5. Chapter 5
New Rules
Ricardo [NOW]
The evening air is cool against my flushed skin as I kneel at the edge of our coach, wearing nothing but a towel at my waist. The lamp on the side table casts a soft, golden glow, making the familiar space of our living room feel new somehow.
Patrick sits in front of me, fully clothed, his expression unreadable.
My hands are clasped behind my back. My palms are sweating so bad I'm half-afraid they're going to start dripping onto the floor, leaving little puddles of my anxiety for him to slip on later. My brain's running a marathon of worst-case scenarios, each one more fucked up than the last.
What if I'm not good at this? What if this entire experience makes him think I'm not relationship material?
"Last chance to back out," he says. It's a final check-in before we dive into this mess together.
"I'm nervous," I blurt out, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I can stop them. There. I said it.
Patrick's eyebrows shoot up, nearly disappearing into his hairline. "Of what?"
"Not doing it right," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
He laughs to himself while he leans towards me.
He pinches my chin, tilting it up so I have to look at him.
"We might not do it right, even after we talked and researched, and that's okay," he says.
"We're doing something new together, Ricky.
When I'm your dom, my job is to make sure you're feeling good about everything I'm doing. Does that make sense?"
The weight of the responsibility he's taking on hits me like a ton of bricks.
I've never been a coward, and I won't be tonight—especially not with him.
And if I'm being honest with myself, the thought of surrendering control to Patrick, of trusting him enough to fully let go, is something I can handle.
"I'm not backing out," I reply.
He nods slowly, accepting my answer. "Stand up."
I obey without hesitation, rising. My bare feet are silent on the floor.
"Take off the towel," he commands.
My thumbs hook into the towel and I push the fabric down, letting it pool at my ankles. I step out of it, now completely exposed. I fight the instinct to cover myself. This is the point of it all—surrender.
"Look at me," he says.
I raise my eyes to his. The warmth and love I see there is grounding, but it is layered with something new, something that makes my breath hitch. Authority.
"Back on your knees," he says.
I sink back down, the floorboards hard against my knees. I wait for the next instruction. He reaches out, his hand cupping my cheek, his thumb stroking my skin. The gentleness of the touch seems like such a stark contrast to the power dynamic.
"You're beautiful," he murmurs, his praise sending a wave of warmth through me. "You're doing so good, Ricky."
The words touch a part of me I’ve kept locked away for years. I lean into his touch, a soft sigh escaping my lips.
"I want to try something," he says, his hand moving to the back of my head, his fingers threading through my hair. "I'm going to guide you. You have to trust me. Can you do that?"
"Yes, sir," I whisper, the title feeling more natural than I anticipated.
"Good." His grip tightens slightly, a possessive, grounding pressure. He uses it to guide me forward, toward the couch.
"Over the armrest," he instructs. "Hold on to the other side."
I shift my position, my stomach pressing against the cool, smooth leather of the armrest as I reach for the far side, gripping the cushion.
I’m bent over, exposed and vulnerable, my heart racing in my chest. I hear the rustle of his clothes as he stands up, and then the sound of his belt buckle undoing.
The soft clink of metal is deafening in the quiet room.
"I'm going to spank you," he says calmly. "Not to hurt you, but to remind you who is in charge and amp things up a little. If it is too much, you say the safeword. Do you remember it?"
"Snail," I breathe, my knuckles white where I grip the cushion.
"Good. And I’ll check in with you. If you need me to slow down or stop, say 'yellow.' Understand?"
I instinctively relax my grip, my breath coming back to me in waves. Right. Consent. Colors. "Yes, sir."
His hand gently comes to rest on my bare ass.
He rubs slow circles, his touch soothing, lulling me into a false sense of security before the first sharp smack lands suddenly on my right cheek.
The sound echoes in the room, followed by a stinging heat that blooms across my skin. I gasp, my body jerking involuntarily.
"Color?" he asks.
"Green," I whisper, the single word carrying a world of meaning. It hurts, but it is a good hurt, a cleansing pain that’s already melting away the noise in my head.
Another smack lands on the left cheek, equally as hard as the first. I bite back a smile. There is a rhythm to it, a deliberate pace that allows me to process each sensation before the next one comes.
