Pain Slut

by J. A. Rock

  I writhed, letting out a frustrated breath. I was stuck here on the very edge, and would be until I surrendered. “Your cock feels good. It’s so big, and I want you to hurt me with it. I want you to fuck me. Make me come. I could come just looking at you, if you let me. Just give me . . .”

  “Give you what?”

  I fell still, looking up at him. “Give me permission.”

  He drew a slight, quivering breath. “I’m going to hurt you,” he whispered.

  I nodded. “Please.”

  He drew his hips back. And then . . .

  His palm connected with the right side of my face at the same time his cock drove into me, lifting my lower body off the floor. With his other hand, he punched me in the abs, the blow carefully placed but painful nonetheless.

  He pulled out while I was still dazed. Shrugged my legs off his shoulders. “Turn around. Hands and knees.”

  Was he kidding? I couldn’t budge.

  Somehow, clumsily, I got back on all fours. He took me from behind, one long arm curled around my waist, his hand braced on the window. I bucked back against him, letting out a stream of curses and pleas. It felt so good. To be fucked, yes, but mostly to let go. My stomach ached where he’d hit me, my cheek stung, and lube streamed down my legs.

  He clawed at my back, grabbing my hips, slapping my thighs. He reached around and gripped my cock. I came with a shout, streaking the wall. He groaned and pulled me harder onto his cock, grinding my ass against his groin until I felt him come deep inside me.

  We both collapsed, our harsh breathing filling the SUV.

  “Miles?” He sat up.

  I hunched there on the floor of the hatch, his cum trickling out of me, too shattered to think or move.

  “Come here,” he said.

  He pulled me to him. I stiffened for a second but didn’t fight. He kissed my stinging cheek, and then my mouth, gently. His knuckles brushed my stomach where he’d punched me, and I flinched but pressed closer to him.

  “You okay?” he whispered.

  I nodded, my lips still on his. I realized I was shaking. “Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you.”

  He rubbed my back. After a moment, I pulled away and glanced down. My skin was soaked in sweat and lube, and I smelled like I’d been fucked. I didn’t know what time it was, but I was probably long overdue at the shop.

  “I can’t . . . How am I going to . . .?”

  Drix reached for his pants. Took his phone from the pocket. Swiped and clicked for a moment, then put it to his ear. I could hear it ringing.

  “Hi,” Drix said politely, a few seconds later. “This is Miles’s friend Drix. I picked Miles up for lunch, and I think he ate something that didn’t agree with him. He’s not looking too good, so I’m gonna take him home.” He paused. “Yeah. Uh, Ruby Tuesday’s.” His gaze flicked over to me, then he focused on the call again. “Salad bars—I know, right? I’ll let him know. Thank you.” He hung up.

  I laughed weakly. “You are crazy.”

  “I lied.”

  “No shit.”

  He ran a thumb over my cheek again. “I said you didn’t look too good. But you look amazing.”

  “Shut up.”

  He placed his hand on my stomach. I wasn’t sure what he was doing, but then he drove the heel of his hand hard into my lower abdomen, forcing out a humiliatingly loud burst of gas and a ridiculous amount of lube and cum.

  I sat there gasping for a moment, feeling the rug dampen beneath me. “You’re a dick.”

  “And you,” he said almost jubilantly, “made a huge mess. And got fucked in public. And the world didn’t end.”

  We were going to have a hell of a time cleaning this up.

  He helped me over the backseat and onto the floor between the middle seats. “You can ride right here,” he said. “So you can stay naked.”

  “If we get pulled over . . .”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  So he drove to his place with me curled on the floor, still leaking cum and lube onto the carpet, and nothing in the world I could do about it.

  I walked bowlegged for two days, and that is not an exaggeration. Jason asked if I was walking that way because I was still sick. Every time he saw me, he cringed like he thought I was going to spew everywhere.

  I was sore as hell, and I loved it. Yet, what I remembered more vividly than the fucking was how Drix had kept me in bed for the rest of the evening, kissing me, lying next to me, bringing me food. Every time I’d tried to answer work emails on my phone, he’d flipped me onto my stomach and started rubbing my back until I drifted. All told, I must have slept about five hours. During the day.

