The Deeper He Hurts

by Lynda Aicher

  He gripped the edge of the counter, mind racing with his heart. He was in too deep and had no idea how to get out.

  “Asher?” Sawyer called, concern layered in his voice. “Did you get lost?”

  How long had he been in here? He swallowed. “No.” Did that sound like he was okay? He splashed a handful of cold water on his face, dried it, and slid his glasses back on. He was fine. He had to be. Sawyer would be gone so fast if he had any clue of Ash’s doubts or how deeply his desire ran to have more from him. Everything with him.

  He folded the hand towel and placed it back on the rail. A deep breath. Another.

  The scene he’d planned stretched far into edge play. He’d designed it to pick at the triggers he’d observed in Sawyer. But it also contained a statement. Actually screamed his intent, if Sawyer chose to see it.

  The risk of so many things going wrong only heightened the draw.

  He focused on that. On what Sawyer would give. On the torment he’d endure and the wonder of watching it play out. His pulse slowed as he sunk into the proper headspace. He could let his sadist free with Sawyer and not worry about judgment.

  Unless he was judging himself. On that front he failed miserably. More so with each day that he hid behind his own secrets.

  Chapter 22

  Sawyer studied Asher as he strode from the bathroom, expression flat. What had Sawyer missed? Or more likely, what was he deliberately not acknowledging to himself?

  Asher ran his hand over Sawyer’s chest when he was close enough, fingers plucking at his nipple. All emotion had been wiped from his expression, in a bland imitation of the Doms who tried too hard to be dominant.

  Ash continued to pluck at his nipples, both hands joining in the dual stimulation that prickled over his chest and spread south to his dick. Sawyer tried to figure out his game, eyes narrowing. Nipple play? Clamps and electrical stimulation? The entire ball-shaving event had been executed with a clinical precision. Definitely not foreplay or even a mind fuck with the sharp edge of the razor on his nuts.

  “Tell me to stop and I will.” The words came out deadly serious. Asher stared at him, intent hard in his eyes, expression equally stony. The distance was disarming in itself. Asher didn’t play that way. He’d always been right there, too close, absorbing everything while taking more.

  “Okay.” He stated his understanding, even though Asher had hammered it in every time they’d played.

  The grip on his dick made him inhale, but the touch was gentle, the strokes nice. He groaned, responding to the stimulation with a speed that came from wanting more of it. Pleasure shot through his groin and filled him with the longing that only Asher evoked.

  His erection hardened under Asher’s knowing touch. He found every sensitive spot, paced his glides and held his grip in that way guaranteed to get Sawyer off, using all the tricks he’d learned over the last weeks of their fucking each other blind.

  When had the lines crossed so badly, smoothly?

  Asher closed his eyes, hand stilling. Sawyer tried to sway into the touch, but the binds wouldn’t give. Not even an inch. The hip and thigh straps dug into his skin when he pressed forward, so he let his head fall until his temple rested against Asher’s. He breathed in his spicy scent, absorbed the closeness while he was safely contained, limited in what he could get.

  He floated in the gentle haze of lust and pleasure that slid in between the cracks around his heart. He couldn’t want this, yet he did.

  Asher’s breath hitched, hand convulsing before he stepped away. The emptiness swept in to slap at Sawyer.

  The coldness had returned, wedged between them like a block of ice when he was on fire. He clenched his teeth as Asher cinched a ring around the base of his dick and balls, his nuts clamped tightly beneath his erection. The pressure throbbed near the leather strap, his hard dick straining before him.

  Cock torture, then. With the wand.

  Anticipation danced with the adrenaline flooding his system. The imagined pain lured him into that heady state of expectancy and resistance. He shouldn’t want this—any of it. But knowing he could, that he’d get to feel before he went numb was his draw. He could conquer the physical pain. Destroy it and revel in it, before reality slipped back in.

  Asher’s movements were precise, no taunting or implied threats layered into his preparation. He bound the violet wand probe to Sawyer’s leg with an Ace bandage, the body attachment snug against his skin. He was going to be the conduit for the electricity produced by the wand, the voltage charging through him to ignite wherever Asher touched him, shocking him from the inside. The intensity and thus the pain would depend on the width of the metal object Asher held. The smaller the tip, the more concentrated and forceful the jolt would be.

  His groan rippled through his chest, want lacing in.

  Asher didn’t respond to him, and his distance dug away at Sawyer. What was his deal? Why the shift? What was his angle?

  He spun through the possibilities while simultaneously berating himself for wondering at all. There was no point in chasing thoughts, when he usually sank into the quiet before the pain hit.

  He forced his breaths to slow, closed his eyes, and rested his head against the board. He counted his heartbeats. The roll of Asher’s stool and subsequent adjustment of the seat clicked into his brain.

  Then the violet wand was turned on, the low hum filling the air and sensitizing his skin from memory alone. He wet his lips, swallowed, and remembered to breathe when the humming intensified as Asher increased the voltage level to what sounded like its highest setting.

  His muscles were tensed against the expected zap. He could open his eyes, watch what Asher intended, but the not knowing was part of the fun. The state of his cock pretty much clued him in to where the focus would be. It was the how and the with what that enticed his craving.

  The first shock nailed him near the base of his shaft. He flinched, straining at the bands as his muscles contracted against the zap of electricity that shot through his balls. It was gone a moment later, and he sagged in the bindings. The first hit was always the hardest for him, no matter what or where it was.

  “Stop works tonight.” Asher restated yet again. Another warning on the level of pain to come.

  Asher didn’t wait for a response. The sharp shock sliced over Sawyer’s skin, the low popping of sparks igniting the air. The static electricity–type bite was magnified by the consistent prolonged hit. Amplified by the concentrated focal point.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. A thin line sliced over his dick and wedged deep into this groin. He clenched his teeth, hands fisting, but didn’t fight the contact. The pinpoint intensity, reinforced by the actual contact of the tool, was like an ice pick digging a line in his skin. Or a knife.

  Then it was gone. His breath gushed out in a harsh rasp, his muscles going slack. Pain flooded his senses, and he pried his eyes open to stare down at the thin red line burned into his dick by the tiny tip of the dental pick in Asher’s hand. He was stunned to realize the mark was only a half-inch long, when it felt like his dick had been severed off.

  The scent hit him with his next inhalation. Bile rose up his throat so fast it almost spewed out before he choked it back. The smell of scorched flesh stuck in his nose and clawed into his mind. It wasn’t new to him, and he should’ve expected it. But he hadn’t, and the impact was worse than the physical pain.

  Memories screamed back. Fire, flames, heat, smoke—they danced before him until they merged with his own skin, sizzling under the hot knife he’d pressed into his own thigh as he’d watched it with a detached fascination, the agony blazing into his soul.

  No!

  He breathed through the panic, eyes glued to the metal tool held inches above his dick. The leather cock ring kept his erection in place when it wanted nothing more than to shrink up and hide.

  Asher met his gaze, expression blank. He waited a beat, then returned his attention to his task. He lowered the tool, the sharp point making another pass down the li
ne that was already there. The agony dug deeper this time, ripping into his groin to sever everything in its path. His grunt ripped free, muscles so tense they ached. Sparks hissed and danced in his ears with every small touch of the pick, the electrical discharge cracking in the air.

  His stomach rolled with the sick swim of nausea, the pain so intense and sinking so deeply he battled to hold it in. It helped to watch, though, to see the blisters forming beneath the tool as the current burned his skin. His strange fascination was another bizarre part of his kink. His enjoyment factor hiked up a level whenever he got to see the pain being inflicted on him. At the same time, his brain detached from it while somehow absorbing it.

  His world zeroed down to the raging pain that spread to encompass his entire body and the man inflicting each hit, one tiny touch at a time. He was coated in sweat by the time he processed that the letter A was being branded into his skin. On his dick.

  He blinked, breaths heaving during a pause. A. The letter penetrated his haze to connect it with Asher. He swallowed, hunted for saliva.

  “A,” he rasped, barely hearing himself over the buzzing of the wand.

