by J. A. Rock
Dave and Kamen exchanged glances. Gould, over at the refrigerator pulling out beers, sighed loudly. “I told them not to do it.”
Dave made a face. “We sort of . . . turned Hal’s birthday into a ‘We’re sorry, Miles,’ party.”
“You what?”
Gould approached. “That wasn’t the part I told them not to do.”
Kamen clapped me on the shoulder. “Yeah, dude. We’re sorry we acted weird about you wanting to adopt a kid. We think it’s really cool.”
Gould started opening beer bottles on the edge of the table. “Explain the cake.”
Dave shrugged. “I went to the bakery. And they’d made this cake for a guy’s birthday party, and the party ended up not happening because I guess the guy’s wife found out he was cheating on her. So they just had this photo cake with this adulterer’s face on it, and they offered to sell it to me at a discount. And since it looked a little like Miles . . .”
“It looks nothing like me.”
Kamen half shut his eyes. “If you squint.”
I shook my head. “You’re just saying that because he’s black.”
Everyone turned away guiltily, except Gould, who offered me a beer. “It was not my idea.”
“Well, anyway.” Dave slung an arm around me. “We got a cake, and there’s plenty of chips, so sit down and enjoy yourself. And please, please forgive us? We support anything you want to do. We promise.”
“We’re really excited about having your kid,” Kamen added. “I mean, not, like, we’re having it, but—”
“I absolutely forgive you,” I said to all of them. “And I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have kept it from you.”
We group-hugged, because Dave was incapable of resolving anything without a five-minute embrace.
Gould and Kamen went to Gould’s bedroom to look at a wall Kamen was going to help repair. Which left Dave and me alone. I worked on my beer and cut a hunk out of the cake stranger’s face.
“I’ll have some too.” David sat gingerly and rose almost at once. He caught me watching and gave me a tentative smile.
“I won’t ask.” I cut him a slice.
He accepted the plate. “I told D what I said to you when you gave us the news. So, if it makes you feel any better, I’m not in any hurry to be an asshole again. And not just because I got caned,” he added quickly. “I felt bad way before that.”
Dave had recently initiated a domestic discipline relationship with his partner, D. One of the things Dave had asked D to hold him accountable for was his tendency to speak without thinking.
He must have felt really bad, to have confessed to D. He hated being caned more than anything. And now I felt guilty because I knew he hadn’t meant to hurt me. Dave cared about the rest of us to an extent that made me almost uncomfortable at times, because I worried I didn’t experience our group’s friendship at quite the intensity he did.
“It makes me feel a little better.” I held my arms out.
He came around the table and gave me a massive hug. “I’m so sorry, man,” he said into my shoulder. “I’m really fucking proud of you, and you’re gonna be an awesome dad.”
Just for fun, I slid a hand down and squeezed his ass.
He yelped and jumped straight up. “Ow! Not cool!”
I grinned. “Now we’re even.”
In the back room, the stereo started blasting Lil Wayne.
“Can you guys hear that from out there?” Kamen called.
“Yes, and we don’t want to!” Dave yelled back. He waited a few minutes, but the music remained at the same volume.
I raised my voice to be heard over the music. “I’m still impressed you’re making this discipline thing work.”
Dave collapsed in his seat, wincing. “Getting caned is the worst thing that can happen to a human. But my ability to communicate nicely with people has improved a ton already.” Kamen danced into the kitchen, bumping and grinding his way past the table. Dave looked up in time to see him hit the table edge with his hip, sending a bowl of chips sliding toward the edge. “Watch the chip bowl, ass!”
I smirked. “A ton?”
Dave turned back to me. “I’m still a work in progress.”
“I see.”
“Someone’s gotta dance, or it’s not a party!” Kamen snagged another handful of chips, stacked them carefully on his palm in a neat little tower, then danced back to the spare room.
“Let’s go somewhere quieter,” Dave suggested to me.
