Pain Slut

by J. A. Rock

I shook my head. “It’s not important.” That had come out all wrong. I could feel Girltoy staring at me. “I mean, I’ll explain later.”

  “Ohhh.” Girltoy glanced between us. “Sorry. I’m always running my big mouth. Anyway, I’d better go see what the Master wants next. Good to see you, Miles. Nice meeting you, Drix.”

  She wandered off.

  “Who’s Hal?” Drix asked.

  “A friend.” I was surprised by an upwelling of emotion—mostly anger—that I couldn’t even begin to sort through. I really didn’t want to talk about this now. “But he’s not around anymore.”

  We shifted into silence. “Anything you want to ask me?” I gestured around the room. “About anything going on here?”

  “I do want to ask you something.”

  “What?”

  “Who’s Hal?” he repeated.

  It was the first time he’d pushed me on anything, and I wasn’t sure how to react. “I’m serious. This isn’t the time to discuss it.”

  His violet gaze was steady and intense. The intensity gave way to something that looked almost like hurt. He turned away, and I felt guilty. But still angry too. I didn’t need Hal ruining my fucking night.

  “Hey,” I said softly.

  He turned back to me.

  “You, um . . .” I swallowed. “You’re . . . I’m sorry. I meant to tell you the other day that I really like you too. I’ll get better at sharing things with you, I think. Right now, though, I just want to enjoy having you here.”

  He studied me for a moment. “Sorry. I’m nosy.”

  “Well, you are a PI.”

  He smiled finally, and I reached out, not sure what I intended to do. I ended up placing my hand on his thigh, which radiated warmth through the denim. I fell completely still, staring at my hand, then letting my gaze travel up his leg to his groin. To the snap of his fly.

  Then I let my hand follow my gaze. I didn’t look at his face—just watched his thighs tense slightly and listened to the way his breath faltered. It’s easier. It’s easier if it’s sex, if it’s the bucket list. If I let myself like him too much—if I like him enough to tell him about Hal . . .

  It’ll end up hurting in a way I can’t deal with when I have to let him go.

  I stroked the bulge in his jeans. His breath hitched, and his hips lifted. The music paused between tracks, and in that moment of relative quiet, he whispered, “Could I blow you?”

  My hand stilled. “Here?”

  “Yeah.” One side of his mouth quirked up. “What, are you shy? ’Cause I just met a woman who watched you get your secret cigarette burns in this club.”

  “My exhibitionist tendencies have atrophied in recent years.”

  “So you didn’t like me watching Bowser staple your cock?”

  I mock glared at him. “I didn’t say that.”

  He straightened, pushing against my hand. “So what if I blow you? And what if I, um, hurt you? In a way no one can see?”

  I was intrigued. I let him lead me out of the lounge. He paused for just a second in front of Tranquility, and then moved on to Refinement. As though he could feel my resistance to going into Tranquility. He really did pay attention to body language, I realized. To . . . energy, I guess.

  Another couple was in Refinement—a man tying his partner to one of the suspension frames. I did my best to ignore them.

  Drix and I went to the back corner, beside the spanking bench. He got on his knees. Folded that incredibly lanky frame and knelt there gazing up at me.

  He looked ethereal. Like he was waiting for some holy office to be conferred upon him. I was jittery with nerves, but I calmed as I reached down and touched the top of his head. Lightly—my fingertips barely skimmed his hair. But he bowed his head, and I got a full-body shiver.

  Keeping his head bowed, he undid my fly and pulled my khakis and boxers down past my hips. My cock sprang up, and he curled his hand around it gently. Stroked it for a moment. His thumb paused on the PA scar, just as Bowser’s had. He glanced up at me with a slight smile.

  I smiled back, a little embarrassed. “Long time ago. It made me piss weird.”

  He nodded without speaking. Then leaned forward and took me in his mouth.

  My eyes fell shut. I moaned softly as his lips slid up my shaft. Up and then down again, taking me deeper each time. He moaned, and the vibrations traveled up through me, making me gasp. He gripped the base in one hand and used his lips to pull on the head. I sighed, forgetting about the other couple as I relaxed into the sensation.

