I spent several days preparing my apology. Part one was verbal. And if he was willing to listen to that, we might just get around to part two. I was sweating as I sat at his kitchen table a week later.
He listened. To the whole story, start to finish, of how the Subs Club had come to be and how it had spiraled out of control. He listened to my apology, and to my explanation of what was going to happen now.
“A member of the Subs Club is going to lead a roundtable discussion each month at Riddle. And we’re going to keep the educational portion of our site—the articles and the resources for victims and stuff. But we’re getting rid of the review blog. I know that doesn’t undo the damage, but . . .”
I tried to look at him and couldn’t. I continued.
“I’m also going to serve as an advocate, and so are some other members. We’ll be available to anyone in the community who’s been a victim of abuse but maybe doesn’t feel comfortable going to the police, or isn’t ready to yet. Kel and GK are helping with all of this.”
“That’s good. I’m glad to hear that.” He still seemed a little stiff with me.
“I know it hurt your feelings,” I tried. “Being rated. I wasn’t trying to be sneaky, though. I swear.”
Way too much silence. I almost got up and bolted.
“David. I like you a lot. And I admire . . . everything you do. And I know you weren’t being malicious. I never thought that.”
Really?
He shook his head. “It’s hard to explain. How do you feel when you’re bent over someone’s lap for a spanking?”
“Um . . . What?”
“Just tell me how you feel.”
“Pretty embarrassed. Nervous as fuck. But also kind of sexy.”
“Then let me tell you this. I like being dominant. I like feeling confident and in control and giving a boy what he needs. It does make me feel ‘kind of sexy.’” He paused. “But things rarely go as planned in a scene. And when I’m domming, there’s a part of me that feels like you do when you’re bent over—exposed and embarrassed. And that’s why this public rating business is difficult for me. Because what I do in this house with you or with anyone else is very, very personal.”
That kind of blew my mind.
But it made a lot of sense.
“I’m so sorry,” I told him. “I wanted to tell you, a couple of times, about the club. But I didn’t know if you’d . . .”
Hate me.
He nodded. “I know I’m not easy to talk to.”
“What? No. You’re incredibly easy to talk to. I just wasn’t sure at first what we’d end up being to each other. And the club really was—is—personal to me. I wasn’t sure how to share it.”
He was silent a moment. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you a chance to explain before.”
“I’m sorry about the review blog.” I paused, offering a hesitant smile. “Will you let me make it up to you?”
“David, there’s really no need. I—”
“No, I actually have something really cool planned. If you think you can forgive me, I’d like to show you.”
He looked wary. “All right.”
My smile broadened. “Tomorrow is Thursday, after all. So why don’t you come to my place? Seven thirty?”
“I am . . . somewhat frightened.”
I laughed. I still felt kind of wrecked—but hopeful too. “Don’t be. Or only a little.”
D arrived at my place at exactly seven thirty the next night. I answered the door and ushered him in. He didn’t kiss me, which stung, but I tried to let it go as I took his jacket and hung it up.
I led him into the kitchen.
“This is your surprise,” I told him.
He glanced around the table. Miles, Kamen, Gould, and Ricky all gazed back at him, looking nervous. Except for Kamen, who looked pumped as all fuck. They had tablets and phones in front of them.
“We’re doing a table read,” I announced. “Of your script.”
D whipped around to face me. It was possibly the fastest I’d ever seen him move. “What?”
Oh God. Please don’t freak out. “I thought it would be fun for you to see your work brought to life.”
“My . . .?” He sounded incredulous. I hoped in a good way.
“Crocopython,” I confirmed. “I want you to know you’re, um . . . You’re way more to the Subs Club than a rating. You’ve made my life better. And I hope we can make yours better for, like, half an hour.”
“The script’s not even finished.” He kept glancing at the group assembled at the table.
“I borrowed what you had. D, I want you to meet Jake Mandragon.” Kamen saluted. “Tank Kevlar.” Ricky waved enthusiastically. “Dr. Brittany Sands.” Miles nodded. “Twix.” Gould looked like he wished the crocopython would eat him quickly and put him out of his misery. “And, of course, the crocopython.” I gestured to myself.
“Oh God.”
“What, you didn’t think I was gonna play the big-titted doctor, did you?”
D just stared. “I truly don’t know what to say.”
“Then just sit down and listen.” I pulled a chair out for him. “And I might need you to jump in to play a doomed lab assistant or two.”
