I had the same smattering of nerves Thursday night that I felt each time I knocked on a dom’s door. I had my apology stapled, folded, and stuffed in my pocket. And my fly was undone.
D opened the door, wearing jeans and a burgundy sweater. He’d gotten, if possible, more pornstachily handsome over the last week. I stepped into the house and immediately dropped trou.
“There ya go.” I spread my arms. “White briefs. Happy?”
He stared at me levelly. Then headed toward the kitchen. “‘I am no man’s man,’” he said. “‘I bark at no man’s bid.’”
“What?”
“Davy Crockett.” He turned back to me. “Are you coming?”
Probably not anytime soon if you’re gonna quote Davy Crockett at me.
All right, to be honest, I’d been hoping for more of a reaction. A What do you think you’re doing? and perhaps a mortified reaching out to close the front door before the neighbors saw. But now my back was exposed to the cold night air and to anyone who might pass by and see my pants-less silhouette. My face heated as I turned and shut the door myself. When I faced him again he was still watching me, looking mildly amused, like I was a dog trying fruitlessly to reach an itch at the base of its tail. “Are you a Davy Crockett fan?” I asked.
“Yes. Why don’t you pull your pants up and come have something to eat?”
Snacks before a scene? This was some new level of snack dom.
I yanked up my pants, and followed him to the kitchen.
He had a buffet set out on the table. Sausage. Bacon. Potatoes. Eggs. A whiskey decanter was on the counter next to two glasses. He didn’t say anything.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Breakfast for dinner.” He picked up a knife.
“That’s not breakfast. That’s like you went Zodiac on Old MacDonald’s entire farm.”
“You—” he spread a giant chunk of butter all over a sausage patty “—do not have to eat it. The grass out back is getting long, if you’d like to graze like a goat.”
“No, this looks great. I just . . . Do you ever think about kale chips or anything?”
“Whatever kale chips are, I cannot imagine they would improve my life.”
“I hear Davy Crockett was a big fan.”
“You heard no such thing.”
“And what’s the whiskey for? Are we planning some Twain/Faulkner role-play?”
He didn’t even glance at me. “The whiskey is because I enjoy it. If you also enjoy it, you may have a small amount.”
“I’m good, thanks. How was your week?”
No answer.
“Are you silent because you don’t know where to begin, or because you’re rejecting my effort to be friendly?”
“Small talk is the last refuge of the insecure.” He took a bite of sausage and chewed for a moment. “Scratch that. Marriage is last. But small talk is close.”
I stared at him. “My God. What happened in your life to make you this way?”
“Nothing. I enjoy my life.”
“If you say so.” I grabbed some bacon and put it on a plate. “What would you do if I made small talk without you?”
“I suppose I’d listen.”
I leaned back. “Gee, D,” I said with exaggerated enthusiasm. “I had a pretty hectic week. I’m looking forward to the weekend, especially Sunday, because that’s when my friends come over and we order sandwiches and milkshakes from Mel’s Sandwich Shop and watch Space Camp.”
He took another bite of sausage. “What’s Space Camp?”
“A reality show about a group of wannabe astronauts fighting for a position at NISS. That’s the National Institute for Space Studies. It’s the poor man’s NASA. Our favorite contestant is this super bitchy astrophysicist named Mandy. If she doesn’t win the show, I’ll be devastated.”
“Why would her fate matter to you? You don’t know her.”
“She brings me joy.”
He shook his head.
“Now you try.”
He wiped his fingers on a grease-stained napkin, still chewing. “Try what?”
“Small talk.”
I thought he wasn’t going to do it. But then he swallowed and straightened, looking me in the eye. “Hi, David. Today I took a walk around the metro parks. I came back and made lunch. Steak and bacon on processed white. I worked on braiding the handle of a new flogger. Now it is dinnertime.”
“Not bad.”
He poured us each a glass of water. I drank mine greedily, since I was starting to feel a little unsettled. Nothing I did made this man react the way I wanted him to.
“Where do you work?” I asked him.
“The Tent Pole.”
“Pretty sure I used to go to a gay bar by the same name.”
His mustache twitched slightly in what apparently passed for a smile. “It’s an outdoor shop.”
“I know.” I grinned. “So, you’re into . . . outdoor stuff?”
He leaned back, splaying his hands on his thighs. “Yes.”
“Where’s your favorite place to walk, D?”
“Please don’t call me that. I hate nicknames.”
“Yet you want me to call you ‘Sir.’”
“That is an honorific, not a nickname.”
“And ‘the Disciplinarian’?”
“An alias. Name your child what you intend to call him, or do not become a parent.”
I laughed. “I don’t think you’re for real.”
“I am at least sixty percent for real.”
I nodded. “So you hate nicknames. And small talk. And the death of the American man. What do you like?”
He breathed in deeply and closed his eyes for a second. “Woodworking.”
“Is that all?”
“No. Bacon.”
“And . . .?”
“Silence.”
“Wow.”
“I also enjoy Olympic track and field events, and competently distilled whiskey.”
“Do you look like Teddy Roosevelt on purpose?”
“That was God’s fine doing.” Silence. And then, tentatively, he asked, “What do you like?”
“Hmm. Being difficult.”
“But that’s not ‘for real,’ is it?”
“It’s about sixty percent for real.”
“I can live with that.”
I hesitated. “I love my friends. They are . . . the most important thing in my life. I’m terrible at remembering to do shit like pay bills and get my oil changed. I can be self-centered, and I like to argue. But if one of them needs me, I’m there. I’d do fucking anything for them.”
“Job?”
“Teamendous. In the mall. It’s a store that sells tea by the ounce, and tea equipment. We provide samples. That’s what I do all day—try to lure people in, load them up with samples, then hope they’ll buy a couple of ounces of oolong.”
He nodded. “You’d be good at that.”
“I do okay. I don’t really like it. I’m gonna try to go to hair school someday.”
“Hair school,” he repeated, as though the words were foreign.
“I want to style hair for a living. The American man is dead and his corpse maimed beyond all recognition, huh?”
“I didn’t say that. Where do you want to go to school?”
“I don’t know.” I hadn’t given it much thought recently. “My progress isn’t great because I can’t motivate myself to do the research and fill out the damn applications. I’m twenty-six. You’d think I’d have my shit together by now.”
“Son, a modern-day twenty-six-year-old is the equivalent of a 1940s twelve-year-old.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re still a child.”
I gave a mock-affronted gasp, though the words actually did sting. “I’m not, though. I just feel like one because I work in a mall. All the other mall workers are between fifteen and seventeen. Except at the Verizon store. Those are some sad, sad thirty-five-year-olds.”
He wiped away some water that had dribbled down his finely stubbled chin. “I am thirty-eight. I had a job where I wore a tie. Last year I quit and climbed Katahdin.”
“Is that a mountain?”
“In Maine. Then I came back here and started working at the Tent Pole.”
“That’s cool.”
“I was told it was a foolish choice. But I am happy.”
I shook my head and snorted. “I’ve never heard anyone who talks like you.”
“What do you mean?” He reached for another piece of bacon. Stopped. Took a swig of his coffee instead.
“You speak really slowly. You enunciate your words. You don’t use contractions much. It’s just . . . funny.”
He didn’t answer. I sensed our small talk was at an end.
“So you want to get to it?” I asked.
He nodded. “Let’s get to it.”
I hesitated. “I’m sorry about last time. Seriously. I brought the written apology and everything, but I feel more comfortable talking than writing, so I want to say even if you don’t like what I wrote, I am sorry—not about what I said, exactly. But how I said it. Uncalled for.”
A prickling heat started in my spine and crept around my body, making me feel light-headed.
“I’m glad you decided to try again,” he said. “And I’m sorry too, for any misunderstanding. Your limits will be respected.”
I half smiled. “So what happens now?”
“Why don’t you read me your apology?”
