Page 71 of Two for Roughing

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?”