by Lilia Moon
I don’t want to control Ari. I want to be a man strong enough to hold her while she goes somewhere that very few people ever go.
The baby Doms file out past me, a couple casting curious glances, the others looking like the nice, comfortable street they were walking down just exploded. I wait until the last one files out and grin at Quint. “Still terrifying the newbies, I see.”
He snorts. “You’re still shiny and you’re not scared of me at all.”
Not much, anyhow, but most baby Doms don’t get to screw around in a band with the guy who runs Fettered’s training programs. I lean against a wall and try to assemble my words to take a run at what I am scared of. “I’d like to ask for your help.”
Quint starts to answer, and then he stops, giving me a much closer perusal. He nods his chin at a couple of the chairs his class just vacated. “Take a seat.”
I do. And then I wait quietly for about ten seconds, expecting him to read my mind, before I realize he’s not going to drive this conversation, even if he can. I swallow and find my opening beat. “Ari needs a really strong container.”
Quint doesn’t look surprised—but he doesn’t look ready to throw me out the back door, either.
“I’d like you to help me get there. To be the Dom she needs.”
He does me the immense favor of not falling off his chair laughing. He just studies me, curious and intense and thoughtful. “What happened to your watch-and-learn shit?”
Fair question, since that’s where I was still sitting last night. “She needs me to be faster.”
This time I’ve surprised him. He gives me a long, scary look, the kind that’s holding a tape measure to my cock—or maybe my soul. “What is it you think you need to learn?”
Kengali asked loaded questions like that. The answers usually involved six months and a lot of dishwashing. “Where to start. How not to be an asshole.”
That gets me a faint twitch of his lips. “Keep it simple. Do what you know how to do. Skills can be learned and she knows that. You need to show her you have some of the rest of the package.”
I found some of it in a jam-packed hot yoga studio. “Rhythm.”
He raises an eyebrow, but he nods. “Yeah. And patience. Sneak under her skin with that quiet, persistent thing you do.”
That’s a really big compliment from a guy who rarely hands them out. “She doesn’t let trainees do that. Sneak under her skin.”
His eyebrow goes up faster this time. I’ve surprised him again, maybe even impressed him.
I shrug. “I know how to watch.”
He nods slowly. “If you do this, you can’t do it as a trainee. She has to be able to let go and trust you to get it right, or she’ll scene with you a few times and walk away because all you did was scratch a little at her surface.”
That would be the part I’m not ready for, but she needs me to step up and try anyhow.
His eyes drill into mine. “If you screw up, every Dom in this place will pound on you.”
I can’t let that matter. “I will screw up and you’re all going to need to deal.”
His lips quirk and the Dom stare dials back down to standard hard-ass. “You’re not entirely clueless.”
That isn’t close to good enough—and I’m looking at the one guy who I know will tell me the truth. “Am I crazy to think that I can do this?”
He’s silent a long time. “I don’t know. But you have two big things in your favor. You’re not an arrogant jerk, and you see her strength. You’re here because you see that you need to get bigger, instead of thinking about how to make her smaller.”
That pisses me off. “Anyone who wants to make Ari smaller is an asshole.”
He nods, and the Dom vibe he’s been trying to strangle me with eases a little more. “If you remember that, you might have a chance.”
It’s not a blessing, exactly, but that’s okay. He’s not the one I need it from.
Chapter Nine
Ari
I wince as Mack lands another technically adequate paddle blow on his wife’s ass. Jackie’s ready to cry, and for all the wrong reasons.
They waited way too long to come in for help. This is his dream, not hers, and if they don’t meet the actual submissive needs written all over her face really soon they’re going to lose their chance for kink to add to their marriage instead of damaging it. I watch two more blows, studying Mack’s face. Making sure I don’t see any of the things that would have me pulling the plug on this entirely.
I don’t. He’s not an abusive asshole. He’s just clueless. He’ll learn if he really wants to. A truly great Dom is equal parts inborn and learned, but decent Doms can be trained if they’re willing. Mack’s only willing on the technical parts right now, and it’s my job to fix that. I lean forward and catch the paddle before it lands again, which is a huge breach of etiquette—and one he should have seen coming from ten miles away.
There’s no way the steam coming out my ears right now is subtle.
Mack’s head jerks up.