That didn’t sound like fun at all. “Here?”
“Unless you’d rather go to the den.”
“No, thanks.” I was genuinely self-conscious about my apology, and I didn’t want to stare at a wall of paddles while I delivered it.
He sighed as he watched me pull the square of paper out of my pocket and unfold it.
“What? It’s stapled.” I showed him.
He shook his head. “Go on.”
“Was I supposed to show up with it in a leather portfolio?”
“David.”
I studied the paper. The words swam, and the ones I could make out looked stupid and inadequate. “Self-conscious posturing,” he’d said last time. Maybe he was right. I began to read. Quickly, before I could change my mind.
“Dear Sir, on Thursday I came over here assuming you thought you were entitled to my obedience just because you’re a dom and I’m a sub. I assumed you didn’t care about getting to know me and you just wanted to order me around.”
I paused. D didn’t say anything.
“I actually thought you seemed like a cool guy, and like we could probably do a hot scene together. But I have some serious feelings against people walking all over me. I feel like humiliation is part of a punishment, but I don’t like when doms make me feel genuinely stupid.”
I stopped. “There’s a typo here.” I wasn’t sure why D needed to know this. “I left the second e out of genuinely.”
He didn’t answer, so I went on. “I just didn’t know what to expect from you. I’m sorry for getting mad. I’m really good at overreacting. I like talking, but sometimes I don’t know how to calm the fuck down and have a conversation. I shouldn’t have assumed things about you. I shouldn’t have blown off the list you told me to make.
“I appreciate you giving me another chance. I wouldn’t ask for one if I didn’t think you were worth getting to know better. Sincerely, David.”
He nodded when I was done. “Apology accepted. And I apologize too, for making you feel uncomfortable.”
“Thank you.” I meant it.
He glanced at the pages. “How long is that?”
“Five hundred and five words. But the last two hundred are just the lyrics to ‘Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word,’” I admitted.
He stood. “Come with me.”
“No. I mean, um— Wait.” I had a feeling we were headed for the Den of Horrors. And it just seemed like there had to be a way to chloroform him and bolt before we got there. “Let me— I’m not doing a good job of showing you I’m sorry. I could—”
He took me by the arm and pulled me out of my seat as easily as if he were Mandy lifting weights in one-sixth gravity on Space Camp. Then he tugged me against his hip and walloped the seat of my jeans twice.
I tried to squirm out of his grasp, but he propped one foot on the rung of the chair and slung me over his thigh. I grunted as I slid forward toward the floor, but his arm was instantly around me, holding me in place. He was five swats in before I could draw a breath. Once I got the breath, I yelled.
I struggled and kicked, slapping at his leg with both hands. D stopped short of a dozen whacks, but it still stung like hell. I scrambled to my feet as soon as he released me, rubbing my ass.
“You don’t know how good it feels to do that.” It was the first genuine grin I’d seen from him.
“You’re a monster.”
He took my arm and sent me toward the den with another swat.
It was cooler in the Den of Horrors. He sat in the chair behind the big desk and spread his thighs. Then he snapped his fingers and made me hand over the apology, which he set on the floor by the chair. “Stand in front of me. Hands behind your head.”
I obeyed.
“Let’s see those tighty-whities.” He undid my fly and tugged my pants down to my thighs. My ass still prickled, and I flexed it, trying to get rid of the smart. He patted my ass. “Turn around.”
My cock was half up and sticking through the slit in the briefs. He ran his fingertips down my cotton-clad left cheek, and I let out a shaky breath. When I faced him again, he told me to take off my shoes and socks and step out of my jeans. I did, and then he took my wrist and drew me over his lap.
I’d been in this position many times before, and it always unnerved me. My fingers brushed the floor. My hips were balanced on his thighs, my dick between his legs. His hand rested on my ass. I curled my toes against the floorboards and tried to breathe.
“Read the rest of the apology.” He was stroking my ass, and I shifted uncomfortably as the blood rushed to my head.
“The . . . the song lyrics?”
