“Well,” I said to Gould after Cinnamon had stalked off. “Let’s go to camp, shall we?”
He groaned, laughing. “I can’t believe I got caught by you.”
“Believe it.”
“You really don’t have to . . . do anything with me if you don’t want.”
“Oh, I want.”
He was covered in dirt and paint and bits of dried leaves, and his face was flushed, but he seemed more exhilarated than embarrassed. “Won’t it be awkward?”
“I’m not worried.” I really wasn’t. Yes, he was Miles’s friend, and mine. But I was confident I could do a scene with him that wouldn’t cross any lines.
We walked in silence toward the meadow.
“I’m glad you saved me from her,” he said finally.
“Hey, anytime.”
He seemed at ease, which made me glad. Sometimes when I was around him, his energy was so . . . I wasn’t sure of the word, but I could sense the stress that was woven all through him. It wasn’t a keyed-up anxiety, like Miles’s, but a sort of desolate, low-level fear, like he didn’t have much hope the world would be good to him. But that had improved over the past year, and I knew he and Kel and Greg had picked their way through some rocky territory in order to get where they were now.
We reached the meadow. Almost everyone was back at camp now. People were attacking the snack table. The paddock was full, and only two posts weren’t in use. I led him toward the one farthest from the crowd, smiling at the people who called their congratulations to me, or welcomed Gould to slavedom.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked, as we reached the post.
“If you don’t want to—”
“No, it’s not that. I just don’t want you to feel weird.”
“Do you trust me?”
He nodded.
“Then I’d like to try something.”
I’d done some guided bodywork with Kamen before, and with Dave. And with Miles, obviously. But I hadn’t worked on Gould yet—even though he was probably the one who could benefit most from it.
“Clothes off,” I said.
He shot me a pained look but removed his shirt, undid his fly. Hesitated at his boxers. “Everything?”
“You can leave those on, if that’ll make you more comfortable.”
He left them on. I took his wrists and used the soft cuffs to bind his hands above his head. His armpit hair was damp with sweat, his skin twitched whenever my clothed body brushed him. He stood facing the post, muscles rigid. I met a lot of people through my coven who didn’t even realize how uncomfortable they were with touch until we started working together. I decided not to call attention to Gould’s unease. I could say more with my hands anyway.
Bella brought me his cards, and I read them over. There were some detailed notes from Kel—mostly concerning humiliation, which I wasn’t interested in. I pinned the cards up to the post. “Any specific limits with me?”
“No, s—” he seemed to catch himself and think for a moment about whether I was a sir. Then he said, firmly, “No, sir.”
“‘Sir’ feels very military. How about ‘Drix’?”
“Sure,” he said awkwardly.
“If it’s all right with you, I just want to work with your body a little.”
“Uh, okay.” He braced himself like I’d told him I was gonna flay several layers of skin from his back.
“You all right?”
He snorted. “It’s just . . . you’re a sadist. So I don’t know, uh . . . Just remember I’m not Miles, okay? I’m a total wuss.”
I threw back my head and laughed. “This is not gonna hurt. I promise.”
I placed a hand on his left shoulder. Held it there until I felt the shoulder drop slightly. Then I slid my hand between his shoulder blades. Placed the other just above his right hip, and pressed gently on both points. “Breathe in.”
He did.
“Good. And out.”
He exhaled.
I shifted the hand on his hip to his lower back and had him take another deep breath. Worked my way around his torso. Most of his tension was in his upper body—I could feel the way he flinched when I touched his stomach. Sensitivity about his weight, maybe. But also, generally speaking, the belly was a very vulnerable body part. Displaying it was a symbol of submission, of course, and having someone touch you there left you less room to hide, or to detach.
I thought about talking to him—explaining to him what I was doing. But he’d already started to relax. His head was bowed, and he wasn’t resisting me at all. So I stayed silent and placed my palm once more on his lower back. I increased the pressure between his shoulders with my other hand. He shifted slightly, then let his shoulders drop.
It was very . . . I don’t know. Such a reward, each time I forged this kind of connection with someone. I knew the internal eye rolls I evoked when I talked about healing energy or directing someone’s life force. And I really didn’t see myself as buying into a lot of hippy-dippy bullcrap. But we all had the power to change the way someone else felt through the way we spoke to them or touched them or behaved around them. I liked to use that power, whenever I could, to help people.
He got an erection, and he tilted his hips as though he hoped to hide it. But he continued breathing deeply, as per my instructions. I slid one palm to the right side of his abdomen and stopped when I felt a knot in the muscle, and a faint heat, like the area was inflamed. Shame, tension, old memories . . . I kept my hand there, and his body started to stiffen again, which was the opposite of what I wanted. “Can you let that go for me?” I asked, cupping my palm over the knot and pressing lightly.
