Symbiosis
It always starts with an email - terse and to the point.
"My apartment. 9pm. The strap."
It's always the same: the place, the time, and the
implement. Never any inkling of how many strokes - that
would ruin the sense of anticipation. Nor any indication of
what the punishment is for - it's usually obvious after
all, and even if not, a top has a right to punish his sub
at his own pleasure. No explanation is required.
How do I feel about the impending punishment session? I'm
not sure. Excited on some level of course. There's always a
thrill, an anticipatory knowledge of what will follow,
together with a myriad fears as well. Sometimes the
catharsis these punishment sessions are designed to achieve
is hard to find...it can take time - and that means pain. A
lot of pain. It isn't always easy to accept that fact, or,
when in the middle of it, to keep remembering that it's the
right thing, the best thing; that through the pain comes
the magic of togetherness, and that by means of it the
pure, brilliant steel of our love is forged anew each time.
A knot forms in my stomach as the time of session draws
close, but I won't let him know that. I don't want him to
know how much these punishment sessions affect me - or how
important they are to me. I've never been closer to anyone
than I am to him. In the aftermath of a spanking, we are
one. I truly mean that. He is I, and I am he. We are bonded
in a way we could never be if it were not for these
sessions. The office, with all its frustrations, is behind
us. Our lives, our demons, and our sorrows - all are as
nothing in the aftermath. Those are the times I enjoy most,
I think, as we lie in each others arms, one sweaty from the
giving, the other from the receiving. He is at his most
loving then, all barriers between us gone, and I
reciprocate in kind. He will never find my arms more
welcoming or my lips more grateful than in the immediate
aftermath.
I pace my room as the clock ticks away the countdown to
the moment. By 8pm I swear I've worn a hole in my carpet. I
decide to take a shower, to calm myself. Soon it will
begin...soon... The butterflies in my stomach are out in
force now, but you wouldn't know. Looking in the mirror I
see only my calm face smiling back at me. I've always been
good at hiding my feelings, but spanking takes us beyond
that. It takes us both down to a level where our feelings
cannot be hidden, to where feelings are all that exist, for
both him and me. I remove my clothes and step under the hot
spray of water, allowing it to soothe and caress me. I use
this time to prepare, mentally, for the ordeal ahead. No
matter how many times this takes place, I always have to
prepare. There's a place I need to be in my head. The short
period of time between summons and punishment gives me time
to reach that place.
First of all I have to be in control of my emotions - and
utterly focussed on the night's event. Although you might
think that isn't hard for me, knowing how focussed I can
be, I have to tell you that it isn't as easy as you might
think. This is so special, so important - it can't be
hurried, or rushed. I need to give myself the time to do
this properly. I owe it to myself - and I owe it to him.
When I've finished in the shower I get dressed slowly,
taking my time, not doing anything to jolt myself out of
the mood. I wear black. Black jeans, no underwear - there's
little point after all as it would only have to be removed
later - and a black tee shirt. Minimalist and to the point.
Finally, at 8.30, I'm ready. Now I just need to spend the
next half an hour doing mundane activities that will help
keep me focussed. First I prepare the room. We need little
equipment. He'll bend over the couch for the first part of
the punishment, and then he'll submit to being placed over
my knee for the second part. Sometimes I've misjudged the
pace, and ordered him over my knee too soon - to be met by
his refusal. If he isn't in the right place mentally - if
the first part of the punishment hasn't been right, or
enough - then he won't accept physical contact. I learned
that the hard way - we had many a battle of wills in the
beginning, but I like to think that now I get it right more
often. Don't get me wrong, he's a good sub, but he isn't a
sub who will submit just because he's told to. He submits
because I make him, because he respects me, and because he
loves me - and he knows that I both love and respect him.
He's an intelligent man, and a stubborn one. I ignore that
at my peril.
I open the case where I keep my implements, and find the
strap. It's already gleaming - I always have him clean and
polish it the day after it's been used on his ass. Not the
same day, always the following - soon enough that he hasn't
forgotten how it felt, but not so soon that he's
overwhelmed by the memories. We have other things to do in
the immediate aftermath of a spanking anyway - I wouldn't
want him to waste his time on a strap or paddle when he
could be occupying himself more usefully with me.
