Lords of Pain

by Angel Lawson

His breathing is ragged. “Relax. Breathe.”

  But my hands just want to push him back. “God, it’s too much—too big.”

  “You can take it,” he says, bending to rumble into my ear, “but you need to let me in.” He punctuates this by pulling his hips back, dragging his cock away, only to push it back inside. My body seizes around him and he groans in a way that seems more frustrated than anything. “You’re so goddamn stubborn, would you just—” He shifts his weight to one arm, reaching down to press two fingers into my clit.

  Oh.

  Fuck.

  I embrace the instinct to raise my hips into the touch. Anything to chase that feeling. Anything to make this better. He thrusts again, but it hurts less now, tempered by the point of pressure that’s making my blood thrum.

  His groan is different now, coarse and raw. “That’s right. Let me make it good for you.” He cups his hand around the top of my head, using a measured twist of his hips to sink another thick inch of his cock inside. He pauses at the sound I make, breathing hard into my temple. I can feel from the tremble in his arms how much it’s costing him to stay still—to restrain himself—until my legs go lax again.

  I give an experimental, curious shift of my hips, watching Killian’s jaw go sharp-edged in response. It starts feeling less like being torn open and more like a satisfying sense of being full. It’s the kind of feeling that makes my chest swoop, like maybe I’m imploding a bit against the flutter of Killian’s fingers.

  It’s not terrible.

  It’s really not terrible.

  He eases back before his hips curl forward in a calculated, testing way. This careful slowness wasn’t what I was expecting from sex with Killian, and I find myself bracing for the worst, waiting, anticipating.

  It never comes.

  He’s not even touching my clit anymore, but it doesn’t feel any less good. Every time our bodies meet, I’m filled with the urge to push back against him. I don’t bother fighting it anymore.

  “That’s it,” he mutters, voice tight with a control that sounds shaky. “So good. Fuck, you’re taking it so good.” He watches, eyebrows knitted together. There’s the long, slick, tugging sensation of him retreating, and then the controlled, gliding, pushing sensation of him returning. I turn my head away because it’s too intense, too confusing, too tangled to look him in the eye as he rocks into my body, commanding it to rock back. But now I’m face to face with this girl on the inside of his bicep. A tattoo. Her hair is long, floating about his muscle in elegant tendrils, a tall, black diamond shape painted over each eye like makeup. Who is she? Is she someone Killian’s fucked like this?

  “Look at me,” he says, grabbing my chin and wrenching me back. His eyes are heavy but bright, full of something that I’d call passion on anyone else. Roughly, he demands, “Look at me while I’m fucking you.”

  The kiss is bruising and takes me by surprise. I whimper against his lips and he rumbles back, reaching down to cup my breast in his wide palm. His hips meet mine in a hard thrust, punching a sharp gasp from my lungs. Killian takes advantage of my parted mouth, licking inside.

  I think maybe I can taste myself on him, and I’m so distracted by the electrifying drag of his cock that it doesn’t even occur to me to not kiss him back. His kisses are possessive and urgent, and it’s just like I’d told the girls. He kisses like he wants to claw his way inside.

  Except he’s already there.

  His movements grow more pointed—hips meeting mine in gradually harder thrusts. It hits me just the right way, the gift of friction yanking a needy moan from my throat. He swallows it down and uses it, finds out just the right pressure and push, until I’m the one shaking.

  A part of me doesn’t want it, this building climb to a precipice that Killian has no right leading me to. It’d be better to fight against it, to feel nothing, to walk away from this knowing that nothing about it was good or soft or worth ever doing again.

  The reality is much more complicated. Because Killian is kissing me, and there’s a frightening hunger to it, but there’s also a reverence, like he’s savoring every push inside me and holding it greedily close. This doesn’t feel like anger or the cutting brag of a victory.

  It feels like he’s making love to me.

  My orgasm is sharp and deeper than I’m used to. I thrash my head to the side, not bothering to stifle my cry.

