Tough Love (23 page)

“Nice,” Chenco offered.

Steve set the oil on a shelf and went to a closet behind the St. Andrew’s cross, digging inside before returning bearing a folded blue massage table. With deft motions, he assembled it, tested it and nodded at Chenco.

“Strip and climb on, facedown first.”

He went back to the closet and came out with a set of sheets as Chenco complied with the order. A fitted one went on the main table, a special small thing covered the face rest, and a flat sheet went over it all, followed by a thin white cotton blanket before Steve tucked the whole business away. The freshly made massage bed looked so inviting and cozy, Chenco got undressed faster.

“Have you ever had a massage before, like this?” Steve asked as Chenco climbed coltishly aboard.

“No,” Chenco confessed. “It always sounded nice though.”

Steve directed him into place, making sure the headrest was comfortable, tucking him beneath the blanket. “The general result of this is going to be increased blood flow and a more direct release of toxins. Given we intend to add pain play to this scene, I’m going to make sure you drink a lot of water, stick to your usual healthy diet and rest. Serious aftercare is coming your way. If you try and skip any of it, I’m going to get very bitchy.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, I’ll do as you say.” Chenco was glad his face was buried because it meant he could smile and have whatever ridiculous expression he wanted. He
loved
aftercare. It was when Steve held him and coddled him and petted him and told him how strong and brave he was. Even when their scenes weren’t super intense, Steve always loved him up afterwards. The idea he’d be getting
more
aftercare made Chenco more eager to please Steve, to make him proud, and he vowed to take all the pain he could, to give him all the noises and sobs he craved.

Noises turned out not to be any kind of a problem. As soon as Steve put his oily hands on Chenco’s body, Chenco started to moan.

“Oh my God, it feels so good.” Chenco’s eyes fell shut, his words slurred, and he felt himself sliding into headspace without so much as a whiff of pain.

“You’re very tense,” Steve said, and his tone made it clear he didn’t care for this state of affairs.

“I’m so nervous about the show.”

Steve’s thumbs slid along the line of his shoulders, forcing the muscles to relax. Chenco took a breath, let it out, and his body surrendered to Steve’s ministrations.

“You’re not nervous about the show. You’re nervous about what the show will mean, what it might change. You’re worried it won’t change anything or that it will change everything.” He moved his hands lower and kneaded insistently against Chenco’s shoulder blades. “Holding your tension in won’t keep you safe. You need to let it go.”

Let it go? How could he? What if he didn’t impress Crabtree? What if he
did
? Would he and Booker go on the road? Did he want to go? Would he have to leave Steve just as things were getting good?

Chenco drew in another breath, but this one couldn’t go as deeply since his nerves were up again. “It’s tough. I feel so vulnerable.”

“You
are
vulnerable. But being on guard makes it worse, not better. Let go.” He increased the pressure of his massage, so hard it edged toward the pleasure-pain barrier, making Chenco moan more. “Let go with your body. We’ll loosen it up first. Then we’ll take you over to the bench and free your mind as well.”

Chenco tried to let go with his mind right then too—his muscles couldn’t stand up to Steve’s manipulations, turning to limp noodles with every pass on his back, his legs, his arms. He’d half expected the massage to become a seduction—it was, but not in the way he’d anticipated. Steve lured Chenco’s body into relaxation, coaxing it, luring it then demanding it yield to him. If only Chenco’s mind would have come along for the ride.

All through the massage, Chenco did his best to stop thinking about the future, but it yawed before him like a terrible, sharp-toothed thing, ready to devour him if he went the wrong way. He worried about disappointing Mitch and Randy and Ethan and Sam, he worried about disappointing Crabtree and Booker—he ached at the idea of not being what Steve wanted him to be. There were so many ways to fail.

When Steve flipped him over to work his neck, Chenco tried to keep his face clear, not let his rabbit brain show in his expression. His body was loose, but his mind was a tougher sell. Steve sat him up and gave him a big glass of water, and Chenco was surprised to find an hour had gone by—and he was chagrined at how little progress he had made with his internal struggles.

