Sunday Night
Walter Skinner closed his eyes, breathing deeply as the soft
groan seemed to echo in his ears. He paused, feeling the hot
skin under his palm, simply letting his hand rest where it
had so recently fallen. The muscles tensed under the weight,
and he couldn't resist slapping the firm flesh again, feeling
the instinctive, protective clench, grinning just a bit as
the globes relaxed again.
He looked at the reddened skin, his loving handiwork, eyeing
it critically, the way an artist would judge a work in
progress. Yes, it was time. There was a quiver of nervous
anticipation as he reached for the brush, the wide oval back
with its dark veneer gleaming threateningly in the low light
of the bedroom. Yes, it was definitely time to take things to
another level.
He ran a surprisingly gentle hand over the intended target, a
fair though unnecessary warning, before drawing back and
smacking hard with the brush. A very satisfying jerk, a low
groan, a distinct catch in the breath. Again.
He loved this part, loved taking the already sore flesh and
shocking it with a fierce application of sting and heat,
loved the reactions that quickly moved body and soul beyond
determined control straight to a hard-won, much needed
honesty. After this part there would be no lies, no stony
facades, not a trace of anything but deep, vocal need.
Desire was pitching him higher now, the sound of almost
tearful gasps and loud cracks fueling him. He was still
careful, of course, but he was losing himself in the sharp
repetition, in the hard punishment so mercifully meted out,
not for infraction, but for leisure and lust . . . and for
love. That had been the hardest part, acknowledging that each
spank was not just a kiss, but a benediction, a prayer for
healing and happiness and joy fulfilled.
He reached down, finding the hardness he knew would be
waiting, feeling the almost pleading push into his hand. His
fingers closed around the already slick skin, smearing the
essence with his thumb, feeling the resulting thrust, and he
loosened his grasp. That brought a sound of frustration, but
Walter ignored it with a smile, knowing how much better it
would be for just a little more teasing, a little more fuel
for a fire that needed no more kindling, only a spark.
He gave it, reaching for a small tube and carefully anointing
one long finger. There was a hungry sigh as he gently parted
the burning cheeks, seeking the vulnerable opening that
yielded to him so readily. He heard the long, low keening
that always accompanied entrance, and closed his eyes as the
sound took him desperately close to the edge.
He waited a heartbeat, three, and then closed his fist around
the desperate cock, even as he withdrew and thrust back,
making sure to angle his finger just right. Twice more, and
with a single stroke of his fist, the passion released. The
stillness of the room was broken by loud sobs and cries, the
sound of a man both giving everything up and being gifted
with it all back. The sound never failed to move him, and
this time was no exception, his heart aching for the source
of that sound, knowing what made this so very necessary and
saddened by the knowledge.
After a few moments of quiet shuddering, he reached up,
wiping the tears from his face. He took the cloth he'd laid
out earlier, washing first his face, then his stomach,
cleaning himself carefully. He sighed, walking away from the
mirror to lie down on his bed, one arm over his eyes, though
the room was almost dark by now. His backside protested, but
he ignored it, no longer needing the pain, so he no longer
acknowledged it. Later he would put the long-handled brush
away, clean the bedside table without really looking at it,
refusing to admit even to himself what he was doing. And then
it would be over.
Until the next Sunday night.
The End