The door shut and the pretty boy flinched.
“Go open all the blinds, cowboy.”
The cowboy nodded and headed toward the windows. It was a nice-sized apartment. One bedroom, probably nine hundred square feet. Plenty of space, although, thanks to all the window coverings, it was rather dark. Considering the clouds were choking out the sun, there wasn’t a whole lot of light to begin with.
I unhooked Tank’s leash from his collar so he could sniff at his leisure, then turned to stand directly in front of the pretty boy.
“Look at me,” I demanded.
Light green eyes snapped up to mine. His chest was expanding rapidly, his eyes a little wild.
“Breathe. Slowly in. Then out. Focus on that.” I watched him. “In.” I paused. “Out. Now I want you to repeat after me. Eight, four, two, nine, seven.”
Confusion contorted his features but he managed to repeat the numbers.
“Again.”
Once more, he ran through them.
“Now backward.”
I wasn’t a therapist, and I didn’t know whether or not the method would work for his situation, but it had worked for my mother that day. I’d done it a time or two in the club since then. When an overeager submissive found themselves in a compromising position, it wasn’t all that uncommon for them to panic. Being a Dom, it was my responsibility to guide them through it, to ensure their wellbeing, whether I played with them or not.
Some people accused me of lacking empathy, but that was simply their way of trying to explain away my sadistic tendencies. The fact that I took extreme pleasure in a masochist’s pain had to be wrong in some way because it didn’t make sense to everyone. Why in the hell would someone want you to spank them, pull their hair, whip them, chain them up, lock them in a cage, or hold them down while you fucked them? More importantly, why would someone want to do those things to someone else? It was barbaric.
Yeah. I’d heard it all. After all, ignorance made for the best tirades.
I’d long ago stopped making excuses for my desires. I didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought about me or those I chose to engage with. As long as the submissive was willing and truthful, I didn’t give a shit about the condemnation that came from the outside.
“Come here, cowboy.”
He strolled over after he’d opened all the blinds in the apartment. It wasn’t a big difference, but it allowed the outside in just a little. I removed the hat from his head and set it on the counter. He ran a hand through his golden-brown hair. I briefly imagined myself pulling it while I fucked him hard.
I took a deep breath and composed myself. I needed to focus.
“I want you to stand behind this pretty boy.” I purposely used more condescension on the term than normal.
The cowboy got into position.
“Take off his shirt.”
The cowboy lifted the hem and the pretty boy raised his arms, allowing him to remove it. I watched the pretty boy’s face for any sign of displeasure but I didn’t find anything except genuine curiosity. He wanted to know what I was up to.
“Now your shirt.”
The cowboy stripped his shirt over his head and tossed it onto the counter with the other.
“Now place your arms under his. Curl them over his shoulders like you’re restraining him.”
He did.
“Pull his arms back wide.” I kept my eyes locked with the pretty boy’s while I gave the cowboy instructions. “Not enough to hurt. Just enough to open his chest. And you, pretty boy, I want you focused on my face and my voice. Nothing else. Understand me?”
“Yes, Zeke.” Those bright green eyes glittered, but his breaths were still choppy, labored.
“What are you feeling right now?”
“Like it’s hard to breathe.”
“Pull back on his arms a little more. Take a deep breath, pretty boy. Your airway’s open. You’re not suffocating.”
He gave a jerky nod.
“The only thing you’re allowed to think about is me. Think about what I could do to you right now in this vulnerable state. How I could pinch your nipples until you squirmed, until you begged me to release you.”
This time when he inhaled, it was labored but the panic was starting to ease. He was imagining me touching him, hurting him.
“You like the idea. What if I bit your nipple? Does the idea of that make your dick hard, pretty boy?”
“Yes, Zeke.”
I allowed my gaze to lower. Slowly, so he could see my appreciation.
“You ever wear a cage on your cock?”
“Yes, Zeke.”
“By choice or a demand from a Dom?”
“Choice.”
“How many Sadists have you played with?”
“A few. Over the years. But never consistent.”
That was the problem. He was seeking something but attempting to find it with varied partners. I figured he had never been completely satisfied. In all fairness, a Dom needed more than one session to get to know a submissive. They had to take the time to learn what fueled them, what turned them on, what brought them pleasure. While I didn’t practice what I preached, I did observe the club submissives. I paid attention to them during other scenes so I could get a feel for what it was they wanted. That way, in the event I did play with them, I had a better understanding.
