Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Jack
Emmy looked absolutely adorable sitting cross-legged on the bed in her onesie as she ate her macaroni and cheese out of a large pink bowl. She’d mixed in her dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets after she first ate her green beans and salad without me asking her to.
Fuck, she was cute.
Not even how she was dressed, but that for the first time since we’d met, I knew I was seeing the pure heart and soul of this woman. With most if not all her emotional walls down, gracing me with her trust.
I wore shorts and ate with my plate of steak and veggies on a tray because, while I’m not an idiot, I am a klutz. The class played on my laptop on the end of the bed and we kept our mic muted but Emmy intently listened and watched, completely focused, and I didn’t interrupt.
I’d also bought her a Hello Kitty composition book and a matching pen, which lay next to her on the bed.
She’d already made a couple of notes but hadn’t typed any questions into the chat box despite me telling her she was free to participate however she felt comfortable.
This instructor, a woman, was different than the one from her earlier class.
Hell, even if we didn’t have sex again during our stay, I felt over the moon that she trusted me so much this soon. I never could understand men who pushed their partners when they obviously weren’t ready. That would build resentment, not to mention shatter trust.
Like I said, stove-touching isn’t something I enjoy. I’m far from perfect but I tend not to repeat my mistakes, choosing instead to learn from them.
The instructor was discussing relationship dynamics when one of the live students, who weren’t visible from the way the camera was positioned, asked a question.
“How do we know if we’re doing this right?” a man asked. “I don’t want to do the wrong thing and screw up.”
Emmy froze, her head cocked.
She wasn’t the only one paying close attention now.
“What do you mean by ‘doing it right’?” the instructor asked.
“Well, that’s just it. How do I know I’m Domming right?”
The instructor kindly smiled. “Do you mean will the BDSM police come and revoke your Dom card?” The other live students laughed, but she continued. “I know we harp on this, but it’s because it’s easy to overcomplicate things.”
She ticked off the points on her fingers.
“Everyone needs to be a consenting adult. Everyone needs to be having fun or getting what they need. And no one is getting harmed in any way. That’s all there is.
I’m not talking about safety, obviously.
You are free to define your relationship, your dynamic, your labels, in whatever terms you want to use.
What works for me in my relationship might nuke yours from orbit.
What works for you might be completely wrong for someone else.
“The other part of that is what works for you now might not work for you a week or month or year or decade from now. In that case, you talk with your partner, you negotiate, and then you proceed from there. You are free to change things as you see fit to work for you. We have rules here at the Ranch, of course. I’m not talking about those.
The rules are for everyone’s comfort and safety, and to ensure the smooth operations and that everyone can enjoy their stay here. ”
“That sounds too easy,” the man said.
“Thank you!” Emmy said, gesturing, startling me because I’d been paying close attention to the instructor. “That’s what I’m saying!” Then she remembered she wasn’t alone and looked at me. “Sorry, Sir.”
I laughed. “Wow, it seems like someone else said nearly that exact thing earlier. Now, who was that, again?”
She stuck her tongue out at me and resumed watching.
As the class continued, I also mentally noted to amend my earlier statements to her about consequences, and to implement a rule that “punishment” wouldn’t be used in our dynamic.
Not corporal punishment, at least. Maybe at some future point, but definitely not in the beginning.
“Funishment?” Absolutely. But if there was a serious problem, unless she specifically asked for corporal punishment, we would sit down and discuss the issue and I would use gentler consequences for rule infractions.
I had no desire to be anything but a loving disciplinarian with her, especially knowing more about her past. To be clear, my only hard-core rules, at first, would address her safety and well-being; keeping me posted if she was working late, sending me texts when leaving for work and upon arrival, and the reverse when heading home.
Not to control her movements, but to reassure myself she’d made it safely.
And to make sure she was eating, because Lilah frequently scolded her for completely skipping lunch on the regular.
Lilah would make batches of mini quiches and freeze them, so they could be microwaved in just a minute and be eaten on the run, and I’d already had to call Emmy out a few times when I caught her leaving without eating first.
Because Lilah asked me to keep an eye on that when I was around, and I might be a Dom but I am not getting on the overprotective bestie’s bad side.
