“It is unusual,” I agree, cracking my knuckles.
“I want to tell you something very important, and you must always remember as you move forward.”
I run my hand beneath my chin, set back from his words. “Yes, Sir?”
“Be careful who you trust.”
This is nothing I don’t already know. Trust is a priceless commodity where we live. Friends become enemies; enemies become besties. The turn-over is fast-paced, yielding to no one. No one gets immunity. So who do I trust?
Iris and Deacon.
In a nutshell, only two.
I know, they’d both lay down their lives, beliefs, and alter their strategies for me. I feel this in my heart and soul and every breath I take.
Anyone else—fair game.
Even my Master, Dom. Even my best friend, Nico. Even my former Mistress, Serene.
Trust no one, they teach me.
And I, as their fledgling Dominant, listen and learn.
The rules of BDSM are quite similar to that of the mafia. A different game board with different rules, but the parallels are present. Watching Luca leave the table, I rush to play the gullible card because Daizou doesn’t know me. “What do you mean?”
“Lotus eventually wither, rot, and fade away. Don’t drown with them.”
“Salvatore,” Old Poppa interrupts, patting my shoulder. “I’m glad to see you have met Daizou.”
The men shake hands, but with an undercurrent of a harsh, condescending scowl. They do not care for one another; this much is clear.
“Farewell,” Daizou replies, slightly tipping his head. “Remember everything.”
I wait until he walks away before mumbling, “I really need to get home.”
“You must go see the High Monarch.”
“… So I have heard about ten thousand times.”
“Eventually, you must stop running away from the fear and run into it with all the bravery of a Raniero.”
“You make it sound so easy,” I complain, shuffling my feet as I glance at the man who is eerily close to my reflection. “But nothing ever is.”
“Nothing worth your happiness will come cheap or easy.”
With Old Poppa spouting off goodness like fortunes from tasteless cookies, I embark on the road towards freedom. I slink towards the winding path, searching for the answers to the mystery behind my presence here.
“This is going to be so much fun!” Dais declares happily.
I give her a scrutinizing glare. “Doubtful.”
“Bah humbug! It’s an adventure to the High Monarch!”
I’m almost perky along the golden road with Daisicle by my side as I take in the sights and sounds. The forest grows darker and more foreboding. I fear what lies ahead, but I do not quit.
The assignment given is simple: follow the path, speak with the High Monarch, and unlock the curse upon the Kinky Kingdom.
The vines of pumpkins sprawl out into the course, and the plump, ripe fruit sits content along the trail. The tall corn rows intersperse among the squash when I spot what looks like a scarecrow in the mess of leaves. His sad blue eyes flick to mine, drawing my eyes in. “… Cruz?”
I slowly approach, noting his tight jeans and bare chest beneath the cut. “Well, it’s about time!”
“What the hell are you doing stuck on a rack in the middle of a cornfield?”
“Blame that bitch!” he grumps as I unhook him from the metal. “She put me here and left. She is insane. She wants to destroy The Unholy.”
He walks out in front of me, and I stare at the words emblazoned on the back of his cut—Sal’s Squad. I curiously lift a brow as he spins on his heel back to me. “Since when is Reckless Rebellion renamed of Sal’s Squad?”
“… Maybe it always was?” He grins, and I am humbled. “Where are you headed?”
“The castle,” I reply, glancing over to Dais, twirling through the vines. “Do you want to come with me?”
A slight smirk rises from the corner of his mouth. I feel the sexual tension build as his hand parks on his belt like an invitation for more. “I always want everything with you. You’re the only one I can feel with. You bring my emotions to the surface. I cannot do that with anyone else.”
I lean in close, and he kisses my lips, soft and gentle, determined and passionate. Our tongues entangle with a deviant suggestion. My arousal comes on suddenly, without hesitation. I can deny an entire party but never Deacon Cruz. He is my weakness, my sin, and the saint to save my sanity. “I hate how much I need you.”
