Page 22 of Stroke Rate

“Now,” Brooke demanded, handing him his phone.

“Bossy, much?”

“Yes. I’m sick of my two favorite people being sad, and you can fix it, River. Text him now.”

So he did.

River

Hey…

Chris

…

…

Read

Chapter nineteen

Chris

“Okay, tell me, what did you learn tonight?” Chris sighed at Jackson’s question, because the answer was the same as it had been for the past month—nothing. He learned nothing as he continued to try to understand his behavior with River. Chris had been doing his “research” and watching various Sub demonstrations. The evening's entertainment was a brief, unconventional show that detailed the process of transforming a sub into functional furniture. The master poured tea service on a tray balanced on the woman's back, using the sub in training as a table.

None of it appealed to Chris, and he found that particular demonstration confusing and pointless. Why would someone aspire to be used as furniture? He supposed the entire scene was for the Dom? The sub did the act to make their Dom happy, and within their Dom’s happiness they found…whatever they were looking for. He didn’t want to yuck anyone else’s yum, but Chris didn't find what he was looking for while watching.

“Nothing, Jackson. Nothing,” Chris growled his frustration at the ceiling, pulling his hair in hopes the action would loosen something in his brain and make something make sense, because nothing had made sense since that one night in Indianapolis. For lack of a better word, what Chris had experienced with River had been earth-shattering. The physical intimacy was one thing, significant enough all on its own, but add to the fact that Chris had relinquished control and submitted. That had struck such a deep chord in him that his world seemed turned upside down and inside out, as if he’d been caught in a relentless spin cycle for weeks, desperately seeking solid ground.

That one night awakened a deep, instinctual longing in Chris for someone else to take control, for him to surrender and simply be, for him to at long last believe he was safe. And he did. In his submission, Chris felt nothing but powerful. A deep, commanding strength had flowed through him, and Chris felt more in control during those moments than he ever had as a Dom. Being touched by River, being used by River, pleasing River, Chris felt as if he was the one in control. Chris didn’t feel like he was just being used—like he was a toy, although he kind of was. No, when he gave himself to River, he felt as if he held all the control. He knew he could have said no. He knew River would respect him if he wanted to stop. And he knew River would never hurt him. River had used him; there was no doubt about that, yet his touch was solemn, as if cherishing something sacred. He left Chris with a renewed sense of self-worth and courage, as if he were worth something. The entire experience had been as freeing as it was confusing, and then he was gone. River left.

He still couldn't understand how one man and one night had changed things so much. For years, he had “played” the Dom, because, well, the more he pondered his life choices, the more he realized that “playing” was what he had been doing all along. He had been playing a character, putting on mask after mask to hide his true self, one more way to keep himself safe, one more way to control situations without having to explain himself.

Four weeks in, and he wasn’t any closer to figuring anything out; even talking things through with Bran hadn't helped. Bran had referred to whatever this was as Chris’ “submissive awakening,” but Chris wasn't sure that was the correct term for what he was experiencing. Maybe more of a “switch awakening?” The thing was, Chris had gone through sub-training. He had learned the feelings of submission through training under a master before performing as a Dom, to empathize with a submissive partner's experience while in a scene, but nothing compared to how it felt with River. Even then, after weeks of watching submissives being put on their knees, watching Shibari demos, watching submissives being flogged, paddled, and caned, none of that had appealed to him in the least—his cock had lain flaccid, not an ounce of arousal or want. It was the aftercare, the voice whispered.

In fact, what had stolen Chris' attention the most, what had gotten him hard and needy, was watching the Dom care for their Sub after a scene or demo. Watching a brutal Dom go soft after a scene, watching them card their fingers through their Sub's hair, watching them wipe tears from their Sub’s face, and watching a Dom pick up their Sub and wrap them in a blanket—soothing and caressing them. Those sacred moments between the Dom and Sub had Chris wriggling like a worm on a hook with nervous anticipation and want. Those moments had his dick so hard he needed to run to a privacy booth and stroke himself to release. Perhaps he had figured something out? Although with River it had been more than that—there had been a deeper connection. Chris had enjoyed letting River use him. He had enjoyed being told he was good. He had liked the floaty feeling of letting go and not being in control. At home, those thoughts had raced through his mind like a relentless storm, making him painfully hard and causing him to fuck his fist so often that Chris had feared he might actually go blind.

“Fuck my life,” he groaned, rubbing at the tender new skin of his wrists through his shirt. He hadn’t realized he had been touching them with such force. He felt the familiar sting of an open wound and the damp warmth of blood under the fabric. A small wet mark appeared on his sleeve as he glanced down. “Shit,” he whispered, hoping Jackson wouldn't ask him any questions. “I’ll be right back, Jackson, I need to use the restroom,” he muttered before he ‌shuffled off. Chris didn't roll up his sleeves, just pressed the fabric harder to his skin, hoping to staunch the bleeding. There shouldn't have been much; he had cared for the cuts well, cleaning and re-bandaging them after every swim. Making sure they wouldn't scar, wanting them to heal quickly so he could forget about Laura for a fraction of time.

The week after Indianapolis, Laura showed up like the vulture she was, stalking the rotting soul that was her son. She assailed him first about firing his coach, and then about what a disappointment he was. How pathetic the race had been; and how he tarnished the family name when he performed like that. All the while holding his wrists and digging her long, manicured nails into his skin. Inflicting enough pain to keep Chris frozen like a frightened rabbit, scared that if he pulled away, he would feel the ripping of skin so acutely that he would scream, showing her even more weakness.

It never ended. Years of Laura assaulting him with words, while physically scraping him apart just enough.

Just enough to keep him scared.

Just enough to cause damage.

Just enough that Chris could hide the marks and keep her secret.

Just enough to cause him shame, enough shame that Chris then blamed himself for the pain she inflicted on him. This was his punishment for not being enough. Pain and blood were the price he paid for her attention, for her love. He had paid a lifetime of brutality for her scraps, and he couldn’t figure out how to make it stop.

So Chris washed his wrist in the pristine club washroom and pulled the Band-Aids and antiseptic cream out of his pockets. He had always kept some on his body for cases like that, where he had carelessly rubbed the wounds raw again. How many times have I done this? How many more times will I continue to do this? Chris dabbed at the now raw pink skin, holding back a wince from the sting, placing a bit of cream on the bandage and putting it over the wound. He pulled down the sleeves of his shirt and popped a gummy in his mouth to help quiet the screaming he wanted to release but never could. There, all better, he thought as he exited into the neon-lit hallway. He was almost to the bar, the THC gummy almost fully dissolved under his tongue, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. A text…from River.

River

Hey…

Chris read the one-word, not paying attention to his surroundings—too stunned to process what he was holding in his hand and how fucking pissed he was—walking right into the soft, cushioned chest of Bran.