like this. "Yeah, I can see how you'd make that association, but I'm not sure it's how I want you to see it. If I want to use it on you more, and I do, I need you to get past that and see it less as a 911 call and more of a--"

"Chat with a friend?" Steve suggested.

The corners of Michael's mouth twitched in amusement. "If you like."

"I can do that, but," Steve swallowed. "You -- you'll still spank me sometimes, right? With just your hand? Please?"

"Oh God, yes," Michael said fervently. "I'm never going to give that up. And I don't give a fuck how far you want to go; the day I can't take you there with just my hand on your ass--"

"Won't happen." Steve shook his head. "Uh-huh. No way." He eyed the paddle and felt his arousal spike. The other times he'd felt the sting and burn of the polished wood, he'd been too overwhelmed by the intensity of the physical sensations and, twice, his own emotional state, to really pay attention to details. It would be interesting to get paddled when he was able -- for a while at least -- to concentrate on more than the throb of his ass.

"This isn't something we'll do if you don't want it," Michael said. "If you want to wait, or keep it the way it is now, then that's fine."

"I want…" Steve fell silent for a moment. "I want to make you happy," he said finally and surprised himself. His selfishness, as more than one partner had put it, was something he'd never made much effort to overcome before, because if he didn't put himself first, who would, but now that he had Michael looking out for him… "And I know you never punish me when I screw up because that's not what we do with this, but you're not mad now, so there's nothing stopping you from getting rid of your frustration on me. I want you to. And we can eat any time, but if you don't tell me to suck you soon and then use whatever the hell you want on my ass, I'm going to..." He paused and tried to think of something suitable as a threat.

"I'm going to apologize some more," he said finally, when Michael didn't say anything to help him out. "Until you believe that I mean it when I say I'm sorry."

"I already do." Michael smiled at him, sunrise time after a dark, scary night. "When your window came down and you saw it was me who'd pulled you over, before you started mouthing off, there was this moment when you looked so fucking scared and guilty, that I knew you didn't mean most of what you said afterward." He tapped the paddle against his hand. "Which doesn't mean that I'm not going to be thinking about some of the shit you came up with when I'm using this. We don't bring fights into our bedroom, but I'm still going to make your ass burn extra hot tonight."

"Why?" Steve said involuntarily. When Michael had moved in, taking their relationship to the next level, Steve had tentatively suggested some form of discipline to keep him in check -- because he could be an asshole and he knew it -- and Michael had turned him down flat, saying, "I could deal with you being a prick that way, I guess, but why spoil the fun for both of us? I like spanking you; you like being spanked; I don't want to do it as a punishment and what we do isn't something that goes well with being angry. No. Forget it. If either of us screws up, we'll do what everyone else does: talk or fight it out and have make-up sex."

Michael gave him a narrow-eyed look. "'Power-mad pigs in uniform'? 'Arrogant assholes in blue?' Am I ringing any bells? You don't say shit like that about the people I work with, Steve. Next time -- if there has to be one -- keep it about just me and we'll be fine, but you're getting a little extra on behalf of the cops you insulted and that's not punishment, it's a lesson in good manners and gratitude."

Recognizing the signs of Michael about to launch into a lecture about how unappreciated cops were, Steve tried to think of a diversion. It wasn't that he didn't agree that he'd been way out of line with what he'd said and done, but this just wasn't the time, dammit.

He made a placating sound, more of a whimper, really, and risked a kiss on Michael's inner thigh, where the skin was smooth and warm. Michael stopped talking and breathed in sharply.

"Steve…"

"I agree with you. All of it. I'm an asshole and I'll -- when you're at my limit, when it's starting to hurt and not in a good way… give me however many extra you think I deserve and I'll take it. My decision. I trust you not to be harsh; you let me apologize at the top of my lungs."

"You won't be yelling by then," Michael told him, his calm certainty sending a pleasant shiver down Steve's spine. "Words? Actual, comprehensible words? Please. You lose them five minutes in."

"So true," Steve agreed and nuzzled into the damp softness of Michael's balls. They tasted clean, which was good in a way, but he wanted to get past the blandness of soap and water scrubbed skin to Michael's own taste and smell. He licked the base of Michael's cock, hoping to be allowed to do more, and then sighed as Michael tugged at his hair, which Steve deliberately wore long enough to provide a convenient way to position him. He allowed himself to be pulled away and twisted his head, trying, and failing, to kiss Michael's wrist.

"Impatient," Michael said quietly enough that even as close as they were, Steve could barely hear the word.

"One of us has to be."

"You're trying so hard to make me lose it." Michael sounded genuinely amused. "When will you figure out that the more you push, the longer I make you wait?"

"Already did," Steve said between gasps as Michael twisted the hair he held and made Steve's scalp burn and tingle. "When will you figure out that I hate waiting, but really love you making me do it?"

Michael chuckled and eased his grip, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the tender skin on Steve's head. "I think I knew that, but it's good to get confirmation."

"Of how fucked-up I am?"

"Not that. Ever. You're not." Michael's finger tapped under Steve's chin and brought it up so that Steve had no choice but to meet Michael's eyes. "You're not fucked-up, you're not weird, you're not sick."

That was getting easier to accept with every day he spent with Michael, who had to be the most grounded person on the planet when it came to his kinks. Easier -- but not easy; he had to push for more. "Then what am I?"

"Mine." Michael looked a little surprised that he had to ask. "All mine. Now stop talking and blow me." His hands cupped Steve's face, his thumbs finding the vulnerable hollows of skin behind Steve's ears and pressing in gently, which sent ripples of heat through him, his nipples hardening as if they'd been rubbed with ice.

He dipped his head and felt Michael's hands slide through his hair and then move away, but he barely noticed, too caught up in the nudge of Michael's cock against his lips. Michael always touched him when Steve was doing this; the hands would be back, gripping Steve's shoulders, guiding his head, holding him still so that his mouth could be fucked, taken, owned, for the time it took for Michael to come with a final surge forward, his fingers digging in.

If Michael was ever rough, it was then and Steve got off on that moment when Michael's control vanished because it wasn't like Michael ever stopped knowing that it was Steve sucking, swallowing, choking. His control might be lost; the connection between them never was.

And having his mouth kissed afterward, Michael's lips traveling over it, his tongue lapping at the chafed corners, biting gently at the swollen lips until they stung, was the perfect way to come down from the high of being used that way.

He lapped at the head of Michael's cock, a fierce, loving assault on it until it yielded the salt-tang of pre-come to flavor the spit filling his mouth, and waited to be touched by knowing, loving hands. What he got instead was the paddle, a cool shock against his back.

He jerked, caught the side of Michael's cock with his teeth, and pulled off long enough to give it an apologetic kiss. The paddle tapped a warning and he went back to what he'd been doing and felt the wood turn gradually warmer as it soaked up his body heat.

It was distracting, that slide of smooth hardness over his skin. No pain, but the promise of it, and that was enough, more than enough, to have his cock a solid, heavy weight between his legs. He wasn't giving Michael's cock the attention it deserved though, so he stopped trying to anticipate where the paddle would move to next -- the side of his leg, his arm, low down on his back, teasingly close to his ass -- and settled into a warm anticipation instead that didn't require as much thought.

He was in no rush; hungry he might be, but that didn't matter right then with the intimacy of what they were doing filling his senses. Heat and hardness in his mouth, Michael's breath coming faster, unsteady -- Steve could do this for as long as he was allowed, his hands roaming over as much of Michael's body as he could reach, then returning to cup and squeeze Michael's balls, a carefully judged caress, or fit around the base of his cock, jacking it when his jaw muscles needed a short break.

Then the paddle slid between them and Michael pushed at his shoulder in a signal to ease back.

He couldn't talk yet, gripped in a dreamy haze of lust, his own hard-on not forgotten, but ignored, because if he thought about it too much, he'd want to come, and Michael had said he had to wait. He glanced up at Michael and waited, not impatient now. He never was once they started.

"Feel it?" Michael whispered and rubbed the blade of the paddle over Steve's cock, flat, unyielding. "Fuck it. Rub off on it. Use it to get off. I'm going to let you come first after all, Steve, and you're going to come on it, all over it for me. And when it's wet and sticky, I'm going to use it on your ass until you're begging me to stop and when I think it's time, I will, but not 'til then."

This deep in the scene, what Michael said, unless it was a direct order, didn't count as much as what he meant. He used words to whip Steve's arousal higher, spinning promises and threats that didn't have to happen to make Steve whimper and squirm, his head filled with flashes of fantasies, both his and Michael's.

"Do it," Michael said, his voice calm as he altered the angle of the paddle just enough for Steve's cock to ride it. "And every drop goes on the paddle. You make a mess on the floor, and you'll lick it up."

"Oh, fuck!" It didn't matter that Michael wouldn't do that; Steve flushed with a deliciously humiliated heat and his hips jerked forward, the paddle accepting his thrusts with a cool indifference that fueled his heat. It wasn't sweat-slicked skin or a lube-wet hand, but he was so close to coming that anything would have done. Three, four rubs against the wood and he was spurting spunk over it in ball-draining jolts that left his dizzy, his heart pounding.

"Good boy," Michael said, and set the paddle aside carefully, its surface smeared obscenely, cream on black.

Steve put his forehead against Michael's thigh and found himself kissing it, biting and sucking the skin with a hunger his climax hadn't sated.

"God, your mouth." Michael shuddered, the muscles in his thigh tight and hard. "On the bed, Steve. Before I just -- oh God." Steve felt Michael's fingers latch onto his hair and pull him back onto Michael's cock, damp with spit and precome, the head flushed red and shiny. "Suck me. Just -- just for a minute, just -- no, fuck, stop."

Steve took his mouth away and knelt back, giving Michael some space, helping him to regain his self-possession. He'd never seen Michael so close to losing it; his chest was heaving, his eyes glazed.

"On the bed," Michael said hoarsely, getting off it himself and walking a few paces away, his back turned. "Ass up, legs spread. Pillow--" He broke off, his voice out of control. "Just do it."

"Yes, Michael." It felt good to say it, to give Michael the reminder of his authority. If Michael was shaken by how turned on he was, Steve was overcome by it and the strength of Michael's reaction.

Steve got onto the bed, not looking at the paddle, and arranged the pillows to support his hips, then crossed his arms and rested his face on them.

Michael left him like that for a while, until Steve was keenly aware of his exposed skin and what was to come. He'd been spanked after a climax before, but not often and it was going to make the pain more difficult to endure; he was relaxed, sure, but sensitized, too.

And still so very aroused. God, he hadn't realized he could be this turned on when he wasn't, strictly speaking, hard. Something told him that by the time this was over, he would be, though.

Michael walked over to the night table on his side of the bed, got lube and a condom out and tossed them onto their bed. He sat beside Steve and put his hand lightly on Steve's ass. "You're something, you know that? So fucking hot. I love what you do to me and I hate it, too." His hand fondled Steve, his fingers pushing between the cheeks of Steve's ass, one finger pressing firmly against Steve's hole without penetrating. "Mine," Michael said without a trace of doubt and Steve nodded, knowing Michael would see it.

"Years of this and you're the only one who's ever made me get so turned on that I can't breathe, there's no air." Michael sighed. "There's just you. Geeky rich boy. Self-centered genius. You don't belong in my world in the day and I don't fit in yours -- and then we walk in here after work and none of it matters, because we fit."

Steve bit down on his arm to stop himself from talking. He talked too much, babbled and bored people. Not Michael, who would listen to him for hours, eyes warm with interest, but just about everyone else. Of course, they couldn't shut him up the way Michael could, with a kiss, or his hand, or a gag.

Right now, he wanted to listen to what Michael was saying in a room lit by sunlight filtered through dark curtains, diffuse and dim, Michael who'd been the first man to tell Steve he loved him and who'd kept on saying it ever since.

"We fit," Michael repeated and fell silent for a moment. Then he leaned over and said quietly into Steve's ear, "And now I'm going to smooth down all those ragged edges of yours and mine, fill in all the cracks the world keeps leaving. Make it a perfect fit again, no room between us, no empty space at all."

"Do it," Steve said, his voice rough and his throat closing up. "Take it as far as you can. Please, Michael."

The flat slap of the paddle, wet with his come, was like a jolt of electricity. He cried out once, a startled yell because he'd forgotten how the paddle felt against his ass and it hurt, God, it hurt beautifully. After that, he didn't need to make much noise. The pain built and deepened and he panted, each breath timed to match the moment the paddle blade connected with his skin. His ass was blazing hot after a while, cooled only by the rush of air the paddle forced against it as it descended.

Michael didn't say much, allowing Steve to settle into the paddling, commenting now and then when Steve felt himself drifting too far away with as little as Steve's name or a murmured encouragement to ground him.

Steve felt his cock harden again, but it was a distant sensation. That physical sign of his arousal didn't matter. This turned him on, yes, but it was enough in itself. Michael had once spanked him hard and forbidden him to come, keeping the ban in place for two days over a long weekend and leaving Steve aching with arousal. Michael had stripped him naked and stayed dressed himself, never let Steve out of his sight, and touched him constantly, wickedly inventive touches and slaps that brought Steve to the edge over and over. His climax, when it had eventually been permitted, had been less of a release than an end to the fun, but as Michael had pointed out, Steve couldn't really go back to work in that state, not without raising some eyebrows.

It was starting to hurt a lot. Steve writhed against the pillows, still offering his ass up, but he was crying, the tears trickling down his face, and grunting out a frantic protest with each exhaled breath.

"Three more," Michael said suddenly, the words as green apple crisp as the sound the paddle made. "Hard as I can make them. You know why."

Impossible to agree verbally, so Steve settled for holding still, his body strung out on a rack, and waited.

One, then another, and the agony of the final strokes was unbearable, huge, encompassing his whole body, not just his punished, bruised ass. He couldn't take the last one. He just couldn't. He opened his mouth to force out his safeword and felt Michael hesitate, waiting.

That confirmation of how aware of him Michael was made Steve close his mouth again. Michael had said 'three' and that meant that Steve could take three. One more to go and then he could rest, forgiven, shriven, and savor the afterglow. One more.

It landed squarely a moment later with all Michael's strength behind it and Steve let himself scream in his head, his mouth too dry for sound.

"Finished," Michael said, the single word ending more than the paddling. He lay down beside Steve, close but not cuddling him, not even touching him, just there, waiting for Steve to recover, with the patience that Steve had come to think of as inexhaustible.

Steve drifted, half-asleep. "You didn't come," he said an endless while later, his words slurred and drowsy. "Sorry. Want me to take care of you?"

"Later," Michael said and his hand, cool now against the scald of Steve's skin, stroked it slowly, lightly. "Want to see to you, first. Rub in some arnica cream."

"Can't keep your hands off me," Steve said and yelped as his ass got swatted.

"I really can't," Michael said, unrepentant, and did it again.

Gently.

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