I place the strap on the coffee table, where it'll be the
first thing he sees when he comes into the room. He won't
be able to take his eyes off it. I know from experience
that he'll focus on it from the beginning. Sometimes that
will mean he struggles against what he knows is coming, and
sometimes he'll accept. He doesn't like the strap, so he's
sometimes resistant beforehand. I'm not sure why - he knows
it's going to happen, whether he likes it or not, but he's
so obstinate that he feels the need to resist anyway. I
love that about him. When he's docile he'll feed out of my
hand like a kitten, but sometimes it takes a lot of hard
work to get him to that place. I don't resent the work. I
enjoy it. I feel like a maestro, playing the instrument of
my choice, and the end result is the most beautiful music.
A symphony of spanking - he'd laugh at me for that phrase.
He laughs at me a lot. I like that sound almost as much as
I like the sound of his cries when I'm spanking him, or his
whispers of love when it's all over.
I sometimes wonder how he spends the time between
receiving my summons and punishment. I would never ask him.
Some things are private. I'm sure he prepares, just as I
prepare, but I'm glad we keep this area of our life
separate. It makes it almost mystical, charged with ritual
and meaning.
It's nearly 9. I go to the kitchen and pour two glasses of
water. One for me, and one for him. I can become just as
thirsty and emotionally drained as he when delivering a
spanking. I bring them back and place them on a shelf. Then
I glance at my watch again. It's 8:58. He'll be on time. In
fact, he's probably waiting outside the door right now but
he won't knock until 9. Two minutes later, right on cue,
there is a rap of knuckles on the door and my heart does a
little lurch. I take a deep breath and compose myself. If
he senses any weakness he'll put up a fight - he always
does. That's just him. He needs me to command his respect,
or it won't be forthcoming. I accept that - but he won't
see any weakness in me this evening. He needs this, and I
need it too. It's been too long since we had any time for
each other. Work, as always, has come between us. My fault
probably, although he's something of a workaholic himself.
Either way, it's time I addressed the problem.
I open the door and look him straight in the eye - this is
important. He looks back, directly at me, and I can see
already that there's some resistance. He doesn't feel that
he deserves punishment. He knows how much it hurts before
he gets to where he needs to be - and then when he's there,
he forgets that it even hurt at all.
"Come in."
I open the door and he steps into the apartment. He looks
a little awkward. He's profoundly uncomfortable with his
emotions, and sometimes it can take a spanking just to get
him to admit he loves me - a fact I know already by every
single gesture and unspoken word that passes between us,
but all the same, it's the saying of it he finds hard, and
it's precisely for that reason that he can seem like a
different man after a spanking. I love him both ways. This
behaviour is so him, and finding the soft, gentle, loving
core of the man, releasing it, and allowing him to
experience and express it to the full, is a moment of the greatest
satisfaction.
"You know why you're here."
I circle him, predatorily, and he eyes me warily. I see
his gaze flicker to the strap, and a muscle in his jaw
tightens almost imperceptibly.
"Frankly no," he snaps. "What the hell is this about,
Mulder?"
I stop pacing, and stand in front of him. We're almost of
a height - granted he has possibly half an inch on me, and
several pounds in sheer muscle, but I can easily look into
his eyes - which helps.
"I think you're forgetting yourself, Walter," I warn, in a
low tone. His shoulders hunch miserably. I wish I could
spare him these moments, but sometimes they're necessary.
"Sorry...sir." His voice has dropped an octave, and is
little above a whisper. "I just don't know why you think I
deserve this."
"It's been two weeks, Walter. Two weeks during which we've
had no contact whatsoever. That's not acceptable. Even
apart from the fact that I expect my sub to more attentive,
I've missed you."
"I've been busy - and you were out of town all last week,"
he points out, bristling.
"What's wrong with email?" I raise an eyebrow.
"I...you could have emailed me," he ripostes. He's right. I
could. Last week's case was a nightmare and I'm at fault in
not keeping in contact either, but that doesn't let him off
the hook.
"I know, and I'm sorry - but that doesn't change the fact
that you could have done as well. I accept that we were
both busy, but that isn't why I think you need to be
punished. You had news you should have given me. News about
your welfare. I shouldn't have had to hear that through the
office grapevine."
