by Drew Sera
I had practiced all day what I was going to say to him.
“I think I need to step away from Irons for a while,” I said and glanced at him.
“How long are you thinking?”
“Maybe just a few weeks. I can't uphold my commitment to you and Irons right now. I'd rather step away for a little bit, get focused and then return.”
“Anthony, you don't want to walk away from Irons, do you?” Blake asked me.
“No, but I can't focus much right now. And you don't need me being in the dungeon if I can't concentrate.”
“Let's do this, instead of an entire evening of being a monitor, how about just thirty minutes? And just watching two stalls.”
I blinked a few times, comprehending what he was offering me. He was going to work with me.
“Ok, I can do that.”
“Good, then that’s what we’ll do. Don't worry about this, Anthony, it'll be okay.”
Chapter Twenty
October 1996
I was starting to hit a wall. No longer did I have the luxury of calling my dad on Sundays to see if he watched the 49ers game. I missed it. I missed him. And I never told him that I loved him or how grateful I was that he answered the phone that day.
Guilt is a tough pill to swallow. Especially when it’s a side dish to regret.
I was playing in Irons again, but cautiously. I had just finished a scene with a girl bound to a whipping post and was toweling off sweat from my forehead when Paul caught my attention again.
“You don’t look satisfied, Master Graves,” Paul said in a flat tone.
I stretched my arms up and gripped the stone archway and glared at Paul. If he wanted to flex, I’d flex too. Literally. I was not only younger than he was but in far better shape. He looked annoyed at my stretching, which displayed my muscles well.
“Do you ever get tired of looking at yourself, Graves?”
“No. I’m comfortable with myself.”
He walked closer with his hands on his hips and looked down at my abdomen.
“How about that?” Paul asked and gestured at my scar. “You ever get tired of looking at that?”
Fucking asshole. I lowered my arms and folded them across my chest, but never took my eyes off of him.
“What do you want, Paul?”
“Nothing. I was just trying to help you, again.”
“Sorry, I think your tactics to offer assistance to someone fucking sucks.”
Paul made a tsking noise and shook his head at me.
“It’s a shame your parents didn’t teach you any manners. Maybe it’s not too late, though.” He leaned back and reached for his heart. “Oh, that’s right, your dad is no longer alive. I could teach you some manners.”
“You couldn’t teach me anything, Paul. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
I sidestepped him and headed toward the stairs leading to the main floor when Paul caught up to me and walked alongside me.
“Actually, Graves. I think I can teach you something that would help with how you’re feeling.”
I came to a sudden stop and spoke quietly.
“I’m not feeling anything. So, there’s nothing for you to help me with. Now, please leave me alone.”
I ambled up the steps alone, but Paul called after me.
“Pain, Graves. The emotional pain is starting to get to you.” I stopped on the middle of the stairs but kept my focus forward. “See, you know what I’m talking about. The pain of loss. It’s eating you alive. You’ve been looking for an outlet. There’s nothing better to counter emotional pain, with physical pain.” I turned my head to the side and for a brief moment, considered listening to him. “I can help you, Graves. I’ll make it all better, and that ache in your chest will subside.” I swallowed hard and trudged up the steps to the main floor.
I was out of energy. Mentally and physically, I was wiped out. I usually follow a scene up with a tall glass of ice water and a Coke in the bar. Blake encouraged me to use that time to reflect on the scene and see if I could have done anything better or if there was something I could improve upon.
But not tonight.
I don’t know if I was just so mentally drained or if Paul’s words were bothering me. Once I was on the main floor, I went outside to my truck and leaned against it for a few minutes. The chilly October air felt good.
“Anthony.”
I turned my head in the direction of Blake’s voice and tilted my head upward to greet him.
“Hey,” I said.
“You ok?”
“Of course, why?”
“I usually see you in the bar with a Coke. How was your scene tonight?”
“It was fine, Blake. There weren’t any issues. I’m ok, I’m just really drained and thought it’d do me some good to go home.”
Blake nodded in agreement with me as he leaned on the side of my truck next to me.
“Is that why you’re leaning on your truck in the parking lot instead of being halfway home?”
Damn. Blake had me there. I smiled at him when he playfully punched me in the upper arm. His playfulness faded and his hand rubbed on my upper arm. With that gesture, I knew he was telling me that he was concerned but trying not to push me too much.
“I miss him, Blake.”
“I know you do, Anthony. I know this seems impossible, but it will get easier in time.”
I wanted to tell him that I hate how I feel. The guilt, the regrets, the fucking hole in my heart and lump in my throat. None of it was getting any better with time. I need to figure something out because I can’t go on like this. This is too much.
But, I didn’t voice any of this with Blake. I just nodded and told Blake I’d see him tomorrow.
Since my dad died, Sundays were spent with Blake watching the football games. Blake hosted game day at his place, and a lot of the guys from the club would go over. I hope I feel better tomorrow; otherwise, I might not go.
“You’re a disgrace, Anthony. How could you allow those people to do those sick things to you?”
