by Lynda Aicher
Sawyer’s cry wasn’t loud or full of volume, but somehow it was more satisfying than a blatant scream.
He stepped back abruptly and brought the switch down on Sawyer’s ass. The low swoosh and subsequent thud of impact raced over him. It sung to his sadist, sprinted through his blood to tighten in his groin. He kicked Sawyer’s foot to the ground and laid five more strikes on the pale ass cheeks, the last one landing on the sensitive crease where his ass met his thighs.
Sawyer’s bellow of pain rippled the air before he crumpled forward, palms sliding down the rough bark to encircle the tree. His back heaved, forehead digging into the bark, legs quivering, but he was still on his feet.
Still standing.
It was the hottest thing Ash had seen in a very long time—if ever. The suffering was evident, but the power behind the pain was intoxicating.
His dick was hard and insistent in his pants. The desire to fuck him teetered on the edge of what his sadist wanted and still craved.
Distance was Sawyer’s retreat. The safety zone he kept erected around him in defense. The man in him respected that space, but this was a scene and his sadist ruled. No limits outside of degradation and a stick up Sawyer’s ass meant everything was in play.
He shoved up behind Sawyer, the front of his pants pressing hard against the fresh marks on Sawyer’s ass. Another grunt, but Sawyer pushed back, hips grinding over Ash’s erection. Fucking…Ash closed his eyes and savored the rush. Sawyer wasn’t done. He’d keep going until he couldn’t feel anymore and then he’d continue to push.
So damn dangerous.
Ash had seen it in a very few. The men who truly relished and needed the pain for whatever reason. His sadist longed to uncover the why, and now was no different.
“Do you fly?” he asked, nipping a path over Sawyer’s shoulder. He ground into Sawyer’s ass, his dick rolling over each cheek before settling in the cleft.
“No.”
The grit-filled response came out tight and fed Ash even more. No escaping for Sawyer. He wasn’t addicted to the endorphin rush like many masochists. And none of this was sexual.
He rocked his hips, his dick sliding between the snug crease of Sawyer’s ass. His lust simmered close to the edge, dancing with his need to inflict pain, to see and experience it through others. The intensity of his sexual desire was unique when he usually kept it contained.
And he would now.
He sunk his teeth into the juncture of Sawyer’s shoulder and neck and flicked the switch so it hit the outside of Sawyer’s thigh. The muscles tensed beneath his teeth and he reached past Sawyer’s dick to find his balls. Everything seemed to vibrate, the air humming with the need for more, for what was coming.
Two thin welts were scored into the underside of Sawyer’s sac, each one a ridge of tenderness he played with before he dug his fingernails into the lines and squeezed. He let the switch fly again and bit down harder on Sawyer’s neck.
“Fucker.”
The barked curse was muffled behind the low grunts and Ash sighed with pleasure. His chuckle rumbled over Sawyer’s nape as he hit him with the switch again. Sawyer’s balls pulsed in his palm and he dug his nails in more, careful to not break the skin, but savoring the feel of the testicles compressing within his grip.
Sawyer’s left leg trembled uncontrollably now, his weight balanced primarily on that foot. Ash had intentionally focused Sawyer’s right side, and the imbalance showed in his struggle.
He released Sawyer’s nuts, scraping his nails along the underside lines. He set up a consistent beat of hits on Sawyer’s thigh with the switch and grabbed his semihard dick. He timed his strokes to match his strikes, each hit hard enough to sting without overpowering. The build was his intent, the slow morphing from irritating to flaming that would simmer under the skin before going deep.
“How long can you last?” he taunted.
Sawyer gave a harsh snort, his breath catching when Ash dug a nail into his piss slit. “Longer than you,” he finally grunted out. The deep anger-laced grit in his voice slid over Ash in a taunt of its own.
Responding to words obviously meant to incite would give Sawyer what he wanted. So he kept his pace the same, the pressure and hits just shy of pleasure or pain.
“Where’s your head?” Ash tossed out the question with an element of demand.
“On my neck.”
