"Where is he now?" Rory asked.
"Ashes," Pete said, and squeezed his eyes closed. He didn't cry anymore. He realized his fingers were clenched into that soft, soft hair, so he unclenched them and started carefully petting it instead.
"The same accident?"
"Yeah. It's been almost five years. Still hurts." Petting, petting. So soft. So nice.
Rory purred. "Scratch my back, please?" A little space of silence, and when Pete didn't move, Rory nuzzled his cheek harder against Pete's belly and said, "I'm sorry about your boy."
"Thank you," Pete murmured as his hand wandered past Rory's hair and explored each shoulder blade, tapped along the bony knots of his spine.
"Both hands. And under my shirt, not over it. Please."
"But–" But his right hand was only half a hand, and it was wrong to touch such pure flesh with something so horribly misshapen and deformed.
"Scratch!" Rory shifted and wriggled and somehow maneuvered his tee shirt off his body and over his head.
Pete watched his hands descend to Rory's back, and it was like slow-motion, like a dream, his whole left hand, his other hand, missing the pinky and ring fingers and a third of the palm–Pete was used to it, but that Rory wanted this hand on his skin, well, it was hard to reconcile, but then both his hands made contact, and Rory blew hot breath into the fabric against Pete's stomach, then mumbled, "Mmm, now scratch." Pete did. Rory arched and moved under Pete's whole hand and half a hand, and seemed to not mind it.
Pete found himself in a weird place of touching and scratching and exploring the planes of Rory's back, and in between Rory's sighs and murmurs, Pete talked, telling Rory things he'd never told anyone, about himself, about Timmy, what it was like to be a Daddy, to have a boy, things he'd rarely spoken of to anyone because so few would understand. Somewhere in there Rory's hand crept beneath the sheet, wandered along Pete's thigh, and then lower, tugging at the leg of his jeans, the right leg. Pete felt the softness of the sheet against the rounded end of his limb, Rory's cool fingers below his knee, exploring along his calf, and his own hands went still, his whole body rigid. He said, "Rory–" in a voice that felt as strangled as it sounded. And nothing more, because he was so filled with terror he couldn't even breathe.
Rory's fingers found the sudden end of his leg, curled around the stump, palmed it. Didn't stroke or rub, just cradled that poor pathetic place where Pete's leg should have continued.
"Does it hurt?" Rory asked. "When I touch it like this?"
Pete realized he was holding his breath, and exhaled and inhaled. Made an effort to breathe like a normal human being. "Not like...actual pain. It hurts in a strange place inside my chest that I have this deformity you're curious enough to touch. Brave enough to touch. This repulsive deformity."
"It doesn't feel repulsive," Rory said. "It feels interesting. The skin is stretched and smooth, almost like a huge cock. I want to suck it."
The thought of Rory's mouth stretched around the end of his leg did something inside Pete's head and stomach he couldn't even explain, and his next thought was of Rory's ass, and then he was harder than he'd been in five fucking years. "God, don't even say that," he groaned, embarrassed and incredibly turned on, all at the same time.
Rory giggled, and curled his fist obscenely around the stump. "Oh, I feel like I should say a lot more than that." He slid down Pete's body, taking the sheet with him. Pete felt the wet slick of Rory's tongue slide along the muscle of his calf, moving down, down, and it was too much, more than he could take.
He rose to a sitting position and reached for that hair. "Oh no, come here, you naughty thing." He grabbed Rory, one hand in his hair, the other winding across his back and under his arm, until he could haul the boy bodily onto his lap.
Rory grinned into his face. "Are you going to spank me? And if so, do I get to call you Daddy then, at least?"
Pete froze for a second, then couldn't stop the unimaginable from happening. He laughed.
The laugh was cut off when Rory kissed him.
It was a sloppy kiss, wet from Rory's open-mouthed grin, messy and fast and not at all sexy, or at least not until Pete tightened his grip in Rory's hair harder, then caught his chin with the finger and thumb of his damaged right hand, and slowed the kiss into something serious.
