That Tuesday evening, Baxter once again drove his car into St. Croix's garage. As he switched the engine off, he checked the time. Five-fifty. Good, he was more than on time. He didn't want to fuck this up on the first date. In so far as this could even be considered a date, but that was semantics.

He'd read up some more, his face growing red as he devoured accounts of subs and Doms. Some stuff he'd come across had horrified him and the accompanying pictures even more. How people could like that much pain was beyond him. Not that he judged it. Hell, people had to do what worked for them. No skin off his back, literally in this case.

But he couldn't deny some of it had stimulated him. There had been one diary he'd come across that had held him captivated. It was of a young guy, barely nineteen, who had started to train as a sub and had kept a diary every day. It was a fascinating look into a life and a lifestyle foreign to Baxter. To experience it through that guy’s eyes, the way he'd described the peace he found through submitting, that was something that appealed to Baxter. Not that he had any idea of how to get there or if it would even work for him. But it was maybe something to aspire to? Something to hold onto?

He pressed the button to close the garage, then hung up his coat and placed his shoes on the rack. When he walked inside, he found… What was he supposed to call him in his head? Professor sounded ridiculous considering the circumstances, first-naming him was a recipe for trouble if he ever slipped up, and using his last name seemed wrong. Maybe he should try to make a habit of using the title he was told to use. Sir it was then.

Sir was in the kitchen, taking ingredients out of the large refrigerator.

"Hi," Baxter said, then decided that was too informal. "I'm here, Sir."

Sir turned toward him with a soft smile. "Glad to see you're on time, Baxter. Let me show you how I would like you to greet me, at least when it's the two of us. Follow me."

Curious, Baxter trudged after him as they went into the living room. On the floor was a small, thick carpet. What was the idea with that?

"The first thing I want you to learn is how to kneel for me," Sir said, and suddenly, that carpet made a hell of a lot more sense, considering the hardwood floor. "It takes practice to do it gracefully, so this is something I want you to work on. You can't use your hands to support yourself, and you have to lower yourself to the floor in one fluid move. Show me what you've got."

Baxter had always played sports, and it wasn't like he was uncoordinated, but it took him a while to figure out how to pull this off. In the end, he hit the floor pretty hard with his knees, but at least he managed to kneel.

"That's a good first try," Sir said. "Now, allow me to correct your posture. Again, this is something you must train. Cross your ankles. Now fold your hands behind your back, one loosely holding the other."

Baxter followed his directions, shifting and fidgeting to get it right. A strong, warm hand landed on his left shoulder, then the other one on his right, and they gently pressed his shoulders. "Pull your shoulders back, no hunching. Now bow your head and look at the floor."

Kneeling was hard, Baxter discovered. After only ten seconds, his muscles started to twitch. Sir had been right this took practice.

"That looks beautiful, Baxter. Can you hold this for me for a minute?"

A minute? Holy crap, his muscles would be screaming by that time. Still, Baxter nodded.

"If I ask you a question, I need a verbal confirmation," Sir said.

"Oh, sorry. Yes, Sir, I'll do my best."

"I know you will. One minute starting now." That was a low blow, as he'd been holding position all that time, which had to be at least twenty seconds. Still, Baxter was determined to do well.

"Okay, Sir," he said.

"That was not a question, Baxter. When you're kneeling, only speak when you're spoken to in the form of a direct question. Otherwise, be quiet."

Okay, then. Things were about to get strict. Not that he hadn't been expecting this, but it was interesting to feel himself respond to the authority in Sir's voice. He opened his mouth to apologize, then realized it hadn't been a question, and closed it again.

The hands that had been on his shoulders this whole time left, leaving him feeling strangely bereft, until he felt one of them affectionately rub his hair, just for a second or two.

"Good boy," Sir said, and the strangest thing happened inside Baxter. It did something to him, that casual praise, but he couldn't explain what. It felt good, like something he had wanted and needed without even realizing it, but how that was possible, he had no clue.

His muscles were screaming with fatigue at holding this unfamiliar position, and Baxter clenched his teeth to hang in there. God, this was so much harder than it looked.

