by J. A. Rock
I couldn’t even look at him. Yes, I was hard on myself when I failed, but wasn’t that just a sympathy ploy, or something? A diversion from the truth: that I believed I was superior to most people? Harbored more knowledge, expressed myself more articulately, contributed more to society . . . What if hating myself when I failed was just me covering up what a complete narcissist I was?
But I did hate myself when I failed. Sometimes deeply, and sometimes in a casual way, as though I’d experienced the feeling so many times I only paid lip service to it now.
I finally forced my gaze back to his. “Is that some of your vampyric, psycho-spiritual analysis? You want to play therapist with me?” It had started as a joke, but my tone was getting sharper.
I couldn’t tell whether he looked stung or amused.
So I kept going. “You want to promise me you have the patience for my shit and then leave me when the going gets tough?”
Where the fuck had that come from?
He had that gentle, pitying look again. “Is that what someone did to you?”
For a second, I wanted to slap him. Then I ran a hand anxiously over my thigh, smoothing a small fold in my pant leg. Forced myself to calm down. “No,” I admitted. “I’ve never given anyone the chance to.”
“So what are you worried about?”
“Everything,” I said firmly. “You have no idea what you’re getting into with me.”
“Tell me.”
“I make these lists . . . I can’t even explain it to you. I can’t make decisions. I mean, I do make them. But it takes forever. There were these two cribs, and— Oh fuck it, I don’t even know why I’m trying to tell you this. I don’t care if you leave me.” I was speaking too quickly. “That came out wrong. You’re free to do whatever you want. I’m not . . . clingy. I don’t . . . do that.”
“Do what?”
“Try to guilt people into staying with me. I do quite well on my own.”
“Do you want a massage?” he asked quietly.
“That hardly seems like an appropriate response.”
“Do you want one, or don’t you?”
“I don’t relax during massages. If anything, gentle contact makes me more tense than pain.”
“Will you let me try?”
“All right. I just wanted to warn you.”
“Miles.” He sounded irritated. Drix sounded irritated. “I don’t need to read your warning labels, okay? Just let me figure out where the danger is on my own.”
I sat there for a moment, stunned. “Fine.”
“I could try a light hypnotic trance if you want. To relax you. I need the practice.”
“I can’t be hypnotized. Three county-fair magicians have tried.”
He grinned and scooted closer to me, waving his finger in front of my face.
“You’re getting sleepy.”
“It’s not working.”
“Shhh. When you awake . . .” He nudged me. “Close your eyes.”
I fought an exasperated smile and obliged. How did he do this? Divert my anger so effortlessly?
“When you awake, you will want to kiss me.” His voice was low.
I laughed in spite of myself. “Okay. Can I awake now?”
“I’m not done. You will want to kiss me. And when I snap my fingers, you will do it. And it will be the most epic kiss that two people have ever shared. No pressure.”
“Okay.”
“So. Wake up.”
I opened my eyes and kissed him.
I didn’t think about spit or teeth or tongues, I just lost myself in the connection. I let the gentle movement of his lips sink me deeper, deeper, until I felt as if I really were asleep. Dreaming a dream more fantastic and vivid than real life. I was in a beautiful darkness, and every small movement he made passed through my skin like a signal. Every beat of his heart was echoed by mine.
“I’m not going to leave you,” he whispered.
Exactly what I’m afraid of.
But I wasn’t afraid of that anymore. Not really.
I had made a good choice. I had done the right thing.
The Subs Club finally met with our superfan, Ryan W, at a bar called Pitch. Ryan was quite possibly the shortest man I had ever seen. If he and Drix had stood side by side, Ryan would have looked like a child. His voice was high and loud, but oddly charming, and he had a touch of a Napoleon complex.
We all had a beer—Dave had several—played two games of pool, and then decided to head over to Dave and Gould’s for more drinks. I was already tired, but the evening was a pleasant break from thinking about my mother and Cheryl and Britney and what an ass I’d been to Bobby the discount dentist, so I decided it wouldn’t hurt to go back to Dave’s and get drunker.