He let go of Sawyer’s dick and ran a hand over his thigh, hunting and finding the rough and smooth patches of scars he assumed were there. Sawyer flinched, leg twisting away before he stopped himself, freezing. Ash stilled as well, resting the switch against Sawyer’s thigh.
The night sounds crept in. The small scramble of some critter, the rustle of the wind in the trees. The world seemed to wait, the tension springing from Sawyer as Ash slowly inspected the abused skin. His fingertips communicated wider patches along with thin lines, some overlapping, others close without touching.
Many were faint, the skin smoothing out with time, only a bump remaining to indicate an injury had been there. A shudder skimmed though Sawyer, the shake trembling into Ash. He dipped lower, reaching until the soft ruffle of leg hair tickled his palm. The scars were either hidden or nonexistent on the lower areas.
He continued to search, outlining a history of pain. The inner thigh had the most damage, but there were marks around his entire upper thigh. Every time he found another, pausing to feel it until he’d identified a possible cause, Sawyer tensed, the tiny compressions more like twitches. He said nothing, but his breaths deepened, the long pulls lifting into Ash’s chest.
“Are you done?” Sawyer finally snapped. The clipped notes hid more misery than any of his grunts and cries. This light touch and exploration was torturing him far more than the switch had done, and it flowed into Ash in a languid pooling of yet another kind of pain.
“No.” He prodded an especially large oval-shaped scar. “Burn?”
The rasping cut of Sawyer’s breaths accelerated, his muscles tensing until Ash lifted his fingers away from the scar. Another shudder raked through Sawyer, the reverberations tingling over Ash.
He wrapped his arm around Sawyer’s waist and held on, prepared to be tossed off, but it didn’t come. Sawyer stood stoic, his battle internalized behind his defenses. The power it took to rein in his anger, his hurt, his pain intrigued Ash and lit him up.
He grabbed Sawyer’s dick, worked it back to fully hard. His own erection was as hard as ever and he ground it into Sawyer’s ass. Pleasure burned through his groin to feed on the excitement coursing through him, on the adrenaline that ignited and pushed him on.
“You’re going to come,” he told Sawyer, adamant.
Sawyer rolled his shoulder and thrust back. “Fuck off.”
“No.” He flicked the switch, aiming and hitting that brutalized inner thigh area Sawyer seemed to favor. “Unless you safeword.”
A low, angry growl was Sawyer’s reply. Still not giving in. Not admitting to a weakness or a breaking point. Stubborn bastard.
Stubborn, infuriating, gorgeous, strong bastard.
Ash tightened his grip and increased the pace of his strokes, peppering more hits to Sawyer’s thigh. His resistance trembled into Ash, the vibrations like tiny notes of need and denial that harmonized with everything he craved.
Friction hampered his hand, the skin beneath it catching now and again. Sawyer’s grunts blended with moans until the delicious mix of pleasure and pain collided in an intoxicating blend. He longed to whip his dick out and sink into Sawyer’s ass, to grind down and pound in until Sawyer begged for mercy or release.
He settled for sinking his teeth into that spot on his neck, the flavor of sweat and man tempting his tongue and firing him more.
Sawyer jerked, hips jolting forward, and Ash landed a hard, punishing strike down his inner thigh. Sawyer’s mouth opened, neck tensing until the cords stood out, every muscle pulled tight down the front of Ash’s length.
“Let go,” Ash whispered. “Give it to m
e.”
“Why?” The question was gritted out around a tense jaw, air sucking through his nose.
“Because you can.” It was as simple and complex as that.
Sawyer grunted again. Twitched, rocked, and shook his head, resisting when he was doomed to fail. The struggle was fascinating to feel, the experience unique and almost overwhelming for Ash. His sadist clamored for more, to push and incite and demand Sawyer give him everything when he had no right to demand anything.
Sawyer’s roar was muted but forceful, back bowing as he came, each spasm and shot of come shooting out almost against his will. The anger shoved at Ash. The pain, mixed with relief and the subtle sign of surrender, reached in and eased his fever to a warm burn.
