Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

Gordon’s words kept echoing through Jack’s head as he tried to concentrate on the TV show he was watching. His hand was pulsing like a beating heart, a constant, throbbing reminder of his rage.

Yeah, Ronan Grant had pissed him off, but he couldn’t pretend this was the first time he’d lost it, letting his anger get the better of him. It was almost like a physical thing—something that rose up like hot lava and burst through him, beyond his control, almost beyond his awareness.

Hitting something eased the pressure. Even when it hurt, maybe especially when it hurt, somehow it made him feel better, calmer. Lately he felt wound up all the time, full of nervous energy that had nowhere to go.

Sex was a good release, sure. But he was thirty-four years old. How much longer did he want to go on picking up guys at the bars, taking them home for a quickie and then sending them on their way? The morning after nearly always found him still edgy, restless, like a boxer in the ring, itching for a fight.

When was the last time he’d felt calm? At ease in his own skin? He closed his eyes, pondering. Man, was it really twelve years ago? Was Master Alexei still holding court in the various leather bars where they’d played? Jack had tired of that scene long ago, and they’d lost touch. The whole leather culture smacked too much of the military for his taste. Not since his discharge from the Navy had anyone dictated to Jack Harris who he could talk to and when, or what he should wear, and why it was significant.

Alexei, one of the old guard leather daddies, used to coach him on the rules when he took him to scene events. A bottom should never initiate conversation. He should stare with respect at a Top’s boots during conversation. He should walk half a step behind his Top as a sign of respect. There were way too many damn rules—fuck that.

Jack Harris bowed down to nobody, not even Alexei Spiros. Still, he couldn’t deny Alexei had been the one person who could slow him down. When he was with Alexei, the jittery agitation that was such a constant in his life just seemed to slip away. He’d never experienced that level of peace before or since. 

“I wonder how he’s doing?” Jack said aloud in the habit of people who live alone. “Maybe I should look him up.” He went into the kitchen in search of the old paper address book he hadn’t used in ages. It was quite possible Alexei didn’t even live in Manhattan any more, but what the hell—it was worth a shot.

He found the little black book in the junk drawer and thumbed through the pages. He punched Alexei’s old number into his cell phone. “Hello?” It was not the deep, gravelly voice of Alexei, but that of someone who sounded much younger. No doubt it was someone else’s number now. Jack was about to hang up when the person added, “Spiros residence.”

An employee? A sub boy? A lover?

Jack cleared his throat. “Uh, hi. I was calling for Alexei. Is he around?”

“Who is this?”

Just answer the fucking question. Jack took a breath. Gordon was right. He really needed to get a grip. “This is Jack Harris. I’m an old friend.”

“Hold on. I’ll see if he’s available.”

Jack waited. A few moments later the man returned to the phone. “He’s resting now. Can I take a message?”

Worry suddenly shot its way through Jack’s gut. Alexei must be nearing seventy. “Is he okay?”

“You—you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Alexei had a heart attack. I just brought him home from hospital a few days ago.”

Jack reeled for a moment in shock. Back when he’d known him, Alexei Spiros had been such a powerhouse of strength and vitality. He’d been not only Jack’s mentor and partner back when Jack had been active in the scene, he’d been a friend, and maybe the only person who could tell Jack what to do without pissing him off.

“I’m so sorry,” Jack managed. “I had no idea.”

“He’s doing well. Full recovery expected. He just has to take it easy for a while. Did you want to leave a message for Alexei?”

“Yes. We haven’t been in touch in a long time.” The guy’s second sentence now penetrated Jack’s head. I just brought him home. Whose home? A shared home? “You’re Alexei’s…friend?”

The man chuckled. “Yeah, you could say that. We’ve been together nine years. My name’s Rusty. Rusty Dougherty. You know Alexei from where?”

“It’s been over a decade. He was my, uh, that is, he and I…” Jack hesitated, not sure how much this Rusty knew of Alexei’s background.

“You were his sub? One of his boys?”

So he did know. Jack snorted. “I was never anybody’s sub. But yeah, we were in the scene together, I guess you’d say. I think of him more as my mentor. But I walked away from all that years ago. Not really my thing.”

