Chapter 17 Dax
DAX
Reed’s loud moan of pain and pleasure is the hottest sound I’ve ever heard.
Call me amoral, twisted, sick, or all three. I don’t give a fuck. I’m rock solid again despite my explosive orgasm out in the woods.
I drill my knee into his crotch. If he didn’t have a CBT—cock and ball torture—kink before, he might’ve uncovered one now.
His eyebrows torque and his hands flex like they’re signaling me to stop.
It’s his open, panting mouth and his shuddering chest that tell me he enjoys this too much to fight it.
“Oh, yes,” he whimpers almost reverently. “God, yes.”
That’s it, boy. Give in to me, my inner villain sings.
My hand cups the side of his face before my exploratory fingers slide inside Reed’s mouth. One at a time, I stretch his pretty lips around my knuckles.
Any second now, Reed’s phone could ring again.
Erin could call back with the location and combination for the safe, and this could all be over.
I’ll dash off into the night and disappear from the country.
Whatever is between Reed and me will be done for good, so right now, I’m going to enjoy this.
I’ll throw myself a pity party once I’m done pulverizing his tonsils.
Reed’s eyes roll back in his head as my hand invades his mouth. Spit drips around my fingers and pools on his upper chest.
I unsheathe the hunting knife again and grope for my backpack.
From a deep interior pocket, I produce a condom.
I always keep a few handy even though I’m tested regularly, negative, on PrEP, and prefer bareback.
Nothing beats that skin-to-skin sensation.
But I don’t like to be unprepared for whatever life throws at me.
Case in point: my boundless anger when I found Reed Thompson soaking in the outdoor hot tub here. Pushing this Dom/sub scene even further is his punishment for interfering with my plans, my work, my one ticket to safety, and the life I deserve.
I roll the condom down over the handle of my knife. I almost laugh at the courtesy I’m showing him. Minutes ago, I threatened to slit his throat, but god forbid he suck on an unsanitized knife handle for my enjoyment.
“Open,” I instruct.
His salmon-colored lips stay closed. It’s cute that he thinks he has a choice in the matter.
“Open,” I repeat, lower and louder.
The blue of his eyes darkens to a near black. They track the impatient circular motion I make in the air with my knife, causing them to look like vinyl records spinning on turntables.
“Open wide now, boy, or I’m going to force the other end in,” I say. Unless Reed’s got a hidden talent for circus-level sword swallowing, his mouth and throat will get sliced up. “Tongue out,” I tell him. “Say ‘ahh’ like a good sub.”
Something flashes in his eyes. Excitement? Recognition?
I don’t catch it fast enough to decode it, and I’m too horny to care.
His wide, flat tongue unfurls. The expression makes me want to drop my drawers and take a seat on his face. Smother him with my scent and weight until he’s marked with my pheromones and desperate for air, his eager tongue tasting my pliable entrance.
I work the handle of the knife into his mouth, inch by inch.
This knife is one of the few remnants of childhood I still have.
I was probably seventeen when my dad gave it to me on one of our hunting trips that happened to overlap with my birthday.
I spent most of my youth figuring he didn’t remember when it was or that he didn’t care about it.
He never said happy birthday. He never got me a card.
He never hugged me. But that day, the first of my seventeenth year, with a massive bull elk I’d shot between us, he passed me this knife over the carcass.
After I’d skinned the elk, I passed the knife back, thinking it was yet another new torture toy dad had bought himself.
He shook his head and pushed my hand away.
“Don’t show your mother,” he’d said in his deep, cigar-smoker’s voice.
It wasn’t until we were back home from the trip, and I was stowing the cleaned knife under a loose floorboard by my bed where Mom wouldn’t look, that I noticed he’d had the handle engraved with my initials.
DS.
Dax Sharp.
Dad/son.
Dom/sub.
The two letters disappear now into Reed’s mouth as he loosens his jaw to accommodate the width of the handle.
Watching his eyes water as he deepthroats my hunting knife has my dick doing jumping jacks.
I could come from feeding him the knife alone.
But I won’t lose another perfectly good load to my briefs again.
“Bite down,” I demand. Reed’s teeth chomp on the sub hilt. I grin at him, enjoying this enough to almost make the dramatic chase tonight worth it. “Don’t move an inch until I’m back.”
Shock expands Reed’s eyes. If his teeth give out or his jaw wobbles, that knife summersaults into his lap. The point could pierce him if he’s not careful.
From the closet, I grab a scarf, which I use to blindfold Reed. The knife still protrudes from his mouth like an apple in the maw of a slow-roasted hog. Little by little, he becomes a piece of meat for my pleasure. A personal sex toy. It’s how we both like it.
I tug down the waistband of my pants. “My cock is what you really want, isn’t it?”
His nose twitches and his eyebrows rise as he fights for breath with the knife still in his mouth.
I prop one foot up on the chair between his legs, guide his head down, and replace the knife with my cock. Plunging into the warmth of his mouth is as heavenly as I remember it to be. He lets out a grunt of enjoyment around my thickness.
I buck my hips, pressing the hand still holding the knife to the back of his head so he stays exactly where I want him. Where I need him.
If it weren’t clear before, it’s a flashing green light now.
I need Reed Thompson.
“Good fucking boy. Make a mess of that cock.” My shaft gleams with his slobber. My balls tighten and my chest feels like it’s being crushed under an anvil. Like I could die from too much bliss. “Now let’s try a magic trick. Make my cock disappear.”
All of me fits snuggly down the back of Reed’s throat.
I hold there because my dick won’t let me move.
Like it wants to make a home there. When I pull back, I ruffle Reed’s hair in praise.
A half-second smile from him goads me on.
At least for the moment, he’s in hedonistic paradise, right there with me.
What if I took him with me? He could be the beauty to my beast. I could keep him by my side as I flee the country, subsume a new identity, and start over. That would definitely piss Wendell Blitz off to the max. I rob him of his prized possessions and of the son he didn’t even know he had.
Hell no, the villain in my head chides. It’s too risky to think like that. You work alone. You’re best alone. Bringing other people into your business has always ended in disaster for you. You can’t throw your life away over a trick.
The voice is right. I know it’s right. But the idea still appeals to me as my dick trembles between Reed’s lips, even if I realize Reed would never agree to it. His future is all money bags and golden toilets from here on out. I guess I should enjoy him while I’ve got him.
I weasel my hand around the pouch of Reed’s briefs, push it to the side, and haul his solid length out.
It’s an impressive penis. Almost too impressive.
Makes me wish I had one of my cock cages on me so I could control the unruly boners he keeps getting.
So he can really feel what it’s like to struggle.
I use my other hand to grope his balls. They feel full and heavy in my hands. I squeeze them and tug them down. Reed lets out a high-pitched squeal, which makes me back away.
I hawkishly watch him. I still my breathing, freeze in place. I wait to see what he does next. His head turns right, then left. And when I sense his maximizing fear that I’ve left him like that—bound, exposed, and needful—I strike again.