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That settled it. If my slave wanted to watch fire flogging, we were going to watch fire flogging.
When Kingsley and Tate were ready, we gathered on the other side of the pool where they’d prepared their scene. Sloan seemed to be hitting it off with KC, so the two remained on the deck while Noa and Cam grabbed their Master by the hand and went to watch the show.
I turned one of the double loungers to face the lawn, then pulled Archie down with me on the cushions, trapping him between my legs.
Kingsley had set up one of our lighter St. Andrew’s Crosses on the lawn, one that was made from a thin steel frame rather than solid wood, and he strapped a naked Tate to it while he went over some basics with Noa and Cam. Oh, Kingsley did more than that, I noticed. He attached a FleshJack to the mount below the center of the cross. Tate was going to enjoy this a fuckload.
“The pain level is really up to the users,” Kingsley said, moving on to attaching the shackles around Tate’s ankles. “It can be as painless as moving a finger through the flame of a candle, or it can be torturous like resting your naked back on a sunny brick wall in August. But either way, hair is the first thing that gets singed. If you have a lot of body hair—which you two obviously don’t—it’s going to burn. And smell.” He smirked.
“Is that why you told Tate to shower off the wax in his hair?” Noa asked.
“That’s right.” Kingsley nodded and snatched up a small fire extinguisher to bring to Lucian, who was evidently the scene spotter. “You wanna minimize the risks of having to use one of these. Hair spray, gel, cologne, aftershave, some types of body lotion too—simply shower before fire play. Then you don’t have to worry about what’s flammable.”
Archie burrowed closer into my embrace and pointed at a pile of Kingsley’s gear on the lawn. “What’s that shiny thing? A fire blanket?”
I nodded. “Aye.” Then I cleared my throat. “Kingsley, how about a public demo soon?”
“Yeah, KC and I discussed it today,” he answered. “Noa, you’re a drummer. I bet you’d like fire drumming.”
“That’s a thing?!” Noa all but shouted. “I wanna try that!”
I chuckled.
Since this wasn’t a public demo, Kingsley was quick to cut to the chase. He only touched briefly on the different types of fuel, where to start, which ones could be mixed, and how the fuel mattered depending on what kind of heat you were looking for, pain or no pain, the size of the flame, and so on. I’d seen him use everything from high-percentage isopropyl alcohol to white gas, the latter being a favorite, given Tate’s preference for sharp pain.
“May I see the flogger, Sir?” Cam asked. “Is there a big difference between the Kevlar wick or whatever you call it and, say, regular leather or suede lashes?”
“What have I missed?” That was Sloan’s quiet voice, and it took him no effort to steal my attention. He came bearing gifts. Three cocktails on a tray and a thick blanket over his arm. “You’re about to find out what a strong drink actually is, Archie.” Fuckin’ A, now we were talking. “I went old school with Shep—bourbon and Coke.”
My guilty pleasure. I could sip a fifty-year-old whiskey with the rest of the snobs too, but I did like my Kentucky bourbon with Coke.
“You know me.” I took a small swig from it and ahhh’d properly. Christ, that was good.
“Vodka cranberry for the boy.” Sloan extended a glass to Archie. “And a rum and Coke for me.” After setting the tray on the ground, he sat down next to me with a sigh of contentment and fanned out the blanket over our legs.
I watched him watch Kingsley douse his flogger in fuel, and I could say something cheesy about Sloan being hotter than that flogger was about to be; instead, I kept my mouth shut and reveled in the moment. He was coming around. Sloan was remembering what it was like.
Within moments, the boys were mesmerized by the ignited Kevlar lashes, Archie included. He sat up straighter and sipped his drink while he stared.
Lucian took it upon himself to go dim the porch lights, and KC joined his partners for the show too.
“Tate is so beautiful,” Archie murmured.
He definitely was. Out of his slacks and fitted button-downs, he was a young, sexy, tatted masochist. The contrasts of his back, of his muscles, every dip and curve, were pronounced by the shadows of the fire. Arms and legs outstretched and restrained, everything on display.
Kingsley had no more instructions or anecdotes to share. It was time to just sit back and enjoy the scene.
I tapped two fingers against Archie’s back, to which he glanced at me over his shoulder.
