Suber: The Uber of Sex (Queer Erotica Short Stories)

Part 6: Zig & Viktor

Is it wrong to enjoy hurting someone? What if they want to be hurt?

Zig's leather gloves tightened on the steering wheel, thinking about their next session with Viktor. This was the fourth and each one was more exciting, more arousing, than the last. And more frightening.

The first session, Zig's pounding heart as they approached Viktor's front door wasn't from excitement.

Heavy S&M. That's what Viktor requested. Most people treated S&M on Suber like white people treated spice in Indian food—'mild.' Zig knew they were just dabblers. Probably had never done it before—maybe "just once (giggle!) in college (giggle!)"—and would probably never try it again. Surely Viktor didn't mean heavy. He was some kind of tough guy who said 'hot' when he really meant 'mild.'

Knocking on the door the first time, Zig had drawn a steadying breath and held it. They visualized Viktor—a bearded hipster, thinking he was hot shit, who wanted to tell his girlfriend he was "into S&M" when he really just wanted someone to play with his balls. No—a gangly teenager who treated Suber like a right of passage, who actually just wasted sex workers' time by stealing his daddy's credit card and ID.

That first time, Zig was surprised to see that he man who opened the door was exactly the man they had seen in the picture. That hard, square face, wide mouth stuck in a pensive scowl, and deep-set, shadowed eyes—one heavy lid pulling down, just slightly—was somehow even scarier in person. Worse, Viktor was enormous. At least a foot taller than Zig and weighing probably a hundred more pounds—and no one considered Zig short or small to begin with—Zig suddenly had seconds thoughts about accepting Viktor's request. Sure, he wanted to be the submissive in the S&M equation, but that didn't mean he wasn't still the first Suber Serial Killer.

"Hi. You must be Zig." His voice was a strangely soothing baritone, the sort of voice that sang tragic rock ballads. "Come in." He stepped aside.

Zig hesitated. Don't be a pussy. That toxic, idiotic thought pulled them through the portal. It had to be the worst reason imaginable to do something stupid.

Viktor wasn't married, Zig knew that immediately. After seeing more than a few, Zig recognized a bachelor pad when they saw it. Viktor's motif did not fall into the usual two categories, however, which Zig had come to call "Trying to Fuck"—comically luxe, professionally and expensively decorated, a Lamborghini as a house—and "Not Trying to Fuck"—no furniture, no decorations, save perhaps a crooked movie poster or mostly-naked anime girl. Sadly, straight cis men seldom oriented their environments around anything other than fucking.

Though it did have personality, Viktor's sense of style did nothing to vanquish Zig's serial killer fears.

Across the back wall, much larger than the modest flatscreen, was an oil painting of a maniacal skull, painted completely in shades of red and black. On the adjacent wall, over a stylish black sectional, were a collection of smaller paintings and drawings—angels, monsters, strange symbols, quotes, and more skulls. The coffee table in the middle of the room was dark red wood with a resplendent stain like wet blood.

Zig immediately loved the décor—and suspected the decorator was, indeed, dangerous.

And suddenly they realized why dates never stayed long at their own house.

"It's not as scary as it looks."

Zig looked up, seeing Viktor watching them. He must've read their face. The large man looked at the floor, then at the wall. The bashful look on his stern face made Zig hold back a smile. That shyness could not be rehearsed. He was as nervous as they were, probably more.