Tough Love

by Heidi Cullinan

  The door to the truck opened, and Mitch climbed inside.

  Hot, terrible embarrassment flooded Chenco as he watched his brother settle into his seat—he clutched the hanky tight.

  Steve sucked on Chenco’s belly, and he moaned, shocked, delighted, and it was loud enough there was no question Mitch heard. Sam’s voice, soft and questioning, floated over him, and then Sam gasped too. Chenco watched under the curtain as Mitch hauled Sam onto his lap and began to undress his husband.

  Steve thrust a slick pair of fingers into Chenco’s hole as Sam tipped his head back to let Mitch attach himself to his chest. Chenco moaned.

  When he felt a hot mouth on the inside of his thigh, biting and sucking, Chenco looked down, groaning at the image of Steve feasting on his splayed apex. Something thick moved inside Chenco’s ass, metal and bulbous and unyielding, and he clenched around it, crying against the gag as Steve sucked on his balls. If he’d had a voice, he’d have been begging for a bit of burn, a bite of pain. Pinch me. Rake me. Mark me.

  Steve only teased him, thrusting something deeper and deeper inside Chenco. Whimpering, Chenco tried to squirm, as if he could wiggle his way into something more, but Steve wouldn’t relent.

  In the front of the cab, Sam cried out, and something squished. Chenco peered under the curtain—he shivered as he saw Sam, naked from the waist down, facing the windshield and splayed grotesquely over the wheel, knees on the door and the dash as Mitch idly shoved two fingers into Sam’s swollen, slutty hole.

  Chenco’s eyes rolled shut, and he humped mindlessly against whatever Steve had in his ass.

  He gave himself over to the wickedness of it all, to being tied down on the floor of a semi, spread naked and wide while Steve shoved shit in his ass and Mitch finger-fucked his husband over the steering wheel. Chenco felt a connection to Sam, thought about how they were both being used, objects of their masters’ sexual whim, and he shivered.

  A sharp slap made him jerk, but he felt no pain—the sound came again, this time with a whimper, and he peered under the curtain to see the red imprint of Mitch’s hand on Sam’s ass—an ass speared now on three insistently fucking fingers.

  This time Chenco growled, the sound coming from the very base of his throat.

  The next crack came on his own skin—his left butt cheek, sharp and delicious. He purred and tried to lift his ass higher, displaying it for Steve, making it a target. His reward was a sharp, stinging blow on whatever was in his hole. Then another. Then another. Then a stinging bite, a pinch that didn’t end against the inside of his thigh—he cried out at the gag, and then another sting came, and another, and another. He looked down to see small plastic clamps lining the inside of his leg. He met Steve’s gaze, and Steve grinned, so dark it was terrifying. He held up another clamp.

  He lowered it to Chenco’s balls.

  Chenco cried out, bucked, thrashed—then screamed behind his gag and clutched the hanky so hard he feared he might turn it to dust as Steve put the clip in place, the pain white-hot and so wonderful he tripped, briefly, right out of his head. He rode the wave of a second clamp, and then a third, and then he lost count. He heard the sounds of sloppy, raunchy sex behind the curtain, slaps of flesh and the thick squish of Mitch playing in Sam’s ass, Sam making incoherent, desperate pleas. Chenco heard, but he couldn’t look, too lost in his own bliss.

  The plug inside him came out, leaving him empty and clenching, but soon something else went in—something cold and thicker yet, and so long it made Chenco grunt and lift as Steve drove it home. It felt obscene and frightening.

  Steve tugged on Chenco’s nipple clips—when had those happened?—and made a soft sound of approval, clearly admiring his own work.

  Then he fumbled at the opening of Chenco’s ass, and whatever was inside him began to hum.

  Chenco grunted and bore down, but Steve fumbled and the thing vibrated more, rubbing raw along Chenco’s prostate. It made noise—Chenco could hear it buzzing, beating inside him, and he fucked back, lewd and mindless, without shame.

  Tears ran down his cheeks.

  He was crying—sometimes he had to take sharp breaths in through his nose around a sob. He felt more clips attaching to his body, pain on top of pain, and he fucked himself on the beast inside him, riding it, riding the pain, sobbing. He was so far gone right now he’d let Steve line up greasy, ugly truckers to watch him be played. Chenco was so out of control, but he was safe. Steve would never, ever hurt him, and Chenco knew this in his soul. He loved this, what Steve did to him. While what was happening to Sam was hot, it wasn’t what Chenco wanted. He wanted the pain only Steve could give him.

  He’d let Steve fuck him anywhere, any way, so long as he gave him this. So long as he stayed.

  When Steve pulled him up by the hair, as the light from the lot sliced over his face, illuminating it, Chenco looked up at him and let it all show. You, you forever, please, please. He let it all shine.

  Steve stared down at him, struck dumb.

  Chenco’s body hummed, the dildo inside him still mindlessly gnawing at his prostate and his bowels, and somehow the humility of it made it all the more perfect. I will never run out of ways to be vulnerable for you, and I’ll never grow tired. If the gag wasn’t in his mouth, he’d have said the words out loud.

  Something moved like a ghost over Steve’s face, something profound that seemed to reverberate to his center. His free hand stroked Chenco’s face, trailing lube and musk.

  He caught the edge of the gag and pulled it down.

  Tears still flowing, Chenco looked up at him, lost in his high. “Steve,” he whispered, ready to confess. But suddenly words were stupid, worthless. “Please,” he begged. “Please.”

  Steve cupped Chenco’s jaw so tightly it hurt.

  He bent down to Chenco’s face, his eyes wide and burning.

  He sealed their lips together.

  Chenco gasped and opened, inviting him in. Steve took him, plunging deep, gagging him with his tongue. He pressed his heavy body over Chenco’s, frotting through his jeans, rubbing the zipper and the button along Chenco’s naked cock. He sheared the clips off of Chenco’s body, swallowing his cries of pain as they released. He undid his pants and thrust his dick against Chenco’s own.

  He pulled out the dildo, leaving it humming and rumbling beside Chenco’s ass, borrowed some of its lube and speared Chenco in one deep thrust.

  The cry almost escaped, but not quite—Steve caught it and swallowed it whole. When his thrusts made Chenco’s eyes water, he clamped a hand over Chenco’s mouth and licked the salt away.

  He made Chenco come, then took his time in finishing, riding Chenco long and slow and deep, pushing the tears out of him from the inside. He filled him, coating Chenco’s passage then pushing the plug back in before untying Chenco and gathering Chenco’s slack body to his own.

  “You’re mine.”

  “Si, Papi,” Chenco whispered, arching, wedging the plug deeper. “All yours.”

  They slept there on the floor—eventually the truck began to roll, but they stayed there on the sheets, in the narrow space where they couldn’t even spread their legs, Chenco pressed naked to Steve’s body. At one point Sam stepped over them to use the bathroom, and when he came out, Steve made Sam stand there as he pushed his cock back into Chenco and filled him again. Chenco watched Sam the whole time, dazed, lost to his pleasure. Sam didn’t look too far behind.

  Chenco drifted to sleep as Sam went to the front of the cab, but as dawn broke, it was to the sounds of Mitch’s low voice and Sam’s muffled whimpers—bare knees on the floor told him Sam was blowing Mitch, but the soft, plaintive cries made him peek behind the curtain to see Mitch was fingering Sam at the same time.

  He shifted beside Steve, hoping to wake him too.

  He did get fucked a third time—this time over a picnic table behind a public restroom. He looked around, wild-eyed, as Steve pumped into him, barely touching him, making it clear this was all about filling Chenco’s ass because he li
ked it stuffed full of his come, and he said he sure hoped somebody saw since he was fucking pretty good in Chenco’s sloppy ass. This comment made Chenco come, and Steve plugged him up before kissing him deep, pushing on the metal end and making Chenco feel all the mess inside him.

  Chenco went to the bathroom to clean up—not his ass, he promised Steve—and he met Sam there.

  They were quite a picture together in the mirror. Sam’s mouth was swollen, his neck full of hickeys. His nipples stood out on end, and he had the exhausted look of somebody who’d endured a lot of fucking. Chenco looked worse. He felt the burn of the clamps lingering all over his skin, felt his dick howling from overuse, felt his ass burn with pride around the heavy plug.

  Sam smiled shyly at him—but wickedly too.

  The rest of the ride was, in relation, rather boring. Chenco slept on the floor, Sam in the bed, and even when Chenco woke he lay there, listening to the soothing low voices of his lover and his brother.

  Then Mitch said, “Here we are, Chenco. Las Vegas.”

  Chenco climbed to his knees, rising up to a crouch so he could see over the dash, wincing as the plug shifted inside him. It was true—there it was. Las Vegas. Sprawling roads and houses and buildings and casinos and the mountains rising quietly in the distance. It was huge. It was everywhere.

  He was here. He was really here.

  Steve pulled him closer and kissed his temple. “You’re going to be great, baby.”

  Chenco leaned into him and held on. Maybe he would be, maybe he wouldn’t. He almost didn’t care.

  That was when he realized the game had changed. It wasn’t about whether or not he made Caramela a star. It was about whether or not he could make Steve his. For good.

  Chenco watched the city expand before him, drew on his queen for courage, and got ready for the ride of his life.

  Chapter Eighteen

  WHILE STEVE HAD anticipated the pleasure of Chenco discovering Las Vegas for the first time, reality was much more exquisite than he’d imagined. Everywhere he looked, Chenco’s eyes were wide. Every turn around a corner was another discovery. The boy who had wanted to get out of the RGV had indeed—and Steve had helped get him there.

  He took his lover on an extended tour on the back of his bike, which had come along in the trailer of Mitch’s rig. Mitch and Sam kept bikes at the same distribution center where Mitch parked the trailer, and the four of them, Sam, Mitch, Steve and Chenco, had gone on a tour of the city before they went to Randy and Ethan’s house, where they’d all be staying. They took in the Strip, drove by Ethan’s casino, had a tour of the desert. When they stopped for a drink at a bar called the Watering Hole, Chenco was wide-eyed and dazed as they entered.

  “We’ll have to get you your own bike and set you up with some lessons,” Steve said as he ordered Chenco a club soda.

  Chenco did a visual sweep of the room, his dark eyes cautious and intense. “Is this a gay bar?”

  “It’s an open-minded bar.” Steve handed him his drink and did a sweep of the room too, but he didn’t see anyone he knew. He hadn’t been to Vegas in years, and even then he hadn’t stayed long. Mitch and Sam, on the other hand, were making their social rounds, telling stories to friends. He turned to Chenco. “Anywhere else you’d particularly like to see?”

  “I don’t know.” Chenco leaned into Steve. “I feel kind of dumb. Honestly, I want to go to Randy’s house and rest. I spent twenty years wanting to get out of the valley, and now that it’s happened, I feel weird.”

  “I know what you mean.” Steve pulled Chenco closer, wrapping an arm around his waist and drawing Chenco snug to his front. “California was everything I wanted, but it terrified me too. Used to go to this isolated park where I could practice getting rid of my accent so they didn’t look at me as if I were some dim-witted good ol’ boy all the time.”

  “You know, it’s funny—I hadn’t really put my finger on it, but you don’t have much of an accent. Mitch has more than you, and he hasn’t lived in Texas for years.” He settled deeper into their seat. “My mom was always harping on me for my English. I couldn’t sound like some dirty Mexican. I took debate in high school, and when I was in middle school, she had me in these sessions with a vocal coach. She picked my clothes out for me too—we’d drive to San Antonio or Austin sometimes just so she could make sure I was an all-American boy. Then I gave her Caramela.”

  Caramela, named after his mother, Carmelita. That was everything about Chenco in a nutshell, wasn’t it?

  Steve stroked Chenco’s arms. “You should send her video of the show. And tickets.”

  Chenco went rigid. “No. She won’t come.”

  Steve let it drop. For now. “Would you like to see where you’ll be performing?”

  “Yes,” Chenco said, though it was clear he was nervous too.

  “I’m curious to see what Ethan’s done with the casino. I’ve been to Herod’s, but only under the former management.” He slid his hand to Chenco’s hip and squeezed lightly. “I’ll see if Sam and Mitch are ready to head on over.”

  When they pulled up to the parking lot, Steve could already tell things were different. For one, they parked their bikes in a private side lot reserved for VIPs. The lot staff waved and smiled at Sam and Mitch and treated Steve and Chenco as if they must be important too. When Mitch proudly introduced Chenco as his brother, however, the boy received a very warm welcome and many enthusiastic handshakes. By the time they entered the building, a pretty older woman with upswept hair stood in the foyer with a clipboard, smiling and welcoming them with handshakes and kisses on their cheeks.

