Dukes of Ruin: Chapter 10

Swing, jab, kick.

Bruce dodges and darts around every attempt.

Slam!

“Goddamn it!” I shout, reeling from the hit. “Are you fucking serious?”

“You still asleep, Sy?” he taunts. If it were anyone else, I’d jump him and pummel that smug face for talking to me like that. Bruce is my regular sparring partner and a DKS, though. We’ve spent the last three years in a non-stop competition from our pledging and hazing days, to comparing our wins at Friday Night Fury. He even tried and failed to earn a Duke position, which has only increased our rivalry. Ever since, he’s made it his life’s mission to belittle and piss me off.

Mission accomplished.

“Heard you guys had a party the other night,” he says, bouncing tiredly. It won’t be hard to wear him out. I’ve got more stamina. “Maybe you need some coffee?”

Mostly, I know what I don’t need: a distraction like Lavinia Lucia, all up in my space, being flaunted around by my brother, disappearing with my best friend, taking off her goddamn pants in my living room. I shake it off and get back on my toes, calculating my strategy.

You’d think rubbing one off right before I left the tower would’ve helped me focus. At least cut a little of the tension that’s buzzing like a livewire under my skin. But nope. Still wound tighter than a priest’s neck band.

The worst part of all this Duchess bullshit is that I’d shed the constant, ball-nagging lust for girls like that ages ago. It wasn’t easy. Every guy would love nothing more than busting a fat load. But I’m not every guy. I watched as Remy, Nick, and even Tate got regular tail, chasing skirts like salivating dogs, not even caring that they were slaves to it.

But not me. Just like the lust for the fight, every time I feel that inkling of red-hot want creeping up my spine, I visualize the calm water of my inner ocean and throw myself into something productive, worthwhile. School work. Weightlifting. Training. Paperwork for my dad, data logging for my pops, yard work for my mom. It’s not like girls never want some, because they do. They flirt and dress as whoreishly as possible, dancing around me like little painted slut-dolls, and I rebuff them all. Too mean, Tate used to tell me, eyes disapproving. But the meaner and colder I was, the less they’d try, because here’s my truth:

I don’t need pussy.

This is all I need.

My fist meeting Bruce’s jaw with an audible click, sending him stumbling back. I bear down on him, slamming him back hard enough to hear the breath escape his lungs in a painful-sounding wheeze.

The commotion is enough to catch the attention of the other guys around the gym, and as I’m wiping the blood off my lip, they crowd around the edge of the ring. They’re all DKS. The gym is members-only, other than a few trainers and younger, aspiring fighters. Potential DKS. Oh, and the cutsluts. They’re always around, like I said. Little painted slut-dolls. I recognize faces from the party this weekend. It’s one thing to let that bitch get in my head, but it’s another to embarrass myself in front of these guys.

I—punch—fucking—jab—hate—kick—her—slam!

Bruce flails backwards, arms hooking in the elastic ropes around the ring to keep from falling completely. “Jesus.” The guys behind him push him back to his feet, shouting out to the both of us. He grins. “That’s more like it.”

The energy escalates between us, the normal friendly competition sliding into an undercurrent of hostility. I don’t like it. It’s too close to how I used to be—unstable, like a live-wire. The biggest part of my training these last few years has been cutting off emotion from the fight. I never do it out of anger or frustration or resentment. Not anymore.

Only these last couple weeks, I’ve been feeling the fury slithering up my spine with every hit.

Bruce would have made a good Duke. He’s got the leadership qualities and the drive. He did well enough, defacing the Barons’ altar over the summer, but once we came back with the video of Lavinia—what we did to her, a King’s daughter—it was over. Swinging at the Counts and the Lords in one fell swoop? No one could top that.

We also had an ace up our sleeve. Nick and his precious fucking blood legacy claimed the third spot right out from under him. I already said I was sorry, but it wasn’t exactly sincere. Even after everything, even after Nick turning his back on us and becoming South Side trash, I’d still rather have him on my six than anyone else. I think Bruce could probably tell. The next time I saw him, he was full on overcompensating with his flashy new muscle car and sleek luxury watch, brushing it off like he couldn’t care less. It’s all a bit pathetic, the shows people put on.

His fist shoots out, but I dodge, narrowly missing the hit. I use the momentum to spin around and swipe his leg out from under him, sending him crashing to the mat. Whoops and cheers come from the guys around the ring, catcalling and taunting as I wipe the sweat from my forehead and prepare to take Bruce down a notch.