I drove Dave’s car, since he was already notably intoxicated. Ryan followed us in his car. At the duplex, Gould and Kamen got out. I told Dave to stay put, that I’d come around to his side and help him. “Isn’t this amazing?” Dave said to me as I offered him my arm to steady himself.
“What?”
“He’s nice. Ryan’s nice. And the five of us out tonight, it was almost like . . .”
I froze. It was nothing like having Hal. Ryan was a completely different person, and it hadn’t occurred to me for a moment that he was filling some empty space by playing pool with us. “Don’t let Gould hear you say that,” I muttered.
Dave grinned. “Nooooo. I’m not telling Gould. Gould thinks there’s no more Hals. No one like Hal for a million miles. Miles.” He laughed. “Miles.”
“Come on. Get out.”
“Miles.” Dave’s voice was so sharp I jumped. His expression was serious now. “I’m not saying Ryan’s Hal. ’M just saying tonight is fun.”
We each had another beer around the dining room table, except for Dave, who opted for water, and Gould, who was out of his gluten-free brand. We discussed the Subs Club, and Ryan told us he enjoyed being a member and admired what we were trying to do. I’d seen an article that Ryan had submitted to the site a couple of weeks ago, but I couldn’t remember what it had been about. I didn’t remember being particularly impressed.
Kamen played a couple of songs. Ryan watched him quite intently, and Kamen kept glancing up and smiling at Ryan.
Eventually Dave asked Ryan if he’d ever done a scene with this one dom we’d all played with.
Ryan shook his head. “I don’t sub.”
“I thought you were in the scene,” I said.
“I am. But I’m a dom.”
It took me a minute to register what he’d said. Once I had, I half expected him to peel off his Mission: Impossible mask to reveal a different face.
“You switch?” I asked.
He shook his head. “All dom, baby.”
“What?” Dave slurred. “What? I don’t . . . Mind. Blown.”
“You don’t believe me?” Ryan sipped his beer.
“Then why did you tell us you were a sub?” I asked.
“I never told you that.”
“You said . . .”
“I applied and you let me in. Nowhere in my membership essay did I say I was a sub.”
Dave shook his head. “Not cool, man. You’re a spy-dom.”
Ryan didn’t seem particularly concerned. “Oh, now. Why so exclusive?”
“Hey,” Kamen said loudly. “I think we’re all missing the point.”
I looked at him. “Which is?”
“Ryan can’t be a dom. He’s too tiny.” It was hard to tell if Kamen was drunk too, or just being Kamen.
“Kamen, shut up,” Gould said.
“I don’t mean it, like, offensive,” Kamen told Ryan. “I’m just saying most subs are bigger than you. So it’d be hard to do stuff to them.”
Ryan stared at him evenly. “It hasn’t been a problem so far.”
Kamen grinned. “Seriously. Dave knows. Dave does all kinds of spanking stuff. And it’s, like, it works for him, because D’s big. So D can make him . . . be spanked.” There was a bit of a dare in his tone.
It almost sounded like drunken flirting.
“You don’t think I could spank you?” Ryan asked. Something was going on between them that I was pretty sure the whole room could feel.
“How?” Kamen put down his guitar. “How would a guy my size even fit on your lap for a spanking?”
Ryan’s face was perfectly serious. “You want to find out?”
Kamen laughed. “Uh . . .”
Ryan scooted his chair back and spread his thighs. “Come on over here and find out how a man your size can get a spanking from a man my size.”
I joined Gould and Dave for a unison “Ooohhhh” as Kamen stood, still grinning, and walked to Ryan.
Dave snapped his fingers. “Hey. Hey, buddy. How drunk are you?”
Kamen turned to him. “Nah, man. I know what’s up. I go willingly.” He refocused on Ryan. “Where do you want me?”
Ryan nodded at Kamen’s crotch. “Pants down.”
“What?”
“Pants down. Right now. Or I’ll make you take down your underwear too.”
“Uhhh.” Kamen glanced around the room. “I don’t know if they wanna see . . .”
“Come on, buddy.” Dave moved his water aside. “You and I had gym class together in high school. I’ve seen it all.”
Kamen popped his fly, then shoved his pants down. “Ta-da!”
