21. Christian

21

CHRISTIAN

“ I told you to go with the enema.”

“I don’t need a fucking enema, Drew—I’m super regular, and I always go in the mornings.”

“Are you getting anything out?”

“It all looks like water.”

“Then you have a clean ass. Congratulations.”

“I don’t need to do anything else?” I ask.

My phone is on the counter on speaker while I towel off in the bathroom having completed my first douche.

“You could use a wipe and sort of stick it up in there if you want to, but it might irritate your hole.”

“My hole is already irritated.” The turkey baster thing wasn’t exactly non-invasive. “Do you have to do this every time? What about spontaneity?”

“I hardly ever do it,” he says.

“And nothing bad has ever happened?”

“Trust me—you can tell when something’s in there that shouldn’t be. When that happens it’s better not to try and create a moment. Now, can we talk about whether it’s a good idea to fuck your boss? ”

“I honestly doubt he’s gonna fuck me,” I say running the tap to warm the water so I can shave.

“But the door’s open, so to speak.”

“I guess so.”

“And you don’t think that’s just a little bit stupid?”

I squirt some shave gel into my hand. “He’s not gonna fire me for being slutty.”

Drew laughs. “I don’t even recognize you right now.”

“So, it might be awkward after. I’m always awkward. What do I care?”

“You’re not as awkward as you think you are, Chris. You have an almost complete lack of self-awareness, but you’re not awkward or weird or whatever other oddball adjective you might come up with. You’re like the dude in black at the back of art class that all the girls want to notice them while you’re secretly fucking the captain of the football team.”

A laugh bursts out of me as I lather up my face. “Okay. I think you’ve been enough help tonight, but I appreciate it. You came in clutch, and I owe you one.”

I didn’t tell Drew what I’m actually doing tonight, but I did tell him I’d be with Gibson, and we’ve been messing around since Rome. I hinted I was hoping to take it further, which is when he launched into twenty questions about Marianne while I squirted water up my ass. His questions were justified. I’ve been asking myself all of them ad nauseam. Drew stopped shy of invoking daddy issues, but it’s not like we both weren’t thinking it.

I’m not as nervous tonight as I was yesterday to see Gibson. Partly because I’ve been with him all day, but also because last night, he definitely tipped his hand. He’s into me.

I should probably be more anxious than I am—because there’s gonna be a scene or whatever, but I’m too horny—and hyperconscious of my asshole.

The idea of him using it in some way—whatever reason he wants it clean for—has me vibrating. Long story short, I’m not thinking about Trinity, and I don’t know whether that’s progress or compartmentalization. Kind of defeats the purpose of being tied up and flogged, though. I’m hoping for that part of tonight, at least, I can get into the proper mindset. There’s supposed to be a point to this.

As I shave, I remember the soft leather restraints that held me down in Rome. Gibson’s hand on my neck. The way the flogger was too much and not enough. The way I’d sobbed when everything felt hopeless. That nothing could ever absolve me.

And I don’t feel absolved. But I am distracted, which isn’t my baseline. I’m one of the most focused and single-minded people I’ve ever met. Stubborn and self-absorbed. I ruminate, perseverate, agitate over things I have no hope of controlling. I don’t get thrown out of my thought process easily.

But I don’t usually develop attractions for powerful men, either. Maybe it makes sense that he dominates my thoughts, too.

Before I overthink what to wear, I text him.

Dress code?

Gibson

Black tank, loose pants, something to cover your arms before you get to my room.

That was easy. And hot. I’m impressed.

I get dressed as instructed and do a smell and hair check before I grab my wallet, phone and keys. I’m looking forward to my two alcoholic drinks.

Only the doormen, Gibson, Marianne, and Emilia have elevator keys to The Penthouse. It feels weird to be using mine for myself. But the elevator ride is fast since it only has the two stops.

When the doors slide open, and the music hits my eardrums, I experience my first thrum of anxiety.

