Pain Slut

by J. A. Rock

  He swallowed and grinned. “Miles, I really am prepared to try to learn about what you want. How to, like, do pain in a way that’s more BDSM, less vampyre. I would do that for you. You’d just have to teach me.”

  “Most excellent. I’m certainly open to learning how you inflict pain in a way that’s more vampyre.”

  “That would mostly involve the teeth. And vampire gloves.”

  My balls pulled tight. “You have vampire gloves?” I loved vampire gloves. I’d once known a dom who made his own—stuck thumbtacks through a pair of plush gloves and ran those tacks all over my body.

  “I made some last year. They’re great for sensation play at the coven meetings.”

  “So you guys . . . play?”

  “It’s more about getting familiar with our bodies and less about sex, if that makes sense. We do massage, touch therapy, a lot of stuff with blindfolds. We have a few rituals that involve pain or permanent marking. But mostly our goal is to pay attention to others’ energy and to awaken one another to new methods of touch, communication, and being present.”

  Sounded like a lot of bunkum. But not altogether unappealing. “So it’s not giant vampyre orgies.”

  He scraped the last of the flesh off his plum. “I won’t say orgies have never happened.”

  “I’ve just never thought about vampyres before. At all.”

  He nodded. “I’m actually really involved in the physical stuff that goes on. Not the orgies that may or may not exist, but just—this is gonna make me sound like the kind of person everyone wants to punch in the face—I really love helping people get in tune with their bodies. I like making people happier.”

  And if I were Dave, I’d have made some lascivious joke about how he could get in tune with my body—but I wasn’t Dave, and the moment passed me by. “I think that’s really neat.”

  Neat. That was a grandpa word. What the fuck was wrong with me?

  He grinned. “You know, I really would like to invite you to a Dark Ravens gathering.”

  “And what would I do at the gathering?”

  “Just observe. Be present. Participate in the giant vampyric circle jerk.”

  I dropped my plum on the floor. Scrambled to retrieve it.

  He laughed. “Kidding, kidding. Honestly, most gatherings are pretty laid-back. We just talk and eat.”

  “Eat life forces, or . . .?”

  “String cheese and Milanos.”

  “Okay.”

  “But the next gathering will involve an initiation ritual. Which I think you might like.”

  “Why?” I asked suspiciously.

  He shrugged, smirking. “It involves a little pain.”

  “For whom?”

  “Someone newly awakened.”

  I reached for reserves of nonchalance I didn’t know I had. I could do this. I could accept Drix’s . . . vampyre thing. Support him, maybe. If it meant we could have sex again.

  “Maybe we could do an exchange,” I suggested.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. You come to Riddle with me for a night. We don’t have to engage in sportive activities. But you could see what a BDSM club looks like. And I could go with you to a, uh, gathering.”

  “That actually sounds awesome.”

  “Really? Should we take bets on what’s gonna be weirder—my club or your coven?”

  He laughed. “I think there will be equal strangeness.”

  My plum was covered in floor grit, so I went to the sink and washed it. He caught me before I could go back to my seat, and kissed me.

  I was alarmed by the way my body responded. Even as a teenager, when I was supposed to be a walking agglomeration of hormones, I’d never gotten this turned on this fast. I kissed him back and then pulled away. “How did you get into the coven?” I asked.

  He was watching me like he didn’t think that kiss was finished. “I had a friend who was a member. And I was a little lost at that time in my life, but I’d always felt like a . . . like something more than human. I attended a gathering with my friend, and I was really impressed with what the Dark Ravens had to offer.”

  That unsettled me a bit. It sounded too much like religion. “So you felt like a vampyre your whole life?”

  “Lives.” He grinned mischievously. “For us, time is a construct with little meaning. Dark Ravens have been walking this earth for millennia.”

  “Oh.”

  “So we live in the moment, because the moment has no beginning and no end. We savor it. And we are never slaves to the clock.”

  “Of course not. Why—why would you be?”

  He grinned. “You’re having such a hard time with this.”

  “I’m not.” I was.

  “I know it sounds strange. But I promise I’m not, you know, crazy. I love getting to play a role that feels so real to me. But I understand that it is a role. It’s entwined with who I am, but it doesn’t define me.”

  This did sound oddly like how I viewed kink. “So tell me about your . . . lives.”

  “So, um, my vampyre name is Diaemus. I’ve been around for just over six hundred years. And in that time, I’ve fed on sexual and spiritual energies of countless people.”

  “If time is a meaningless construct, how come you have ages?”

  “It’s easier to explain things to black swans if we mark our lives somehow.”

  “Black swans?”

  “That’s what you are. That’s someone who’s a non-vampyre but is a supporter of vampyres.”

  “Ah, so now I’m your ally, huh?”

  He looked a little pink in the cheeks. “Are you?”

  “As long as you promise you won’t convert me by making me drink your blood or biting me or anything. I mean, you can bite me, just . . .” It was my turn to flush.

  He gave me a damn wicked grin. “You know we don’t really drink blood, right?”

  “I was kind of hoping not.”

  Though I wouldn’t mind you making me bleed.

