Chapter 62
Tristan
Following Nick’s instructions, I go to the bedroom and strip naked.
He has me lie down on the bed, using a series of restraints to hold my wrists above my head and my legs spread.
I feel pleasantly stretched out, exposed, vulnerable.
“I want you to answer a question,” Nick says, standing over the bed.
Unlike me, he’s still clothed, at least partially, wearing a pair of loose gray sweatpants that ride low on his hips, and which give me with a delicious view of the outline of his cock.
“Anything.”
Nick nods, pleased with my response. “I’ve read your survey. I know what you like.”
He shakes his head, biting his lip. “Just as filthy as I like it. You like a little bit of pain, don’t you?”
My cheeks flush, because that’s something I’ve been taught to be ashamed of, but I remind myself that I don’t need to be ashamed anymore. Not with Nick.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Yes, what?” he says sternly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good boy.”
He walks around the bed to his closet, opens the door, rummages for a moment, and then pulls out a leather bag. Returning to the bed, he opens the bag and pulls something out.
“See this?” He holds something up.
A clothespin.
My breath catches. Goosebumps rise on my skin.
“Yes, I see it.”
“What is it?”
“A clothespin.”
“Good. You’d like it if I put these on you, wouldn’t you?”
I would. I really, really would.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good boy.”
He approaches, draws a featherlight touch over my cock, the ticklish sensation making me shiver.
I’m hard, so hard.
“How’s this?” he purrs, and clips the clothespin onto my left nipple.
An involuntary hiss of pain escapes me, but the pain isn’t too severe. Just a sharp pinch that dulls a bit after a second.
It feels… good.
Maybe that means there’s something wrong with me, but it feels so good.
So right.
“Oh, yeah, you like that. I can tell.”
I nod frantically, tears springing into my eyes.
“You’ll use your safe word if anything is too much, right?” Nick asks earnestly.
“Yes, I promise. You’re all green right now.”
“Okay. So, this is how it’s going to work. Do you want me to put a pin on your other nipple?”
“Yes,” I say, so quickly that he smiles down at me.
“Someone’s eager. If you want it, you’re gonna have to tell me something nice about yourself.”
I gape at him. “Seriously?”
“I’m dead serious.”
I furrow my brow. “This is like getting asked what your favorite movie is, and then you forget every movie you’ve ever watched.”
He taps a clothespin against his chin. “I’m waiting.”
“I have a good smile.”
“Well, obviously. I tell you how much I like your smile all the time.”
I pout. “That still counts!”
He sighs. “If you say so. Do you think you earned another clothespin?”
“Yes, yes, sir.”
“If you say so….”
He bends over me, clothespin extended, and clamps it onto my right nipple.
Immediately, another quick, sharp blush of pain spreads through me.
For someone else, someone whose wires are a little less crossed, this might do the opposite of working.
It’s not often in Pavlovian conditioning that you use pain to reinforce good behavior—but that’s exactly what Nick is doing, with clear communication and my consent.
I know what he’s doing: he’s training me, in a way, to associate good things (in this case, for me, a small, consensual amount of pain) with saying personal affirmations.
It’s genius, in a twisted sort of way.
It’s something that only a person who knows me intimately and without any judgment would know to do.
“Very good,” he says. “I’m so proud of you. Do you think you can handle another one?”
I look down at myself, at my chest rising and falling with each breath, at the two clothespins clamped to my nipples. They hurt, and the pain is so good.
“Yes, I do.”
Nick bends down and presses a long, luscious kiss to my mouth. “Such a good boy. You’re being so brave. Okay. Tell me another good thing about you. Make it a good one.”
I want to come up with something that will make him proud. Something real, not something superficial, like my smile.
Finally, I say, “I’m loyal.”
“You are,” he murmurs. “And you’ve earned another one of these.”
He selects another clothespin from his bag and clips it to my skin, just below my left nipple.
The pinch is sharp, painful, and clarifying. Each addition of pain clears my mind a bit more. Makes it easier for me to think.
Nick’s plan is working.
Nick murmurs gentle praises as I get my breathing under control.
It hurts, yes, but it’s utterly perfect.
He kisses the tender skin around each clothespin, kisses his way up to my neck, and then kisses me again on the mouth.
“And another,” he whispers.
We repeat the exercise many times.
I affirm my kindness, my reliability, my body, my resilience, my spirit, my sense of humor, my laugh, my strength and capacity to heal, my capacity to love, and much, much more.
Soon, a line of clothespins marches from each of my nipples, down my torso, to my V-line, and three more clothespins are clipped to each of my inner thighs.
Nick leaves my cock and balls free of clothespins, but slicks them with lube and begins to stroke me between applications of clothespins, whispering filthy, earnest praises as he brings me closer and closer to arousal.
“You’re doing so good, baby…. Just one more…. Think you can handle another one?… You’re doing so good…. I’m so proud of you…. You’re right, you’re right, you’re right.”
The tears are flowing freely now, running from the corners of my eyes, down my temples, into my hair.
The pain is bright and clear and so, so good.
Nick looks down at his handiwork, at me, and nods. “Very good. I think you’re ready to cum, now.”
I nod frantically—it’s too hard for me to speak.
He kneels between my spread, restrained legs, and strokes my cock in one hand, while fondling my balls in the other.
I give myself over to the pain and the pleasure.
I writhe, testing my restraints, arching my back at the unbearable, ticklish pleasure of his hand around my cock, toying with my head, teasing my slit.
He is alternately quick and slow, bringing me right to the brink of orgasm, and then taking me down again. I gasp, I beg, I plead for him to let me cum, but he won’t let me, not until he decides it’s time.
All the while, he repeats back to me all the affirmations he made me say about myself.