We took our cake to the living room, which wasn’t much quieter.
He sat on the couch, stuffing a throw cushion under him. “So how old is your kid gonna be?”
“I’m not sure. The next step is to look at some profiles and get an idea of which kids I feel a connection with. The Beacon Center will send me some potential matches.”
“God, that sounds awful. I mean, think about all the ones you won’t be able to take.”
“I know.” I’d thought about that every day for the past year. If I couldn’t even make decisions about what furniture I wanted in the nursery, how was I going to choose a child?
“Girl or boy?”
“Not sure.”
He studied me for a moment. “This must have been, like, a crazy-big decision.”
“Yeah.”
His voice softened. “You really could’ve told us, you know?”
I could have.
And yet I so rarely told them the whole story about anything.
Dave frowned. “I mean, I know you told me a few months ago you were taking a break from BDSM because of some life-choice things. But I had no idea this was what you meant.”
“I know. I was so scared it wouldn’t work out.”
After the incident a couple of months ago with the dom who’d threatened me with a knife, I’d gone to them immediately. Had called Kamen to pick me up and let him take me over to Dave’s. But they hadn’t known I was meeting the guy in the first place. In the weeks that followed, they’d sometimes asked me if I was okay. And I’d always said yes, even when I wasn’t.
Dave had finally said, “You know, sometimes it’s hard for us to help you out. You don’t always tell us things.”
I guess what I needed to realize was that any major event in my life had an impact on them. I’d just never been able to see us as a family quite the way the others seemed to. To me, family members were the people you were stuck with through some genetic crapshoot. Friends were different. You supported them, but you weren’t obligated to save them. You could shed them if they weren’t working for you. You loved them deeply, but when you lost them, you . . .
You moved on. You recovered.
But in Dave’s eyes, I’m pretty sure we were bound together for eternity.
I didn’t really know what to do with that kind of friendship. Didn’t know how to share my life so completely. Sometimes I thought I had an ally in Gould, whose habitual silence might have indicated a certain level of detachment. But I got the sense that even he was more invested in the group than I was.
“I’m sorry.” I took a bite of the stranger’s face.
“No, no. This is our apology party to you. Don’t steal our thunder. And after how we acted, I totally get why you didn’t tell us.”
“It’s okay.”
Dave was silent for a moment. “So are you really giving up the scene? Because you came in here the other day with saline balls, and I’m just saying . . .”
“Yes, I’m giving it up.” I thought about Drix, and a sharp ache went through my body.
“You just haven’t yet?” Dave said quietly.
“Starting tomorrow.”
“Does that mean tonight you—”
“What’re you guys doing?” Kamen asked, as he and Gould entered with cake. Actually, Gould’s plate just had a pile of frosting on it, in deference to the gluten intolerance.
“Having a serious conversation.” Dave waved him away. “Go back to your dance party.”
I suddenly felt ridicu
lous. Hopeless. I wanted Drix beside me in bed again. I wanted to burn from the thrust of his cock, wanted his sharp teeth buried in my skin. And I wanted to teach him how to make me come utterly undone.
But not as much as I wanted to be the world’s best father.
Gould wiped frosting off his mouth with the back of his hand. “Is the serious conversation about Miles’s kid?”
“Hold on.” Kamen ran to Gould’s room and turned off Lil Wayne. Then he raced back to the living room. “I’m ready.”
“It’s been stressful,” I admitted. “Like, the whole adoption process is exhausting. Interviews and letting them scrutinize every detail of my life. It’s taken months, and the home study will take more months. And it doesn’t help that I . . .”
They all waited. God, I was an asshole. Such an asshole. But they were the people who could help.
“I sort of . . . met someone.”
“Ohh?” Dave looked ready to leap on me.
“But it didn’t work out,” I said quickly. “And I think I didn’t do a very good job letting him down. I know I didn’t.”
