Page 12 of Kiss, Kill, Thrill Me, Daddy

When we arrived home, Scotty slapped him in the face and told him he would cut his throat. I threatened to make Scotty stand in the corner, and the twink has been docile ever since. Now, Scotty’s on the floor, sitting in front of his fiancé and my best friend, Brody. As Scotty softly—and repeatedly—kisses his way up and down Brody’s biceps, Brody tugs at Scotty’s hair, occasionally eliciting a moan. Next to them is a small pinksuitcase. I do not know when or why he started carrying it, but he’s been toting it around like a third arm. I don’t believe I’ve seen one without the other in months. Despite Tatum’s insistent curiosity, Scotty has yet to reveal its contents. We’ve all waged bets on what’s inside. My money’s on a decapitated head, because he seems the sort to carry dismembered heads on his person.

“It’s South America!” Tatum shouts after a long period of silence, startling Scotty who glances over his shoulder and scowls. “Do you know how fucking hot it gets down there? I’ve lived in Texas all my life. The temperature is unbearably warm and unwelcomely treacherous. Guadalajara has to be at least ten times hotter.” He marches toward me and shoves a finger into my chest. “I will not fucking sweat, you psycho-stalker. Do you hear me? You don’t get to make me sweat.”

“You will be drenched by the time I’m done with you,” I joke, squeezing my bulge and smirking. “And Guadalajara is in Mexico. Mexico is in North America.”

He growls at me. “I am a makeup artist. I’m not a damned geography teacher. Stop trying to make me feel stupid. North America. South America. I might not know where the fuck it is, but I know I’m not going. I’ve acclimated to the Washington weather. You can’t just rip me from my habitat and thrust me into harsh and extreme climates. I’m just a dainty little guy, Abi.” A blush spreads across his cheeks.

I need to do something to stop him from spiraling. God knows Fee is of no use to me. She’s simply tuning us out as she focuses on her smut-filled romance novels on her Kindle. Pretty Baby is having the meltdown to end all meltdowns, and I hate to see him this way. It pains me.. I would ask Scotty for help, but the twink is busy playing in Tatum’s eyeshadow as his fiancé kisses his neck. Everyone in the room is useless, so it seems I’m the only hope for Tatum’s mental wellbeing. Patting my thigh, I open my arms in invitation, welcoming him over to the bed, but he just shoots me another death glare.

“Come to me,” I insist.

He crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not sitting in your fucking lap.”

“Tatum,” I say firmly. His back straightens, and I can see the hairs on his arms standing on end. He darts his eyes down at Scotty, then at me, wordlessly pleading. I know he hates being reprimanded in front of his friend, but he’s given me nothing but attitude since we got home an hour ago. I need to calm him. “Now.”

His tongue darts out and journeys across his mouth, making his already-glossy light pink lips sparkle. Slowly but surely, he makes his way over and takes a seat on my thigh. He gives another quick look around the room before inconspicuously grabbing a throw cover from behind us and using it to hide our laps. Once it’s done, he wriggles around a bit, arching his back and waiting expectantly.

I know what he wants from me. It’s an action that always seems to center him, but it’s one he rarely—if ever—acknowledges verbally. I do not offer the relief he’s hoping for. Instead, I rest a hand on his hip and squeeze. When he looks back at me, his mouth is hanging open in surprised disappointment.

“Was there something you wanted?” I whisper. The words are said with purpose. I need to feel it again. His hand. My cheek. A sharp spike of pain that fades into warm waves of comfort. Anyone else might find the experience of being slapped in the face by the man he loves to be problematic. Not me. He’s done it for as long as I can remember. The night we met, he slapped me three times before we eventually “kidnapped” him. Though, can you really kidnap the willing? Tatum seems to believe so.

“Why the fuck are you looking at me with those feral eyes?” he hisses.

“Do it,” I say, my voice insistent. “Slap me.” His palm connects with my cheek, making my teeth chatter. I can’t catchmy breath. The rush is so strong, I cannot draw air into my lungs. “Jesus, Tatum.”

“Was it good?” he asks with a knowing smile. Once I nod my agreement, he rolls his eyes. “Now, I’ve indulged your ridiculous little fetish. Your turn.” He stares at my hand. “Put it where it goes. Now.”

I lean in closer, nipping his chin with my teeth. “And where does it go, sweetheart?” He looks like he’s going to have a meltdown soon, but I don’t let that deter me from having fun with the situation. I wiggle my finger against his belly button and grin. “Is there where it goes?”

“Obviously not.”

I drag my fingers up his chest and tweak his nipple. “What about here? Is there where you want me?”

“I want you in the innermost pits of Hell. That’s where I fucking want you. I swear to the Goddess?—”

“So,” I interject, raising my voice so the rest of the room can hear. Dipping my finger below his jockstrap, I trace my finger back and forth against the cleft of his crack. “You don’t wish to visit Guadalajara?”