  Around six, he had filled the tub with hot water and let me soak off the rest of the lube. I’d thought there was no way I could manage any more sex, and yet once I got back into bed, my dick hardened again, and pretty soon he was licking my ass—biting my cheeks and thighs and then finally fucking me with his tongue until I gave up all pretense of dignity and humped the bed until I came. I’d reached around behind me and groped for his cock. Batted at it blindly in an exhausted haze, stopping as soon as I felt his cum streak my back. It was the sloppiest of handjobs, but he didn’t hold it against me.

  “You are amazing,” I told him.

  “Sorry I’m not a real dom. Then I’d be perfect, huh?”

  “Listen. What you did in the car? About sixty times more dominant than most guys I’ve played with.”

  “Really?”

  “I mean, a lot of guys put on a big act. But with you, it’s like you’re naturally the filthiest fucker in the world.”

  “Aww!” He rubbed his hands together like a supervillain. “I really do kind of feel like that’s true, though.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The reason I first was kinda drawn to the Dark Ravens is that they encourage you to connect with others using your body. Through sex or massage or dance or whatever. And I just . . . I care about the guys I have sex with. I don’t want to do it with people I don’t care about. But it’s tough because sometimes I feel like I want more than other people want. You know? Like, I wanna use my teeth and I wanna knock shit over and I wanna talk dirty—but not if the guy’s not really into it.”

  “Wow.”

  “I just love that you’re into it. I mean, it really just blows my damn mind.”

  I felt a spike of guilt. He was amazing. Too amazing to get stuck being some guy’s bucket-list fuck buddy. “I need to tell you something.”

  He looked wary.

  I explained the situation. Beacon Center. My imminent exit from the world of BDSM. My pain-slut bucket list. “I don’t want it to seem like I’m using you. But I’m kind of using you.”

  He nodded. “Well, I can’t say I don’t like being used this way.” He paused. “And I’m just throwing this out there—I like kids. And they usually like me.”

  Of course they did. Hendrix Seger, the cuddly vampire PI.

  But no.

  Absolutely no.

  When I became a father, I wanted my entire focus to be on that. No relationship drama. I didn’t even want to think about sex for at least the first six months.

  “Maybe I should have been honest with you from the beginning, but I thought this would just be sex. Except now I like you. I mean, I always liked you.”

  “Okay.”

  “I want you to know this adoption isn’t a plan I’m going to put on hold just because I met somebody.”

  Drix grinned again. “You think you’ve met somebody?”

  I didn’t know how to answer. “Yes, well,” I said, a bit snappishly.

  “Hey.” Drix caught my wrist. My blood went hot at that touch, my balls tensed, and I didn’t know what the fuck to do about it. Drix gazed down at me. “This can be whatever you want it to be. If you want me to get lost once your kid arrives, that’s what I’ll do. But in the meantime, I’d really like to help with this bucket list.”

  That wouldn’t work. Because what if I kept liking him more an
d more? Chances were he’d write me off as exhausting long before James got here. But what if he didn’t? What if he grew more emotionally invested, and then I had this . . . mess in my life, and all of my parenting plans fell to pieces? It wasn’t fair to either of us to keep going like this.

  Yet I couldn’t make myself say it. I felt strange—ill, almost—when I thought about telling him I didn’t want to see him anymore.

  And so I closed my eyes, let go, and said, instead: “I would love that.”

  He grinned. Sprawled beside me. “Just curious—why do you have to give up sex when you become a dad?”

  “Not give up sex. But give up . . . sex that’s loud and dangerous and involves me hurting for days afterward. I’m ready to be a little tamer.”

  He nodded. “Your call.”

  And with those two words, he officially became a better dom than any I’d had before.

  Which, naturally, scared the shit out of me.

  “Spring is in the air,” Dave announced, dumping Italian dressing all over his sub. “The renaissance faire is in full swing. The town crier was running through Red Oaks Plaza in a jingle hat handing out fliers.”

