About Ker Dukey
My books all tend to be darker romance, the edge of your seat, angst-filled reads. My advice to my readers when starting one of my titles... prepare for the unexpected.
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Hung
Ashleigh Giannoccaro
One
Wesley
There is a chill in the air today; it’s colder than it was yesterday and I half expect it will snow soon. Winters so close to the water are frigid, misty, and magical. The cold blankets us in a cloud that never seems to let up, hiding us from reality. Cirque transforms into this mystical, hidden place beneath a blanket of darkness; the moist air only adding to the stickiness of lust and debauchery. Wind whistles into my trailer through the gaps and cracks, the howling sound of Mother Nature making angry love to the coast.
I turn and bury myself deeper under the feather comforter, seeking the warmth of Scott’s body. He’s only ever warm like this when he’s asleep and curled up beside me. Awake he’s like an ice sculpture, beautiful to look at but frozen solid. Scott is different, everyone that lives and works here is different, but he’s got something underneath the show business and sequins that scares and arouses me in the most devilish way. His body is god-like, stone carved, and sculpted to perfection. I run my hand over the lines of his marble white six pack.
Since the cold has me wide awake, “I know I’m not going to go back to sleep now.” His chest rises and falls with peaceful, soft breaths and there’s a dusting of stubble on his chin that I know he will shave off the moment he showers. I try to calm my desire to run my hands over it, the prickle of that roughness, the way it scratches makes me randy. I love it when he lets his rough edges show — he hates it.
“Go to sleep,” he grumbles and rolls over to face me, without opening his big green eyes. “Seriously.” His groans as my hands keep exploring the bulge in his boxers. Last night was a late night and we both tumbled into bed and fell asleep without much effort. Our stamina had all been exhausted performing in the show — and after the show for our special guests.
“I can’t sleep.” I nudge closer to him, his cock growing hard under my hand. With a breathy moan he rolls over wrapping an arm over me. He’s warm up against my icy skin and I shiver with delight at the touch of his body against mine.
“Please sleep,” Scott mumbles kissing me softly, which doesn’t make me want to sleep. I kiss him back, harder than he kissed me. A push in the right direction, a physical reminder of what I want. His eyes open; the dark green still takes my breath away. “You’re so adorable when you’re horny, it makes me want to put my dick in your mouth,” he says, igniting the spark between us, at the same time reminding me of my role — I’m cute, to him I am a small insignificant blip in the universe that revolves around him. I’m never going to be all he needs, because we both know that Scott needs more than one person could ever give him; I cannot satisfy some of the needs he has.
There’s already an elephant in the room; well, she was in the room last night — now she’s in the wind. I hate it, jealousy boils deep in my veins and turns my gut, but when you love someone you love all of them, even the monsters they’re feeding within. I want to feel the warmth, the glow in the aftermath, and this is the last chance; once the sun comes up over the tent top, he will be gone and the cold mask of cruelty will be back.
Nuzzling my face into his skin, I kiss my way down the ridges of his abs, breathing in the unique scent of him. The musky, salty, sweaty aroma pouring off his skin has my dick hard and my heart thumping like a snare drum. Scott is not a giver - he’s a taker, and the way his fingers are curling around the back of my neck, I know he’s about to take everything we both need from me.
“Suck my cock, Wes, suck it like you mean it — like you want me to fuck you again.” His voice is rough with need. “Beg me with your tongue, show me how hungry you are for more.” My mouth is watering, his dirty talk only making me want him more, but some small part of me is enjoying dragging this out, seeing how far I can push him. Not loosening his grip on me, Scott maneuvers out of his boxers, baring every inch of his erect cock to my waiting, starving mouth.
Hovering right there, looking at it like it’s the last supper and I’m Jesus, I lick my lips and pray over the meal that is my lover. My tongue gently dances from the base to the tip, barely making contact with the smooth, warm skin. Scott hisses out a strained breath; he’s losing control and patience. He wants more, he needs to take it, but I am playing with fire, hoping so desperately to get burned. The small bead of precum that oozes from the slit of his cock is another invitation for me to poke the bear. Using a finger I spread it over the tip, making it glisten with moisture that I then lick off with an insatiable hunger.
“Fuck,” he finally roars, gripping my head in both hands. Viciously fucking my mouth, the head of his cock fills my throat, cutting off my oxygen in the most exquisite burn. Reality blurs and I willingly let him take from me, pushing the limit of what is safe and skirting the edges of suffocation. Draining the life from me so he can come back to life in the magical way he does when he knows he’s hurting me. His brutal assault on my body has my dick so hard it hurts, burning with the need to be touched, tugged, pulled — anything to free the orgasm that is building with the heat of volcanic lava inside me. “Stop.” He whispers now, holding my head dead still, his cock cutting off my air supply, pulsating in my throat, and I know he’s about to about to erupt inside my willing mouth. I will lap up every drop of anything he will give me, like a puppy dog desperate for attention; I will take it all even when I know there’s a swift kick in the gut to follow shortly after.