He slowed his hand when Sawyer finally stilled, sagging into the tree, legs shaking but holding. He tilted his head to rest against Ash’s, his chest expanding with each long pull of air. The urge to hold him tighter, to catch him when he fell was so strong Ash almost stepped away. Almost. He wouldn’t drop him, though. Or leave him hanging when he’d given so much.
He pressed a kiss to Sawyer’s jaw, the stubble rough on his lips. “That was gorgeous,” he praised. He never held back on the truth.
Sawyer jerked his jaw away, sniffed. He swallowed, the action audible in the hushed aftermath before he straightened, each motion pulling him away.
“You a…didn’t have to do that.”
“I didn’t have to do any of this,” Ash countered, not letting him go. He’d dropped the switch at some point and had both arms wrapped around Sawyer, one hand splayed over his heart. The solid beat was decelerating, but it still pounded out the confirmation of what they’d just shared.
Sawyer scraped his palms around the sides of the tree until his hands rested before his face. He lowered his forehead onto them, his sigh escaping in a deep swoosh.
“Thank you.”
The soft words held a gratitude that spoke of honesty. Ash stroked his abdomen, a soothing glide after the intensity. He kissed Sawyer’s shoulder, his lips grazing over the ridges of his teeth marks. Would it bruise?
He found the fresh welts on Sawyer’s thigh, each thin stripe settling into him in a satisfying hum as he touched them. They’d burn tomorrow.
One last inhale, the sweet scent overtaking the bitter, a husky musk overpowering both. He held it in, logged it, then finally stepped back, one hand steadying on Sawyer’s hip.
“Are you okay to stand?”
“Yes.”
Ash gave him room and backed off when he had the uncomfortable desire to hold him again. But Sawyer didn’t seem to want to be cuddled or coddled and he respected that. The scene was done, and pushing his boundaries now would be rude and assholeish.
He stayed close though, watching for fatigue and unabashedly admiring the vision Sawyer presented. Strong buttocks and thighs supported by sculpted calves. Even in the dark it was easy to see his strength.
There was no visible sign of blood on the thigh he’d abused, which was good. He hadn’t intended to strike that deeply and blood play required a level of sterilization the woods clearly lacked. Most likely, Sawyer would have some nice bruises tomorrow and a lot of tender spots.
The chill of the night finally penetrated his senses and he shivered, the perspiration cooling quickly on his nape. Sawyer would feel it soon, get chilled. Ash searched for Sawyer’s clothes, collecting his discarded shirt. His shorts were still corralled around an ankle, his sandal a bounce from Ash’s jacket.
Sawyer finally turned, head bowed, shoulders rising with each slow breath. His hair hung around his face in tangles that Ash wanted to brush away. He didn’t though, instead handing over his shirt.
Sawyer dressed in silence, low grunts sounding as he hitched his shorts up and slipped his sandal on. His first step was more of a lurch.
“Shit.” He listed to the side and Ash was there, a hand on his arm to hold him steady. He shook his head, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. “I’m going to feel this tomorrow.”
Pride burned through Ash’s chest. He’d done that to him. “Good.”
They shared a smile of understanding, his face close enough to discern the subtle softness. Relaxed now and open. Maybe too drained to hide anything. The glimpse of honesty took Ash’s breath away.
“I hope this doesn’t affect my employment.”
A single beat laugh jerked out of Ash. “Can you do your job tomorrow?”
Sawyer scowled. “Of course.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about.” Ash squeezed his arm when the urge to kiss away his concerns reared its strange head. “Are you steady now?” Keep it light. Focus on his role and not on his desires.
Sawyer tested his weight on his abused leg, wincing. Even that little show of pain sparked a flood of pleasure through Ash.
He cleared his throat and nodded down the trail. “I’ll walk you back.” Then he’d finally head home. He’d lingered here all day when there was a mountain of work waiting for him at the office. “Do you need any meds to help with the pain?”
His laugh was layered with disbelief. “Are you serious?”
That low rumble of amusement was nice too. He glanced at Sawyer, relieved his smile was still there, the tension far away. “It’s my job to ask.” He took aftercare seriously.
Sawyer shook his head. “I’m good.” His gate was hitched, but each step became smoother as they walked. “The whole point of the last hour was to feel the pain. Why would I want to make it go away?”
