44. Hit Points #2
I do not interpret that as permission for anything beyond what we have discussed.
While he folds his clothes onto the chair near the wall, I lay out what I intend to use.
Paddle.
Soft flogger.
Crop.
Strap.
His attention catches on the last one.
“Still want it?”
His pupils widen slightly. “Yes.”
I pick it up.
Leather, broad enough to distribute force rather than concentrate it into a narrow line.
“This will mark differently than the crop.”
“Okay.”
“Broad heat. Bruising is more likely with repeated impact.”
He nods.
I look at him.
He almost smiles.
Good.
I set the strap down. “For the scene itself, I don't want restraints tonight.”
His brow lifts.
“You asked me to decide when you've had enough. I want you physically capable of moving if you decide you're done before I do.”
“Okay.”
“You'll hold position because I tell you to. If your body stops cooperating, that is not disobedience.”
“Got it.”
We go through both verbal and nonverbal safewords, because I’m always thorough.
“Last question before we start.”
Micah looks at me.
“You still want this?”
“Yes.” No hesitation.
I believe him.
“Take off your underwear and turn around.”
The shift is immediate.
Not dramatic.
Micah simply obeys.
He faces the padded edge of the table and plants both hands against it.
“Bend over the table. Hands over your head.”
He slides them forward until his arms extend fully.
The position opens his back, shoulders, ass, thighs.
Trust made visible.
I run one hand down his spine first, letting him track where I am before I move lower.
His breath catches when my palm settles over one hip.
“We start slow.”
“I know.”
“That wasn't a request for commentary.”
His shoulders move with a quiet laugh.
The first paddle strike lands across the lower curve of his ass.
Enough to make noise.
Not enough to hurt significantly.
He exhales.
The second is harder.
Then the third.
I build gradually, alternating sides and placement, watching color rise beneath inked skin.
Micah has more tattoos than unmarked space in some areas of his thighs, which makes monitoring response more complicated. Not impossible.
His skin warms.
His breathing deepens.
His fingers curl against the table.
“Color?”
“Green.”
I increase intensity.
His body handles the paddle easily.
Not without reaction, but without strain.
By the time the heat is well established, his shoulders have dropped almost an inch.
Interesting.
I stop.
He turns his head slightly. “What?”
“You're relaxing.”
I trade the paddle for the flogger.
The falls are soft leather, designed more for warmth and sensation than punishment. I have used it on Cami before in a completely different context, enough to make her laugh and complain that I was ruining her ability to wear shorts without questions.
Micah takes the first strike with no visible reaction beyond a breath.
Then another.
Another.
I increase force.
His head lowers.
For a moment I think I have found something useful.
Then he says, “Ronan.”
“Yes?”
“This isn't enough.”
No frustration—just information.
I smile. “I was beginning to suspect that.”
The flogger goes down.
The crop comes up.
His breathing changes at the sound before I ever touch him with it.
I let him hear it cut through the air once.
“Still green?”
“Yes.”
The first strike lands high on his thigh.
His entire body tightens.
There.
I wait.
He breathes through it.
“Again.”
I do.
Sharper.
His fingers grip the edge of the table.
“Again.”
This time I strike the opposite side.
Micah makes a sound.
Low.
Barely there.
My cock is almost painfully hard now, inconveniently but predictably.
I do not pretend otherwise.
Sadism without desire is not morally superior sadism.
What makes this safe is not that I am detached.
It is that my pleasure does not outrank his consent.
I continue.
Measured.
Intentional.
Moving between thighs and ass, never letting repetition drift into carelessness.
Micah takes everything.
Maybe too easily.
Not because it does not hurt.
I can see that it does.
The marks on his skin prove it must.
His breath stutters now. His legs tense after each strike before he deliberately relaxes them. Sweat gathers between his shoulders.
But some part of him is still evaluating every sensation.
Still deciding.
Still enduring.
I lower the crop.
“Color?”
“Green.”
“Do you want more?”
“Yes.”
“More pain, or a different pain?”
He takes longer with that. “More. But different if it will cause more.”
I reach for the strap.
Micah looks back at me.
“Hands stay where they are.”