"News...? You mean...Damn." He puts his head back, and gazes
at the ceiling momentarily. I love it when he's forced onto
the defensive like this. He looks so vulnerable - even a
little scared, like a child caught stealing candy.
"You were hurt." I place a hand on his shoulder, and he
gazes at me steadily.
"It's nothing. I was called to a hostage situation. Shots
were fired - I was wearing Kevlar," he says quickly.
"A gunshot might not kill but it can bruise through Kevlar.
You must have been shaken - and you didn't come to me.
You didn't even tell me. You needed me then, Walter.
I've told you before that I won't tolerate you pushing me away."
"You were in Maine," he mutters into his chest. I lift his
chin, and gaze him in the eye. "And anyway it was nothing -
just a glancing blow."
"One email, Walter, and then when I got home I'd have come
straight to see you instead of allowing myself to get side-
tracked with writing up my report because I didn't know
anything important had happened to you. Take off your
clothes."
He hesitates.
"Take them off, Walter. I want to inspect your shoulder,"
I inform him. He gazes at me blankly. "You've been hurt,
Walter. That concerns me. Your welfare concerns me, and it
concerns me because I love you. I thought I'd made that
clear - over and over again. I thought I'd imprinted it on
your butt for god's sake!"
His hands curl into fists. He finds it hard to talk of
love...at least he finds it hard before punishment.
After...well, like I said, after he's a different man. I
think on some level he isn't even sure he deserves love -
and he doesn't trust it. He trusts me though, and he loves
me, even if it isn't always easy for him to admit it. After
a moment's rebellion, during which I do not drop my gaze
from those dark, expressive eyes, he finally gives in. One
hand goes jerkily to his tie, and he pulls it away from his
collar with a harsh, sweeping motion. He goes slowly, his
mutiny fading but still clear in the way he does not
speedily obey my order. I do not move a muscle. I just
watch him intently, and he cannot bear the scrutiny. His
skin starts to flush, a beautiful shade of pink. I wish I
could lick the heat from his body, but he isn't ready for
that yet. He curls his tie into a ball and places it into
his coat pocket. Then he shrugs off his coat, folds it
neatly, and places it on the couch. His collar is undone
with more stiff, jerky movements of his fingers, and
finally is discarded, and placed folded on the couch with
the rest of his clothing. There is a bruise on his right
shoulder. It's about the size of a tennis ball and while
it's now faded to a mottled yellowy-purple, it is clear
that it must have been very painful at the time. My jaw
tightens in displeasure.
"This was more than just a glancing blow, Walter," I
chide, the anger sounding in my voice. He looks up,
startled.
"Yes. It was a direct hit," he mutters.
"So you lied to me, Walter?" I raise an eyebrow. He
clenches his fists again.
"Yes," he admits.
"And lying is a punishable offence, Walter," I remind him.
"I know that," he growls.
"But it isn't as important as not informing me as to your
welfare. You were hurt - I needed to know that."
"I'm used to..." He hesitates.
"Dealing with things like this alone. Yes. I know. But
that was before we became lovers. Now we're together and we
both agreed on the rules. I care, Walter. Accept that."
He has no answer. He just looks at me rather helplessly.
"I gave you an order, Walter," I remind him. He glances
down at his pants. I ordered him to undress and he's only
half way through that task.
"Yes, sir," he mutters. His mouth sounds dry. I watch him
remove his pants, underwear, shoes and socks, fold the
clothing all neatly, and place it on the couch. When he's
done I hand him the glass of water and he sips, gratefully.
His cock is semi-erect, as it always is through these
sessions. I know he finds them a turn on, even though he
hates them on some level too. I can't fully explain it -
it's something private between the two of us. I know there
are some people who wouldn't understand why this exchange
of power is so vital a part of our relationship but it is.
The punishment isn't even the most important part of it -
there are so many things going on here that it would be
impossible to give name to them all. All I know is that it
works for both of us, so I don't question it. If it didn't,
if one of us found it abusive, or uncomfortable, then the
other would not force him, but that isn't the case. The
truth is that it's like a choreographed dance - we fit
together, Walter and I, and never more so than during these
sessions. It's during these sessions that we touch base
with each other, and explore the boundaries of our love -
only to find that there are none.