“Yes, David. The song lyrics.”
“That seems—”
He delivered a full-force swat to the center of my ass.
I worked my mouth silently for a few seconds, unable to make a sound. Then I cleared my throat and started reading. I’d gotten about five words in when his hand connected with the seat of my briefs again, making me wince. I kept reading, and he swatted me once more, the sound muffled slightly by the cotton.
I blew out a breath and went on.
He spanked firmly but not viciously, alternating sides, occasionally catching the bare skin around my briefs. I spread my legs, trying to wiggle into a more comfortable position, but he slapped the backs of my thighs so quickly and forcefully it stole my breath for a moment.
“Ow! Ow, D, no. Please—”
He pulled me closer against his stomach. “Hold still.”
“Shit.”
He stopped. “Keep talking like that and you’ll take the rest of this spanking with a bar of soap in your mouth.”
“You’re—”
He grabbed the back of my briefs and pulled them up into my crack. I yelped and twisted, trying to roll away. He held my back end up by a fistful of underwear and spanked the exposed skin until I was gasping steadily.
He stopped and started to edge my briefs down. I reached back and grabbed the waistband, desperate to keep them up, and there was a short tug of war before he caught my wrist and positioned my hand palm out against my left cheek. Then he started spanking again, striking my hand and my ass with each swat.
“Ow! No!” I shouted.
“You keep using that word.” He spoke calmly. “I’m not a fan.”
My palm was throbbing by the time he released my wrist and yanked my briefs down to my knees. I didn’t fight him this time, and when his hand started cracking against my bare skin, I shut my eyes and tried to breathe. When I finally did draw a breath it sounded ragged, dangerously close to a sob.
He was good. Maybe not quite the master of discipline he’d made himself out to be on Fet, but pretty damn good. “Stop!” I said, just to see what he’d do.
He was alternating cheeks again, sometimes using a flat hand for maximum impact, other times cupping it to make my ass bounce. “You’re getting exactly what you asked for, David,” he replied. “Now hold still and take it.”
“Go to hell!” It felt so good, just for a second, to say it.
Just for a second.
He stood, pulling me with him over to the cabinet. I lost my briefs in the relocation. I was shaking with adrenaline, my cock still hard, my ass hot and smarting. He yanked open the cabinet and pulled out the decanter, bowl, and a bar of soap. He handed me the bar. “Unwrap this.”
Ooh, I could so play this game. I threw the bar across the room.
He turned me toward him, bent me against his hip again, and dealt twenty sound smacks. My cock and balls swung, and I skinned the tops of my toes trying to kick the floor. Tears leaked from my eyes. I felt incredible—free and turned on and terrified. He put me on my feet, pointed me toward the bar of soap, and told me to go pick it up.
Not sure what else to do, I started to cry. I was pleased when he didn’t seem at all fazed by the intensity of my reaction. He just waited. I crossed the room and retrieved the soap, trying not to think about the show I was giving him as I bent over. My whole ass burned, and my eyes stung like crazy. I brought the soap back and handed it to him, still choking back sobs. But he shook his head. “I told you to unwrap it.”
I flushed, embarrassed that I’d actually forgotten. I fumbled with the wrapper, unable to see through my tears. But he didn’t snap at me. Just waited.
Finally I stood there with the bar in one hand and the wrapper in the other. He took the paper from me and pointed at the bowl, which he’d filled with water. “Wet it and lather it up.”
I wiped my face on my sleeve and dipped the soap in the water. Rubbed it halfheartedly.
“Use both hands.”
I rolled my eyes and got a slap to my right thigh that made me jump. I used both hands, creating bubbly foam that made my stomach turn just looking at it.
He took the bar from me. “Open up.”
Hells no.
He gave me a couple of seconds before he pinched my nose with his left hand. I opened my mouth for air, and he stuck the soap in. I started to panic, but he released my nose almost immediately and cupped my face.
