Chapter 19. Kit
I test our dynamic for the first time two days later. Of course I do.
We're riding together.
Soren lent me a KTM from the shop's demo fleet, something lighter and more forgiving than my usual bike, and it feels amazing under me. Responsive. Quick. The kind of machine that makes my hands want to do things my head knows perfectly well they aren't supposed to do.
The road opens ahead of us, two lanes of black asphalt cutting through low hills, guardrail on one side, pine trees climbing the slope on the other. The air is clean out here, miles from the city, carrying the smell of warm asphalt and evergreen.
It's fucking perfect. Soren rides a half-length ahead of me.
His bike is bigger. Black. His posture is steadier than mine, his lines through the curves precise and measured, more like something calculated than something improvised in the body.
The same economy he brings to everything.
Bowling. Cooking. Keeping me steady over his knee two nights ago.
I watch the back of his helmet catch the sun and think, not for the first time, that I'd follow that helmet basically anywhere.
This is part of what we do now. When the noise builds inside my skull and the old itch to get on the bike and disappear into speed starts crawling up my spine, I call Soren.
If I want to ride, we ride together. Normal roads.
Normal speeds. And if what I actually want is to push—speed, lean, braking, traction, limits—then we go to a track. That was Rule Two.
No solo rides when my head is loud. No testing myself on public roads.
I agreed to it easily. Agreed to all of it easily, actually, sitting there in Soren's oversized T-shirt feeling small and safe and completely certain that I meant every word.
It's a different thing agreeing to a rule in a warm kitchen than living inside it two days later with an engine humming under your thighs and open road stretching ahead.
For the first ten minutes, I keep the bargain. My speed matches Soren's. My lines through the corners follow the same conservative geometry as his. Brake early. Roll on smoothly. No drama.
I am behaving.
I feel almost proud of myself in a small, private way. Like a kid who's managed to sit quietly through most of church and is waiting for somebody to notice.
Then the road straightens. Long. Empty. Clear in both directions. And the thought arrives like a bad idea that already knows exactly how good it's going to feel.
Push it.
Not all the way. Not redline.
Just enough.
I tell myself it's harmless.
Just a taste.
Just enough to feel the old rush without doing anything truly reckless.
Some dishonest little part of me almost believes that.
The truth underneath it is simpler. And uglier.
I want to see what happens if I don't behave.
I want to know whether the structure Soren promised me over eggs actually carries weight.
Whether the rules are real when we're no longer sitting in a warm kitchen.
Whether Daddy follows through is actually true.
Or whether it's just another thing somebody said because it sounded good at the time.
I roll on the throttle.
The engine note climbs, bright.
I pull alongside Soren.
Close enough that I catch the reflection of the KTM in his visor when he turns his head toward me.
He doesn't speed up. Doesn't chase. Doesn't react at all beyond looking at me for one long second.
Then his head turns back toward the road.
Calm. Unbothered. Like he's simply cataloging information for later.
Which is somehow worse. Also, he looks fucking hot in riding gear. Some reckless corner of my brain notes that I probably do too. That should have been my warning.
The next curve is long and cambered, the pavement sloping gently into the turn. I shift my weight and push harder than I need to. Then, deliberately, stupidly, I let the rear step out a fraction. Just enough. A brief slide.
Showy. Entirely unnecessary. The tire catches again almost immediately. My heart slams against my ribs.
I glance toward Soren.
He's still there. Still tracking his line with that maddening steadiness. But his helmet turns. He's watching me now. Not casually.
I should stop there.
I don't.
The next bend comes quickly. I brake too late.
The front dives hard under braking, and I tip in carrying more speed than I should.
The bike starts running wide. The front tire chatters.
For one sharp second, the entire world narrows to asphalt, guardrail, grip.
I stand the bike up enough to brake harder, scrub off speed, then tip it back in.
Messy. Greedy. And even while I'm correcting it, some old, rotten part of me feels the thrill.
The almost. The closeness. That same drug I've spent over a year chasing.
Then I check my mirror. Part of me expects Soren to have dropped back. Part of me hopes he has. Room to push again. He hasn't. He's right there. Steady. Watching. Then his left hand comes away from the bar. One sharp gesture. He points behind himself.
Back in position.
Now.
There is nothing ambiguous about it.
No softness.
No breakfast voice. No patient little smile. He expects to be obeyed.
