Tough Love (24 page)

He stepped closer and slid the falls along Chenco’s balls, his perineum, pushed the handle a few times over the crease hiding his hole. Chenco jerked and whimpered, a shiver of new fear whispering over him with a gossamer touch. Steve sucked it down like honey.
Yes, love. I could hurt you there too. I could hurt you anywhere.
He let Chenco swim in the knowledge, let him anticipate Steve’s hand on his balls, his cock, his fingers teasing at his hole.

Moving away without sound, Steve resumed flogging.

The music had shifted into something with a heavy backbeat, and Steve thrummed Chenco’s body in time so he could feel it in his skin, his blood, his soul. He became so regular he knew Chenco had forgotten Steve’s love for varying technique. He went on in rhythm so long that, when he paused, only Chenco’s deepest subconscious was ready for the return.

Steve drew another breath, a toke on his imaginary cigar.

He raised the kangaroo flogger and brought it down with crushing force on the raw skin of Chenco’s lower back.

Chenco screamed.

Steve hit him again.

It felt, Steve knew, like the sharp sting of cold snow on an already frozen face. Those blows were tiny bites beside a deep, throbbing ache—one or two slaps were bad, but in succession, they were maddening. Pain? Fuck pain, this was sensation now, leaving behind words such as
bad
and
good
and forcing Chenco into whole new atmospheres. His body was so thick with endorphins he had to leave it to make room for the subsequent rounds.

Except there was one problem. Chenco had to cling to those walls. He couldn’t let go because only the walls were safe.

With throbbing pleasure, Steve burned those barriers down.

He was in a rhythm again now, alternating sting and thud, hard and soft, heavy and light. He gave nothing but patterns—bull, kangaroo, kangaroo bull for six bars, then kangaroo, kangaroo, kangaroo bull for eight more. He taught Chenco’s body all it could crave about sting and thud, beating him into headspace, forcing him to leave everything else behind.

Chenco screamed, sobbed, swore—he struggled against the leather cuffs, tried to lift the cross off the bolts securing it to the floor. He shook. He cried, a terrified, little-boy sob. He fought Steve tooth and nail, with the conviction of one ready to go to the absolute edge—until Steve took the stinger up to the same second notch he’d already taken the bullhide. Steve teased him with a deeper level still, showing him, at the edge of Chenco’s exhaustion, that Steve was just getting warmed up.

Chenco gave one last cry, a defeated gasp. Then he let go of the ruins of his walls, gave himself over to Steve—and soared into space.

They traveled to heaven together now—though they stood feet apart, Steve had never felt closer to Chenco. He moved through the air, through the music, through the haze of Chenco’s pain as if they were living things he could manipulate. With his floggers, Steve conducted the orchestra of pain and pleasure, of sensation and surrender.

Time fell away, the world fell away. Division fell away. Chenco’s skin was Steve’s skin, his canvas, his space to carve and mold. Each gasp, each cry, each arch into the next blow felt like crystal etched in beauty only he could see and only Chenco could feel. In this separate space and time, Steve could see the future, could see the limits of Chenco’s endurance as he’d never known them before, could see their stages and their progression. The chain flogger would come out someday. The rubber one too.

Not yet. Not now. But the potential was there. Chenco would want it all. Steve found himself aching at the thought, ready to do anything to be the one Chenco was with when it happened.

When a wind-down song came on, Steve sighed at the upcoming loss, hating that the roller coaster had to go back to the station. Chenco was tired—Chenco wouldn’t call him to a stop, not now, not until he collapsed in a faint from exhaustion. He was so high he’d keep going until he burned against the sun. Steve brought him down slowly, expertly. He took Chenco a bottle of water—the kind fighters used, an angled straw bending into the mouth so Steve could squeeze a liberal amount inside. He murmured under his breath as he did so, stroking Chenco’s sensitized skin with the falls.