  He grabs my hip, yanking me closer as he grunts. I scramble for purchase, digging my fingers into his shoulders, and he pants against my cheek. “Yeah,” he breathes through clenched teeth. “Harder. Make it hurt.”

  It’s an easy request to fulfill.

  He hisses, eyes fluttering closed as my fingernails dig divots into his flesh. I get a look at him over his shoulder, at the way he’s fucking into me, hips pumping forward and back, and the whole thing is shockingly obscene. His muscles shift and ripple beneath his skin, and for a moment, I’m lost in the thought of all the raw, physical power being used to push this one part of him inside of me.

  He goes stiff, driving himself deep and hard, and then he growls. I know he’s coming because I can feel it, the burning rush of his spunk as it fills me.

  He doesn’t linger for very long, breathing hard and damp into my skin before rolling off of me. The tug of his softening cock being pulled from my body makes me wince, but then I’m able to close my knees.

  Even though he’s gone, I can still feel him inside of me.

  He mutters a curse, drawing my attention. He’s holding his spent cock. I can tell from the way he lunges for his shirt that he’s trying to wipe it clean before I see the blood.

  “I don’t care,” I say, moving my gaze to the ceiling.

  “Most girls bleed,” he’s saying, and there’s an uncalled-for thread of defensiveness there, as if he’s worried I’ll think he’s torn me up unnecessarily. “It’s normal.”

  “I don’t care,” I say again, looking him in the eye to make sure he knows it. When it comes to Killian, there’s a lot I don’t care about.

  From the look on his face, I think he can see it.

  32

  Story

  * * *

  Killian falls asleep before I even have a chance to climb off the bed. I do it now, careful not to wake him. I feel like I’m trapped inside a lion’s den, desperate to break free. I think of Tristian, who’s waiting for me somewhere. I think of Rath, who’s probably still upset with me. Mostly, I think of anything but the semen running down my thigh.

  There’s a spot on the bed where I was laying, stained with blood and Killian’s come. I stare at it for a long, tense moment, wishing I could rip the sheets from underneath his sleeping body, and just throw them away.

  I settle for pulling on my clothes instead, pausing when he lets out a muffled snore. I wait, not wanting to face him again, staring at the computer screen, and bide my time. As the playlist cycles through, I think of the last time I opened it, recalling the neat little folders. There was one for the other Lady Applicants. For LDZ. For the South Side. But that’s not what rings in my head like a faint bell.

  That night after Killian punished me in front of the frat, when he and the guys were fighting on the basketball court, he’d said something about this being a game. He was angry. I was traumatized, but now, with my mind numb, I remember where I’d seen it—here, on Killian’s laptop.

  Cutting my eyes to the figure on the bed, I slowly approach the computer, still unlocked. Finding the folder again is easy, GAME POINTS is in all caps.

  It’s a spreadsheet.

  A spreadsheet with scores.

  Oral (give) - 5pts

  Oral (rec’v) - 10pts

  Exhibition (public) - x5

  Exhibition (home) - x2

  Fingering - 4

  Handjob - 7

  Spoken Consent - x2

  Spoken Request - x3

  The list goes on and on. It looks like some kind of twisted sex game. It’s finely detailed to the point of categorization. There are nine variations
of hand use, and almost twenty variations of oral.

  On the next tab, I find a score sheet.

  Beside each score is a date, a description, and a link.

  T - 8/30 - 25pts - Fingered Lady in Library

  R - 9/6 - 76pts - Lady asked to blow me

  K - 9/3 - 36pts - Fucked the Lady’s tits

  My heartbeat feels like a jet engine in my ears. I click a link without thinking, not knowing what to expect. What appears is a video of Rath’s bedroom. He’s lounging out on the bed and that’s me on the couch, looking uncomfortable.

  I press my palms to my cheeks, shakily offering, “I could…suck you.”

  He raises a slow eyebrow. “You expect me to believe you want to give me head?”

  Grimacing, I look away, embarrassed. “I don’t…not want to. You’re cute and everything, and who knows. If I’m not being forced to do it, maybe it’ll be different. Maybe I’ll like it.”