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?” His voice is shaking now. With only a repeated twitch of my finger, I’ve got him falling apart at the seams. Still, he tries to maintain his composure, and I’m proud of him for the attempt. “I couldn’t make it any clearer if I tried. Jesus. Are you dense?”

“If he doesn’t want the tickets, I’ll take them,” Scotty says, slathering makeup over his left eyelid. He’s not particularly talented when it comes to the art of makeup application—not like my Tatum—so, in the end he looks like a racoon masquerading as a drag queen. Brody doesn’t seem to mind, though. He’s staring at Scotty like he’s the sun in the center of Brody’s universe. Scotty stares back at him, sighing. “I really don’t understand why he’s so angry about tickets he doesn’t even have to use.” He turns his sight to Tatum. “No one’s forcing you to go anywhere. There’s no need for all this hostility.”

“Do you want to talk about hostility?” Tatum says, squeaking when my finger touches his hole. As I probe at his eager entrance, he tries to steady his voice as he speaks, but in the end, he sounds like a cracking dam. “Because we can. We can talk about how you cut the brake wires to Abi’s car last week.”

Scotty nods. “And then your stupid boyfriend screamed at me after you tattled. He told Daddy I tried to kill him.” The twink’s eyes lock with mine and he clenches his jaw. “I got called a ‘bad boy’ by Daddy because of it. I’m gonna get you back for it too, Kincaid. Gonna make you rue the day. Just you wait and see.” He sets the eyeshadow brush back in its home in Tatum’s makeup case before whirling around on his ass, folding his arms across his chest. “We can also talk about the fact that you just tried to run away again. Two weeks before my wedding, Tatum. You’re supposed to be my Gay of Honor. How the hell am I supposed to get married without you? You just abandoned me.”

Tatum’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows air. He’s quiet for a moment, as if he’s working himself up to say the words. “I wasn’t running away from you. I was running away from them.” He flicks his thumb over his shoulder at me, then points at Fee. Fee’s eyes are still locked on her Kindle, but she must not need them to know Tatum’s talking about her, because she raises a hand and flips him off. “I’ve been kidnapped by a blatant bisexual bastard and his polyamorous partner. You might have signed up to ride this crazy train, but I didn’t. I was just trying to live a normal life.” His words sting a bit, if I’m being honest. It’s something that must stick with him too, because he quickly looks over his shoulder and offers me the flash of a smile. “I'm sorry, Abi. Your bisexuality has no bearing on your success at being a blatant bastard. I shouldn’t have said that; it just sounds pretty when you say the words together. Because of all the words that start with ‘B’, you know?”

“It was beautiful. Thank you,” I say, kissing his temple and earning myself a death glare in the process. Taking my finger into my mouth, I get it nice and wet for him, just the way helikes. “I appreciate the apology.” Leaning closer, I whisper into his ear. “Deep breath, baby. Here it comes. Remember the safeword if you need it.”

He’s never needed to use it, but tonight, he may want to. I have plans for this hole. Plans I know he will appreciate, but it may take a bit of coaxing to get him there. Still, he nods, and his body vibrates against me like a purring cat. I watch as his chest rises and remains locked like his breath has been vacuum sealed inside his body. Slowly, my finger enters his warm, silky passage.

Home again.

It’s a trick I learned the night we met. When I fingered him at Scotty’s apartment, he told me his hole is where my finger belongs. Then, after Fiona drugged him and placed him in the trunk of my car, I lay at his side, not wanting him to wake up in total darkness, terrified of what was to come. When he finally woke, he was making all these terrible sounds. Gasps and soft whimpers. I couldn’t stand the sound of him like that, so I pulled him closer to me. The strange thing is, the moment I held him in my arms, the fight left him, and he melted into the embrace.

Tatum had been abducted by two strangers, only to awaken in their trunk, drenched in darkness, another person right in front of him, and he hadn’t tried to fight me off. His hand found my wrist and guided it toward his ass. He’d been wearing a pair of skin-tight pink shorts, but somewhere along the way, he’d removed them without me noticing, so his bare ass was right against my palm. I gripped and squeezed him for the better part of an hour before finally finding the courage to dive deeper into his crack. When my finger breached his rim, he came on my thigh, his cock untouched. His muscles gripped and spasmed around my finger, and it was that moment I decided it’s where my hand belonged. Now, I do it any time he’s nervous; it isn’t even a sexual act anymore. I finger his hole like some men hold their partner’s hand, and he lives for it.

Scotty is still yammering on in the background about beingleft high and dry for his big day—a day neither of the happy couple have planned, nor have they shown any intention on planning—and I’ve had enough. He’s being intentionally cruel right now, and I won’t allow him to continue making Tatum feel bad.

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