Talk to the Hand

by Jane Davitt

A/N Contains spanking.

Jim's ass is scarlet, blotched and burning. Blair closes his fingers, capturing the heat, and feels his palm throb, blood beating fast, a sizzle and sting to it.

God, he loves this moment when the spanking ends. No words needed, beyond a few murmured endearments and reassurances that are spoken under his breath and he's not sure Jim hears in the true sense of the word, though they calm Jim's hitched, sobbing breaths a little.

Later, maybe, sometimes, they'll talk about it, but mostly all the important stuff's been said during the spanking. In vino veritas? Maybe, but alcohol's got nothing on the application of Blair's hand to Jim's bared, curved ass when it comes to getting the truth from both of them.

It's how Blair found out that Jim was furious with him for flirting with a suspect (even before she turned out to be the killer); it's how Blair told Jim he loved him in plain, simple words, three of them, after dancing around saying it for weeks. It's how they share what can't be said face to face, a conversation punctuated by gritted-teeth gasps and grunts, fervent, fluent curses, helpless, broken pleas, not for mercy but for more, please, harder.

Blair could save himself the pain and switch to a paddle or a hairbrush, but they never work as well to get them both talking, and why should Jim be the only one left with a reminder of the places they've gone, the journey they've taken?

He holds his hand in front of Jim and Jim sighs, sniffs hard, and then licks it, a deliciously cooling salt-wet swipe of his tongue. Blair sometimes repays that favor, laying Jim out on the bed, ass up, and covering every inch of scorching flesh with fervently adoring laps of his tongue. He's always such a fucking sap afterward and Jim soaks up the care and attention like the desert drinking rain.

Tonight he thinks he'll make Jim lie on his back, and watch Jim try so hard to stay still, poor baby, the sheet like sandpaper against his punished skin, too strung-out to control his senses as Blair's mouth travels slowly across Jim's stomach and lower. He'll nuzzle the tight balls, wiry hair tickling his face, bite gently from base to tip of Jim's cock, suck it wet and shiny, jack it hard and fast.

The spanking went as far as it could; Blair's not into hurting Jim, not past a certain point, anyway, and he always stops way before Jim wants him to.

But he's gotten good at thinking up ways to keep Jim riding that edge and this is one of his favorites. His mouth's busy, full, but he can hear Jim's moans become words, stumbling, rushed, honest.

Sounds like Jim's got a lot to say tonight. Blair eases back on the blow job, tiny cat-licks now, no more, and listens carefully --

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