by Kris Ripper
I was hard as hell under its attention. No denying that. I would have almost preferred pain to the tenderness of Madison’s fingers caressing my balls, sliding up, exploring.
I shuddered. The places where her jeans scraped against the marks made me writhe, and I was trapped there by the crop. “Please…please…”
“Tell me what you want.”
Oh, god. “Touch me, goddammit.”
She might have giggled. “Okay.” Her fingers returned to my balls, less gentle but not entirely rough. It felt less like Madison trying to get me off and more like Madison using me to satisfy her curiosity, and that probably shouldn’t have been hot, but it was. I no longer had to be myself. Now I could be her plaything, her toy.
“I’m basically your live action sex doll right now.”
She definitely giggled. “Sorry. You want me to undo your hands so you can get yourself off? Otherwise I’m really just screwing around here.”
I heaved the most put-upon sigh I could manage. “No, it’s fine. Go ahead and use me like an anatomically accurate Ken doll.”
The crop, to my relief, was set off to the side. Then her hands were on me, and she wasn’t shy. “Is this okay?” she asked, pinching a nipple while her other hand jacked me.
“Yes.” I straightened up more, resting my hands on the top of the couch instead of the seat.
“So much better.” She repositioned, taking the opportunity to rub all over my ass, making me hiss. “Yep, way better. How about this? Too tight? Not tight enough?”
“No, that’s…” My back arched, ass pressing back against her as if seeking her nonexistent dick. “Faster. And if you could—” She pinched harder and switched sides.
I praised the gods of wired nipples, shutting my eyes and more deliberately tensing the muscles in my thighs, lighting up that burn again. “Oh fuck. That’s good.”
“I really want you to come, if you can. That’d be super hot.”
“I’m just your experiment with boys, aren’t I? You’ll keep me a secret from all your lesbian friends because you don’t want to damage your cred—”
Suddenly her hands gripped both of my hips and she rubbed herself hard against me, deliberately mashing all the raw skin she’d left from the crop. “I have half a mind to take you over my knee for being a jerk, but I’d rather see you come. I’m gonna count to ten and if you don’t get off by then, you can choose taking more with the crop and coming, or ending the scene with blue balls.”
“You’re a horrible person.”
She laughed. “I know.”
Then her hands were on me again, the same pressure as before, jacking me faster, pinching nipples and skin and reaching up under my shirt to pinch my side, my armpit, and I didn’t need the entire ten count. I started coming at six and slumped over the back of the couch, panting and shivering with exertion.
“I kind of forgot the whole ejaculation part of this, oops.”
I shook my head. “Your pillow talk seriously needs work.”
She tossed a blanket over my back and unbuckled the wrist cuffs. “I’ll get your beer. You sit.”
It was the last thing I wanted. Fuck aftercare. But I had agreed, so I did up my jeans, wincing, and sat on the couch I’d just corrupted.
My thighs hurt like hell. My ass was sore. I felt a little shaky, probably from bracing so much.
Madison handed me the rest of my beer and sat on the other side of the couch. I’d never really looked at her before, not more than just in recognition. She had a blond crew cut long on top, which had probably been spiked this morning, but was a bit wilted now. Round at breasts, hips, stomach, and ass.
Her eyes were brown. I didn’t think I’d ever even noticed.
I raised my bottle to her. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
“Um. Did you want me to—” I gestured vaguely in the direction of her…in her direction, anyway.
“LOL, no. Thanks, but no, I got it. You’re fun to dominate, though if we played more often, I’d just take the not making sounds thing as a challenge.”
I shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. Like, I don’t withhold noises at all costs or anything.”
She grinned. “Maybe you’ll have to let me at you again one of these days, see what happens. Thanks for staying for a few minutes, by the way. I know it’s not your preference, but it really helps me settle back into my skin after a scene.”
“What happens if you don’t have that?” I’d never been dominant. Never had the inclination. I didn’t have any real idea what it took out of someone to riding crop my ass.
“Nothing that bad, like I don’t usually experience huge drop or anything. But during a scene I’m really focused and my brain’s constantly calculating what’s next, and what the other person or people are feeling, and how to best achieve whatever the objective is. So it’s good to just sit with someone after until my brain calms down.” She offered a slightly rueful smile. “I used to think all that would fade eventually, like I’d hit this magical moment where I was so experienced I didn’t have to think about it anymore, but it’s more that it just happens automatically. It’s still a lot of stuff to have in my head.”
“I get that.” I drained the rest of my beer. “Are you good? I can stay longer.”
“I’m good. A hug would be nice, if that’s okay.”
I gave her a hug at the door. “That was a lot better than Beefy Dudebro.”
“Toppy dyke friend to the rescue. See you, Justin.”
“Goodnight.”
By the time I got home I had barely enough energy left in me to tug my clothes off before toppling into bed.
Ow, ow, ow. My poor thighs. I sank into the lingering burn and fell asleep.
Chapter Eighteen
JAMIE’S FIRST TEXT read, If you don’t come over for dinner, I’m abducting you.
Her second: Also, we’ll starve. Neither of us feel like cooking. You in?
