Chapter 4
JOHN
There are rules by which I live my life. I need structure to quiet my brain. My household was pretty chaotic growing up, and having rules to follow helped me achieve what was expected of me. I had so little control over my life back then, and rules provided me a sense of comfort and order.
If I’m being honest, I don’t have any control over my life at the moment either, so that’s probably why these rules make me feel balanced.
They let me know what I should and shouldn’t do in this fucked-up situation I’ve found myself in.
Though my current rules are much different than the ones my parents had for me.
My personal and professional lives stay separate.
I don’t date students.
Consent is non-negotiable.
What happens at the club stays at the club.
Subs never come home with me, and we do not fuck.
I require complete submission.
Getting attached is out of the question.
I never show my face.
I didn’t plan on living a double life, but certain situations forced my hand. My parents raised me to make good choices, but their version of good differs from mine. We went to church twice a week. I spent most of my life studying God’s word and being expected to uphold it.
As a middle child who was desperate to please my parents and keep the peace in our house, I did everything right, according to their rules: I got good grades, I did mission work, I found a job at a Christian school.
The deeper I got into my work and the more people I helped, the more the hypocrisy overwhelmed me.
I was raised to love my neighbor by parents who couldn’t do the same.
I teach at a school where the mentality that reigns is “I love Jesus, but not you.” I’ve never felt further away from God than when I was surrounded by his church people.
And that God failed me when I needed it most. And even though I eventually broke free from my family’s religious oppression and their ridiculous rules, I’d already found my academic home at Faith Union.
I’ve spent my time here searching for purpose, for a way to atone for the fuck-ups in my youth, to help others, even if I couldn’t help myself.
And along the way I made a new set of rules to keep me on the path I want for my life.
The only place that has given me true sanctuary is Pulse. The kink community there is open and accepting, and even though I prefer to isolate myself to protect my identity, I have never felt more welcomed or at home.
There are specific rules I’m expected to follow as a professor at Faith Union, and living out my BDSM fantasies at a sex club definitely isn’t on that list. But it’s the only outlet I have when I have little to no control over my life.
While my work there is enjoyable, my encounters are transactional.
I don’t allow myself to get close to anyone.
Most of my clients are women, but I’ve helped a few couples too.
It’s a misnomer that all BDSM dynamics involve sexual interactions.
People come to me for help. Some just want to turn their brain off and have someone else be responsible over their choices for a bit.
Others want to feel cared for. And then there are couples that I’ve helped coach, instructing one partner how to top the other.
While my interactions over the years have involved acts of intimacy, it’s always one-sided.
I might talk someone through their own self-pleasure or use toys on them. Normally I don’t participate.
When I agreed to take on Emma as a sub, it was supposed to be just one session.
But my savior complex kicked in almost immediately.
There was something about her that grabbed my attention, as though her eyes were begging for the kind of help she couldn’t vocalize.
The last time I saw eyes like that… I can’t go there.
I need to figure out a way to end this arrangement, it was supposed to be temporary, but damn if I don’t need another hit of her sweet scent, to feel the taste of her on my lips again.
I’ve been attracted to subs before, but I’ve never been overcome with the urge to act on it until her.
It’s more than just lust with Emma; I’ve been under the limerence spell before and never felt this out of control.
It has to be attraction and her innocence.
And the fact that of all the men she’s encountered, I’ve been the only one to successfully touch her.
Make her come. And fuck if I don’t want to do it again.
I’m going to go straight to hell for this.
Pulling out my phone, I note the time. She’s late.
Me
If she’s not here in ten minutes, I’m leaving.
Alyx
Chill, dude. I’m about to walk her down. It’s my fault. Don’t take it out on her. She’s fragile right now. Had another nightmare last night. She’s had one every night since she met you.
This is a terrible idea. I’m not a therapist. I’m not equipped to deal with emotional trauma. I just get off on spanking people.
Okay, there’s more to it than that, and despite what happened last week, I don’t usually get off with or around my subs. I wait until I’m home or alone and rub one out.