Steve stood in front of Chenco, bare-chested, smiling wryly as he threaded his thick fingers through Chenco’s hair. “Quit yelling at yourself for not being able to shut off your head. That’s my job, to turn it off. I can tell already it’s going to be a hell of a scene, baby.”

Chenco leaned into Steve’s chest, opening his lips over those familiar muscles. “I’m scared.” His hands went to Steve’s waist, holding on. “Of the show. Of the scene. Of letting go. Of everything.”

The hand at the back of Chenco’s hair kneaded gently. “Scared of me?”

Chenco shook his head. “No. I’m not afraid of you.”

“Then forget everything but me. I’m the only thing that matters for the next twenty-four hours. You listen to me, you obey me, you please me. I’m canceling everything I have until this time tomorrow night, including a project for work. Everything is for you—if you’re willing to give everything else up for one spin of the sun. We have a deal?”

Chenco nodded and clutched at Steve’s waistband.
A whole day with Steve, in submission, in freedom.
“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent.” His hand slid to Chenco’s naked ass and pinched it. “Head to the cross. I’m going to strap you down and flog every last bit of nervousness right out of your head.”

Chapter Thirteen

It had been a long, long time since Steve had flogged a lover.

Tightening the last of the leather cuffs, Steve scanned Chenco’s restraints then checked them again. He knew the cross was properly anchored and stable enough to handle the most violent recoils, but the compulsion to be completely sure was too strong to do anything else. They’d done extended play, they’d done rough play, but they hadn’t yet done both together. Tonight this would change.

After making one final round of checks, when he knew his boy was as safe and secure as could be, Steve admired the beauty of the young man spread open and naked before him.

God, but Chenco was gorgeous. He still had the youthful, rangy appearance saying
boy
, but naked and exposed like this, Steve could see this was a man before him, not a child. The latter wasn’t an appearance as much as a carriage, a self-possession flickering against the backdrop of insecurity. He didn’t cringe from it, though—he faced it boldly, shoving his unease aside.

The idea of tearing down the fragile wall, of stripping Chenco down to raw—of watching him surrender to pain for real, being part of his transformation—the thought alone made Steve hard.

Steve took a swig of water and examined Chenco’s naked back, trying to decide if he wanted to blindfold him. Probably best to do so, he decided, and fished a mask out of the drawer. He knew a fleeting yearning for a cigar as he spied them on a shelf—normally he would indulge during a scene, but Chenco took health so seriously, and Steve couldn’t bring himself to poison the playroom’s air. It was a consideration he would only give Chenco, he acknowledged, as he tied the leather mask into place.

Once he’d secured it, he examined the scene one last time and went to his flogger cupboard.

Steve weighed his options as he took in the racks of carefully stored and meticulously cared-for implements. Chain was out, as was rubber. He wanted some thud, wanted to knock Chenco so hard if he wasn’t secured, he’d go across the room. At the same time, he wanted a stinger handy. Something to hold in reserve, so when Chenco was used to the big blows, a new sensation would come at him. That’s when he’d come undone, when there’d be nothing between them but the pain. It had to be good. It had to be
perfect
.

Steve chose the twenty-inch bull with seventy tails, and the kangaroo. After closing the cupboard, he turned on some low, slow-burning alternative music. He dimmed the lights enough to suit his mood while still allowing for safety—low enough that when he removed Chenco’s blindfold, it wouldn’t be too jarring. Putting the bullhide flogger in his right hand and the kangaroo in his left, he took up his position behind his lover and drew in a few centering, focusing breaths. He turned the bullhide around a few times, warming up his arm, letting the tails hit the floor occasionally with a soft slap. He grinned as each little sound made Chenco jump.

Moving silently, he stepped closer to Chenco, took aim and thudded the right cheek of that beautiful, bare brown ass.

Chenco yelped and jerked. Steve grinned and enjoyed the shock as it moved through his bottom’s body like liquid silver. Yeah, it hurt different than anybody thought. Not as bad and yet worse at the same time. Steve had put a lot of work into getting the trick of it. The right implement helped, but there was a skill about the wrist, the shoulder, the timing.

