Red Zone Page 4

  Decision made, I leapt out of the bed and fumbled around in my drawers for some underwear, sweats, and a t-shirt. I had to somehow convince the man I hated, and who probably hated me in return, to keep his mouth shut. It would, no doubt, be like making a bargain with the devil, but it appeared the devil was firmly in my life—and in control of me for the moment.

  If this was a war, I’d just lost the first battle.

  Chapter Two

  Memphis

  I paced back and forth across the length of the suite’s living room area, watching the clock with every step because I didn’t intend to give Kingston one second longer than three minutes to walk his ass in here to face me. So many emotions rippled through my body, warning me that I was getting in way over my head, and I needed to reach out for professional help for Kingston. I didn’t have the experience or knowledge to begin to know how to deal with the shit I’d walked in on earlier.

  Fuck! Cutting himself? Never in my life could I have pictured someone like Kingston doing something like that. Though in a way, it all made perfect sense. The first time I’d ever seen him, before I even knew who he really was, I’d witnessed how deeply he was into pain. So, it shouldn’t have shocked me to find him like that. But I had to admit it did. I didn’t realize just how much of a pain whore he truly was.

  I’d met Kingston at a club called Checkmate that I went to on the outskirts of town. This was still the south, and not exactly an urban area, so clubs that catered to BDSM were few and far between. The club that I had found was a good one though, run by a guy who previously had a similar, larger club in Atlanta, but had to move out of that area to be closer to his husband’s aging parents. He was a nice man, about my father’s age, and I respected him. I’d been told he was a good Dom—one of the best, in his day, though now he pretty much just managed the club. His name was Austin and he’d bought this old country bar and made a number of changes, mostly with staff, but also with the decor. He’d added on some playrooms at the back and set up some rules and standards that were as stringent as any of the larger clubs in the city. When I’d first come down here from Illinois, I never thought I’d find a place like this so close by, and once I did, I became a regular.

  I had little interest in making friends at school, which was good because they obviously shared the sentiment. I had just transferred in, and was still trying to get a handle on my place on the team, and they were all on Kingston Bentley’s side. I’d never wanted it to be a matter of taking sides, but it seemed I had no choice. At that point, I wasn’t even sure why I’d let myself be talked into this by my Dad—the team already had a good quarterback and I wasn’t interested in playing second string when I’d been first at my old school. My father had asked for my patience though and reminded me that there was a school of thought that a great college football team can never have too many quarterbacks. Quarterback transfers were currently epidemic, and most quarterbacks weren’t content to wait it out and hope a teammate got hurt. They were aggressively looking for a new school, and at that point, I expected Kingston might do the same. The majority of quarterbacks would rather compete for the first-string job, even knowing it might still mean being second best. I know I did, because I was confident in my skills.

  Still I was feeling my way at this new school, having just joined maybe the most successful team in all the SEC. Maybe in all of college football. I wasn’t there to make friends, after all, but to chase my NFL dreams. So, I made my friends elsewhere.

  So far, practice had been good, and my dad had already told me he was giving me the position. That just might send Kingston Bentley to the transfer market yet. I was feeling pretty stressed about the situation, and that particular Friday night, I had decided to take some time for myself and travel the more than forty miles outside of town to the club I’d found. It wasn’t my usual night—I usually went to the club on Saturdays. But I was looking forward to finding a cute young sub and hooking up for the night to help release a little of the tension I’d been feeling since I’d arrived.

  I considered myself to be bisexual, and that gave me a nice playing field to choose from. Yet, ever since I’d been coming to Checkmate, I’d been hearing the Doms talk about this particular sub that came in from time to time. He was male, which wasn’t a problem. In fact, I preferred a male sub. The word was that he was gorgeous. They said he played with several of the Doms but belonged to none of them. Kept pretty much to himself when he wasn’t negotiating a scene. He had a reputation as a brat of epic proportions but was so beautiful and so willing to accept any pain or bondage given to him and ask for even more that he’d quickly become very popular.