He got lost in the softness of Rory's lips, the shivers that danced through Rory's body, and the tiny whimper that escaped his throat. Rory pulled away gently, but not far away, and he looked into Pete's eyes, and he wasn't laughing when he asked, "Are you sure you don't want another boy?"
Pete closed his eyes and pictured Timmy glaring at him, asking him why he would refuse a chance to be happy. And he also heard the insecurity hidden inside the question. Not just 'are you sure you don't want another boy', but also, 'maybe can I be your boy?' He inhaled, exhaled. He'd never been a liar. He said, "I do, but..."
"Yeah, yeah, we don't know each other yet. But let me tell you, I would be a great distraction, and I could probably help you with that drug problem."
Pete opened his eyes. "You're really worried about that."
"Well, yeah. Addiction is gross."
"A lot of things about my life are gross. Wait till you smell the rubber piece that makes my foot fit properly."
Rory wrinkled his nose. "I'll do my best to pretend you never said that."
Pete sighed. "Okay. I don't think my drug problem is as serious as you do, but I kind of like you, so I'll see what I can do to minimize the use of painkillers, and we can talk about dating. Agreed?"
The bed jostled as Rory leapt off it and did a little dance, waving birdie hands in the air, his hair flying around his face. His smile was big, his whole face almost glowing. "Really?"
"Yes, really. I give up, or give in, whatever. Now, my whole body is going to tighten up like a virgin's asshole if I don't get out of this bed, so if you would kindly hand me my shoes, and figure out where I dropped my cane, I need to take a shower."
As Pete moved to sit at the side of the bed, Rory kicked his shoes over, then plopped down on the floor, cross-legged, like he was a kindergartner and it was circle time. "You are not going to sit there and watch."
Rory's hands were already reaching for Pete's right leg, and he looked up, his expression more baffled than anything else. "Why not?"
Soft hands enclosed his right calf, sliding gently up to his knee and back down nearly to the end of his leg, and it took everything Pete had not to flinch and pull his leg away. He didn't feel pain, it was just was so unexpected to be touched that way at all. "Because it's..." humiliating, he wanted to say, because I'm ashamed that I have no foot. "I don't know. It's embarrassing, I guess."
"You're embarrassed about having a fake foot but not embarrassed about being a drug addict? Mr. Spencer. That is so fucked up I'm not even sure what to say."
He still had his hands on Pete's leg, and he curved his spine and leaned forward, sliding his hands again toward Pete's knee, lifting Pete's leg until his lips, those soft, soft lips, feathered lightly across the skin that protected the rounded end of bone. And then he gently released Pete's leg, sprang to his feet, and said, "Go ahead and put yourself together. I'll go find that cane."
Pete watched Rory's retreating back, and for a few seconds just sat there, marveling at the sensation of butterflies in his stomach, how such a strange feeling could start in that nerve-sensitive spot he'd resented every waking minute of every day for the past five years.
He was still thinking about it twenty minutes later in the shower, but the thoughts were darker, his brain fast-forwarding to the end of this, the butterflies morphing into dread, worrying already about what happens next, and what happens later, when Rory goes home, and where is home, and how long would he be gone, and Pete didn't even have his phone number, and what exactly did it mean, to date? Where would they go? Would he have to hang out with Rory's friends? Go out to clubs? Smile at stupid idiots? Good God, would he have to meet Rory's parents?
He was so anxious b
y the time he finished his shower he forgot to be careful climbing out of the stall, and fell with a horrific crash and a lot of cussing. So much for his insistence that he lived alone, did this every day, and certainly didn't need Rory's help.
Rory came bursting into the bathroom. "Pete! What happene–" then he slipped on the wet floor, and fell on top of Pete. It was an awkward pile of Rory's arms tangled with Pete's legs, one of Rory's knees dangerously close to Pete's nose, the other lodged tight against Pete's chest.
Pete was still swearing when Rory started giggling.
"What the hell's the matter with you?" Pete growled.
Rory managed to stop laughing long enough to choke out, "Are you hurt?"
"No, I'm pissed off because I'm a clumsy bastard."
"Okay, good," and the little twat started laughing all over again.
"It's not that funny."
