Excerpt from Get Off Hard


“Don’t be like me.” I roll my chair over to Ricky so we’re face-to-face.

His eyes ping-pong between mine. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t become a bum like me. Don’t lower yourself to living in a small, dirty place in a dangerous neighborhood just so you can afford to be this tough guy and compensate for your sexuality.”

What?” His face scrunches in anger. “Fuck you!” He reaches out and gives my shoulders a shove so hard, my chair tips over.

“Ah!” I flap with my arms but can’t avoid being propelled backward. My chair skids and lands on the floor with a shattering noise. The back of my skull hits and bounces off the hard surface. A sharp pain shoots outward before reds and blacks invade my brain, but I fight to stay awake, don’t want to go away. This is too good, the hurt so intense I’m feeling alive for once, really motherfucking alive, tenfold what I experienced on the ice earlier. All the nerves in my head are on fire, sending sizzling darts of heat down my body, all the way to my groin.

“Slay,” a distant voice says to my buzzing ear. Hot breaths brush the side of my face. “Slay, come back.”

I croak, “I’m here.” Floating in a euphoria of pain and digging it. The air was punched out of my lungs, but I catch my breath slowly. I fix my eyes to the ceiling above while endorphins circulate my body and blood inflates my cock. This sharp pain pulsating in the back of my head gives me the hard-on of the century. Ha ha, I feel so good! I’m laughing at life and kicking it in its face. This feeling is my fantasy, the condition I try to reach in the gym while hitting myself like crazy.

I reach for my throbbing cock and palm it through my jeans to ease the pressure.

An intake of breath sounds in the silence, almost a gasp.

Vision dancing, I gaze at Ricky.

He’s at my side, on his knees, twining his hands, looking bothered. Not exactly sheepish, for his dark eyes glow with their usual fieriness and I read no apology in them, but he clearly doesn’t like the situation.

Well, fuck him. I didn’t go over the line addressing his issues, but this young bull has a way of taking everything personally.

He shifts. “Why in the hell aren’t you pissed off?”

“Pissed off?”

“Yeah, you’re lying there with a big grin on your face. If I were you and someone did this to me, I’d jump up and—”

I lift a hand. “I have a fairly good idea of what you’d do.”

“You’re not answering my question.”

“And you’re an arrogant asshole.” I eye him and fight to stay calm. “I’m not angry, ’cause what you did makes me feel…” I don’t know how to put it without making the message too blunt. Maybe he’ll condemn me, like society would, if I tell him I get off on pain.



Copyright @ 2016 Lea Bronsen

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