He pressed the damp washcloth, now marred with pinkish stains, into my hand. I stared at it while he pushed himself up off the sofa and strode for the door. “Think about that for a while before you go on the prowl again,” he said, gripping the knob. “Good night.”
I sat there for some time after he’d closed the door behind him, trying to wrangle my disappointment into something manageable. Then I growled in disgust at myself and went to dig some ointment out of my travel kit to keep my nose moist. I knew I should probably infuse to prevent another nosebleed, but if the prospect of unrestrained sex was off the table, doing my prophy was no longer imperative. It sounded like too much bother now, and too big a reminder of all the things that were complicated for me.
Instead, I threw the linens into a corner of the bathroom and went to my room.
Geoff
I hid out when Jace and his companions came inside and retreated into his room, but the walls weren’t soundproofed. I might not have been able to see what caused those groans and shouts, and the hard smack of skin against skin, but I could imagine well enough.
Sighing, I hauled out my laptop and earbuds, pulling up one of my preferred amateur porn sites and checking my bookmarks to see if my favorite poster had added any new videos. He hadn’t updated, so I selected one I’d already seen from his channel. I stripped off my T-shirt and pajama bottoms while the top (always hooded and anonymous for some reason) cuffed the bottom to the cross and pushed a fat dildo into his ass. Without my earbuds in, it was soundless, but I knew the bottom’s groan by heart.
Grabbing a prostate massager and lube out of my suitcase, I climbed onto the bed beside my laptop and put the earbuds in my ears as the top was warming up the bottom with a heavy flogger. God, I loved that sound, the meaty thud of the thick falls that could no doubt be felt in the deep muscles of his back. That literally could be deadly for me, but I bet it felt amazing. Rolling onto my side to face the screen, I squeezed some lube onto my fingertips and reached back, slipping them into my ass.
“Oh, fuck yeah . . .” I groaned in unison with the sub.
The top worked his way through a number of implements. Paddles and straps, tawses and cats, and even a cane, leaving welts in parallel stripes across the bottom’s lovely, round butt. I lubed the prostate massager and worked it in to the point where my body took over, drawing it inside until the crosspiece caught against my taint, offering pressure there as well.
In my ears, the bottom’s cries grew more and more pained, his back covered in the blotchy red of overheated skin broken up by deeper scarlet welts. Then, as I clenched and relaxed to help the massager do its work, and took my cock in hand, the top stepped back and grabbed another implement.
A completely unassuming implement. A thin, flexible rod with a short length of cord attached that was knotted at the end. I’d had to research to find out what it was called.
A dressage whip.
It barely made a sound cutting through the air, just the quietest whistle, even though it was obvious from the top’s grunt that he was throwing it with all his strength. It was almost silent on impact, but the bottom cried out. A purple stripe so dark it was nearly black appeared. As I watched, the subsequent stripes got more livid and the bottom’s screams escalated. Finally a line of crimson could be seen, a bead of blood seeping down the skin.
I groaned and began to pull on my cock with intent, the prostate massager pressing on me inside and out. The bottom had no tattoos, but he had permanent marks, oh yes. Shining white lines of healed tissue on his tan skin. I’d seen this couple do whippings before, draw blood before. I knew where those crisscrossed scars had come from. Single-tails, bullwhips, willow switches. But it was this one, with that harmless-looking whip, that kept me coming back.
It sliced into his skin neatly, in controlled cuts. Ruby droplets welled and slid down his shoulders, but they were contained.
The horrible irony was that this was something I could have—if I could ever find a partner to give it to me. A heavy flogger along my spine could paralyze or even kill me, but that little whip could be safe with a bit of first aid.
I closed my eyes, the bottom’s moans filling my ears, and pictured myself bound to that cross, thin trickles of blood working their way down my skin. I could only imagine how it must hurt. Not the deep agony of joint pain, which I was intimately familiar with, but something else entirely. A pain freely chosen. I envisioned my own skin marked with the scars left by a man who spoke the language of passion not only with kisses and caresses, but with lashes and torment. The hooded top was replaced by a broad-shouldered, muscular blond who etched his signature into my flesh with a few inches of knotted cord.