  And then I felt it.

  The point of one filed tooth running slowly—so slowly—up my dick. My body went rigid. When he reached the ridge under the head, he pushed the tooth in a little deeper. I winced, releasing a breath. Placed my hands on Drix’s shoulders, as though to force him back. But I didn’t. I could feel him smile around my cock. Then he dragged his tooth down again. It felt like the skin of my cock was being split. I licked my lips, my hands still braced on his shoulders.

  When he reached the base, he dug the point in again. “Ah—” I stopped the sound before it became a full-blown cry.

  He went back to sucking.

  I let go of him. Looked down at his long gold ponytail. Just resting there between his shoulders. I stroked it. He gave the softest whimper as I continued to comb through it. I stroked his scalp with my other hand. He stopped sucking for a moment to sigh. The blast of warm breath around my cock almost did me in.

  I wound his ponytail around my hand. Gave it a light tug. This time I got a deep moan from him—a sound that went straight to my balls.

  I tugged harder. He scraped my dick with his fang.

  We went back and forth like that, punishing each other for the pain we caused. I’d pull his hair, and he’d use his teeth. He’d go back to sucking me, and I’d go back to petting him.

  He ran his tongue around the head of my cock, and stopped with it right on top of one of the swollen, tender spots where I’d been stapled. His tongue retreated, and a sharp tooth replaced it, digging into the injured flesh. I gripped his ponytail, shaking with the pain. Then his tongue brushed my slit—gentle, soothing—while his tooth continued to push into the sore spot under the head.

  My brain didn’t know what to make of the jumbled signals, and I tried to breathe but ended up laughing.

  Drix released me, calmly bobbing up and down my cock.

  I saw the other couple watching us, and I didn’t give a fuck.

  “You’re so good,” I whispered to Drix, wrapping his hair tighter around my hand. “So good, Drix.”

  “Hmm-mmm,” he replied, and the light buzz sent me over the edge. I came in his mouth, and he swallowed with my cock still deep in his throat.

  When I pulled out, he grinned up at me. “Yeah? Good?”

  I didn’t know what to say. My whole body felt weak.

  So I went to my knees in front of him. Cupped the back of his head and guided him forward until his face was inches from mine.

  I didn’t kiss him. I leaned my forehead against his, and smelled my cum on his breath and made light circles between his shoulder blades with my fingertips.

  He closed his eyes and tilted his head to brush his lips against mine. And we stayed like that for a long time, caught in a mutual surrender.

  Monday, I got an email from Cheryl with links to the profiles of four birth mothers who were willing to adopt to a single man.

  I almost opened them immediately.

  Thought about it.

  I texted my friends and asked if we could all meet at Dave and Gould’s once everyone was off work.

  We congregated in Gould’s room that evening, because he had a desktop with a huge monitor. And I took them through the profiles Cheryl had sent me.

  The first few minutes were strange, having them all gathered around while I looked. I couldn’t focus as well on the profiles because I was so focused on my friends’ reactions. But eventually, it became exciting and terrifying and fun all at once.

&n
bsp; “My God, this is worse than Petfinder,” Dave said as we read the profile of a baby girl seven months along whose mother had suffered brain damage during the pregnancy and wouldn’t be able to care for the child once she was born.

  Kamen sighed. “Yeah, Miles. I think you should adopt them all.”

  “Oh my God, this one.” Dave stopped on Zac, a five-year-old with an absolutely stunning smile. Cheryl had included a note to me in the email:

  Normally Beacon Center doesn’t place older children, but we’ve agreed to handle Zac’s adoption as a favor to an old friend who died with no other relatives. I realize you want to adopt a newborn, but just checking to see if you have any interest in an older child. Zac’s with a foster mother right now. Very sweet kid.

  “I thought you were getting a baby,” Kamen said.

