10. Anders #2
He told me he’d grown up in foster care, but I assumed he’d been nurtured, loved, and cared for by the same people his whole life.
I never once considered that his life wasn’t the plot of “Little Orphan Annie.” Everyone has heard the horror stories on TV and in books about abusive, awful foster families and group homes. Is that what his childhood was like?
I want to ask—no, demand he tell me every detail, every good or bad, or awful thing that happened to him. But I won’t, because once again I’m thinking about what I want and not what he needs.
He hasn’t offered me any details about his childhood, and it’s not my place to force him to tell me. From the little I know about the atrocities that kids in the system endure, I’m guessing that a lot of his control was taken from him.
This is just another reason why I need to control myself and let him take the lead in our relationship. It goes against my nature not to dominate him, but as much as I want to take over his world, I can’t do that when it seems like he’s fought so hard for his independence.
Once we’ve both finished eating, I collect the plates and take them into the kitchen, loading them into the dishwasher while Henry silently lingers beside the kitchen counter.
“Can I help?” he asks.
“I’ve got this. Why don’t you put on the TV or go and take a shower?” I suggest.
“I don’t have any clothes with me.”
“I got you some stuff today. They’re on the bed upstairs.”
“You got me stuff?” he asks slowly, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“I realized after I dropped you off this morning that I didn’t tell you to bring an overnight bag with you.”
“An overnight bag? You want me to stay the night?” he asks, clearly confused.
I know I didn’t explicitly say I wanted him to stay here tonight, but surely he should have been expecting it? “Of course I want you to stay the night.”
“Oh.”
The small sound is adorable, and I can’t help it, I smile. “I just picked you up a few things.”
“What kind of things?” he asks.
“A toothbrush, some underwear, and something for you to wear to work tomorrow.”
“You brought me clothes?” he squeaks.
“Yeah. I know you’ll look hot as fuck in my clothes, but I don’t think I have anything except sweatpants that would fit you well enough for you to leave the house in them.” I laugh.
“So, you went and bought me clothes?” he asks slowly, his brow furrowed again.
“Yeah, but I had to guess at the size because I wasn’t sure. I hope they’re okay.”
His entire body language screams uncertainty and confusion. When he doesn’t say anything, I close the distance between us and kiss him lightly. “Should we get into our pajamas and watch some TV?” I suggest, wanting to settle him and hoping that our physical connection will ground him.
Blinking, he frowns, then nods. “Okay.”
“Awesome, let’s go take a shower, then you can pick something for us to watch.”
Taking his hand, I tow a stupefied Henry along behind me, climbing the stairs slowly to make sure he doesn’t fall. Leading him into the bedroom, I release his hand to turn on the light, then cross to the bathroom and start the shower.
Dragging my T-shirt over my head, I step back into the bedroom and find Henry frozen, his eyes fixed on the—bigger than I might have implied—pile of things I got for him today.
“Do you want to take a look?” I ask, unfastening the button on my pants and stepping out of them, leaving me in just my boxers.
“Which one?” he asks, staring at the—okay, it’s more of a huge mound—pile sitting on the end of the bed.
“All of them.”
“All of them?” he squeaks again.
I shrug.
“I thought you said you got a toothbrush and something for me to wear tomorrow?” he asks cautiously.
“I did. But then I saw a few other things too.”
“And you bought them? How much was all of this?” His eyes are wide and laced with panic.
“Not much,” I say, lying to him. I’d planned to just go to Target, but instead I ended up browsing in a few more stores too.
It turns out I enjoy shopping for my boy.
My need for control has never extended to buying clothes for my previous partners.
Maybe because it was a limit for them, or maybe because I just didn’t care what they wore, unless we were at a club.
With Henry, buying things for him felt right. Not because I want him to look a certain way, but because I wanted to provide for him, to make sure he’s comfortable and has everything he needs.
“Why don’t you take a look? If anything doesn’t fit, or you just don’t like it, I can return it.”
“I need to pay you back.”
“No,” I snap, lacing the word with enough dominance that Henry freezes, his muscles so rigid he’s not even blinking. “If I want to buy you things, I will.”
“No,” he says, shaking himself from his stupor to glare at me.
Arching a brow at him, I tell him without words that I’m not willing to budge on this. “You’re mine, and if I want to shop for you, I will. Don’t ever suggest you need to pay me back for the things I give you. I’m serious, Boy. This is a hard limit for me.”
