Free Blue Blooded by Shelly Bell Page A

dirty little secrets.
    Arms circled around him, a naked body pressing against his back and a hard length digging into the crack of his ass. His eyes closed and he suppressed a groan, knowing it would only excite his lover and invite another round. He was still sore from last night.
    Everyone had a secret.
    Even him.
    Especially him.
    Hands drifted down his chest over his thickening cock to his balls and squeezed. Hard. Harder. The pain mounted until he couldn’t stop the moan from escaping his lips.
    The hands released him only to unbuckle his belt and yank his pants to his ankles. Then they returned, rolling his testicles.
    â€œYou’re nervous about your speech,” said his lover, the admonishment in the tone shaming him. “I’ve told you, there is no place for fear in politics.”
    Since the age of six, he’d been trained to fear nothing. By the time he’d turned ten, the methodical whippings and food deprivation were as commonplace as a wet dream for a thirteen-year-old boy. He didn’t fear the rituals or the way his father and brother watched without blinking, their stares as harsh as the tail of the whip cutting into his flesh. He thrived on it. Exulted in it. Embracing the history of his family that would one day take him all the way to the White House. He grew to love the pain that reminded him he was still alive.
    When he wasn’t in trouble for stuttering in a school speech or trembling from receiving only a B on a history test, he was ignored, his parents too busy campaigning or running the fucking country to care about their son in his room with a 104-degree fever from the flu. His youthful indiscretions brought plenty of wrath from his father’s political management team, but nothing got the man’s attention like fear.
    Their attempt to condition him had somehow warped into a fetish. He craved sexual domination, his only chance to relinquish power for a time and beat the fear that remained with him like a second skin. It wasn’t unusual for men in politics to submit to a professional dominatrix, but his sexual desires and his daily life intertwined until he could barely function without a beating. When he was younger, he purposely started fights in order to get the release he needed. Of course, that got his parents’ attention once the press caught wind of it. They had paid for professionals to visit him daily, but when one had threatened to go to the media about it and was eliminated by one of his father’s cronies, his parents found a permanent solution to his “problem.”
    Nails jabbed his balls, forcing him out of his head. “Focus on the pain,” said his lover, the husky timbre of the voice making his dick throb. “What does it mean?”
    â€œI’m weak.” The Senator hissed as the nails pierced his skin. “Fear is for pussies.”
    His lover quivered behind him, aroused by his pain. “Are you a pussy?”
    He shook his head vehemently. “No.”
    â€œI don’t believe you.” The grip on his balls tightened and the nails sunk deeper. Warmth welled and dripped down his testicles, blood he couldn’t afford to lose after the amount he’d lost last night. “If you can’t convince me, how will you convince the American public?”
    â€œI. Am. Not.” He punched the mirror hard enough to create a fissure in the clear glass. “A. Pussy.” His knuckles stung but he didn’t bother to check. Any sign of weakness on his part would prolong his torture. And although he got off on the pain and humiliation, he couldn’t be late for his speech. Any form of unprofessionalism was grounds for a beating that would leave him pissing blood for days.
    â€œMuch better. I almost believed you this time,” crooned his lover. “Maybe after I fuck you without any lube, you’ll sound more convincing. Bend over.”
    He trembled as he complied, excitement replacing the