Chapter 4 – The Edge

In the end, it was Dave that made it stop. It was Dave that confronted Spencer, suggesting he find counseling and leave Aaron alone. It was Dave who handled the paperwork when Spencer had gracefully resigned, and it had been Dave who had somehow handled Strauss.

And yet, for all that he had been through, the bruises and the bites and the lack of consent, it still didn't change the fact that he missed Spencer. It didn't change the fact that what Spencer had done to him—yes, to him—had managed to leave a lasting imprint on his psyche, changing Aaron for better or worse.

Likely it was worse, he thought as he leaned over the edge of his bathroom counter, his full body weight on its sharp corner as he furiously jacked himself off. He could feel where the edge was cutting into his skin, he could feel where he would find the bruises after, and that still didn't change the need to hurt, to feel, to have this extra sensation digging into him as he tried to reach completion.

Unconsciously holding his breath, fighting against the blackness looming at the edge of his vision, his lungs burning as he moved his hand up and down his cock, jerking more than sliding, wrenching his fingers down his flesh, trying to achieve that feeling of pain-pleasure that Spencer had gotten him so very acquainted with.

Snorting in a burning breath, he reached his right hand up and shoved two shaking fingers in his mouth, licking them and remembering how Spencer's lips had looked stretched out around his dick. He jerked the fingers out of his mouth and trailed them downwards, over the edge of his ass as he slowly slid his legs apart. Going up on his toes now, his bruised flesh screaming at the change in angle, he traced those wet fingers around the edge of his hole once before bravely shoving them both in at the same time.

The burn was familiar. It jacked him up higher still and he pulled his fingers apart even as he felt the warmth begin to gather in his gut. His hand flying down his flesh, a fingernail sliding its edge over his tip, a scream threatening to burst from bitten lips, his lungs burning darkly in his eyes, his hole quivering and flexing over his fingers as the edge of the countertop continued to bite heatedly into the muscles of his abdomen.

And then suddenly it was enough. His body stiffened abruptly, the pain washing away in the euphoria of the orgasm that was spilling out between his calloused fingertips. The relief of it flashed through him, through the center of his body and out to the ends of his nerves. He could feel his chest expelling a breath and then heard himself gasp another one back in; his lungs finally beginning to restart. The warmth spread through his muscles, his feet dropping back down flat; his body sliding off the edge of the countertop as his dick finally stopped twitching with the force of his powerful release.

His knees were weak and slowly he felt himself fall backwards against the wall behind him. He could feel the rough smoothness of the wallpaper as he slid down its vertical surface; his ass finally coming to a rest on the cold linoleum, legs apart as he fought to calm his racing heart down. His hole was empty now, but he could still feel the memory of his fingers inside, pulling him apart, opening him up for something else.

His stomach was beginning to ache where the countertop had bitten deeply into his flesh, and if he squinted through the harsh light of the florescent bulb still shining overhead, he could see the dark line of bruises that would be even more visible the next day. The muscles in his legs felt like tapioca and if it weren't for the chill of the floor underneath him, he would have never chosen to get up again.

Most importantly though, the burning in his skin, the need for escape from the edge of the abyss that threatened his gut and heart and fucking soul, it was finally quiescent again . . . at least for now.