The Deeper He Hurts (3 page)

The submissive cringed, face tightening into a clench of pain that vibrated through his tense muscles. His spread legs were strapped into the stirrups on the medical table, arms bound to his sides. His shaved genitals were a deep red, almost purple, and matched the shade of his erect dick. His bound state ensured he wouldn't come until the Dom allowed it and had sensitized the genitals. The Dom alternated between stroking the dick and attaching weighted clips to the scrotum and crown of the penis.

Cock and ball torture. Common, varied, and open to endless possibilities if the top had any imagination at all.

This one didn't.

The scene appeared to be following the script of a popular Internet video. The Dom had sworn his sub could handle anything Ash dished out. He'd insisted his sub needed more pain.

Ash snorted. It didn't matter if it was true or not, the couple wasn't getting anything from him. He had nothing to prove, and pushing the limits on some random guy had lost its appeal.

He'd been ready to leave, certain after ten short minutes that the sub wouldn't work for him and that training the Dom on torture techniques would be equally unappealing.

Now Sawyer stood next to him, and any thought of leaving had vanished.

“What do you like, Sawyer?” Ash asked without turning his head. The guy wouldn't be standing unfazed in the dungeon if this was new to him.

“Pain.”

That one simple word struck close to his heart. He inhaled, breath rushing through his nostrils. His pulse thumped too hard, too fast. The sub released a moaned whimper that teased his inner need. That quickly, an image of Sawyer spread-eagled, sweating, and covered in welts from his cane erased the one before him. His sweet calls of suffering would build Ash higher—or would Sawyer grunt through the agony? Did he fight or flow with the pain?

“What kind of pain?” His question came out lower than he'd intended, and probably revealed more too.

Sawyer shifted, the material of his shorts rasping on the cement wall. How Ash heard it over the general noise of the dungeon was a mystery. But it taunted him with more ideas, of stripping the damn things off and turning that hard ass a blistering red.

“A lot.”

The gravel in his voice rumbled over Ash. Would it be there when he begged for mercy—or more? “Limits?”

Another shift. Each move brought Sawyer closer without being obvious. Casual, if it weren't for the tension that slithered up Ash's nape to tingle over his scalp. A whip cracked, precise and sharp. A grunt. A whine. A slap. Desire coiled deep within his chest, dark and slow and lined with barbs.

“None.”

Ash whipped his head around, scowl slamming down. Anger burst out in a protective rush. “Don't say that,” he admonished, jaw tight. “Ever. There are always limits.”
Unless you have a death wish.

Sawyer didn't flinch or respond for several long moments. A flatness fell over his expression, a blankness that hid everything behind a wall of indifference. Gone was the dimple, along with any hint of levity. His eyes narrowed, chin lifting. The subtle defiance almost begged to be challenged, yet refused to be broken.

How much would it take to shatter that reserve?

“I know my limits,” Sawyer stated with the same cold flatness. “I know that few can reach them. I know when to stop and I know what I need.” He shoved away from the wall, gaze scanning the dungeon before it landed back on him. “What do you know…Asher?”

That fucker
. The darkness within him morphed to red and tainted his calm. He turned to Sawyer, hands fisted at his sides, breaths slowing to long pulls as he stared into those damn golden brown eyes.

Sawyer arched a brow, his cool too calculated.
This
was his game. He'd push until he got the reaction he wanted, or at least some reaction. Most likely, it was how he manipulated Doms to get what he wanted.

Ash puffed out a disgusted laugh and leaned in until his lips hovered over Sawyer's ear. Sawyer didn't back away, which only intrigued him. His strength and power was more alluring than any complacent submissive. They didn't touch, not a single brush of skin or material, yet the impression of Sawyer's form layered over Ash's chest in a silent taunt.

“I know you'd break before me.” He stated the truth with a firmness meant to entice. He nipped at Sawyer's earlobe, striking sharp and fast before he pulled away.

Sawyer's surprised grunt ignited a quiet purr of satisfaction within him. The glare was another front, one that failed to camouflage the golden flash of want. Damn how he longed to play with that want, to test it, drive it, and see precisely how far he could go.

Sawyer chuckled, a low rumble that matched the crook of his lips. That dimple cut into his cheek beneath the scruff of beard stubble, a pop of boyish charm that'd been erased by something dark. Something…sad.

“Is that an offer?”

“No.” He couldn't follow through on his challenge no matter how badly he ached to do so. “I don't play with employees.”

“What if I quit?”

“There are other guys to play with. I can refer you to someone.” He had to force the last sentence out.

Sawyer gave another lazy glance around the room, his head barely turning before he focused back on Ash. His eyes had flattened out, the heat gone, along with the interest that'd been simmering there only a moment ago. “I'll let you know.”

He turned and strode from the room without a backward glance, his stride confident like his posture. Like the man. More than one guy watched him leave, interest and speculation in every expression.

Ash clamped his jaw tight to hold back his objections, but it didn't quell the possessive desire that boiled beneath his skin.
Fuck me
.

He inhaled, the dungeon scents tripping old switches and controlled urges. His pulse slowly decreased with each long breath, his craving reined in until it nestled near his heart.

He forced himself to turn back to the scene before him. He took in the tear-streaked cheeks, panting whines, tight grimace, and got nothing. No residual pleasure or urge to partake.

The sub was an unknown to him. A stranger whose suffering didn't touch him.

Not as deeply as someone he knew.

Someone he wanted.

Sawyer Stevens was a known unknown. A mystery he longed to solve despite the reasons why he shouldn't. His inner sadist gnawed at the danger signs and spit them back out.

Two months—less than two months—and Sawyer would be long gone from here. It was doubtful he'd even look back when he left, let alone return. Was he really an employee, then, or just a temporary replacement?

Did it matter?

Not to that dark desire wedged near his heart.

That nasty little kernel of wrong that set him apart from so many. That'd festered within him for as long as he could remember. That'd picked and nibbled and grown until he found a safe release. An out in a community that didn't question, but didn't always understand either.

Hell,
he
didn't get it, not all of it, and it was a part of him.

A part his family could never know about. Not if he wanted their love and acceptance. His sharp scoff cut over his dry throat. There was so much of him his family didn't know about. So many years of lies and façades, of presented images. Of hiding his truths behind what they wanted him to be.

He couldn't hurt them. Couldn't let them down.

Yet the longer he pretended the harder it was to breathe.

The water rushed by on a deceptive current, quick but calm with no hint of the dangers ahead. The gurgle of the small rapids in the middle of the river set a relaxing tone to the tranquil setting. Surrounded by the rocky shoreline and towering trees that bordered the river's edge, Sawyer could almost believe in the peace it projected. Almost.

He savored the moment, each shallow inhale sinking deep. The damp musty scent of rot and clean was distinct and different from the dry arid landscape of home. Instead of dusty red and gold rock, he was cocooned in green and brown life. Slightly claustrophobic in its closeness, yet somehow settling.

Could he hide in those woods? Hunker down where no one would ever find him? The Utah landscape was too open to hide within, but it was vast and huge and he'd been able to hide in plain sight for the last fourteen years.

“Hey, Sawyer,” Grady called out. “Are you ready to go?”

He turned back to the group of rafters. The party was almost set to begin their day trip down the White Salmon. He'd received the rundown on process and logistics back at the Kick outpost before the tourists had arrived.

“I'll be right there.” A flash of guilt had him leaving the riverbank. He wasn't a lazy fuck who let others do the work. He'd just needed a second to center himself.

Grady waved in acknowledgment before refocusing on his job of strapping down the waterproof dry bags. The Kick crew was organized and efficient, every member working in sync with each other. It was impressive, and Sawyer's respect for the company went up yet another notch.

Mick would approve. Sawyer had learned the art of whitewater rafting at the hip of his surrogate uncle after his family had died. Mick's company, Outsider Whitewater, had a thirty-year history in the Moab area and the river had been Sawyer's salvation after his devastating loss. Mick had offered him a home and a life when he'd wished his had ended.

He sucked in a breath, a waft of pungent smoke piercing him. He gagged. The retching urge to vomit flew up his throat fast and reflexive.
Fuck
. He swallowed hard, throat aching with the willpower it took to keep his breakfast down. The acidic burn inflamed his esophagus and he focused on that, pulling the pain in.

The forest fire was a hundred miles to the east and nowhere near them—him. The wind had shifted that morning, bringing the smoke westward, but it wasn't a threat. They weren't in danger. The rundown of facts replayed in his mind in War's steady voice. They'd been updated on it before they'd departed Kick's White Salmon base.

His hands shook, mind flaring with images from his past. Of flames and heat. Of panicked need and sooty residue.
No
. He systematically shut down each thought, each destructive memory forced back and locked away until he was once again in control of his emotions. His thoughts.

He breathed through his mouth, the quick puffs slowing with his pulse. His hand was wrapped around the folding knife in his pocket before he'd consciously thought about it. The dull edge of the blade back smooth over the pad of his thumb where he caressed it, the strokes hard enough to dent his skin.

His blood pumped, anticipation singing through him with its whisper of euphoria. The high would be shallow, nowhere close to what he could get from another person. Did he have time?

“Here's the tracker.”

The deep voice cut through the cool morning air and general chatter to spear Sawyer. His head jerked up, gaze hunting for the source. There. Next to a black truck that'd just pulled up. Asher was here. He was talking to War, both of them focused on a piece of equipment in Asher's hand.

His heart hitched along with his breath. Mr. Preppy had taunted him last night at the dungeon, led him on, then cut him loose with a quip about not playing with employees.
Chickenshit.
If Asher had any balls at all, rules wouldn't matter. Not in the dungeon at least.

He was moving toward the pair before he'd consciously thought about it. Asher wore jeans today, which did nothing to roughen up the crisp efficiency he projected. The navy polo with the white and green Kick logo on the breast hugged his chest and emphasized his biceps. Out here in a sea of royal blue splash jackets, helmets, and bright yellow PFDs, he stood out like the yuppie boy he was.

“I thought you didn't leave the office,” Sawyer said, the antagonism flying out in part to distract himself but also to incite. Could he goad Asher into responding? Crack his cool calm like that moment in the dungeon when Asher had chastised him about limits like he was a newbie?

His eyes had flashed then, dark and intense with his admonishment. But within them had been the passionate focus Sawyer craved. The brazen fierceness that could brand Sawyer's skin and deliver on every promise he made.

War chuckled, but Asher only lifted that sculpted brow of his. The look he shot Sawyer from behind his glasses was glacier cool and blazing hot at the same time.

“I'm working.” Asher made a pointed glance at the other guides, who were busy getting the rafts into the river. “And you?”

Dick
. A jittery agitation dug under Sawyer's skin, biting over his forearms and down his nape. It creeped along his spine, and he resisted the urge to stretch his neck and shake the sensation off. Asher would be merciless in a scene—if he actually was a sadist.

Sawyer still questioned that claim.

He ignored Asher's dig and turned his attention to War. “Do we need anything else in the raft?” He was riding with War on this first trip, learning the river and taking mental notes before he ran solo.

“I think we're good.” War nodded toward the river. “Run through the last safety reminders and get our group in the raft. I'll be there in a minute.”

Sawyer gave him a salute and left without another word or glance at Asher. He felt him, though, Asher's intensity boring into his back as he strolled to the river's edge.

“All right,” he said with a smile. “Who's ready to have some fun?”

A chorus of whoops met his question. They had a wild group today, which was exactly what he needed. The four men and two women grinned at him, and he let the rest of his shit go.

The great thing about guiding whitewater was he couldn't think about anything else. He had to focus on the river, even on the slower sections. He was responsible for these six people from now until they unloaded at the end of the run.

Well, him and War today. But tomorrow he'd be on his own with another group of day trippers, and he had a lot to learn and remember.

He went through the group, rechecking PFDs and helmets for proper fit and tightness, each action shutting down his other thoughts. His other desires.

His other needs.

The river would get his adrenaline pumping. The action would engage his mind. The new scenery would capture his attention.

He'd forget about his life and the pain for the day. Ignore the drifting scent of the forest fire raging in the east and focus on the moment. It was all he could do—had been doing since his entire family had perished in a house fire fourteen years ago.

“Let's get this raft in the water,” he hollered, grabbing the bow rope. His past was long done, and nothing he did would ever change it.

Ash cursed under his breath, his concentration shattered. He should've left after War had given him the tracker back. Hell, he could've left after he'd given the equipment to War that morning. But he was still out here in the damn woods for no real reason.

A mosquito buzzed his ear and he swatted at the vibrating hum, certain the little sucker would be back with reinforcements. The citronella torches and candles were obviously useless. Too bad there wasn't an app for that.

The Mosquito Killer: Turn it on and watch the suckers plummet to their death.

He froze, brow furrowing. He pulled up a new file on his computer and quickly started typing, code and concepts zinging from his mind to the page. The idea had merit. Not in real life, of course, but for a game. If he could get it out before midsummer, he had a chance at making a decent payback.

He ran a quick search on available app games to check if any like it already existed. There were a couple, along with a few claiming to repel the pest via a sound. Seriously? If that worked someone would've milked that invention years ago.

“Hey, Ash,” Grady called, breaking into his thoughts. “Are you staying around for dinner?” He motioned to the food they were laying out on tables under the back patio. The scent of grilling meat logged in to his brain as he blinked at the smoke billowing from the gas grill.

Was it really that late? He glanced at the time on his computer. Seven o'clock. Damn. “Yeah, sure,” he answered. He might as well eat before hitting the road home.

He would've finished his latest program hours ago if his mind hadn't kept jumping from one thought to another in an erratic pattern that was driving him nuts. He usually corralled his randomness better.

And he usually didn't have a distraction like Sawyer circling his peripheral.

He clicked over to the photo software, Sawyer's mug popping up in full color. Water splashed white behind him, his grin countered by the drawn line of his brow below his helmet. Muscles slick and popping with the stroke of his paddle, skill and power the message communicated from the single shot. A great one to add to Sawyer's employee profile on the website.

The date and time stamp appeared in the lower right corner, the river location in the left. His new program was working nicely. The location stamp would save the photographers time and hopefully increase their sales. The tracker War had carried on this trip had ticked off the coordinates, which merged with the camera locations along strategic points in the river. Auto-loading the photographs on the company's website for virtual purchasing was another perk he'd recently added. Linking it to the company's app streamlined the entire process from shot to purchase.

He scanned the area, easily finding Sawyer among the group. The day trippers had all departed at some point, leaving the contingent of Kick employees. They'd had twelve rafts on the White Salmon today, along with an intermediate whitewater kayak class. The photographers, kayakers, drivers, and outpost staff were also included with the guide crew.

Sawyer leaned against a tree, one hand shoved in the pocket of his cargo shorts. The ends of his hair were wet around his face, his T-shirt hugging his broad shoulders and chest before it draped around his slim waist.

Sawyer studied the others, smiling and responding when spoken to but not truly engaging. Because he was the new guy, or was that his nature? Ash picked the latter. Like himself, Sawyer seemed to observe more than participate.

Older than a majority of their seasonal staff, Sawyer had an air about him that fit more with that of the partners. Knowledgeable, contained, and too experienced with the shit life dished out.

The sun was on the way down, still hours from setting, yet pitching the light into that early-evening glow that softened everything, including Sawyer. His jaw appeared more relaxed beneath the beard stubble, his skin golden. The blond steaks in his hair were more butter than white now, blending with the darker strands beneath. Ash's view was unhindered by the haze that hung high in the air from the distant forest fire. The westerly winds down the Columbia River Gorge could drag the polluted air for hundreds of miles.

Sawyer's gaze was focused upward at the moment, a beer bottle gripped in his hand. He appeared contained yet relaxed, but not unaware. If Ash didn't know better, he'd swear Sawyer had a military background. He'd fit in nicely at Kick—in more ways than one.

How relaxed would Sawyer be if he was bound naked to the tree he was leaning on, hands tied over his head, the expanse of his back and ass completely open to Ash, free to do with whatever he wanted? Anything. A bullwhip maybe? Cane interspersed with a cattle prod? Or something slower, less expected yet equally as satisfying?

Ash shifted on the bench, his dick filling with each image of Sawyer sweating and begging or stoically rigid. To feel that strength give, watch it shed away bit by bit until he came apart beneath his hands would be unbelievable.

He yanked his gaze back to his computer and went through the motions of saving and closing his files before shutting down his laptop. He had his dick under control by the time he took his bag to his truck and snagged his jacket from the seat. A chill was coming in from the Columbia, the heat of the day disappearing along with the sun. It'd be cold tonight, and thankfully he'd be back home in his warm bed before it got that bad.

At least it wasn't raining. Trips ran rain or shine, and early July in Oregon was an unpredictable mix of dreary and bright.

Ash gave up all pretense on why he was still hanging around and headed straight to Sawyer. As much as he should leave things alone, he couldn't stop himself. Hell, he didn't want to stop himself. There was an element of enjoyment in taunting Sawyer with something he couldn't have. The sadist in him didn't get off on being deliberately mean or a general asshole, but watching Sawyer struggle with Ash's decision not to play was fun enough to go back for.

He grabbed a water out of the cooler and rinsed the residual taste of smoke from his mouth. Air advisories had been up for most of the day, but it hadn't seemed to ruin the fun for anyone. At least not that he'd heard.

Sawyer watched him approach, one side of his mouth curling up as he puffed out a short scoff.

“What are you still doing out here, Mr. Preppy?” He made a pointed glance over Ash, stopping on his deck shoes before he shook his head. “Isn't this a bit out of your comfort zone?” His smile grew, the dimple popping, but it was lost as he took a long drag from his bottle.

Ash crossed his arms and simply studied Sawyer. Remarks about his appearance barely registered. He'd outgrown any insecurities over how he dressed around the same time he'd accepted he was gay, and that'd been before his divorce ten years ago.