The bottom’s cries sharpened and accelerated. I knew the lashes were coming hard and fast across his shoulders, the whistling of that thin whip nearly constant. My orgasm built, pushed to the crisis point by the smooth toy within me, by the pressure of the handle against my perineum, by my own hand tugging it up from my balls along my cock, until I cried out, and it burst free, splattering my torso to my shoulders. In my ears, the cries receded to whimpers, the top’s voice muffled through the mask but still tender as he soothed his sub. Next he’d let the bottom down and sponge off the blood before covering the stripes in antiseptic ointment. He’d turn the camera off as he took his sub in his arms, murmuring more comfort and devotion.
I lay there panting for a long moment, still frustrated and unfulfilled despite getting off. Porn was a flimsy substitute for what I really wanted. I sighed and cleaned myself up and put away my toy and computer before crawling into bed. I stared at the ceiling and listened to the party going on in Jace’s room, my mind pacing back and forth over a well-worn path, until I finally managed to sleep.
The next day was unseasonably warm for early June. Jace and I both dragged ourselves out of bed late, though for very different reasons. Jace looked far too satisfied with himself, at least until he saw the bloody linens on the bathroom floor.
“Hey, you okay?” he asked when he’d emerged from the shower.
“Everything except my ego.” I offered him a wry smile, pouring two cups of coffee. “Worst timing for a nosebleed ever.”
“Oh, man, seriously? Right while you were getting busy?”
“God no! That really would be the worst timing. No, we never got to that point. The mood was already sort of ruined.”
Jace’s forehead creased. “He was that put off by a nosebleed?”
“No. I was.” I heard the clipped, abrupt sound of my own words, knew I was starting to get—what had Robin called it?—prickly, and looked away, hiding behind my cup of coffee.
“So, wait. Let me read between the lines. You had a guy here and you sent him packing because you were embarrassed?”
“Not exactly, no.” I wasn’t about to tell Jace that the evening had ended with Robin putting me in my place for holding back critical information about my hemophilia. According to Robin, I didn’t get it, so Jace certainly wouldn’t. All he’d know was that my hang-ups over being a bleeder had lost me an opportunity to start living my life the way I’d promised I was going to, and I really didn’t need the I told you so.
When I looked back, Jace was still staring askance at me.
“Forget about it.” I set my coffee aside, then rubbed my forehead. “It was stupid.”
Jace’s lips tightened for a moment. Then he blew out a breath. “Well, I thought I’d go out to take some photo references of the beaches and dunes. Want to go with? You can find someone else to get laid by.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll hang out by the pool. This place is still wall-to-wall leathermen.” I grinned, but Jace’s look said he wasn’t buying it. I was staying behind because I was moody, and he knew it. Shrugging, he left, his camera bag over his shoulder. With my nostrils conscientiously lubed with petroleum jelly, I spent the afternoon under an umbrella beside the pool, sketch pad in hand. I wanted to have a much bigger catalog of designs to offer when I opened my own studio. I did
n’t want to rely on the ones Rogier had already used on A-list celebs, taking credit for my work while he stuck me with the D-listers and porn stars.
By the time dinner was over and I’d turned down Jace’s invitation to check out a bar in Saugatuck, I had to admit that I’d gone beyond moody and progressed to sulking. The arousal of last night, followed by the spectacularly unsexy resolution, had hit all my buttons.
We lived in a world where the more physically able you were, the more desirable you were. The cult of masculinity reigns supreme. A lifetime of finding myself sidelined in ways large and small had done a number on my self-esteem, and I was tired of it. My twenties had almost completely passed me by. I wanted more, if only in this one realm. I wanted everything Robin had claimed he had to offer.
God, did I want it.
