Pain Slut

by J. A. Rock

  Riptide Publishing

  PO Box 6652

  Hillsborough, NJ 08844

  www.riptidepublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.

  Pain Slut

  Copyright © 2016 by J.A. Rock

  Cover art: Kanaxa, kanaxa.com

  Editor: Delphine Dryden, delphinedryden.com/editing

  Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at marketing@riptidepublishing.com.

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-345-2

  First edition

  February, 2016

  Also available in paperback:

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-346-9

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  Honestly, I’m ready to take a step back from the Subs Club. Making the kink world a safer place for subs is the sort of bandwagon I’d have boarded as an idealist in my early twenties, but now I’m a pragmatist in my late twenties. I prefer to focus on adopting and raising a child.

  But unexpected factors inevitably derail my plans. Like Drix Seger—attractive and the first genuine sadist I’ve encountered. If I were not in the process of renouncing my masochistic ways and becoming the normal, responsible potential father the adoption agency wants to see, Drix and I might do well together.

  But he has a foolish name and belongs to a cult of vampyres, and I am quitting kink. So why does Drix’s infatuation with blood and biting make me so hot I can’t think straight? And why, when he looks at me, does he seem to see something beyond a basket case with a stick up my ass?

  Can I start a new phase in my life without leaving part of myself behind? Please send help.

  —Miles

  About Pain Slut

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgments

  Also by J.A. Rock

  About the Author

  More like this

  I was lying in dishabille on a steel exam table, my feet in a pair of stirrups, a hypodermic needle on a stand beside me—when my phone buzzed.

  And kept buzzing.

  My wrists were cuffed to the table, so I called to Bowser, who was sterilizing a scalpel over by the sink. “Can you hand me my phone?”

  Bowser turned. Under his white lab coat, he wore a THE DOCTOR IS IN tee I’d given him years ago. “Now?”

  “I’m expecting an important call.” Mind fogged. Wrists sore. Rubber tubing tied tight around my balls. How I thought I’d be able to carry on a phone conversation in this state, je ne savais pas.

  Bowser crossed the room and retrieved the phone from my messenger bag. Glanced at the screen as he approached me. “Not a call. Texts.”

  A moment of prodigious disappointment. Not the Beacon Center, then.

  “Could you show me, please?” My voice was brusque, demanding. I felt slightly guilty about it.

  He tried to swipe with a gloved finger, but the latex caught on the screen. He peeled off the glove with a snap that made my balls tighten. Then he swiped again and showed me the screen.

  The texts were all from Kamen.

  Dude were hangin at Dave’s to talk Hal’s b-day.

  Hey do u still have my windbreaker?

  Also, do you ever think about what if Barack Obama was clones?

  I sighed and looked away, focusing on the jacaranda-blue wall of Bowser’s office. The sharps container mounted on it. I stared at the biohazard symbol. “You can put it back.” If my hands had been free, I’d have given a dismissive wave. To the manor born, my mother always said.

  And she was one to talk.

  Out of the corner of my eye I watched Bowser take my phone back and set it on my bag. He returned to the counter and pulled on a new glove. Placed the scalpel on a plastic tray with other medical tools, then took the tray to a minifridge in the corner and popped it inside. Went back to the counter, where he began warming a bag of saline solution with a hot plate. “Not what you were expecting?” he asked.

  I studied the wall again. I’d first set foot in this room seven years ago. I’d been so nervous that I’d focused on figuring out what color the wall was. Not royal blue. Not blue-violet. “Just my friends. Who know I’m busy this afternoon.”

  I turned my gaze to the ceiling, trying to revert to the correct headspace. But now my mind was racing. The Beacon Center should have called by now. And Hal’s birthday—really? Why were we celebrating a dead man’s birthday?

  “I liked that speech your friend Dave made a while back. At the roundtable.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  Bowser and I didn’t usually make small talk when we played together. It was still strange to think we’d once been fairly close. Back when I was twenty-one and endlessly enthused about kink. The past seven years had lent no small measure of tedium to deviance.

  He brought the clear bag of saline solution over to the exam table and hooked it to an IV stand near my left shoulder. “I actually think it’s cool—the Subs Club. Even the review thing. I don’t know why so many people were upset about it.”

  I tensed, trying not to recall that the last top who had brought up the Subs Club while I was tied down had held a knife to my face. And not in a fun way.

  The Subs Club was an organization my friends Dave, Kamen, and Gould and I had started a couple of months ago. What had begun as an attempt to give submissives a private place to discuss safety concerns in the kink community had spiraled out of control when subs started posting reviews of individual doms on the Subs Club blog. In theory, this was advantageous—it let members call out “doms” who had abused or raped them in the past, and warn other members to stay away. And it let doms who were truly outstanding have their positive traits held up as paradigms.