  “You must be Mitch’s brother.” She smiled brightly at Chenco, enfolding him in a polite hug. “Welcome, Mr. Ortiz. I’m Sarah Reynolds, Mr. Ellison’s personal assistant. If there’s ever anything you need while at Herod’s, I’m the one you let take care of you. I assume you’ll want to see the theater?”

  Chenco looked a bit shell-shocked, but he nodded, dragging his eyes away from the circus of the casino floor and back to Ms. Reynolds. “Yes, ma’am. That would be wonderful, thank you.”

  “Right this way.” She led them past a row of poker tables toward a gilded archway. “There might be a rehearsal going on, but nothing more. None of the shows start until seven, and the theater isn’t open to the public until six.”

  Steve couldn’t get over how much the entire casino was transformed—he rubbernecked all the way across the main floor, taking in the refinished red drapes, the new paint. No one could miss the demon statue in the center of the room. The floor overflowed with gaming tables and happy, helpful staff encouraging tourists to have fun. Several hosts, he noticed, had subtle rainbow flag pins next to their name badges, and from the way the guests paired up, it was pretty clear the word was out—Herod’s Poker Room and Casino was LGBT friendly.

  The theater was a charming thousand-seater, not as ornate as some Steve had seen but fancy enough to feel special, something between ornate opera and gilded old-school vaudeville. He’d listened to Sam wax rhapsodic about seeing Kylie Minogue perform there, and Steve could imagine any performance in this venue being both exciting and intimate. As the theater manager came up to greet Chenco, Steve fell back, content to observe Chenco as he received his tour.

  He was proud of the way Chenco pushed past this and took advantage of the new experience. His boy not only listened attentively as the manager explained when he’d be allowed rehearsal time and who’d be helping him, but he asked questions about the kind of audience they usually had, what other acts were regular, and what they anticipated for a solo unknown drag act from the Rio Grande Valley. This led to a meeting with Caryle, the casino’s marketing manager, who had already put together a portfolio of possible ad spots and marketing concepts for Chenco’s debut.

  Through it all, Chenco kept his cool, but when it was over, Steve didn’t ask, he excused them from Mitch and Sam and took Chenco straight to the bar. He ordered Chenco a double of Abuelo 12 on the rocks and a Bohemia for himself, plea
sed to see they not only had it but kept it on tap.

  “That’s Mr. Jansen’s favorite beer,” the bartender replied, when Steve remarked on it. “When he’s not having a Dirty Whiskey.”

  “Is that what this is?” Chenco took another sip of his drink. “It’s good.”

  “You’re drinking a top shelf Panama rum.” He massaged Chenco’s neck with his right hand. “You looked as if you could use it.”

  Instead of answering, Chenco sagged against Steve. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “You can. You will. There’s no rush.”

  Chenco looked up in concern at Steve, who stood beside him. “But you can’t stay here forever.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I brought half my house up here.”

  I’m not leaving you.

  Chenco relaxed, but only a little. “We’re to stay at Randy and Ethan’s, though. Do you mind? I thought we’d be with Mitch and Sam. I guess that’s all one and the same here. Is this okay?”

  “Mitch and Sam always stay with Randy when they’re in town. When I last visited, Randy’s house was significantly more low-key than where we’ll be heading now.” He hesitated over the next part then decided what the hell. “If you’d rather have more space, I understand they still own the old place. We could set up there, just the two of us. It’s not as fancy, and the neighborhood’s colorful—granted, it has nothing on the flats.”

  “Maybe. I kind of like the idea of being with everyone, if you don’t mind—unless we’ll be underfoot.”

  “It has six bedrooms from what I understand. We’re fine.”

  “Okay. Then I’m fine with staying for now—if you are. Will Crabtree and Gordy be there too?”

  Steve had been wondering the exact same thing. “I don’t know. Crabtree doesn’t live very far away. I think he stayed at their house when he was recovering, but…well, I don’t know.”

  Chenco took a better look at Steve’s face. “Are you worried about Gordy?”