Chapter Twelve #3
As the sun began to set, Damir became aware of how dark and empty the apartment was.
Sometime during Damir’s conversation with his mother, Ketchup had texted to announce he’d be staying the night with the trainer who’d been working on his hip—a young woman who ought to know better.
Damir sent him an eyeroll emoji. How could anyone censure Kilian for being gay when Ketchup was right there being Ketchup?
Damir heated up two portions of dinner—a thick red lentil soup with fresh lemon juice and parsley on top.
Kilian didn’t emerge, so Damir ate alone.
He turned off all the lights afterward and lay down on his bed.
It wasn’t even 8:00 p.m., but he had nothing else planned.
Might as well spend some time staring at the wall.
He lay there for an indeterminate amount of time, thoughts racing around and around in his head. At some point, his eyes drifted shut, not in sleep so much as in intense meditation.
On the nightstand, his phone buzzed, and he scrambled for it.
howza68: will you call me?
Damir got to his feet.
He wore his oldest sweatpants, a little short in the leg and worn thin. His ankles were chilly, his feet bare on the floor.
He pressed the call button.
“You said you would punish me,” Kilian said immediately, his voice small and lost.
“Kilian.”
“No, don’t—don’t baby me. I need to get out of my head. You can make it happen.”
“And you want me to…”
“I want it to hurt.”
Damir took a deep, steadying breath. “Not over the phone. Can I come over?”
“Yeah.”
A burglar in his own home, Damir hastened across the dark hall into the room Kilian had been staying in for three weeks now.
His clothes lay scattered across the floor, a wild mix of the few items he’d brought and the stacks of team-branded workout gear he’d been given.
Damir skirted around a pair of scissors resting on top of a T-shirt with the collar cut out unevenly.
Kilian sat at the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched. He wore nothing but a pair of dark blue briefs, and the exposed stretch of his skin was so pale it shone white in the dim light of the bedroom, as though he were a ghost of himself.
Maybe he was.
“What—” Damir cleared his throat. “What do you need?”
Kilian looked up at him, his eyes red-rimmed, his lips bitten raw. “I don’t know. I don’t—just make me stop thinking.”
Damir bit down on the frustration. It wasn’t Kilian’s fault he’d never had a decent negotiation for a scene; it was Damir’s.
“All right. Here’s what will happen. I am going to sit down where you are now, and you will lay yourself across my lap.
Then, I’m going to spank you until I think you’ve been suitably punished, yes? ”
Kilian nodded eagerly, pushing himself to his feet.
Damir took his place, legs spread wide, inviting Kilian to lie down across them.
He was warm and heavy, a welcome weight. Damir pulled Kilian’s underwear down and admired the swell of his ass. Just as beautiful as he’d known it would be when they’d talked about this as an idle fantasy. He ran greedy hands across it, squeezing and petting.
Kilian squirmed in anticipation.
A contrary part of Damir wanted him to wait longer. Kilian expected a hit; Damir didn’t want him to know when it would come. He was supposed to be in charge here, and he needed it to feel like it.
He massaged Kilian’s ass, his thighs, the space between the apex of his legs where the skin was dark and sensitive. He groped the supple flesh, then skated fingertips over Kilian’s balls, already somewhat swollen.
At first, Kilian tensed at every touch, but little by little, he relaxed into Damir’s hold. When he did nothing but spread his legs a little farther each time Damir chose a new way to touch him, Damir decided he was ready.
He brought the flat of his hand down on the swell of Kilian’s right ass cheek with a resounding clap.
Damir knew the sound was more of a shock than the sting.
He had tried it the other way around at Kilian’s age, and he knew the experience was at least half rooted in the humiliation of their positions and the accompanying sensory input.
Still, it did sting.
Damir admired the red print on Kilian’s skin before smacking the other cheek.
He rested his free hand on Kilian’s back. His shoulder blades rose with the shuddering intake of his breath, and Damir continued to spank him, first one side, then the other, over and over. It would have been meditative, but for the ache in Damir’s hand.
Eventually—it must have been after fifteen or twenty hits—the rise and fall of Kilian’s breathing became jerky and rushed, sobs escaping his lips only to be buried in the bedsheets.
Damir paused. With no limits or safewords discussed, he had little to guide him; “stop” and “no” were clear cues, but he didn’t want to push Kilian far enough to say either. With anyone else, tears would be a sign, but the last time they’d played in person, Kilian had begged for more when he cried.
Kilian pushed his ass up toward Damir.
All right, then.
“What do you say?” Damir asked as he resumed his pattern of slaps.