He continues, alternating cheeks, the sharp slaps punctuated by his low, rumbling praise.
"God, you feel so good against my hand," he growls, his hand rubbing the heated skin between smacks.
I can feel myself slipping, the constant buzz of my overactive mind fading into a blissful quiet.
There is only the sting of his hand, the sound of his voice, and the overwhelming sensation of being completely and utterly his.
Then it clicks. This feeling—this excitement running through my veins, the way my hands are shaking and my heart's racing—this is what Patrick's been chasing.
I'm not scared anymore. I'm just here with him, ready for whatever comes next.
After a dozen or so smacks, he stops. His hand rests on my ass, which is throbbing with a dull, pleasant heat. He leans over me, his chest pressing against my back, his lips brushing my ear.
"You are so fucking perfect, Ricky," he murmurs, emotional. "I love you so much."
Tears start to well up, a release of tension I didn't know I was holding. I turn my head, trying to find his lips, and he meets me halfway.
His mouth then grazes my neck, a feather-light touch that sends a shiver down my spine, the faint rasp of his evening stubble against my skin making me gasp softly.
I feel his touch brush over the curve of my ass, tracing the heated, reddened skin he's created.
His thumb gently slides between my cheeks, exploring with a deliberate slowness.
I can feel the warmth of his body behind me, his steady breathing a comforting rhythm against my back as he continues his slow, torturous exploration, each movement calculated to keep me balanced on that exquisite edge between anticipation and surrender.
I expect him to stop then, to get up and go for the nightstand, to grab the lube we keep there. That's the usual progression. That's the script we've followed for years.
Instead, there's a sudden, shocking warmth as his saliva drips onto my lower back.
The sensation is intimate in a way that catches me off guard.
His finger follows, tracing the wet path down, circling my entrance with a pressure that makes me gasp.
He works me open slowly, methodically, and the sounds I've been holding back finally escape my lips—a low, guttural groan that I can't contain.
"Louder," he directs, a low rumble against my ear.
The command sends a jolt through me. I try to obey, letting the sounds come more freely, breathing heavier. Then another sharp smack lands on my right ass cheek, reigniting the sting, making me cry out.
"Louder," he directs again, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.
This time, his mouth replaces his finger, opening me with a stern persistence that has me complying even more quickly than before.
The wet heat of his tongue, the deliberate way he claims me with his mouth—it's a different kind of intimacy, one that leaves me trembling.
"Like that," he praises, his breath warm against my sensitive skin. "Good."
I am lost in the sensation, my body arching back to meet his mouth when he finally pulls away, leaving me aching and empty.
"Stand up," he orders.
I rise on shaky limbs, turning to face him. His expression is lustful, but there is an overwhelming tenderness there too. He pulls me into his arms, holding me tightly, my naked body pressing against his.
"Still green?" he asks.
"Green," I murmur into his shoulder.
He pulls me down by the sides of my face and kisses the top of my head, then pulls back enough to look at me properly.
"On your knees," he says.
I sink down without hesitation, my gaze fixed on him. His jeans are unbuttoned, the dark denim parted to give himself room. He's already hard, the fabric of his boxer briefs strained.
Out of pure habit I reach up, my skin tingling with the need to touch him, to feel the heat of his skin against my palm. But before I can make contact, his hand shoots out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist with a firm grip.
"Don't touch unless I say so," he commands, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I drop my hands instantly, my cheeks flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and arousal. I look up at him, eager, waiting for his next move. He reaches down, tilting my head back. His thumb brushes over my lower lip, a slow, deliberate caress that makes my whole body ache.
I can feel myself throbbing between my legs, the need for friction almost overwhelming.
As I watch him, he fully pulls himself out of his boxer briefs, his dick hard and flushed, curving up toward his stomach.
He's so hard for me, I can barely breathe, my own erection pressing against my stomach, desperate for attention.
Instinct takes over. My hand starts to move, reaching down to grip myself.
His hand is in my hair before I can make contact. He tugs, not hard enough to hurt, but with enough force to pull my head back, to make my eyes snap up to meet his. The sting on my scalp is sharp.
"I said don't touch," he repeats. There's no anger in his tone, only a steely resolve that makes my stomach clench with desire.