The House of Pain

by Tara Crescent

The hallway is warm but I can’t seem to stop shivering. “Hello,” I say, but then I’m shaken by a coughing fit. I struggle to form words, but I can’t seem to breathe.

  Doug now looks alarmed. He places an arm around me to support me, pulls me into the living room, and settles me on the couch. He feels my forehead. My skin feels like it is on fire.

  “Sara, you are burning up,” he says. “What are you doing traipsing around in the cold if you are sick?”

  He tucks a blanket around me. Alia comes over to stand watch at the foot of the couch. I smile at her weakly. Alia is always adorable.

  “Want some green tea?” he asks me. He sounds concerned.

  I nod. My throat feels raw. It hurts to swallow. “I’ll be right back,” he says, goes towards the kitchen. I can hear him on the phone.

  “Patrick – hey, it’s Doug. Listen, can I beg a favour?” The sound of the running tap cuts off what he’s going to say next. His house is warm and cosy, and I drift asleep.

  The sound of the doorbell wakes me up. I can hear Doug open the door. I can hear a male voice chat with Doug. I try to sit up. I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep.

  Doug walks into the room. “Sara, this is Patrick Anderson. Patrick’s a doctor. He’s just going to take a look at you, okay sweetie?” His voice is caring, warm. I swallow a lump in my throat and blink back the tears from my eyes.

  “I’m okay,” I mumble to Patrick. He’s about Doug’s height; thin, with laughing black eyes.

  “Mmm-hmm.” Patrick makes a totally non-committal noise. “Here, open your mouth,” he says. His voice is relaxed. He examines my mouth and my eyes, feels my throat and takes my temperature.

  “Just a bad fever/cough/cold combo,” he says. “Nothing to get too worried about, but you must rest, Sara, and drink lots of fluid.” He eyes Doug, writes a prescription down and hands it to him. “She shouldn’t need prescription drugs, but if the fever doesn’t come down by tomorrow afternoon, call me.”

  Doug nods. “Thanks, Patrick.” he says. “I owe you one.”

  They move into the hallway and continue their conversation. I try to listen, but I’m drifting off again. I fall asleep on Doug’s couch.

  ***

  It is pitch dark when I wake up, and I’m not in the living room anymore. I’m lying on a large bed, and there’s someone next to me. Doug.

  My stirring wakes him up. “Hey sweetie,” he says, softly. “How’s the fever?” He places a palm against my forehead and on my neck, checking how warm I feel.

  “Better,” he says, slight satisfaction in his voice. “Good. You want something to drink? Or eat?”

  “You,” I say promptly. It’s been ten long days.

  He laughs. “Sweet Sara, let’s take a rain check, baby? You need to rest. Patrick warned me to leave you alone tonight.”

  I blush. “Don’t I get a say in the matter?” I pout. Unfortunately, I ruin it by breaking into a coughing fit again.

  Doug gets up and goes into the bathroom. I can hear a tap running, and he comes out with a glass of water in his hand. “Here,” he says, handing it to me. I take a grateful sip.

  “Where are we?” I whisper.

  “My bedroom.”

  For the last two months, I’ve resisted sleeping in Doug’s bedroom, asking to always just sleep in the dungeon. It’s another of the ways I’ve tried to keep this thing with Doug purely sexual. I don’t go on dates with him and I don’t sleep in his bedroom. Except, evidently, tonight.

  I’m too tired to protest, even if I want to, and I don’t want to. I’m exhausted and this room is beautifully warm. I curve into Doug’s body, and I fall back asleep.

  ***

  The sun is shining through the window when I wake up again. I can hear movement downstairs and I can smell coffee wafting through the house. I try to stand up. It doesn’t go so well. I’m pretty weak.

  I hear steps and Doug comes in the room. “Stay in bed, Sara,” he orders. He’s got a cup of coffee in his hands and he hands it to me. I take a sip. Perfection.

  “Thanks,” I mumble. “Listen, I’m sorry about last night. I’ll just catch a cab home, okay?”

  “No, not okay.” He sounds seriously irritated. “For fuck’s sake, Sara, you are sick. Can you just, for once in your life, let me take care of you, please?”

  Let me take care of you. Those words melt my heart. I look at him. “Okay,” I whisper. “Sorry.”