He would drink that water forever if I let him - anything
to delay the moment of truth. I can see him gazing at the
strap, transfixed by it. He does know it's going to happen,
but he still thinks, on some level at least, that there
might be some kind of escape. I'm here to make sure he
doesn't find it, as he'd only be escaping from what he
wants most in the world. I interrupt his drinking, remove
the glass firmly from his hand and place it back on the
shelf. He swallows, hard.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Mulder, but I still don't
think..." He begins.
"Hush." I stand in front of him, put my hands on his
shoulder, and caress him gently. "Walter, you do deserve to
be punished, and you will accept my punishment - and with
it my love, and my right to care. Imagine how you would
feel if you only heard I'd been hurt through a careless
remark in the office cafeteria."
He breathes in deeply, and struggles with himself again,
the muscle in his jaw twitching once more.
"All right. Then let's get it over with," he growls,
pulling himself out of my grasp and heading towards the
couch. This might seem like a breakthrough but it is not
the attitude I require of him.
"Stop right there." I don't raise my voice. I never raise
my voice. This is not about my anger - it's about something
much deeper and more enduring than that, and I would never,
ever want to lose his trust by striking him out of my own
greedy need to express my temper. He stops, half bent over
the back of the couch, then straightens. He looks
magnificent - the skin on his buttocks is a tan colour,
almost golden, and very soft. Soon it will be red, glowing,
and hot - but not just yet. "I haven't given the order yet,
Walter. Face me."
He turns, reluctantly, and I go to him and place my hands
on his body, almost insolently. "Keep your hands behind
your back, Walter. I want to touch you," I tell him. He
grinds his teeth together almost audibly while I stroke his
body. I'm not kind - I don't hurt him but I do take
liberties, including inserting a finger roughly between his
ass cheeks, and pinching a nipple. He gives little grunts
in response, but he knows better than to complain. That
would open a debate he knows he would stand no chance of
winning. Finally I finish with him.
"Now you can bend over the back of the couch, Walter," I
tell him, thereby regaining the control that he sought to
take by pre-empting that order. He flushes at my
demonstration of my power. My message was clear - he's mine
and I'll decide when to spank him. I'll also touch him for
my own pleasure. He must just accept - and obey. I am in
control here. He moves stiffly into position, and waits. I
can still see the rebellion in the hard lines of his body,
and the tense way his muscles are bunched under the surface
of his skin. I run a hand over his body, caressing and
teasing, and now I am gentle and am rewarded by feeling him
relax a little beneath me. His butt feels particularly
good. I fondle it for a long time, just stroking and
cupping those magnificent buttocks, and now he's started to
tremble. That's good - it means he's finding the place he
needs to be in his head. If I could see his cock I'm
betting it would be fully erect by now. I leave him for a
moment, and fetch the strap. His gaze follows me as I go,
and I know that his mouth is dry and his stomach quaking.
Conversely, my own nerves have gone and I'm fully in
control of the scenario. I love this feeling! A heady
sensation of power courses through my veins as I reach for
the strap, and turn to move back to him. My gaze catches
his, and I pause. His brown eyes are fixed on the sight of
me, holding the strap. I stroke it, lovingly, and he takes
a sharp intake of breath. I fold the strap slowly in half,
and then, without warning, slap it hard against my hand.
The sound makes him jump, and then he is clearly angry with
himself for his reaction because he gives a murmured curse
that I can't quite hear. I smile, and walk back behind the
couch. I rest my hand on his back - I will not remove it
throughout the spanking. He will always feel me in close
human contact with him.
He stiffens again, tensing, waiting for the first blow -
but I have no intention of striking him just yet. Instead I
tap the strap on his buttocks, gently, alternating this
action with slowly rubbed circles of the thin strip of
leather on his bare flesh. He shivers. I play with him for
a long time, building the little taps in intensity and then
allowing them to subside once more. Soon his bottom is
pink, and it hasn't hurt him at all. He has started to
relax, although he's still waiting for the worst of it - he
knows it is coming, and of course it is.
"Walter, I want you to understand why you're being
punished. Do you understand?" I ask him.