"It is if you forgot to dump the urinal," and he exploded in such a fit of giggles that Pete didn't even know how he was managing to breathe.
Pete spied the plastic jug behind the toilet, and almost grinned despite himself. "I did that first thing. I always do that first thing."
"Well, that's a relief, because now I'm almost as wet as you are."
And then Pete felt a hand slip between his legs, and what definitely felt like the press of teeth against his hip, and the warm wetness of a teasing tongue swiped over the gentle bite.
"Rory–this isn't a good idea, we–"
"Hush. Mr. Spencer. I know."
Soft hair draped over Pete's hips, hid Rory's face when Pete wanted to see, and surprisingly firm hands pushed at him to roll over onto his back, which wasn't comfortable, but Pete rolled without arguing.
When Rory's lips slipped over the head of his cock, Pete thought he would come right then, like a horny teenager, and he bucked at the sensation overload, too sensitive, too hot, too good. He groaned and went still, fighting for control.
Except he wasn't still, he was trembling.
Rory's hand slid down the length of Pete's right leg again–would his fascination with that never end? His fingers curled around the stump, and he pumped it like he was giving a cock a handjob. When his mouth slid along Pete's actual cock, the two sensations were irreconcilable, and Pete had to see the boy's face. Cool air rushed across his groin as he gathered that hair into his fist, and Rory's eyes met his, dark with desire. His lips stretched around Pete's cock, and he hummed a sound of approval, maybe in response to the near loss of control that must be showing on Pete's face.
"You're being a very naughty boy," Pete said. "Taking advantage of me when I've fallen down."
"Mm-hmm," Rory hummed, and swirled his tongue around the ridge just beneath the head of Pete's cock, which made Pete's whole body twitch. He sucked in a quick, sharp breath.
Rory gave the end of Pete's leg a gentle squeeze, then brought his hand up and wrapped it around Pete's cock, slowly jacking his hand toward his mouth. He lifted his face away just as his fist reached his lips. "I am very naughty. And if I had a Daddy, he'd surely punish me for such behavior."
Pete remembered to breathe. "God, Rory, you're killing me."
"Just a little spanking, please?"
His pleading was electrifying, and something inside Pete broke loose. Why not? Why shouldn't he have this, take this? Who would get hurt, in the end, except himself?
He pushed at Rory, slid out from underneath him, and pulled himself toward the door, pushing it closed so he could sit up with his back against it. "Take off your clothes, boy."
It was as much a bark as a command, and Rory scrambled to his feet. "Yes, Mr. Spencer," he said quietly, and shrugged out of the shirt he'd stolen from Pete's closet, then unfastened his jeans and slipped them off. His feet were already bare, and he apparently didn't wear undershorts. His cock stood up, curved a bit toward his belly, and was in perfect proportion to his fine, young body.
Pete allowed himself a few seconds to appreciate that body, enough seconds that he could tell Rory became uncomfortable, waiting to be told what to do next. "How old are you?"
Rory's lips twitched. "Shouldn't you have asked me that before you told me to get naked?"
"Rory." Just his name, but Pete hadn't forgotten how to do this, and he injected plenty of warning into that one word.
Rory's eyes dropped straight to the floor. "Twenty-three. Sir."
Ah. He'd played this game before.
"If you really want me to spank you, get over here and put yourself across my lap."
There would be no going back now, and some scared place inside of Pete hoped Rory would change his mind, but Rory didn't. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled across the floor, and settled himself into position, dropping to his elbows. Their cocks kissed, and Pete tried to remember if he'd ever spanked Timmy while they were both naked. He realized he wasn't sure, which was odd, because he'd promised himself he'd never forget a single detail of his time with Timmy. He almost got hung up on that, almost, but a vision of Timmy sternly telling him to 'knock it off' forced him to shake it out of his brain.
He let himself be distracted by the perfect roundness of Rory's waiting buttocks, clenched in nervous anticipation. He placed the palm of his left hand on Rory's back, right between his shoulder blades, and rubbed soft circles into Rory's skin as he examined his damaged right hand, wondering what it would feel like to be struck with such a hand. What it would feel like use this half hand in this particular way.
