Page 31 of The Contract

Tristan

I wake alone. For a while, I just lie there. My ass is sore. I was fucked three times last night. That fact is so strange to me. I experienced intense orgasms while another man pounded his cock in my ass. Not just another man. Dante. Dante fucked me roughly, dominantly, almost possessively. I fought him on it. I stabbed him. He wouldn’t quit. He bulldozered past my boundaries, and I loved it. Is there something wrong with me?

I’m getting hard just thinking about it. Is that okay?

Does it even matter? No one cares what I do. Who’s going to judge me except myself?

I sit up and look around the room. It’s huge. Pretty sparse though. There’s no furniture except the nightstands. No dresser because there’s a walk-in closet. A sliding glass door opens onto a little patio with a single lounge chair, and I can see there are steps down to a level below.

When I throw the sheets aside, I spot a bloodstain on the white cotton about where Dante’s leg would have been. I get up and use the bathroom, noticing that he’s cleaned everything up. There’s a pair of black warmups and a white t-shirt on the counter. I put them on. They’re too big but not unmanageable.

I leave the bedroom, which is part of the loft. It looks out over the living room, which is flooded with daylight. There’s only one other room on this level, and I can hear the sound of typing coming from it. I go to the open doorway and find myself peering into a tidy office.

Dante is working at a computer. He looks serious and focused, and I enjoy my brief moment of looking at him while he’s not looking at me. It’s different to watch him when his gaze isn’t dominating me. He’s very attractive. Masculine but refined. In his black t-shirt, he looks the slightest bit rugged, especially with the shadow of a beard.

“Good morning,” I say when he looks up.

“Afternoon,” he replies.

“Oh. I spose so.”

“Let me finish this, then I’ll make breakfast.”

“Okay.”

I leave him alone because I can tell he wants me to. I go downstairs. The kitchen has been cleaned. The sandwiches are gone. The knife that was embedded in the floor is gone, though there’s a gouge in the hardwood. The cum I shot all over the side of the island is also gone.

I’m still staring at all of it, thinking about what happened here, when I hear Dante on the stairs. I hear him because he lets out a small but unmistakable sound of pain.

I frown as I watch him limp down the stairs. Last night, I was mostly shocked that I’d done it. But now, seeing him in pain, I feel bad.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says as he reaches the bottom. “It’s fine. It’s just the stairs that are hard.”

“I’m—”

“Don’tapologize. That’s not a thing we’re going do.”

When I take a noisy, irritated breath, he looks amused. He doesn’t limp as much once he’s off the stairs. He goes into the kitchen and starts making coffee.

“Sit down,” he says as he gets the machine going.

For some reason, I sit in the same chair I sat in last night. The cum I leaked all over it is gone, of course, but my cock plumps again at the memory. It was all so unapologetically filthy.

As he starts getting out ingredients, he asks, “How bad is it?”

“How bad is what?”

“Your ass. Are you bleeding?”

My face flushes. “No.”

“Good. We still won’t fuck until tonight. I know you’re sore.”

“I’m fi—”

“No one can get fucked like that without being sore.”

I decide to change the subject. “You cook? I thought rich people had private chefs.”

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