Chapter 4 Dax
DAX
By the time I return to my apartment, my indignity has grown unignorable.
On my phone, from the grubby couch, I look up Arrow Mart’s CEO, Wendell Blitz.
Everything from his squinty eyes to his pale bald head to his groomed blond goatee to his net worth makes me hate the guy more than I already do.
But the part of the search that evokes the most hate of all is the photo of the twenty-three-million-dollar vacation compound he purchased earlier this year, four hundred miles away from where I sit.
It’s clear that corporate cutbacks are never about need or passing savings onto the consumer. They’re about guys like him. Billionaires who horde wealth to keep guys like me in the gutter. Guys he sees as interchangeable. Nothing more than last year’s model with a faulty battery.
Robots don’t need breaks or health insurance. Robots won’t get arthritis or retire. Robots don’t have feelings that can turn to rage and then to action.
Revenge is an ice cube dropped into the chipped mug of cheap whiskey I pour myself.
As I sip, I inspect the photos of the two-story, six-bedroom house Wendell had built.
If I had to guess, there is over seven thousand square feet of living space.
I automatically mark the methods of entrance and egress, while wondering which local company did the security system so I can hack it or trip it and create a loop as needed.
In a box, in the back of my closet, I have emergency supplies—gloves, a ski mask, rope, a grappling hook, a lock-picking kit.
The essentials. Though they won’t be enough.
Not for a house like that. But it’s a new build and probably a new security system.
State-of-the-art never means impenetrable, in my experience.
I shake my head. As if the movement can expel the thoughts entirely. Have them pour out of my ears like dislodged pool water. I can’t be entertaining ideas like this. I’m on the straight and narrow.
Though I’m not straight, and I shop in the big and tall section. So maybe the straight and narrow was never going to be a good fit for me anyway.
A notification banner pops up at the top of my screen from the hookup app I frequent most often, Kink Camp. It specializes in helping men make BDSM connections based on geo-location and shared interests.
The message is a noncommittal text from another wishy-washy submissive who likes the idea of meeting up for play but never follows through. Still, I welcome the distraction of a window-shopping scroll to quiet my criminal impulses.
The grid supplies me with plenty of eye candy. I’m the kind of twisted man who asks the same exact question when looking at photos of hot guys I’d like to fuck as I do big houses I’d like to rob—how can I get inside them and take what I want?
None of the app conversations hold my attention.
I switch over to my encrypted messaging app, the same one I’d used back when I was still doing shady dealings on the regular.
Despite swearing off crime, I don’t need prying eyes on my private life.
The filthy fantasies I spin in these chats are for me and my consenting partners only.
The government can stay the hell out of my pants unless they want to suck my dick and pay for the honor.
I open the text thread with the submissive twunk—a twink mixed with a hunk—with piercing blue eyes and curly blond hair named Reed from the University of Wyoming, even though I know I shouldn’t.
Six months ago, we met for a get-to-know-you drink at a grungy bar and an edging session back at his campus housing while his roommate was away.
It was his first time trying kink with someone, and he took to it like a horse to water.
The conversation beforehand wasn’t half bad either.
He had the kind of All-American good looks and charm that made even the simplest sentences sound interesting.
Since then, he’s texted several times asking for a round two. Even though Reed and I had incredible chemistry and clearly shared an affinity for superheroes, I couldn’t convince myself to accept any of his follow-up offers. I had a golden rule for hookups: no repeats.
The thing is, as far as anybody I play with is concerned, my name is Hank Richards, I work in car sales, and I’m originally from Colorado. I even have a fake ID to back up my story in case anybody cares to check. Though I’m the intimidating type, so most don’t even broach the idea.
Second meetups mean I might have to tell the truth, have to trust someone. No way. Not on my watch. I’ve let people get close before, and I always end up getting fucked, and not in the fun way.
Instead of growing feelings, I grew a pair and ghosted Reed.
Yet here I am, mooning over his pictures again.
He’s got pecs that could double as pillows and bulging biceps that strain the sleeves of his compression-style T-shirt.
In my favorite PG-13 pic, he wears a pair of small red shorts while posing all bare-chested in front of a smudgy gym mirror. My hands itch to touch him all over.
There’s nothing I love more than making a muscle boy my plaything. The grappling. The sweating. The grunting. I like having to win the Dom power. And Reed didn’t make it easy on me.
I’ve got twenty years, two inches, and probably forty pounds on him. Where he’s sculpted muscle, I’m workman’s bulk. We make for a true battle of the brawns. It was a challenge to get him on his knees. But once he was there, man, he proved that’s where he belonged.
My dick stirs in my jeans at the memory. Because of the beastly week I’ve had, I haven’t gotten off a single solitary time. My balls are a color beyond blue, which means I need a lay that I know will drop me in completely, take my mind off the unemployment hell that awaits me.
Combing through the sexy photos Reed has sent me has my shorts growing fuller and my heart beating faster.
I stop on a particular photo that piques my interest. In it, Reed wears a spandex superhero suit.
It’s a Nova Ranger costume with a matching celestial helmet tugged down over his curly golden locks.
I swipe back to his Kink Camp profile and confirm he is also a fan of role play.
Debase him, the little villain in my head growls.
Tonight, it would be nice to not be Dax Sharp. I don’t even want to be Hank Richards. I want to be someone else’s creation. A character with better luck than my own.
Fuck him, the villain says. You know you want to.
I do want to.
I want to become that villain. Inhabit my inner voice.
In a Nova Ranger role play, I could be Dr. Nebula, the supervillain with a desire to destroy the universe. It won’t be much of a reach for me. That is how I’m feeling today. I would burn it all to the ground if I could rise from the ashes brand-new.
I text Reed.
Come over to my place tonight?
Impatience is a weakness of mine, so when he doesn’t respond to my message right away, I scroll up and up and up.
Our former exchanges could double as published erotica.
They are further fuel for my already sky-high desires.
When I come back to the last message that I wrote to him, I’m struck by what I typed.
I’ll know for next time.
Next time.
I fight off a full-body shiver.
That can’t be right. I never do a next time. Ropes are meant for Shibari bindings, not for me to get tied to the tracks as a train barrels my way again. Make me the fall guy once, shame on you. Make me the fall guy twice? I’ve only got myself to blame.
Somehow, my subconscious, after that night in Reed’s dorm room, had convinced me to type out next time. Like my body had decided something before my brain agreed.
That isn’t good. I can’t let my life be ruled by organs below my neck.
Moments away from blocking Reed and pretending my momentary lapse of judgment never happened, a sharp, loud ding halts me. A response from Reed lights up my notifications.
I’m free. How does 7 sound?
His lack of hello. His eagerness. His down-to-the-specifics response.
It’s more mature than his twenty-three years, and it makes me question if I could even go through with cutting him off.
Could I really block his number and pretend we never met?
The last time we hooked up, he’d been the only one to come.
Twice. Not that I’m keeping score, but in a way, I feel like he owes me an orgasm. Reciprocity, and all that.
Reed sends a follow-up message.
Address?
One more night with Reed Thompson won’t break down my built-up defenses. I’m made of stronger stock than other people believe. Time has hardened me, and I’m not just talking about the iron rod in my lap.
I drop Reed a location pin along with an explicit instruction.
Wear the suit, Nova.