I opened the door to D at precisely six o’clock on Black Friday. I was wearing ridiculous jeans but a totally serious button-down. “How, precisely, do you intend to manage Black Friday: The Revenge in jeans that tight?” Miles had asked me earlier. It was a fair question. But I really wanted D to spend all of dinner thinking about my ass.
I greeted D with an awkward kiss on the cheek. He’d brought whiskey. Expensive, by the look of it. I led him into the kitchen, where the others were waiting like good little minions.
I made introductions.
“This is Gould,” I said. Gould nodded shyly. “Miles.” Miles waved. He was wearing a blazer instead of a cardigan. “And Kamen.”
“Hey, man!” Kamen got up to hug him. “We got so much food.”
“Hello.” D awkwardly returned Kamen’s hug. “Thank you for having me.”
“Sit.” I pulled a chair out for him. We all immediately started filling our plates, passing serving bowls around in a mad frenzy.
“I am pleased,” D said, “that you have both turkey and roast beef.”
I took the potatoes from Gould and threw a spoonful down on top of my turkey. “D believes that meat makes a man.”
Kamen chased a pearl onion that was rolling across the table. “That’s pretty crazy you two have the same name.”
I started cutting up my turkey. “It’s a good name.”
“Indeed,” D agreed. “The only acceptable men’s names come from the Bible or past presidents. A boy named Grayson, for instance, will grow up to be a miserable human being and will probably host a red-carpet special.”
“Oookay.” I took the green beans from him. “You do remember you’re sitting across from a Kamen, right?”
D looked at Kamen. “I am deeply sorry for you.”
“It’s cool, man.” Kamen popped the onion in his mouth. “I like my name because I can make ‘came in’ jokes. Like, I Kamen his ass last night.”
If I had worried that my lecture to my friends about being on their best behavior would prevent them from being themselves—I needn’t have. Miles went on an incomprehensible tangent about tryptophan. Gould was so adorable that I just wanted to punch him in his adorable Gould face. And Kamen and D absolutely hit it off. They talked about tools. They talked about football. They talked about . . .
“So an octodile would be, like, an octopus’s body with a crocodile’s head,” Kamen was saying. “And an eelion would be an electric eel with lion claws in its fins. Or instead of fins.” He made a think about that gesture.
I hid my grin behind my water glass.
“Son, you have a lot going for you,” D told Kamen. “A fantastic physique, a marketable brand of creativity, and a wide range of practical interests. You ought to start thinking of yourself as a ‘Matthew’ or ‘George.’”
“Or Millard?” I muttered. D pinched me without even breaking eye contact with Kamen.
None of my friends said a word about the Subs Club, and I started to relax on that front. I wasn’t obligated to share everything I did with D—in fact, he preferred when I didn’t. And he hated using the internet for anything but Fetmatch—and now not even for Fet, since he had me. So probably he’d never know about the review blog, and if he did see it, he’d understand why we were doing it. He was one of the good doms. He had no reason to feel threatened by the club he was never ever going to know about.
But how long was I going to have to keep it a secret? Ricky had helped increase our site’s privacy, but then yesterday a feminist blog had written an article about the Subs Club, and the article was getting retweeted like crazy. People were starting to Google the Subs Club with alarming regularity. Almost one-third of our members were nonlocal. No way would we be able to remain small and secret forever.
And there was something else bugging me. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I was halfway through my sessions with D, and the idea of letting him go after session six physically hurt me. I wanted him to keep pushing me. I wanted to give him more control.
Make me fucking listen to you, I’d shouted at him the night of the crossword.
But that wasn’t exactly what I’d meant.
Make me listen to me. Make me do the things I know I need to do.
The lists are fine. They’re fun. But I need you to make me do more than stand on a mat. I need you to push me to do more than take a paddling.
I forced those thoughts out of my mind and tuned in to the ongoing conversation between D and Gould.
“—often used under harness for show and for labor—”
I elbowed D. “Oh my God. Are you talking about Friesians?”
He half turned toward me, blinking several times in annoyance. “Is that a problem?”
I grinned and leaned my head briefly on his shoulder. “It will be if Gould dies of boredom.”
“No, hey, I like horses,” Gould insisted.
D finished his presentation on Friesians while I stole the last of the cranberry sauce. And while I was making the cranberry sauce my bitch, D put his hand on my leg. All casual and under the table. I froze. Burped up a cranberry. Then tried very hard to continue eating as though his touch wasn’t giving me all the damn tingles.