I stared up at my dad, stunned.
“Did you like it?” he asked.
“What? No! You know I didn’t!”
He shrugged his shoulders and turned his head to the side.
“I don’t know if I believe that. Did you fight back?”
“I was little!”
“Anthony, come on! You weren’t so little at seventeen. I think you let them.”
“No, Dad! I didn’t!”
“Don’t call me ‘Dad.’ No son of mine allows that to go on.”
Fuck! I woke up breathing hard and my chest and forehead drenched in sweat. What a fucked up dream. I couldn’t shake it and had to get out of bed. I pulled on a dry shirt and sat in front of my TV for a while and watched Sports Center. My mind lost in the few memories of my dad that I had. He never told me that he was disappointed or disgusted with me. And he never uttered a word to me while he was alive that he just said to me in my dream.
Still, it had me thinking and wondering if maybe he felt those things.
Around 10:00 a.m., I woke up. I had fallen asleep on the couch, and now my neck was stiff. I still had the nightmare worries running through my mind. I stood over the sink and shoved handfuls of cereal in my mouth as I looked out the window.
Had my dad felt that way?
I went to take a shower and get ready to go to Blake’s, but I wasn’t feeling up to going. After I was dressed and ready to go, I sat down on the couch. I was still exhausted from my disturbing nightmare. On the couch, opposite the side I was sitting on, sat my plush football that my dad gave me when he took me home all those years ago.
I smiled as I recalled the shit I gave my dad about giving it to me because I worried he thought I was a baby and needed a stuffed toy. The reality of it was that I loved that football. I held onto it at night and it provided me a world of comfort that I never knew existed. When I got my own place in college, I took it with me and kept it in my room on my bed. I never had anyone o
ver to my place aside from my dad or someone picking me up for a party. But no one ever came into my room. When I moved to Las Vegas after I graduated college, I relocated the football from my bed to the couch. It looked decorative. And it was always there for me if I needed it.
Which, I was feeling a pull toward it now. I wished I had told my dad how much I loved it. But I was too proud or “manly” to admit that I loved the damn thing. I leaned over and grabbed the football. Tossing it back and forth in my hands, I smiled at it.
The lump in my throat that I’ve had since his death seemed to get worse as I held the plush football and soon my eyes were watery. I kicked my shoes off and got comfortable on my side. I clutched the football against my chest and closed my eyes.
The ringing phone woke me up and startled me. I sat up and looked at my watch. Shit. Half of the game was probably nearly over. Carrying the football with me, I jogged to answer the phone.
“Anthony, are you coming over? Your Niners are killing my Seahawks,” Blake said jokingly into the receiver.
“I’m not going to make it, Blake. I’m sorry. I should have called you.”
I could hear the background noise of people and the TV fading until it was completely gone. I figured Blake had gone into another room for privacy.
“Ok, it’s fine. What’s going on? Are you doing ok?” he asked.
“I’m ok. I didn’t sleep well last night and couldn’t fall back asleep until early this morning. I just am out of it.”
“Alright, Anthony. Don’t worry about it. Rest up, and I will see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is Monday...”
“That’s right, sorry. I won’t forget.”
On Mondays, Blake and I have lunch and will chat about the events Saturday at Irons. Blake liked to give me a day or so to reflect on the scenes I participated in and then we’d talk about what went well, or what could have been better or improved upon. He was really an incredible mentor.
I spent the rest of the day moping around, and an uncomfortable thought kept popping back into my head; what had Paul been talking about with combating pain with pain? I found myself thinking about this a lot through the day and wanted to know more...but not from Paul.
Frequently, I ask Blake anything and everything. But something in the back of my mind was telling me to research this quietly.
In the early evening, I decided to call Mark in California. He was older than I was and had been in the lifestyle for many years. I thought if anyone possibly knew something about what Paul was talking about, that it might be him.
“So, a guy at Irons was talking about a type of play that I was curious about. Something about alleviating pain with pain. I didn’t want to ask him to explain it to me because he’s kind of a dick,” I said as Mark laughed. “Have you heard of that before?” I asked.
Mark exhaled loudly and said that he was pretty sure he knows what the guy was talking about.
“It’s fucked up shit, Anthony.”
“How fucked up?”
“Dark, fucked up shit.”
“Like, rough play?”
I actually kind of liked some rough play. My heart was pounding as the awkward silence grew between us.
“No, it has nothing to do with rough play, technically. Let me think a second on how I can explain this to you.” While I waited for him, I brushed the plush fleece on the football in one direction and then combed it back the other way. “Ok, think of it in relation to cutters or people who self-inflict wounds or pain upon themselves.” I frowned because I didn’t really understand or grasp that at all. “Did I lose you already, Anthony?”
“Yes,” I said honestly.
“Ok, so, with cutters, most of them are hurting emotionally. A way they have found to ease the emotional pain is to cut themselves. This releases a chemical in the brain that almost numbs them from the emotional pain. So, for a while, the physical pain helps them deal with emotional pain. Follow me?”