“Bite down.” His voice was gentler than it had been so far, and I found myself pathetically desperate to keep it that way. I wanted him to know I could do this. I wanted, bizarrely, to make him happy. I bit down, my eyes wide. I hoped my face was nine-cents-a-day-to-feed-an-orphan heartbreaking.
“Hands behind your head. Stand there for three minutes.”
He stared at me while I stood. I tried to stare back but ended up looking at the floor. The soap was bitter and slick, and I hated the way it gummed up on my teeth. I’d calmed down, though—if only to stop myself from choking on soap bubbles. I eventually met his gaze again, more hesitantly this time.
I flinched when he extended his hand, but he only placed it on my shoulder and squeezed lightly. I closed my eyes and gave a resigned sigh. He took his hand away, but he remained standing in front of me, which was both reassuring and intimidating. I spent a lot of time staring at his feet. He had on well-worn leather hiking shoes. When the time was up, he slid the soap out of my mouth and placed it in the bowl. “Spit in here.”
I didn’t want to spit in front of him, but the foamy mess in my mouth wasn’t something I wanted to swallow, so I leaned over and spat into the water, trying unsuccessfully to prevent the soap and saliva from coming out in long, unattractive strings. I did take some satisfaction in getting to spit on the bar of soap. Globs slid down the tooth-marked bar and mixed with the film in the water.
It was gross. So, so fucking gross. I spit for what seemed like ages, and couldn’t get rid of even half of it.
He pointed to the cabinet. “There’s a hairbrush on the middle shelf. Take it out and hand it to me.”
“I don’t . . .” I trailed off.
“Do you really want to finish that thought? Or do you want to reach into the cabinet and get the hairbrush?”
I walked over to the cabinet and retrieved the heavy wooden brush. My stomach clenched as I offered it to him. He took it, sat in the chair again, and patted his knee. “Back over my lap.”
I stared at the brush in his hand. I felt like a contestant on a game show, stuck on an obvious question.
The correct answer is, Yes, Sir.
The correct answer is, At what degree angle to one decimal place would you like me bent over, Sir?
The correct answer is silent and immediate compliance.
“No,” I blurted.
Wrong, Dave. A, B, and C, but definitely not D.
“I don’t fucking want to!” I took a step back as he rose. “No! D—”
He took me by the ear, grabbed the soap in his other hand, and led me out of the den and into a bathroom off of the front hall. He turned on the tap and ran the bar under it.
I tried to pull away, but he held me in place. My cock and I were definitely not on the same page here, because it was hard as hell. “Please don’t,” I begged. “I hate it. I hate it!”
He guided my head forward, but instead of trying to stick the soap in my mouth, he swiped it across the left side of my face. I twisted, sputtering and genuinely shocked. “What’re you doing?”
He rubbed the soap all around my mouth, despite my squirming. Stuck the bar under the faucet and lathered it again, then smeared it over my lips and chin. The bar and his hand were both dripping, and cold water drenched my shirt. I sucked my stomach in, gasping. Heat unfurled somewhere deep inside me, and my balls tightened.
He let go of my ear and took my wrist instead. His grip was surprisingly gentle, if unshakeable.
“I could put this in your mouth,” he said conversationally, swiping my cheek. “But you know what I’m doing instead?”
“Missing?”
He let go of my arm. I tried to tuck my ass forward so my shirt covered it, but he swatted me anyway. “I’m exercising restraint.”
Restraint? If this was restraint, I’d hate to see what hog wild looked like. He cupped the back of my head and brought the bar to my face once more, pushing soap into my hairline and over my ears. I hunched my shoulders as foamy water dribbled down my chest.
“I expect you to show similar restraint with your language.”
“That’s like, the most cliché dom thing ever,” I protested, shivering. Soap bubbles were popping in my nose, and I was miserable and wildly excited at the same time. “‘Lose the attitude.’ ‘Stop swearing.’ It’s all in the dom handbook, huh?”