There was a brief pause, and then, “Would you like to leave your number? I’ll let Alexei know you called.”

~*~

“You can do better than that. Come on. Ass out, arch your back.” Ronan, dressed in black leather pants, black boots and a black silk shirt, tapped the long bamboo cane impatiently against his leg.

The man standing in front of him at the exercise bar wore nothing but a jockstrap and a thick slave collar. Kenny was slender and blond, probably in his early twenties. His partner, Edward, also in his twenties, was swarthy and had a muscular, stocky build. He sat on a chair several feet away, watching intently.

The place had originally been a dance studio, and the room had mirrored walls with wooden exercise rails built into them. Now there were strategically placed eyebolts on the ceiling and walls, as well as a few useful restraining devices.

Ronan turned to address the seated man. “Now that you’ve practiced with the clothing dummy, I’m going to give you a live demonstration. Remember, a cane is very flexible. Although it may appear straight and stiff, in practice it is more whip-like. Proper technique is important so you don’t cut the skin. You want to flick it just so, so that the business end of the cane catches at exactly the right angle.” As he spoke, Ronan flicked the cane through the air, its whistle echoing in the empty room.

Kenny flinched at the sound. Ronan leaned close, murmuring, “You can do this. Show him your grace.”

“I can’t,” whimpered Kenny. “I’m afraid.”

“Come on, Kenny, you know you love it,” Edward called out. “Don’t embarrass me in front of the trainer. Be a good boy and stick out that sexy little butt of yours. You do want to please me, don’t you?”

Kenny nodded. Ronan couldn’t help noting in the mirror that the guy’s cock was so erect that the head was jutting from the waist of the jockstrap.

Back when Ronan had first started as a trainer for The Quarters, a hardcore underground gay BDSM club, he’d been thrilled to discover so many sexy sub boys—his for the taking if he wanted them. The sessions were a nice break from his day job at the art auction house, where he had to keep up the proper façade.

At The Quarters, he was able to be just exactly who he was. He didn’t have to pretend, either by direct lie or omission. He’d started volunteering for the training sessions several years back. He’d found them a great way to get a feel for a guy’s potential and limits, without having to actually commit to even a first date.

True, the clients were often collared, like Kenny here, but Ronan would just use those guys as an opportunity to improve his technique with the various whips, canes, paddles and crops provided by the club. Occasionally he would take someone home with him, but nothing ever came of it, beyond a few days or a few weeks of erotic play.

He had a problem, and he had no clue how to solve it. While he loved the rituals, the obedience, the beautiful leather toys and the taking of submissives to erotic heights of masochistic ecstasy—when it got down to it, he rarely connected with the subs he met in this city.

What did he expect? BDSM play clubs were not exactly the place to find true love.

Once, he’d thought he found it, but that was years ago—that one amazing summer on the island of Capri, three glorious weeks when he’d been truly happy. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the crystal blue water of the Mediterranean and the sleepy hillside villages basking in the sun.

When Nicholas had turned his clear green eyes toward Ronan that first day on the beach, somehow he’d just known—this is the one. He’d been nineteen to Nicholas’ twenty-eight. It was Nicholas who introduced him to the romance of D/s, welcoming Ronan into its power and passion.

He’d taken Ronan along a sub’s path, teaching him about grace and the power of blending erotic pain and pleasure into something infinitely more rewarding than mere sex. Beyond BDSM, he’d taught Ronan about love, something he’d never witnessed between his cold, distant parents.

With Nicholas, everything had been easy. Beyond the incredible sex, they laughed all the time, happy in each other’s company. Never before or since had Ronan felt so at ease in the world.

How naïve and foolish he’d been back then. He’d bravely held back tears when they parted. He would find a way to return after his fall semester, he’d promised Nicholas. He’d had vague, romantic and wholly unrealistic notions of going to work with Nicholas on the fishing boats. Even when his letters went unanswered, he clung to the hope that Nicholas was somehow waiting for him.

