“Where’re you parked?” I asked as we exited. I was trying to maintain a sense of outrage over him pinching me, but it was difficult when what I really wanted was for him to back me against the window of the café and stick his knee between my legs so I could rub off on him in front of the whole damn evening crowd.
“I walked.” He let go of my arm and started striding at twice the pace any normal human would opt for. “I’m just a block over.”
I caught up and fell into step alongside him.
“Walk in front of me.”
“Why?” I asked, suspicious.
“Because I want you to.”
This was a far from satisfactory answer. But he slowed, and I moved in front of him.
My ass clenched with each step because now that I was in front of him I was very aware of how tight my jeans were and what he planned to do to me. I loved tormenting guys at clubs or play parties by waving my ass at them, but when I was about to get spanked, suddenly I kind of wanted to be wearing a bustle and a crinoline.
“What am I in trouble for?” I asked, hoping to get a sense of what he was planning.
“We’ll go over all that when you’re at the desk.”
“The desk?” I looked over my shoulder at him.
“Next house on your left.”
It was a one-story brick deal with ugly brown shutters and battered clematis on the lamppost that looked like it should be named Gladys and have a smoker’s cough.
“Wait here.” D strode past me.
I was in the middle of the yard, and I assumed he meant I should at least follow him to the porch, but he turned around when I started after him. “Stay. There.” He didn’t raise his voice, but he sharpened it, and I felt it in my groin.
I stopped walking and barked. When he whirled toward me again, I grinned.
He shook his head, but once again it looked like his lips were twitching under the mustache.
He went to the porch, unlocked the front door, and disappeared inside. I glanced around, feeling alone and a little chilly in the dark. I leaned against the lamppost, purposely mushing the clematis.
After a moment the porch light went on and he appeared in the door, chugging water from a bottle.
“You can come in.” He recapped the bottle.
I sauntered.
He held the door open, and I walked past him into the house. The place smelled like leather and cedar and pine needles and the sweat of labor. Possibly he had some kind of Paul Bunyan-themed Glade PlugIn. I stood in the hall, not sure where to go from here.
“Drink?” he asked.
I shook my head. Glanced down at the front of my pants to remind him I was still hard. He stepped uncomfortably close to me and held eye contact just long enough that I shifted.
“Once I start the scene,” he said, “I don’t want to break it. For a scene with a new partner, I stick to spanking with my hand or a paddle. I also do mouth soaping, writing assignments, and corner time. I need to know if any of those are hard limits for you.”
“Nope.”
“I may also take you by the arm or ear, and if I soap your mouth, I may pinch your nose to get your mouth open.”
“Fine.”
“If I’m pleased with you, and we agree to further sessions, I’ll expect you to accept punishments that could include enemas, figging, spanking—with crops, straps, paddles, or whips—and forced exercise.”
“What’s forced exercise?”
“You get on my treadmill and you run. Or you do laps around my yard. Or push-ups.”
I leaned against the wall, hooking my thumbs in my belt loops. “What if I’m not pleased with you?”
“Then I imagine we won’t agree to further sessions.”
I nodded. “Here are my stipulations. You discipline me, but you don’t degrade me. I can take a hard punishment. But if I think you’re being gratuitous, I’ll safeword.”
“What do you mean?”
“Safeword. It’s a word that—”
He rolled his eyes. “What do you mean ‘gratuitous’?”
“I mean don’t be an asshole about it. I’m not gonna choke on your cock as punishment, or let you pee in my mouth or anything. And don’t make fun of me. Like, don’t make fun of how I can’t take enough pain or anything like that.”
I saw his shoulders twitch, once, like he’d just swallowed a laugh. “I won’t pee in your mouth. But I do incorporate humiliation into my punishments. And while I will respect your limits, once the punishment begins, I decide when it ends. The safeword is for emergencies only.”
Every muscle in my body tensed. “The safeword is for any time I feel like using it.”
“It’s a punishment. It shouldn’t be pleasant, and it should take you out of your comfort zone.”
I pushed off the wall and stepped toward him. “I agree with not pleasant, but I’m not gonna let you tell me when I can and can’t use my safeword.” Go on, you fucker. Just try and argue with me.
He nodded. “What’s your word?”
“‘Red’ works for me.”
“Any health problems? Allergies, mental or physical disorders, past injuries?”
“I don’t know. You want to examine me, doctor?”
“Answer the question.”
“Allergic to cats, flax, and authority. And shellfish.”
“Anything else you want to discuss before we begin?”
“Who cuts your hair? You should run them through with their own thinning shears. You have a wonderful face, and so much wasted potential for—” He stepped forward and grabbed my ear. “Ow!”
I gritted my teeth as he pulled me down the hall and toward the back of the house. I tried to dig my heels in, but when someone’s got ahold of your ear, the only one you really hurt by digging in is yourself. I muttered and grabbed his wrist, but he twisted my earlobe, and I dropped my arms, my mouth open in a silent cry.
