The Art Of Release

by Lara Wilson

He's silent as he pulls the silk rope taut, listening to the hitch in breathing, scenting the growing arousal, feeling his own spiral through his veins. He looks down at the man kneeling at his feet and ties the knot binding his wrists behind his back to the leather collar at his throat.

Blue eyes full of trust and desire gaze up at him, a pink tongue slips between kiss-reddened lips, licks, and those cheekbones tighten as another hiss of breath is drawn in through flared nostrils.

He's a glorious picture of desire and need and submission.

To Slade's eternal surprise--and delight--it's the latter that fulfills him the most.

"Too tight?" There's a huskiness in his voice that belies his own arousal and he shifts his stance to accommodate the pressure growing in his groin.

Shaggy black hair brushes across those glorious cheekbones, temporarily shields the blue eyes, in a decisive head shake. "Just tight enough."

He never calls him master this early in the game. Slade lets it slide, knowing his lover is submissive only to a point because he needs to be, not because Slade needs him to be, and he's alright with that. He doesn't need the name or any slavish worship. He knows what he is. He knows the man at his feet does as well.

He put Slade there, after all.

Dragging his eye away from that expressive face, he trails it down the impressive, muscular chest, the slender waist and hips, the powerful thighs, before focusing on the cock rising from a nest of wiry, black curls. Uncut, nearly purple at the head from need, slightly slick with pre- ejaculate, he wants to taste it, but his lover hasn't earned that.

And Slade knows he prefers, no needs, to wait, to be strung along until his release is one of emotions as much as the physical.

With one hand he reaches out, slips strong fingers through soft hair to scrape along the scalp. With the other he unfastens his belt, his jeans, freeing his own cock, also hard and slick. His fingers wrap around the nape of a strong neck, the base of his cock, and he closes his eye, waiting.

Firm lips touch the tip in a soft kiss, open, sliding down over the bulbous head, skimming along the shaft, the tongue lapping at the glans. Slade knows he doesn't need to guide his lover. He could let him go, let him suck him to completion.

But that isn't what the younger man needs, so he pulls his head closer, pushing his cock deeper, listening to the sucking and licking, the harsh breathing through the nose, the little gasps as he hits the back of the throat and goes deeper still.

A warm nose brushes his groin, the lips reach nearly to the base of his cock, and the throat opens.

And Slade groans and thrusts until he comes.

Opening his eye, breathing hard, he pulls back and watches as that talented tongue licks semen from those firm lips. The blue eyes are glazed still but don't look down.

He's not there yet.

Slade tucks his cock away, zips up, removes his belt. "Bend down."

The bound man obeys, bending forward, the rope tightening as his arms are pulled higher against the middle of his back as his shoulder hits the floor.

"Ass up."

Again he obeys, reaching his knees with practiced ease, one cheek pressed to the floor, one blue eye turned up. His lips part, but he doesn't say anything. He simply waits.

The first blow sends a shudder through both of them, the lash of the leather belt across hard, clenching buttocks, painful and pleasureful for both giver and receiver.

"How many do you need?" It's never a question of want.

"As many as you think I need."

Slade snorts and snaps the leather across flesh a second time. This one leaves a mark, golden skin quickly reddening. He'll bruise and he'll feel it for days, and Slade knows that will help. He hits him again.

Twenty blows leave the man beneath him gasping for breath, shaking with need and pain, his ass red, the individual lash marks quickly bruising along the edges, but he never closes his eye and he doesn't cry. Instead, a look of bliss forms on his face. A look of gratitude.

And Slade smiles softly and drops the belt. Reaching down, he lifts him to his feet and pulls him into a hungry kiss. One hand wraps around the leather of his collar, the other around the shaft of his cock, and he pumps the latter while he uses the former to guide the kiss. As tongues twist and hips jerk, he brings his lover to completion, uncaring about the spilling of fluid across his hand and denim-covered thigh.

Breaking the kiss with a gasp, body shuddering in release and relief, Dick Grayson sinks back to his knees and lowers his head. "Thank you," he barely manages to whisper as the tears finally come.

Slade leaves him there, retreating to the bathroom to clean up and change, knowing that the young hero needs a few moments alone to regain his composure, to accept, as he always must, his need to submit, to find control through release, to let the stress of his life go for one more night using a method most wouldn't understand.

Their relationship is complex--this occasional need of Dick's to be submissive makes it even more so--but it's theirs.

They are each others.

It works for them.

And Dick really is a gorgeous work of art when he bears Slade's bruises.


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