He’d returned to Capri the next spring. Nicholas welcomed him with open arms, but those arms now held another lover—a handsome young submissive named Estevo.

Nicholas had been genuinely puzzled at Ronan’s devastation. At first he had laughed and chided Ronan, explaining that he kept many boys, and loved them all equally. When Ronan had protested, Nicholas had grown angry, telling Ronan he was selfish and not a true submissive, to want to own his Master instead of the other way around. He ordered Ronan from his sight, telling him he could return only on his knees, when ready to beg forgiveness.

Humiliated and brokenhearted, Ronan had left Greece for good, banishing Nicholas from his heart. It had taken years to move past the feeling of loss and betrayal. He learned to compensate for the pain—to let it nestle down into a dark, secret place where it could no longer reach him. And never again did he submit to another man.

Yet BDSM had been his salvation. As Ronan matured, he’d found himself more comfortable in the role of Dominant. He studied technique with some of the finest Doms in the city. He thrilled to the reactions he could pull from submissives who hungered for what he offered. It became more than just a sexual kink—it was a part of who he was, woven into the fabric of his being. And yet, at the center of it all, his heart remained cocooned, safe from the pain of Nicholas’ betrayal, frozen in time.

He returned his attention to Kenny, keenly aware anger had no place in what they were about to do. He stroked Kenny’s ass and thighs with his fingers as he leaned close again, speaking softly.

“I want you to relax. Don’t clutch the bar so tightly. Yes, that’s better.  Stand out a little farther and rest your forehead on the bar.” As Kenny obeyed, Ronan continued to stroke his skin.

“Why are you here?” Ronan asked.

“Because Sir wants me to learn to take the cane better. He says a session with you will help us.”

“Okay, good. So you’re here to please him. Any other reason?”

“What?”

“What do you hope to gain out of this, other than pleasing him?”

“Um. I don’t know. I guess that’s enough, isn’t it?”

Ronan suppressed a sigh. What was he after, anyway? It’s not like this guy was a potential partner. He was already taken, and much too young. Still, that didn’t mean Ronan couldn’t teach him something, something beyond just enduring a caning in order to please his Master. He could teach him something about himself, if Kenny were open to it. Ronan decided to find out.

“I’m going to start very slowly and let your skin get used the sting. I want you to breathe. Don’t hold your breath. Don’t tense your muscles. Open yourself to me and to what I’m doing. When it gets too intense, breathe deeper. Take the pain into yourself. Use it to step to the next level.”

Kenny looked blank. Ronan glanced back at Edward, who looked equally mystified. No matter, he would do this for them—give them a glimpse into what was possible beyond the mere physical aspect of rough play.

He turned back to Kenny, tapping lightly with the cane over his ass cheeks and thighs. “Breathe,” he reminded his charge. He began to use the cane with more force, not enough to mark, but harder than before. Kenny remained still, though Ronan felt him tense.

“Relax, breathe. You’re doing great. You need this. You were born for this.” Ronan had no idea if Kenny was indeed born to experience the incredible high of transcending erotic pain, but proceeded as if that were the case. If nothing else, it would be an interesting experiment.

The first real blow landed squarely across both cheeks, just where Kenny’s ass cheeks met his thighs. Kenny jerked his head up and yelped.

“Back into position.” Ronan’s tone was firm but not harsh.

Kenny obeyed, dropping his forehead back to the bar immediately—a good sign.

Ronan resumed the lighter tapping for a while, willing the tension to ease from Kenny’s body. When he deemed him sufficiently relaxed, Ronan struck again, just above the first spot. This time Kenny flinched, but stayed quiet and in position.

Ronan stroked the pink welt rising on Kenny’s flesh.

Kenny shuddered and pressed his ass back against Ronan’s hand. His erection, Ronan noted in the mirror, hadn’t flagged.

Again he resumed the tapping, warming and readying the flesh for the next real blow. This time the cane whistled the second before contact.

“Ah,” Kenny cried, rising onto his toes.