Especially when she has a badge, carries a gun, and is quite familiar with desolate locales that are good for body dumping.
When I laid hands on Emmy, I wanted her eager for it, to immediately grow wet knowing there was pleasure in store and not the bad kind of pain. I’d rather slam my dick in a car door than harm her or make her cry bad tears because I fucked up.
Yeah, I was already certain I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. Which meant taking my time and going at her speed. We’d found each other, that was the important thing. We’d endured a lot in our lives to bring us to this point.
No way I’d fuck it up by not doing everything in my power to make her happy.
Emmy
Some of the information in the class overlapped what I’d learned in the earlier class.
Except, instead of internally melting down during a good portion of the class—until it bled through and I melted down in person—I felt better able to focus and pay attention.
It still felt like I was missing… something. Yes, the buffet analogy I’d learned helped, but it still felt too…
Easy.
During the class, I’d jotted a few notes but when we closed the laptop, I turned to Jack.
“Why am I not getting this?”
“I don’t understand, sweetheart.”
“It feels too simple.” I gestured at the laptop. “I thought it was supposed to be complicated and full of rules and stuff. But people are talking about buffets and menus and picking and choosing whatever they want to do.”
He thought about it before responding. “I’m only an expert in what I want out of life, not what anyone else wants.
I’m not an expert in BDSM. I don’t think it’s possible to be an expert in BDSM.
It’s possible to be experienced, and it’s preferential to be trained in some aspects, like the rope classes we’re taking.
I don’t know how Derek runs his relationship with his wife, although I’m certain if we asked, he’d be willing to discuss certain aspects of it.
“But I don’t want to run my life or our relationship the way Derek runs his; I want to run it my way, the way that makes me happy, and hopefully makes you happy, too. What works for him probably won’t work for us. Can you take care of bunions?”
I scowled, confused by his sudden conversational U-turn. “Huh?”
“Bunions. On feet. Can you take care of them?”
“Uh, maybe? I don’t know, I’m not a podiatrist.”
“But a podiatrist is an MD, right?”
“Well, they’re supposed to be,” I snarked.
“Okay. Do you think a podiatrist can perform the surgeries you routinely handle?”
I started to answer when my jaw snapped shut with an audible click.
He stared at me, waiting.
I still didn’t answer because I was… processing.
He finally continued, “A podiatrist, an ophthalmologist, and a pediatric neurosurgeon walk into a bar. The bartender says, ‘Hey, you three are a pain in my ass.’ They say, ‘Well, the proctologist didn’t make it today’.”
I stared, finally snorting at how hideously awful that joke was. “You wrote that yourself.”
“Well, I’m a firefighter-EMT, not a comedian.”
I stretched out on the bed and reached for his hand, hooking my fingers around his. “No, those other doctors can’t do what I do without training. And vice-versa.”
“But any of you could perform CPR or prescribe meds, right?”
“Well, I hope they can perform CPR.”
There went the eyebrow. “And I can perform CPR. I can start an IV and administer meds with a hypo, I can take vitals and do a lot of other stuff, but while I can spot the signs of a head injury or cardiac event, I’m not an MD qualified to continue to treat them beyond basic, immediate, life-saving or stabilizing care to get them to someone like you, right?
I can defibrillate a patient, but I’m in no way qualified to perform a heart cath.
I can perform an emergency tracheotomy if forced to—and thank god I haven’t had to—but I am not a pulmonologist or respiratory therapist.”
I rolled onto my back. “Yes, okay, I get it. There are differences, specialties, but commonalities.”
“Exactly.” He took my empty bowl, added it to the tray, and carried them out to the table. “Would you like some hot chocolate?” he called back.
“Uh, yes, please! The ‘duh’ is implied.”
He laughed, his head appearing in the doorway. “You didn’t even check out the kitchen, did you?”
I scrambled off the bed and joined him, pleasantly surprised at the extensive assortment of hot chocolate mixes and accessories—holy cow, I didn’t know marshmallows came that big!—and practically danced in place while he prepared us both large mugs of cocoa.
Mine loaded with marshmallows and sprinkles.
Because I’m extra like that.