"I'm being punished for lying, and for not being more
attentive, sir," he says. I bring the strap down hard on
his buttocks and they twitch under the onslaught. I hear a
little grunt in the back of his throat.
"No, Walter. Don't make me angry," I warn him. "Please try
again."
"I'm being punished for lying...and for not telling you
about being shot," he mutters, his tone resentful.
I bring down the strap again - extremely hard, and he
can't avoid saying the expletive that rises to his lips as
the leather hits home. A wide red stripe rises on his
pinkly-golden flesh.
"Not telling me about being shot covers the facts, Walter,
but it falls a long way short of dealing with the
importance of those facts," I tell him. Another sharp smack
with the belt and he gives another grunt.
"Please elaborate," I invite, and my hand thwacks another
hard swat onto his buttocks, which are now starting to glow
in earnest. I know how hard it is to even think, let alone
talk coherently during a hard strapping, but I intend to
show him no mercy. I've made this mistake before - if I'm
merciful during this initial phase of the punishment then
he won't accept my comforting after. I won't have taken him
to where he needs to be. I let rip in earnest now - each of
my strokes is measured, but they fall hard and fast, one on
top of the other - until I have the first breakthrough.
It's just a bellow of rage, but it means I'm getting to him.
"I care about you, Walter. Your health is my concern.
However trivial it might appear to be to you I expect to be
informed if some lunatic shoots you. Is that clear?"
He's silent. His silence has always been his last refuge
in times of emotional turmoil. I will not allow him to use
it as a place to hide.
"I said, is-that-clear? I will not stop until I hear from
you that it is, and I hear from you why it is," I inform
him, and then I start in again, placing my strokes one on
top of the other, all on the same spot - the broad under-
curve of his ass, where he sits. He won't be sitting easily
any time soon. He takes the onslaught for a few minutes -
which convinces me how much this was needed. I know about
his nightmares you see, and I know how they are worse after
any event that reminds him of his time in Vietnam. Being
shot at clearly comes into this category. I can see from
the shadows under his eyes that he's had some disturbed
nights in the past week and I am annoyed that he could not
share that problem with me. I might not have been able to
offer him physical reassurance, but I'm fairly insomniac
myself, so I would have happily sat up in my hotel room in
Maine, emailing back and forth with him through the long
dark hours of the night.
"It's clear!" He finds his voice at last - and not a
moment too soon. The energy fizzling between us almost
crackles in the air. The exchange of power, willingly given
and freely taken, back and forth, is almost tangible. I
never love him more than when he's enduring this torment at
my hands. I slow the pace of my arm, to give him time to speak.
"Explain to me what it is you find clear, Walter," I demand.
"That you...care...about...what happens to me...that you were
hurt....to hear I'd been shot at...from someone else," he
manages to grind out.
"What else, Walter?" I demand.
"I...I don't know. What do you mean?" He asks, his voice
strangled and choked. Poor man. My heart goes out to him.
This is the hardest part of all. Has he taken enough, I
wonder? Looking at his ass, I think he has. I hope I've
judged it right.
"All right, Walter. You can stand." I help him up, and he
gazes at me almost sightlessly. "I haven't finished yet,
Walter," I warn him, and he swallows hard, and blanches. He
hates going over my knee. It makes him feel small, and out
of control. He needs to feel like that right now though.
"Come with me." I take his hand and lead him, and for a
moment I sense some resistance, but then he gives in, and
follows on behind. His cock is fully erect, as I had
suspected, and I'm glad about that. I sit on the couch, and
he stands there, looking lost, although he must know what
is going to happen next.
"Over my knee, Walter," I order, and that muscle in his
jaw twitches again. "NOW!" My voice is hard, cracking out
in the silence of the room and he kneels beside me
immediately, and is soon in position, all trace of
rebellion gone. I take some time arranging him, capturing
his cock carefully between my thighs, where I can stimulate
it. When I'm ready, I gaze down at his already thoroughly
punished backside, with a little smile on my face.
"You are so beautiful, my lovely sub," I murmur to him.
Endearments of this sort he will only accept during a
spanking. Can you imagine ever calling the macho Assistant
Director Walter Skinner of the FBI beautiful and getting
away with it in the office for example? No, I thought not!