He led me into a room at the end of the hall. The floor was hardwood, the walls off-white, and there was a tiny, old-fashioned, red wooden school desk at one end with a sheet of paper and a pen on it. At the other end was a much larger, headmaster-style wooden desk and a high-backed, armless chair. The far wall had a long rack with three rows of pegs, and on it hung canes of various sizes, a riding crop, a black paddle the size of a small nation, a tawse, approximately eight billion other paddles, three floggers, and a gleaming razor strop.
Just hanging on the wall. What the hell did he tell guests who wandered back here looking for the bathroom and found this den of horrors? Near the desk there was a tall, varnished cabinet, which probably held other nightmares. He let go of my ear, and I gave it a good rub. Noticed what looked like a framed piece of leather on the wall above the desk. “What’s that?”
“That is the first hide I ever tanned. Literally.”
“You . . . make your own leather?”
He removed his jacket, folded it, and placed it over the high-backed chair. “Yes. There is nothing more tragic, David, than the death of the American man.”
“I’ll bet if you really tried, you could think of something more tragic.”
“I doubt it.”
I pretended to continue examining the leather while checking him out peripherally. “Why do you think the American man’s dead? You mean because men don’t know how to make leather anymore?”
He came to stand beside me. “Among other things. In this culture of participation awards, this society where everyone is special and legitimate skill is the mark of a bygone era, we have ceased to quantify accomplishment. I look around and see a generation of useless, overprivileged men who have all been taught to express their opinions rather than get things done.”
“Aren’t you expressing an opinion right now instead of getting things done?”
“Good point.” He reached again for my ear.
“No! No, wait.” I laughed, scooting away just before he could grab me. “I’m not through admiring your collection.” I walked along the wall. “I like being a modern man. I like being able to talk about my feelings and watch Pixar movies with my dude friends.” I started touching the paddles. “Did you make these?”
“Most of them. And two of the floggers.”
I was fascinated by how slowly he spoke. Like he was in no hurry, ever, for anything. “They’re gorgeous.”
“Eleven paddles, five hairbrushes, ten canes. Six floggers. Three riding crops, a quirt, a single-tail stock whip. A nightstick. And then miscellaneous implements—wooden spoons, rulers, spatulas.”
“You could have one fucked-up twelve days of Christmas. Did you say a nightstick?”
“Mm-hmm.” He pulled a police baton off the wall and handed it to me.
“Jesus.” I hefted it. “You could kill someone with this.”
“I can’t take it to clubs. It’s illegal to have one in public. Not that I really go to clubs.”
“So I just got lucky the other night?”
He didn’t answer.
“I saw you,” I pressed. “At Riddle.”
Still no answer. Then, very quietly: “I saw you too.”
I studied the baton again. “Have you ever killed anyone with this?”
“No.”
“Maimed?” I thumped the stick against my palm.
“Bruised. Superficially. As per the boy’s request.” He took the nightstick from me. “It’s more of a psychological tool than a physical one. You can scare someone without even touching them. Same with a rubber hose.”
“You’re scaring me now.” I checked the walls for bloodstains. Claw marks. Places where the plaster had been weakened by salt tears. I saw nothing.
D snapped his fingers and pointed at the school desk. “Sit.”
I debated resisting, but decided not to overplay my hand. I crammed myself into the tiny desk, forty-five percent sure my jeans were going to split. My knees jutted, and the wood under my ass was hard and unforgiving. I rubbed my ear again.
D clasped his hands behind his back and circled me. “From here on, you will address me as ‘Sir.’ You will obey my instructions promptly. I don’t recommend testing me on that.”
I always complained to my friends about doms who seemed to have memorized a cliché-ridden script; who deepened their voices and barked orders and thought that was sexy. I also complained about doms who had no script, whose instructions were disorganized and inarticulate. I needed a balance. D almost had it. He sounded rehearsed but also sure of himself.
“Yes, Sir,” I said politely. Let him think I was cowed. Let him think he had me.
He wouldn’t stop staring at me. My cock rubbed against damp nylon and tight denim. All I could see if I gazed ahead was the wall of implements. So I tried studying the desk. The blank piece of paper and pen.
“Look at me.”
I did, and suddenly felt about the size of a figure in a snow globe.
“Do you have any questions?”
“You still haven’t answered my last one. About who cuts your hair.”
“Stand up.” His voice was soft.
The desk creaked as I extricated myself. I stood in front of him. Had he gotten taller?
“Hands behind your head.”
I raised my arms and clasped my hands behind my head, which pulled my shirt up a few inches and exposed the trail of hair running down under the waistband of my jeans. I’d done it all before, the bending over, the counting the strokes, the assuming of various positions of submission and contrition. But right now it all seemed new. My skin tingled like it was electric, my breathing was shallow, and my heart pumped too fast.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He removed a business card and slid it into my pocket, which took some time, since my jeans really didn’t even leave room for a piece of paper. I stopped breathing for a second as his knuckles grazed my bare hip.
“My stylist’s card,” he said. “Now take your hands off your head and sit down.”
I sat, my knees knocking the desk. “They’re uneven.”
“What?”
“Your sideburns.”
“They’re not.” For the first time, he sounded uncertain.
I’d been studying them in the café. They totally were. “The left one’s shorter.”
He shifted. I could tell he wanted to look in a mirror. Gotcha.
“I could do a better job.” I smiled. “I love cutting hair. I’m thinking about going to school for it. I do my roommate’s hair sometimes, and he’s got crazy curls. You’d look good with a—”
His hand came down hard on the desk. I jumped.
He pointed at the paper. “I want you to write me a description of every foot you’ve put wrong since we met. Make sure I can read your writing. You have five minutes.”
He turned and walked across the room. I rolled my eyes. Write about How I Was Bad—how original. I’d never been so torn between being an asshole and behaving myself. I wanted to impress him with my obediance. I also wanted to make him grit his teeth until they cracked. “No fuckin’ problem.”
I expected him to snap at me, or come back and throw me over his knee, but instead he went to the bureau cabinet and opened it. I watched him take out a small porcelain bowl and a decanter of water. He set them on the desk. Then he took out a wrapped bar of Ivory soap and closed the cupboard.
Fuck. Should have seen that coming.
I pretended to be writing when he looked at me. Glanced up a second later to watch him pour the water in the bowl, unwrap the soap, dip it in the water, and start rubbing the bar until it was foamy.
I closed my eyes. I hated soap. Only one dom had ever used it on me, and I actually had caved and stopped being a brat just to make it end. D put the lathered bar into the bowl, then went to the Wall of Implements. He took down a large wooden paddle. With holes.
No fucking way.
He placed the paddle on the headmaster desk beside the soap and sat. I tried to focus.
Write about every foot I’d put wrong. I peered down at my feet.
I started to write: My left foot is a size eight point five. It has a high arch, and my big toe is longer than my second toe. There is a light smattering of hair on the top of my foot. I paused and stuck my left leg out, studying my shoe. Right now I am wearing Nike Frees for m—
“Bring me your paper.”
I glanced at my paper. “I’m not done yet.”
“One . . . two . . .”
I brought him the paper.
“Put your hands on your head.”
You do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around . . . I put my hands on my head and stood there while he read it.
“Shirt off.” He didn’t look up.
I took my shirt off. He still didn’t look at me.
“Drop your pants,”
“I don’t—” I started.
“Drop your pants.”
I pushed my jeans down to my thighs. Pretty sure they left skid marks on my hips.
“To your ankles.”
I shoved them all the way down. Straightened. Remembered to put my hands back on my head. I felt considerably less confident now than I had earlier in the evening when I’d gleefully chosen to ignore his underwear request. The PPU briefs were my favorite—a sort of jockstrap-inspired male garter belt. A teal pouch covered my dick and balls, while black elastic bands went around the tops of my thighs and my waist. There were strategic cutouts exposing rectangles of skin just under my hipbones and along the sides of my ass. Normally I felt hot as fuck in them, but right now I felt uncertain and a little embarrassed.
“Why did you wear these tonight?” he asked calmly. He was staring at the front pouch, which was straining to hold my dick.
“I like them.”
They were my favorite underwear to be spanked in. They cupped my ass just right and left me exposed in creative places. They made me feel like I was in gym class and on a runway at the same time. No other guy I knew had underwear like these. But I wasn’t going to tell D all that.
“Hmm.” He reached out slowly and let his fingertips brush the bare skin to the left of my groin. I shivered and tried to stay still. He hooked his finger in the band around the top of my left thigh and snapped it gently. I allowed a small whimper to escape, and he glanced up. “Because of this?” He drew light circles along the naked sides of my ass.
“Yes, Sir.” I let the words out on a breath. My knees softened as he touched the edges of the fabric. I closed my eyes and dipped my head. He traced the vertical straps that ran from the waistband down to the thigh bands then followed the thigh bands around to the back. I shifted, off-balance.
His head was level with my belly, and I could almost feel his breath on my cock through the fabric. I could smell his aftershave, and every inhalation that carried the scent was more exciting than the last. I wanted to touch his hair. Wanted to press my body to his and kiss him.
Wordlessly, he placed one hand on the small of my back and one on my stomach, and turned me so I wasn’t directly facing him. He bent me forward. My legs quivered as he increased the pressure on my lower back until my ass stuck out. He rubbed a slow circle on the seat of my briefs. Leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “Are they what I asked you to wear?”
