Chapter 7 #3
Mac feeds me several mini cucumber sandwiches, followed by meltingly tender chicken satays, and, finally, little pieces of a dark, gingery cake that I don’t recognize.
Must be more of Emily’s Nuevo-Brit cooking.
The food’s excellent; Emily’s cooking always is.
But I swear each bite tastes better off Mac’s fingers.
When the match ends, Mac rests his warm hand on the top of my head. “Take the empties to the kitchen and use the bathroom, then go upstairs. I’ll meet you in the guest bedroom.”
I speak for the first time in what feels like hours.
“Yes, sir.”
He hands me his empty. “Good girl.”
When I enter the bedroom, he’s pulled the curtains, closing out the golden fall afternoon, and lit pillar candles on the dresser and bedside table.
I want to make a smart remark about him being an old softie, but I’m not sure if I’m off speech-restriction yet and this isn’t the time to get the rules wrong.
“Face down on the bed,” he says. “Arms and legs spread.”
I thought he said we were going to talk, but, again, not the time to get it wrong.
I sink down onto the worn-soft quilt and flip my hair over my shoulder so it’s out of Mac’s way.
He sits on the bed beside me, his warm, heavy hand pressing between my shoulder-blades. “Remember honor bondage? Show me you want to submit to me by holding on to the bed rails until I tell you to let go.”
I nod to show I’ve heard him before reaching up and wrapping my hands around the cool, brass rails.
“Keep your feet on the bed. You can move everything in between, but hands and feet stay where they are until I tell you to let go.”
I nod again and imagine my feet are bound into the quilt with oak roots and iron bands.
Since he’s given me permission to move everything between my hands and feet, I figure he’s going to beat me, maybe with his belt.
While I’d normally be totally up for that, the idea of him hitting me now, when it seems like Emily’s right and he’s quiet-angry, makes my mouth dry and my palms sweat.
I roll my shoulders, trying to force my muscles to relax. Belts hurt. He can make me bleed with a belt. But I’ve taken whippings. If I can take Master Nico and his fucking singletail, I can take a few whacks with a belt from Mac.
Hopefully I can keep still while he does it.
The mattress shifts as Mac climbs onto the bed. He pulls his blue and grey “Navy” T-shirt off and drapes it over my feet.
“Em says your feet get cold. I should have grabbed a pair of her socks for you. If you get uncomfortable, tell me.”
I guess that means I can talk. “Yes, sir.”
A nutty scent fills the warm air.
“Just double-checking, no nut allergies, right?”
“No, sir, no nut allergies.”
His warm hands settle on my calves, then slide slickly up toward my knees. His thumbs dig in, working the muscles. I feel my own face go slack and rub my nose into the quilt, so Mac doesn’t see how I’ve just melted.
“That feels really good, sir,” I mumble into the covers.
A warm, low chuckle from the man working every twitch of tension out of my thighs. “Not what you thought was coming?”
“No, sir. I figured I was getting the belt.”
“Maybe later. I’d never hurt you when I’m angry, Bren. I want to make sure you know that.”
Most Doms are careful not to bring actual anger into a scene, but not all, and I appreciate the assurance. “Thank you, sir. Are you still angry?”
“Yeah, more with myself than you. You were a hundred percent right. I was judging you, and I have no right to. We’ve done one scene. You don’t owe me anything.”
I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.
“And this is probably where being an old-fashioned guy bites me in the ass,” he continues as he settles his hands on my ass and digs in with those magic thumbs.
I drool all over the quilt. “For me, dating is one man, one woman. But I know it’s not like that anymore, and that’s definitely not what you’re used to.
So bear with me and I’ll try to keep my head out of my ass. ”
As long as he keeps rubbing my ass, I don’t actually care where his head is. But it’s really, really nice that he’s admitting he was in the wrong. I can’t remember the last time a Dom did that.
“Thank you, sir.” I let him pummel me into mush with those strong hands for a minute before I pull myself together enough to say something rational. “If it makes any difference, I told Theo before we did the scene that sex was off limits.”
Mac pauses with his hands on my shoulders. “You did?”
“Yes, sir.” I rub my face in the quilt and open up.
Ruby told me to make him grovel, but I don’t think that’s a good look on Mac.
I just want to clear the air between us and get back to the way I felt after our scene, when I was full of hope.
“Sir, I’m no good at this. I’m probably going to screw it up.
I tried to do things right. I thought about how I’d feel if you were in my place and it would have hurt me if you’d had sex with someone after our scene.