“I know,” he says, running his hands over my shoulders. His mouth follows, easing over my neck and collar bone. He drops to his knees and runs his hand over my erection. I cannot escape his love or loyalty for me despite how I may deny our truth. I soak in our chaos of what we should never have been—lovers—and no matter what I do, I cannot deny the facts. I want the blessing of his presence and need the desire of his will. I welcome him. Those eyes cinch the noose around my soul as he begs, “Let me suck you.”
With my head tilting back, I spot the clouds overhead turning gray, dark, and heavy, like a storm is coming. His hands make quick work of the snug leather shorts, and his lips careen over the dampened head of my cock. “Jesus, Cruz.”
His mouth engulfs around my shaft as my fingers run through his hair, and I find the only salvation I need. In his presence, I can do anything and fly.
He makes me braver than I should be, bolder than I have ever been, and more brazen with my intimate feelings than anyone else in the world.
With Deacon by my side, I can love—fully and unapologetically. I am the closest to being the pure Sal with his love pouring into my heart.
While I understand how little sense it makes, this is the paradox of who I am and the chaos I experience in needing the balance. I denied my feelings for so long—no men and no Masters—but I needed both as much as I needed the air in my lungs. He is the oxygen I breathe, and without him, I rapidly suffocate to become a sarcophagus of the man I should be.
But I won’t degrade this love with a label.
It just is, and we just are.
His head bobs along my hardened ridge as I want more. He pulls back and whispers, “What’s wrong?”
“I need you.”
With one swift motion, he pops the belt from his jeans and stretches it from the loops. “Head down, ass up, baby boy.”
“Here? On the golden road?”
His head hastily jars towards the farm. “Would you prefer it in the middle of Nebraska?”
As a matter of fact… Yes, yes, I would.
But when caught between the absolute of everything and nothing, I choose always choose all. Kicking the shorts off, I spot Dais, sleeping beneath the broad leaves of the pumpkin. Thank heavens she is snoozing and not privy to the sins of her father.
I drop to my knees in preparation for his war. It is never easy, taking the first thrust, but it is has made me a better lover. I am capable of acknowledging the necessary trust. I say a brief prayer in hopes of having this mess resolved. I ask not to be dead and promise to try harder to control my brief lapses of human indulgence. I make the sign of the cross and blow a kiss to the eerie sky.
I fall to my hands, on all fours, before the only king I’ve ever known. It may sound like a glorification, but he is the holy land I seek. I long for his grace and blessing as the swish of the belt cries through the air and impacts with my ass. I grunt from deep within my throat. “Hell yes…hurt me.”
“I never planned on doing anything but…”
“You punish my ass for how you feel, yet you are aroused by it at the same time. You are the great juxtaposition of flaming and closeted, alpha male.”
He cackles beneath his breath. “I do like a nicely decorated ass.”
“Do it,” I encourage as he brings on strike after strike to welt my flesh and claim me as his own. He is the only one for me now. There is no other. I love anal sex with one man. And I fucking like it that way. “Make me the sinner
for your saint.”
His full palm slaps against my ass as I feel the pump of his fist on his cock. He is hard and fighting against his restraint. He doesn’t embrace the feeling; he can’t. But in a way, it doesn’t matter, because I feel enough emotions for a thousand men. It sucks, but I can’t change it, either.
“You should ask the High Monarch for feelings,” I suggest, running a finger down his thigh. “If she can help me get back home, I am certain she can help you.”
He doesn’t justify my words with a response because he doesn’t want rehabilitation or help. According to our years of banter, he believes his head is screwed on fine.
Unable to hold back any longer, he thrusts his cock inside of me as the devil inside of him declares a victory again. His delicious moan roars with a wave, like crossing into the end zone.
I am his weakness.
I spark the notions of ostentatious upsurge. My ass labels Deacon Cruz, and he hates it. I don’t ask for it, but the parameters of his mind demand it. He needs the redaction and the need to categorize. I mark his sanity as florid…bisexual...gay…and it aches within his veins.