  More than one Dom would have loved to tame him, but he preferred to tease, flirt, sit on laps or lean into his victims to drive them wild with lust before flitting off to the next. He said his name was Danny, but would reveal no further information, only adding to the mystery of who he was. The only thing anyone knew for sure about him was that he was young, gorgeous, and had been coming to this club sporadically for over two years. Recently, though, his visits had become more frequent. His soft southern accent marked him as a local, but he only smiled enigmatically when attempts were made to find out any more about him.

  That night as I entered the bar, a friend of mine, another Dom I sometimes had a drink with named Charlie, waved me over to his table. “Danny’s here tonight,” he said, his voice registering a little excitement. “He’s doing a scene with Thomas. Would you like to go with me and observe? Thomas has invited me.”

  “If you think Thomas wouldn’t mind me tagging along?”

  “You know Thomas. He likes to show off his skills.”

  “Okay, sure. I’d like to see the infamous Danny in action.”

  I followed him down the hallway to the last room on the right. Charlie was right. There were already a couple of other guys in the room, silently watching the scene unfold. “That’s Danny there,” Charlie said, pointing out the obvious, as he indicated the figure on the St. Andrew’s cross. I got as close as I could to better observe. Thomas spent a long time tying the beautiful boy up, working with focus and efficiency.

  Leaning against the wall, I observed Danny, who had his back to the crowd. He was naked, and it was hard to keep my eyes off his gorgeous body as Thomas looped coil after coil of rope around the man’s slim ankles and wrists, moving across his sculpted thighs and up around his leanly muscled biceps, forming intricate patterns with the rope.

  Danny was absolutely beautiful, without a doubt. He had an athletic body, but he wasn’t tall or overly muscular. He was just—perfect. I wondered if his face would be as beautiful. And then he turned around to look over his shoulder at the rope, I was glad of the wall at my back, because it helped keep me on my feet. The boy on the cross, unless he had a twin brother I’d never heard about before, was none other than Kingston Bentley, the goddamned quarterback from my new team. I couldn’t fucking believe it.

  I was almost sure the man I was looking at was just playing at submission. He was restless with the rope, and obviously just itching to get to the main event—the flogging. I had a feeling that any true submission from him would be difficult to earn. I wondered if he even considered himself to be a sub, and only put on this show to get what he really wanted—the pain. I suspected he was totally unaware of how badly he needed a strong Dom’s control.

  When Thomas finally finished the intricate knotting on his ropes, he stood back to admire his creation, and I had to admit it was a work of art. The interlocking rope work accented Kingston’s lean lines, though the ropes didn’t restrict his movement all that much, and I had to wonder why. Did Kingston not appreciate the comforts of a tight rigging, or was Thomas simply not allowing him one?

  He could move his hands and feet a foot or so in any direction, and his legs were spread apart. Since the ropes were tethered to the big leather-bound steel frame of the St. Andrew’s cross, they would keep him from falling if his legs gave out, but they weren’t tight enough to give him
any real support, thus adding an extra degree of difficulty for him if he started having trouble.

  From what my friend Charlie had already told me, this boy had never to his knowledge used his safe word at the club. He said that Thomas, who was perhaps the most active and arguably the most cruel sadist at the club, had said privately that he had never plumbed “Danny’s” limits or even come close to them. Charlie told me he said once that he was afraid he’d go too far with him, because the man would never admit to having any limits. I thought it might be one of the reasons he’d invited the others to observe tonight, but I had to wonder if deep down Thomas considered Kingston to be a real challenge to his abilities—one that he eagerly accepted so he could show off to the other Doms.

  Thomas began by rubbing his hands over Kingston’s body, jacking his cock and whispering in his ear. Kingston merely nodded at whatever he told him, keeping his face turned determinedly toward the wall. He looked relaxed, his body not at all tense as he waited for Thomas to get on with it. I wondered if he was already flying just from the anticipation.

