Switching Gears (Serving his Master Book 7) Read online

  True, the clients were often collared, like Kenny here, but Ronan would just use those guys as an opportunity to improve his technique with the various whips, canes, paddles and crops provided by the club. Occasionally he would take someone home with him, but nothing ever came of it, beyond a few days or a few weeks of erotic play.

  He had a problem, and he had no clue how to solve it. While he loved the rituals, the obedience, the beautiful leather toys and the taking of submissives to erotic heights of masochistic ecstasy—when it got down to it, he rarely connected with the subs he met in this city.

  What did he expect? BDSM play clubs were not exactly the place to find true love.

  Once, he’d thought he found it, but that was years ago—that one amazing summer on the island of Capri, three glorious weeks when he’d been truly happy. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the crystal blue water of the Mediterranean and the sleepy hillside villages basking in the sun.

  When Nicholas had turned his clear green eyes toward Ronan that first day on the beach, somehow he’d just known—this is the one. He’d been nineteen to Nicholas’ twenty-eight. It was Nicholas who introduced him to the romance of D/s, welcoming Ronan into its power and passion.

  He’d taken Ronan along a sub’s path, teaching him about grace and the power of blending erotic pain and pleasure into something infinitely more rewarding than mere sex. Beyond BDSM, he’d taught Ronan about love, something he’d never witnessed between his cold, distant parents.

  With Nicholas, everything had been easy. Beyond the incredible sex, they laughed all the time, happy in each other’s company. Never before or since had Ronan felt so at ease in the world.

  How naïve and foolish he’d been back then. He’d bravely held back tears when they parted. He would find a way to return after his fall semester, he’d promised Nicholas. He’d had vague, romantic and wholly unrealistic notions of going to work with Nicholas on the fishing boats. Even when his letters went unanswered, he clung to the hope that Nicholas was somehow waiting for him.

  He’d returned to Capri the next spring. Nicholas welcomed him with open arms, but those arms now held another lover—a handsome young submissive named Estevo.

  Nicholas had been genuinely puzzled at Ronan’s devastation. At first he had laughed and chided Ronan, explaining that he kept many boys, and loved them all equally. When Ronan had protested, Nicholas had grown angry, telling Ronan he was selfish and not a true submissive, to want to own his Master instead of the other way around. He ordered Ronan from his sight, telling him he could return only on his knees, when ready to beg forgiveness.

  Humiliated and brokenhearted, Ronan had left Greece for good, banishing Nicholas from his heart. It had taken years to move past the feeling of loss and betrayal. He learned to compensate for the pain—to let it nestle down into a dark, secret place where it could no longer reach him. And never again did he submit to another man.

  Yet BDSM had been his salvation. As Ronan matured, he’d found himself more comfortable in the role of Dominant. He studied technique with some of the finest Doms in the city. He thrilled to the reactions he could pull from submissives who hungered for what he offered. It became more than just a sexual kink—it was a part of who he was, woven into the fabric of his being. And yet, at the center of it all, his heart remained cocooned, safe from the pain of Nicholas’ betrayal, frozen in time.

  He returned his attention to Kenny, keenly aware anger had no place in what they were about to do. He stroked Kenny’s ass and thighs with his fingers as he leaned close again, speaking softly.

  “I want you to relax. Don’t clutch the bar so tightly. Yes, that’s better. Stand out a little farther and rest your forehead on the bar.” As Kenny obeyed, Ronan continued to stroke his skin.

  “Why are you here?” Ronan asked.

  “Because Sir wants me to learn to take the cane better. He says a session with you will help us.”

  “Okay, good. So you’re here to please him. Any other reason?”

  “What?”

  “What do you hope to gain out of this, other than pleasing him?”

  “Um. I don’t know. I guess that’s enough, isn’t it?”

  Ronan suppressed a sigh. What was he after, anyway? It’s not like this guy was a potential partner. He was already taken, and much too young. Still, that didn’t mean Ronan couldn’t teach him something, something beyond just enduring a caning in order to please his Master. He could teach him something about himself, if Kenny were open to it. Ronan decided to find out.