Oh thank Christ, we were pretending the whole night we had shitty sex didn’t happen. The relief was intense and immediate. I texted back: I’m in.
I didn’t mean to tell them about Madison, exactly. But I started by telling them about Beefy Dudebro and my failed attempt to fuck him. Or get fucked by him. Or to incorporate the concepts of “fucking” and “Beefy Dudebro” in the same event.
“So I got the fuck out of there and bemoaned my old age, since that’s undoubtedly to blame for the fact I couldn’t just let him do his thing and then go home and jerk off like a normal person.”
Jamie topped up my wine. There were blankets pointedly piled on their couch, though I had no intention of spending the night. It was sweet that she’d planned ahead to get me drunk, though.
“So, go on. You went home dejected and alone? You went back to the bar for a better trick?”
“Er—actually, I called Madison.”
For a split second, not even a breath, she went still. Then she smiled. “Dammit, Jus, you have to introduce us to these people so I know who you’re talking about. Madison’s the dominant lesbian?”
“Yeah. Though she’s currently dating a genderqueer—uh—human. So her lesbianism is worth about as much as my homosexuality.”
“That’s hot.” She slid down into her chair and if I’d thought I could make a no sex rule and stop thinking about her body, I’d really failed. I’d had just enough of a taste to make me ravenous.
I swallowed.
Jamie tipped the last of the bottle into her own glass and offered it to Alex, who shook his head. She raised both eyebrows at me. “Obviously something happened, so?”
“We did a scene.”
“You and Madison?”
“And Madison’s riding crop, yeah.”
“Oooooh. You hate crops!” She leaned forward, all lit up and flushed, maybe from the wine. “I can’t even. How was it?”
“But I thought…” Alex shook his head. “You really hate crops. Why’d you pick that?”
“I didn’t. I mean, sort of. Or
like, she asked me what I liked and I said I hated crops, so she said she was taking that as an invitation.”
Jamie applause-snapped. “I approve. Go on. Gory details, please.”
In a way, it was just like all the other times we’d swapped stories: the two of us leaning in, glorying in our tales of hunt and conquest, while Alex watched us and smiled. Except this time he looked more contemplative than vicarious. And Madison had been anything but a conquest.
I described the scene and whined about the crop and Jamie interjected her own adventures as was traditional, some of which were attached to names and places, while others were not. I assumed the non-named stories were about Alex, not that he would have objected, but that she didn’t talk about him the way she talked about other people.
I didn’t talk about Madison the way I talked about other people.
“She forced me to do fucking aftercare, which I hate.”
“Oh, I so can’t wait to meet her. Make this happen, number one!”
“For fuck’s sake, if you’re going to do Star Trek, get it right! Jesus, Cork. You’re an embarrassment.”
She leaned all the way over to kiss Alex and whisper, “Winding Jus up never gets old. I just want to do it more now.”
He tilted his face up for another kiss. “Make it so, number one.”
I threw napkins at both of them.
“Come on, let’s relocate somewhere more comfortable.” At my severe look, she laughed. “I meant the couch, though if you’re open to options—”
“I’m not.” Not after fucking last time, are you joking? But I wasn’t going to bring it up.
She paused, in which I held my breath, praying our unspoken agreement to pretend it never happened would hold.
I cannot process this shit with you. Please don’t make me. I’d beg, if necessary.
It wasn’t necessary. “Fine, fine,” Jamie said. “So when did that happen?”
I shrugged. “Friday.”
“Damn. Well.” She stood close enough so that our feet touched and looked down on me. “I think I should inspect you for marks. To make sure you’re healing right.”
“The marks are gone,” I said, far too decisively. Then added, since it was now obvious, “I checked.”
Jamie braced hands on my shoulders. “Still. You might have missed something.”
“You think I’ve got an oozing infected sore that I simply haven’t noticed?”
“I think I want you to show me where it hurt the most. Just in case I ever need to hurt you.”
I bit down on my tongue. “Um.”
“Jame.” Alex moved up out of his chair, and I didn’t want both of them towering over me. I didn’t trust myself to be smart in such close proximity to the objects of my desire.
Except it was Alex. Alex didn’t tower. Alex knelt.
“I wish you’d come here after so we could see. You used to let me see, remember?”
I stared down at him, marveling at the effortless way he interrupted the current of power between Jamie and I, and even more, the way both of us immediately tuned in to him. I reached out, daring to rest my fingers against his jaw. “Only in fits of extreme masochism, when wanting you was the scalpel I used to make myself bleed.”
His forehead furrowed. “Not anymore. Not since you actually told me. Anyway, you don’t have to, but you could have.”
“Or,” Jamie added, “it goes without saying—you could have come here in the first place. I got crops, if that’s your poison.”
I shuddered. “No thank you very fucking much. And inner thighs. I thought I was going to scream.” I let my hand run into Alex’s hair, tugging it. “It was a good scene. She said something interesting, about aftercare. That she liked it because it helped her brain calm down. You feel that, Cork? We never talked about aftercare.” Or at least, I had, but only to denigrate it like a total asshole.
She grabbed one of my hands and pulled. “Couch.”