A woman dressed and made up like a doll with red pigtails and painted-on freckles greets me with a bright smile. “Hi, Christian!”

I blink, trying to place her, and it hits me. Whenever Kelly comes into the building, her short, mousy brown hair is usually pushed back with a headband. She wears large glasses, cardigans, and knee-length skirts. She looks like someone studying to be a librarian, and I assumed she might work in the kitchen or on the housekeeping staff here. The fact that she’s one of the sex workers blows my mind.

“Hello,” I say, feeling out of my depth as usual. Sex clubs really aren’t my thing.

“You’ll find Mr. Hayes on the far side of the room, past the amphitheater.”

I nod, looking at the black curtain shielding the club from the vestibule.

“Oh,” she exclaims, and I turn back to her, her eyes almost frighteningly wide. “And this is for you.” She hands over a glass of what looks like whiskey on the rocks. “It’s fresh,” she adds. “The server just brought it out like a minute ago.”

I do my best to keep my face blank, but I’m already overwhelmed. She draws back the curtain, and I’m met with wall-to-wall debauchery.

Scantily clad servers carry trays of drinks and snacks. Immediately to my left, on a bed behind a black veil, a woman is being fucked while a line of half a dozen men watch— or wait to take their turn?

I don’t think I want to know. I look away. On the opposite side of the club, Gibson stands on a raised area in front of where windows should be. Another velvet curtain blacks out the city behind him. His eyes are on me, and I keep mine on him, bypassing the rooms to my left and the amphitheater to my right, weaving through rich people and sex workers.

Gibson is still dressed as he was earlier—in a white button-down, a black silk tie, and black slacks. His tie is loose, though, his top two buttons undone. I notice him swallow as I get closer. His hair is almost as ruffled as it was when he woke from his nap on the couch, but somehow the waves of it frame his forehead perfectly. He shoves his hand through it as he tugs at his lower lip with his teeth.

Can I kiss him here? I fucking want to.

I start up the steps, but he meets me before I get to the top. I tilt my head back slightly to look up at him. He runs his thumb over my cheekbone. “Perfect,” he says.

My mouth goes dry, and my stomach goes haywire, nerves and anticipation bursting like grenades.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“I—” My attention snaps to a woman kneeling on the floor a few feet behind him. Cat ears…star tattoo. She moves onto all fours and gives her ass a shake.

Gibson follows my gaze. “I mentioned her…” He sounds uncertain.

“Busy guy,” I say, trying not to let his pet’s presence get to me.

“I haven’t touched her since Rome.”

I give him a dubious look.

“Innocent petting only,” he amends.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I’d rather she not be in the room for?—”

“Of course not.” He looks from her to me again. “Shall we?” he asks, like he’s trying to regain control of a situation that’s slipping away.

I meet his eyes and nod.

“Follow me.” He turns to his right, motioning to his kitten-girl to stay put.

She sits back on her heels while I follow him behind a curtain I hadn’t noticed. Some trick of perspective makes it blend in with the curtains over the windows. He punches a code into a lock pad. A buzz sounds, and the bolt inside the door moves. Opening it, he gestures me inside, which is a strange role reversal, but I go with it.

The room isn’t large—or at least, not as huge as I would expect someone like him to have. It’s big enough for a king-sized bed with a padded, leather headboard and footboard. In one corner is a cage large enough to fit a human, which I stare at a moment too long, and on the left side of the room, there’s a piece of furniture whose function eludes me. It’s also covered in leather padding with silver rings all over it.

At first glance, I don’t spot any implements of torture, and I turn back to Gibson. His eyes are dark, and his jaw is tense. He assesses me longer this time. I remain still, unsure if I should speak. If I’m allowed to.

What I want to ask is— have we started already? Is this the scene?

It’s safe to say I’m a stranger in a strange land. A child in a roomful of adults. I feel like a moron when it comes to BDSM. I’m not even sure it’s okay to call it BDSM. All I have to rely on is my innate ability to go with the flow and act unaffected by the outside world.