D rubbed the bar over my forehead. He leveled his other hand over my eyes to keep soap from dripping into them. I could have run away, but I stayed where I was. “You,” he said quietly, “are welcome to think I’m a cliché. But I’m the cliché you decided to mouth off to, so you will accept the consequences.” He ran the bar in quick rings around my mouth. “Do you understand?”
I was drenched, sticky, humiliated, and—suddenly—exhausted. I didn’t even have it in me to protest when he calmly bent me over the edge of the sink and flipped my shirt up. I heard the jingle as he undid his belt, and the whoosh as he pulled it through the loops. I looked up in time to watch through the mirror as he doubled it. He whacked me hard, and I yelped.
“I said, ‘Do you understand?’” Still calm and quiet.
“Yes, Sir,” I choked.
He whipped me again. I hissed and bounced on the balls of my feet.
“Good. The next time you swear at me, you’ll get a two-quart soap-and-water enema. Are we clear?”
Next time? Part of me wanted to tell him no way in hell would there be a next time.
Most of me would have paid him in gold bars to ensure there was a next time.
Another crack of the belt. I flexed my ass and gripped the counter. “Yes, Sir. Yes. Please, D . . .”
Two more, low down. Almost on my thighs. My cock rubbed the edge of the counter, and I moaned softly. That seemed to make him pause. I watched him through the mirror as he gazed at my ass. My legs quivered. I made that soft sound again.
His shoulders jerked slightly, and he closed his eyes for a second. He put out his free hand as if to touch me, then let it drop.
I barely hid a grin. He was into this.
He placed the belt beside the sink and helped me up. Handed me a towel and let me wipe my face. He also let me rinse my mouth.
Then he led me back into the Den of Horrors, where the hairbrush lay on the desk.
“D?” My heart really was pounding now. Most guys didn’t punish me this long. They either relented under my histrionics or they got bored and wanted to move on to sex. But D seemed like he could keep this up all night.
“Yes, David?” Nothing sardonic or annoyed in his tone. I had no idea what I wanted to say to him. I knew I had a punishment coming. But I really was hurting, and whatever moment we’d shared by the sink was over now. I couldn’t tell anymore who was in control of this game.
“I’m so sore,” I mumbled. I didn’t expect—or want—him to take pity on me, exactly. But this was one of my favorite parts of discipline role-play, when I started to feel genuinely contrite. I chanced a look at him.
He didn’t appear angry, but he wasn’t softening either. “The sooner you come over here, the sooner we can finish this.”
I nodded, surrendering to the inevitable.
He sat in the headmaster chair. When he motioned me forward, I draped myself over his knee without a word of protest. He gave me a few brisk but not terribly hard swats with his hand, and then picked up the brush.
He popped me twice, right on top of the stripes left by his belt. My head snapped up and I crossed my ankles, trying to stay in position.
Then he went to work.
Turned out I still had energy enough to howl like a dog at every blow. He covered already blazing territory quickly and efficiently. I tuned out what he was saying at first—couldn’t think about anything but the pain, truly shocking amounts of it. There was no rhythm, no pattern, just crack after crack of wood on skin, landing anywhere between the crest of my ass to midway down my thighs. But eventually I realized he was asking me questions, and that he expected answers. Well, he could ask all night, and I wasn’t going to do anything but cry pathetically and curse whatever circle of Hell had spawned him. Silently, of course.
“David?” He turned the brush over and pressed the bristles against my flaming skin. I jerked, whimpering. “I’d like you to answer me.”
I answered by kicking, amazed by how good it felt to struggle with this kind of abandon and know that he could deal with it. He scrubbed me with the bristles, then flipped the brush over and started spanking again. I kicked until I got my left leg off his lap and between his legs, where it dangled, my knee almost touching the floor. My right leg remained over his thighs, and he paddled that sit spot until I let out a scream of rage through gritted teeth.
“Settle down,” he said, “and this will go much faster.”
Not a chance.
He pulled my left cheek to the side and spanked the skin along my crack quickly and sharply. I twisted again and managed to slide off him and into a heap on the floor. Before I could scramble away, he crouched, picked me up, and placed me on my back on the desk. Then he slung an arm around both of my legs and held them straight up.
