What Satisfaction

by Jane Davitt

It's been days since he came. Weeks. Months. An eternity. Or, judged by clock time, seconds ticking off with a monotonous regularity, almost an hour.

Same thing. By now, arousal is his entire state of being, encompassing every tense in the book. He was aroused, he is aroused, he has been aroused, he will be aroused, for ever, world without end, hard without release, suffering, dammit.

It's taken this to make him realize how quickly he usually climaxes. A lover not a fighter? Oh, please. If his technique in the bedroom was translated to the ring, he'd be the guy getting knocked out in round one. Or, because his self-esteem hasn't entirely shriveled away, delivering that wham-bam punch right after the fight begins, because he doesn't usually leave his lovers unsatisfied.

For Jim, sadly, it seems to be a hobby; hell, his life's calling.

Jim, who's fully dressed, apart from his shoes -- yeah, he's still got those fucking white socks on, a fashion statement no one wants to hear -- while Blair is wearing a fine sheen of sweat and a pleading smile.

It would help if he was tied down, leather binding him. There's a sort of dignity in willing surrender, a haven to be found in a world temporarily without choice. Jim hasn't even given him that. Just stripped him, used every trick two months of fucking Blair has taught him -- and Blair's a good teacher, the best -- to reduce Blair to this roiling boil, and then kept him there, minute after endless minute.

Blair's trying, with the small part of his brain not yammering, please, now, touch me, touch me again, to isolate the moment when Jim got him so worked up that retreat without climaxing was impossible. Maybe when Jim's fingernail performed cuneiform on his inner thigh, high up so that Jim's knuckles brushed feather-soft over the tight hardness Blair's balls had become. Or possibly when Jim had mouthed fervently, devotedly, insistently, at a single square inch on Blair's stomach, low down, until it had thrummed and sang and every flickered lick and wet, warm kiss had echoed over Blair's body, resonating in his cock, naturally, and off places, like the back of his neck, his left, ear, the crook of an elbow…

It doesn't matter. Jim is on a chair now, out of reach, his voice, measured, cool, the only part of him touching Blair.

Blair helplessly, obediently, drags his hand down over his stomach, skirting the thrust of his cock with an effort of will, and leaves his hand (shaking, trembling) on his thigh. His other hand is busy tormenting a nipple that's a tight, hot throb of pain but Jim hasn't told him to stop and on more than one level, he's enjoying it, so he doesn't add it to the litany of apologies and pleas.

Even now, he trusts Jim to know better than he does when it's gone too far for his nipple or his cock or his fucking sanity.

"Sorry, sorry -- fuck, I'm sorry -- Jim, please, God, you're killing me here, man, you know that, right? And I didn't mean it, I didn't -- Jim, touch me, God, please just touch me -- anywhere, it's all I need, one touch, please, just one, just --"

Jim smiles and arches his eyebrows, his expression pleasant, friendly, implacable. "Make up your mind, Chief. I thought I was bugging you with all those touches. Getting on your last fucking nerve. Staking my territory like a dog --"

"I take it back," Blair howls. Fighting words, especially the dog bit and he hadn't meant them, not really, just… Jim hadn't needed to loom that much when Diane from Vice had just been chatting, nothing more. Hadn't needed to slide his hand, unseen, up Blair's back, tingles and shivers spreading downward in a wake. Hadn't needed to leave Blair breathless and stammering and achingly hard when they had the whole day to get through.

Hadn't needed to prove to Blair just how much in love he was with Jim when he was still telling himself this was casual, temporary, a stopgap because neither of them could find a date these days.

"Jim --" God, he sounds lost, desolate, but Jim's way over there and Blair hates that, hates it. "I love you."

"I know you do," Jim says and he gets off the chair and comes over to the bed, to Blair, and stops what Blair's hands are doing and bends his head and kisses Blair again, a clumsy, brief kiss that hits the corner of Blair's mouth and glances off. "I just wish you were happy about it."

"Not unhappy," Blair explains, revelations bursting like fireworks in his head, bang, bright, sparks, darkness. Oh, Jim -- "Just fucking terrified, which is good."

Jim's eyebrows quirk up again. "That's better than sad?"

"Way better," Blair tells him and drags Jim down onto the bed. "Scared, I'm used to after hanging around with you. It's my default setting. I can handle it." He tangles his fingers in Jim's shirt and slips buttons free of their moorings until he's got a smoothly muscled chest to lick at. "I'm gonna come on your pants unless you take them off."

"Thanks for the warning," Jim says dryly.

Blair nuzzles a kiss into the hollow of Jim's throat. "Touch me," he demands. "Touch me, Jim -- no, love me. Make love to me."

Jim's hand slides down Blair's back to cup his ass and draw him closer, so that the solid heat of Jim's cock digs and burns Blair's skin even through the two layers of clothing hiding it. "Hard and fast?"

Blair bites Jim's nipple reprovingly. "Are you kidding? Slow… really slow. What's your rush, man?"

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