He expected a “thank you,” or maybe begging, either for Damir to stop, go harder, or fuck any of Kilian’s holes.
Kilian only said, “I’m sorry.”
Damir frowned. Kilian had said he wanted punishment, but Damir thought he meant punishment in the normal scheme of a casual BDSM scene, a pretend punishment for a pretend crime.
Kilian sounded as though he were confessing to a real transgression.
“What are you sorry for?” He punctuated the question with a particularly hard slap to the juncture of Kilian’s thighs and ass.
“It’s my fault, it’s all my fault.”
“What’s your fault?”
Kilian stayed silent.
Damir laid a hard smack in the center of his ass, right over his hole. Kilian’s hips rolled down against him, the hard line of his erection grinding into Damir’s thigh.
“What’s your fault, Kilian?”
“I shouldn’t—” A sob escaped Kilian’s lips. “I shouldn’t have gone to that club. I knew the risks.”
Damir rubbed across the heated flesh under his hands. “Were you the one taking pictures?”
When Kilian didn’t respond immediately, Damir used his full strength on the next slap. “Were you?”
“No!” Kilian cried. His hips jutted up, shifting him just enough that the sticky spot where he had leaked precome against Damir’s thigh grew cold.
“So what are you sorry for?”
“I’m sorry for how it looks!”
Damir rewarded Kilian for his honesty by nudging his thigh up so Kilian could grind against it more firmly. “How does it look?”
“I look so…so…”
“So what?”
“So gay.”
Damir hadn’t spent long examining the article; if he had, he’d have thrown his phone against a wall. It took him a moment to remember what Kilian looked like in the pictures: head tilted back, some other man’s hands all over his bare stomach. Happy.
“Are you gay?”
Kilian made a soft, hurt sound.
Damir slapped him again, right where the skin was most red.
“Yes.” The word was sobbed out, barely understandable.
“And is that something you’re sorry for?” Damir didn’t pause this time, laying the hits strong and fast.
“No!” Kilian called out. “No, I’m not—I’m not—”
“Is it your fault?”
“No!”
Damir pushed Kilian’s red, tender ass down roughly, tensing the muscles in his thigh, and let Kilian shake and shudder and hump his way to orgasm.
It took mere moments before he came, bursting warm and wet against Damir’s leg, staining his sweatpants.
Damir clawed into the red skin of his ass to hear him cry out hoarsely as the last pulses left him.
Kilian came to a halt all at once, spent. Their breathing was loud in the quiet room, Kilian’s hitching into uneven sobs while Damir panted from the exertion.
He’d gone harder than he meant to, given Kilian more than he’d thought wise. Story of his life.
Kilian pushed himself up, the muscles in his shoulders standing out though his arms were shaking. He slid off of Damir’s lap and landed on the floor with a thump.
“Kilian—”
“Shh.”
Clumsy fingers scrambled for the waistband of Damir’s sweatpants.
“You don’t—”
Kilian glared. “Shut the fuck up and fuck my fucking mouth.”
In the next instant, his lips stretched wide around the head of Damir’s erection, and Damir—well, he was only human. He’d just had a beautiful man crying and shaking and coming for him, and Kilian’s mouth was pornographically lovely.
He threaded his fingers through Kilian’s hair and held on for dear life.
He saw no need to follow Kilian’s order and fuck his mouth.
Kilian did his level best to fuck his own throat using Damir’s dick as a prop.
Tear tracks ran all down his cheeks, his eyelashes clumped together, and every now and again, Kilian’s breathing hitched as his throat constricted.
No way Damir would last more than a few minutes.
“Kilian,” he called out.
Kilian choked around him. His throat went tight, so tight, so—
He pulled away, coughing.
Damir tried to make his brain work enough to help. “Are you—should I—water?”
Kilian held up a finger, closed his eyes, swallowed…
and then he got right back to it, swallowing as much of Damir’s cock as he could take.
He scraped his teeth down the shaft on accident, whether because he was still coming down from an intense scene or because he gave sloppy blow jobs in general, Damir didn’t know.
It didn’t matter.
“I’m going to come,” he warned.
Kilian retreated until nothing but the very tip remained in his mouth. His tongue flicked from side to side, stimulating the nerve bundles under the head of Damir’s cock. He wrapped his fist around the saliva-wet shaft, jerking Damir as he sucked.
With his free hand, he cupped Damir’s balls. They constricted in his grip instantly. Pleasure punched Damir in the gut, and he hunched over, holding tight to Kilian’s shoulders as he came in long, thick pulses all over Kilian’s tongue.
He had to pull Kilian off of his dick when he was done, oversensitive and shaking.