  “You should be.” His voice is even. Is he annoyed with me? I can’t tell. “Drink your coffee,” he says, “I’ll bring you some breakfast.”

  I start to protest the inconvenience, but think better of it quickly, after taking a look at his face.

  Breakfast is scrambled eggs, bacon and toast on a tray, brought up to the bed. There’s even jam in a little dish on the side. I look up at Doug. “This is pretty impressive,” I remark.

  He grins at me. If he’s still irritated, he’s hiding it. “Wait till you taste it before you get too free with the compliments,” he says. But he’s being modest. Everything is really tasty, and I polish off every last bit on the plate.

  He’s brought me more coffee, and well as a mug for himself. He gets on the bed next to me and sips his coffee as I eat. He’s reading something on his phone and he doesn’t look too happy at the contents.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Just work,” he says. He doesn’t elaborate.

  ***

  I fall back asleep after breakfast. Doug has insisted on it. He’s drawn the shades, kissed my forehead and tucked me in. I feel special. Cared for. I want him to stay and sleep next to me, but I’m probably contagious, and he’s still frowning at his phone. I just drift off to sleep instead.

  ***

  It must be past lunchtime when I wake up again. I feel much better. Doug is in the room. He’s sitting in a chair, his laptop balanced on his lap. When he sees me stir, he closes it and comes over to me. He places a hand on my forehead, checking my temperature. “Better,” he says with satisfaction. “How do you feel?”

  “Better,” I say, and it’s true. “I’d like to take a shower.”

  Doug nods. “Feel like company?” he asks mildly.

  I thought he’d never ask. “Yes please,” I say happily.

  ***

  He’s refusing to fuck me in the shower. Instead, he’s washing me, lathering the sponge all over my body in slow spirals. Heat rises in me. I moan. “Doug, please,” I beg.

  “Please what, Sara?” His voice is teasing.

  “Please. I need you in me,” I plead. I know he wants it to. His erection is obvious; his cock so very beautiful. I lick my lips in longing and moan a little.

  “Mmm. You are feeling better,” he thinks aloud. “But then again, I’m sure Patrick will disapprove.”

  “I won’t tell him if you won’t,” I reply, with more than a hint of sass. I really want Doug. It’s been ten days. I reach for his cock, but his hand playfully swats me out of the way.

  “You don’t set the rules, Sara,” Doug says with some amusement, as I pout in response. He reaches over, and turns off the shower. He grabs a towel. Towels me off, softly, lingeringly. By the time he’s done, I’m soaked. My knees are weak with arousal and little flames of desire are running up and down my body.

  He pulls me back to the bedroom. “Doug,” I beg again. My body is now burning with a different kind of fever; one only he can satisfy.

  “Patience, baby,” he mutters. He opens a drawer, grabs a condom. He picks me up and positions me on the bed, and he lies next to me. His hand snakes down my body, tracing idle circles around my nipples. They swell on his touch, pebbling in his hands.

  “Such a tasty treat,” he says, as he lowers his mouth on them. His hands push my breasts together, and his tongue flicks from one nipple to another, awakening a frenzy of need in me. I groan. “Doug please, I just need to feel you in me,” I beg.

  “Clasp your hands behind your head, Sara,” he says mildly. We aren’t in the dungeon
, and his tone is different. In the dungeon, his tone is usually crisp, he expects to be obeyed. Here, in his bedroom, he sounds like my lover. His voice is husky, and his words are a request.

  I make the slightest noise of protest but I do as he asks. I want to touch Dou. I’ve missed him. I want to run my hands and mouth down his body, I want to run the back of my hand against his cheek, and feel the scratch of his stubble grazing me, feel the muscles in his forearms as I pull him into my body.

  “Baby,” he grates, registering my protest. “I’m so hot for you right now, if you touch me, I’m going to explode.”

  Ooh. I smile at that, a pleased smile, like a cat that’s swallowed some cream.

  “Minx,” he laughs at my satisfied expression. He leans in and kisses me thoroughly. He sucks my lower lip into his mouth, nibbles it gently, in a way that sends pulse-waves of pleasure shooting through my body. And then, he’s back at my breasts again, one hand pulling my left nipple in the air, stretching it impossibly in a move that’s oh-so-close-to-pain, while his mouth pulls my right nipple in, his tongue lapping at it, his teeth grazing at it.