He faces forward again.
I trail the leather lightly over the back of his thigh before stepping away.
“This is where you stop trying to prove anything.”
His head turns. “I'm not.”
“You are very good at enduring.”
His brows furrow.
“So endurance isn't submission.”
His jaw shifts.
That lands.
I continue before he can turn it into an argument.
“You do not get points for taking everything I can physically give you.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Silence.
There is the Micah I expected.
“I want you to stop deciding whether you can handle another one.”
His breath catches.
“You asked me to hold that tonight.”
I step closer, close enough that my voice does not need volume.
“So let me.”
For several seconds, he says nothing.
Then his head lowers. “Okay.”
“Who decides when you've had enough?”
His fingers tighten.
No answer.
I wait.
When he does not answer, I step back.
The strap lands.
His whole body jerks.
A sharp inhale tears through him.
I wait until his breathing settles.
“Color?”
“Green.”
Again.
Hard enough now to leave broad red across his skin.
His legs tremble.
“Who decides?”
Silence.
Another strike.
Micah exhales hard through his teeth.
I can see the fight happening in him, and none of it is against me.
It is habit.
He decides whether everyone is okay.
Whether the food is cooked.
Whether Dex needs rescuing from himself.
Whether Cami is spiraling.
Whether Griffin is carrying too much.
Whether I am overloaded.
Whether he is allowed to need anything.
I strike again.
His head drops between his arms.
A tear falls from his face onto the dark padding below.
Then another.
His breathing stays controlled.
Barely.
I stop. “Micah.”
“Green.” His voice is rough.
I move into his line of sight. “Tears aren't a safeword.”
“I know.”
“They're information.”
He nods.
“What are they telling me?”
Micah closes his eyes. “That I need this.”
“Need what?”
“To stop fucking thinking.”
His voice cracks.
Not punishment.
Release.
I touch his jaw.
He leans into my palm for half a second before catching himself.
“You don't have to catch yourself.”
His eyes open.
Wet.
Gray gone almost silver under the basement lights.
“I have you.”
His mouth trembles once.
I step away.
The next strike lands lower.
He cries silently now.
No sobbing.
No pleading.
Tears simply run down his face while he keeps his hands exactly where I placed them.
I reduce the pace rather than the intensity.
Give his nervous system time to process between each one.
His responses change gradually.
Less bracing.
Less anticipation.
His shoulders no longer tense before impact.
He receives it instead of preparing to survive it.
That is what I have been waiting for.
“Color?”
A pause.
“Green.”
Another.
His knees soften.
“Who decides?”
Micah's mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
I wait.
Then another strike.
His forehead lowers to his arms.
Another breath.
“You.”
The word is almost too quiet to hear.
I move closer. “Say it clearly.”
His eyes stay closed. “You decide.”
“Good.”
Something settles into place inside me.
Not power, but responsibility.
The distinction matters.
I don’t continue much longer.
That is the point.
Micah asked me to decide.
So I do.
His body is flushed and marked, broad stripes of red already deepening at the edges.
There are places where the skin may break if I strike there again.
He’s sniffling, and his breathing has gone slow and uneven.
When I ask for his color now, his answer takes several seconds to arrive, but it is still consent.
“Green.”
His hands are still where I put them.
His legs are starting to shake enough that remaining upright has become effort.
He would take more.
I know that.
He would probably ask for more if I let the silence sit long enough.
That does not mean he needs it.
I set the strap down. “Enough.”
Micah inhales.
For one second, nothing happens.
Then the structure disappears.
His arms slide down the table.
His knees buckle.
I am already moving.
I catch him before he reaches the floor, one arm around his chest and the other beneath his weight, lowering both of us carefully until I am sitting with my back against the table and Micah is half across my lap.
He does not resist, but he also does not help.
His head falls against my shoulder.
Deep.
Deeper than I have ever seen him.
I pull the blanket down from the shelf above us and wrap it around him, keeping every movement slow enough that his body can follow.
“Micah.”
His eyes flutter.
“I'm here.” Barely audible.
“I know.” I tighten my arm around him. “You don't have to do anything now.”
His eyes close again.
This time, he believes me.