  “I’m going to start very slowly and let your skin get used the sting. I want you to breathe. Don’t hold your breath. Don’t tense your muscles. Open yourself to me and to what I’m doing. When it gets too intense, breathe deeper. Take the pain into yourself. Use it to step to the next level.”

  Kenny looked blank. Ronan glanced back at Edward, who looked equally mystified. No matter, he would do this for them—give them a glimpse into what was possible beyond the mere physical aspect of rough play.

  He turned back to Kenny, tapping lightly with the cane over his ass cheeks and thighs. “Breathe,” he reminded his charge. He began to use the cane with more force, not enough to mark, but harder than before. Kenny remained still, though Ronan felt him tense.

  “Relax, breathe. You’re doing great. You need this. You were born for this.” Ronan had no idea if Kenny was indeed born to experience the incredible high of transcending erotic pain, but proceeded as if that were the case. If nothing else, it would be an interesting experiment.

  The first real blow landed squarely across both cheeks, just where Kenny’s ass cheeks met his thighs. Kenny jerked his head up and yelped.

  “Back into position.” Ronan’s tone was firm but not harsh.

  Kenny obeyed, dropping his forehead back to the bar immediately—a good sign.

  Ronan resumed the lighter tapping for a while, willing the tension to ease from Kenny’s body. When he deemed him sufficiently relaxed, Ronan struck again, just above the first spot. This time Kenny flinched, but stayed quiet and in position.

  Ronan stroked the pink welt rising on Kenny’s flesh.

  Kenny shuddered and pressed his ass back against Ronan’s hand. His erection, Ronan noted in the mirror, hadn’t flagged.

  Again he resumed the tapping, warming and readying the flesh for the next real blow. This time the cane whistled the second before contact.

  “Ah,” Kenny cried, rising onto his toes.

  “Relax your hands.” Ronan touched Kenny’s clenched knuckles and Kenny obeyed. His breath was shallow, his shoulders tense. “Stand flat. Relax. Give yourself over to the pain. Do it for Sir. Do it for yourself. Embrace the pain and let it take you where you need to go.”

  His voice nearly a whisper, he added, “Do it for me.”

  Kenny’s shoulders eased and his breathing deepened and slowed.

  Ronan continued to strike, the cane whistling in the air and leaving beautiful marks in its wake.

  Kenny’s head was back. He was close. Ronan could take him there. For a moment he almost wished they were alone. Alone in a bedroom, rather than in this cold, empty space, another man watching with clinical interest behind them.

  Forcing the thought from his mind, Ronan focused again on what he was doing. He continued the pattern, tapping lightly with the cane, interspersing it with strikes hard enough to welt the skin.

  Kenny was panting, but he remained remarkably still, his hands gripping but not clenching the bar, his feet flat on the ground. Gauging the time was right, Ronan delivered the first blow hard enough to leave a mark that wouldn’t fade for at least several hours.

  Kenny hissed in pain.

  “Breathe,” Ronan whispered in his ear. He stroked back the hair that had fallen in Kenny’s face, tucking the tendrils back behind his ears. Assuming his position again to the side and just behind Kenny, Ronan resumed the caning, painting a series of parallel welts on the boy’s small, muscular ass.

  Kenny�
�s panting had shifted to moans that were definitely sexual in nature. He leaned more heavily against the railing.

  Ronan watched him closely. He could almost feel the change himself as it came over the sub—the slowing heartbeat, the easing of the breath, the whooshing rush of heat and peace that filled his body and spirit.

  He struck Kenny hard enough that just a moment before it would have thrown him out of position. But Kenny didn’t move. “Shall I continue?” Ronan said, leaning close to Kenny’s ear. He waited until he saw the slight nod of Kenny’s head.

  Ronan reached around the boy, cupping the erection beneath the jock strap. They’d negotiated beforehand as to the couples’ limits, and Edward had made it clear he had no problem with Ronan’s touching his boy in whatever way he wished.