  “Most likely.” I studied Zac’s pictures. He went to kindergarten in Oakdale. He loved picture books, especially Le Petit Prince, which he could read in French and English.

  I’d taken French in college, apparently desperate to make myself seem even more pretentious than I already was. I’d read Le Petit Prince for the first time then, and had been surprised that a picture book could move me so much. “But I’m open.”

  “I don’t know how you could choose,” Gould murmured.

  I didn’t answer. I’d stopped on the next profile. A baby boy. Five months along. He already had a name: James Aidan. I’d never really thought about how naming worked when an adoption was arranged prebirth.

  “You like that one?” Kamen leaned over my shoulder.

  “I do.”

  “Even though he’s not born yet?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll bet he’s going to be the most awesome baby ever,” Kamen said. “I’ll bet he’s a total ninja.”

  “Is that some term I don’t know, or . . .”

  “No, I mean I’ll bet he’ll grow up to be a ninja.”

  I scrolled through the birth mother’s information. “That is the dream.”

  “Hey, you can look at waiting families?” Dave pointed to the site’s sidebar.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a profile on there?”

  I plead the fifth.

  The Beacon Center’s website had always intimidated me because of the waiting families section. How many nights had I stayed up, clicking through the profiles and comparing myself to the other potential parents? Despite Cheryl’s reassurance that the Beacon Center was committed to working with nontraditional families, the waiting families were overwhelmingly straight. And white. And into skiing.

  Ted and Marissa and their dog, Porky, at the state park. Lisa and Bill at a ski lodge in Maine. Gary and Bev on a mission in South America. Taylor and Ben with the three children they’d already adopted, posing in front of Mount Rushmore, making the same serious faces as the presidents.

  And then there was me. No partner, no dog, no exotic locales.

  Just Miles.

  Dave took the mouse and started clicking. He scrolled through the Derek-and-Melissas and Cathy-and-Dans. “Wow. These people all look supernormal and friendly. Does everyone own a dog? Oh my god, this couple has a pool with a waterslide. I want to live with them.”

  Eventually he came to my profile.

  “Found it!”

  “You really don’t have to look at that,” I told them.

  But it was too late. They were all reading.

  “Aw,” Dave said. “You’ve been growing your business for three years and now you’re ready to start the family you’ve always wanted.”

  Kamen frowned. “What’s Masterpiece?”

  Dave patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, buddy. Not in your wheelhouse.”

  “This makes you seem like the best guy ever.” Kamen glanced over at me. “Everyone’s gonna want you to father their abandoned children.”

  They got to my pictures.

  Dave gasped. “Oh dear God.”

  I looked away, embarrassed. Forced myself to look back at the screen. “I know they’re not great.”

  “Miles . . .” Dave double-clicked on the thumbnail of me leaning faux-casually against my Toyota Corolla. Full-sized, it was even worse. “What is this, an ad for Toyota’s Grandparents’ Day Sales Event?” He moved to one of me in a navy cardigan behind the A2A counter, giving a wide-eyed, semi-Satanic smile.

  There came a chorus of verbalized cringes.

  “I don’t take good pictures,” I said defensively.

  “We’re gonna fix this,” Dave promised. “We’re gonna get you to pose with a dog.”

  “I don’t have a dog.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Everyone on here has animal pictures. We’ll find you a dog.”

  “Maybe kittens,” Gould suggested.

  “I mean, if we could find a foal . . .” Kamen said.

  Dave glanced at him. “You think foal over kittens?”

  “Yeah, ’cause kittens are common. We should put him with a baby horse so he’ll stand out.”

  Dave nodded. “D would approve of that.”

  Dave’s hard-ass partner had a bewildering soft spot for horses.

  I grabbed the mouse and X-ed out of the photo browser. “Can we just focus on what’s important right now? Obviously, some birth mothers like me even though I didn’t pose with a foal. So let’s talk about what child I’m going to adopt.”

  “You want James?” Gould asked.