  Gould nodded. “Flowers are happening.”

  “God, yes.” Dave tucked a renegade tomato back into the sandwich. “And everywhere I look, robins are having sex.”

  Kamen looked up from his meatball sub. “I used to mace robins.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, my mom would leave her key ring out, and she had mace on it. So I’d take it and try to mace robins. And squirrels.”

  “Why does this not surprise me?” Gould said.

  Dave turned to me. “Miles? You excited for spring?”

  “Uh. Yeah.”

  “You don’t look happy. Are you unhappy for the same reason I’m unhappy?”

  “Why are you unhappy?” I took a bite of my sandwich. “The ren faire and the robins?”

  Dave handed me his phone, which was open to Riddle’s twelve-page New Member waiver. “Look at what GK and Kel put into Riddle’s club policy.”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake,” Gould said. “We’re eating. We don’t need to talk about that now.”

  I glanced back at the screen. We’d all signed one of these contracts when we’d joined—liability, discretion, house rules, etc. But there was now an addendum that stated:

  On the Handling of Disputes Between Members

  I understand that Riddle bears no responsibility for mediating disputes between members. Therefore if I have a disagreement with another member that results in either (a) discourteous behavior on either of our parts; or (b) any legal requirement that one of us stay away from the other, I realize that both of us may be banned from the premises and/or suspended from membership. I understand that such ban or suspension can be done without any regard to fault.

  Please understand that the bringing of open drama into Riddle is both unwelcome and may result in the suspension of all involved parties.

  “Do you see what they’re doing?” Dave demanded.

  I tapped the phone screen to keep it lit. “I imagine that having Bill reinstated as a member has resulted in some tension among other members. So maybe they’re trying to reduce the ‘drama.’”

  “They’re saying, ‘If you have a problem at our club—i.e., if you get assaulted—don’t come to us.’”

  I kept reading. “But then it says, ‘If a dispute involves uncivil behavior, please feel free to call our abuse hotline and get in touch with an advocate.’ So, see? They’re not just telling people to shut up if they get hurt.”

  “I still don’t like it. ‘Open drama?’ What does that mean? That means they don’t want to get caught in a he said/she said, or a he said/he said, or she said/she said. Even if insert-pronoun-of-your-choice said, ‘I got raped.’”

  Gould put down his sandwich. “I have plenty of contact with GK and Kel, and trust me, they’re not trying to silence victims.”

  “Yes, we all know you have plenty of contact with them.” There was an edge to Dave’s tone.

  Gould had started playing with GK and Kel a few months back. And as far as I knew, he still met with them on occasion. I didn’t dislike GK and Kel. But in addition to reinstating Bill, they’d also asked me to participate in a roundtable discussion on race and kink a few months ago. Which wasn’t inherently awful, except that I had no interest in being their black correspondent, or to find myself explaining to people why it was okay for me to be black and get whipped by white guys.

  I handed the phone back to Dave. “I don’t know. It doesn’t necessarily refer to abuse or assault.”

  “The first thing you thought when you read it is that it’s GK and Kel covering their asses.”

  I shrugged.

  Dave went on, “And what did they tell me, back when I started the Subs Club? That I was starting drama. A witch hunt. By trying to keep people safe.”

  Kamen looked up. “Dude, maybe we should talk to them.”

  Dave ignored him. “This is why I think the Hymen College thing is good. If the Subs Club builds its résumé as an advocacy group, we can become kind of an alternative to the dungeon scene in this city. You know? Like, right now the community is basically Riddle.”

  “And Cobalt,” Kamen said.

  “Cobalt is where dreams go to die. But if we started doing more events—hosting events, I mean—presenting ourselves as, like, ‘You don’t need to go to a dungeon to be involved in the community . . .’”

  I picked up a napkin and wiped my mouth. “Where the hell would we host events?”

  “We should talk to some of the fringe groups. You know Finger Bang, that all-girl group uptown? They host workshops and parties and stuff, and they’re not affiliated with Riddle or Cobalt. We could ask them how they organize their activities.”