We reassembled, Jamie and I at the sides, and Alex between us, head on her lap, feet in mine. It wasn’t wholly uncommon in these latter days since we’d done the deed sober, but maybe because we were outside the bubble of the Saints house, I felt a little more needy to keep the contact. I rubbed his feet, since they were there. In silent thanks. Or silent apology. Or just because.
“So like, I’m not sure I feel it exactly the same way, but I get what she’s saying. My brain kind of sorts experiences. Like, if we go out and I fuck with someone at a club, my brain basically considers that pretty straightforward.”
“Transactional?” I suggested.
“Yeah, something like that. We cover the basics, do the thing, I do whatever they need for aftercare, which depends on the person. But that’s not something that takes a lot out of me, necessarily.” She began idly finger-combing Alex’s hair. “I mean, there are some scenes that get super intense fast, even if I don’t know the person that well. And I can play with people I know and it’s more like…yeah, transactional. Huh. This is interesting.”
Alex’s toes wriggled in my grasp and he craned his neck to look at her. “You approach people differently depending on what you want, too. If you’re in a certain mood, you seek out more intense people.”
“Yeah, that…makes sense…” She paused. “And intense means I go deeper into myself, and hopefully whoever I’m playing with does the same. Aftercare is good for scenes like that, to sort of reclaim a more normal frame of mind. But you hate aftercare, Jus. How do you do get back to level?”
“I pull on my pants and I’m good to go. It’s a gift.”
Alex poked me with his foot.
“What? I do.”
“You didn’t used to.”
“I did. I always did.”
He propped himself on his elbows. “You seriously forget when you first started doing scenes with people, and you used to go all hollow?”
“What’re you talking about? I never did that.”
His expression deepened somehow, focused in like he was adjusting his scope so I was better in his sights. “Jus, I was there. Remember? You’d go to what’s-it, that shitty club, on like bondage night. And you’d walk away from it and be zoned out. It was freaky. You’d sit there watching TV and eat party sized bags of Doritos without even realizing you were doing it. Then you’d go to the gym, no matter what time of day it was, and come back two or three hours later like nothing happened.”
A low buzzing set up shop in my ears and I concentrated on his feet, still in my hands. I wouldn’t have done that. I wouldn’t have eaten like that, not when he was talking about. I didn’t go to clubs until college and I was long past the bad old binge eating days by then. I just wouldn’t have done that. Wouldn’t have needed to. Because I didn’t go hollow, or zone out, or whatever. I did what I did with people, I put my clothes back on, I went home. No big fucking thing.
Plus, I hated Doritos. Even thinking about them made me nauseous.
Hands closed over my hands. “Jus.”
“I didn’t.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, but I didn’t.” I yanked my hands away and shoved his feet off my lap. “You’re confused. I didn’t do that.”
He held up his arms, surrender and appeal all at once. “Okay.”
“I should go. I have work.”
“You don’t have to—”
But I was already on my way toward the door, hooking my jacket and tie off the chair where I’d left them, calling, “Thanks for dinner!” over my shoulder like it was the last scrap of politeness at the bottom of the bucket and I needed to dump it out before I left.
I hadn’t had too much wine to drive, but I shouldn’t have been driving. I was shaking. My arms and legs trembled.
Made it home. Popped an antihistamine. Didn’t think about anything else.
Chapter Nineteen
COLIN PAULSON WAS waiting at the shop again. This time with coffee. He’d even remembered how I took it.
“I did it. I found a gallery that wants the Hazel
tine series.”
“Is it a series if it’s only two pieces?”
“It’s two sculptures and a number of other pieces inspired by the art of Enrico Hazeltine. Line drawings, pastels, whatever.”
I raised my eyebrows as I unlocked the door. “Chad agreed to all that?”
He shrugged. Suspiciously. “He will. It’s The Museum. He’ll agree to anything.”
The Museum—as the pretentious name indicated—was the it location for modern art in San Francisco. Small, downtown, with an outdoor patio in back so people could huddle around industrial heaters and sip cocktails, pretending they weren’t freezing their balls off. Chad had never had a show there.
“Really?” I tried not to be impressed. “How’d you swing that?”
“Well, first, I took pictures of some of the stuff he’s been working on. Then I schmoozed the people I could find who are still active on that list you gave me. And lo and behold, the guy who runs events and programming for The Museum is the former business partner of the woman who used to be married to Hazeltine’s literary agent.”
“Small world.”
“The Bay Area certainly is. Art in the Bay Area is even smaller, and queer art smaller still.”
I surveyed Colin Paulson over the lid of my coffee. “Colin…are you queer?”
He rolled his eyes. “Does it matter?”
Which wasn’t a no. “Not really. So this is going to happen? That’s good, because he’s doing it anyway. And I don’t really have the heart to try stopping him. I want to see what he does.”
“Me too. And at The Museum.”
“You sold them a show based on, what, an imaginary sculpture?”
“Most of the pieces are in progress, and his sketches of the sculpture are compelling. And they’re intrigued about the Hazeltine angle.” He shrugged. “Intrigued enough to say yes, though if this flops it’ll be the last thing I ever book at The Museum.”