I was thinking.
“But, it doesn’t last long, I imagine.”
“You’re right. And it leads to the cutter continuing to cut and do damage just to get a quick fix.”
I was quiet for a moment as I thought.
“See, dark, fucked up shit. Now, I used a cutter as an example. But the notion of ‘pain to treat pain’ can take on many appearances. They don’t have to be cutters. They can be nothing more than people wanting physical sessions. And it can mask itself too. Think of the little masochist who plays with the sadist.” Mark paused so I could get it in my mind. “The sadist sees it as nothing more than fulfilling the need of the little masochist...but she potentially could be using their play to counter emotional pain. Anthony, don’t misunderstand what I’m saying; not all people in this lifestyle are covering emotional pain.”
“Understood. I know that. I was merely curious about what the pain for pain type of play was about that he was referencing.”
“Was the dick saying this to a bottom or submissive or was he talking to another Dom about it?”
I wasn’t about to admit that the son of a bitch was talking to me about it.
“I heard it in passing, is all.”
“Good. Steer clear of it, man.”
I thanked him for his time and then we got off the phone. I leaned back on the couch and tossed my football back and forth as I thought about what Mark and Paul said. Maybe a physical session would be just the thing to make the pain I feel over my dad disappear. I was nearly ready to try anything. The lump in my throat and pain in my chest was becoming unbearable.
But could I stand to be physically beat again?
I didn’t have the answer to that question. I had been physically abused by my stepfather and his friend ever since I could walk through the time I was seventeen. I don’t know if I could willingly put myself in that position again.
But, if it made the pain in my chest go away, it might be worth it.
I paced around my living room while I waited for someone to answer the phone at the dungeon I used to frequent in San Francisco.
“Thank you for calling The Cave in San Francisco, how may I help you?”
The girl’s voice sounded familiar to me.
“Is this Kayla?” I asked.
“Yes,” the girl cautiously answered.
Though I had scened with Kayla, nothing stands out as memorable about the girl aside from the fact that she had massive nipples. I think it was Kayla with the big nipples. Maybe. Or was it Kendra?
“It’s Anthony,” I said.
“Hi, Sir! We all miss you! The girls and I miss playing with you.”
I laughed into the receiver and asked if Bradley was around. Bradley was a Service Top who handled a lot of the scheduling for the subs and the other Service Tops. Eventually, I got Kayla off the phone and Bradly picked up.
“Anthony, man, what’s going on? Been a while.”
“Hey, Bradley.”
“How’s Irons?”
“It’s incredible. I love it.”
“Lucky fucker. So, what can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for a physical session. Just to release some pent up shit.”
“As in, you administering it or receiving it?”
“Receiving. Fuck, I know better than to administer that.”
“I thought so, but had to ask. So, do you have someone in mind?”
“No, I just think they need to be heavy handed. I can take a lot and would like the get a lot out of the session without being too bruised.”
Once I was scheduled, Bradley and I wrapped up our phone conversation. I was set for Thursday and called the airlines to book a same day flight to and from San Francisco.
“Anthony, this is Keith. I think you guys might have met before,” Bradley said as we approached a man in the main room.
Keith stood and came over to shake my hand.
“Pleasure seeing you again, Anthony. How’s that club out in Vegas?” Keith asked as Bradley excused himself
and left Keith and me.
“It’s great. It’s a special club.”
“I hear excellent things about it and the owner. Mistress Lynn knows the owner and says he’s the best.”
I nodded in agreement. I was such a lucky guy.
“He really is. He’s my mentor.”
“No shit? Wow.” He rubbed his hands together and squinted at me as if he was considering something. “So what are you doing scheduling a beating all the way over here and not with an Irons Service Top?”
“It’s personal. I’d rather not have this kind of session at Irons.”
“No shame in your needs, Anthony.”
“I know that. This is kind of experimental.”
“What do you mean?”
I considered for a moment if I wanted to divulge this info, and I wasn’t ready to do so. I needed to test these waters first.
“Again, it’s kind of personal.”
“Got it. Well, shall we?” Keith gestured for me to follow him to one of the rooms that I’ve played in often.
Keith leaned on one of the spanking benches in the room and asked me what I had in mind.
“Just a moderate beating,” I said.
When I heard my request in my own voice, I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I was requesting a beating. Fucking crazy. But if it would ease the pain I felt over my dad; then it was worth it.
“When you say moderate…”
“No blood. No belts. No bare hands,” I said.
“Flogger?”
“Yes, a flogger is fine. And just on my back.”
“Ok, safe word?”
“Let’s just use ‘red,’ Keith.”
“Any locations of prior or current injuries that I need to know about?”
“My side scar. Don’t let the falls wrap,” I requested and pulled my shirt off so he could see the location of my scar.
“Alright, take hold of the rope that’s dangling down over there,” Keith instructed.
I moved into position, and it was as though I was having an out of body experience here or something. I was asking to be physically hit. My heart was pounding, and I was actually kind of nervous.