I expected merciless teasing from David on the subject of my social awkwardness. But he only said, “Aww, Miles.”
“So I wanted to ask you guys . . .” I pursed my lips. “Should I apologize to someone I never intend to see again?”
“Sure, dude,” Kamen said. “If you weren’t nice to him.”
“Not to pry—” Dave shifted on the cushion “—but what was he like?”
“He was . . .” I couldn’t come clean about the whole vampyre Gordian knot. Just couldn’t. “There was nothing really wrong with him. He was polite. Fun, I suppose. If you’re into that sort of thing.”
Dave furrowed his brow. “What, fun?”
“He was even a sadist,” I offered reluctantly.
“Holy shit, dude!” Kamen said. “That’s your dream.”
“So what exactly was the problem?” Dave asked.
I spread my hands on my thighs. “The problem is, I’m giving up kink until I’ve figured this adoption thing out. That’s my final answer.”
Dave shook his head. “But you’re always talking about how good sadists are hard to find.”
“This is no longer of importance.”
Dave wouldn’t let up. “And this guy is fun. You need someone who’s fun. To force you to be fun. Miles, keep fucking the fun man!”
“I will have fun being a father.”
“Yeah, but even dads have sex.”
“Just tell me how to apologize.”
Kamen shrugged. “Makeup fucking, dude.”
I sighed. “I shouldn’t have bothe—”
“Miles,” Gould interrupted, “I think you’re missing an important opportunity.”
I turned slowly to him. “What?”
Gould glanced around at all of us, looking uncertain but a little mischievous. “The home study’s gonna go on for months. So there’s no chance you’ll have a kid before the year’s out, right?”
“Very unlikely.”
Gould rested one hand on the arm of the sofa. “What are some things you’ve always wanted to do? Kink-wise?”
“What does that have to do w—”
“Just answer the question.”
“Vacbeds,” I said.
“And branding,” David added.
“Yeah. Uh . . .” I couldn’t think. “Urethral torture.”
Dave and Gould exchanged a look. Dave turned back to me. “The things that you think are things just . . . it blows my mind. What else?”
“Um . . . piercing . . . bullwhips . . . I’m sure I could think of other things.”
Gould nodded. “Welcome to your pain-slut bucket list.”
“Huh?”
He gave me a half smile. “You have six months or whatever to do all the masochistic things you’ve always wanted to do.”
“Oh my God.” Dave turned to Gould. “You’re a genius.” He whirled back to me. “And as long as the adoption people never find out you’re into that shit, you’ll have it all out of your system by the time Fred Rogers Jr. arrives.”
Gould was not a genius. All of my friends were fools. Absolute fools. And this idea made no sense—especially coming from Dave and Gould, both of whom had reacted to Hal’s death by becoming convinced that kink was dangerous and that they couldn’t trust doms.
“I support this,” Kamen volunteered.
“Come onnnn!” David tugged my hand. “You apologize to him. You explain the situation. You set up the expectations. He’s a sadist; you’re a masochist. You’re not looking for a relationship. But you want to try all kinds of kinky shit together. Until you get sick of each other, or the baby comes along. Whichever happens first.”
“This sounds like a terrible idea.”
“How. How is it terrible?”
They all waited for me to tell them how it was terrible.
“Because it just is.”
They did not find that argument compelling.
“Because Drix hates me,” I tried instead.
Dave slapped my shoulder hard. “Then fix that, douche bag.”
I had an email draft open. The cursor blinked. But I couldn’t figure out what to say to Drix. I’d grabbed the email address off his order form, which was completely unprofessional and could backfire if it turned out not to be his account. But since the name “Hendrix” was in the address, I figured I was at least safe on that front.
Riddle’s monthly newsletter arrived in my inbox. I pounced on it, eager for the distraction.
Information about the roundtables. About the dungeon’s extended spring hours.
A headline toward the bottom caught my eye: COME PLAY WITH OUR NEWEST TOY.
