Chapter 17. Ford
Dave told me to text Glynn directly.
As the club manager and Jude's close friend, they'd know more about him. They'd be able to tell me how far I can take it. I'll discuss boundaries directly with Jude later. Right now, I want to surprise him.
I text Glynn explaining what I want to do. I can't believe it when they text back, saying:
"He'll have a fucking heart attack, in a good way. Go for it, you have my blessing as his best friend."
Glynn sends me his address. And here I am. Standing in front of his door in an old apartment building with every intention of spanking that delicious bubble butt of his.
Glynn was right. When Jude opens the door, his face goes white. I can see the goosebumps running up his arms. His eyes go wide, honey marbles, his mouth parted in awe. Then his expression softens into amusement, his lips curving into a smile, still half-open.
"Daddy!" he exclaims, not missing a beat, and it's me who nearly chokes. I have to clear my throat and control my breathing. Definitely not expecting that. "This is Noa, my roommate," he says, pointing to a smaller boy who looks as stunned as Jude was a second ago. "Come on in."
"Nice to meet you," I say and nod to him. To my surprise, Noa's face breaks into a mischievous smile, much like the ones I frequently see on Jude's face.
"You didn't tell me your new Daddy was this gorgeous," he whispers to Jude, rushed, glancing at me from the corner of his eye, but making no effort whatsoever to keep his voice down.
He wants me to hear it, and he's not joking either.
I can tell he means it. I feel my cheeks flush.
I can't believe I'm blushing like a teenager.
I can't let Jude see this. I have to be in my element, or he'll never let me hear the end of it.
"Thank you, Noa," I say, assertively. "Jude, can we go to your room or somewhere more private, or do you prefer to get your spanking here in front of your friend?"
I see his mouth drop open again, still with that big smile, his eyebrows shooting up.
"First, will you tell me how you got here?"
"Sure. After your spanking, if you're a good boy, I'll tell you as your reward."
"Hell nah! I want something better as a reward. I can guess anyway. I bet it was Dave. Dave maybe doesn't know where I live, but he knows where to find someone who does."
"Aren't you smart? Also, such an ungrateful little brat. The spanking itself is a reward already, isn't it? You should be thanking me for it, not demanding more."
He rolls his eyes with this huge grin on his face. This boy feeds on banter and banter alone.
"You can come to my room if you promise you won't make a big deal about the laundry everywhere."
"Maybe I can add a spank for each piece I find somewhere it doesn't belong," I say as he leads me inside.
The apartment isn't fancy, far from it, but it isn't bad either.
You can tell they make an effort to keep the place tidy.
The living room is cramped: room only for a black fabric couch, a carpet, and the TV.
A small dinner table sits in the corner, half blocking the way to the kitchen and the hallway.
A big window has a mesh guard across it, as if they have a cat, and it's open now, the soft wind blowing the white drapes.
The kitchen is visible from the living room, separated only by a counter and two high stools.
Small but no dirty dishes, which is a good sign.
A giant Monstera thrives in the indirect light in a corner, outgrowing the space it was given.
There's no artwork on the walls, but something curious sits on a small desk by the wall: a baby blue vinyl player. I'll have to ask him about that later. Next to the player, bottles and bottles of liquor. I don't approve of too much alcohol, and if he agrees to a dynamic, that will be a rule.
The apartment has two rooms and a bathroom at the end of the hallway. He takes me to his, opening the door to his world.
The bed isn't made, but that isn't a surprise. It isn't as messy as I expect. Just some clothes on the dresser and a can of Monster next to his computer. There's art here, but it's all manga characters and video games. So he's a nerd. Interesting.
He sits on the bed and pats it, inviting me. I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. I can't with this boy. But I go and sit beside him.
"I don't want to discuss everything now, as we have more important things to do, but I need to quickly know your hard limits, what pet names you like, if any, and, most importantly… do you really want to do this?"
"Are you for real, Ford?" he asks, almost offended. "I've been begging for your attention for ages!"
"Well, it's important for consent to be explicit, enthusiastic, and ongoing. Consent is not the absence of a no. I want to hear you say it."
He rolls his eyes, but he's grinning.
"Okay, Daddy," he says, and it's so easy for him to say that word.
Some subs struggle at first. But it feels natural for us.