The warmth of his semen leaks down my open gullet, choking me, making my body revolt with gags and gargles. I’m on top of the world, circling Hell’s gates. Ecstatic, high, loved in a very sick way.
“You were such a good boy last night.” He looks down into my watering eyes, slowly inching himself out of my mouth. His fingers pull my hair back so I can’t look away, I have to stare into those angry green orbs. “I might reward you for it, one more time — if you promise not to make a sound.” How can I promise not to make a sound when I know he’s going to touch me, to hurt me and pleasure me? I want to scream, moan, whimper, and beg just thinking of his hands on me. “On your knees, Wes, and bite the pillow, because if you make even a squeak I’ll stop.” He’s doing it just to torture me, to make me suffer for my reward Scott has to be cruel. His cruelty is how he’s kind to me; I love the bitter sting of his viciousness.
Sinking my teeth into the pillow that smells like him, I wonder how long I can wait before there’s another chance to feed the beast inside my lover — when can I have this again? I already want it more than I should.
Two
Scott
There’s an electric buzz around Cirque; the frigid morning air is alive with anticipation. Our Old Year’s Eve extravaganza is always something to behold: lust, debauchery, sex, drugs, and everything we shouldn’t love all tied up in a shiny red bow. I’m itching with anticipation. You can keep Christmas, this is my holiday. The ridiculous idea of everyone turning over this invisible new leaf, that anything will be different tomorrow than it is today, just feeds the monster in me that loves to see them fail and suffer for their hope.
Children dream of running away to the circus, but the circus is where dreams come to die. Where magic turns dark and sinister, where fears and sins are fed with your hopes and aspirations. I fucking love it here. I watch Wesley rehearsing with the new girl, and it has my ha
ckles up. She’s not Imogene, she doesn’t know her place — or my limitations. On the other hand it’s been so long since Wes and I had someone to play with and I think tonight is the perfect time to level up this game. He will do it, he’s done it before. The promise of what comes after is more than it takes to get him excited; he’ll be like a dog with a bone once I whisper in his ear. My eyes narrow as I focus on her and the way the light catches her sequined leotard. When she catches me staring and flutters her lashes at me, I know she’s going to be more trouble than she’s worth — alive anyway.
Costumes, makeup, and laughter abound as I wander around the grounds taking time to think about things I shouldn’t want. Wesley should be enough, he should make me happy, but somehow it’s never enough. I can’t seem to find this invisible, unnamed thing that my soul searches for. I want to say it’s love, but Wes loves me, and somewhere beneath the ice and stone surrounding my heart, I think I love him. I love the way he would do anything for me, the way I can make him beg, grovel, and sink to any low to sate my needs. I love how he makes love to the air when he performs with me, and I live for the connection I have to him as we wow the audience with our show. Titillating their curiosity with our bodies. The electrical current that flows from their stunned silence makes it easy to get lost in the burlesque and butterflies of being part of a live sex carnival. Selling my soul isn’t quite as cheap when the audiences shock and awe feeds me on a base level. Tonight this place will come alive, crawling with desperate souls looking for things they might be afraid to find. The air sizzles with anticipation of the mayhem that will be illuminated by the fireworks.
You can smell the sex mixing with the ocean air; the heady scent of desire and need has been building all day. Our guests have paid the highest prices to attend our Hogmanay celebration, the best, worst kept secret in the world of underground sex clubs and depravity.
Moving away from the noise and chaos, I slowly wind my way down the path that leads to the shore. Seeking out solitude and silence, the music fades to a tinkering whisper in the background the further I get from the tent. Moist coastal air coats the inside of my lungs with stickiness, and every breath brings my inner demons to life. The roar of angry winter waves drowns out the clown music, and the crunch of the sand and rocky shore under my shoes creates a soundtrack to match my inner monologue.
I close my eyes and stand in the soft spray that comes off the icy water, the mist clinging to my skin and coating me in a thin layer of saltiness that I know Wes will taste later. When I open my eyes and glance over, I see Sivan sitting on my thinking rock. His head hangs down so his chin almost touches his chest, his eyes are closed and the white paint on his face is streaked with lines where fresh tears have fallen. Things aren’t the same — he’s not the same and neither is Imogene. There isn’t a single person here who hasn’t felt the shift; the ground literally shook beneath us when she fell, his heart shattering with her body on the floor.
“Mind if I join you?” I ask when he looks up to see me approaching. I have learned to be cautious around Sivan, his rage can quickly spiral out of control.
“You need a minute to escape too?” he asks me moving so there is space next to him.
“Something like that,” I say, looking ahead at the raging ocean, as it pummels the rocky shore with a madness that can only be born of undying love. “I’m on edge and I needed to walk away and breathe before I actually snap.”
“Ahh, I know the feeling all too well.” I’ve seen things in the time I’ve been at Cirque — Sivan has as many skeletons in his closet as the rest of us, some of his even darker than mine and Wesley’s. Last time we lost control, it was Sivan who helped me clear up the mess left behind. He understands, more than he’d ever say out loud. He’s our Ring Master, our leader, and in a way he’s our protector too. Our inner demons are protected at Cirque.