“Whose guitar is that?” D asked as the feeding frenzy wound down.
Kamen gestured with a spoonful of mashed potatoes. “Mine. I have one for my house and one for here. So I can play anywhere.”
“He’s really good.” I was damn proud of my weirdo friends.
“Dude.” Kamen glanced at me and lowered his voice, as though he imagined he was in any way discreet. “Do you want me to play ‘Figging Me Softly’?”
No, I mouthed.
“You sure?”
I nodded and mouthed, I’m sure. Out loud, I said, “Who wants pie?”
Later, when we were all sick and moaning, Kamen played us a cover of “Down on Main Street,” substituting “Wayne Street” for “Main Street.” D shared some Davy Crockett fun facts. Eventually everyone was tired, and D said he needed to get going. He helped us clean up a little, though. And totally threw his napkins and uneaten salad into our recycle bin despite the three arrows on the bin’s side. I wasn’t sure if I should offer to go home with him or stay here, but he kissed me good-bye at the door and said, “I had a very good time. I like your friends.”
I was so happy I almost hugged him. Then got weird and embarrassed at the last second. “Thanks for coming over. I’m really glad you were here.”
“I’ll see you next Thursday?”
“Of course.”
I watched him leave, and once he was in his beat-up Chevy, I closed the door and did a total cliché turn-around-lean-against-the-door-and-sigh-dreamily. I went back into the kitchen, where Kamen was spraying Reddi-wip directly into his mouth and Miles was washing dishes. He shut the water off as soon as I entered.
“Well.” Miles dried a bowl. “A strange but intriguing gentleman. I give him five floggers.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh God.”
“He’s way cool,” Kamen said through a mouth full of Reddi-wip. “He told me I was going places.”
“You really like him, don’t you?” Gould asked on his way to the sink with a stack of plates. “Wanna marry him?”
“If I didn’t weigh eight hundred pounds I’d run over there and tackle you.”
“Uh-huh.”
I ended up waddling over, grabbing him around the waist, and squeezing. Then I squeezed Miles so hard his glasses fell off onto the turkey platter he was washing. Then I went over to the table and squeezed Kamen, who sprayed whipped cream in my hair. “I love Thanksgiving!” I announced. “And I love all of you.”
I went to my room and flopped on the bed, getting Reddi-wip all over my pillow. Smiled until my face hurt.
D answered the door in pajamas the next night around eleven thirty. “Sorry,” I said. “I know it’s late, but—”
He pulled me in and kissed me hard, and I felt it in my cock, a hot, almost stinging pleasure that made me twist and press against him.
I groaned as his hands went to my hips, holding me. I took one hand and guided it to the front of my pants. He stroked me there, and I gasped against his lips.
“I don’t want to stop at six sessions,” I whispered.
“Me either.”
Okay. Okay, wow. Fine. Great, yes. Pornstache and Little d 4evs.
I was so startled by our shared desire to spend more time with each other that I immediately tried to distract myself.
I ran a hand down the front of his shirt to his groin. “May I?” I teased his fly, and he nodded. He unzipped me while I undid his drawstring. I paused as he slid his hand into my pants, groping my cock through my underwear.
When I could see straight again, I got his dick out of his pants. I went to my knees and licked his cock in long, eager swipes.
“So good,” he whispered.
My spit ran down his shaft and pooled in the hair at the base.
I circled my tongue around the thick head, lost in the taste of him. I squeezed my lips around the shaft and dragged up to the head. He was having trouble staying quiet, offering little groans that fueled my performance. I flicked my tongue back and forth across his slit and pulled back just as he came, letting him hit my face.
I took my shirt off and wiped my cheek with it.
“Good,” he murmured, swaying slightly. “That was good.”
I grinned and got to my feet. “I’ll bet you say that to all the boys.”
He yanked his drawstring tight. “Just the good ones.”
I draped my arms over his shoulders, and he wrapped his around my waist. We stayed like that for a minute. Then I leaned slowly back and met his gaze. “Can I tell you what I want?” I asked softly.
I hated to spoil the mood, but I was worried it would be a while before I got the courage up again to make this sort of confession.
“Please.”
I couldn’t be sure, but his cheeks seemed a little pinker than usual. Maybe it was just exertion. But no, there was something boyishly anxious in his expression.