“You are kind…. You are reliable…. You have a beautiful body…. You are resilient…. You have a radiant spirit…. Your sense of humor is unmatched…. You have a great laugh…. You are strong…. You have healed from terrible wounds…. You love fiercely….”
All of these, and more, are things I said about myself. Not things that he said first about me. Sure, some of them I get from what others have told me, but this is me.
“These are just some of the many incredible things about you,” Nick murmurs, squeezing my cock, precum dripping down my shaft, smearing on his fingers. “Just some of the many, many things. You know that, right?”
I nod, whimpering a “yes.”
“And you know that I see even more, right?”
This time, I only hesitate briefly before nodding.
“Good. Because everything that you see, I see. And so much more.”
He flicks my cock, I gasp, ready to cum, and he holds me down, steadying me.
“Shh, not quite yet. We’re almost there, baby. We’re so close. Can you hang on for me, for just a little bit longer?”
I’m sweating, crying, and trembling. My need to cum is overwhelming.
“I… I think so,” I stammer.
“Good.” He strokes my cock again. “These are just some of the things that make you worthy of love.”
I choke back a sob.
“It’s okay to cry,” he says gently. His voice is so soft, so tender, so steady. “You can cry.”
The tears so far have just been from the pain and the pleasure, but now I let myself go fully, breaking the dam inside me, and all the emotions, all the feelings, hit me, and I sob. I weep.
Nick’s strokes quicken on my cock.
“You, Tristan Cavanagh, are worthy of love. You are brilliant. You are beautiful. You are strong. You are loved by so, so many people, just as you are. They see you, and they love you. We see you, and we love you.”
I don’t remember the last time I wept this hard—was it Warren’s funeral?
I’m a mess, I’m sure of it. Tears flow unchecked, snot bubbles from my nose, and I can’t wipe it away.
This is what Nick thinks is brilliant and beautiful?
As if reading my mind, he leans close, his hand never ceasing to pump around my cock.
“Yes,” he whispers, his voice close to my ear. He kisses my cheek. “I see you, and I love you.”
And just like that, I cum.
My back arches, I cry out, and—god—I cum.
My orgasm rips me apart, a tidal wave of pleasure that sends all the nerves in my body into overdrive.
I see stars, I see lights and shadows, I am floating and falling and cresting and crashing. I’m sobbing and screaming and crying something—Nick’s name. I’m saying his name, over and over again, like it’s the only thing that will bring me back to Earth.
And then, in quick, careful movements, he takes the clothespins off, unfastens my restrains, and cradles me to him, wrapping his strong body around me, holding me tight. I curl into his body, making myself as small as I can, my sobs shaking me.
Nick says nothing. He strokes my hair, rubs my back, holds me tight. He murmurs soft, soothing noises—no words, just gentle shushes, as we ride out the waves of my grief together.
What he said isn’t lost on me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
Nick loves me.
It is a powerful truth, an ironclad truth, an overwhelming truth.
Our relationship, whatever we might label it, is built on uncompromising honesty.
We will not lie to each other, and so he isn’t lying to me when he says that he loves me.
He sees all that I am, knows all that I am. Knows my grief and my insecurities, my prides and my joys. He knows all of that, and he loves me.
My tears stop.
My breathing calms.
My heart rate returns to a level that wouldn’t trigger alarms at the hospital.
I shift in Nick’s arms so that I can see his face, can meet his gaze, a gaze that part of me says I should be ashamed to meet, but I silence that part of my mind. That’s my anxiety speaking, my shame encouraging it, and I do not need those voices.
I mentally thank my anxiety for how it has protected me at times, and silently tell my shame that it has no place inside me anymore.
For I am not ashamed.
Nick’s eyes are dark, gentle, curious.
“You love me?” I whisper.
A tender smile crosses Nick’s full lips. “I love you.”
He brushes the tears on my cheeks, kisses them away. “You don’t need to say it to me if you’re not ready or if you don’t feel the same. I just wanted you to know that I love you, and that when I say it, I mean it.”
I take a shaky breath. I know that he means it genuinely, that there is no pressure for me to respond if I’m not ready. And I wish I were ready, but I’m just not.
“I’ll be ready to say it soon,” I murmur.
It’s the truth. My feelings, as complicated and tangled as they are, are becoming clearer.
Nick has made them clearer.
He kisses me softly on the lips. “You made a lot of progress tonight. When you’re ready, you can say it.”
I’ve cried all my tears, having nothing left to give. “It’s okay that I can’t say it now?”
He thumbs away the last of my tears. “Baby, of course it’s okay. Now, let’s get you cleaned up.”
? ? ?
He carries me to the shower, rinses the cum and sweat from my body.
His hands are soft and gentle as he lathers soap over me. When I’m clean, he dries me with a soft towel and fetches me a glass of water and two Ibuprofen.
“For the welts,” he explains. “And if you need any cream, let me know.”
I take the pills gratefully, then stare at myself in the mirror. My naked body is marked from him. My nipples are swollen, and twin lines of red welts march from my nipples to my groin, and then down the insides of my thighs.
I hope the marks never disappear.
“Let’s get some pants on you,” Nick says, “and then you go lie in the bed.”
Once I’m half-dressed in only underwear, I get into bed, lying propped up on pillows while he goes to the kitchen.
I hear some rattling around, and when he returns, he’s holding a bucket full of little baggies of ice, each of which he wraps in a thin towel.
He lines them up on welts on my torso and thighs, cooling the lingering sting of the welts.
Then, he lies down beside me on the bed and wraps an arm around my shoulders.
“You rest,” he murmurs. “I’ll take the ice off in a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, leaning my head against his shoulder.
Despite the lingering pain, the growing numbness from the ice, despite the thoughts that were spinning through my head moments ago, I feel incredibly clear, incredibly calm, and incredibly tired.
It isn’t long before I drift off to sleep.