Steve set the floggers on a nearby table and drew the table closer, balancing some lube and a heavy metal plug within easy reach. He stroked Chenco’s side, murmuring his pleasure, then went to another drawer, coming back with a small clamp. He greased his cock, took more lube and pressed between Chenco’s cheeks with insistent fingers. Around the edges of the mask, he could see Chenco’s face. His lover was serene, lost in his headspace, drifting down from the highest planes, still strapped into the roller coaster.

One more time around.

Steve closed the clamp over Chenco’s nipple, pushed his cock inside and bit Chenco’s neck.

He groaned in chorus with Chenco’s cries, feeling them reverberate inside his own body as he drove them ruthlessly back up—this was the edge, the thinnest blade of it, and Steve gloried in the rush. He fucked hard, twisting and turning the clamp until Chenco’s sobs were incoherent pleas, until his own thrusts were so rough they stole Chenco’s voice. He let go of the clamp and jacked Chenco’s cock, teasing inside the slit with his index finger as if he could extract the ejaculate by force. He took Chenco to the furthest point he’d ever taken anyone, and when he knew he could go no further, he gripped the clamp and pulled it taut.

At the same time he released Chenco, Steve whispered, “Come.”

He dropped the clamp and fucked into Chenco as he came apart, holding himself back until Chenco fell, his body too over-sensitized to take any more pounding. Steve made him take more anyway, undid him until he was nothing but frayed bits, and then he came too, pumping himself deep into Chenco. He pushed the plug tip inside before he pulled out completely, straining Chenco, claiming one last gasp before shoving the toy home, wedging it deep inside.

The plug stayed in all night. He held it in place himself as he drew Chenco down, scooping him in and carrying him to the bed. As he gave Chenco more water and told him how proud he was, how beautiful Chenco had been, he nudged at the base, reminding Chenco he was still inside him, fucking him to keep the edge of over-sensitization alive.

He kissed Chenco, stroking his body, pinching the abused nipple. When Chenco was stable enough, he collected a set of clamps from the playroom—he wanted them on all night, all day, there for him to tease until this long, sweet scene was completely done. He pumped water into his boy until Chenco emerged from his haze enough to complain he had to pee—Steve made him hold it, keeping him semi-aroused so the need to piss became another edge to claim. When he did let him up to pee, Steve came along, holding the plug in place.

Then he had Chenco bend over the sink, and he removed the plug to fuck him again.

“That’s two of my loads in you now,” Steve reminded him as he led a wobbly-legged Chenco back to bed. “I’m going to keep filling you all day. I’m going to fuck your mouth, your ass, feeding you until my twenty-four hours are up.”

Chenco purred and curled beside him, but he held on too, burrowing his face in Steve’s shoulder, his fingernails sharp points of the anxiety Steve knew damn well shouldn’t be left.

“I don’t want to leave you,” Chenco whispered. “If the show goes well, I don’t want to leave you.”

The confession felled Steve. His walls came down too, toppled with the barest breath from Chenco. “I’ll go with you. Wherever you go, I’ll go too.”

For the first time since the flogging, Chenco tensed. “You can’t. You can’t promise me that.”

No, he couldn’t, shouldn’t—but Chenco wasn’t the only one who’d been undone by their scene. He rolled Chenco’s nipple between his fingers. “Don’t you tell me what I can’t do.”

Chenco cried again, but it wasn’t because of the pain in his nipple. “Nobody does this. Nobody cares about me like this.”

Steve slid his hand down to Chenco’s cock and gripped his balls possessively. “They do now.”

Chenco wept, and Steve kissed him and fondled him, stoking their fires slowly, languidly, until they were hard once more. He jerked Chenco off, then turned him over and fucked him long and slow—he was so loose, so sloppy now inside he’d need a strap to keep the plug in place, and Steve would get him one.

He shoved Chenco’s knees wide to the point of aching, teased his too-tender cock, dug his fingers into the welted flesh of his ass, and rode his precious hole until he leaked spunk and lube.

Mine.

Steve fucked until his cock went limp and raw. He put the plug back in, went to the playroom to find a strap, and locked the metal and his fluids in place.

Mine. For as long as you let me, boy, you’re mine.