  I arch my body, pushing my breasts into him. I’m shaking with need. Behind my head, my hands are balled into fists. But he doesn’t relent and mount me. He is now sliding my left nipple between his fingers, and I’m in a frenzy of need and want, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  His mouth trails hot kisses down my body, his tongue dips into my belly button in a swoop that makes me grit my teeth as a hot wave of arousal knives through me. “Doug,” I groan. “Please, I can’t, it’s too much.”

  “You can and you will.” His voice is calm, almost meditative. He moves lower and parts my thighs. He’s raining kisses up my inner thighs now, and I arch my hips, thrusting my pussy in his face. He chuckles at that, but otherwise ignores the movement. He’ll get to my pussy when he feels like it, and there’s nothing I can do or say that will make any difference. My pussy gushes again. I can feel my juices trickle down and stain the bed.

  “Your pussy is dripping,” Doug says, male satisfaction in his voice. “I love seeing you like this, Sara, helpless, squirming with longing. I love knowing that I do this to you…”

  His kisses turn into little bites now, tender nibbles at my inner thighs. His hands hold my legs apart and the softness of his mouth contrasts with the steel of his hands on my knees and I am powerless to resist. I feel feverish with lust. All thought has left me, and my world is reduced to the feel of him against me.

  “Such a good girl,” he says, as his mouth descends on my pussy. He licks me, careful to avoid my throbbing clitoris. His fingers tug at my inner pussy lips, parting them for his plundering mouth. I arch again, unable to hold still, desperate for the feel of his tongue on my clitoris.

  “Please,” I beg again. My voice is breathy with arousal, I can hear the ragged edge in it. I am so close to an orgasm; I’m almost sobbing with need.

  “No,” he says, there’s an answering edge in his voice; arousal is coursing through him as well. “No, baby, I want you to come when my cock’s buried in your pussy, not before.”

  “I can’t hold on,” I beg. “Doug, please.”

  He takes pity on me, stops licking me. He moves next to me, slides on the condom. One hand is on my thigh, and he pulls my hips into him, and positions my pussy so that his cock is at the entrance, waiting, waiting…

  “Doug,” I beg. And he slides his hot, hard length into me, and his hand finds my clitoris in a sure, steady movement, and I explode almost instantly into orgasm, shockwaves running through me, my muscles clenching and pulsing around his cock.

  He’s held still as I’ve orgasmed, and his fingers are still on my clitoris. He gives me a minute to recover, as he slowly, deliberately thrusts in me. I groan. In this position, he’s hitting my g-spot on every thrust, and his fingers are now moving on my clitoris again, and I can feel impossible waves of arousal build within me again.

  I moan aloud. I’ve missed this; the hot hard feel of him in me. He thrusts, I move my hips into him, meeting his motion with my own rapidly growing need. My clitoris is pulsing, aroused, and his fingers are spreading the slickness from my pussy onto my clitoris, rubbing my throbbing nub in a movement that is, initially a mere feather touch. I respond, I move my hips to try to get him to thrust harder.

  His free hand moves, grabs my hair, tightens around it. I dance at the edge of pleasure-pain. His hand is pulling at my hair, tugging me towards him. His fingers move again, faster on my clitoris, more insistent. I bite my lips. I am once again at the edge of orgasm. I grind my hips into him so that his thrusting cock again finds my g-spot, and I fall apart, yet again, screaming his name as I come.

  His fingers have once again stilled, but he hasn’t moved his hand away. He makes a sound in his throat, a primal sound of male satisfaction. “You feel so good, baby,” he mutters. “So very responsive.”

  I moan. His hand is still in my hair, holding it painfully tight as he moves in me. And now, his fingers are moving, yet again on my clitoris, slowly building me up as he strokes in me. I whimper. I’m not sure if I can do this again.

  “Once more,” I feel him whisper in my ear. “Once more for me, Sara.”

  He thrusts in me, harder, faster, hitting my g-spot with each thrust; his fingers dance on my sensitive, pulsing clitoris, engorged with need. His hand yanks at my hair, and I walk on that edge of pleasure-pain till only pleasure is left. I explode, the room going dark around me, fireworks popping behind my closed eyelids, and I feel him stiffen, and thrust hard one final time, as he too explodes in orgasm.