It’s for his own fucking good. We’ve been equals for three years, but that’s over. I outrank, overrule, and out-dominate him. He needs to know his place.

I pounce on him while he’s still on the ground, legs pinning him to the mat. I hold up my fist, prepared to claim the win, but a shrill whistle cuts me off. It’s a familiar and universal signal—Mama wants our attention.

“You got off easy,” I tell him, making it clear I could’ve kicked his ass.

His chest rises and falls from exertion. “Whatever, bro.”

I hop up, and despite the restless agitation whirling in my chest, offer him my hand, tugging him off the mat when he begrudgingly grabs it. One of the girls tosses me a towel and hands me a bottle of water. “Good job, Sy,” she says, leaning over the rope. I ignore her tits, unscrew the cap, and peer over the ropes. Mama’s standing a few feet away, my twitchy-looking Duchess at her side.

Mama B taps her wrist. “Sorry, Simon, but the clock’s up. I’ve got a few errands to run.” From the quick, sidelong glance she casts at Lavinia, it’s clear this is a nice way of saying she’s done babysitting for me.

Nodding, I let my head hang, catching my breath. “Bruce was about to get his ass handed to him, anyway. Probably a good time to stop.”

“Fuck you, Perilini,” he shouts, wiping his face. “I was plotting my comeback. If anyone here is lucky, it’s your slow ass.” His eyes dart over to Lavinia and a rankled heat runs up my spine.

Hooking the towel over my neck, I climb through the ropes and jump down to the floor. I give Mama a polite kiss on the cheek when I reach her. “Thanks for helping out.”

Her mouth purses in an annoyed fashion, but I can see the affection in her eyes. “It’s fine, but don’t make it a habit. I’ve got a lot to do around here.”

“I won’t.” It’s a slight admonishment, but I’m aware of what she’s really unhappy about. Lavinia was never supposed to be Duchess. Her daughter, Verity, was at the top of our list—unofficially, but Mama B had to know. I wasn’t opposed to it. Easy. That’s what Verity would have been. She understands the role of a Duchess, so there would have been no need to train her. She’s certainly compliant. Her mother raised her to understand her place in the hierarchy of the system. She’s like a little sister—not the kind of girl that gets my dick hard. Plus, it would have made Mama happy.

Instead, we’re stuck with Lucia’s bitch offspring.

I jerk my chin at Lavinia. “Come with me.”

She follows, shivering a little. They keep the gym cold because working out is a sweaty business. The guys love the chill in here. It makes the cutsluts’ nipples hard all the time. Lavinia is no different, futilely trying to cover her tits with her arms. It just pushes them together, forcing me to fight the urge to look. It’s bad enough that I’ve been waking up in the mornings with soiled boxers like some goddamn middle schooler. Does she really have to traipse around like a cutslut in those strappy little shirts and shorts? Fuck.

Teeth grinding, I push the door to the locker room open a little too hard, causing it to slam back into the wall. I catch it on the swing back and hold it open, waiting. When all Lavinia does is shuffle to the side, I raise a hostile eyebrow. “What the fuck are you waiting for? Let’s go.”

She freezes, looking between me and the open door. “You want me to go into the men’s locker room with you?”

The sound of running water and male voices echo off the tiles. “I need to shower and change,” I tell her, like I’m talking to a very dumb child, “and you can’t be trusted on your own.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she insists, balking. “Nick and I worked out a deal.”

“Yeah, well, you and I didn’t.”

We stare at one another for a long moment, and she drops her arms, likely thinking I’ll cave at the sign of her hard nipples. I don’t. Ultimately, she lets out a beleaguered huff and walks in. When she passes, I get both a waft of her shampoo and a high-definition view of her ass cheeks shifting beneath shiny, tight fabric. Like a dog to a pork chop, my dick immediately perks to attention, making my fists clench.

This, I remind myself, is Nick’s fucking fault.

Silently seething, I direct her to the row of lockers, halfway considering if grabbing her and tossing her into them would make my situation better or worse. Figures I’d have a freak libido to go with my freak of a dick.