But aside from the glaring self-image issues, there were the actual problems I faced as a result of my hemophilia. Not just injury. Joint pain and depression could take their toll on sex drive and sexual performance. My sex drive seemed to be doing okay, but my performance hadn’t been put to the test all that much, aside from acquiring some champion cocksucking skills at glory holes.
I was still spinning these thoughts around in my head, endlessly fixated on a puzzle with no apparent answers, as night fell outside. I put away my sketch pad and lay on the sofa, restless and apathetic. Finally the reckless streak that occasionally popped up to say “fuck this shit” took the reins. I grabbed a light jacket and slammed out of the cottage, striding across the resort grounds toward some woods Jace had told me about the night before.
Robin
I spent the rest of the night after the Buns & Baskets party trying to convince myself that I’d done the right thing by walking away from Geoff. As captivated as I was by his gorgeous body art and the hunger in his eyes and the dry wit that came out even in his anger, it was better this way.
It wasn’t that the hemophilia was a huge stumbling block for me; every sub has boundaries and limits. Sure, usually they’re a matter of comfort or psychological health, but I wasn’t going to dismiss him just because his were the product of a disability. I was awake long into that night after walking out on him, mulling the countless ways I could give him what he was looking for without affecting his deep tissues or joints. In fact, it sounded like a pretty fun challenge.
So there it was. If my reaction when I saw him was any indication, I obviously hadn’t left the leather scene behind, but I’d damn sure left behind the evasions of a sub who didn’t want to come clean. And I’d left behind my own arrogance that I couldn’t possibly miss problems I should have spotted in my sub if I were as good a top as I liked to think I was. The last thing I needed was to hook up with a bottom with massive communication issues and not the slightest clue about risk-aware consensual kink. Emphasis on aware.
I wasn’t about to play with another sub I couldn’t trust. I’d more than learned my lesson there. It didn’t matter how badly I was itching to give Geoff a taste of what he was so blatantly craving.
By morning, the altruist in me had taken over. That particular inner voice was chiding me for missing a golden opportunity to teach Geoff how to play safely. He was going to get himself seriously hurt if he kept fumbling around cluelessly. He needed a mentor, and to get involved with the leather community.
Had he ever been to a munch, or any gathering of kinksters? Done any research? Or was he acting on an uninformed instinct to seek out the things he saw in porn? He seemed to be under the impression that he needed pure brute force to get what he wanted. While I certainly wasn’t opposed to delivering those things, there were also ways to meet his needs without jeopardizing his well-being.
That voice got louder throughout the day as I met with my realtor and teleconferenced with my parents regarding when I would take possession of their remaining inventory. By evening, the altruistic inner voice (urged on by the frustrated, wanna-give-him-his-first-scene inner voice) had drowned out the ambivalent inner voice and emerged the victor in my psychological tug-o’-war.
No way in hell was I gonna analyze whether having so many inner voices was healthy.
I went back to the Dunes that night on a mission to find Geoff and sit him down for an earnest conversation. If his disability came with the sort of limitations he said it did, it would be reprehensible of me not to help him, right?
Right.
There was no answer at the door to his cottage, which I should have expected. He was a fledgling sub in a resort full of leathermen. That should have been a relief; the chances of him running into a careless or clueless top here on this particular weekend were no doubt considerably lower than if he were randomly trolling for a hookup in clubs. Chances were good that if he found someone to play with, he’d be in skilled hands.
Skilled hands that, nonetheless, he might not inform about his physical condition and its potential pitfalls. Not to mention that even here, the leather community wasn’t immune to predators who thought safewords and negotiation were a joke.
Fuck.
I considered heading to the club, which was no doubt packed by this time of night, but I remembered how bored Geoff had been with the scene the night before. No, I was sure he was cruising, but not there.
Where, then?
Rumor had it the basement level of the hotel complex was, for all intents and purposes, a bathhouse, though the website referred to these low-budget rooms as “dorm-style.” But it was apparent that Geoff and his friend hadn’t done much research before booking their vacation here, so Geoff might not know to check that out. The more obvious cruising spot would be the woods behind the resort.
Only the well-trodden footpaths through the trees made it at all safe to navigate at night. There was barely enough moonlight to see where I was going. Occasionally I passed other men on the prowl. I’m sure they thought I was checking them out when I gave them the once-over to see if they were Geoff. Certainly I got some welcoming smiles, but I shook my head and continued on my way.
Not far off the trails, I occasionally heard gasps, sighs, moans, and, despite the chill in the June air, the slick, wet sound of kissing and sucking, the slap of flesh on flesh. I got hard in my jeans, which really wasn’t a good thing considering I was supposed to be running an intervention here. All I could think of was Geoff making those noises, Geoff melting against me the way he had in the club, and it was fucking distracting me from my purpose.
I heard the crunch of gravel ahead of me, and I knew even before he came into view that it was him. I felt his presence like a pulse through my body, and oh, fuck, that was so not a good thing. But it was him, despite the fact that he wore glasses today and wasn’t dressed for clubbing. That hunger in his eyes was still there, burning hotter than ever. Everything inside me throbbed with the urge to give him what he had to have. I’d never exactly been a service top, but his need spoke to me on a whole other level.
I didn’t just want to be sure that, whoever he played with, he knew how to do so safely.
I wanted to be the one to give him what he needed.
God, how I wanted that.
Something flickered in his eyes. Then he swallowed visibly, grabbed my wrist, and tugged me off the path.
Right. Okay. Time to stop pretending I just wanted to talk to him. Time to deal with the reality that, despite last night’s epic failure, I still fucking wanted him.
As soon as we were out of sight of the trail, I backed him against a tree trunk—stopping short of slamming him into it, enough to give him the feel of force without hurting him—and picked up where we’d been interrupted the night before.
There was no beer on his breath this time, and though I missed the taste and smell of it, this was better. His fingers scrabbled over my shoulders and grappled with the back of my jacket while I set about filling every square millimeter of his mouth with my tongue and breath. No biting? Fine. I nipped at his lips firmly enough to toe that line, teasing him with danger, with the possibility that I could bite. I could feel th
e struggle in his body as he debated with himself whether to slow me down and remind me of the limits, or to throw caution to the wind and accept whatever consequences or injuries might arise if I overstepped the bounds.
He didn’t realize there was a third option, something between overcautiousness and willful recklessness. He didn’t realize he could trust me to safely take him right up to the limit and then bring him back.
But he would. I’d show him.
He hooked one of his long legs around me, his knee riding my hip as he ground on my thigh. “Jesus. Oh Jesus!” he gasped, tearing his mouth away from mine when I wedged a hand between our bodies to cup his erection firmly. I tangled my other hand in his hair, keeping his awareness on the tug of my fingers in his waves instead of on the fact that I was also cushioning his head while I sucked at his lips.
I remained mindful of all his cautions from the night before, but I pushed at each of them, deliberately giving him the sense that I could overstep the boundary at any time. I felt him yield the struggle and resign himself to the fact that there might be a price to pay for this indulgence. That wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t want him to just give in to the momentum, telling himself it didn’t matter if I injured him so long as he got what he needed.
I wanted him to give himself over to me, to trust that he didn’t have to police me, that I could deliver what he needed without harming him in the process. It was a totally different thing, and I knew he didn’t get it. Not yet.
He smelled good. I wanted his scent covering me, saturating my clothes, my hair, my very skin. I accidentally knocked his glasses askew, then fumbled to take them off and stuff them in one of the pockets of my jacket, where they had less chance of being damaged. I gripped his ass, first through his jeans, then wedged inside to feel the soft, downy hairs on his narrow backside. My finger slid into his crack. I found that wrinkled skin and knotted muscle and pushed at it. Not too firmly. I just wanted him to feel the pressure, the fear that I might try to force my way inside. I kept it there to taunt him with the uncertainty.
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