  Usually Ronan could handle the intimate contact without letting it affect him. It was just part of the training—a way to fuse sexual pleasure with erotic pain and thus reinforce the experience. For some reason, that evening Ronan felt an urge to do more. There was something that drew him to this boy. He sensed Kenny’s capacity to blossom into a true sub, under the right guidance. He wanted to take Kenny’s face into his hands and kiss his mouth, as if he were his lover. Of course, he did no such thing. The boy was already owned.

  Ronan glanced back at Edward, who was leaning forward, an intent expression on his face. He resumed the caning, not wanting to lose the momentum. He covered every inch of the offered ass with the fiery kiss of the cane and still Kenny held his position. When he’d decided Kenny had enough welts, he slowly decreased the intensity until he was again just tapping the skin.

  Lowering the cane, he lightly traced the welts with his fingers. Kenny didn’t move, his head still thrown back, eyes closed, a look of pure ecstasy on his face. Looking back, Ronan gestured for Edward to come over.

  As Edward stood beside him, Ronan explained, “He’s in that amazing place where pain doesn’t just rise above pleasure—they become one and the same thing. Each stroke of the cane is like a stroke to his cock. Look at him, look at his face. He’s floating on air.”

  Edward bent down close to his lover, a look of awe on his face. He touched one of the welts. “Is that something I can learn to do? I can take him to that place?”

  “Absolutely,” Ronan confirmed. “Next time you come, it’s your turn with the cane.”

  Edward nodded and pulled gently at Kenny’s shoulder. “Hey, hey you. What galaxy are you floating in, huh?”

  Kenny opened his eyes and offered Edward a dreamy smile.

  Edward pulled him into his arms and they kissed briefly before pulling apart. “Thanks, Master Ronan,” Edward said enthusiastically as Kenny pulled on his clothing. “Thanks for the lesson. It was awesome.”

  Ronan nodded, smiling. “Any time.”

  The couple left the room together, Edward’s arm protectively around Kenny’s shoulders. Ronan moved toward the chair Edward had been sitting in and slumped down into it. He stared at himself in the mirror a long moment before dropping his head into his hands.

  Chapter 3

  Jack sat at the bar, nursing a beer as he watched the bartender dry the glasses behind the counter. Feeling his eyes on him, Drew looked up. “Get you another?” he asked in that sexy British accent of his. He looked at Jack’s bandaged knuckles, but didn’t ask, for which Jack was silently grateful.

  Was that accent for real? Jack eyed Drew. He was a hot looking guy, with those warm eyes and ready smile. Jack had tried in a casual way to get something going with the guy, but it never worked. Drew turned that same smile on the others at the Triangle Bar. He was probably too smart to get involved with a customer.

  Jack drained his glass and pushed it forward. “Sure, I’ll have another.”

  Someone slid onto the stool beside Jack. Turning to him, Jack said, “Hey, good to see you, buddy.” Eric was one of the few regulars at the gay bar that Jack hadn’t tried to engage in casual sex. Maybe it was because they were too much alike—each always on the make, scoping out the next potential conquest.

  Eric didn’t introduce the guy who had sat down with him, and Jack didn’t ask. The guy wasn’t bad looking, though he looked older and less buff than the usual hot twinks Eric liked to hook up with.

  Eric, unlike Drew, didn’t hesitate to ask, “What the hell happened to you? Get in a fight?”

  “Yeah, but you should see the other guy,” Jack said, hauling out the tired, old line with a deadpan expression.

  Eric lifted his eyebrows but didn’t comment further. Instead he said, “I’d like you to meet Chandler. A very dear, very good friend of mine. We’ve only recently reconnected.” Eric put his hand over Chandler’s and they beamed at one another.

  Chandler nodded toward Jack. “Nice to meet you.”

  Jack noted the way the two guys were leaning into each other, the look of pride and—what else was it on Eric’s face when he looked at Chandler? No, no way. Next week Eric would show up with a new guy. He didn’t do love, same as Jack.

  “Chandler and I used to play darts back in college. I’ve challenged him to a dart game. Want to play?”

  Jack held up his bandaged hand with a rueful shake of the head. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket. “Jack Harris,” he said automatically, not recognizing the number on the screen.

  “Jack.”

