Chapter 76 Elliot
Elliot
I think I should probably go to my own bed.
It feels like it’s time. We finished fucking ages ago, and even though Stuart hasn’t specifically banned it, I’ve never slept in his bed and he’s never slept in mine.
I know all too well how he feels about boundaries.
He’s made it clear what the rules are for this arrangement since the beginning, and even though he hasn’t spelled this particular rule out, I know where I stand.
I should go. I press my face closer to him for a last little sniff, a last little hit to see me through until morning.
I lean in until I’m so close my nose bends to the side as I inhale.
Sex and sweat. Sun-kissed skin and safe places.
Just two minutes more.
Two more, then I’ll go.
I think about the night we’ve just had. It was crazy but good.
Jesus, I can’t believe I called Stuart Daddy in front of everyone.
I cringe hard and blush in the dark. Blushing in the dark feels worse for some reason than regular old blushing when it’s light.
No one can see it, but I feel it twice as hard.
To ease the discomfort, I let my mind drift away from that. Back to when everyone arrived, back to when we sat at the table. Back to the precise second I looked at Stuart and realized I was fucked.
I’m so close to him now, so spent, defeated, and raw. So raw, I can’t avoid it. Even there in the dark, my eyes are wide open. I know the truth. It’s plain to see. I’m more than fucked.
I love Stuart Wiseman.
I cave, and instead of leaving, I tighten my grip, hoping to chase the big, painful feelings away.
Hoping to hide behind him. Hoping he’ll keep me safe, even though he’s the very thing I’m afraid of.
I tighten my grip more. More and more, I can’t help it.
I want to be close to him. I’m desperate for it.
I hunger for it even though I know he’ll grow impatient soon and start squirming out of my embrace.
I know he will. Everyone does. Any second now, he’s going to tell me he’s too hot, or I’m too heavy, or he needs to roll over to fall asleep.
I wait and wait.
He doesn’t.
More time passes. A lot more. So much time that I realize with a sudden jolt that he’s not going to send me to my bed.
And he’s probably not even going to ask me to move.
As that realization dawns on me, another one hits me.
A big one. A huge one—I don’t care if this is an arrangement.
I don’t care if this thing between us isn’t a relationship.
I don’t even care if I feel more for him than he feels for me.
It hurts, but I don’t care. I can’t stop.
I don’t want to. If need be, I’ll do the loving.
I’ll do all of it. I’m strong. I can handle it.
Stuart does so much for me. He takes care of me like no one else ever has. I can do this.
It hurts, but I can do it.
Besides, I like pain.
I have a lot of love to give. I always have. So much love. All the love. Enough love for both of us.
Too much for other people.
The perfect amount.
Stuart’s words from earlier find me and make a home in my heart. I take a deep breath. My thoughts start to slow, fading and growing dreamy. Limbs heavy and listless as sleep draws near and starts pulling me under.
I have enough love for two people, I tell myself over and over.
The thought soothes me. It sets me on course. It makes me fully aware of my mission, possibly for the first time in my life. My purpose. I’ll love enough for both of us. For Stuart and me. That’s what I’ll do.
My mission and purpose are accompanied by a subtle prickle. A limit. I’ll happily love for two, that’s fine, but what I won’t do is go back to my bed. In fact, from now on, I won’t be doing anything that takes me away from Stuart for any great length of time.
“Daddy,” I whisper, a man with a mission. A man who wants to hear myself say it more than I care about waking him up. “You know how you said I could live with you for six months?”
“Mmmm,” he sighs.
“And you know how I’ve already been here for four and a half months?”
“Mm.”
“So I guess I should be starting to look for a new place to rent any day now, huh?” His hand, which was on my back, stops moving, and I hear his jaw click as he swallows.
I don’t wait for his answer. I don’t need it.
“Well, I’m not doing that. Thought you should know.
I’m not moving out. I’m staying right here. ”
He expels a quick puff of air. A small little snort followed by a small little word.
“Good.”
I’m woken by a reminder pinging on my phone: Stitches Out Today.
Stuart put the reminder on my phone, so it’s fully filled in, right down to the address of urgent care and the name and number of the MD we saw last time.
The dread that always accompanies a trip to the doctor sinks to my feet and mixes with a heavy cocktail of doom and excitement.