“Sometimes I can’t control it. I need it to keep myself connected to him. I don’t know how else to be. I am so fucked up.”
“Everyone here is fucked up, we wouldn’t be Cirque if we weren’t,” he says, not looking at me, but staring out towards the barren coastland that hides all but the tip of the tent top from us. “We all have a Betty or two in our closet.” That’s what he calls them, the ones he brings here in the dead of night. The ladies that aren’t Imogene — the ones that he takes out into the sand with a wheelbarrow when no one is supposed to be looking. I watch him bend them in half until the bone crunching sound of their bodies breaking in two silences the screams. Bettys come to Cirque to die. Maybe he’s right, maybe I do have my own Betty. My own hidden secret, my own deep desire to break another human in half. Only I could never do it myself. My hands don’t get dirty, only my conscience when I watch Wesley take care of my most sordid needs.
“It scares me, what it does to him,” I say on a breath, my words carried out to sea like the ghosts of my desires.
“He does it for you — just like Imogene did things only for me. When you love someone, you’ll do anything for them.” His soft approach to murder makes my hair stand on end; the way he’s not even affected by the idea of someone dying is disconcerting, yet comforting to me. I feel the same way. “We all do what we need to, some of us have different needs, Scott. Don’t be afraid of them; that is why we have this place. We are protected from the reality of everyone else’s world by the magic of ours.” We don’t speak much after that, just sit in silence and look at the ocean, the deafening roar of the surf drowns our reality, giving me pause to contemplate the rest of the evening. I’m going to make a few changes to my routine tonight — a special encore for my love.
Three
Wesley
Scottie disappeared, skipping rehearsal. He doesn’t like April, I can tell — he’s been off since she arrived here and hasn’t had his heart in the performance. She’s not Imogene; she’s too friendly with him, too touchy — too stupid to see he doesn’t like women, especially ones that hurl themselves at him like two dollar hookers do. I don’t like it any more than he does — I get jealous. Tonight is a big show, there isn’t room for him to be off. The lights swing to and fro in the gusty wind as I stomp around the camp trying to burn off my frustration. I should be calm, ready to perform both in the air and with Scott; we are booked all night after the show. I need to find him, to connect with him so that we are ready to entertain our paying guests. Our free meal ticket is dependent on us actually making them happy — making them want to come back again. We’re meant to tease them, lure them, titivate them until they can’t resist the pull to come back again. I can’t do that when things aren’t right between us; when he’s cold and distant it makes it hard to get hard. As I pass Sivan and Imogene’s trailer I can hear her crying, it’s been like this for weeks. Crying, fits of rage, screaming that could crack glass — and silent sadness from both of them. Nothing has been right since she fell. My stomach knots, because somehow I still believe it could have been my fault. Guilt eats at me every time I hear her wailing; whenever I see him slam that door I wish the earth would swallow me whole.
I slip through a gap to walk behind the trailers, avoiding the black cloud of anger that emerges from within his home. The wet winter grass sticks to my boots and the muddy ground squelches underfoot. Scott is hiding from me, I know this stupid game of cat and mouse — he wants me to chase him, to beg and grovel at his feet. I’ll do it, I always do, but first I have to find him.
Everyone is in different stages of undress and costume; the whole place is pulsing with anticipation for tonight’s extravaganza. I move past the animal cages where the pretty pets in sequins and lace are chained and caged, ready to be petted by fat men with fat wallets and fetishes most haven’t even dreamed of. Every place I look turns up empty, all the spots he usually sulks to are quiet and missing his icy presence. I give up, he doesn’t want to be found today. I should have known his foul mood was tangible when he stormed out of the tent this afternoon — fucking April, this is her fault. I want to kill her right now.
“Fuck.” I mutter under my breath trudging back up the hill towards our trailer. My breath comes out as a fog as the afternoon turns the air icy cold. The wind whips between trailers and ripples the tent roof. It’s cold, yet beneath my clothes I am on fire with frustration. A violent anger is simmering, slowly consuming me, and I know I need to rein it in, and soon.
I take the two steps up to our door in one stride, eager to get inside and out of the cold, but also aware that there’s not much time to get ready for tonight’s show and I still haven’t found Scott, never mind dealt with the monster that I know he will be when I do. Pulling open the door, I hurry inside and yank it shut behind me, blocking my escape — an escape I desperately need when I finally find Scottie.
April is on her knees, black makeup staining her face where her eyes water as he gags her with his dick. Thrusting it in and out of her open mouth, her hair wound tightly around his hand making it easy to force her into the rhythm I know he loves. His lips curl into a vicious grin as our eyes meet across the tiny cramped space that is our home. He throws his head back and lets out a deep, vibrating moan as he jerks his hips forward. His cum dumps down her throat as she splutters and whines and struggles to get free of his vice like grip. But, Scottie doesn’t let go, he just stands there suffocating both of us with his malicious actions. He’s baiting me, I know it. I know what he wants and he knows exactly how to get it from me.
The violent rage starts to push and pull its way from deep within me, as he slowly releases the slut and shoves her aside, stepping over her towards me.
Devious Resolutions Page 14