  Asher sat up, searched him from head to toe before standing. “Yes?” He was so close, but he couldn’t touch Sawyer without shocking him. Not unless he turned the wand off.

  “A,” he said again. “Asher.”

  “Yes.”

  The single-word statement confirmed what he was trying to process. Asher was branding his name onto Sawyer’s dick.

  Asher’s eyes narrowed, that calculating wrinkle appearing between his brows. Sawyer became captivated. What was he thinking? It was easier to wonder about that than to acknowledge the demons circling closer.

  “Are you okay?”

  He almost laughed at that. He would’ve if he had it in him. The endorphins were sucking at his reasoning. The happy juice took his pain from him when he wanted to wallow in it. Die in it like his family had.

  Voicing any of that would stop the pain, though. Asher would run so fast from him—and he should—if he knew how close Sawyer was to losing himself in the pain forever.

  But then, maybe he already did.

  “Yes,” he said, breathing into the fire consuming him from the inside. “Don’t stop.” Until he was nothing but cinder and ash. Until the anguish buried his guilt and smothered what was left of his will.

  Then maybe he’d finally be free.

  Chapter 23

  The curve of the r bubbled up beneath the tip of the pick, the red line changing as the blister formed to create the last letter. Ash lifted the tool away, the distinct sparking silencing.

  Asher.

  His name was branded onto Sawyer’s dick.

  Possession spread from the very heart of Asher and bled into his amazement. Sawyer’s sounds had peaked and ebbed during the hour-long process until they’d eventually dwindled into incoherent grunts and moans. His stark endurance fascinated Asher and he marveled at Sawyer’s ability to withstand so much pain without a single protest.

  The strength it took to handle that level of torture with zero resistance was beyond the comprehension of most people. The human mind wasn’t built to sustain prolonged high levels of pain, which was why torture was so effective at making most people talk. Yet Sawyer had held strong through the entire slow process of second-degree burns being etched on the sensitive skin of his penis, a feat he’d never witnessed before, even from the most devout pain sluts.

  He turned the wand off, quiet hitting the room to leave only Sawyer’s low breaths. The burnt-flesh scent had assimilated with the bittersweet aroma of Sawyer’s fear and excitement to create an enticing fragrance of pain. He scanned up his length, noting the sag in his muscles, along with the slight indents from the bands. They were the only thing holding him up now. His head hung forward, damp hair clinging to his cheeks. Mouth parted, his lips a dark red that beckoned to be kissed.

  Sawyer was gorgeous. Every tormented, valiant inch of him called to Ash in ways he couldn’t describe.

  “Sawyer,” he murmured, standing. He cupped his face and lifted his head so he could see into his stunning golden eyes when they fluttered open. It took a moment before they came into focus. His pupils had shoved most of the color back to a thin circle of amber. His pulse beat a steady rhythm on his neck, his breaths measured. “You with me?”

  The corner of his mouth lifted in a lazy attempt at a smirk, eyelids closing in a slow descent. Ash would take that as a “Yes.” Sawyer was floating deep in the endorphin-induced high. That in itself said something about the intensity of the branding—it was the first time he’d ever seen him in this state.

  There were many who sought the pain for this high, but not Sawyer.

  He stroked his thumb over the stubble on his cheek, brushed his hair back, the damp ends slicking through his fingers. His lips were soft and slightly chapped when he kissed them. The light touch fluttered into his heart and unfurled the love he’d failed to contain. It eased through him on a mellow note of acceptance. There was nothing to be done about it now.

  Loving Sawyer was the last thing he’d expected and the one thing he wanted, with a desperation that clawed at his chest. The fear was worse, though. The worry over Sawyer’s safety and state of mind ate at him. How long could he go on living in the pain instead of life?

  The ache in his throat grew, and he tried to swallow it down. A slow breath, another gentle swipe through Sawyer’s hair before he stepped back. Sawyer’s head rolled to the side, a little smile holding on his mouth.

  Ash cleared his throat, eyes misting when he studied Sawyer’s dick. Would Sawyer understand the significance? He hadn’t protested—when Ash had kind of hoped he would. But now, seeing the finished product, he didn’t regret doing it.