  Thomas selected first a flogger and stepped up to where Kingston hung from the ropes. “No coming without permission, boy. Understand?”

  Kingston nodded, mumbling, “Yeah, whatever.”

  Thomas reacted with a hard, twisting pinch to his nipples. “That’s ‘Yes, Sir’ to you, boy!”

  Kingston’s mouth dropped open and his head fell back. He looked ecstatic, but I felt uneasy. I was here to observe with the others and Thomas wouldn’t appreciate my interference, but damn, couldn’t the man see he was rewarding Kingston with every administration of pain? In essence, rewarding him for his bad behavior. Did he even care about teaching his submissive, or was he only interested in getting himself off? Even though Kingston was only his for this scene, Thomas still had a responsibility toward him.

  Thomas stepped back and slapped the wicked looking flogger in his free hand, clearly relishing what he was about to do. The flogger’s strands had knots up and down their length, more of a cat o’ nine tails than a standard flogger and they were most often used as an instrument of punishment. But then Thomas had experience with Kingston, and he’d indicated that Kingston could take whatever he dished out. Perhaps he knew it would take a flogger like this one to elicit any response or give Kingston what he needed. Thomas drew back his arm and delivered five hard strikes in rapid succession to his shoulders.

  Kingston hissed through his teeth, but kept his head up, barely even flinching. Thomas began moving down his back, laying down a pattern of red stripes on Kingston’s white skin. Here and there a dark red welt formed where the vicious knots landed, but Kingston seemed to pay them little mind. His head had dropped forward again, and he was making an occasional low moaning sound, but still not giving Thomas the reaction I knew he was looking for.

  After twenty minutes or so of the flogger, Thomas threw it down and stalked toward the cabinet to take out a cane, almost as thick as my thumb. He stopped long enough to whisper to Kingston again and work his cock up and down vigorously with his fist before coming back over to stand behind him. He first struck the back of Kingston’s thigh, then laid down four or five more punishing blows to his buttocks and his back.

  Kingston grunted with each lick of the cane and sweat began to dampen his hair and stand out in beads on his face, but still he hadn’t moved or made any attempt to strain against his bonds. Thomas drew back his arm and delivered a punishing upward strike to his balls with the cane and for the first time, Kingston picked up his foot and hissed loudly.

  “Stand still boy, you know better than that!” Thomas yelled at him and struck his balls with the cane again. Kingston turned his head and rolled his eyes toward Thomas with a curl of his upper lip.

  “More,” he said, his voice taunting and breathless.

  Thomas swore softly. He had worked up a sweat by this time and his cock strained against his tight leather pants. He slipped his hand inside his pants to stroke himself and catch his breath. Still, Kingston had barely moved, only glancing over his shoulder once to see what the hold-up was. Thomas seemed disconcerted by his request for more, and almost angry, as if Kingston had laid down a challenge. There was no crying out or whimpering for the blows to stop—none of the reactions Thomas was probably used to getting from his partners, and I could see he didn’t know how to handle it. He never asked for Kingston’s safe word either and that should have already been done, and frequently. I had to wonder if the fool even had one, or if this Thomas idiot even cared.

  Thomas laid down more vicious blows across the stripes already on Kingston’s shoulders and blood began to seep from the welts that were by now an angry purple color. By the time he finished, Thomas was red in the face and still Kingston hadn’t used his safe word or asked him to stop. Thomas seemed to take it as a personal affront.

  “Damn you, boy. You’re making me work too hard for this,” he muttered, his breath coming harder as he wiped the sweat from his brow. He pulled back his arm to deliver another round, and I decided I had to step in. Charlie grabbed my arm as I passed him, but I yanked it away.

  “He’s had enough.”

  Thomas turned glazed eyes toward me as I took hold of his arm and wrenched the cane away. He turned on me almost savagely. “No. He hasn’t told me to stop. Butt out!”

  Charlie was looking uneasy at this point, as well as the other Doms, but I was livid with anger.

  “Fuck you! He’s damn near unconscious,” I yelled at him. “This needs to stop.”