I want you to focus on healing…
…as soon as you’re better, you’re going to report to me in my study. I’m going to bare your bottom and bend you over…
And I’m going to administer six strokes of the cane
Six strokes of the cane
Six strokes of the cane
Oh, fucking hell.
That little scene has played on a loop for the past week.
I’ve thought about it a hundred times per day since it happened.
A hundred. A thousand. Maybe more. Every time I think about it, I get that feeling.
The one that lives in the space between revulsion and rampant curiosity.
The one that’s crazy. The one that’s hungry.
Insatiable and greedy. The one that wants.
I creep out of bed, taking care not to wake Stuart.
I get dressed and go straight to the bathroom.
I lock the door and play one of the porn clips I’ve been watching on repeat for the past week on my phone.
It’s probably unwise for me to keep watching this type of thing.
It probably doesn’t help my case at all, but I can’t help it.
Can’t seem to stop. Don’t think I want to.
I hit play. Some poor British guy is bent over a desk with his pants around his ankles.
A teacher-y type wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows wields a cane.
Blue-white cheeks quiver, a sad, anguished voice squeals as hot pink stripes are painted across his ass.
My dick is rock solid before the first stroke lands.
A soft tap on the door makes me jerk upright, and I stab at my screen frantically to stop the video and then stuff my phone guiltily in my back pocket.
Idiotic, as I know the door is locked, and even if it wasn’t, Stuart wouldn’t barge in, but we are where we are.
“Are you almost ready? We need to get going to urgent care. I want to get there before there’s a long wait.”
My knuckles are white as I hold on to the car door handle on the drive there.
They’re even whiter on the way back.
“A clean bill of health.” That’s what the doctor said. That’s what she gave me. She smiled happily, as if it was a good thing.
Stuart smiled very differently.
I’m wearing gray slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt.
I rub the palms of my hands hard on my thighs, scuffing them on the scratchy wool fabric.
I changed my clothes three times this morning, and if I keep sweating like this, I’ll have to change them again.
Turns out I have no idea what you’re supposed to wear to a caning.
Absolutely none. Not a fucking clue. Is it formal? Semi-formal? Casual?
Fucked if I know. Must be one of those things they covered in the week of school I missed.
I feel like a prize ass. Overdressed. Underprepared.
“Let’s get this over and done with,” Stuart says cheerfully, leading the way to the study.
I trot beside him, legs moving fast and unsteadily.
The doom and excitement scale is definitely tilting a little harder to doom at the moment, the heavy weight of apprehension swelling and twisting a little lower in my belly with each step I take.
I stand in the center of the room, arms stiff at my sides, as Stuart takes his good goddamn time clearing the desk.
He takes his stapler and stationary holder, complete with the ruler and pale-pink highlighter, and moves them onto the shelf to the left of the desk.
He moves his notepad too. And his potted orchid.
And his paperweight. He makes a single trip for each item, making me want to scream.
I probably would scream if it weren’t for the fact that it’s suddenly dawned on me that I’ve made a huge, huge mistake. I have no idea how I got here. No idea how I let this happen. No idea what possessed me to think I could handle this.
I’m Elliot Fucking Gould—I can’t do hard things.
I can’t handle shit.
Everyone knows that.
Stuart straightens and looks at me sympathetically. My eyes skid off his like oil skidding off water.
“Elliot, remind me of your safe words.”
Ungh.
“Yellow and red,” I whisper, excitement spiking recklessly and trumping doom.
He gives a curt nod and a small smile. “Drop your pants.”
Sweet Jesus.
I’m shitting myself, and I’m rock solid.
How is that possible?
My fingers feel thicker and slower than usual, almost numb like they’re too cold but tingling with heat at the same time.
I struggle with my top button and make a slight hash of pushing my pants down, getting them tangled with my underwear from my amateurish efforts.
I wrestle with them for a second and then take them firmly in both hands and shove them down hard, scraping my skin but pleased with my effort.
This is no time to make more of an ass of myself than I already have.
“All the way off,” says Stuart, all business. “Fold them and put them on the chair. You won’t be needing them for the rest of the day.”
God.
It’s not just me, right?
This is hot in a very weird way, right?
Riiight?
“Elbows and palms flat on the desk,” he says when I’m naked but for my shirt and socks.