  There’s a smirk on his face, but it’s gone in a flash when I look his way. “You want to suck my dick?”

  I give a single, uncertain nod.

  He doesn’t look impressed. “Begrudging nods aren’t really the vibe my dick’s going for. Thanks anyway.”

  “Dimitri. I want to…suck you off.” At his blank stare, I elaborate, “I don’t know if I’ll be very good at it, so you might have to be patient. But I mean it. I do. Want to. Especially if you think it will help and technically, I am the one that put that no-sex rule in the contract.”

  He drags his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes straying back down to my chest. “Alright,” he decides. “If you want to.”

  The whole thing is there, and I don’t even care that the audio is coming over the speakers in the room. I watch, eyes glued to the screen as I take Dimitri into my mouth. Minutes later, his head tips back, eyes meeting the camera.

  And he fucking smiles.

  I hastily click out of it, frantically clicking through the others. There are three more with Dimitri, even if the mornings I woke up in his bed aren’t included.

  Not yet.

  There’s some with Tristian, and then the time with Killian in the hallway. The one that stabs into my chest the most isn’t even attached to any points on the spreadsheet. It’s just labeled ‘Den – Talking Some Sense Into Killer’.

  “I’m seven points behind. I could dust your ass in a single lunch.” Tristian rolls his eyes, but adds in a begrudging tone, “That said, the tutoring mindfuck was genius. You and I,” he points to Killian, “are going to have to up our game.”

  “How? How the fuck do you get so many points? I spend ten minutes with her and I want to put my fist through a wall, but you expect me to believe the two of you—”

  Rath holds up a hand, eyebrows climbing his forehead. “Are you doubting us?”

  “Every point can be backed up,” Tristian agrees, sipping from his own tumbler. “I watched Rath’s video myself. She wanted to suck his dick. She swallowed. She didn’t run away after.” He’s ticking off point modifiers on his fingers. “Look, I know you don’t think much of the long game, but Story isn’t like you think, Killer. The path of least resistance works with her. She’s, like…just a normal girl.”

  Rath leans forward to pry his glass back. “She’s putty, dude. The punishments don’t pay off, but you know what does? Being nice!” He chuckles at this. “Tristian bought her one of those paper flowers after the game. You know, the ones they sell to fundraise? You should have seen the look on her face.”

  “She was blushing and tripping all over herself,” Tristian explains. “It doesn’t even take much.”

  “Prince tactics,” Killian sneers, but Tristian shakes his head.

  “Not at all. You see, you’re so fucking terrible to her that she latches onto the smallest gesture of kindness like Velcro. So hey, I guess here’s to you.” He raises his glass toward Killian before tipping it back.

  Killian seethes, “This is fucking bullshit. Kindness? Niceness? Since when do you fuckers play the game like that?”

  “Since I’m going to be breaking in that pussy with my fat cock in a few months.” Rath laughs, grabbing his crotch. “Sorry, bro. All’s fair.”

  This.

  This is the game.

  My trust.

  My feelings.

  My virginity and who takes it.

  Me.

  I don’t feel the tears rolling down my cheeks until one lands on my hand, trembling over the trackpad. It was all a lie. Every moment of comfort I felt with Dimitri—with Rath—was just a joke. Something I was manipulated into feeling. Here I’ve been, thinking Rath was above all that, but it’s a lie. Those times in his bedroom, on my knees for him, was no better than what Tristian and Killian did to me, after all.

  Fake.

  It was all fucking fake.

  Tristian’s kindness, probably even the apology. Maybe it even runs deeper. Maybe they were secretly on board with that night in the basement.

  “You’re so fucking terrible to her that she latches onto the smallest gesture of kindness like Velcro.”

  It all makes a terrible sense now. They weren’t changing. They weren’t growing to care for me. They were playing me the whole time.

  And I ate it up, like a stupid, naïve, moronic little victim.

  The hurt—the grief and humiliation—is so much less then. I gather it up and tuck it away, refusing to feel it. I embrace the fire instead of the cold, letting it heat me from within. I realize now that this is how everything works. There is no comfort, no compassion, no safety. The only warmth in this world comes from blood or fire.