He wrapped his body around Chenco, knowing he was falling too hard, too fast, knowing there was no way he could ever keep someone like Chenco forever, knowing with certainty heartbreak was absolutely on his way.

He let himself fall anyway.

The day after his flogging was the most sacred day of Chenco’s life.

It was a dirty, deliciously gritty day. He’d never thought he’d wanted something so raunchy, but everything they did, he loved. This was playing, they were boys, and sometimes boys played gross. They were little boys who knew exactly what to do with their penises and their holes, and they did all the fun, naughty things they could make them do.

Jesus, did they play with Chenco’s poor little hole.

Once upon a time Chenco had looked up all the wicked, taboo gay sex terms on the net, and now he hadn’t only read about them, he’d done them. Felching? Yep. This came with one hell of a hygiene regimen first, but yes, it had happened, and Chenco got hard just thinking about it. Fisting? Had happened a few days before the flogging. Today Steve put a ball with a string on it and
played his fucking ass like a violin
. Chenco came with such force he knocked the table over.

If there was a game to be had with his ass, he was pretty sure he’d played it. And yet there was one taboo, one secret, terrible thing he had not yet done.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the contract, about what he’d confessed he wanted. For the first time, however, he wasn’t ashamed, wasn’t afraid. Not about this—not with Steve.

Chenco couldn’t do anything
but
feel safe and protected with Steve. There was no room for shame. Steve wouldn’t allow it. Never had Chenco felt so owned. He had in fact, outside of Steve, never allowed anyone to feel they’d owned him even in the slightest, but everything about being with Steve was a category all its own.

There was something so
bone-deep, achingly pure
about Steve not asking what Chenco wanted, just taking from his body. He felt like a junkie, yearning for his next fix of contact, of play, of degradation or pain or whatever Steve wanted. The acts and any social meanings attached to them were gone. Everything now was about serving Steve, honoring that space he made for Chenco. Every surrender was another chance to be free.

Beyond that liberation, however, was another gift, one he never would have expected to find in being so rough and raw—Steve’s caretaking. While
Chenco
was so high on his freedom he’d happily throw safety and smarts out the door, Steve was ruthlessly attentive to his care. Yes, he teased sensitive skin, but more than once he told Chenco no, they needed to rest for a bit before continuing to play. All the water wasn’t just to torture his bladder, either. Twice Chenco had been delirious with begging, feeling lightheaded and happy, but something must have been off because Steve stopped play, grabbed water and made him drink it.

He stopped often to make Chenco eat too, always light things, but they ate a lot. Crackers, hummus, veggies, fruit. It was almost sexier than the actual sex, being fed. Sometimes he had to eat off of Steve’s sweaty, sexy skin.

Steve made food part of play too—Chenco’s body was disgusting, and the bed was an unholy mess, stained with crushed strawberries, littered with cracker crumbs, damp with spunk and sweat and God knew what else. The hedonism, the wickedness of their play, made Chenco want to purr. Sometimes he did.

By the afternoon, Chenco had drifted down a little, and Steve encouraged him to nap. Once he woke, however, they were back at it—Steve took him into the playroom, where he shoved a cock gag deep into Chenco’s throat. Chenco didn’t flinch and was mostly annoyed he had to hold a hanky in his hand to drop as a replacement safe word. Even four hours ago, he might have refused to try the gag on. It was a nasty thing, ugly looking and uncomfortable, designed to humiliate, which Chenco still hated—except right now he wanted it. It was yet another way to serve Steve, to honor himself. Honor them both.

He thought again about what they had not done, that line in the contract, a dark, silky whisper in the back of his mind. Oh, it would be so perfect, in the middle of all this nasty, frothy mess. No one ever had to know, but he’d know. Steve would too. He didn’t have to be ashamed. Steve was here. It would be safe. He would be okay.

Chenco did get a real cock eventually—Steve took out the gag and gave him long, slow, deep fucks into his throat which never stole his air, though now that he thought about it, Chenco kind of wanted that.
Another forbidden act I can give to you. Please,
cariño
, let me give it all to you.