Ignorant to my inner turmoil, she leans against the metal doors, her tight little body a deceptively casual curve. It takes just as much discipline to tear my eyes away from the jut of her hips as it did to let Bruce up before. Fighting and fucking. My brain keeps trying to get me to crack, but I won’t. I imagine my ocean, tucking it all beneath the surface of the waves.

I’m better than this.

I open my locker and begin pulling out my stuff, desperately trying to think of anything else. Bruce’s boisterous laugh bounces off the walls, which is a useful distraction. He’s definitely still pumped from the fight. Turning away from Lavinia, I drop my shorts and hastily wrap a towel around my waist. I don’t need any more commentary on what’s swinging between my legs.

Sure enough, when I spin back to her, she’s wide-eyed and pointedly looking at anything but me. “That guy you were fighting. He was with Rath when I—when they brought me here.” She touches her neck, casting a cagey glance toward his voice.

“Yes,” I confirm, just feeling more pissed about Nick going behind our back, ordering DKS to do his dick’s bidding. “Unlike other people, Bruce does what he’s told.”

She scowls at the floor. “And what am I supposed to be doing?”

“Sit,” I tell her, pointing to the bench. “And don’t fucking move or I’ll make one of the fighters supervise.” She scowls, dropping heavily on the bench, head turned so far away from my crotch that I can see the tendon in her neck straining.

I stalk around the bank of lockers to the showers and duck myself under the hot water, making it quick. I scrub off the sweat and blood, struggling to clear my mind of her hips and ass and tits, but it’s frustratingly difficult to disconnect. Usually, I’m pretty good at distracting myself from the disgusting swell of need that crops up every now and then. Problem being, ever since that night we broke into the brothel, ‘every now and then’ has turned into a daily war against my dick. I might not want to fuck, but my cock?

It twitches halfway to life under the spray of the shower like an excited puppy.

My dick is like a fucking dowsing rod for pussy all of a sudden.

Two shower heads away, Bruce turns off the water and says, “The new Duchess is pretty hot.” He dries off with a white towel. “Lucia or not, I’d fuck her.”

I turn the handles, bringing the water to a halt. “You’d fuck a warm mattress.”

“Who says it needs to be warm?” Bruce laughs, but I can hear the thread of interest in his voice when he glances back toward the lockers. “Seriously, though. I got a nice feel of her when I put that tracker in, and I saw the video. Your brother broke her in nice and hard, but what about you? You feed her that monster yet? Torn her up?”

“She’s a cutslut, minus any of the charm. I’m not putting my dick into Count trash.” I scrub my hair with a towel. “You and my idiot brother might be indiscriminate, but I actually have standards.”

Bruce snorts, because he’s heard my song and dance before. It’s true, though. All these guys give it up for free, but dick is a gift. They think it’s because I’m so unnaturally hung, but they’re wrong. Truth is, bitches around here talk a mean game about wanting a monster dick, but when push comes to shove, they can’t handle it.

And when they can’t handle it, it’s never their fault, is it?

Before I can get started, Bruce walks out of the shower stall, passing the row where Lavinia is waiting. Her expression is passive, but her shoulders are tense, eyes on alert. I cut down the row back to my locker and notice her gaze darting over my shoulder, flashing in alarm. I look back and see Bruce leaning against the door to his locker, buck-naked, dick semi-erect between his legs as he eyefucks her.

“Come on, man.” He reaches down to fist himself. “If you’re not going to fuck her, how about giving me a shot? I’ll stretch her out, get it ready for you.”

Snorting, I shove my toiletry bag into the locker. “First of all, Nick’s bigger than you.”

Bruce scoffs, “Not fucking likely,” but I talk over him.

“Secondly, the Duchess’ pussy is for Dukes only. You didn’t make the cut.” It’s a low blow, but I’m not feeling generous today. My skin feels hot, my balls tight enough to ache. The fight, this bitch. The whole damn thing has me on edge like an exposed nerve, and no matter how much I jack off, I can’t seem to purge it.

“How about we fight for it,” Bruce suggests, visibly changing tack. “Winner takes all.”

“How about you use that shining personality of yours and get your own pussy,” I reply, knowing good and well Bruce has worked his way through the cutsluts a dozen times over. That information pisses me off even more. The girls want his cock. Crave it. They don’t act interested only to look at him like he’s a freak when the time comes to pony up.