I didn’t know where to start. My heart pounded, and I wished I could put him inside my head so he could feel this confusion with me. So that he would understand—not just what I was trying to ask, but why it was so hard to ask.
“I’d like to try . . . if you’d like to try . . . a relationship where you discipline me. Really discipline me.”
His brow furrowed. “What have we been doing?”
Nicki Minaj’s “Only” blared from my pocket.
I took out my phone. “Hold on a second.” I ignored the call and turned the ringer down to vibrate. Pocketed the phone again. Blew out a breath. “Domestic discipline.”
He didn’t say anything.
“I know we’re not domestic. And I know you’ve had me bring you lists every week of the things I’ve done wrong, and then you come up with a punishment, and we . . . we have fun. I think. But I feel like we both know it doesn’t matter what I put on the lists. You’re going to punish me because that’s the game we’re playing.”
He didn’t say anything, so I went on. “But there are things I really want to change about how I live my life. And if someone doesn’t hold me accountable, I don’t . . . know how to change.” I shrugged helplessly.
“What things?” he asked quietly.
“I want to go to hair school, but every time I tell myself I’m gonna research schools and apply, I end up putting it off.”
He nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“And then there’s the way I talk to people. Sometimes I’m not sure how much of it’s an act, and how much is that I actually can’t control my mouth. And I usually know when I’ve taken something too far. The way I talked to you that night with the crossword . . . I don’t feel good about that.” I studied my feet. “I was wondering if you’d consider punishing me for real for those things. Not a game. No dom script. No brat act. Just you and me, and you making me do the shit I suck at doing on my own.”
“Completing your applications.”
“And talking more respectfully to people. That’s all for now. If we try this and it works, I might think of more stuff.”
“And what kind of punishment are you thinking?”
I wished I could close my eyes and just listen to his voice. Wished I didn’t have to look at him while I asked for this. “I don’t know. Honestly. You’ve done a lot of stuff to me, but it mostly turns me on. And I don’t want you to have to beat me until I’m bruised to get me to feel punished. So . . . I haven’t figured that part out yet.”
“May I make a suggestion?”
I shifted. “Sure.”
“Canes.”
I stared at him, openmouthed.
“Just hear me out,” he said. “I know how to use canes safely and effectively for punishment. You find them genuinely unpleasant. I could see a caning being a real deterrent.”
“I said I wanted to be disciplined, not tortured,” I snapped.
“David.”
“Well, it bothers me that your first instinct is to go to something I told you was a hard limit.”
“Just give it some thought. If you hate the idea, we won’t do it. But if you want a punishment that doesn’t feel fun . . . that might be it.”
I chewed my lip. “How would you do it?”
He thought about it. “Six-stroke maximum. I’d put you over the back of a chair. You’d keep your underwear on. It would sting a lot and be over fast. No broken skin, no deep bruising. There could be some superficial welts, but they’d heal fast.”
No. No, no. The worst idea. Don’t do it.
But I want to try it.
I fucking trust him. Which is stupid. But I do.
I nodded warily. “You can lecture me. But no script. No weird dom clichés. It needs to come from you.”
“I’ll try my best.”
I closed my eyes briefly. “And . . . no safeword.”
So, so stupid.
I thought back to the paddling. He’d known when to stop. He’d pushed, but he hadn’t forced. He would be fair. He would be careful.
His expression was soft. That admiration was there that I’d seen the night of our second session, when I’d first dropped the act. “All right.”
“Just for the domestic-discipline stuff,” I added quickly. “I still get a safeword for whatever potty-chair, clothespins, Vick’s VapoRub nonsense you decide to do.”
“Agreed.”
“All right, then. Cool.” I felt light-headed. “And I’ll try not to fight you. I’ll try to take it like a man. Like the kind of man I am. Which might not fit your exact definition.”
“David.” His voice was almost sharp. I looked at him. “You are a man, and a fine one.”
That almost destroyed me. In the best possible way.
What do you mean when you say you don’t want to stop at six sessions? Do you mean we could be, like . . .?
I glanced at the floor. “Hey, D?”
Don’t ask. Because what if he doesn’t feel like you do? What if all he means is that he wants to do seven sessions?
“Hmm?”
“Do you—”
My phone buzzed. I pulled it out. “God damn it. Hold on.”
Kamen.
“Sorry, one minute.” I took the call. “Hey, buddy. What’s up?”
“Dave?” he said. “Sorry, can you come home? We’ve got a situation.”