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Benson held up the folder. “Next time, I’ll be sure to transcribe it to a scroll.”
Next time was just an expression. It meant nothing.
“First, we’re going to go over all the items that begin with P. How many do you remember?”
“Originally I didn’t remember many of them, except perhaps the obvious ones. But since most of the club has finished playing the game, and a lot of submissives got a chance to look at the list, and report back, I think I know most of them at this point.”
Benson opened the folder, pulling out a sheaf of papers. “Then none of these will surprise you.” He paused. “Pain, parentheses severe.”
Mal jolted, her breasts rising and ribs aching as she inhaled against the corset.
Benson looked at her. “Surprised or scared?”
“Startled. I didn’t expect that to be the very first thing.”
“They’re in roughly alphabetical order, so pain comes first.”
Pain comes first felt like a philosophical comment.
“Who decides… How is it decided what qualifies as severe pain?” Mal didn’t look at him as she asked the question.
“We’re not worrying about hypotheticals. Unless something drastically changed that you need to tell me about, I know where your correct personal tipping point is for pain tolerance.”
It irritated her, his assumption he still knew her. And she hadn’t missed the slight emphasis on the word “correct.” She swallowed a stupid, immature impulse to inform him that her pain tolerance had gone way up, and that he really didn’t know her at all anymore.
“Next is pain, parentheses mild.”
“If they’re alphabetical order, shouldn’t those be reversed? M comes before S.”
He turned the papers to face her. “I’m just reading what’s on the page. Like I said, roughly alphabetical order.”
“So we will do both.” She meant it as a statement, but the pressure from the corset and the atmosphere of the Iron Court room, were working to slowly ease her into her submission.
By rights, all scene negotiations should take place prior to any form of power exchange. After all, an unequal power dynamic automatically skewed negotiations.
Mal reached up, pulling the clip from her hair. In her peripheral vision, she watched Benson watch her as her hair spilled down to frame her face.
She didn’t leave it down.
Mal gathered her hair into a tight bun at her nape, securing it with the clip. This was how she wore her hair when she worked, and it pulled her back into herself.
When she looked up, Benson was studying her, a line between his brows.
“You’re worried about negotiating the scene?”
It would be far more comfortable to lie and say ‘no,’ but she wouldn’t do that.
“I was starting to feel a little too submissive for this to be a real negotiation,” she admitted softly.
“I wondered.” His gaze flicked from her face to her hair and back.
Getting warm and fuzzy feelings because he remembered her body language quirks like what each hairstyle meant was a little pathetic. Then again, she’d had romantic partners who never remembered far more obvious signals than those. How that last one hadn’t realized that getting in bed fully naked when she normally wore PJs was a sign she wanted sex still baffled her.
“You’ll tell me if you start to feel that way again,” he commanded.
“Yes, Master Benson.” This time she didn’t slip and refer to him as just ‘master.’ This time the use of the word master was an honorific, a sign of respect, no different from ‘Mr.’
Benson fiddled with the papers for a moment. “I’m going to read off the rest of the list, and for each item, I’ll say yes or no.