But his mind cannot stop his physical craving, the spiritual longing to connect with one—me. I am his drug, his feast, and his folly. He will overdose on me. I abandon my tormented future with intoxicants; he avoids the demons—the terrorists—in fucking me. We all have an escape route, bound by belief, and intrinsically woven into our utter being. Sometimes, such as in the case of Cruz, it sucks.
Or, he sucks. My cock. For hours.
“If you don’t slow down, you’re going to come…”
“Damn right, I am,” he growls, clutching his fingers into my hips as his hasty strokes bring his mind and body closer to the edge of drowning in the abyss. “I’m going to blow my load into your tight ass, Nero.”
“I’m a tight ass,” I chuckle.
“You have no idea how much truth is in that statement,” he pants out, speeding up and slowing down. He stalls, hoping to delay the inevitable, but we both know it’s futile. I am irresistible. “God, I love you so fucking much. If you ever do something so stupid again, I’m going to bust open your pretty mug.”
“I’m sorry, Sir.”
“Don’t apologize to me. Forgive yourself for the shortcomings.”
“You should do the same,” I snicker, tossing a glance over my shoulder. “Stop worrying about what our relationship defines you as.”
“How can you be so okay with this?”
“Love,” I honestly reply. “Absolute love.”
“Then start trusting and don’t do what you did again,” he says, rocking deep inside of me. “And I will try to do the same.”
“… Are we making promises of acceptance on a golden road?”
“We are,” Deacon assures. “Because one provokes the other. If you stop running, maybe I will, too.” He bows over my back and wraps his fingers tightly around my cock. “Come with me.”
“You say that like there is ever another choice for me.”
He rolls his hips as his dick fills my ass, and my love cup runs over. I cannot stop the spill. Labels be damned. I love this man. And I love making love with him, too. “Shit…Raniero…”
“I know, babe,” I groan out as the fiery intensity between our bodies is too much. “I’m gonna go.”
“Do it, fucker,” he hisses, smacking my ass and plowing into my sanctuary with all the force of his love. “Do it now!”
I ride the wave of my orgasm, spewing onto my hand and the path. The sparkling seed against the golden hue garners my attention as he bucks balls deep and comes. He falls against my back, planting kisses all along my spine. “Are you okay?”
“No, I fucking blew it and saw stars.” I laugh, and his fingers trace over the Iris Amarie on my back. “I’m in love with her, too.”
“I know,” I mutter as he pulls out. I instantly miss his cock. “We have to go, though. I need to get home.”
“Yes, we do,” he agrees, rising and fastening his jeans. He offers his hand, and I take it. I pull up the shorts again. “I love those fucking boots.”
“Trade clothes with me?”
“… Seriously?”
“Sure,” I say as he kicks off the red shoes, and we exchange clothes. We’re almost the same size, and this sharing of garments isn’t unusual. I scan over his skin and note the delight in his eyes. He looks so content as I snap the belt against his ass. “Dear fuck… We may have to stop and do that again with you in those shorts.”
“Ooooh!” He puckers his lips and flirts, “Whip me, Daddy!”
“You’re so warped!” I shake my head and grin like a fool in love. Between his shimmering platinum locks and deep blue eyes, I cannot help but succumb to the lust. His black leather cut, along with the shorts and boots, evokes all that I love about him. He was born for this. “But hell, you look hot. I wish I still had the collar.”
“Who did you give it to?”
“Skeeter.”
Putting the belt on, he rolls his eyes, offended, as I snap the wrist cuffs to him. “Hmph…like she could ever be a better bitch than me. It takes a hell of a submissive to do what you demand of me, Master Nero.”
“Don’t I know it,” I rebuke, popping his ass with my hand. “Daisicle, wake up! We’re leaving.”
Her eyes slit open with an evil glare like I’ve disturbed her dreams of Chubbs. “If you two weren’t so busy partaking, we would have already arrived.” Deacon flips her off, and I snort. “Fine, I won’t let you borrow my collar.”
“Are you well behaved enough to stay close by?”
“You just let a gay scarecrow fuck you senseless en route to the Castle of Cum, what do you think?”
“I’m not gay,” Cruz corrects, prancing about in the leather shorts like he was built for such things. He gyrates his hips with a wink. “… I’m fun.”