Me neither! I am always very careful not to overstep the
boundaries of our relationship. I love him and would do
nothing to make him embarrassed or distrustful of me. "The
most beautiful man...if you could see this glowing ass. I
want to make love to it, Walter." I drop my head and lick
the hot flesh, and he shudders. I can feel his cock leaking
pre-come against jeans, making the fabric wet against my
skin. "Oh so beautiful," I murmur, taking my time and
caressing him thoroughly. He accepts it, because he has no
choice, but it's hard for him all the same. He isn't used
to being admired or appreciated, and it's hard for him to
just take it, without making some self-deprecating comment
back, or just growling at me in response. He relaxes under
my tender ministrations, and I soothe him gently with my
hand. This is just a prelude and he knows it. I tap him
gently, and even that hurts his sore flesh. He mewls at the
back of his throat but I intend to get much more of a
reaction than that out of him.
I raise my hand and smack it down hard on his upturned
flesh and he bellows. The bellows are a prelude to
something very important - and, more than that, they are so
him. Even upturned over my knee, having his ass spanked
like a child, he is still my big, gruff, surly man. He is
never undignified, or humiliated - I would never make him
feel like that because I would never want to see him like
that. This isn't about making him feel cowed, it's about
releasing him from his normal everyday constraints, and
helping him to come to terms with the feelings he is more
used to avoiding and shutting out. Those feelings are many,
and range from his emotions about his recent shooting, to
the way he feels about me. He'll shut them all out if I let
him - and I won't let him.
My slaps are firm, and fast, and he has started moving
rhythmically in time with my hand, his cock rubbing against
my inner thigh with each swat. His whole body is quivering
and his bellow has turned into a low keening sound in the
back of his throat, that slowly, surely begins to form into
coherent words and phrases.
"Sorry...knew I should...nightmares...sorry...wanted to tell
you...wanted to say...weak...so weak...nights spent screaming...I can
keep it...I can keep it locked away but sometimes...at night...oh
Christ...at night..." I know his face is wet from his tears. He
won't cry - or he won't admit that it's crying, but his
face is wet all the same. "Please...sorry...oh
shit...hurts...inside...sorry. Sorry. Sorry..." It's so sad I could
cry along with him but instead I just keep up the pace
until he reaches some kind of barrier - and goes through
it. Now his shoulders are shaking, and his ass is a dark
scarlet colour. His whole body gives a massive shudder, and
then suddenly he's quite still, accepting my swats in
silence. We are as one now. We've reached that magic place
where we are the same person, two parts of a whole. I
continue to spank him for a few more minutes, and then I
allow the intensity to drop, until my swats are nothing
more than loving taps, then gentle stroking, and then I'm
done.
"I love you, Walter," I tell him. "You're so brave. You do
your job very well but you're allowed to be human, and to
hurt and to feel. You can feel, Walter. It's safe to feel -
pain, love, fear...it's safe here."
He responds by curling into a ball on my lap. I hold him,
my arms wrapped around his large, beautiful body, until the
quivering stops. He's calm now, accepting my love, his lips
pressing against my tee shirt, the flow of power
transformed into a flow of pure love. I help him kneel on
the couch beside me, and then take his face in my hands,
and kiss him slowly and deeply. He melts into me, his
muscular arms encircling me.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I guess I'm not used to anyone
caring whether I live or die, or if I'm hurt."
"I know, but you have to get used to it," I tell him
firmly. "Because you're stuck with me, and I do care."
"I know. I do know...I just find it hard. I love you. I love
you so much." He could never say that normally, and it
warms me. I hold him tight and kiss his face.
"I love you too. Which is why I care when you've been
shot. I'm sorry I didn't email - I was caught up in the
case and I assumed you were doing fine. Next time I go away
I'll make it a condition that you check in with me every
day." I gently wipe the tears from his face and he gives a
ghostly smile.
"I've never had anyone like you," he mutters. "Anybody
who'd do this for me. Thank you."
Thank you.
Just two words but they warm my soul. Thank you. It goes
to the heart of what's between us. What I do for him, and
what he does for me.
"Thank *you*." I kiss his lips slowly and gently in reply.