So, I gave Theo his rain check but stipulated no sex.
I thought I was doing it the right way, without hurting you, but I guess I still got it wrong, huh? ”
Mac digs his hands into my shoulder muscles before sliding them down. “No, Bren, you didn’t do anything wrong. And I’ll figure out a way to be okay with it if you want to scene with the Blunts Doms while we’re dating.”
Do I want to? That stupid Emily Voice is telling me I don’t, and if I do, then I shouldn’t be seeing Mac.
“Sir, maybe I could take a hiatus from the club.”
“You could?”
I could. It’s not ideal because I count on what I earn as a house submissive when money runs thin from tattooing.
But I have a little bit of a float at the moment.
A couple of months’ worth as long as things don’t get too bad at the shop.
If they do, I can always get a second job waitressing or something.
Paying my bills on time is important, but exploring the possibility of something real with Mac? Much, much more important.
“Yes, sir.”
Mac works the muscles around my spine for several minutes before he says, “Bren, I feel terrible about leaving when you were dropping. And for making you feel that you were less important than my daughter.”
“You’re doing a really good job of making it up to me,” I mumble blissfully. “I don’t usually drop like that, sir.”
“Can you be honest with me next time? I’m sure I should have read between the lines of our six text messages and figured it out somehow, but I had no idea, bold girl.”
I wiggle my ass, both in discomfort at his request and in the hopes he’ll rub it again, which he does. “Sir, I’m really bad about asking for help. I just . . . I’ve been dealing with my own shit for a long time.”
“I know you’re strong and independent. I’m not trying to take that away from you. I’m just asking you to let me in.”
I nod into the quilt. “I’ll try, sir. Could we set up a word? Something I can say when I’m struggling so I don’t have to—”
“Admit you’re vulnerable?”
“Yes,” I say in a small voice, into the quilt.
“We’ll do that for two weeks, sweetheart. You can say ‘tuxedo’ to me, and I’ll know that you’re struggling. After those two weeks, we’ll drop the trigger word and you’ll just talk to me. Can you do that?”
“I’ll try, sir. Tuxedo?”
“The times I’ve felt the most vulnerable in my life were when I was wearing a tuxedo.”
That makes me smile into the covers. “Okay. Tuxedo it is.”
“Good girl. Now that you’re nice and relaxed, I’m going to give you five with my belt. This is not a punishment, Bren. It’s just to bring us back to where we should be. It’s a reset, so we can go forward. Do you consent to five licks from my belt?”
It’s never felt so easy, so right, to agree to pain.
“Yes, sir.”
“I know your natural impulse will be to kick. I want those feet flat on the bed. Remember the honor bondage.”
I haven’t forgotten, and I won’t.
“Yes, sir.”
He runs his hand up and down my back before bringing it down on my ass in an oily slap.
I wince against the sting, which is sharper with my skin slicked up and my nerves stimulated from the massage.
He peppers my ass with slaps, and I know what he’s doing: warming me up before he gives me the belt. I’m grateful, even while I wince.
When he finishes and rubs in the sting, I murmur, “Thank you, sir.”
“Good girl. Lift your ass. Show me you want these.”
My back arches almost of its own accord.
“Here we go.” I hear the hiss of leather as he runs it between his hands, then I jolt as the first line of fire licks across my ass. I wrap the bed rungs in a death grip and count to five before I relax back onto the bed. I think my feet might have shifted on the quilt, but they didn’t lift off it.
“One, sir,” I murmur.
He rubs my back again. “Thatta girl. I didn’t tell you to count, but I like that. Four more.”
He spaces them out, giving me time to recover and count, rubbing my back between each lick.
They still break me the hell down and by the time he gives me the fifth stroke, I’m teary, not so much from pain, although he hasn’t taken it easy on me and my ass is on fire, but from the release of emotional tension.
The bed creaks as he stretches out beside me. “Very good, Bren. Relax your hands and feet. Honor bondage is over, and you’ve earned a reward before bed. When you’re ready, move on top of me until you’re comfortable. I want to hug you for a while.”
He does? I quickly flex my hands and feet and then freeze when I get an all-mighty head-rush. What the hell?
“Bren, you okay?”
“Head-rush, sir.”
“Give yourself a minute.”
I do, stretching out as long as I can, the way I’ve been taught after a big kickboxing session, then wiggling my fingers and toes to get my circulation flowing again. After a big stretch, I feel more with it and climb on top of him without worrying that I’m about to black out.