“You’re more than happy when your dick is in his ass.”
“Shut it, bitch.”
“Hussy,” she says with a scowl.
“Tramp!”
“Stop it,” I demand, taking my role to heart, as I pop the leather in my hands. “Both of you.”
They turn silent as we journey along the path with Cruz on my right and Dais on my left. The rolling clouds churn with agony like they’re about to erupt in a violent storm. The farmlands eventually shift to orchards as I spot the apple and peach trees.
“Look at these!” I marvel at the succulent, ripe fruit. I tug a peach from the limb, but it refuses to release. “Damn!”
“What are you doing?” the tree asks, opening her eyes. “Stop groping me!”
“Give me a damn peach!”
“No!” the tree shouts, whipping her limbs around. “Get away!”
Daisicle ducks behind a large boulder as the peach tree pelts us with her fruit. Deacon catches one and tosses it back, nailing the tree in her mouth. “We’ll take your peaches and gag you, too!”
Crouching low, I grab one of the peaches resting at the toe of the fine Italian leather loafer. “What the hell?”
I glance up to see Dom blinking down at me. He’s unable to move like he’s rusted solid. I dig in his jacket pockets to find the bottle of lube. I take the tip of my finger and run it over the corners of his lips.
“The fucking Wicked Bitch of Woe came by and locked me down.”
“So, you’ve just been standing here?” Deacon asks, taking a bite of peach and handing it to Dais. “For how long?”
“Too long,” he replies as I lube up the rest of his joints. “Why is Cruz dressed up like he’s about to go march in a pride parade?”
“Because he is working on his feelings.”
“Ahh,” Dom says, stepping out of the grove and onto the path. “I was going to the party at the Kinky Kingdom, but I realized my heart isn’t into it anymore.”
“Bullshit,” Deacon remarks, giving a bite of the peach to me. “You’re just war-torn from your marriage. You still have a demanding Dominant living in
side of you.”
“Perhaps,” Dom replies. “But I cannot find him.”
I grip his arm. “You should come to the castle with us and ask the High Monarch for your heart to return.”
“It isn’t that easy,” he says as Deacon shakes his ass to the thunderous beat erupting in the sky and vibrating underfoot. “What has gotten into him?”
“He got laid,” Dais announces from the side as she files her nails. “Pounded Sal’s puckering starfish.”
Gee, thanks.
Wait… What?
I do a double-take.
Where did you get a file? And why are your nails red?
Dom strokes his chin scruff as he bumps my arm. “He looks remarkable in those shorts.”
“I know,” I say, grinning from ear to ear.
“… May I?” he queries, lifting his cane.
“Be my guest,” I offer with a wave of my hand. “You can borrow my slut.”
Dom takes a determined step forward and points to a tree with his cane as I sit cross-legged on the ground and stare at the red shoes. Deacon dances up to the broad oak and shimmies—yes, shimmies—out of the cut. Without a care, he allows the leather to hit the ground (I gasp!) and Dais drags it over to me.
I tilt my head as Deacon works the rhythm of his body up to the tree and spreads his arms and legs. I lift a brow as he rolls his ass, and I stretch my legs out. With a side-eyed glare, Dais sasses, “Keep the package under control.”
“Too late for that.”
“You are so sunk with him,” she assesses, laying on the cut. “You need to allow his experience to evolve organically.”
“Why do you think I am smiling?”
“Because you like the sight of ass peeking out from under the shorts?”
Bitch gonna need a muzzle soon.
I flip her off as she cozies down.
Dom lets the cane pop Deacon’s back, and I hear his moan. With every strike, I grow harder. I’ve never enjoyed the sight of one of my submissive under another Master, but fuck me…this may be better than being in the middle of a scene.
Dom doesn’t hold back, letting the sharpness of the sting roll through Deacon and back to him. I have to wonder if I find that much contentment in control. Dom soars high, finding the mischief in the mayhem, and the holy ground in every breath of a Saint.
The Red Shoes Page 4