He felt Rory relax, and knew it was time to stop wondering and find out.
The first spank was half-hearted, barely left an imprint on Rory's skin, but he had more confidence with the next and despite the strange zing that flew along the sheared bone of his hand, he quickly found a balance of rhythm and strength that seemed comfortable for them both. His arm remembered how to do this, and his ear remembered, perfectly, how to listen to the sounds of a boy being spanked, and his body remembered the cues of the wriggles on his lap, and before they were done, the holes in his spirit seemed to knit themselves closed.
When Rory cried out, "Daddy, I'm sorry," Pete pulled him up, turned him so they were chest to chest, and Rory shifted and wiggled and folded his legs around Pete's waist, then buried his face against Pete's chest.
Pete hugged him tight, the hand that had done the spanking now twined into that delightfully soft hair, as he murmured, "It's okay, baby, Daddy forgives you."
It suddenly didn't matter if the darkest days were yet to come. It didn't matter that they didn't know each other yet, or if he would get to keep Rory for a month, or a year, or forever. Pete Spencer felt alive and whole for the first time in half a decade. It was time to stop hiding, to stop being scared. The time had come to step up and be the man he was meant to be, and if he only had one real foot to step up with, well...never mind. It was enough.
He used the hand in Rory's hair to pull the boy's head back, gently, just enough so he could look into his face. No glitter on the glitter boy this morning, just shiny tear streaks on his cheeks, and a shy smile curving his lips.
"That was the best spanking I ever had," Rory whispered. "Could've been a little longer, though."
Pete shook him, but just a little. "You're an insolent little brat. Did you use my shower before I woke up?"
Rory nodded. "And your toothbrush."
Pete growled.
Rory laughed and said, "I told you I'm adorable."
Pete shut him up with a kiss that lasted a long, long time.
About the Author
SM Johnson hibernates in a conservative community of northern Wisconsin, where she writes characters who aren't exactly mainstream. Her stories are erotic, romantic and often somewhat unexpected. Visit her on blogspot to feed your hunger for darkly erotic fiction, messy lives, and things that go "naughty" in the night.
www.smjbookteasers.blogspot.com
Scars: First Session
by Jordanne Fuller
Summary: It takes years to beat a strong woman into submission
. It has to start somewhere. After a life of abuse, Abigail made the decision to cover her scars with tattoos. What she didn't expect was to confront her emotional scars in the process.
I sat in the chair, still as can be, while buzzing filled the room. My body had long since become accustomed to the pain the artist promised to provide. I wasn't worried, pain was something I understood. Music played through a nearby speaker which blended into the background. The artist gave up on small talk around the same time the sounds faded. I cut him off short in every conversation he tried to start, leaving him nothing much to say. The silence suited me well, I only came to cover up the scars anyway. A sharp, unexpected needle pang shot up my thigh, forcing me to reflect upon my past.
Don't cower you fucking bitch! You're only making this worse! You have to stand your ground or he'll never stop. You're bigger than he is.
My internal monologue was almost worse than his verbal insults.
"That's right, you whore, you're the weaker sex for a reason," Garry sneered at me. It had been a long time since I felt any love toward the man. "I will see you torn apart, like you did to my heart when you started fucking my best friend."
His assumption stung worse than the actual words ever could. I never slept with anyone but him, but he'd been drinking and there was no point in trying to force reason on such an addled mind. I shook in my corner, self hating and cursing a god I was no longer so sure I believed in.
How did I stand being with this man for fourteen years? The progression of abuse is one hell of a drug. He was so beautiful and strong, although skinny in the minds of most. I was a larger girl at the time, binge eating at fault for my severe weight gain. I never meant to let myself go. My size only gave the beast more ammunition for his relentless assaults.
Besides, I never had the time to cheat on him, I was his sexual plaything more often than I thought my body capable. Nothing broke me like he had. I found myself so completely lost and within a world I no longer recognized; inhabiting a body I hadn't remembered altering.
UnCommon Bodies: A Collection of Oddities, Survivors, and Other Impossibilities (UnCommon Anthologies Book 1) Page 30