"Okay, you can break position," Sir said, and Baxter all but collapsed onto that carpet. He dragged himself into a sitting position, rubbing his arms and legs to get rid of some tension in his muscles.

"As I said, this is something you'll have to practice," Sir said in a dry tone.

Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. If Sir wanted him to hold this position for a longer time—and Baxter suspected he would—he’d damn well better practice.

"Every time you enter my house, I want you to kneel for me in whatever room you find me in like this, until I acknowledge your presence and give you permission to break position."

Baxter could barely swallow back another yes Sir, realizing in time that no, this wasn't a question either.

"You're catching on fast," Sir said, and why that made Baxter's insides go soft, he had no clue. "Okay, now that we've got that out of the way, let's move into the kitchen."

Baxter scrambled to his feet rather inelegantly, happy that Sir was already walking into the kitchen and not looking back at him.

"One of the requirements on my list was that I wanted someone who had basic cooking skills. I trust you didn't lie about that," Sir said, and he pointed at some ingredients he'd laid out on the kitchen counter. "One of your regular duties will be to cook my meals for me. Five times a week, I use a meal service that delivers fresh ingredients to my house. All I have to do is cook the actual meals, which will be your job on the evenings you're here. Follow the instructions on the meals, and you'll be fine. Any questions?"

Baxter looked at the ingredients, noticing that they were for one person. What was he supposed to eat? He'd come here straight from a late class. He hadn't had time to eat. Usually, he would work a shift at Rocky’s and grab some food there, and he hadn't even thought about what to do for his meals here. They hadn't discussed it either. He wasn't about to start by making things difficult, though.

"No, Sir. Do you want me to start now?"

"Yes, please. I'll be in the dining room."

Baxter scanned the instructions, which were easy peasy. Cook the pasta, sauté the onion and garlic, add the ground beef until it was brown, then dump in the vodka sauce. He found an apron to protect his shirt from fat splatters, then went to work. His stomach growled as the smell of the onions and garlic hit him, and he bit his lip.

Should he ask if he could have something to eat as well or was it implied that he should have eaten beforehand? He wasn't sure, and it stressed him out. He hadn't eaten much for lunch either, just a leftover sandwich from his shift at the gas station yesterday. It had been roast beef, but two days after the expiration date, it had been of questionable quality. Plus, a white bread sandwich never really filled him up. He could ask and see how Sir would respond.

The meal was done in fifteen minutes, and Baxter served it on an elegant plate he'd found in one of the cupboards, ivory-white with delicate blue decorative lines around the edge. There had been a serving tray on the kitchen counter, leaning against the fridge, so he put the plate, a glass of water, and cutlery with a napkin on there, then carried it in to the dining room.

Sir sat at the table, reading a newspaper. It made Baxter smile, as his father had always done the same. "Dinner is ready, Sir," he said.

"Thank you. It smells delicious."

Yeah, no kidding. Baxter could only hope his stomach wouldn't grumble too loudly around Sir. Hell, that would be embarrassing. He carefully lowered the tray to the table, then placed the cutlery on the placemat first, followed by the plate and the glass of water. He removed the tray again, then asked, "Is there anything else I can get you, Sir?"

"You have experience doing this," Sir said, looking at him questioningly.

It wasn't a question, yet Baxter felt confident he was supposed to answer this one. "I've worked as a server before, Sir."

Sir nodded as he folded out his napkin and put it in his lap. "That explains it. Thank you, Baxter. You may go to the living room and practice your kneeling position."

And like that, he was dismissed. It stung, but Baxter didn't understand why. Hadn't it been crystal clear from the get-go that he was here to serve? They weren't equals, were they? The thought that St. Croix would want to spend dinner with him, would want his company rather than eating alone, that was ridiculous, of course.

“Sir, could I please have something to eat?”

St. Croix frowned slightly. “Sure. There are apples on the kitchen counter or nuts in the cupboard.”