A question only a true pain slut would ask, and one Ash wanted to analyze and pick apart until he discovered why Sawyer wanted to live in the pain.
Chapter 8
Sawyer shifted his SUV into Park and stared at the warehouse-style building that housed the Kick headquarters, not quite certain why he was here. No, that was bullshit. He knew why he was here. What he wasn’t sure about was if he should be here.
The weekend following his encounter with Ash had been three long days of adrenaline rush followed by nights savoring the mellow drop and ache in his leg. The rub on his ass and the constant pressure on the bottom of his foot from bracing himself in the raft all day allowed the pain to linger longer than normal.
Or maybe he’d simply willed it to.
The pain had been exactly what he’d needed to get away from the past and remind him of where he was. Where he needed to stay. The smoke had shifted north by the next morning and stayed that way. He’d still driven out first chance he’d had to the highest point he could find, just to reassure himself that the fire wasn’t close.
He’d been fine the entire next week too. He’d immersed himself in the job and was finding his place within the White Salmon crew. It was a good group, not that different from the ones he’d worked with for years. The job basics were the same, the river dynamics similar, and the whitewater a consistent companion.
He rubbed his thigh, little sparks flashing when he found a few remaining sensitive spots. They barely registered, but he greedily relished each little bite.
Why had Asher followed him? Helped him?
His phone rested in the cup holder, a list of area BDSM clubs pulled up and ready. He could investigate one of them, find another sadist who didn’t get under his skin so deeply.
Or all over it, either.
The closeness had thrown him off. Asher had been all around him, touching, stroking, biting, until he’d wanted to roar with the violation. But not physical. He’d had more guys fuck him with less care than Asher had stroked him off.
He’d absorbed it instead. Soaked in every touch and relished the intimacy he’d deprived himself of for so long. It’d been torturous in its briefness, and a sharp reminder of how lonely his existence was.
His leg bounced, knee hitting the keys in a jingling announcement of his indecision. Fuck this.
He turned off the ignition and got out before he played another round of rehash and dissect the unchangeable. He grabbed the stack of PFDs out of the back and strode
toward the garage entrance.
His new employee keycard worked on the first swipe, the green light flashing with the click of the lock releasing. The welcoming call of a loud beep greeted him as he stepped inside. He jerked back to glare at the buzzer over the doorway before glancing around. Sneaking in definitely wasn’t an option here.
“Hey,” a voice called from the back of the garage. “I’m counting paddles. Who’s out there?”
“Sawyer,” he yelled back, not recognizing the voice.
“Sawyer?” A head popped around the corner of an aisle, brows drawn in a scowl. “Oh, hey.” The guy came down the row, a smile transforming his features from fierce to welcoming. “Nice to meet you.” He off-loaded half the PFDs from Sawyer’s arms and tossed them in a large bin along the wall. “Cort Thompson. Welcome to Kick.”
Sawyer dumped the rest of the life vests in the bin and rubbed the lingering dampness off his arm. “War said these needed to be repaired.” He pointed to the bin. “Some straps were wearing. A few buckles are broken.”
“Got it.” Cort scrubbed a beefy paw through his rust-colored hair. The short curls sprung from his head in a disheveled array that indicated the action was probably an unconscious habit. “I’ll get to them in a bit.”
“I can do it,” Sawyer offered.
“Nah.” Cort shook his head. “It’s your day off, right?” He waited for Sawyer to nod. “Thought so. Don’t worry about it. Go enjoy your free time.”
Sawyer’s gaze automatically tracked to the back of the garage, to the door he couldn’t see. His idea of enjoyment was very different from most people’s. Well, except for maybe here. He chuckled at his thoughts, covering it with a cough.
“Have you been here long?” he asked as a distraction. He recognized Cort’s name as another partner, but the company website provided only brief profiles that focused on credentials.
Cort shrugged. “A few.” He braced his hands on his hips, T-shirt stretching over his muscled chest. Hell, who wasn’t fit here? The job pretty much required it. Cort was lean, though. An inch or two shorter than himself, his frame sleek and agile. “Finn roped me in after I discharged.”