  Kamen scratched his neck. “I thought, like, the whole point was that we were working together with Riddle now. To get them to be better about safety and stuff?”

  “Yeah, buddy.” Dave nibbled the lettuce that was falling out of the bottom of his sandwich. “But if GK and Kel are gonna keep making it impossible, then we’re gonna have to strike out on our own. Except now we’ve got Gould in bed with them. Literally.”

  Gould, who had remained silent through all of this, looked sincerely irritated. “Would you lay off them?”

  “If they don’t want uncivil behavior in their club, they shouldn’t let murderers in!” Dave shot back.

  Gould’s face was red. “The addendum is mostly about the people who are being shitty to Bill, okay? There’s been some drama at the club because of that, so all GK and Kel are saying is that we’ve got to be adults and get along as best we can.”

  “I don’t get you. You are the one who had to go beat the shit out of Bill because you couldn’t stand the fact that he went free. He has a fucking restraining order against you.”

  It was easy to forget that ultra-quiet Gould had, after the trial, tracked Bill down and worked him over. Even now when I looked at Gould, I couldn’t imagine it.

  Dave raged on, “Now what, GK and Kel get you off a couple of times and suddenly you’re like, ‘Oh, maybe Bill’s not so bad . . .’”

  “That is not what I’m saying!”

  “Guys,” Kamen said firmly.

  I debated stepping in, but this looked like it was going to boil over no matter what. So I let it happen.

  Gould went on, “I hate Bill, and I don’t think he ever should have been allowed back into Riddle. But he was. And I respect that GK and Kel are in a tough position.”

  Dave shook his head. “That makes no sense.”

  Dave loved Gould. I mean adored him. Dave and Kamen had known each other since high school and hadn’t met Gould until after college. And yet it was Dave and Gould who gave the impression of having known each other the longest. But the depth of their friendship led to frequent disputes between the two of them.

  “You don’t have any idea what they’ve been through!” Gould snapped.
>
  “What they’ve been through? Hal was a liability to them, not their fucking friend!”

  “And what on God’s glorious Earth,” asked a deep, slow monotone behind us, “is going on?”

  We all turned toward the kitchen doorway at once, like meerkats.

  D stood there in all his mountain-man glory. Rugged, bestubbled, and wearing hiking pants and a long-sleeved burgundy polo that hugged his paunch. Hands on his hips, not a crew-cut hair out of place, his crystal-blue eyes falling on each of us in turn.

  “Hi, D.” I tried for a Nothing to see here tone, but failed.

  He leaned against the doorframe. “I knocked. But then I heard yelling. And the front door was unlocked. So I let myself in to investigate.”

  I shook my head. “I keep warning them about that door.”

  “Really?” D entered the kitchen and went to Dave, who was staring at the table. D slung an arm around his shoulders and pulled him against his hip. “We might have to discuss that.”

  Dave rolled his eyes, then glanced up at D. “This neighborhood is charming.”

  “And full of crack dealers,” I added.

  “Charming crack dealers.”

  D bent to kiss the top of Dave’s head. “So why did I hear yelling?”

  “Submissives-only business,” Dave muttered.

  Gould was suddenly very interested in something out the window.

  D cleared his throat and announced, to the room: “There is, nearby, a festival of miscreants and clowns. I am distraught by its ambience, but this place is selling ostrich legs masquerading as turkey legs. It is meat the size of a human head. I have the day off and was wondering if any of you would like to accompany me to this festival. Our mission would be to get the meat and get out as quickly as possible.”

  “You talking about the renaissance faire, man?” Kamen asked.

  D nodded, closing his eyes briefly. “We may be speaking of one and the same event.”

  D had little patience for anything that involved frivolity, unnecessary noise, and people in nonfunctional hats. He did, however, love meat. He was a strange match for loquacious, artistic Dave, but they seemed to get along well. I could not for the life of me picture D at a renaissance faire, and part of me wanted to go just to see his face when some wench tried to sell him mead.