  He set his plum pit on the counter. “I live my life according to the tenets of my coven. But those tenets are, like: slow down. Be aware of the spiritual connection between all living things. Allow a silence at the end of each breath. Not, like: drink blood, or sleep only during daylight.”

  “I think it sounds interesting.”

  “Really? Because you look like you think we’re a creepy cult that will steal your firstborn child.”

  I jolted at the mention of a firstborn child.

  I shook my head slowly. “My mom . . .” I wasn’t sure this was a second-date revelation “. . . recently converted to Scientology. I do see that as a cult. I worry about people who go looking for answers as a group, because I think ‘answers’ are specific to individuals. As soon as someone says you can find your code of conduct, your reason for existing, in a book—I get suspicious. So as long as you can assure me that you don’t let the coven make decisions for you, I have no problem.”

  It was more than I should have said, and part of me expected him to be offended. But part of me already knew him well enough to figure he wouldn’t be.

  He smiled. Took my hand, which prompted an immediate and formidable erection. “I promise. Think of it as a very elaborate LARP.”

  “I prefer never to think of anything as a LARP.” I squeezed his hand. “But okay.”

  After a moment where I wasn’t sure whether to kiss him, he said, “I want to hear more about your Scientologist mother.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I do.”

  I gazed into his eyes, feeling about fifteen—terrified and horny and enraptured. “I want to engage in all manner of osculation with you.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Let’s make out.”

  We did, and it was way, way better than talking about my Scientologist mother.

  I’d met Cheryl Callahan once for coffee back before we’d started my interviews. But I’d forgotten most of the details of her appearance. She had dark curly hair that she
wore loose. No makeup, flawless brown skin, and bushy eyebrows. I let her in and bit back a request that she take her shoes off and leave them in the boot tray by the door. Instead I offered her a drink.

  “You have a beautiful house,” she remarked as I poured us both some water.

  “Thank you.” I glanced self-consciously at my black-and-white minimalist wall art.

  She drained her water glass in one go. Set it on the counter. It suddenly occurred to me to offer her a seat at the table, but before I could she said, “I promise, this is just a casual visit. Since you live alone, there’s not as much for me to keep track of. Some households have large families, pets, smokers . . . lots to consider.”

  “My house is pretty straightforward. And I have a fenced-in yard.” I immediately cringed. Like this was great because I could let my kid out back to play like a dog?

  I took her on a tour of the house. Stood tense as she studied the purple-walled room that would become the nursery. “I haven’t done anything in here yet,” I said. “But I . . . I mean obviously when I know who I’m adopting, there’ll be some decorating, and . . .”

  She was making notes. I wanted to see her notes. I wondered if I should show her my folder full of nursery ideas. No. That would definitely make me seem weirder. I forced myself to finish the tour, and then we sat in the living room to talk.

  First I was asked about my reasons for wanting to adopt. “I know you covered this in your initial interview,” Cheryl said. “But is there anything you want to add?”

  “I feel ready,” I told her. “I’ve always wanted kids. I’m good with them. I’ve never felt like I was in a better place in my life. My business is doing well; I’ve accomplished a lot of my personal and professional goals. I—I want to—to keep growing up.” Amazing how I could have the best, most eloquent answers in my head, and yet when I opened my mouth, I sounded ridiculous.

  We talked about my home and my neighborhood. My upbringing. My mother and sister. That was where I started to get really nervous.

  “Well, you talked to them.” I forced a laugh. “I know they can come off a little intense, but they’re really good people.”

  “They came off just fine,” Cheryl assured me.

  “My mother is religious. I’m not, but we’ve discussed how—how she’ll keep her faith private until . . . I mean, not private. It’s not like she can’t ever mention it or let my child ask questions. But I’d like to raise my son or daughter without religion until they’re old enough to make an informed decision.”

  “That’s fine.” Cheryl made more notes.

  “There’s something I should tell you.” I waited until Cheryl looked up. “My sister didn’t mention this in her interview, but she was arrested at seventeen for stealing. I think she worried that by telling you, she’d hurt my chances of getting to adopt. It was a one-time thing when she was young. She’s grown up a lot since then. I just didn’t want you to find out during a background check and think we were lying.”

  Cheryl set her clipboard aside. “You’re really worried, aren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Don’t be. We want this adoption to work, Miles. We’re on your side.”

  “Do you adopt to many single men?” I blurted. “Does Beacon Center question their—their motives more?”

  Cheryl smiled. “It is almost always harder for a single parent to adopt than for a couple. Especially an LGBTQ single parent. But I know you told us one of the reasons you went with Beacon Center is our reputation for helping nontraditional families adopt.”

  “Yes.”

  “It works in your favor that you have a strong support system—that your mother is going to help raise the child, and that your parents have experience with adoption.”

  Of course. How could my thetan-auditing, recovering-alcoholic mother not work in my favor?

  “It seems unfair, I’m sure. But the demands of single parenting are rigorous. Add to that the concerns specific to raising an adopted child . . .”

  “I understand.”

  “Many mothers who choose Beacon Center to help find a home for their child do so for the same reason you chose us—because they’re open to diverse definitions of ‘family.’”

  I almost made a face.