The reading began. Kamen committed fully to his role as Jake Mandragon. Ricky was the most enthusiastic, adorable Tank Kevlar imaginable. Miles brought gravitas to the tragic part of Dr. Brittany Sands. And I was a pretty fantastic crocopython, leaping up to attack victims—even dragging Gould’s Twix out of his seat and gnawing on him until we were all laughing too hard to continue. D kept his arm around me for most of the reading—except when I was eating people—and I leaned against him, glad beyond words that he was here.
It took a while for things to go completely back to normal between D and me. We didn’t have a Thursday night session for a couple of weeks, but we spent a lot of time together. And we talked. About continuing to play, and about incorporating something into our relationship that wasn’t quite play.
The weekend before Christmas, D and I agreed I’d do two applications. Just two. They had to be completed and submitted by Sunday at 11:59 p.m., and I was supposed to send him the online submission receipts.
I didn’t do them. On purpose. Terrifying as the prospect of a caning was, I needed to know what it would feel like. So on Monday afternoon I stood, not in the Den of Horrors, but in D’s living room. He’d placed a wooden chair from the kitchen in the center of the room and set a long, thin rattan cane on it. I couldn’t stop looking at it. Every time I did, I wanted to bolt. But I stayed put and waited for him to tell me what to do.
D sentenced me to three strokes for not doing the applications and a fourth for purposely trying to get punished.
“That’s not fair,” I argued. “You can’t do that.”
“This isn’t going to be a battle, David.”
I took a deep breath. Give it up. Trust him.
He indicated the chair. “Bend over the back. Hands on the seat.”
I obeyed, leaning slowly over the chair back and adjusting myself until I felt relatively comfortable. The height of the chair meant I was on the balls of my feet. Panic, resentment, excitement—it was all there, and I didn’t know what to do with any of it.
“What’s this punishment for?” His voice was quiet, familiar.
“Not doing my applications.” I paused. “And trying to get you to punish me.”
“You told me you were going to complete two applications yesterday. You told me you wanted to be held accountable for doing them, and yet you sabotaged yourself in order to get punished on your terms.”
“I didn’t . . .”
“Didn’t what?”
I forced myself to exhale. “Yeah,” I admitted. “That’s what I did.”
“So four strokes. You’ll hold that position until we’re done.”
He straightened, and I tensed, glancing to the side in an effort to see him. My heart was pounding out of all proportion to the situation. “D?”
“Yes?”
“I . . . maybe can’t do this.”
He hooked an arm around me and tugged me up. I stumbled into his arms and felt them wrap tight around me again. I clung to him for a moment, breathing him in. “Tough time with the applications?” he asked softly.
“No, Sir.” We weren’t playing, but for some reason it felt right to call him “Sir.” I raised my head and nuzzled the side of his neck. “I just . . . I wanted to find out how bad this is gonna be,” I admitted. “Sorry.”
“Hey. It’s not the end of the world.”
I sighed, resting my chin on his shoulder. “I like that. That’s a good thing to say to me.”
He held me like that a moment longer.
I hoped Bill had said all the right things to Hal. I hoped he’d whispered to Hal that he was just going to get him some water, and then he’d be right back. And I hoped Hal had relaxed and closed his eyes and sunk into some beautiful place, secure in the belief that Bill would come back and take care of him.
And I hoped Hal had understood that no matter how exasperated I got with him, I had always loved him.
One more deep breath, and then I stepped away. “I think I’m ready now.”
I’d never be ready. But oh fucking well.
He nodded toward the chair, and I bent over the back of it, placing my hands on the seat. He put his hand on my lower back and pushed gently until I flattened it and stuck my ass out. Then he reached around me and undid my fly. Slid my jeans down to my knees.
I heard him pick up the cane and closed my eyes, wondering if it would be worse with them open or shut. He swished the cane through the air a couple of times, and I tensed. I nearly jumped when he touched it to the seat of my briefs.
I could do this. It wasn’t really that different from being paddled, was it? Except canes were Satan’s masterpiece and I wasn’t even remotely hard and I was wishing to hell I’d just done the stupid applications.
“You will do those applications,” spaketh Mind Reader Dom. “As soon as we’re done here.”
I gripped the edges of the chair. The cane swished again, then cracked across my ass.
I stood straight up and clapped both hands to my backside. “Oh, Hell and its fiery lake and all its outer circles, no.” I turned to face him, rubbing furiously to diffuse the sting. “No. Absolutely no.”
“Dave.” He looked slightly amused, and I was pretty sure I was going to punch him, but I couldn’t take my hands off my butt to do it. “Turn around and bend over.”
