“Those two massive guys with all the tattoos?”
She nods. “And Micah?”
I squint, trying to recall one face from the hundreds she’s introduced me to in the past two days. Max—or Mad Max as she’s known here—is quite popular.
“The Black guy in silver nut huggers at dinner last night. He was with Mistress Tan and…”
“Oh my God, right.” I remember the man in question. He was beautiful, his face crushingly sweet and handsome, with soft brown eyes and plush lips, his body like something you’d see in the Louvre, though significantly larger in the package region. I know this because I saw it uncovered later, in bright, shining technicolor, bare but for a brutal line of piercings. I didn’t stick around the Dungeon long enough to see him use the thing.
“He’ssucha sadist.” She sighs with a grin and leans back to lift her tank and show me the fresh bruises on her rib cage.
“Jesus, dude.” It’s not easy for me to suppress a shudder, but I do. Max doesn’t like how upset I get and I honestly can’t relate to the getting beaten for fun thing but, hell, most people outside of these walls likely wouldn’t understand what I did last night, so I keep my reservations to myself.
Now that I think about it, it hasn’t bothered me to watch the floggings and whippings and diverse beatings happening in the Dungeon every evening. It’s the consequences that I have trouble with. Or maybe it’s just seeing the visible aftermath on my friend’s skin.
“Nice, right?”
I force a smile to my face and hide behind a gulp of too-hot coffee.
Thankfully, we sink into silence, both of us probably rehashing last night’s festivities. I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who feels any guilt about what I did.
No, it’s not entirely guilt. It’s…regret isn’t the word, because I definitely don’t regret it. Two consenting adults getting their rocks off in unconventional ways isn’t something I’ll ever see in a negative light. I might have once upon a time, but Max has used logic and her very convincing therapy speak to clean that right out of me.
So, what’s wrong? Why do I feel off-kilter like this?
“You still set on the one-time to get it out of your system thing?” she asks lightly. “Or is there a chance you’ll go back in for seconds?”
“He said no repeats,” I reply without thinking.
“Right. Yep. He sure did.” She’s using that gentle, but straightforward voice again, the no-nonsense voice she’s always used to show me reason. It’s probably the way she talks to her therapy clients and it brooks no argument. Honestly, though, I don’t have much argument in me.
“You’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you, Max?”
“Mm mm.” Her shoulders do a slow side-to-side sway in her chair. It’s not a victory dance, exactly, but there’s a definite undercurrent ofI told you so.
“I don’t want to have to smack you on that stupid bruise,” I say with grudging humor.
Her cackle’s high and delighted. It’s one of my favorite sounds, even when I’m the brunt of it.Especiallythen.
When she tilts her head and sets it on my shoulder, there’s nothing but love between us.
“Yeah, dammit.” I sigh, letting my head sink onto hers. “I want to do it again.”
“You could go put up an ad of your own.”
I could, couldn’t I?
Feeling brighter, I plant a loud kiss on the crown of her head and stand up. “I think I will.”
7
Liev
I’mout in my studio, high up on the scaffolding, forcing myself to concentrate on what I’m doing, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I’ve got a chisel in one hand, a hammer in the other and a half-ton of granite between my legs.
I ignore the sound. Probably a pocket call. The Kink Camp staff knows better than to use my number. It’s in the rule book, front and center.
Emergency number. Use only in case of:
