Chapter 59 Elliot #2
I know that. But I don’t. I don’t know how or when the hell everyone else learned how to do these things.
That’s what confuses me most. Chopping garlic, for instance, how the hell are you supposed to get those little clove things out of their papery jackets?
Taxes? Yeah, don’t even know where to start on that.
Fabric softener? When, why, and how much? Sautéing shit—what even is that?
I’m pretty sure I missed the entire week of school when they taught this stuff.
I’ve tried to catch up. I swear I have, but I’m still behind.
It stresses me out so much I can hardly stand it.
Feeling stupid is a trigger for me. I start spiraling as soon as I feel it.
I dated this girl named Cindy once. We weren’t together all that long, but she told me I was being triggered when I felt like a fool and strongly suggested I start working on it.
I haven’t spent all that much time working on it yet, but I also haven’t forgotten what she said, especially since she said it right before she unceremoniously broke up with me in front of most of the water polo team.
Dinner is ready when I get home and Stuart is in a jovial mood.
He must have been home for a while because he’s already showered.
He’s wearing slippers, an old pair of jeans, and a white T that fits his form so closely it makes me feel harassed and hangry, and a strange, circular sense of want that’s so intense I don’t know its name.
Whatever it’s called, it’s been gnawing at me since the first time Stuart spanked me, and it’s getting worse every day.
He has me wash up and sit at the table before serving my food like always, carefully wiping the plate clean around the edges before handing it to me and making sure none of the different types of veggies touch each other.
There’s almost enough meat tonight, and even though I see broccoli on his plate, there’s none on mine.
He asks me about my day the same way he has since we made the Daddy arrangement.
Like he cares. Like I’m important. Like what I say matters.
I should love it. It’s what I’ve always wanted. Someone giving me their time and attention without looking over my shoulder at the kitchen clock to check the time as I speak or cutting me off and changing the subject when I start really getting into what I’m talking about.
I should love it, but I don’t.
Or I do, but I hate it just as much.
My neck prickles with heat. I scratch roughly, but it does less than nothing to help.
I chase the itch to the back of my neck and then rake my fingers over my scalp.
It’s no use. This isn’t an itch I can scratch.
Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried and tried and almost rubbed my dick raw in the process.
This isn’t something I can take care of.
The guy who can sits to my right, at the head of the table, slowly running aquamarine eyes over my face and chest.
He has the kind of eyes that look sensitive. He’s probably allergic to cats or dust or something like that. They look like the type of eyes that go red if he reads for too long or doesn’t get enough sleep. They take the severity of the rest of him and turn it upside down.
They turn me upside down too.
He has no fucking business having eyes like that.
They make me quake inside. Scared. Terrified, really.
They make me feel as though something big exists, that it’s close and real, but I can’t have it.
In my time, a lot of people have told me I’m spoiled, or a brat, or a spoiled brat, or some other combination of negative attributes that amount to the same thing.
Tonight, for the first time, I’m coming face-to-face with the realization that it might be true. Sitting so close to what I want and not having it makes me feel unhinged. Not just unhinged. I’m teetering dangerously close to losing my shit.
Mercifully, it’s Friday, and on Friday, we have wine. One and a half glasses each, so there’s enough left over to freeze.
God help me.
I lift my glass to my lips and take three large sips in quick succession.
“Slowly,” Stuart says kindly.
And like that, I’m no longer teetering on anything. I’m throwing myself headlong into an epic and total loss of shit.
“I know how to drink wine, Stuart.”
It gives me a disproportionate amount of pleasure to call him Stuart.
I haven’t called him Daddy since that strange business after the first time he spanked me.
It wasn’t deliberate at first. The word just didn’t seem to roll off my tongue.
Not before, during, or after our pissant little altercations.
Not even when he opens his arms afterward and holds me tight against his chest. My mind blurs when he does it and time drags out impossibly, but still, I don’t say it.
Looking at his unbearably handsome face, drawn and concerned, gives me a strong feeling that not saying it might be one of my greatest achievements.
“Watch your tone.” His tone is measured. Mild. Totally controlled.
It’s the final straw. The nail in the coffin. A red rag to a bull.
