For Real (Spires, #3)

by Alexis Hall

Pervocracy fostered a self-consciously carnival atmosphere. And cupcakes. It was like they were saying, See what multidimensional humans we are. We’re not just kinky, we’re hipsters too.

Forever limps by.

And I was relatively sure we’d played (I so hated that word) together before. So I let him take me home, where we exchanged the usual codes: no unprotected sex, no scat, no piss, no blood play, no breath play, no gags, no blindfolds, no permanent marks or modifications, no kneeling unless I was sucking cock, yellow to slow, red to stop, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. No depth. No truth. No meaning.

He was panting barely coherent obscenities, but they fell upon me like kisses. I hurt—my wrists, my jaw, my knees, my balls, my cock—I hurt for him, I hurt with desire for him. But it was how he touched me, this pain he gave. How he touched me without touching, turning absence into caresses.

Shows how strong he is. To be willing to be powerless. For me. This is a thing he can do. He can make himself into a gift. And what it makes me feel is humble. The truth is, I really fucking admire him. And the more he gives me—pain, dignity, shame, tears, this weakness that isn’t weakness at all—the more I admire him. The more I just totally adore him.

“I want to give him everything, and the things I can’t give, I want him to take.”

“God no. I want to hurt you because I love you.”

Laurie isn’t saying anything. I try to catch his eye, and when I do, he mouths, Who are you? at me. I mouth back, Yours.