Well, there was his answer. It would have to do. As Sir started on his meal, Baxter grabbed an apple and ate it as slowly as he could. Then, ignoring the pangs in his stomach that that apple hadn’t taken away, Baxter found a spot on the little blue rug in the living room and did as he was told until his muscles were too cramped to respond anymore.

The first two sessions had gone well, Hagen thought. Baxter seemed to respond well to his commands, and he was a much faster learner than Hagen had expected, picking things up quickly. Hagen suspected he'd been practicing his kneeling at home, since he'd sunk to his knees almost gracefully that second evening. And Hagen hadn't even needed to remind him, something that pleased him deeply.

The meals Baxter had cooked had proved more than satisfactory as well. Not that he could screw much up, considering all the ingredients were measured out and had clear instructions for preparation, but Hagen was pleased to see he was up to that task and hadn't lied about being proficient in the kitchen.

Other than that, Hagen had practiced certain protocols with him, like posture and how to address him in public, and how to respond to questions or requests from other Doms or even subs. Baxter had taken notes in his barely legible scribble, paying enough attention to assure Hagen he was taking it seriously.

Everything had been going smoothly, and yet Hagen was missing something. He couldn't put his finger on it, but inside him, dissatisfaction stirred. Was it because they were going so slow? Because there hadn't been any sexual activities? He considered it, but then rejected it.

When he had met CJ, his first boy, he hadn't had any experience as a sub either. Hagen had trained him from the ground up, and they had gone as slow as he was now, if not slower. CJ, while very sweet, hadn't been Hagen's intellectual match, and he had struggled at times with remembering all the information. There had been a lot of repeats on instructions with him before he got the hang of it.

So no, going slow and not being sexually active couldn't be the problem. Despite everything going well, Hagen missed a connection between them, and that was weird, because he could sense the mutual physical attraction clearly. It felt like going through the motions, not like something his heart was in. Was that because he knew Baxter was doing it for the money? That had to be on a subconscious level then, because Baxter was giving it his full effort. There hadn't been a single moment where Hagen had doubted his enthusiasm or dedication to this… And there it was. His job. Was that what was bothering him? That it was a job for Baxter, one that he was anxious to do well, but not something that came from his heart?

He decided he would pay attention to his own reactions today, the first Sunday that Baxter would spend a whole day with him. Maybe if he was more tuned in to himself, he could figure out what the problem was. Just as he had decided that, he heard Baxter's car pull up in the garage. Out of reflex, he checked the clock.

It was ten past nine. Baxter was running late, and not by a little bit. Hagen had been so lost in thought he hadn't even realized it. His heart filled with disappointment. He could only hope Baxter had a good excuse. To make sure he hadn't missed anything, he checked his phone for messages. He had provided Baxter with his number, impressing upon him the importance of never showing it to anyone else. But Baxter hadn't called or texted either.

Hagen stayed in the dining room where he'd been reading the weekend paper, and a minute later, Baxter hurried in. To his credit, he dropped to his knees instantly, his head bowed. Hagen waited at least a minute before he acknowledged him,

"Look at me," he said softly.

Baxter's head came up, and Hagen had to bite back a gasp of shock at his appearance. His hair was an unholy mess, looking like it hadn't seen a brush in days, and it had a bit of an oily appearance that Hagen found unattractive. The hoodie he was wearing was dirty too, some faint stains on his chest that looked like it might've been ketchup.

"You were late," he said.

Baxter looked at him, his brown eyes burning with an emotion Hagen couldn't pinpoint. He looked pale, dark smudges under his eyes suggesting he had been short on sleep the last few days. But he stayed silent, and much to his own surprise, Hagen found himself frustrated with it. He wanted Baxter to explain why he was late, to apologize even. But he hadn't asked a question, so Baxter was doing the right thing by not speaking, considering he was still kneeling. Why then was Hagen so irritated that he wouldn't talk to him?

He wanted him to talk to him, he discovered. He wanted Baxter to share what was going on in his life, to confide in Hagen. Hagen frowned as the truth of that realization hit him. That was a new experience for him. Still, not something he could punish Baxter for in any way. Being late, yes, that was a punishable offense. But not answering when technically he shouldn't? That was all on Hagen.