  I swat away my useless tears, sniffle back my pathetic snot, and look to the bed once again. My phone slides easily from my pocket, and when I approach the bed, Killian doesn’t stir.

  Not even when I take a picture of the stain in the middle of it.

  I access that ancient email of mine—the one meant for spam. The one Ted had sent me messages to. I compose a message with the title, “It’s gone.”

  Attaching the photo, I type only a single sentence in the body of the email:

  What are you going to do about it?

  They have my blood, and now they’re about to meet my fire.

  Because I’m going to burn this motherfucker down.

  Epilogue

  Ted

  The house sits on a massive lot, right in the middle of the city. There are no rolling hills or manicured lawns here, just the flat, paved surroundings of what used to be a three-block, government-owned housing project.

  “This seems a little extravagant for the South Side,” I say, getting out of the BMW. I’m hedging, and chances are, she knows it. From the nervous look on her face, she won’t call me out on it. Folding my sunglasses, I tuck them into my coat, adjusting my shirt cuffs.

  Yes, I know exactly what this property is.

  But she plays along. “GussyZ built it for his mother. You know, the rapper? He grew up right here, and after he made it big, his mother refused to move. So he razed the apartment complex he grew up in, and built this monstrosity on top of it.” The agent shakes her head, admiring the building. “Too bad about that tax lien. Government seized it and now it’s up for auction.”

  “Too bad for him. Perfect for me.” I haven’t been keeping an eye on this like I should, so I missed the lien, but the location couldn’t be better. Sprawling lot, plenty of rooms, nestled deep in the seedy underbelly of South Side. My territory.

  I’d been skeptical when she set the meeting. Not only has Leslie been skimming tens of thousands a month off my rental income, but she’s ripe to turn informant, too. She thinks I don’t know about the skimming, but I can see in her eyes that she worries. As she should. Given half the opportunity, this woman would bury a blade in my back and smile while doing it. It’s often the case with women.

  Despite that, she really brought me her best today. Staking a claim in this and moving my venture to the next level is the right step for my enterprise.

  When she en
ters the code in the front door, I can see her hand shaking. It’s merely a small tremble, but my eyes don’t miss anything. I should put her out of her misery, but I decide to watch her fumble for the time being.

  When the lock engages, I swoop in, amused by her frightened flinch, and hold the door open for her, the gold inlay on my ring glinting in the daylight.

  She gives me an anxious look and scurries through the entrance.

  “How many bedrooms?” I ask, taking in the space. The floor is a bold, inlaid mosaic of a medallion, with marble pillars standing proudly on either side of the staircase. The chandelier hanging above is gold and crystal. Tall, two-story archways invite one to enter a sitting room to our left.

  It’s tacky and ostentatious.

  “Ten,” she answers, eyes apprehensive.

  In short, it’s perfect.

  “Baths?”

  “Eleven full,” she adds, pushing her shoulders back. Yes. You find that spine, sweetheart. “Three half.”

  I hum, shoes clicking on the marble as I walk the space. “And an in-law suite downstairs?” I turn to her, noting the way her eyes widen.

  She realizes I already know, but still answers, “Yes.”

  “Good.” I nod, lacing my fingers behind my back. “I have some property I’ve been meaning to repossess. The old bat will need living quarters.” Turning to her, I add, “Good job, Leslie.”

  She looks like she might have a heart attack, her shoulders deflating, chest expanding with a relieved gulp of air. Despite that, she smiles at me, so grateful that it almost makes me wish I’d held out a little longer. “Thank you, sir. I knew as soon as I saw it on the wire that you’d want it.”

  I walk through the main floor, making a few notes on my phone. “We’ll need a full bar over here.” I gesture to the back wall. “A sitting area out by the pool would be nice. Tell me about the underground garage. My clients require discretion.”

  She nods obediently. “Yes, sir. It includes a back access from the alley and the doors work on a sensor. With a little rigging, it could—”