Page 69 of Damian & Jun, Episodes 9-12
Richard’s hand settled over Damian’s scalp. Large, warm hands. Strong fingers. Soft touch. Damian breathed out, his shoulders loosening.
“What do you need, boy?”
“Pain.” Gods, he needed pain. Pain and someone else in control.
Richard’s soft touches paused, just long enough to signal careful thought. He went back to stroking Damian’s head. “I can give you pain, Pup. But you must give me something in return.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me why you want the pain.”
Damian’s body tightened. How did he even start? Except that Richard had taught him. He knew what to do. Asking where to start was an outer world retort. It didn’t belong here in this room, not between him and his dom. He closed his eyes, reaching inside and letting the first thought that answered the request come out his lips.
“Guilt, sir. Guilt for Howser. I could have been him; instead, I—I judged him.”
“What else?”
“More guilt, sir.”
“For what, boy?”
“For leaving them so long, for everything that happened.”
“Anything else, boy?”
“For release, sir.”
“Explain this release.”
“It hurts, and I can’t see it. I can’t experience it. It’s inside, and it’s going nowhere.”
“Is there more?”
“Maybe, I think so, sir.”
Richard’s hand stroked more firmly. “Guilt, release, hurt. We’ll start with those and peel them back, find what’s beneath.”
“Yes, sir.” Just the promise was enough to drain a little of the burning tautness out of his arms and back. This was the place he’d earned, the position from which he’d worked through so many moments before.
Richard traced lines over Damian’s cheek with his fingers. His other hand settled on Damian’s shoulder. “We’ll get you there, Pup. We’ll find your peace.”
They would. Damian both longed and feared it.
Richard helped him up to his feet. Strong arms enfolded him from behind. The scent of Richard’s cologne pressed against his nose. Familiar. Comforting.
Years together meant few words were needed. Richard smoothed his hands over Damian’s shoulders and back. He loosened the tie on Damian’s housecoat. Fabric slid down Damian’s arms. Small changes in temperature ghosted over his skin.
Richard squeezed his wrist once and left him to go to the St. Andrew’s cross at the head of the room. The large heavy table had already been moved away from the center of the room, leaving the area in front of the cross clear. Bolts kept the cross completely vertical or released it to lean forward at various degrees. It could even be laid flat on the floor. This time, Richard bent it toward the wall by five or six degrees, enough for a body to rest against it during a long session but not enough to make a position difficult to hold while standing.
Bare feet on the floor, Damian went to Richard. Heavy leather cuffs went around Damian’s wrists. Richard fed the grip bar into Damian’s hand, giving him something to hold. They’d learned years ago that Damian did better during long sessions if he had something to pull against other than his wrists. The cuffs and the bar together clipped above Damian’s head to the beams of the cross, one wrist to either side, spreading Damian in an upright X facing the wall, his back to Richard. Damian braced his feet, spreading them apart.
The large hands of his dom passed over his skin, checking him for injury, sore muscles, and bruises. He found a few, pausing over Damian’s hip. Richard paused, pressing gently along a line that ached.
“Railing of the staircase, when I moved Jun.”
“When Howser…?”
Damian nodded. Richard said nothing but cupped the area of the injury protectively. He would remember and avoid it. There was another mark on one of his arms and a bite mark on the side of his neck. Richard rumbled with approval as he traced the outside of Jun’s mark. “I’ll keep this clear,” he said.