“A hard limit?” he splutters. “What does that mean?”
Jesus, his innocence is as enticing as it is terrifying. “A hard limit is something that is nonnegotiable. It could be something physical or mental or just something that you’re not willing to change.”
“And me offering to pay for things you buy for me is a hard limit for you?” he asks.
“Yes. If I buy you a gift, it’s a gift.”
“And if I bought you a gift?” he questions.
“Then I wouldn’t insult you by offering to give you the money for it. Unless it was extravagant and you couldn’t afford it. Is that a hard limit for you?” I ask.
“I…I don’t know.” His brows are drawn low, his now familiar expression of confusion clear on his face.
“Have a think about it. Think about anything else that is a limit for you too. We can talk about soft limits as well.”
“What is a soft limit?”
“Something that you’re unsure about. Something that you could be willing to try but have reservations about, or just something that you’re not ready for yet,” I explain.
“Do you have any soft limits? Or any other hard limits?” he asks.
“I don’t share. That’s a very hard limit for me.”
“Share?”
“I’m…this is monogamous.” I motion between the two of us. “You’re mine and I’m yours, and touching or flirting with anyone else is cheating as far as I’m concerned.”
Relief bursts through me when he easily nods in agreement.
“I won’t do anything physically that will leave a mark that lasts longer than a couple of hours. I don’t do blood, scat, or piss play.”
My kitten’s eyes are so comically wide I have to fight the urge to laugh.
“I’m not into bondage or rough impact play, but other than that I don’t really have many soft limits. Domestic discipline isn’t my favorite, but I’d be willing to explore it, if that was something you were interested in trying.”
“Domestic discipline?” His voice goes up on the last syllable, and I swallow back a smile.
“Fucking hell, Kitten, I love how innocent you are. Domestic discipline is a type of relationship where one person sets the rules and then holds the other accountable by using physical discipline.”
“Like they’d hit them?” He recoils at the idea.
“No.” I say quickly. “The person in charge would potentially use forms of discipline like writing lines, enforcing a bedtime, or grounding. Mouth soaping, spanking, or possibly humiliation, if that fell within their limits.”
“Why?” he asks, clearly unsure why anyone would want that.
“Because it turns them on, or because they need the physical threat to help them make good choices. Every relationship is different, especially within the kink community.”
“And you’re part of the kink community? Is that something you’ve done? Domestic discipline.” It’s clear he’s bracing for my reply, but I won’t lie to him, even if I wish I could.
“I told you I enjoy aspects of BDSM. I haven’t indulged since I moved to Montana, but in the past, I’ve been a member of a sex club. And yes, in a previous relationship, my partner asked me to incorporate discipline into our life. She enjoyed?—”
“She?” he blurts.
“I told you I’m bi, and yes, my last relationship was with a woman.”
“And she liked you to…” He swallows thickly, his throat bobbing with the movement. “Spank her?”
“Yes.” I could say more, but I won’t, because it doesn’t matter. The past is the past for a reason.
“I don’t think…I don’t think I’d…like that,” he stutters.
“That’s fine. Like I said, it’s not my favorite, but if it was something you wanted to try or something you needed, I’d be willing to do it.”
“You’d do it, even if you didn’t like it?” he questions.
“If you needed it, yes. But if I’m honest, I’d prefer not to have to constantly enforce the rules I set by spanking your ass red every day.”
“And that’s what she needed?” he asks, his cheeks red with embarrassment. It’s obvious that beyond his physical innocence, he’s not used to talking about sexual stuff either.
“Yes. She needed the physical discipline to help keep her focused. The moment she didn’t feel like she was getting what she needed, she’d act out to force a physical reaction from me.”
“That doesn’t sound…” Snapping his lips shut, he stops speaking.
“It was exhausting,” I admit. “I enjoyed some of the aspects of that kind of relationship, but she needed more than I could give her, and we both knew that.”
“How long ago was that?” he asks, then immediately lifts his hand. “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.”
“Of course it’s your business. You can ask me absolutely anything, and I’ll answer. Erin and I parted ways three years ago. She’s happily married to a good friend of mine who enjoys keeping her in line.”
“And it doesn’t bother you that she got together with your friend?” he asks curiously.
“I introduced them. I went to their wedding. I’m happy they found each other,” I tell him honestly.
“Do you have any other limits?” he asks.