  We’
d actually had a great deal of support. But our detractors had grown vocal, perhaps understandably so. In a way, the review blog had been a gross violation of privacy, despite the care we’d taken to only use doms’ scene names. Eventually we’d reached a compromise with the community leaders—we would remove the review portion of the blog and focus instead on leading community roundtable discussions once a month at Riddle, a local dungeon. So far, it was working out fairly well.

  I pulled against the cuffs again, enjoying the feel. “Are you just saying that because you had such good reviews?”

  “Did I?” Bowser shook the tubing to unkink it.

  I almost rolled my eyes at his attempt to be casual. Despite the Subs Club blog having a log-in system that prevented nonmembers—i.e., doms—from viewing it, plenty of doms had seen or at least heard about their reviews. “You know you did. Everyone loves you.”

  He grinned. “Just wanted to hear you say it.”

  Ah, but he was a filthy sweetheart. Dave always said he looked like a Viking, with his stout body, ginger beard, and wide nose. And it was Kamen who’d first pointed out that his laugh sounded exactly like Bowser’s in Super Mario 64. Now pretty much everyone in the scene called him Bowser, and he was a good sport about it.

  He picked up the prepackaged IV needle from the stand. “You sure you want to go through with this? If you’re expecting an important call?”

  “Of course.” I flexed my fingers and pulled against the restraints until the cuffs bit into my wrists. My cock rose at the sight of the needle. My tied-off balls were slightly numb.

  He unwrapped the needle. “And you’re sure you’re okay with at least twenty-four hours of this?”

  Once the saline was in, it would be a day, maybe two before the swelling went down. “I’ve got nowhere to be.”

  “All right. Lookin’ forward to seeing how you do with the infusion as opposed to the injection.”

  “Me too.” I settled back against the table.

  Last time we’d done a saline infusion, Bowser had injected the solution into me. The results had been a general lumpiness to my scrotum that had faded fast. This time we were going to try an IV drip, which we hoped would create a more symmetrical and sustainable swelling. He’d tied off my balls to prevent the solution from getting absorbed too quickly into the rest of my body.

  Bowser attached the needle to the tubing and let the solution flow for a few seconds to get all the air out of the tube. With his other hand, he flipped open a bottle of Betadine and pressed a cotton ball to the opening. Tipped the bottle, dousing the cotton ball, then quickly swabbed the center of my scrotum. He let that dry, then used an alcohol pad to swab the area again. I tried not to flinch. No matter how many times I played with needles, there was always something disconcerting about them.

  I was the only pain slut in my group of friends. I’d met a couple of others at Riddle, but I remained the most masochistic person I knew. I wanted it all—burning, cutting, piercing, choking, you name it. I wanted to scream, to bleed, and come out the other side feeling shaken and unsure and powerful all at once. I wanted someone to take me to that place, push me beyond what I thought I could endure.

  And yet, perhaps foolishly, I wanted it done with love.

  “Hold still.” Bowser lifted my balls and deftly inserted the needle under the skin. I breathed through the sting, which was somehow harder to take than many of the worst whippings I’d ever received.

  At first I didn’t feel much of anything. But slowly the warm liquid spread, and my sac tightened. The tip of my cock smeared pre-cum over my belly, and my hands balled into fists.

  Suddenly, a wave of guilt washed over me.

  I wasn’t supposed to be doing this. I was supposed to have given up kink weeks ago. Months ago. And yet here I was, playing doctor with Bowser.

  “How’s that feel?” He stroked my swelling balls with one finger.

  I trembled, my jaw clenching. I was so sensitive I could have come just from that gentle touch.

  What kind of father are you going to make?

  “Miles?” Bowser looked concerned.

  I nodded, reminding myself to breathe deeply. I shifted as the weight of my balls increased. My legs weren’t cuffed, and I had to struggle to keep my feet in the stirrups. I wanted to press my legs together, do something to lessen the discomfort of being here, completely exposed, with my balls gradually expanding.

  Fifteen minutes went by.

  Bowser kept stroking. He slid his finger into my ass crack and circled my hole. The rubber tube around my balls was biting into the flesh now, and the IV bag was about two-thirds empty.

  “I’m gonna untie this.” Bowser undid the rubber tubing. I watched my massive balls wobble against my groin. Swallowed at the prickling sensation as blood rushed back into the area. It looked like I had a balloon between my legs—the sac taut, every vein visible beneath the skin. The discomfort turned to something closer to pain as I was stretched further.

  I hissed. “It feels so weird.”

  What the hell kind of father? Seriously, Miles.

  Cheryl Callahan from the Beacon Center was going to call any day now to schedule my first home visit, and here I was definitively proving that I had no business being a parent.

