The suite’s door snicks shut behind Tobin. David sits in the chair. Tobin begins to sweat.

“How many times?” David’s words are quiet, controlled. He’s still fully dressed.

Tobin’s gaze drops to David’s waist. Shit. The leather one. David owns a woven belt, something casual and textured that somehow reminds Tobin of tennis players and doesn’t really hurt much at all. This belt, though, is the serious belt. Its buckle gleams, the same silver as David’s hair. It is, in its way, an extension of David’s body, of his aesthetic.

It is my flesh hitting you, David had said the first time, while Tobin still sniveled on his knees, uncomprehending. This is my flesh hitting you. This is my tongue tasting you. This is my hand caressing you. This is my cock fucking you. A new perspective for every sharp crack of the belt. David hadn’t spoken about it after that first time. He hadn’t had to.

“Tobin. How many times?”

Tobin drops to his knees, right there just inside the doorway. How many times today? He’s always aware, at the time, that he’s doing it, but somehow he forgets to count. “Fourteen?”

“No. Come here.”

Tobin crawls. As he nears David’s feet he lowers himself further, moving forward on forearms and knees till David’s scuffed black shoes are directly beneath his chin. This close, he can feel David’s heat, a strange, penetrating warmth like that of a few stiff drinks. David hasn’t showered yet; he’s stopped smelling like cologne and started smelling like a man.

“How many times?”

“Seventeen?”

“No.” Beneath Tobin’s gaze, David’s feet move apart. “Take it off me.”

Tobin shifts up enough to unfasten David’s belt buckle, keeping his eyes down. The leather is warm from David’s body, firm but supple, reminiscent of the animal it once was. Tobin had mentioned that once, carefully. I merged with the animal, David had said. I took its skin for my own and impregnated it with metal, and now it is me. It’s all very primal, Tobin. It’s all very evolutionary.

“How many times?”

“Twenty-one.”

“No. Give it to me.”

Tobin folds the belt in half and offers it up, his head down, as if presenting a sword to a king. His king. David accepts the belt slowly, then holds it in one hand so he can stroke Tobin’s cheek with the other. Tobin keeps his eyes down, hot at David’s touch.

“How many, Tobin?” David’s voice is soft, to match the caress.

“Twenty-five,” Tobin whispers, his throat thick with shame.

“No. Hold out your hands.”

Keeping his head down, Tobin holds both hands out, palms up, and waits.

Waits.

Waits.

The first strike is against Tobin’s left palm; he hears it more than he feels it until the sting settles in, deep and intense. “One, Master,” he gasps, straightening his posture, holding his hands out flat once more. The second slap, Tobin thinks, is harder; it always feels like David strikes his dominant hand more sharply. “Two, Master,” Tobin hitches out, resisting the urge to close his hands for even a moment.

“Breathe.”

Respite. Tobin lets his hands drop a little, careful to keep them open, and takes the opportunity to pull in a full breath and moisten his lips. He can feel David’s impatience as they reach the end of the breathing time—its duration has never been spelled out, but Tobin feels it all the same—and he holds his hands up again.

It could be a stronger blow, or just the illusion of it after the break; either way, Tobin holds in a cry, waiting for the sharpest of the pain to dissipate before he trusts his voice. “Three, Master.” How many times? How bad has he been? The guilt hurts almost as much as the next slap of the belt. He was very bad, very disrespectful, God knows how many infractions. “Four, Master.” How he could do this, to his master, day after day, how he could forget the lessons his master crafts for him, so cruel and so clear... “Five, Master.” How many times? Tobin’s palms ache, burn with his shame. How many more infractions? A dozen more? Two dozen more?

The leather strikes hard, cracking sharply against Tobin’s skin. He hitches in breath to count off and can’t find enough air to do it. Dimly, he realizes he’s crying. It doesn’t matter. He has to find the breath to speak, to answer and appreciate his master’s punishment. He holds his hands up higher, a silent supplication for patience, and then breath comes back to him in a single shuddering gust. “Six,” he sobs out softly, “Master.” He wipes his nose on the shoulder of his shirt and holds position, waiting for the next slap.

“That’s all.”

David’s voice is calm, velvet stretched over steel. Tobin blinks away tears, raising his head, looking up past the erection tenting David’s unbelted pants and into his master’s eyes.

“Only six,” David murmurs. His expression warms a little, crow’s feet deepening as affection reaches his eyes. “You’re improving. I’m pleased.”

“Thank you, Master.” Tobin’s voice is thick through his tears. He keeps his hands out, red, swollen; his master hasn’t ordered anything different.