There’s not really all that much I care about anymore anyway.

“Take off the sweatshirt,” he says.

I look around for a place to set down my drink, but before I find one, he’s in front of me, grumbling, “I’ll handle it.”

I freeze again as he unzips my hoodie. Once it’s undone, he slides his hands in, over my bare shoulders, and slips the sleeves down my arms. He removes one side at a time while I move the whiskey from hand to hand. “Drink,” he says.

I finish the glass in one swallow. He takes it from me, steps past me, and sets it on a nightstand.

My nerves kick up another notch. When he places his hands on my shoulders from behind, I startle. His warm palms smooth down my arms, and he says low in my ear, “Fewer check-ins, yes?”

“Yes. ”

“Your safe word is?”

“Sacrifice.”

“More, or less?” he asks.

“More,” I whisper.

“Music?”

“Sure.”

His hands disappear from my arms, and I shudder. A trickle of fear creeps in as understanding of what I just asked for settles into my bones.

Now that my senses are sharper, and I’m remembering last time more clearly. My soul practically cracked open, and tonight I’ve asked him to break it if he can.

I don’t know how the loud club music doesn’t make it into this room, but it’s pure silence until an orchestral song fills the room, and a soprano’s voice rings out. Opera.

“ Tosca , if you’re interested,” he says.

I nod. It’s beautiful. Sad.

“I think it suits you.” His lips brush the nape of my neck, and chills break out everywhere. My cock pulses. The soprano’s shocking voice adds to the humming thrill coursing through me.

“What’s it about?” I ask.

“Shh… I’m speaking now.”

I shut my mouth.

“Do you have limits I need to know about?”

“I don’t—I don’t think so.”

“Limits include slapping.”

“No. Slapping is okay.”

“Heat?”

“As long as you don’t set me on fire.”

“Blood?”

“Can I think about it?”

“We’ll leave that one for another time. Penetration?”

Oh God, please, yes .

“Not a limit,” I manage to whisper past the sudden tightness in my throat and the blood rushing from my head to my cock.

“May I see you naked?”

“Yes, sir.”

Instead of lifting my shirt over my head, he stretches the armholes over my shoulders, briefly strapping my arms to my torso until he slowly moves them down to trap my wrists. With my chest exposed, he slides his hands beneath the elastic waist of my joggers and pushes them down my thighs, exposing my ass.

“Bend over.”

I do, carefully. Without my arms for balance, I engage my core until I’m bent with my wrists touching my knees.

Still behind me, he gets a firm hold on each one of my ass cheeks and pulls them apart, stretching my hole. Blood is already filling my face, but humiliation floods me. I let out a shuddering breath and try to make space for this feeling. It’s not a good one.

I grimace at the sudden war going on inside me. I can straighten up anytime, step away and say not for me, bro , but something in me is screaming that I owe it to myself to see this through—let all my warring emotions manifest themselves in humiliation and physical pain to match the internal anguish that haunts my dreams and far too many of my waking hours.

He holds my cheeks apart a long time, making my asshole burn badly. Finally, when a drop of my sweat hits the floor, he says, “I need you on the horse. Stand up.”

He punctuates the demand with a sharp crack of his hand on the underside of my ass, and I gasp. Grabbing the waistband he created with my shirt, he yanks me to standing. I take a few deep breaths.

“Turn around, Christian.”

I face him but keep my gaze down. He frees my wrists from the arm holes, leaving the rest of the shirt around my waist. “Keep this. Take off the rest of it.”

I undress, and he guides me toward the mysterious piece of furniture— the horse ? It’s sort of like a short, two-sided park bench, but the horizontal surfaces aren’t big enough to sit on.

It’s for straddling.

“Chest here,” he says, patting the topmost surface. “Knees here.”

The two lower surfaces support my knees and shins as I bend over and mount the thing. If I press my chest to the top, it will force my ass high in the air, so for the moment, I put my hands there, kneeling.