  “It looks amazing.” Bowser lifted my balls. “Hurt?”

  I shook my head. “Not— Ah!” I closed my eyes briefly as Bowser continued to heft. He flicked lightly, and I dragged air through my teeth.

  I looked at the wall again. Bowser had a pleasant, quiet house. It was one of the reasons I continued to play with him. That and his formidable knowledge of erotic medical torture.

  He poked my balls again. “Just sensitive, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  This was always how Bowser and I played—he didn’t do any of the hard-ass–dom posturing, and I didn’t do any of the submissive yes sir, please sir. I was here for pain, and he was here to give it to me.

  He moved to his minifridge. Opened it and took out the tray of metal tools. Oh fuck. Yes.

  He picked up a scalpel, which gleamed in the dim light. My dick throbbed, and my throat tightened.

  “Oh God,” I whispered, as the saline stretched my balls further. The bag was nearly empty now, but my sac was still swelling. I’d worn loose sweatpants, but I was nervous about putting even those on when we were done. And underwear was simply not an option.

  Bowser held the scalpel a few inches above my balls. I got a flash of fear that made my lungs seize, my ears ring, the inside of my skull ache. I caught the words between my teeth and crushed them: Don’t, please, please, don’t. God, no . . .

  “I know you know this,” he said quietly, “but don’t move.”

  “No shit.” I took a deep breath and let it out as he pressed the side of the scalpel flat against my balls. It was cold, but I didn’t let myself jump. I moaned, feeling all of the stress over Beacon Center and my iniquity vanish as I gave myself over to the thrill of this moment. If I moved, even a little bit, he could slit my skin. Blood would pour over my balls, a hot rush over cold metal, and . . . Shit, shit, shit, just the idea made me want to squirm.

  I kept my breathing steady and even. Closed my eyes for a second so I could concentrate on the chill of the metal. The way it both numbed my nerves and roused them. I opened my eyes again so I could watch. Bowser dragged the flat of the scalpel lightly over my scrotum. Tilted it just slightly, for a fraction of an instant. Almost immediately, a thin line of blood appeared. I watched in fascination. Bowser put down the scalpel, unwrapped another alcohol pad, and wiped the blood away. The sting of the alcohol made me arch against the table. He held the pad against the wound until the bleeding stopped.

  He gave me another small cut with the scalpel, and I closed my eyes, hoping to feel the blood run a little before he wiped it away. I sighed, all at once deeply peaceful.

  “There you go,” Bowser whispered, keeping a light pressure on the cut.

  I smiled.

  “You look really
good.”

  I opened my eyes. “You don’t have to say things like that.”

  He leaned over and sucked my left nipple. It surprised me—he was rarely sexual with me. But it felt so damn good. Warm and wet, his beard scraping my pecs, his teeth catching my nipple for the barest sliver of a moment, making me gasp. He walked around the table and sucked the other one too, until I was almost sore, until my cock was tapping my belly every few seconds, leaving a damp spot on the skin.

  He threw the alcohol pad away, wrapped the scalpel for sterilization, and applied a clear dressing on the cuts before bandaging them. He changed his gloves and picked up a genital whip. My stomach constricted. That thing hurt even when my balls weren’t five times their normal size. It looked like a miniature flogger—about the length of my hand. But the falls were strands of plastic beads.

  He brushed the plastic falls down my chest, over my stomach. Whacked each nipple, making me jump as the tiny beads stung the swollen peaks. He stopped just under my navel to lightly flog the area above my groin. Since my dick was still pressed against my belly, the falls struck the head a couple of times, and I gulped, tears of sheer pain streaming from my eyes.

  He raised the whip and brought it down hard on my balls.

  I screamed.

  He struck me again, this time on the underside of my taut scrotum.

  I clenched and released my hands, pulling against the cuffs. My legs trembled with the effort of keeping them in the stirrups.

  He grabbed the alcohol pad and used it to clean off one of the plastic strands. Then he drizzled a bit of lube on that strand. It took me a second to realize what he was up to. Then he began to feed the thin, beaded fall into the slit of my dick.

  I choked, beyond screaming. The tears came faster now, and my whole body started to shake. He pushed the fall a little deeper. I bucked, hauling against the wrist cuffs. I had to piss, had to come, had to get enough breath to shout. Deeper. I could feel the tiny beads rub the inside of my dick, and a sort of slippery queasiness formed in my core, followed by a rush of heat and something almost like panic—but wonderful. Bowser slapped my inflated balls with his free hand. I kicked against the stirrups, my back arching. He wiggled the genital whip so the falls whapped against my cock. The one inside me quivered, increasing my agony and ecstasy until I was gritting my teeth to keep from begging for release.