Gould raised his brows. “Don’t quit your day job, Magic Mike.”
“You sure about that?” Kamen whipped off his shirt.
“God, your body really is perfect,” I admitted.
Kamen flexed his abs. Then looked down at Ryan and spread his arms. “You want to see the whole package?”
“I want you over my knees.” Ryan took Kamen’s wrist and tugged him forward. Kamen’s eyes widened briefly, like a shark victim being pulled under, then he collapsed over Ryan’s lap.
It did make an odd picture, Kamen’s hulking frame piled onto Ryan’s very small thighs. But Ryan showed no sign of being uncomfortable. He started spanking without any preamble. His tiny hand rose and descended so rapidly it blurred. At first Kamen just grunted. Then he went silent. We listened to the steady rise and fall of Ryan’s hand, not sure what to do or think. To my embarrassment, I realized I was getting slightly turned on. I looked over at Dave, who crossed his legs, then at Gould, whose face was flushed.
After a few minutes Kamen started hissing, and it didn’t sound feigned. Ryan stopped spanking abruptly. “Get in the corner.” He rolled Kamen off his lap, and Kamen ended up on his knees on the floor. Ryan pointed at the corner. Kamen looked stunned, then lowered his head and shuffled to the corner, hobbled by his pants. His cock was stretching the front of his briefs, and the skin around the leg holes was bright pink.
He fidgeted.
“Hold still,” Ryan barked. Kamen stopped moving.
I had always considered spanking a rather juvenile activity. But good heavens, this was a surprisingly simple and enjoyable performance.
“So your club,” Ryan said conversationally. We all turned to him. “It’s about things doms do wrong?”
Dave and I glanced at each other. “Uh . . . no,” Dave said. “It used to be more confrontational toward doms. In some ways. But it’s really just about communication.”
“But what about subs?”
“What about them?”
Ryan swigged the last of his beer. “I’m just saying, if a scene goes wrong, is it always the dom’s fault? Can’t subs behave dangerously?”
“Of course.” Dave played with his water glass, tipping it back and forth. “Though as far as I’m concerned, the doms are the ones wielding the whips and knives. They’ve got the keys to the cuffs. They’re the ones responsible for stopping before something goes too far.”
Ryan nodded. “So what turns you off in a dom?”
Dave was ready. “When a dom’s an asshole. When he thinks just because he’s a dom he can order me around. That he doesn’t have to get to know me or earn my respect.” He stared levelly at Ryan. “What turns you off in a sub?”
“Subs who don’t take responsibility for knowing and setting their limits. Blind compliance. Subs who use being a sub as an excuse for really shitty behavior. Subs with no self-confidence.”
“Fair enough.”
Ryan leaned forward. “I’d actually like to talk to you more about expanding the Subs Club. I worked as an advocate in San Francisco for doms who accidentally overstepped a sub’s boundaries in a scene, and suffered lasting guilt and trauma as a result. I wondered if your club might want to work with some local tops to hold a discussion group on what happens when both top and bottom are traumatized by a scene.”
Dave’s jaw tightened visibly. “Right now, we’re not very interested in poor, sad tops who couldn’t read the signs.”
I traced the logo on my beer. When I was twenty-one, Bowser had been the first partner with whom I’d tried needle play. He’d used a combination of hypodermic needles and straight pins, and I’d started to get queasy halfway through the scene. But I hadn’t wanted to admit that. Eventually, I’d gone into mild shock. I didn’t remember much about it, except that when I came to, Bowser’s eyes were red, like he’d been crying. He’d thought I would never want to play with him again. But I’d been totally fine. It was the first time it had really hit me how difficult it was to be a dom.
“It’s not a terrible idea,” I said. “We’ve already broadened our reach to include bottoms who aren’t submissive. What if we made it more of a general kink club?”
“There’s tons of those,” Dave replied. “That’s what Riddle is.”
“Riddle is a dungeon that also features a small educational component.”
“Can we still get sandwiches at the meetings if we’re not the Subs Club?” Kamen asked from the corner.