I hated this position more than anything on the planet, and made that known.
He told me I could end this anytime.
When I called him a gorgon, he scooped some water out of the little soap dish and splashed it on my ass, then spanked the wet skin with the brush. I lost myself in the pain and the embarrassment. The position didn’t allow me any modesty; my dick and balls bounced with each swat. My wet T-shirt clung to my chest, and my nipples, stiff from cold, chafed against the fabric.
He stopped for a moment. “Hold your knees as close to your shoulders as you can.”
Was he crazy? Did he really think I was going to help him spank me?
A sharp swat to the lower curve of my ass, and I obliged. This arrangement forced my cheeks apart, and blows started landing directly on my crack, dangerously close to my asshole and balls. I closed my eyes, gulping, and tried to remember how words worked.
“I’m sorry. D, I’m sorry. Please! I’m so sorry.”
He popped my left thigh. “What are you sorry for?”
“Disobeying you. Being disrespectful. Not meeting the word count.” He popped my right thigh. “Ow! Please!”
“How do you address me?” Left thigh.
“Sir! I call you Sir. I did call you S—” Right. “Oh, God.”
“How are you going to speak to me from now on?”
“Respectfully.” I clenched my ass, waiting for a blow that didn’t come.
He patted me with the brush. “If I give you an instruction in the future, what will you do?”
“Listen! I’ll listen.” I dug my nails into my shins, wanting so badly for this to be over.
Two more pops to the crease where my ass met my thigh.
My voice stuck in my throat. I wanted to believe I was staging my desperation, my capitulation, but I knew I wasn’t. I needed him to stop. I was ready to end this. “I really will be better. Please—Sir—I’ll behave.”
He set the brush down, stroking the backs of my legs with his fingertips. The skin throbbed under his touch. I shuddered, and then I really let go. My head lolled on the desk, and the sobs wracked my whole body.
“All right.” He eased my legs down. “Here now—come on.”
He helped me sit. I flinched as my ass met the surface of the desk. There was always an inner battle after a punishment. I felt too embarrassed and messy to want to be comforted, but I craved contact so badly. In this case, I felt disgusting. My face was covered in soap residue and snot and tears, my body was wet and sweaty, and my ass was thoroughly bruised. But the second D’s arm slid around me to help me up, I was clinging to him.
“Okay.” He rubbed my back. “You’re all right.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeated as he guided my head onto his shoulder. I was surprised—I wouldn’t have pegged him for a hugger, but he was good at this.
“It’s over.” His voice was slightly hoarse.
Shit. Shit, I’d been punished a million times before. I knew how it worked, but this was . . .
I leaned back a little, meeting his gaze, trying to keep still. There was nothing hard or angry in his expression. I swear I saw something change in his eyes as he looked at me. He seemed softer, and genuinely sympathetic. I wanted to kiss him, I fucking wanted to, but he turned away.
I refused to let on how much that hurt.
“Come on.” He squeezed me briefly. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He lent me a sweatshirt and let me wash my face again in the bathroom. I took the opportunity to inspect the damage—which, while not as impressive as I would have thought, was nothing to sneeze at. I was bright red from the top of my ass to halfway down my thighs, with a couple of darker patches of bruising on my right cheek. Those bruises went deep into the muscle. I put my underwear and jeans on, wincing, then staggered out to meet D in the kitchen. I flinched as I sat, hoping he’d notice and feel guilty. He’d gotten me a glass of water, and I drained the whole thing.
He was having coffee. “How do you feel?”
I made a face. “Ow.”
“You can take a pretty good spanking.”
“You call that a ‘pretty good’ spanking?”
“What do you call it?”
I gripped my water glass. “Gitmo’s alternative to blaring AC/DC.”
His mouth twitched again. “More water?”
“Please.”
He stood and took my glass to the sink. He was definitely trying not to smile.