The accompanying image was of a narrow, upright chamber. The door to the chamber was open, and inside were colorful projections. I squinted. It looked almost like . . .
MEET THE DILDO IRON MAIDEN! read the subhead.
Riddle’s newest piece of equipment is sure to heat you up in time for summer. This chamber is seven feet tall, and the inside has over three dozen mounting pegs for toys of your choice. Just put your bottom boy or girl inside—not for the claustrophobic!—and make them impale themselves in as many holes as you choose, with whatever wicked dildos suit your fancy. Then close the door and listen to your bottom whimper as s/he is impaled in every orifice! We’re very proud of our latest addition, and we can’t wait for you to come try it out.
Please note: The dildo iron maiden is BYOD—Bring Your Own Dildos. No dildos will be provided.
My phone buzzed. A text from Dave. You see the iron maiden?
Yep.
See, you really don’t want to quit the scene now, do you?
Damn it, I did want to try that iron maiden.
I texted back: I’ll add it to the bucket list.
Atta boy!
I shook my head and set the phone down. Touched the marks on my jaw left by Drix’s teeth. They were barely visible, but I still felt self-conscious every time I went out in public. Yet at home I couldn’t stop admiring them.
Desperate for further distraction, I logged into the Subs Club site and checked the message center. We’d received a new application for membership. Someone named Ryan W. I glanced over his application. It all looked good, so I added him to our members list. A few minutes later, I had a message from Ryan W himself.
HEY. REALLY INTERESTED IN WHAT YOU GUYS DO. WOULD LIKE TO MEET SOMETIME. DRINKS? POOL? MY TREAT. —RYAN W
Ugh, I did not want to deal with that request right now. Humbling myself to Drix seemed infinitely preferable. I went back to my email draft.
I typed a brief apology. Frowned at it. It sounded so . . . terse. But how to sound sincere without risking utter humiliation if he blew me off?
Hi Drix,
I understand if receiving this email does not exactly fill you with delight. But it is imperative that I apologize for what I said the other night. I really enjoyed my evening with you; you were extraordinar
ily accepting when I told you about my masochism, and I regret that I didn’t show you the same courtesy when you told me of your—
I closed my eyes for a second and forced myself to keep typing.
—vampyrism.
It just came as a surprise to me. I don’t know much about that subculture, and I got a little overwhelmed. If you think you can see past my inexcusable rudeness, I would like a chance to get to . . .
To . . .?
To apologize in person and start again.
Preferably from the point where we’d knocked over the fruit bowl.
If not, then just know that I am sincerely sorry.
All the best,
Miles
I half expected never to hear from him again. But he wrote back a day later with an unembellished apology accepted and a question about tote bag pricing at A2A.
We chatted online several times over the next week. The chats got progressively dirtier. On Friday we went to dinner again. Once more, I was impressed with how easily our conversation flowed and how impossible it was not to imagine him contorted in all sorts of strange positions while I fucked him and he fucked me and we mutually fellated and he whipped me bloody. And so forth.
We went back to his place, where we sat across from each other at his kitchen island with some plums and discussed what had gone so wrong last week. I told him again that I was a jerk; he told me again that it was fine.
“The sex was incredible.” He took a bite of his plum. A stream of juice rolled down his chin, and it was beguilingly gross.
“Yes,” I agreed. “I don’t often make love that . . . passionately. Is it hard to chew with your pointy teeth?”
“No. It’s especially easy to eat corn and steak. Also, watch this.” He held the unbitten side of the plum to his lips and put the tip of one fang to the skin. Pressed down slowly. The fruit’s skin stretched, buckled, and then finally punctured in a tiny spray as his fang sank in.
I blinked several times in rapid succession, wondering why I’d found that so arousing.
He used the fang to tear a hunk of fruit off. I watched him chew, glancing briefly at my own untouched plum.
“Your teeth really are exciting.” My voice sounded slightly unsteady.