Ryan crunched his beer can in his fist and dropped it on the table. “Excuse me.” He took off his shoe—a lightweight athletic sneaker. “Kamen. Come here.”
“Uh . . . me?” Kamen glanced over his shoulder.
“Yep, you, big guy.”
Kamen crossed the room with his cock tenting his briefs, looking thoroughly nonplussed. Ryan put Kamen back over his lap and began smacking Kamen’s ass with the shoe. Kamen bucked and whimpered, and the rubber sole left deep-red patches on his thighs. Every time the shoe descended, the pattern of the tread appeared briefly in white on Kamen’s bright-pink skin. “Ow.” Kamen gripped the edge of the chair. “Ow!”
“You see now?” Ryan asked softly, gazing down at Kamen. “You see how it works—me giving a spanking?”
“Yeah,” Kamen managed. “I see. I really see. Ow! God, I see so much. I just want to stop seeing.”
Ryan stopped, nudged Kamen to his feet, and told him to pull his pants up and go to his room.
Kamen rubbed his ass. “But I don’t live here.”
“You want another round?” Ryan asked.
“You can use my room,” Gould said quickly.
Kamen went to Gould’s room. We were all silent.
“He seems like he’d be a fun sub,” Ryan said conversationally.
A moment later we heard a crash from Gould’s room. “Excuse me one minute.” Ryan took his shoe in hand and walked into the bedroom. A few seconds later we heard three loud smacks, and Kamen’s guttural cries. Then it stopped. There was some murmuring, some laughter. Then silence.
“You think they’re having sex?” Dave asked.
Gould shook his head.
Ryan came out about five minutes later. “Gentlemen,” he said, in his high-pitched voice. “It was a pleasure. Thank you for having me. Your friend is fine. He’s just reflecting for a few minutes.”
We were all too stunned to do more than mumble good-byes. As soon as Ryan was out the door, we glanced at one another, stood, and hurried into Gould’s bedroom. Kamen was kneeling by the radiator in his underwear, hands behind his head, knees spread. He didn’t move as we entered.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Oh, I
, uh, have to stay like this for ten minutes. Ryan set an alarm on my phone.” Kamen peered at the windowsill where his phone lay. “Also he gave me his number.”
“You don’t have to stay like that,” I pointed out.
Gould nodded. “Yeah, he’s gone now.”
Dave looked about ready to explode. “Who the hell does he think he is? Coming in here all, ‘Oh, I’m a secret dom . . .’”
“He’s a . . . spy,” Gould tried, without much conviction.
Kamen sighed. “Did all of you get hard watching it?”
“No,” Dave and I protested together, at the same time Gould said, “Yeah, kind of.”
“It was really fucking hot,” Kamen whispered.
“I know,” we all said, almost in unison.
Kamen bowed his head. “I mean, he has, like, a doll-sized hand. But he hits really hard. And I wanted it.”
“I know, buddy,” Dave said.
“You guys can go back out there.” Kamen sounded floaty. “I’m just gonna think about stuff. I’ll be out in a little while.”
We went back to the kitchen, where we sat in silence until we heard Kamen’s alarm go off. A few minutes later, Kamen came out, fully dressed. The front of his pants still bulged. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “I gotta go home and see about something.” He headed for the door.
“His dick, I’ll bet,” Dave said when he was gone. “I’ll bet he has to go see about his dick.”
The next couple of weeks passed in a haze. Home Study 2: Workplace Edition with Cheryl went smoothly. Every Thursday evening, I attended my class for adoptive parents. And each time I came home from class, my head was filled with new horrors I hadn’t even imagined. Stories of adopted kids who became addicts and stabbed their parents. Adopted kids who committed suicide because however much their adoptive parents loved them, it wasn’t enough to make up for being abandoned by their birth parents.
The teacher and guest speakers were friendly and positive, but they didn’t bullshit us, and I became utterly convinced I was going to raise an addict or a school shooter or a manhole-cover stealer. There was a power couple in my class, the Renfers. They’d adopted three kids over the past ten years, and at first they seemed a beacon of hope. Then I learned that their first son had been hospitalized following multiple suicide attempts, and their daughter had served jail time.
