Page 22 of Reckless

“Spanked, flogged, whipped… I will say that face-slapping is a limit of mine, so that’s out. But the others I can manage.”

How did he talk about all this so casually?

He went on, “I’ll also say that I’m not very good at role-play. So if you’re hoping for a smacking as part of some scenario—prisoner/warden, student/headmaster, what have you—I’m a terrible actor. Might be best not to attempt it.” He tilted his head, never breaking eye contact. And I could see the hint of amusement in his expression.

“I don’t need that,” I said quickly, my face heating. What kind of freaky shit had this guy and his husband done?

“Might I make a suggestion?”

“Sure.”

“Based on your reaction to what we did the other night, I think you’d really enjoy having a flogger used on you. It can hurt as much or as little as you like, depending on the type of flogger and how it’s used. It’s capable of producing a chemical response similar to what you experienced before.”

“Do you…have…floggers?”

The slightest hint of colour entered his cheeks. I suddenly wanted, intensely, to touch those spots of pink. Touch him.

That’s not what this is.

He shifted. “I saw no harm in hoping, when I moved here.”

I smiled a little. “Bet as soon as you saw Mavis and Young Harry Barnes and all the other lookers around here, you were glad you brought your entire sex dungeon.”

He laughed, a genuine laugh. It felt good to have got that out of him. “Let’s just say I’m glad you’re the one who showed up at my door.” He grew serious again. “There are a few things I’d like to try before we work our way up to flogging. How was the kneeling, last time? Boring? Degrading? Painful? Just right?”

“Just right.” I was surprised by how quickly my answer came.

He nodded, and something told me he’d already known that was the case. That he’d never have told me to do it if he thought I’d find it degrading, or painful, or anything other than just what I needed. “What about the touching? Do you prefer to keep it pleasurable but non-sexual? Massage, hair-stroking, that sort of thing?”

He somehow managed to make these ‘pleasurable’ touches sound like he was reading off the list of side-effects for a medication. It almost made me laugh. Hair-stroking? Was he seriously asking permission to pet me, like a dog? I thought of the other night and got a jolt of heat in my gut. Yeah, okay, I did like hair-stroking. Just, I’d let guys do way more than that, and believe me, they hadn’t asked permission.

“Or are you alright with being touched more intimately?”

This time the jolt seemed to go straight to my balls. “I…sure.”

He gave a hum of affirmation. I half expected him to pull out a clipboard and make notes. But he kept all of his attention on me.

We went through quite a list. Did I like being verbally humiliated? Being gagged, or ordered not to speak? To hold a position for a long time? Being the receiving partner during intercourse? (He actually said it like that). The giving partner? Being blindfolded? On and on. I didn’t know how to answer some of the questions, but I did my best. Finally, he picked up his cup and drained the last of his tea. As he set the cup down, he said, “I’ll be honest with you, Robbie. I don’t really do force, or punishment. That’s not typically how this works for me. I’d prefer you gave your obedience willingly. If there’s anything you don’t want to do or can’t do—then we won’t do it. You’re used to fighting. I’d like to provide you with a range of sensations and experiences without it being a battle. Does that sound acceptable?”

I nodded slowly, my heart pounding. “Sure. I… Yeah, I can do that.”

“Very good. And since this won’t be a fight, I think we can continue to use ‘stop’ and ‘no,’ to pause our activities. If you’d like a proper safeword, that’s fine. But I will stop if you tell me to.”

“Yeah, that works.” I was surprised by the sudden surge of energy in me. The way my eyes followed Alastair’s every movement, as I tried to determine if we were about to start. I was ready—more than. My nerves prickled at the thought of Alastair doing things so intense I might have to tell him to stop.

I wouldn’t. I’d let him do whatever to me. He was going to learn real fast how much I could take. That he wasn’t going to be able to break me.

Without it being a battle, he’d said.

I wouldn’t have had a clue what he meant if it hadn’t been for the other night.

There was a tug in my gut again, but I couldn’t have said whether the sensation was a good one. I felt nervous all of a sudden, like I didn’t really know what I could offer him. Anyone could kneel on a rug.

But it was more than nerves making my heart race, and I let myself sink into the anticipation as Alastair cleared our tea.

This all sounded exciting because it was new. Because this wasn’t the way I ever did things. Because Alastair was hot as fuck, and I never knew what he was going to say next, and the idea of following his orders made me hard.

But already, a voice in the back of my mind was asking: Won’t you get bored? What happens when you do want a fight? When you want to yell ‘stop’ and mean it—and have Alastair fuck you anyway? What happens when you realise there’s no high in having your hair stroked? No edge to balance on when you’re kneeling quietly like a good fucking boy? What happens when it’s just you, yourself, sober and naked in front of Alastair, because nothing is happening to take you out of your body, turn it all into some fucked-up dream?