Tiffany Reisz - The King

“It hurts,” he breathed.

“Good.” Kingsley walked to the bed and pulled a tube of lubricant out from under the pillow. Better to do this on the hard, unforgiving floor than the bed. He slept in a bed, was at his most vulnerable in a bed. He didn’t want to be vulnerable tonight.

Kingsley knelt between the boy’s legs, nudging his thighs wider. He pushed his fingers into the welts on the boy’s legs. When the boy’s groans reached a crescendo, Kingsley brought his mouth down on to his cock and sucked him deep. Pleasure and pain, pleasure and pain. He would couple them together tonight for this boy, and never again would he feel one without the other, desire one without the other. The boy would either hate him or thank him for this later—Kingsley didn’t care which. But he knew one thing for certain; this beautiful blond teenager would never forget him.

As he sucked him, Kingsley wet his fingertips with the lubricant and pushed them into the blond’s anus. The blond grunted but said nothing more. Kingsley poked and probed inside him, until the boy’s grunts of discomfort turned to gasps of pleasure. Kingsley opened him up while licking and massaging every inch of him.

“I’m coming,” the boy said between heavy breaths.

“Come, then.” Kingsley put his mouth down deep over him and tasted the salt on his tongue. He wanted to swallow but didn’t want to give the boy any ideas that this encounter meant more that it did. He spat it on the floor, pushed the boy on to his stomach, stroked himself to his full hardness and, without mercy, entered the boy.

The boy cried out, his hands scratching against the hardwood floor.

“Take it,” Kingsley said. “Take it all. Don’t fight it.”

“I won’t.” The boy shook his head. “I want it.”

Kingsley pushed in again. The boy was tight as a fist around him, and it took all of his hard-won self-control to keep from spilling into him right now. He’d only been with women lately. He’d almost forgotten how good it felt to fuck a young man, especially one so rare and lovely as this long-limbed youth with the perfect pale blond hair and the heart both afraid and fearless.

Closing his eyes, Kingsley rose up and bore down. The boy gasped beneath him.

“Please,” he said.

“Please what?” Kingsley asked.

“Please, let me touch you.”

Kingsley unbuttoned his shirt while still deep inside the boy. He pulled out, let the boy roll on to his back. He grabbed the boy’s hands, pressing them to his chest.

“You have scars,” he said, running his hands over Kingsley’s bare torso.

“I am nothing but scars.”

The blond pushed his palms against Kingsley’s stomach and traced the muscles there.

“Your body’s amazing,” the boy said as he pushed Kingsley’s shirt off his shoulders and down his arms. “I can’t stop...”

His hands roamed all over Kingsley’s exposed skin—his shoulders, his biceps, his scarred chest and taut stomach. But when the blond tried to touch his hair, Kingsley seized both wrists and slammed them into the floor.

Kingsley thrust deep and kept thrusting. Enough niceties. He should never have let the boy touch him like that. But it had been so long since he’d fucked someone without tying them up first, he’d forgotten what it felt like to be touched during sex.

Pressure built inside Kingsley’s stomach and hips. He pushed repeatedly into the boy who raised his knees to his chest to take even more of him. Fucking turned into mindless rutting as Kingsley slammed into him with quick hard thrusts. No matter how much he gave, the boy only begged for more. When Kingsley couldn’t hold off a second longer, he pulled out, shoved the boy on to his stomach and came all over his red-welted back.

Finally the room was still, and Kingsley was still and the blond boy on the floor was still. Kingsley wiped the semen off the blond’s abraded skin.

Underneath him the boy shivered and shuddered. The salt into the wounds must have hurt more than anything else had.

“You did well,” Kingsley said, and heard another voice saying those same words to him once.

Kingsley stood up, cleaned himself off and straightened his clothes. As if every movement caused him agony, the boy slowly sat up. He looked down at his body, at his welts, before looking up at Kingsley again. His lips were parted, his eyes wide. He crossed his arms over his stomach and pulled his legs to his chest.

“There’s a shower through that door.” Kingsley picked up the boy’s shirt and gave it to him. “You can get cleaned up. You can stay here tonight if you want. Those welts will turn into bruises. Keep your clothes on until they’re gone.”

“Are you leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t you stay? For a little while? We don’t... We can talk.”

“I don’t want to talk,” Kingsley said.

The boy scrambled to his feet and pulled his jeans on. He sat on the bed and spent longer than necessary buttoning his shirt. Kingsley finished pulling himself together. He’d shower back at the town house. Nothing worth bothering with right now. All he wanted to do was drink himself into a stupor and sleep until he woke up dead. As usual.

“You’re young,” Kingsley said. “You’ll heal fast.” He wasn’t speaking about the welts.

He gave the boy one more smile before turning his back and heading to the door.

“My name’s Justin,” the blond called out after him.

Kingsley turned around and looked at him. A square of light from the window lay across the boy’s face like a white mask.

“I’ve only been with a guy once. It wasn’t like this. I didn’t even come. If my parents knew I was gay, they’d kick me out. I just... I wanted you to know those three things.”

“Anything else?” Kingsley asked, keeping his face composed, his voice devoid of emotion.

“You’re beautiful,” Justin said. “I feel stupid for saying that to another guy, but I can’t find another word. And what you did to me was everything I’ve always wanted. So...thank you.”

“You’re thanking me?”

“They teach us manners in Texas.”

Kingsley could taste the boy on his lips. Walk away. He knew he should walk away.

He pulled out his wallet and, from it, took a slim silver card with black ink.

“My name is Kingsley Edge. Not entirely, but it’s what I answer to. I’m French. That’s the accent you hear. And if your family kicks you out—and you’re right, they might—come back to this city and find me. I can help you. I’m not saying I will help you. But I can if I’m in the mood.”

Justin took the card and held it in his fist.

“Why did you pick me tonight? Only gay guy in the club?”

“There were three if I counted correctly.”

“Then why me?”

“You’re blond,” Kingsley answered truthfully. Justin gave a little laugh.

“You must really love blonds, then.”

“No.” Kingsley smiled tiredly. “I hate them.”

Without another word or a kiss goodbye, Kingsley left the room, left the hall, left the club and walked into the rainy streets of Manhattan. He should have called for his driver to come for him and take him home. But after so much sadism, a little masochism would do him good. The rain had turned the night near freezing, and Kingsley dug his hands deep into his jacket pockets burrowing for warmth. He walked fast, lengthening his strides as the late-winter rain soaked him to the skin. After two miles he arrived home to his town house. He paused outside and looked up. After six months living here, he still couldn’t believe he owned a Manhattan palace. Three stories—four if one counted the pool in the basement—black-and-white facade, wrought-iron balconies, a glass conservatory on the roof and luxurious bedroom after bedroom after bedroom...