  He stretched his back, rolled his shoulder, shook out the ache in his arm, and nudged his glasses up yet again. Perspiration soaked the back of his shirt, but he still had work to do, a responsibility he took as seriously as the scene itself.

  A whimper escaped from Sawyer when Ash dabbed a sterile cloth on the blistered lines forming his name. He tried to be careful now. The point wasn’t to hurt but to ensure the wound didn’t get infected.

  He released the cock ring next. Sawyer’s erection was a deep ruby red and showed off the burns beautifully. Another soft moan tumbled over Ash’s head to warm him in that odd way he never truly understood.

  The skin contracted as Sawyer’s dick softened, the marks bunching up a bit, but his name was still clearly visible. Sawyer was a shower more than a grower.

  “I’m going to remove the straps now,” he said as he skimmed his palms down Sawyer’s thighs. He paused to admire the scars that bisected and defined them, each of them jumping out to whisper their secrets. But what were their truths? Had they healed the wounds within him, or added to them?

  Would he ever know?

  Dashing the questions aside, he worked his way up from Sawyer’s ankles, the straps falling away to dangle from the board. His arms dropped to his side when they were freed, and Ash took the time to massage each one from wrist to shoulder.

  “Are you ready for the last ones?” The chest and hip straps still held him up. Sawyer nodded. “My stool is to your right.” He’d locked the wheels to keep it from rolling. Sawyer’s legs trembled under his full weight when he undid the last strap, but he managed to lower himself to the seat with Ash’s help.

  “Here.” He placed an open bottle of orange juice in his hand. “Drink this.”

  Sawyer’s eyes stayed closed, but he drank down the entire bottle in a few long gulps. Ash switched it out for a bottle of water, then placed a towel in his other hand.

  “Let me know when you’re ready to move.” He stayed by his side, time passing in the gentle comfort of the intimate bond they shared.

  The adrenaline was fading from his own system, a tiredness dragging on his shoulders and slowing his mind. His stomach cramped when he thought too far ahead, so he tried not to think. He laid a hand on
Sawyer’s head, and Sawyer leaned into his hip. The simple gesture was a huge step beyond the guy who’d resisted such closeness just a couple of months ago.

  They made the trek up two flights of stairs to his bedroom when Sawyer was ready. Braced together, they took each step in unison, sides glued together, arms wound around the other. Ash had pulled the bedding back earlier, and Sawyer lay down on the cool sheets with a soft sigh.

  A warm breeze blew in through the open windows, and he shut the door to keep the air-conditioned air out of the room. He didn’t want Sawyer to get chilled when the buzz wore off. The crash could be hard, and this was the first time he’d seen him sink this deeply into subspace. He had no idea how Sawyer was going to react when the endorphin-adrenaline cocktail wore off.

  Ash stripped down to his underwear and crawled onto the bed next to Sawyer. Water, sports drinks, light snacks, and more medical supplies were stacked on the nightstands. He set his glasses on the closest one, then rolled over to rest his head on Sawyer’s shoulder. He needed to be close now. Needed to reassure himself that Sawyer was okay. That they were good.

  That maybe this wasn’t going to end in a few days.

  The ache in his chest grew deeper, and he shut down that line of thought. It wouldn’t help right now. This, though, this gentle comfort might.

  He released a slow breath, wove his leg between Sawyer’s and tried to just be. The contact soothed him in ways he couldn’t explain. Sawyer’s heat spread into him, teased his longing while filling the emptiness he’d neglected to see until Sawyer exposed it. He mapped the landscape of Sawyer’s chest into his mind, the firm pecs, taut abs, and assorted small scars locked into his memory.

  Sawyer’s arm came around his shoulders, tugged him closer. He exhaled, every wish for this to last, for Sawyer to stay, rushing free.

  The sky had darkened while they’d been downstairs, and once again the room was bathed in varying shades of gray and pale blue. The sun had set, the last reflection of its light fading over the clouds. Without his glasses, the distant shapes were indistinct, but he appreciated the soft effects.