His hard cock is pressing against me, and my own is eager
for release. It's time to show him just how loved he is -
to reach the final catharsis. The lube and condoms are in
my pocket. I take them out and gesture him onto the floor.
He goes, eagerly, and places his hands on the coffee table,
his ass raised to me, waiting for me in total trust. I
kneel behind him, strip off my tee shirt and jeans,
releasing my eager cock, and take his hot ass in my hands.
He gasps as I hold his sore buttocks firmly, but I know
he's experiencing the sensation more as pleasure than pain
now. I gently tease open his ass, and insert a cold, lubed
finger inside him. He moans, a low, throaty growl of a
moan, and pushes back against me, desperate for more.
"Wait," I order him, needing to ensure he's adequately
prepared. Another finger opens him up even more and he's
twisting and turning under me in an uninhibited way - a way
he never quite achieves during those of our lovemaking
sessions that are not preceded by a spanking. He's always a
good lover, but he often holds a little piece of himself
back. There's nothing wrong with that - I suspect that I do
too but not during these sessions. We're too close for that
now.
I put a condom on my eager cock, part his butt cheeks
again, and then glide smoothly home, deep inside his warm,
welcoming body. We groan in unison. It feels so good. I
love this moment, before I begin to thrust. The sense of
being connected with him is so beautiful, and so perfect,
that I like to savour it. I run my hands over his sublime
body, stroking his smooth golden skin, and watching the
muscles as they ripple beneath my caress. I pass my hands
under his body and rub his nipples to hard points, and then
locate his large, urgent cock. I take it in my hand and
slide back and forth, and he puts his head back and moans
out loud. His head is so enticing, and his scalp so smooth
that I have to lean forward and lick it. We're still for a
moment, me leaning over his naked back, embedded deep
inside his body, poised, ready to begin the surging thrusts
that will topple us both over the edge of pleasure. He,
utterly frozen beneath me, accepting of my cock within him,
and my hands on him, his glowing red ass warm against my
thighs. I hold the moment for as long as I can, and then I
begin.
I go slowly at first - so slowly, and he thrusts back,
moaning helplessly, needing me to pick up the pace. I do -
but in my own time. My thrusts become faster and then slow
once more, keeping him always on the edge. I won't touch
his cock - not yet. I want him to hover on that delicious
brink for as long as I can make him. I speed and slow,
speed and slow and his body shakes beneath me, covered in a
fine layer of sweat, shining and utterly spellbinding. I am
lost in him, as he is lost in me, and we are connected, as
one. We are the same being, a creature of total sensory
pleasure as I thrust. Finally, after several long minutes,
I speed up even more, find his cock again, and milk him in
time to my thrusts. It doesn't take either of us much time -
I bring him off first, and feel his come spurting out, warm
on my hand. I take another few minutes to come myself,
pounding into him so hard that I am light headed with the
sensation and then I'm shooting too, deep inside him,
filling him with my love.
We lie there for a long time, me resting on his broad
back, he resting on the coffee table. Finally I withdraw,
and dispose of the condom, and then I gather him up in my
arms, and lead him to the bedroom. My ears are buzzing with
the aftermath of my orgasm, and he's saying something but
I'm not sure what. I lie down, and pull him down on top of
me, and we lie there together, naked, sweaty and sated. We
are lovers. We are colleagues. We are sub and dom. But most
of all we are two people connected. I love all that he is
and he needs all that I am. We complement each other. In my
firm insistence that he open up to me he finds his
salvation. In his loving surrender I find the only real
proof I've ever needed - proof that I'm loved. Our bodies
move in perfect synchronicity during lovemaking and during
spanking; the fall of my hand, the thrust of my body into
his, the reciprocating movement of his beneath me - all
form the perfect expression of our love.
I wrap my arms around him, and kiss his head. I can feel
the heat from his buttocks warming us both. He's whispering
those words to me that he can only say when released from
the restrictive straight jacket of being Assistant Director
Skinner and can just be Walter, my lover, my sub, safe in
my loving arms.
At times our bond is almost telepathic. I know
instinctively what he needs and he trusts me to allow me to
take him on the journey.
It is a perfect symbiosis.
The End