“Watch my tone?” My voice lilts up and mixes with something that sounds whiny but quickly turns ugly. “Watch my fucking tone? Or what, Stuart?”
He looks taken aback, almost confused. It doesn’t last long. “You know perfectly well what that tone gets you. You’ve earned yourself a spanking, young man.”
Young man?
Young fucking man?
My cock thickens and swells so fast that my zipper digs into my skin.
How does this asshole know what to say to make me like this?
How can he possibly understand this about me but not understand that I need him to spank him like he means it?
My skin and my brain and my lungs feel like they’re going to explode. My balls do too.
Hmm, can your balls explode?
Might Google that later to be on the safe side, but in the meantime, I’m done playing it safe.
“A spanking, huh?” I sneer. I lean forward aggressively and yank the bottom lid of one eye down, glaring at him pointedly, “D’you see the worry in my eye? Hmm? Do you?”
“I suggest you take a moment to get yourself together, boy, so you don’t say something you’ll regret.” He sits back in his chair and watches me thoughtfully. He looks so stern my insides twist and three or four little voices in my head start humbly suggesting I walk things back.
Of course I don’t.
“Something I’ll regret? Regret? Why the hell would I regret it? ‘Cause you’ll spank me? You can’t even spank hard. You don’t know how! Why would I care what you do?”
I see his face, stony and harder than I’ve ever seen it, and feel a deranged kind of pride that, for once, I’m not feeling stupid because of something someone else has said or done to me.
I’ve done something stupid all by myself.
“Elliot,” he says quietly, “remind me of your safe words.”
“Why would I do that? I don’t need safe words for what you do to me! I don’t think you know how tough I am. I’ve played water polo since I was twelve. I had a free ride at college until I…uh, never mind. I’m fucking tough. I bench press over three hundre—”
“You’ve already asked for a hiding, Elliot. There’s no need to beg.”
Oof
Talk dirty to me, Mr. Wiseman.
I’m momentarily knocked sideways by the fact he appears to have turned the room on its axis. I’m unable to answer, so he continues, “Safe words are nonnegotiable. They’re not just for you. They’re for me too.”
“Fine. Yellow and red,” I spit.
He places his knife and fork together and dabs the corners of his mouth with this napkin.
He folds it and sets it down with care. He slides his tongue between his lips, moistening them, scraping his teeth against his bottom lip when he’s done.
He doesn’t take his eyes off me the entire time.
I keep eating. I chew and chew, but the meat, which was succulent and tender minutes ago, now feels like an old tire between my teeth.
When I can’t chew anymore, I chase it down with a large gulp of water.
I struggle through several more mouthfuls, trying to ignore the sound of Wyn’s voice in my mind.
“Just say sorry. He’ll understand. Don’t make it into a big thing.
” Luke’s with me too. “There’s no shame in making a mistake, Gouldie.
Just admit it and move on. No one’s perfect. It happens to everyone.”
I open and shut my mouth a few times, but no sound comes out. My heart is beating so hard that I can feel my pulse in my tongue. When a mouthful of peas turns gritty and dry, I know I’ve gone as far as I can with this particular meal.
I put my knife and fork down, and my napkin too, mimicking Stuart’s actions without quite daring to look up at him. My hands shake as I do it, and I know he can see it. I feel his gaze on my neck and face, heating one side of my body, making me break into a sweat.
He scoots his chair back roughly. The jarring sound of timber scraping against timber makes every muscle in the lower half of my body clench hard.
“Come here.” His voice is like coarsely ground coffee.
It seems obvious that the sensible thing to do in this situation is to run.
I don’t.
Instead, I find myself on my feet, moving toward him as if I’m moving through water.
Deep water. Water that comes to my waist and is littered with tendrils of weeds that wrap themselves around my ankles, slowing me down.
The joints in my legs are spongey, almost lame.
I move slowly, carefully considering the madness of each step.
As soon as I’m within arms’ length of him, he reaches out and takes hold of my belt, yanking it to the side so hard it pinches the skin on my lower belly.
He’s sitting. I’m standing. He has to look up at me to make eye contact, but despite that, it’s clear only one of us is feeling small. And it sure as hell isn’t him.