“Relax your hands.” Ronan touched Kenny’s clenched knuckles and Kenny obeyed. His breath was shallow, his shoulders tense. “Stand flat. Relax. Give yourself over to the pain. Do it for Sir. Do it for yourself. Embrace the pain and let it take you where you need to go.”

His voice nearly a whisper, he added, “Do it for me.”

Kenny’s shoulders eased and his breathing deepened and slowed.

Ronan continued to strike, the cane whistling in the air and leaving beautiful marks in its wake.

Kenny’s head was back. He was close. Ronan could take him there. For a moment he almost wished they were alone. Alone in a bedroom, rather than in this cold, empty space, another man watching with clinical interest behind them.

Forcing the thought from his mind, Ronan focused again on what he was doing. He continued the pattern, tapping lightly with the cane, interspersing it with strikes hard enough to welt the skin.

Kenny was panting, but he remained remarkably still, his hands gripping but not clenching the bar, his feet flat on the ground. Gauging the time was right, Ronan delivered the first blow hard enough to leave a mark that wouldn’t fade for at least several hours.

Kenny hissed in pain.

“Breathe,” Ronan whispered in his ear. He stroked back the hair that had fallen in Kenny’s face, tucking the tendrils back behind his ears. Assuming his position again to the side and just behind Kenny, Ronan resumed the caning, painting a series of parallel welts on the boy’s small, muscular ass.

Kenny’s panting had shifted to moans that were definitely sexual in nature. He leaned more heavily against the railing.

Ronan watched him closely. He could almost feel the change himself as it came over the sub—the slowing heartbeat, the easing of the breath, the whooshing rush of heat and peace that filled his body and spirit.

He struck Kenny hard enough that just a moment before it would have thrown him out of position. But Kenny didn’t move. “Shall I continue?” Ronan said, leaning close to Kenny’s ear. He waited until he saw the slight nod of Kenny’s head.

Ronan reached around the boy, cupping the erection beneath the jock strap. They’d negotiated beforehand as to the couples’ limits, and Edward had made it clear he had no problem with Ronan’s touching his boy in whatever way he wished.

Usually Ronan could handle the intimate contact without letting it affect him. It was just part of the training—a way to fuse sexual pleasure with erotic pain and thus reinforce the experience. For some reason, that evening Ronan felt an urge to do more. There was something that drew him to this boy. He sensed Kenny’s capacity to blossom into a true sub, under the right guidance. He wanted to take Kenny’s face into his hands and kiss his mouth, as if he were his lover. Of course, he did no such thing. The boy was already owned.

Ronan glanced back at Edward, who was leaning forward, an intent expression on his face. He resumed the caning, not wanting to lose the momentum. He covered every inch of the offered ass with the fiery kiss of the cane and still Kenny held his position. When he’d decided Kenny had enough welts, he slowly decreased the intensity until he was again just tapping the skin.

Lowering the cane, he lightly traced the welts with his fingers. Kenny didn’t move, his head still thrown back, eyes closed, a look of pure ecstasy on his face. Looking back, Ronan gestured for Edward to come over.

As Edward stood beside him, Ronan explained, “He’s in that amazing place where pain doesn’t just rise above pleasure—they become one and the same thing. Each stroke of the cane is like a stroke to his cock. Look at him, look at his face. He’s floating on air.”

Edward bent down close to his lover, a look of awe on his face. He touched one of the welts. “Is that something I can learn to do? I can take him to that place?”

“Absolutely,” Ronan confirmed. “Next time you come, it’s your turn with the cane.”

Edward nodded and pulled gently at Kenny’s shoulder. “Hey, hey you. What galaxy are you floating in, huh?”

Kenny opened his eyes and offered Edward a dreamy smile.

Edward pulled him into his arms and they kissed briefly before pulling apart. “Thanks, Master Ronan,” Edward said enthusiastically as Kenny pulled on his clothing. “Thanks for the lesson. It was awesome.”

Ronan nodded, smiling. “Any time.”

The couple left the room together, Edward’s arm protectively around Kenny’s shoulders. Ronan moved toward the chair Edward had been sitting in and slumped down into it. He stared at himself in the mirror a long moment before dropping his head into his hands.