"What happened?" he asked instead, hoping Baxter would talk to him now.

Baxter hesitated briefly before he answered. "I needed to solve an unexpected problem at home first, Sir. I am terribly sorry I was late."

It was a perfectly acceptable answer, and yet Hagen found it wasn't. He wanted more, needed details. Details, which Baxter wasn't obligated to share with him at all. Maybe if he had really been his boy, but even then it would have been questionable in this stage of their relationship. But considering their contract? Baxter didn't owe him an explanation, only an apology, and he'd provided one that had sounded sincere.

A little twitch betrayed that Baxter's muscles were getting tired from sitting in the kneeling position. Good, Hagen thought. That would teach him to be on time next time.

"I accept your apology. I hope it won't happen again. As discussed, infractions will have consequences. Your punishment for being late is to hold the kneeling position for another ten minutes. Can you do that?"

A brief moment of horror flashed over Baxter's face before he hid it from Hagen. "Yes, Sir," was the soft answer.

"Good," Hagen said. "The clock starts now."

He pretended to read his newspaper for the first two minutes, watching Baxter from the corner of his eye as he fought to maintain position. Hagen could see how much it cost him, little twitches in his muscles betraying the effort as much as the sweat that started pearling on his forehead.

Hagen rose from his spot at the table and walked toward the window, pulling the sheer curtains aside to look outside. The weather had been miserable that whole week, but yesterday, a winter storm had arrived, bringing loads of that horrible, wet snow. It didn't stay like regular snow, didn't create that white, attractive, fluffy blanket over the landscape, but rather drenched everything in a cold wetness that would later freeze up and become a slippery, deadly mess. It was a perfect day to stay inside.

He wasn't sure what made him turn around. Maybe it was an involuntary sound Baxter had made, the first whimper of distress. Afterward, Hagen couldn't remember consciously hearing it, but his subconscious must've picked something up. Because he did turn around, just in time to see Baxter go deadly white, all color draining from his face as his body jerked, then went limp. Hagen reached him just in time to catch him before he keeled over.

"Baxter!" Hagen called out, worry blazing through him. He crashed rather inelegantly to the floor, catching Baxter's full weight as the guy went limp in his arms. What the hell had happened? He had fainted, Hagen realized. How was that even possible?

Hagen cradled his head as best as he could, but Baxter's body was at a weird angle from falling forward. He was completely out of it, not responding when Hagen dragged him over the floor a little to get a better grip on him. Should he call 911? Hell, he couldn't even reach his phone, which was on the table.

God, he looked so pale, the dark bags under his eyes even more prominent now. What had caused him to faint? Hagen was grateful for the yearly first aid training the college made him take as he lowered Baxter's head to the floor and put his feet up so they rested on Hagen's legs. That way, blood could flow back to his head.

Hagen pressed down on Baxter's wrist with his index and middle finger, releasing a relieved breath when he found his pulse, slow but steady. He pulled up his hoodie as best as he could from his position so he could put a hand on his chest. Hagen reeled back in shock. He'd thought Baxter was thin, but this was beyond thin. Hagen pulled up his hoodie to get a better look, gasping when he spotted the ribs sticking out, the pale skin on that part of his body.

Baxter was ill. That had to be the reason why he'd fainted. What could be wrong with him? It had to be something serious, judging by the condition his body was in. Hagen couldn't believe he hadn't spotted it before, a rush of guilt filling him. How had he missed this? God, he’d made him hold position for far too long if he had been that weak.

Baxter stirred, a soft moan falling off his lips as he blinked a few times. His eyes slowly opened, filling with confusion, then panic.

"You're okay," Hagen said, making sure his voice was warm. "I've got you. Take it easy. Simply breathe, okay? Take your time."

He didn't know if it was his voice or what he said, but after a few seconds, the panic disappeared. Baxter did as he was told, taking a few deep breaths, though he closed his eyes.

"I think you fainted," Hagen said. "I don't know what happened. One second, you were sitting there kneeling, and the next you keeled over."