Actually, now that the pain had become manageable, my most pressing concern was my erection. Sitting at D’s table, wearing his shirt, my ass aching from his hand . . . I wasn’t sure what I wanted more from him—sympathy or a hard fuck.
“How am I gonna get the shirt back to you?” I asked.
“Good question.” He returned to the table and set a full glass in front of me. “I suppose you could come back next week. If you’re interested.”
“That depends. Do I get beaten with a hairbrush?”
“That depends. Do you behave yourself?”
“Very rarely.”
He sat, leaning back slowly. “If I take on a sub, it’s usually for six sessions. Once a week. Thursday nights. You agree to submit to whatever discipline I choose. I agree to make sure it falls within your limits.”
I took a few gulps of water. Six sessions of enemas, figging, thermometers, and whatever other fun ideas he had up his long polo sleeve. My dick was trying to answer this for me, but I reminded myself to be careful. What about the review blog? Hadn’t I come here tonight so I could rate and then be done with him?
Well, hey. I’d be able to give him a more accurate rating if I did more sessions with him. If six weeks was his thing, I ought to review him on how he delivered the whole package. Right? “What if I’m really good? Do I still get punished?”
“Your job throughout each week will be to keep a running list of your missteps.”
“Missteps?”
“Anything you do that you feel guilty about. Or that you know you should feel guilty about. You’ll bring that list to me each week, and I’ll decide on your punishment. In addition to the list you provide, any failure to cooperate during a session will result in further punishment.”
“Sounds like buckets of fun.”
“You can, of course, back out at any time.”
“Duh.”
He raised an eyebrow at me.
“What? I’m not signing a slave contract here.”
“I realize that.”
“Do you fuck your subs?” I asked, hoping to startle a reaction onto that stoic face.
“Sometimes.”
Well, that wasn’t much of a reaction. Or an answer. I thought about how he’d turned away from me back in the den, and stared at him coolly. “I don’t think that should be part of discipline.”
He waited.
“I want punishment—spankings and corner time and all that. Sex is a different thing. I don’t want to have to blow you as punishment. Or have you fuck me. As punishment,” I clarified.
Fucking me for other reasons is totally fine.
He nodded. “I do sometimes require sexual service as part of a punishment. But if that’s a hard limit for you—”
“Not a hard limit. Just something I’d only do for someone I know.”
“All right.” He stood and went to the cupboard. “What about punishments that involve penetration? Dildos, plugs? Enema nozzles? Figging?”
How did he say all that as easily as a doctor asking if I’d experienced any dizziness, nausea, or shortness of breath? “Fine.”
“Clamps?”
“Balls or nips?”
“Either.”
“Uhhh . . . warn me first.”
“Okay.” He returned to the table and handed me a bag of mini pretzels. “Here.”
I stared at the bag. “Are you going to thank me for flying United?”
He ignored me. “I’ll give you my number in case you need it. But unless something comes up, I’ll expect to see you next Thursday night at 7:30 p.m.”
“Do you also have the dom don’t-be-late fetish?”
“I’m seldom on time myself, so if it’s a couple minutes after seven thirty, I’ll live.”
I grinned wickedly.
“Don’t smile like that. It makes me nervous.”
“It’s cute, though. Right?”
“Unlikely animal friends are cute. You are terrifying.”
I laughed. “Really?”
“Yes.”
He put his number in my phone, telling me it was for emergencies only, and reminded me to keep track of my punishable offenses this week. Then he walked me to the door, where he explained entrance protocol to me. When I entered his house each week I was supposed to stand on the welcome mat just inside the door, clasp my hands behind my back, bow my head, and wait for him to address me. He made me practice.
“Does tonight count as week one?” I asked.
“It does.”
I didn’t know whether to hug him good-bye or thank him or shake his hand or what. He didn’t move, so I just gave him a nod. “Cool.”
As I turned for the door, he slapped my ass lightly, making me yelp. “Congrats on surviving.”
I walked to my car half in love with him and half wishing he’d go climb Katahdin again and fall off.