From the bottom nightstand drawer, he pulls out restraints. Leather cuffs and chains. Like last time, he secures my ankles first, locking them to rings on either side of the bench. He then shackles my wrists together. When he tugs on the chain that connects them, our eyes meet briefly. “Chest down , Christian.”

Like a supplicant, I bow. As I lower my chest, my ass lifts, and he draws the chain between my wrists nearly to the floor. With my arms fully extended, he secures my wrists to the lowest ring on the bench. I have to turn my head and rest my cheek on the upper ridge.

“This,” he says as an aria swells. “Is submission.”

No shit.

I refuse to consider what I must look like right now, my ass sticking out like a greedy slut and my dick hard on my abs, leaking despite the adrenaline, which is all I can feel besides the strain and shame of the position. I can no longer see his face, but I do see his tie drop to the floor, then his shirt.

Cruel twist.

He runs a hand through my hair and pulls. I get a glimpse of his abs before he lets me go. I’m alone with the music for a few long moments, and my breath picks up speed. I’m guessing it’s intentional, but he lets me see what he’s about to use on me by walking past me on the side where my face is turned.

It’s a flogger. I know that much. Leather straps, some single, some braided. I bite my lip but let it go quickly because I’m not sure what I’m about to feel. I try to clear my head. Let the music fill it. I recognize the cadence of Italian words.

The leather runs up my spine, down my crack, tickles my hole, and then connects with the exact spot he slapped with his hand, just below my right ass cheek in an upward motion that stings and steals my breath.

An identical impact meets the left side. I’m holding my breath, so I let it out before the next strike comes.

And it comes harder, quicker. One side, then the other. Again. Again. “ Mmph ,” I grunt, but it’s pitched high and sounds like a whimper. A series of softer slaps move up and down each leg. While they make less noise, the skin is thinner, so the sting is worse.

I wish he would say something, but I asked for this, didn’t I? Fewer check-ins? I wanted to focus, but I can’t. I’m terrified for my scrotum. What might happen if he hits me there? I’ll scream. I know I will.

The flogging continues. Hard on my ass, softer on my legs, a cold tickle on my back. After a dozen or so impacts, when I genuinely fear for the next, he runs the smooth handle up and down one inner thigh and then the other, pausing at the apex to apply almost too much pressure to my balls, and each time he does that, it’s like he’s forcing precum out.

It’s stunningly arousing, those moments in the eye of his hurricane. I feel my hole twitching. Opening. The beginning of the end of my grip on control. Drool pools beneath my cheek, and my skin feels hot and cold at the same time.

Random shivers wrack me, and with each one, the restraints pull me back to the bench. When the flogger meets my flayed ass again, the pain is so searing, I find myself reaching for God. Give me strength. Let me be unafraid.

Gibson does not go easy on me. He gives me what I asked for. More. And then more than that. The beating is as predictable as it is ruthless. Even the breaks hurt. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to be a good boy and take my punishment, but as my flesh burns, and my emotions slip past each other with no friction to hold them together, I lose myself.

Every time I hear myself cry out, I feel the failure of my will. God’s firm No —or His absence entirely. Because why would He be here ? Surely if He ever loved me, He’s abandoned my filthy existence now.

The realization brings a fresh wave of loss. Grief. It’s so vast and profound, it alone steals my breath.

The handle presses into my balls, and I sob with the ache as my dick discharges again. I cough, spitting the excess saliva from my mouth. The braids slap my thighs, and I nearly choke. “No— no —fuck—I can’t.”

“Safe word, Christian.”

“No— no .”

For that I get a much harder strike to my ass, straight from the top, straight down the center. I scream. “Oh, God! Fucking help me !” Another sob rips from my chest, and I whimper, “Please help me,” before dissolving into shudders and tears.

A clunk on the floor beside me has me opening my eyes. The flogger.

Gibson’s hands dig into my raw cheeks, and I howl. The next thing I know, my hole is covered in wet heat.