I open my door right as they approach, and I get a waft of her perfume. It’s flowery and subtle and consumes my senses.
“You gonna be okay?” Alyx asks, removing his hand from her shoulder as she steps into the room. She nods, and we speak over each other.
“Need to hear you say it, sis.”
“Verbal consent, pet.”
“Oh my gosh, yes. I’m fine. And the two of you are infuriating.
I’m not a child, and I’m not that easily broken.
If I were, I wouldn’t be here trying my darndest to get over this.
Instead, I’d be curled up on my bed, pounding energy drinks and ice cream while holding my eyelids open so the nightmares couldn’t consume me.
Can we just get on with this?” she huffs, throwing up her arms in exasperation.
I take one step toward her, careful not to be too menacing and trigger another episode. “Got that out of your system?”
She nods.
“Good. I don’t like taming brats, so that better be the last outburst you have tonight. If you want my help, you will fully submit to my rules. Is that clear, pet?”
“Yes, sir,” she says without hesitation, and I can feel a rush of blood travel south as my cock thickens in my pants. Jesus Christ, what is it about this girl?
“I’ll leave you to it,” Alyx says, backing away. “Try not to bring her back the same way you did last time, eh?”
Before I have a chance to respond, he’s gone, and I shut the door in frustration.
I hear her gasp and notice her cowering slightly in my presence.
There’s a war inside me as I debate how to handle this.
The humanitarian in me wants to rush over, scoop her up, and assure her that everything will be fine, that I’d never hurt her.
But I’ve seen too many fucked-up parts of this world to believe that bullshit.
The last time I gave in to that urge to do good, it got me into a mess that I’m still trying to clean up.
Instead, I listen to the devil on my shoulder that’s shouting, “Good, you should be fucking scared of me. I’m not here to get attached. I’m here to make you submit.”
Getting involved in this lifestyle has been the only thing that’s helped me calm the beast inside.
I take domination very seriously. It’s not about hitting people until one or both of you get off; I never use it as a way to take out my aggression.
That’s what the gym is for. Being a dom has its own code, its own set of rules dictated by the person submitting to you.
Finding my submissive’s limits fuel the fantasies I won’t allow myself to partake in.
She stands stock-still, seemingly waiting for my instruction or permission to speak. Maybe she can be trained.
“You have permission to speak, pet.”
She peers up at me with those big eyes, opening and closing her mouth. “I don’t have anything to say.”
“Bullshit.”
All I get is a shrug in return.
“This isn’t going to work if you’re going to continue to brat.”
“I don’t want to talk about it, and I feel like you’re going to make me share things I’m not comfortable admitting.”
“I’m absolutely going to push you out of your comfort zone, but that’s why you have a safe word. You can use that when I push too far.”
“I don’t want to talk about the nightmares.”
“I’m not here to psychoanalyze you, but I need to know what you’re dealing with so I don’t trigger you again, and I’m going to need you to answer me when I ask you something, even if it makes you uncomfortable.”
She lets out a sigh. “Okay.”
I walk to the corner of the room and pull the lounger to the center, rearranging the wedges so she can lie flat on it. “Strip to your panties and lie face down.”
Ever so goddamn slowly, she pulls off her top, revealing a black lace bra. She reaches behind her with one hand while the other holds the front of the bra in place, making eye contact with me the entire time like she knows what she’s doing to me.
She arches a brow when she releases the bra, and it takes all my willpower not to bite my fist or reach out and touch her.
As she carefully shimmies out of her pants, her tits jiggle with the movement, and my cock decides that now is the time to make himself known.
I’ve gotten aroused during sessions before, but it never manifests this quickly, and it’s never resulted in me coming in my pants until her.
After she’s positioned herself on the lounger, her forehead resting on her forearms, I stalk around her, making slow circles like a lion about to devour its prey. “What does the man in your dreams do to you?” Maybe if I know, I can work her up to similar positions once she feels safe with me.
“How do you know it’s a man?”
“Is it not? I presume this is why you have issues with men touching you, no?”
“I think it’s a man, but I never see his face. He has a deep voice, but I never hear much of what he says.”