Two other guys have wandered over by this point: Dave, in a pair of skin-tight black boxer briefs, and Kent, who isn’t even bothering to cover his nakedness with the towel he’s got hanging around his neck. DKS snaps to the promise of a winner-takes-all like moths to a flame, but I’m not in the mood to compete—certainly not for this piece of trash. They’re all waiting around for me to answer and there’s something about the fact Bruce has to ask—that he needs my permission before he lays a hand on Lavinia—that makes me pause, considering.

“Give me that watch you keep flashing around,” I decide, nodding at his locker, “and I’ll let you have a go. Assuming you can handle her.”

“What?” Lavinia gasps, the first words she’s spoken since we came in here. “You can’t be fucking serious!”

I ignore her. “Just stay away from her ass. Remy’s already called dibs on it, so it’s off-limits.”

“Don’t worry, babe,” Bruce says, reaching into his locker for the watch and tossing it to me. “I can handle you just fine.”

I catch the watch with a skilled snatch from the air, doing my best to hide my surprise. It’s a really nice watch. The kind of watch douchebags like Bruce won’t even call a watch. They call it a ‘timepiece’. I weigh it in my hand. There’s no way she’s worth it. But the bloodless, contorted, horrified thing her face is doing? That sure as hell is.

She’s off the bench in a heartbeat, but Bruce has got killer instincts. He leaps over the bench, dick swinging, and easily pins her against the metal door. Lavinia gets a knee up, but he blocks it. Her teeth come next.

“Oh, by the way,” I say casually, “she’s a fighter.”

I reach for my boxers, listening to the sound of their bodies slamming against the metal doors. “Jesus,” he grunts. “Grab her arms, will ya?”

I know he’s not talking to me, and that’s confirmed when Dave and Kent both get their hands on her—one on each side. I yank up my shorts while she continues fighting, heavily outnumbered. Still, she’s wild enough that they have to wrangle her to the hard floor. Bruce straddles her hips and pushes up her shirt, exposing her black sheer bra. Yanking the cups down, he fans his hands over her tits, squeezing them tightly.

“I think you like it rough, don’t you?” Bruce says, rocking his hips against the leather pants.

She thrashes, some unholy marriage of a growl and a shriek clawing its way from her strained throat, and for a moment, I’m struck with a strange sense of disappointment. She should be better. She’s our Duchess, for fuck’s sake. She’s supposed to be strong and unyielding. A flash of memory—that night at the Hideaway—grips me like a vice. She’d been held down by two men then, too. Lavinia’s full of piss and vinegar, but in the end, she’s just like any other girl. Small. Weak. Easily dominated. I remember the shape of her beneath my hands all too well. The way she looked while taking my brother’s cock. How she laid so still for Remy and me as we jerked our dicks over her used cunt.

My cock fills inside my boxers, hard and thick, and there’s no stopping it. Not while I’m watching Bruce pant like a dog, dragging down the waistband of her tight pants. Not while I watch the other two, eyes sparking in anticipation and mirth as they wrestle her into submission. Not while I watch her snap and grunt and detonate with panicked fury.

Not while I imagine—crave—being in Bruce’s place.

“Get out.” The words are a low rasp, barely audible. Dave laughs as Bruce pries her knees apart. I slam my fist into the metal locker, barking, “Get the fuck out!”

Dave and Kent drop her arms immediately, obediently following my directive. Bruce is too caught up in the fun, so I lunge at him, hoisting him off her body and tossing him across the room. “Are you fucking deaf?!” Unthinkingly, I toss him his watch, not caring when he jumps to his feet, muscles coiled tight. “Get out.”

“What the fuck, Perilini?”

I march toward him, flinging a towel into his chest. “Don’t make me say it a third time.”

He drags in a long, hard breath, nostrils flaring wide. “She won’t be any good after you’ve had her, anyway.”

A moment later, it’s just me and her. The locker room thrust into a charged silence. I press my palms against the door and lean my weight on them, panting as I try to shove the impulses down. Why is this so goddamn difficult? Years, and I’ve been fine. Now, I can feel that primal, animalistic need clawing its way up, and it’s almost as if it doesn’t care what it gets—fighting or fucking—but it’s going to get something. I turn to face her, my cock blistering hot, skin pulled taut. I’m almost afraid to touch it out of fear that I’ll come.

I’m better than this.

I am.

But she isn’t.

Lavinia scrambles to her feet, tugging her shirt down with one hand while the other pulls her pants up. “You son of a bitch!” she starts, face a vivid, scarlet red, but I don’t let her continue.