“Are you hard?” David nudges his foot between Tobin’s thighs to find out for himself.

“Yes, Master.”

“Undress.”

Tobin gets to his feet just long enough to divest himself of everything but his shirt. That, he can remove on his knees again, and once it’s off, he holds out his hands.

David passes his fingertips across Tobin’s right palm, then his left. “Good boy. Now suck me.”

Opening his master’s fly is not an easy task; Tobin’s hands are swollen and burning as he forces his fingers to work the button and zipper. David’s erection is wide, pale, thickly veined, and Tobin wraps one hot hand around the shaft, squeezing though the motion drives sharp pins of pain along the lines where David’s belt fell. Tobin licks his lips and takes the head of David’s cock into his mouth, sucking gently, nursing at the very tip till David gives that first telltale moan of approval.

Tobin closes his eyes, heated through by the sound. It’s here, when that sound of satisfaction rumbles free from David’s throat like the purr of a contented lion, that David transforms from his master to his lover. David’s hand comes up to caress the side of Tobin’s face, fingertips tracing the contours of Tobin’s cheekbone as if it were some rare and delicate artifact, and Tobin opens wider, relaxing his throat, taking David in to the root.

“Enough,” David breathes. “Bed.”

Tobin favors David’s cock with one last sucking stroke, smiling lightly as he gets to his feet. David skins off everything but his t-shirt, leaving black garments of various fabrics draped over assorted furniture as he heads to the bedroom. It’s a weakness, that t-shirt. Tobin knows it, but only because David told him, and as such it’s a secret, a sacred and intimate thing Tobin would never question. It’s more me than I am, David had said. I am alienated from my chest.

Tobin pulls back the covers, finds the faint stain from last night’s sex still present on the sand-colored sheets. It’s a waste, David says, to have the bedding washed nightly, and there is a comfort to sleeping in one’s own smell. That, too, Tobin has accepted without question, as he has accepted the knowledge that stretching out under the covers, on his back, legs spread, is the way David wants him every night.

There is no speaking, and after David climbs into bed and rolls on top, there is no light. David’s breath is warm and affectionate at Tobin’s cheek, pausing momentarily for kisses along that same cheekbone; David’s scent is dark and mammalian, trapped by the sheets, as his thighs nudge Tobin’s further apart. Tobin reaches, blindly, and rests a hand on David’s arm, half over skin and half over t-shirt sleeve. When the lights are on, David is always directing. In the dark, David trusts Tobin enough to be himself.

A soft snap of plastic, a faintly moist, organic sound, and David’s hand is between Tobin’s legs, spreading thick, viscous lube. To ease the friction, David had said once, on a post-coital float between drags off the joint. Like a well-functioning piston. Like oil in a car.

David’s fingers, then, well-practiced in what Tobin can take. Tobin finds David’s shoulder, clings to it, squeezes hard as David presses two fingers in, scissoring mercilessly. There are times when the foreplay is lengthy, times when David starts touching Tobin just after dinner and doesn’t stop till they’ve passed out on the bed four hours later. Not tonight. Not on a correction night. Two fingers, scissored hard, and that’s all; then David’s shifting up to grab the pillow, and Tobin wets his lips, releasing a breath.

Tobin knows David’s cockhead as intimately as he knows the pale crescent beneath David’s right thumbnail, the slightly phlegmy stuttering throat-clearing David inevitably makes in his sleep forty-five minutes after he nods off, the way David needs his toiletries arranged just so on the bathroom counter. The tip of his cock is almost flat, and Tobin breathes out again, opening up to that familiar bluntness till he feels the flare at the base of the head slide into him. He knows the way the vein that runs across the top of David’s cock is bulging right now; as David resists the primal urge to drive into Tobin to the root, Tobin knows the way David’s buttocks tense, knows from a suite with a mirror once. The image comes back to him brightly in the dark, David’s pale ass flexing, bracketed by Tobin’s tanned shins.

David exhales, warm breath washing across Tobin’s chest, and presses in slow and hard. Tobin moans, arching into it, reaching down to cup his cock. On the way there his fingers clash with David’s, moving to do the same. There’s a soft, short grunt of laughter from above, and Tobin smiles, groping for David’s wrist and then pulling it down to his cock. Better David’s hand than his.

David presses in again, passing his hand over Tobin’s cock in a deceptively gentle motion. Tobin hitches his legs higher on David’s thighs, then shifts them up to David’s hips. The angle forces him to pull in a breath as David slides in another inch without even trying. David’s moist fingers—lube? saliva?—find Tobin’s nipple and squeeze, eliciting another moan that just keeps going as David slides all the way in.

