The room shuttered and went dark for Ethan. Sounds were muffled. Distantly, he knew that the lights were on, his eyes open, ears fine, but all his focus pooled to the heavy, rhythmic slaps over his backside. Beau's broad hand landed on one cheek, then the other, then the other, then the other, again and again. The pain simmered hot, a slow burn that filled him, leaving his entire body flushed.

He could hear things like the wind outside, the scratch of branches against windows, and the neverending hum of the refrigerator all the way in the kitchen. A senseless jumble of sound. On top of it all lay those measured slaps, again and again and again.

At first he'd cried out with every blow, body jerking with the impact. It hurt. Beau had begun slow, smacking one cheek and rubbing the pain, smacking the other and rubbing. His hands were warm. He said nothing the entire time, a silent, solid presence in the room, free hand pressed between Ethan's shoulder blades to steady him.

Ethan was splayed out over his lap, elbows digging into the mattress. He was naked, his face pressed to the unkempt sheets, hands locked over his head. His brain felt small. Shrunk. Thoughts came to him as concepts simplified to vague impressions. He forgot everything leading up to this point, this experience.

Beau was dressed. He wore the same dark slacks, the same matching blazer, the same button down shirt open at the collar. Ethan thought of the smooth expanse of browned skin there, the small scar. The hand came down again. He turned his face to the sheets and rocked with it, releasing a long, low sound like a moan.

The hand kept its rhythm, but came harder. Again and again and again.

At first Ethan had tensed in the split seconds before every smack, clenching his muscles. Now he was liquid, letting it happen, accepting. It was good. He felt warm all over. He rocked with the blows, toes straining delicious against the bed, rubbing himself over Beau's lap. Slow, moving with the hand.

He made another sound again, and above him Beau said, "Shh." The smacks stopped. The hand now rubbed at his ass, soothing, and the one pressed between Ethan's shoulder blades slid upward to cup the back of his neck. Fingers pushed into his hair briefly and moved down again.

The burn over Ethan's body gave him a sense of mindless urgency. He was hard. Pain lingered somewhere between too much and not enough. Ethan did not know, could not put thought or voice to what he felt. Another small sound escaped him.

"Shh." Beau's hands kneaded at his flesh, and then his voice broke the quiet. "It's over."

It's over, Ethan thought, and dimly wondered, what did that mean. Beau helped him up, but Ethan could not stand. Still he was that liquid. Beau stood and urged him back onto the bed. Ethan crawled over the mattress, hissed at the tight pain above his thighs. He lay quiet and waited, staring at the pillows. They looked full and soft. Want glimmered but he could not bring himself to reach out and pull one over, could not bring himself to lift his head that far.

Beau returned. The bed frame creaked and the mattress dipped, and then warm hands came back. Ethan tensed, but again Beau said, "Shh." Beau turned him onto his side. Ethan gazed upward, still unable to think beyond the simplest notions. Beau, he thought. Naked, he thought.

Beau reached for him then, cupped his hand between Ethan's legs. Ethan pressed into the touch, and warm fingers wrapped around him. His cock remained stiff and hot. He looked down, saw Beau was hard. Should do something, he thought. Should. Didn't.

Beau stroked him slow, even. Ethan curled one arm beneath his head and pushed his hips into the touch, wanted more. He made another sound, and Beau said, "Shh."

Beau worked him, and it did not take Ethan long. Then Beau lay beside him, angling his hips forward, fisting himself fast and hard. He bit off a tight groan, and warmth splashed Ethan's belly. Ethan watched his face, watched it grimace and relax. Beau breathed deep and even, staring up at the ceiling, and then without a word he sat up and left the bed.

Ethan could hear him in the bathroom, could hear the squeal of hinges and the rush of the tap. He could hear everything now, and the branches scratching the windows made him uneasy. Sounded like someone wanted in. Shadows filled his mind, and gooseflesh bloomed across his shoulders. He tried to sit up.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Beau's voice sounded loud, too loud. Ethan flinched. He groped for an answer, his brain big now, too big for all the undeveloped thoughts. None of them made sense. The sheets were rough on his flesh. Low count, scratchy. Shit. What had he just done. He tried to imagine walking home like this, wearing jeans. It would hurt. It was cold out. He shivered.

Beau carried two bottles in his hands, one big, one small, and a hand towel. He joined Ethan on the bed.

"Lay down," he murmured, and gave a perfunctory swipe with the towel across Ethan's belly. Wiped the come away.

Ethan lay again on his front, feeling the liquid in his body set like sludge. His shoulders tensed up. His thoughts were quick now, jumping around the confines of his skull. What had he done.

Beau uncapped the larger bottle and held it out. "Drink this," he said. Ethan obeyed. It was water. Not too cold, room temperature. Felt good. Beau held it for him, and slowly tipped it upright, wiped an errant trail from Ethan's chin. Ethan found Beau's eyes, tried to gauge what might happen next. Beau's gaze was heavy, somber as always, but there was something more. A light of some kind. Didn't make sense.

The corner of Beau's mouth lifted in a small smile and he passed his hand through Ethan's hair. The gesture was tender. He looked away then, for a moment, and held the smaller bottle up for Ethan to see.

"Oil," he said, in the same low voice. "It will help some with the pain. All right?"

Ethan stared, and considered Beau's words. Understanding came at last.

"All right," he said. His voice sounded like someone else's, no one he knew. Scratched and raw. His head felt heavy, strung with weights. He laid it down over his folded arms. He kept having to blink, and his eyelids stuck together. Hard to open them again. "Is it okay if..." Whatever he'd meant to say, the words drifted from him. He tried to think, what had he meant, what had he. What.

Beau's hand came down on him slow this time, not hitting. Still warm, moving slick. Oil. Kneading his flesh, rubbing the hurt.

Felt good.