“Are you kidding?” I kneaded my ass, which hurt like a thousand Mandys being sent home from Space Camp.
“Yes, April Fool’s, David, let me snap this cane in half and we’ll go out for ice cream.” He pointed the cane at the chair. “Bend over.”
“It’s too much!” I was aware even as I protested that the sting was subsiding.
“Listen.” He didn’t raise his voice at all. “If you want this arrangement, then you have to trust me. Nothing terrible is going to happen to you beyond a sore ass. And if you think about why this is happening rather than the fact that you don’t like it, the discipline might be more effective.”
Nope. This was, without a doubt, the worst idea I’d ever had. It had been all well and good to fantasize about domestic discipline. To see a beautiful pornstache in Riddle that night and think, yeah, Pornstache, spank me. And stay with me and change my life and be a thousand times better than anyone has ever been to me. To play a game with D for a few weeks. To invite him to Black Friday: The Revenge.
But this was going too far. This was giving up a level of control I’d never given to anyone. And I was afraid I’d never get it back. Even if I broke up with D, I’d always be Dave, the grown-ass man who let someone cane him because he was too fucking stupid to get his shit together on his own.
Why the hell would I drop the act, when the act was what was keeping me safe?
I stared at him. Then I turned to face the chair. Bent over the back and placed my hands on the seat. I flinched as his hand circled my hip gently. I exhaled. Willed myself not to tense up when he took aim again.
A second later there was a whoosh, and the cane struck slightly lower than it had the first time. “Shit!” I shifted my weight from foot to foot, gripping the chair hard enough to turn my knuckles white. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I repeated, more softly.
“Two more.”
Think about why this is happening.
Because I’m seriously messed up?
Because I’m a man-child?
That wasn’t right.
Because I need it to happen.
Because I really don’t like being alone or trying to do things without help.
Because he always throws his trash in the wrong bin, and for some reason it makes me want to trust him with my entire soul.
I’d been stupid enough to think this would be simple. What D was asking for—what I was asking for—was true submission, and maybe I wouldn’t succeed in giving it today. But over time, hopefully I’d learn. I’d trust him more and more. Because maybe it wasn’t Bill I was scared of. Maybe it wasn’t the thought of ending up dead on a piece of dungeon furniture.
I was scared of this huge capacity that I had for love, and for hope, and for forgiveness.
And for hurting people.
As long as I focused on what Bill Henson was, on what he’d done, then I didn’t have to think too hard about who I was, and who I wanted to become. As long as I focused on Hal’s absence, on what I’d been left with, I didn’t have to think about what I might still gain.
If I just fucking pushed myself.
D struck me on the lower curve of my ass, catching some bare skin. I cried out and kicked the carpet. Boxers. From now on, I was going to start wearing boxers.
“Take a minute.” He still spoke quietly, patiently.
“It hurts,” was my profoundly compelling statement of the obvious. It hurt way, way below the skin.
“I know.”
It clicked for me then. He did know. He knew I was afraid; he knew I was sore. He knew I missed Hal. He knew BDSM was dangerous—that not just people’s bodies got hurt, but their feelings too. He knew, and I wasn’t in this alone. For the first time since Hal, I felt the fight leave me, in a real and lasting way. I wanted this. I had asked for this.
It stopped hurting so much.
The fourth stroke fell across the tops of my thighs.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck all the fucks.
I didn’t cry, but I was breathing hard and shivering as I waited for him to tell me I could stand.
He helped me up and hugged me so hard I groaned. I hugged him back, and we were both silent for a moment as I tried to get my ragged breathing under control.
It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.
“Hey,” I said finally into his shoulder.
“Hey.” He stroked my hair.
My laugh was awkward and unsteady. “That was fucking awful.”
“You were—” he kissed me “—very brave.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“Don’t downplay it.” He ran his hand down my back and over my ass. I winced.
Maybe, I thought, there was something at least a little brave, a little grown-up, about knowing what you needed and asking for it. About being vulnerable in front of people who could cover you with a new kind of strength. A strength that wasn’t about hiding your moments of fear and uncertainty and stupidity, but was about being a whole person, boldly.
“It was awful,” I repeated. “But . . . thank you.”
He didn’t actually make me do my applications right then. We had dinner and watched TV for a while. Then we headed up to bed. And the next day, I did two applications; did them sitting on a sore ass, rocking slightly every now and then to reawaken the pain, to remind myself how lucky I was.