"Yes, I want this. Please, spank me. And do much more than that, too, if you will.
I can beg, if you want. I beg very well.
And I'm a seasoned sub. I've been doing this for a long time; you don't need to worry about me. "
"But I do worry," I say. "I need to trust that you'll use the safewords if you need to."
"Damn! Are you planning to go that far?!
" he asks, and I give him a hard look. Safewords are not something I joke about.
He seems to realize I'm serious and raises his hands with the palms open by his head, as if he's been caught by the police.
"Sorry. I'll be good. Yes, I know, I'll use the safewords if I need to.
As for hard limits, I have the common stuff, such as gore and similar, but I don't think we'll go there, right? I do have a specific one, though."
I'm positively surprised by how clearly he communicates about this.
"Please, go on," I say.
"Well… can you please not say anything along the lines of 'I don't have time for you,' 'you're a burden,' 'I'm wasting my time here,' things like that?
Just… you know. I'm trying this again after a year away from the scene.
My last… my last dynamic didn't end well, as you know.
He walked away out of nowhere. One day we were fine, spent the day playing together, the next day he ended things, left me by myself.
No explanation, nothing. Okay. Good. Now I'm trauma dumping on you, ruining our scene. "
I can see him start to spiral, so I gently touch his chin and make him look at me.
"Hey. Hey. It's okay. You're okay. We're good here," I tell him, looking into his eyes. "I'm very glad - honored, even - that you decided to share that with me. We can even just talk today, if you prefer."
"God, no," he says, and the old bratty Jude is back, laughing. "I just want to get started."
"I know you do," I say, chuckling. "I heard you. I won't say anything of the sort, and we can talk more about your last dynamic later. Pet names?"
"Hm… I don't know, I like all sorts. Puppy, pet, boy, little boy, brat… even slut. I guess I'm not a kitten, but if you like it, sure, why not? Nothing I dislike too much. The classics are classics for a reason. What about you? What do I need to know? Shoot."
"You really are a little slut, aren't you?
" I say. He beams, finding it funny. "I don't like being made fun of in a way that's meant to actually wound.
Genuine cruelty disguised as play. That upsets me.
I'm comfortable with the bratting you've been doing so far.
It's silly and fun, and I enjoy it. You can call me Daddy.
You seem comfortable with that. Alternatively, you could call me Master.
I don't do Sir. It feels like a bank transaction. "
"Noted, Daddy," he says and smiles at me. "So, are we doing this or not?"
"Are you trying to tell me what to do, brat?" I say, using my Daddy voice. He grins again, obviously loving every second. It warms my heart.
"Maybe I am," he says, and there it is, that defiant little tilt of his chin, the way his eyes flash with something between challenge and surrender.
I don't give him another second to brat his way out of what's coming.
"Stand up," I tell him. My voice drops low, and I watch the shift happen in real time: the way his pupils dilate, the way his breath catches, the way his shoulders soften even as the rest of him tenses. He obeys, rising from the bed, standing in front of me with his hands at his sides.
I take my time. I let him feel the weight of my gaze, let the silence stretch until it becomes its own kind of discipline. Then I reach forward and hook my fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants.
"These are coming off," I say. It's not a question.
He swallows. I see the bob of his throat, the slight tremor in his lower lip, but he doesn't protest. He just nods, and I tug the sweatpants down past his hips, down his thighs, letting them pool at his ankles. He's wearing boxer briefs, dark gray, fitted, clinging to the curve of him.
"Those too," I say.
His breath hitches audibly this time, and a flush crawls up his neck, blooming across his cheeks.
But he reaches down and pushes them off, stepping out of the fabric at his feet, standing bare from the waist down.
His t-shirt hangs just past his hips, barely covering anything.
He's already hard. He looks vulnerable and gorgeous and absolutely wrecked, and I haven't even touched him yet.
"Over my lap," I say, and I pat my thigh.
He moves quickly, too quickly, almost tripping over his own discarded clothes in his eagerness.
I catch his arm to steady him, guiding him down across my knees, adjusting him so his weight is balanced, his hips elevated just enough over my right thigh.
His palms press flat against the floor on one side, his toes barely touching on the other.
I feel the warmth of him against my legs, the rapid flutter of his heartbeat reverberating through his entire body.