  Jack’s stomach gripped at the sound of that distinctive, gravelly voice, a voice he hadn’t heard in over a decade. “Rusty tells me you called. How’s my boy after all these years?”

  The man who opened the door of the old brownstone was a fifty-something guy of medium height. He had a pleasant face and auburn hair. “Come in,” he said, taking a step back and indicating Jack should enter. “You must be Jack.”

  “Yeah.” Jack stamped his boots against the doormat. The walk from the subway had been longer than he’d expected, and the snow had been falling for long enough to stick. He pulled his snow-encrusted cap from his head and shook it before stepping inside.

  The smells in the small front hall took Jack back to his time with Alexei in a way no amount of reminiscing could. It smelled of fresh bread and olive oil, with a hint of cinnamon and patchouli.

  The man stuck out his hand. “I’m Rusty Dougherty. We spoke on the phone.” It was then Jack noticed the black leather cuffs secured by silver clips on Rusty’s wrists, and the thick collar around his neck, a D ring at its center.

  He forced his eyes to Rusty’s face and raised his own bandaged hand with an apologetic grin. “I, uh, had a little accident.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Hope you’re okay.”

  “Sure, sure. I’ll be good as new in a day or two.”

  “I’ll see if Alexei’s up to coming out or if he wants you to go back to his room. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, that’s okay. I’m good.”

  Rusty led Jack into a living room crowded with faded silk-upholstered furniture surrounded by small tables cluttered with knickknacks and framed photographs. Jack perched on a sofa, fiddling with his damp cap and feeling like he was twenty-one again, all jitters and anticipation.

  It was going on ten o’clock at night. He was surprised when Alexei had invited him to come over right away, but hadn’t argued. You didn’t argue with Alexei Spiros.

  Jack glanced at the photographs on the cluttered end table beside him. One was of Alexei and Rusty, sitting side by side on a beach with impossibly blue water behind them. Alexei had aged well, his smile white against his tan skin, dark eyes crinkled with laughter beneath thick brows. His long hair was pulled back, tendrils of it caught by the camera blowing in the sea breeze. Once jet-black, Jack could see traces of silver and gray woven through it. Alexei wore a striped T-shirt. Rusty, beside him in the photo, was bare-chested, gold hoops glinting at his nipples, wearing the same collar he now wore around his neck. They looked ridiculously happy.

  A second picture caught Jack’s eye. He picked it up and brought it close for more careful inspection. It was a black and w
hite photo of Rusty. He was naked, save for thick chains crisscrossed artfully around his body. He was standing, his arms stretched and secured overheard, facing the camera with an expression of such intense devotion and adoration that Jack caught his breath.

  Had he ever felt that way about anyone?

  Would he ever?

  “Alexei’s ready to see you, if you’d like to come on back to his bedroom.” Rusty startled Jack, who nearly dropped the picture. He set it back down beside the other, feeling clumsy as two of the frames toppled over. He hurried to right them. Rusty watched him, an enigmatic smile on his face, saying nothing.

  Jack followed Rusty down a narrow hall to their bedroom. Alexei was propped up on pillows in the large bed in silk pajamas, a black-on-black striped satin duvet covering his legs. His hair had more silver in it than in the beach photo, but his brows were still dark over eyes that sparkled with light and intelligence.

  Jack stood uncertainly at the end of the bed. Alexei beamed at him. “Jack. I would have known you in an instant. You look fantastic. How has life been treating you?”

  “Pretty good. I own my own auto shop. I’ve developed a nice niche business working on high-end cars. Porsches are my specialty.” While Jack spoke, Rusty moved to stand beside Alexei. He plumped a pillow and poured water from a blue crystal decanter into a matching glass beside it.

  Alexei smiled at Rusty fondly, reaching out to touch his arm. The easy intimacy of the gesture made Jack’s heart ache.

  A hot, nervous energy was grinding its way through his gut. He bounced a little on the balls of his feet. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why had he even come here, anyway? He didn’t even know Alexei anymore. What the hell had he been thinking?

  Alexei was watching him. He turned to Rusty. “Give us a few minutes alone, okay?”