This is just a taste of what I can give you, baby,
he thought, and hit him again.

Chenco was fun to torture—he clung so nobly to composure before folding with the grace of a queen. Steve could knock him off balance in thirty seconds, reduce him to sobs and begging and pleading, but he liked to draw things out, to toy with his prey and really mindfuck them. Liked to let them think they might make it, run them out to the edge of endurance and then up the ante with the clear message he had hours of torture ahead.

He could also drive someone into their safe word, and after a solid two weeks of learning Chenco’s limits, he knew exactly where the boundary lay. Sadism wasn’t about taking people too far. It was about taking them
almost
too far. It was about not asking for but assuming control. It was about being strong and sure, a huge wall of absolute his sub crumbled against. It was about getting another human being to voluntarily submit to his will, knowing they could trust him with it. It was about, for an hour or two, playing God.

Tonight he played deity for Chenco, and tonight he was in the mood to knock flat the ridiculous paper wall Chenco had around himself. He’d show Chenco that this idea he could protect himself from the world by hiding behind petty fears wouldn’t stand up to a mild wind. He’d lift the dark fear Chenco had himself wrapped in, to see the Chenco underneath. He’d watch the man rise up and overcome it all.

He’d knock that man down too, send him trembling into Steve’s arms. Fuck him hard and long and beautiful, make the strong, amazing man his for a day—completely, utterly his. He wanted, when it was over, for Chenco to thank him for the ride.

He hit the same spot on the right ass cheek, three sharp successive blows taking Chenco up to the edge of wanting to get away, made his mind insist he not allow it to happen anymore. Steve grinned as his lover tensed on the third strike—he’d known that one was coming—then readied himself for another. Steve drew a breath, pretending it was his cigar, waited another half-beat to get out of the rhythm—and struck Chenco on his left thigh.

This game went on for twenty minutes. He peppered Chenco’s body with slaps of varying weight, establishing a rhythm and pattern only to break it and switch to a new area. He would focus on Chenco’s upper back and his arms, letting the
whoosh
of air taunt but never touch his face. He teased the falls against Chenco’s tender, vulnerable sides then struck them roughly enough to choke out a cry. He focused twenty, thirty lashes in succession on the now very red and tender ass, making Chenco shout and buck and try, in vain, to move away.

Steve watched his lover battle the flogger blows, watched his face screw up in determination, watched deeper strength take hold. Steve admired it.

Then he gave Chenco his first real blow.

The cry tearing through his lover’s body was so beautiful—a perfect mixture of surprise, fear and true agony. Steve gave him another, so close to the edge he listened for the call that would slow or stop their play. None came.

Chenco was determined not to bend. It had nothing to do with Steve, he knew, and everything to do with life teaching him over and over again how bending led to bad, bad things. It had everything to do with a personality which, while it craved authority and attention and enjoyed playing with pain, was not as duck to water with submission as Sam Keller-Tedsoe or Gordy. No, someday Steve was fairly sure Chenco would wield a whip of his own.

Not today. Today, Chenco still had a great deal to learn about pain, and Steve was his teacher.

The bullhide flogger was his pen, and Steve wrote Chenco’s lessons across the tender, over-sensitized surface of his lover’s skin. Pain was only part of the problem. Pain was what everyone who heard about BDSM thought they feared, but they were wrong. It was the loss of control, giving up
to
pain. Any fool could endure. It took a real man to deliberately walk into fire.

Chenco likely felt as if he were in flames—his skin was so raw and crazed Steve could skim ice down his back and it would burn. If Steve put the flogger down and fucked Chenco, the sensations of his skin would blend with the spearing of his flesh, and the rough pounding would turn into strange bliss only accessible during this kind of play. But Steve didn’t put the flogger down and fuck Chenco. He whipped him harder, bringing the blows closer together as they became more and more erratic. He drew deep into the place inside him aching for a cigar between his teeth, smoke burning his eyes—this part of him turned the handle.