I shook my head, swallowing. “No, Sir.”
He pinched the lower curve of my right cheek. Ran his nail lightly along my skin. I pushed my ass out further, hoping he’d keep going.
“Take that underwear down,” he whispered.
I did. I hovered there, naked except for the pants and briefs around my ankles, breathing harshly. My cock was standing up and at an angle, a single bead of clear fluid shining on the tip.
I tried to look up without breaking position. Watched his face for any sign of admiration. The porn stars and horses had been an exaggeration, but my cock was decent sized, and my ass was epic. Ain’t braggin’ if it’s true. I worked out to keep it just firm enough that you could see some muscle dimples but not so unyielding that it didn’t bounce when smacked. I angled myself so he’d have a better view. Now that I’d snapped out of whatever trance I’d been in for the last few minutes while he touched me, I was peeved at myself. What happened to coming here to confront him?
“Am I in good enough shape for you?” I asked, trying for snide, but falling short.
“I’m sure you know you’re in very good shape.”
“I just find it funny that you require your subs to be in shape when you’re kind of all about the bass, right?”
That was probably going too far. A bad habit of mine—I liked teasing people, but I didn’t always know how to quit before feelings got hurt. He seemed unfazed, though.
“Come here.”
I was nervous. Not normal, pre-spanking jittery, but genuinely nervous. Because I knew I should be angry that he’d tried to tell me when I could use my safeword, but instead I fucking wanted him to like me.
“You clearly aren’t taking this very seriously.” He watched as I edged closer to him. “So you have two options. You can leave right now. Or you can apologize to me and take your punishment.”
I shivered.
He waited.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
“For what?”
“Describing my foot.” I gave him a charming smile, which withered quickly under his stare. It was hard to be charming with your pants around your ankles. “But here’s the thing. I don’t think you can set rules or ask for absolute submission until you’ve earned those rights. I really believe that.”
He reached out and set a hand on my hip. I flinched. He waited until I was looking at him again. “I choose boys based on their ability to follow instructions. Or in your case, because I saw a hint of potential in your self-conscious posturing.”
Heat crept up my neck. “Self-conscious?”
“You’re afraid to give up control.” He stroked my hip very gently with his thumb. “To submit.”
That got to me. Triggered something I didn’t entirely understand, and my throat tightened. I started talking before I could think. “Ah, yes. I forgot: you’re a dom, so you automatically know who I am and how I feel. Or did you gather all this from the ‘introductory questions’ I had to complete in order to land one magical night with you?”
“Why did you answer those questions if you didn’t like them?”
I forced my voice steady. “So that I’d have a chance to tell you to your face that you’re a dick. And that most subs like to be treated like human beings, not job applicants.”
“When have I not treated you like a human being?”
Why did he keep asking me questions? Why didn’t he fight? “You’re— You act . . . entitled.”
“Explain.”
“You act like you deserve to be listened to. Why? I don’t know you.” A sharp, sudden memory of the door to Riddle closing behind the paramedics. The other players in the club clustering around, asking questions, crying, shouting. It hit me harder than it ever had that when I played, I placed my trust in strangers. Strangers who could hurt me any number of ways. I gripped the edge of the headmaster desk, trying to ground myself. The room seemed to tilt. “And you said in your profile that safewording is chickening out.”
Miles played without safewords. Dude wouldn’t say “stop” unless he was serious. And I’d rarely negotiated safewords back in the leather bar days—not unless the other guy brought it up. But now, just . . . fuck it. I wanted a word. And he had no right to make me feel like I shouldn’t need it.
D’s hand slid from my hip. “That’s not exactly what I meant.”
“Well, it’s what it fucking sounds like.”
He snapped his fingers again, and I wanted to fucking bite him. “You may tell me how you feel. But be respectful.”
All my anger poured out of me at once. “Oh, how kind. I may tell you how I feel. May I also piss, shit, blink, breathe, and sleep?” I braced myself, but he didn’t touch me.
“One last warning. Lose the attitude.”
“I’m not playing anymore.”
“Neither am I.”
We glared at each other.
His mustache twitched. “I get a lot of requests for sessions, and—”
“I’ll bet that really feeds your ego.”
“I get a lot of requests,” he went on, as if I hadn’t spoken. “And I’m looking for boys whose interests match my own. If you’re not ready for this level of discipline, maybe you should head home.”
“Not ready? I’ve taken way more than a paddling. And I’ve written enough ‘I’m a Bad Boy’ essays to publish a greatest-hits collection. And you can’t send me home because I was already leaving.” Ooh. Good one, Dave.
I yanked my underwear and pants up, except they got stuck on my dick, which ached so badly I swore under my breath. My head throbbed, and my skin felt too hot, and I wanted to be home.
D watched me go without a word.