SUNDAY NIGHT
By Raven (raven@aeneas.net} 

    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.