  Charlie finally stepped forward to help me and grabbed Thomas’s wrist. “It’s enough, damn it,” he said.

  I got in Thomas’s face. “He’s bleeding. Now end it, or I’m calling for the manager. You’re done here.”

  Thomas pulled his wrist away sharply, but glared back at me. His face had turned an ugly shade of red and for a moment I thought he might take a swing at me. I almost hoped he would but he simply gave a disgusted grunt and dropped the cane at my feet.

  “You cut him down then—I’m done.” Turning on his heel, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Through it all, Kingston had never even raised his head from where it was slumped between his shoulders. He was sweat-slick and boneless as he hung from the ropes, his back a mass of welts.

  With a curse, I quickly pulled my utility knife from my belt and cut through the main support rope, as Charlie did the same on the other side. I eased Kingston to the floor when we finally had him cut down, knowing his legs would no longer hold him anyway. At first, Kingston roused slightly, moaning and turning his head toward me, though his eyes didn’t seem to focus properly. I bent down to get a better hold on him and hoisted him to his feet, wrapping an arm around his waist to support him over to the bed.

  “Easy,” I murmured to him, dropping down beside him and pulling him up to me so his back rested against my chest. “It’s okay. We’re with you, okay?” I wrapped both arms around his waist, holding him up and pulling him close, my hands stroking down his arms.

  Kingston turned his face toward me, his eyes bleary and blinking rapidly as if trying to clear his vision. “Wha-what happened? I didn’t use my safe word.”

  “No, you didn’t, but the scene is over. Come back now.” Charlie handed me a bottle of water from the side table by the bed, and I tipped the bottle up for him to drink some of it. Kingston grasped it and hungrily drank it down. I stopped him after he’d downed about half of it and pulled the bottle away.

  “That’s enough for now,” I said gently, putting the bottle back on the table. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

  One of the other Doms came back in the room, and the manager of the club, Austin, was with him. He knelt down beside the bed and checked both the damage and Kingston’s pulse. “It’s flying,” he said, his brow creased in worry. “I think I should call the paramedics.”

  I nodded and he pulled out his phone. Kingston grabbed his wrist. “No!” he gasped. “Please don’t call anyone. I’m begging yo
u.”

  “Son, you’re hurt pretty bad. I need to call the EMTs to check you out.”

  “If this gets out, I’ll lose my scholarship. My parents will kill me! Please, Sir. Please don’t call anyone!”

  “Your parents? How old are you, boy?”

  “I’m twenty-one; I swear it. I knew what I was doing, and I don’t blame anybody. I promise I won’t cause any trouble. Just please let me go home.”

  Austin ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not worried about you causing me trouble. I’m worried about you. Let the paramedics just check you out.”

  “It’s not as bad as you think. I’ve been hurt way more than this before. Really! Just let me get cleaned up and go on home. I promise I’m okay.”

  There had been more arguing, but finally, Austin had agreed not to call the EMTs if Kingston hung around a while, in case he had any problems breathing or was hurt more than he realized.

  Austin had asked us all to leave the room then, assuring us he would stay with him. I felt reluctant to leave him, even though I knew he wouldn’t want me to stay. I hoped he had been too out of things to even know I witnessed the scene. Hell, I’d caused him enough problems as it was. But as I went out the door, I looked back and caught Kingston’s eye. I saw the exact moment when he realized who I was, and I saw the panic hit. I wanted to stay and reassure him I wouldn’t say anything, but at that point, I thought I’d only be adding to his distress.

  Austin wound up driving him home that night in Kingston’s car, his assistant manager at the club following them, so I never got a chance to talk to him until later. When I saw him the next Monday in practice, he avoided me like the plague, and made it more than clear that he wouldn’t welcome me speaking to him about it. I thought I might wait and catch him at the club, but in all the months since, he’d never been back. And neither of us had ever discussed that night again. Foolishly, I’d thought that maybe he’d stopped his reckless behavior. I really should have known better.