He tried another deep breath, but it was unsteady.
Ah, okay.
I repositioned my body, careful not to invade his space, but I wanted to get a little closer so he could feel the way I was breathing. “There you go,” I said as he took a breath with me. I remembered going through this process with Kamen, who’d had the least amount of tension I’d ever experienced in a human body, and who had complied so earnestly with my instructions that it had been hard not to laugh. Gould, while far less relaxed than Kamen, seemed to understand more organically what I was asking.
His eyes were closed, and his breathing had slowed considerably. I did the other side of his abdomen. Breathed with him. “Perfect,” I whispered, as he let the last of the tension go.
I worked a couple of trigger points on his shoulders, and he groaned. He was still clearly erect under his shorts, but he no longer seemed concerned about it. I rubbed wide circles on his back, and he went so limp in the restraints that I worried about the strain on his wrists.
I didn’t want to take him out of this headspace, but a few people had gathered around, and it seemed invasive, somehow, to let others watch him during what felt like a private moment. So I whispered, “Do you want to stay up here? Or go rest somewhere?”
He arched suddenly, like a cat, and his voice was hoarse when he spoke. “Can you . . . Can someone . . . whip me? Please?”
I kept my hand moving in slow, steady circles on his back. “Do you want it to be me?”
He nodded.
“Okay. I’m gonna go get one of your floggers. I’ll be right back, okay?”
I waited until he nodded. He didn’t open his eyes.
I squeezed his shoulder and then went over to Bella, who helped me find Gould’s suitcase of gear. There were two leather floggers inside—one with thick, heavy falls, and one with thin falls. I started to take the heavier one, then grabbed both and went back to the post.
The observers were keeping a respectful distance, and Gould was still slumped. He jerked sideways slightly when he sensed me next to him. I let him feel both floggers, dragging the falls of the heavier one up his leg, and then shaking the thinner falls against his shoulders. He let out a long sigh, swaying in the restraints.
Miles and Bowser had trained me in dual flogger use, and I loved it. Lots of ways to play with rhythm and sensation. I started with the heavy flogger—a couple of sidestrokes across his shoulders. The flogger was nicely weighted, and the thudding sound was satisfying. Gould’s breathing didn’t even quicken. I worked his shoulders over with figure eights, and then paused, readjusted, and snapped the thin falls across the backs of his thighs. He jumped a little, and the post creaked. I struck with both floggers at once—shoulders and thighs.
Then I fell into a rhythm, landing one flogger after the other. He started swaying with each blow, but not in a way that suggested he was resisting or uncomfortable. He just went where the follow-through of each stroke took him.
I moved both up to his shoulders and did alternating figure eights there. The skin turned pink, then red.
I paused and shook both floggers up and down his back. Then I started in with the heavy flogger across the seat of his shorts. Back and forth, until he arched and squirmed. I put the handle of the flogger between his legs and nudged them farther apart. Then I swung the floggers simultaneously in rapid circles, one against each thigh. I was glad he’d kept his shorts on, so I didn’t have to worry as much about catching his balls.
I liked the whap of the leather against his boxers. Liked mixing that sound with the sharper thwack of leather on skin. I stung him a couple of times with the tips of the thinner falls, making him jerk.
He’d started breathing harder, his hips rocking, and I was curious to see if I could make him come like this. But he didn’t move his hips any faster, and I wasn’t sure what his pain threshold was, so I started winding down, finally dropping the thinner flogger and giving him a last few solid lashes on his ass with the heavy falls. I spent a few minutes rubbing his back with the leather handle, drawing patterns on the reddened skin. Then I dropped that flogger too and undid his wrist cuffs. I had one arm ready to support him when he came off the post.
I turned him so we were side by side, my arm around his shoulders. “No rush. Open your eyes when you’re ready.”
He blinked. Saw the people watching, and stiffened slightly. But I helped him over to the shaded area and put a blanket down for him. Miles sat a few feet away, watching. I was about to ask him if he could get us some water, when Gould grabbed my hand. I looked down, and he gave me this completely unembarrassed, open smile.
“Thank you,” he said. “So much.”
I squeezed his hand. “My pleasure,” I replied, and meant it.
“I’m . . . supposed to offer you a bounty.”
“And what’s your bounty?”
He laughed. “It’s so stupid.”
I didn’t comment.
“Uh . . . I’ll have a conversation with you. About any topic you want.” He shrugged. “It’s really dumb, I know. But Kel said my bounty should be something that’s actually a challenge to give. And . . . yeah.”
I sat on the blanket with him. “All right,” I said. “Let’s talk.”