  We carried on with the chat. It was unnerving to be asked so many questions about my childhood. Did I consider my mother a good parent? Aside from the drinking and the scathing commentary on my life choices, yes. What about my father? He wasn’t around a lot—but no, not in an absent-father way. Just that he had to travel a lot for work. Did Malina and I get along? Fairly well. How much time did I expect my future son or daughter to spend in the care of my parents or Malina? Ummm . . .

  Finally we discussed my daily routines. My plan for balancing my business with parenthood. Everything seemed to be going well.

  “This may sound like an odd question.” Cheryl had her pen poised above her clipboard. “But we do ask everyone: are you sexually active?”

  My stomach clenched. “Excuse me?”

  She smiled. “I know, it’s personal. But believe me, we have reasons for asking.”

  I tried frantically to decide how she wanted me to answer. Obviously I didn’t have to share what kind of sex I had. But was it okay for me to tell her I occasionally had sex?

  Crazy fang-fetish vampyre sex?

  “I, um . . .” My mind went completely blank. “I . . . Yes. I do sometimes have . . . partners.”

  “That’s fine.” Cheryl made a note. “I’m just curious as to whether you’ve considered how you’ll navigate relationships once you’re a father.”

  “Well, of course, I . . . I’ve thought about it.” Dave’s voice popped into my head: You have a TENS unit . . . “And my plan is to put my child first. If the opportunity for a romantic relationship arises, I’ll consider the impact it might have on my son or daughter, and I’ll—”

  “We don’t expect you to stop being intimate. It’s just something we ask our single parents to think about. Sometimes a parent’s frequent change of partners can be confusing to a child.”

  “Well, I’m definitely not frequent,” I assured her.

  The visit finally wrapped up with Cheryl saying, “We’ll use the results from your surveys to find some matches we think would be ideal, and we’ll pass those along to you. And we’ll make sure in advance that the matches we send you have birth mothers who are open to the idea of a single parent. Does that sound good?”

  “Yes. Yes, very good.” I couldn’t believe this was really happening. I’d expected something in the home study to bring this whole process to a halt.

  “I know you’ve said your budget won’t allow for you to pay a birth mother’s medical expenses. That may limit your options somewhat, but shouldn’t be a huge problem.”

  “I wish I could,” I said.

  Cheryl gathered her things. “We’ll have one more visit in the next two months, this time at your workplace.”

  God, I hoped I could tranquilize Jason for that.

  “Beacon Center asks that you take a four-week educational class with other potential adoptive families. The next class starts at the end of the month at the Gardner Center in town—Thursday nights from seven to nine. Does that sound doable?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Cheryl stood. “But really, Miles, everything looks great. I’m very happy to be working with you.”

  “You too.” I shook her hand numbly. I’d promised myself I’d remember every moment of the adoption process, but this felt too surreal for me to hold on to.

  I sat on my spotless couch for a long time after Cheryl was gone and tried to imagine my floor covered in toys. My carpet with grape juice stains. Tried to imagine a house that didn’t feel so lonely, that felt warm and noisy and . . . perfect.

  I wanted everything to be perfect.

  Drix was in my living room, checking out my bookshelf, when I brought over a—for lack of a better word—dossier.

  He was crouched, trying to g
et the books on the third shelf to stay upright. The third shelf had a massive gap where I’d removed all my parenting books—Single Mothers, Single Parenting That Works, Tales from a Single Father, Adoption Nation, Dear Birthmother, In Their Own Words: Transracial Adoptees Tell Their Stories—and hidden them in my bedroom closet.

  I put a hand on his shoulder.

  He jumped and turned, giving me a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I’m putting my hands all over your stuff.” He stood slowly, towering over me, and glanced back at the shelf. “It’s just, the rest of your house is so perfect, and then you had this shelf where the books were falling down.”

  I puffed up a bit at the acknowledgment of my perfect house. “I wanted to show you something.”

  We went to the couch and sat.

  “I have some supplementary documents to get you started on understanding what I like and why.” I offered him the dossier. “Now, I don’t want to overwhelm you, but I’ve put my preferred activities in order starting with what I feel would be the easiest for a beginner to learn.”

  He opened the folder and began to browse. “Wow. This is . . . thorough.”

  I was such an idiot. But I had learned over the years that, especially with edge play, it was best to be honest and specific. “You must view your continued liaison with me as a regrettable life choice,” I said softly.

  He was scanning page one: Simple Impact Play and Light CBT. “Au contraire,” he murmured. “I’ve never been with a masochist before. ‘Rough body play: body punching.’ Hmm.”

  I flushed. “I debated placing that with the intermediate activities, since it is a form of edge play. And yet, safe punching technique is fairly simple to master.”

  He nodded, still reading.

  I grew increasingly nervous. “What kind of pain do you like causing?”

  “I like whips. I have a leather single tail. I learned to use it when I was a teenager.”

  “What brought that on?”

  He turned the page. “Indiana Jones, mostly. But I guess, just a general fascination with blood and welts and the way people try to keep control when they’re being whipped. The sounds the whip makes. The sounds the person makes.”

  “Interesting. So you don’t think it’s odd that I sometimes like to bleed?”