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High Five

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Dallon’s ass is at the perfect height for smacking.

Ian notices it by accident, or at least not on purpose, because they’re a touchy-feely group with hugs and high fives and ass slapping. And Dallon is appreciably taller than the rest of them, so slapping his ass is different than doing it to Brendon or Spencer. It’s not like it’s extra effort, but it’s an extra something that makes it work.

Once he notices that, it’s impossible not to smack him on the ass. In fact, he makes a point to high five everyone else but Dallon, ending with him and slapping him hard. It usually earns him a laugh from the other guys and a glare from Dallon, but sometimes there’s something underneath the look that isn’t annoyance, that isn’t irritation.

Which is, of course, why he keeps it up. He’s trying to figure out what exactly it is that Dallon’s feeling, reacting to. He thinks he knows, and he spends a lot of time in his bunk thinking about it a lot. Thinking about it enough that he makes one of the techs take him out shopping, preparing, because he has to know.

It’s another three days until the next hotel night, and he calls in a few favors and gets a room on the other end of the hall from Brendon and Spencer and Zack. Dallon only frowns a little when he sees the rest of the guys break off from them, but given how loud they can be when they get to drinking and dick-swinging (only metaphorically as far as he knows), there’s relief in his expression too. Ian almost feels bad.

Not bad enough that he doesn’t slap Dallon’s ass as he heads into the room, of course, but a little bad. Maybe.

Dallon tosses his bag in the corner and drops down on one of the bed, sprawling out on his back and glaring at Ian. “Seriously, what’s the deal?”

“What deal?”

“You know what deal.” Dallon’s voice is dry, his eyebrow cocked knowingly. Ian wonders if he does know.

“Not a clue.”

“I’m taking a shower.”

“Go ahead.” He watches Dallon squat down to pull his kit out of his bag, waiting until he disappears into the bathroom to unpack a few of his own things. Everything’s still in packaging, and all of that wrapped up in the bag from the store. Once the water comes on, he unpacks it, laying it out on the bed, touching everything carefully. It’s a risk. That’s half of what makes his dick hard at the thought. He could be risking a lot. Everything. But he’s pretty sure he’s right, enough that he’s willing to take the chance.

Dallon comes out in nothing but a towel, water dripping from his wet hair. Ian’s to his boxer-briefs, lying on his bed and flipping through TV channels. He sees Dallon’s eyes go to the end of the bed and it takes biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling as his eyes widen. Ian watches to see where his interest falls, from the wooden handled hairbrush with the soft bristles to the one with the hard bristles to the short length of white rope to the leather cuffs. “What…what’s this, Ian?”

“Think you know.” He doesn’t stand up, doesn’t move, but he can see it all in Dallon’s expressive eyes. There’s a perception of power that comes with height. There’s power in not needing it. “On your knees.”

Dallon sinks down with a skill borne of practice and Ian’s willing to bet it’s not just from the stage. He gets up and grabs the cuffs, pulling Dallon’s hands behind his back and securing them. Dallon’s eyes close for a moment and his body settles. Ian has to bite back a groan at how it changes Dallon’s whole person.

“Fuck. Fuck, yes.” He pulls off the towel and Dallon’s skin is still pink from the shower, but his cock is flushed darker, veins dark blue beneath his skin, more than half-hard. He walks around and presses his foot against Dallon’s balls, the top of it against his dick. “I was right.”

Dallon shivers. “You knew you were right, asshole.”

“No. I didn’t know, but now I do.” He grabs the rope and traces the frayed ends of it against Dallon’s jaw. “Open wide.”

His head goes back as he opens his mouth, tongue sliding just a bit past his lower lip. Ian slides the rope in his mouth and watches Dallon bite down on it, shifting it with his tongue to get it set right. Ian grabs a pillow off the bed and tosses it at the floor, guiding Dallon down so his shoulders and head are resting on it, his head turned to the side. He traces a line up Dallon’s spine and over his bare ass.

He can feel the wetness on his boxer-briefs where his cock is straining against the material. He lifts both brushes, feeling the heft of them, then sets the one with the softer bristles down. The wood slides easily over Dallon’s ass, the darker swirls marking the oak color standing out against his pale skin. “Don’t worry.” His voice is rough with anticipation. “This is going to hurt you way more than it hurts me.”

The first couple of swings always hurt the worst. The shock of it for Dallon, no doubt, but for Ian it’s getting used to the jolt up his arm on impact and the sting in his palm. Dallon’s hips jerk with every swat, pulling away from the brush for a few seconds before angling his ass back for more. Ian can’t help grinning as he brings the brush down again, pulling it back so he can see the red mark rise up on Dallon’s skin.

He turns the brush over and sets it, bristle-side down, on Dallon’s ass and slides it, letting them dig at his skin. Dallon yelps around the rope, tugging at the cuffs, but it all slides into a moan as Ian flips the brush and smacks him with the wood again. Ian alternates them again and again, scraping and scratching and spanking. Dallon’s cock is leaking onto the discarded towel, fully hard and flushed reddish-purple. Ian flips the brush again, bringing the bristles down on his ass. This time Dallon cries out, spitting the rope out and panting roughly.

“Fuck, Ian. Fuck.”

“Stop?”

Dallon’s back is covered in sweat, the leather cuffs stuck to his skin. His muscles are strained and every inch of him looks like the skin’s been pulled too tight. “Don’t stop.” His jaw clenches and he closes his eyes, rocking back for more. “Don’t fucking stop.”

“Tsk, tsk, Dallon. Language.” He grabs the other brush and uses it, landing it solidly on Dallon’s ass, letting the solid thwack of it echo in his head before he uses it again. Dallon’s shoulders and legs are shaking, his breath shallow and weak. Ian switches the angle of his hand and hits him once more, watching red blossom one either side of the crack of Dallon’s ass. He turns the brush and lets the soft bristles tickle the overheated, sensitive skin.

Dallon gasps loudly, his body spasming as he comes. He loses purchase with his knees on the carpet and struggles to stay upright. Ian presses a leg against him to keep him from falling. Dallon leans hard on him, eyes half closed as Ian frees his cock and strokes it, fisting himself with fast, hard strokes until he comes all over Dallon’s ass. Dallon jerks on impact, the heat probably overloading him again, and this time Ian steps away and lets him slump to the floor.

Ian squats down beside him and runs a come-slick hand along Dallon’s spine between his cuffed arms. “Let me know when you’re ready to get up. I’ll just be on the bed.”