David always rests, here, and Tobin reaches up to cup his hand over David’s nape, breathing with him, finding the rhythm. We merge, David had whispered the first time, when he had cradled Tobin in his arms, fucking him hard and slow and so thoroughly Tobin could not even find the words to agree. We merge like everything else. There is no singular being. Anywhere.

Tobin shifts slightly, aware of the way David’s weight begins to move, and then David’s hand is on the mattress just beneath Tobin’s armpit, bracing himself. Tobin grips that upper arm, again half a hand of skin and half a hand of sleeve, and waits. David only starts when he’s ready.

The first thrust is slow, learning the way their bodies fit together on this particular night. Tobin tips his hips up encouragingly, and David thrusts again, his breath hitching. Tobin pushes his hips up, more forward this time, impatient. He knows what’s coming. He doesn’t want to wait. His cock is long and full against his belly, swollen and waiting for David’s hand. All of Tobin is waiting.

David finds it, that nebulous it that slips him into his comfort zone, and the thrusts turn rough and jarring, forcing Tobin to link his ankles in an attempt to keep their bodies joined. David’s breaths are harsh, focused, and Tobin reaches up to brace himself against the headboard, gasping as David’s cock rubs him just so. David’s free hand goes frantic then, clutching at Tobin’s hip, then his shoulder, seeking just the right way to anchor Tobin’s body. Tobin works his hips up, fisting one hand in the front of David’s t-shirt and yanking him closer, and that seems to do it. David cries out, a harsh, faintly startled sound, and his back arches sharply as he throws himself into Tobin for those final, crucial half-dozen thrusts. Tobin can feel David’s semen jetting deep into him, and he moans; we merge, like everything else. There is no singular being. Anywhere.

David breathes, his forehead on Tobin’s sweat-slicked chest. Closing his eyes, Tobin pets the back of David’s t-shirt, damp and stuck to his skin with sweat. There is a transmutation that happens in these moments, Tobin has decided; there is a kind of magic that happens between when he accepts David’s semen and when David coaxes his own out. The circuit is primed but not closed, and Tobin feels the whole of his being aching for completion, something far more basic and necessary than the urge to come.

David leans up and takes Tobin’s cock in his hand, letting out a low murmur of pleased surprise at its state. It feels swollen in David’s hand, distended like a pregnant woman’s belly, as thick and filled with blood as his belt-whipped palms. David presses in again, his cock still half-hard, and Tobin sucks in a breath, waiting, again. Then David begins to stroke, long, tight passes Tobin knows intimately, as he knows the slow, languid grind David offers in counterpoint. Here, there is nothing but David; he is over and inside and all thoughts of a universe beyond him fade. David’s hand tightens, working the top half of Tobin’s shaft in a perfect squeeze-twist Tobin never taught him but David seemed to intuit, importing the motion from the endless lazy adolescent afternoons Tobin spent sprawled half-naked on his bed, employing the exact same technique till he’d milked himself dry.

Tobin gasps, arching his hips up into David’s next press, and David quickens the pace of his hand, thumb working up the underside just below the ridge, over and over till Tobin tenses from head to toe, holding his breath till the orgasm breaks over him, forcing his cock up into David’s hand again and again, semen hot on his belly as David strokes it out of him, easy at first, then with a firmer grip, seeking to squeeze it all out.

Drained, Tobin lies boneless, twitching sharply as David works the last of the semen from him. Then David’s hand is on Tobin’s thigh, and David gently pulls out; Tobin waits, eyes open in the dark, spent but waiting for that crucial closing of the circuit, so close now, David shifting lower and taking the sheets with him, David’s breath warm against his cock.

There. David’s tongue strokes Tobin’s belly as he takes Tobin’s semen, licking with a slow, concentrated methodology to be sure he finds it all. Tobin’s skin cools where David’s tongue has been, his saliva quickly chilling in the open air.

David moans, and Tobin relaxes; it’s complete. David passes his hand gently over Tobin’s belly as he shifts up and to the side, settling in against Tobin, and then, finally, is the kiss, thorough and quiet, David’s hand at Tobin’s nape, Tobin’s hand at David’s hip.

“I love you,” David whispers in the dark, pressing his forehead to Tobin’s.

Tobin had asked about that the first time, how love fit into David’s mechanical, atheistic worldview. David had smiled, a coy little expression Tobin had rarely seen, and said: I am a realist. I have experienced love, and therefore it exists.

David takes Tobin’s hand off his hip, brings it up to his lips, kisses the still-hot palm.

“I love you,” Tobin whispers in return.

 

© 2007 Kal Cobalt - Contributor's Bio