  When the world finally rights itself, I move my hands from behind my head, straighten them out to ease the stiffness a bit. Doug notices, and his strong hands find my neck and shoulders, and he massages them till feeling returns to them.

  “Mmm.” I make a noise of utter content. I drift back asleep, nestled in Doug’s arms.

  Chapter 13

  Early-December, and my birthday is approaching. My thirtieth birthday. A big deal.

  I’m at Doug’s house. It is Saturday morning. Soon, we’ll have sex once more, and then I’ll take my leave. He’ll drive me home. He’s started doing this ever since I was sick in November, and he just ignores my protests. I can sense he’d like me to invite him up, but I’ve never done so. I’m trying desperately to keep Doug in a tidy box, even more so after he took care of me when I was sick.

  My birthday is on Friday, the night we typically spend together. But Amanda is throwing me a party and a whole bunch of my friends are going.

  I eye Doug. I’m debating whether to invite him. I’m sure he’d like to be there. But it feels like a big step.

  I wish I wasn’t such a chicken shit. But, as my concern about the submission has eased, my fear about entanglement has grown. I want to keep Doug at a distance, for fear that if I let him in, and fall in love with him, I’m going to get my heart broken when he wants to leave. The old pattern.

  I am a chicken shit.

  But it is my thirtieth birthday and we’ve been sleeping together for almost four months. I know what the right thing to do here is. And it is the thing I want to do as well, but am terrified to do.

  Jump in, Sara, I urge myself. This feels like the same voice that made me call John at the House of Pain, all those months ago. The better-version of me. The one that is more daring, more spontaneous.

  “Doug,” I start. My voice sounds hesitant.

  He’s refilling his coffee cup, but he turns and looks at me. Eyebrow raised. Anymore, I don’t typically sound hesitant when I talk to him. He can tell the difference in my tone, and knows something is up.

  “Friday night – it’s my birthday. My friends are throwing me a party, would you like to come?”

  A smile breaks out on Doug’s face, a warm smile, echoed in his eyes. “Why, Sara White,” he drawls, and his voice is teasing. “Are you finally ready to let me out of the closet then?”

  ***

  Friday morning,
I wake up in my bed, feeling oddly alone. I wish, not for the first time, that Doug was next to me. Sigh. I think I’m in trouble.

  With all that, I’m running late to work. I’m rushing around my shoebox of an apartment, looking for my keys, when there’s a knock at my door. It’s the flower delivery guy again, and he’s holding a massive arrangement of yellow roses, dotted with baby’s breath, nestled in a green ceramic container.

  I sign for the roses; find the card accompanying them. Doug’s writing again. A simple note. “Happy birthday, sweetie. See you tonight.”

  I sigh. The roses are beautiful and I’m oddly teary-eyed.

  ***

  Friday afternoon, and I’m regretting inviting him. There’s a hard knot of nervousness in my stomach.

  Some of my former coworkers are going to be at this party and they all know Doug from work. There’ll be gossip and speculation. They’ll ask me questions that I won’t want to answer. My non-work friends will be intensely interested too. They always are. I’m one of the last single people in my group of friends, and I swear a bunch of my married friends are living vicariously through me. Either that, or they are solidly interested in seeing me married.

  Too late to do anything about it. I brace myself for the evening ahead.

  ***

  Okay. I’m having a lovely time.

  We are at one of my favorite Toronto bars. Pitchers of beer are cheap. The platters of nachos are huge, and it’s always a fun place to hang out. I debated going somewhere fancier, but then I figured I’d rather spend my birthday in my favourite place. I did dress up though, since you only turn thirty once. I’m wearing a low cut black dress. It hugs my breasts and fits me closely on top, and drapes into an elegant flared skirt. Underneath, I’ve splurged on some gorgeous plum-coloured lingerie. I can’t wait for Doug’s reaction to that, later tonight.

  I was intensely curious how Doug would fit in this place. I couldn’t picture him here. He’s got a fancy house and a fancy car. His refrigerator and cellar are loaded with expensive French wine. But he’s earned the approval of my friends by buying the first pitcher, and he’s chatting amiably with my friend Tom about football. He looks comfortable and relaxed. He fits in.