  I kept thinking about Zac’s picture. That smile. But I’d been set on adopting a baby. I didn’t know how to deal with the issues an older kid in foster care might come with, and I wanted a kid who would imprint on me. Did that make me horrible?

  “Yeah,” I said. “I think I’ll ask Cheryl about James.”

  Kamen was on his phone beside me, typing.

  “What are you doing?” I asked him.

  “Downloading Photoshop and looking for foals.”

  Dave leaned over. “Let me see the foals.”

  This. This group was what my child was going to be exposed to.

  I watched Kamen and Dave hunch over the tiny screen. Shook my head and smiled in spite of myself.

  I supposed I’d just have to deal.

  I called Cheryl Tuesday morning to discuss James. I also mentioned that I was interested in Zac, but after talking about it for a while, we mutually decided I’d go with James as my first choice, since I’d been preparing for a newborn.

  Two days later, Cheryl called back to say that Britney, the birth mother, wanted a phone conference with me. So we arranged one for the following Tuesday, and I set about practicing my conversation with an imaginary Britney, who in my mind was polite, kind, a little lost. Devastated about giving up her child, but happy that he was going to a good home.

  As the days went by, I stopped thinking generically—my future son, the kid I adopt—and started thinking about James. What he’d look like. What foods he’d enjoy. Where he’d go to school. I shared James’s profile with my mother and sister, who were outlandishly excited. My mother asked again about the nursery, but I was too happy to be offended. I told her I’d send her some of my ideas.

  On Thursday, I got a message from Healthvana that Drix had shared his test results with me. He’d gotten tested two days ago. Totally clean. I spent the first three hours of my shift that morning thinking about his bare cock up my ass.

  A mother came into A2A with her two children, ages eight and seven. They were picking up shirts for the girl’s little league baseball team. I got the same flash of panic I did every time children came into the store—as though the whole world was watching my interactions with kids to determine whether I was good enough to be a father. I greeted both children, trying not to sound either too patronizing or too stuffy. The eight-year-old boy ignored me, running to a rack of clearance shirts and shifting through them at warp speed. Click, click, click went the hangers.

  The girl smiled at me and told me her baseball team got Hawaiian Punch after every game.

  “That’s coo
l.” I’d never even been able to pull off the word cool. “Do you like the red or the blue better?”

  She thought for a moment, swaying. Then she grinned slowly and said, “Red!”

  The mom smiled at me and held her daughter’s hand. “I’ve been campaigning for actual fruit juice, but . . .”

  “But who wants fruit juice when you could have Hawaiian Punch?” I said.

  God, what was I going to do if all my kid wanted to eat and drink was sugar? What if he went over to friends’ houses where the parents allowed unlimited Hawaiian Punch? Was I going to be one of those parents whose kid showed up at every birthday party and sleepover and school function with a note that said, I am only allowed one cookie and one glass of juice?

  I helped the mother carry the box of shirts to the car. She and the girl thanked me. The boy picked his nose and wiped it on his shirt.

  Maybe I should adopt a girl?

  I went back inside and put Jason up front for a while so I could escape to the stockroom and have a mild panic attack about parenthood. While I was breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, my phone buzzed.

  Drix.

  I answered, still breathing raggedly. “Hey.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “You sound winded.”

  “I’m in the stockroom. It’s hot back here.”

  We talked for a little bit about my day and his day. He seemed to sense I wasn’t quite right, but I couldn’t tell him what I was panicking about because he was my bucket-list buddy and nothing more.

  Then he brought up the oral indiscretions we’d engaged in at Riddle the other night, and suddenly my mind was firmly off parenthood.

  “That was . . . yeah,” I said. “That was a—a really good time.”

  “You know what I like?” he said.

  “What?”

  “When you get all stammery, and you’re, like, trying to hold on to your I’m-in-control persona, but it’s not quite working.”

  My throat was suddenly dry. “Oh?”

  “Yeah. It makes me want to just fluster you completely. Fuck you until you don’t know which way’s up. Until you can’t use words to try to protect yourself.” His voice had taken on this tone that was very low and soft and amused.