“You did this,” I hiss, pointing to the obscene tent in my boxers as I stalk toward her. She backs away from me, but suddenly bumps up against a locker, nowhere to run. “You’ve been doing it for days! Making me feel this… this fucking…” But I can’t find a word for it.

Apparently, she can. “You’re blaming me for being a horny freak?!”

Freak.

I grab a fistful of her hair, chest swelling in fury. “You bitches always go for that word, don’t you? You want to know why? It’s because you’re all the same.”

Her neck tightens as she strains away, eyes looking just as enraged as I feel. “It’s because it’s true, and you know it,” she sneers, flashing her teeth. “I bet people think you’re the normal one out of the three of you, but they’re wrong. You’re the most fucked-up.”

My other fist rears back, ready to feel her bone beneath my knuckles, but when I snap it forward, I stop a bare inch from making contact. Fighting and fucking, fucking and fighting.

Her body might go rigid, but she doesn’t move.

Doesn’t flinch.

I’m not going to wail on a girl a quarter of my size.

“You have two options.” Chest jerking up and down with angry breaths, I shove the top of her head down, forcing her to her knees. “Either you get rid of this,” I say, pushing her cheek into my hard-on. “Or I’ll bring them back in here and let them have free rein.”

She tries to pull away, straining against my hold on her scalp. “If you’re asking me who’d I rather fuck, then you might as well call them back in. I’m not impaling myself on your horse dick!”

“Then use your mouth!” I bark, shoving the elastic waistband down. “You made it happen. You take it away!”

She breathes hard, eyes fixed to some vague point behind me, refusing to even make eye-contact with my dick. “I’ll choke.” My dick reacts to that possibility with an excited twitch that sends pre-cum dribbling from the tip. Her eyes jump to the motion, face contorting in outrage. “Oh my god, you’d get off on that, you fucking—”

I buck my hips, the tip of my dick rubbing a wet trail over her cheek. “I guarantee you it’d be better than taking all three of them.”

“Been there, done that,” she snarls, recoiling venomously from the head of my dick. She eyes it with skepticism, like she’s unsure if she can take it.

“Not at the same time,” I threaten. When she doesn’t argue back, I grab the back of her neck and pull her forward, ordering, “Open.”

I tighten my grip on her neck, a nonverbal way of letting her know that I will retaliate if she does something stupid. Still, it takes a long moment for her face to shift. It’s a subtle change—the crumple of her brow, the gleam of agony in her eyes—and she hides it fast enough, shuttering her expression. But I still catch it.

She’s accepting her loss.

The festering heat inside my chest swells at the knowledge.

Yes.

Know your place.

Slowly, her pink lips part just enough for me to detect the wet flash of her tongue behind her teeth. Too high on the buzz to wait, I thrust against her mouth, the head of my dick slotting into the gap. Her cheeks scrunch into a grimace, but I barely notice it, too busy testing by pushing in further, finally understanding what it means to feel a hot, slippery tongue against my leaking cock head. I grab either side of her head and hold her there, soaking it in. The sight of her mouth wrapped around it—even just the tip—is almost enough to send me over the edge.

I’ve gotten handjobs before. Back in high school, when I was still under the delusion that sex meant something, the girls used to talk a big game, but would always end up chickening out. They’d wrap their fists around my shaft and give me half-cringing jerks, like they were just praying to god I’d blow my load and do them the mercy of not expecting anything more.

But none of them would ever dream about sucking me.

It’d be a joke to think this was any better than those hand jobs, because Lavinia barely does anything. She closes her lips around me, but keeps her tongue still, hands coming out to brace against my hips when I thrust against it, coming with a tight, shaken sound.

I don’t mean to. It’s just the sight of her lips wrapped around me. The knowledge that she’s holding me back, but I could easily force my way into the back of her throat.

In the end, I realize I’ve squandered it.

As she flings herself away, spitting a thick wad of my cum onto the floor, sputtering messily, that’s the first thought that hits me.

I should have pushed her further, made it last longer, forced every drop of my spunk down her throat. It’s like when I saw her pussy that night bathed in our cum. It’s all I’ve been able to think about, and now, this is all I’m going to be able to think about: her mouth, those lips, and the way she looked on her knees.

One thing it doesn’t change is how much I fucking hate her for it.