I hold my speed anyway. One more bend. One last small, stupid act of defiance. My chest is tight with something sitting right between fear and excitement. Then, underneath the adrenaline, I feel something colder.
Oh.
I actually did it. I tested him. And now I have to find out what happens. I roll off the throttle. The engine note drops. The KTM settles beneath me. Docile again. Much more obedient than I was thirty seconds ago.
I fall back behind Soren and stay there. We ride another mile without another signal between us. No glances. No gestures. Nothing. The tightness in my chest gradually changes shape. Then Soren signals and pulls into a gravel turnout near the tree line. I follow. Kill the engine. Take off my helmet.
My hand is not entirely steady. The grin starts forming before I even look at him. Old habit. Old armor. Ha-ha, wasn't that—
It dies the second I see Soren's face. He's still seated on his bike. One boot on the ground. Helmet resting against his thigh. He isn't angry in the explosive way I'm used to people being angry. His face is calm. That is significantly worse. His eyes hold mine.
"I know what that was."
I swallow. I’m so fucking nervous.
"And I know you were testing the boundary, baby boy."
My stomach drops. No escape hatch there, apparently.
"I—"
"No."
Not harsh.
Just final.
"You deliberately pushed on a public road after we agreed you wouldn't. Then I gave you a direct instruction to fall back, and you chose to ignore it."
I look at the gravel.
"I know."
"You put yourself at risk because you wanted to find out whether I meant what I said."
Fuck. He does know.
"You don't need to endanger yourself to test whether the structure is real."
My throat tightens.
"There will be a consequence for this."
I swallow again.
"Yes, Daddy."
"We're going back to the shop."
That's all.
He puts his helmet on.
Starts the bike.
Pulls back onto the road.
He doesn't check whether I'm following.
He already knows I will. I stand there for another few seconds with my helmet in my hands. My heart is hammering for a completely different reason now.
I'm fucked.
***
The shop after hours feels like another building entirely.
Only a few lights are on. Chrome catches in the shadows.
The lifts sit empty and still. I stand near the tool cabinet with my riding jacket draped over a stool, the T-shirt underneath damp around the collar.
My heart still hasn't figured out that the ride is over.
Soren gathers what he wants into a small bag.
I try not to stare at it. This is becoming increasingly difficult. He pulls a padded stool away from the wall and sets it near the center of the bay. The vinyl is cracked along one edge. Foam showing beneath. Soren sits. Boots flat on the concrete. Knees apart.
"Come here."
I go.
Of course I go.
He draws me between his knees.
His hands settle at my hips.
"Do you understand why we're here?"
"Yeah."
My voice is quiet.
"I was showing off."
Soren waits.
"And testing you."
Still nothing.
"I wanted to know if you'd actually do something."
There. The real answer.
"It was stupid."
"It was."
I wince.
"But I'm glad you understand that."
His hands remain at my hips.
"Before we start, tell me the rules."
I know immediately what he means.
"Yellow means slow down and check in."
"Good."
"Red means stop."
"And if you can't speak?"
"Three taps. Same as Red," I say.
His thumb moves once against my hip.
"Restraint?"
My face heats.
"You can hold me in place if I'm just squirming or kicking because it hurts."
"If you say Red?"
"You let me go."
"Do you still want that?"
My stomach flips.
"Yes, Daddy."
"And we're still agreed that punishment spankings can be bare without me asking every time?"
I somehow get even hotter.
"Yes, Daddy."
"Good boy."
Oh, fuck him. Soren pats his thigh. My stomach drops through the floor. My cock has apparently failed to understand that I'm in trouble.
Typical.
I lower myself over his lap. He adjusts me until I'm stable. Then his hand settles against my back.
"This is a punishment, Kit."
"I know."
"It's supposed to hurt."
"I know."
I nod.
"Words."
"Yes, Daddy," I say.
"Good."
I hear movement near the bag. Then Soren shows me the wooden hairbrush before he uses it. My stomach does something unfortunate.
"Oh, fuck."
He lowers my jeans and underwear. No surprise. We already agreed to this. Somehow that makes the vulnerability worse. Or better. Possibly both.
The first strike lands.
My entire body jerks.
"Fuck!"
The burn goes straight through me. My fingers clamp around the edge of the stool. The second lands somewhere slightly different. Same intensity. Still horrible. My hips jerk. Then another.
"Ow—fuck, Daddy."
Another.
"Ouch!"
Another.
"Oh my God."