I give him the kind of look that tells even a clueless baby Dom it’s not his turn to talk. Then I switch my attention to Jackie. “Are you okay lying there for a bit longer, sweetheart, or should we let you up?”
I can see her thinking my question through. Trying to understand what I’m playing at. Jackie’s not clueless.
I rub my hand down her arm. Soothing. Asking permission. I need to tell her man some cold, hard truths, and I need her to let me do it. She protects his cluelessness, and if she wants to spend any more time in my world, she needs to stop doing that.
She closes her eyes. Permission granted
I look back at Mack, but he’s missed all the nonverbals. One hand absentmindedly strokes his wife’s ass, the other studies the paddle.
I solve that by disarming him. “Here’s your assignment for the next week.”
His eyes fly up to mine again. “Aren’t you going to give me some feedback on my paddling skills first?” He looks like a small boy who just dropped his lollipop in the sand. “I’ve been practicing for weeks.”
I give him just enough of what he needs to keep him listening. “Your paddling skills are fine. You’ve got the angles nicely managed, your blows are consistent in their weight, and your beat was steady.” I pause just long enough for him to feel the glow of my words. “Unfortunately, what Jackie needs is entirely different from what you just gave her.”
They both jump, him in offense, her in a need to protect that’s stymied by all the restraints still holding her. I keep my hand on her arm. In a very real way, I just stepped into this as her temporary Domme.
Mack’s lollipop is making him sad again. Which is better than going all arrogant and aggressive, so he gets points for that. “I thought I was doing exactly what Quint taught us to do.”
“You did. But Quint was hitting a pillow at the time.” I sigh and hope his ears aren’t full of sand. “Learning the basics matters, but when you move to a sub instead of a pillow, you need to cue in to what she needs and how she’s responding to what you’re doing.” Also material Quint covered in class.
He nods slowly. “She said she likes it when I practice on her.”
She’s being hopeful. And overprotective. And trying to fix the scene from the bottom, which is a lot harder to do than when you’re the top. “That’s a classic newbie sub mistake. She’s imagining that one day you’re going to wake up after all that practice and realize she’s not a pillow.”
Jackie’s face tightens in shame. I start to lean down, to tell her that her mistake is a small one and easy to make right, when I catch the look on Mack’s face.
He’s not looking at his paddle anymore. He’s looking at his wife, at the emotion written all over her body—and finally realizing that kink is a dance between two people, not between a paddle and an ass.
He moves to squat down beside her, and I shake my head. The last thing she needs right now is for him to get soft and uncertain. I nod my head at his stool and p
ut the paddle back in his hand. “The way she’s feeling right now? Chase it away with this.”
He looks like I just asked him to beat his wife.
I wait. If they really want this, they need to actually reach out and take it.
The first blow he lands wouldn’t squish a fly—but Jackie’s breath hitches.
Mack stares at the paddle like it just electrocuted him.
I silently snap my fingers under his nose. He jerks and applies the paddle to his wife’s ass again, this time with enough force to actually dent the fly. Jackie, bless her generous sub heart, makes a cute little noise that clearly runs straight to her husband’s ego.
Another blow, and another, his eyes glued to his wife’s face. His technique is crap, his aim is worse, and if he doesn’t hit her harder soon, Jackie’s probably going to scream, but he’s found the beginning of the road that might lead to somewhere good.
One baby Dom, back on track. And one trainer who knows just how far he has to go.
Chapter Ten
Jackson
She’s cranky.
I’ve only caught glimpses of Ari since she emerged from one of the private rooms, but whatever went on back there left her in a piss-poor mood. She’s doing a masterful job of not taking it out on anyone else, but that just means it’s eating her insides instead.
I look down the bar at where Quint is serving drinks and intermittently fondling his sub’s ass. Meghan jumps every time he does it, which even I can figure out means he’s torturing her in some inventive way they don’t teach to trainee Doms.
I take a big swig of the glass of pink Meghan gave me earlier. I need to stop thinking of myself as a trainee. It might be true, but it’s not helpful.
“She was working with a couple from one of our community classes.”
I stare at Quint, who somehow snuck over while I wasn’t looking. “What?”
“We run a class that introduces light kink for people who have long-term partners and want to add a little spice. One of the couples came in looking for some extra help. She was working with them.”
There’s no way he’s over here to share gossip. “Why did that leave her sad and frustrated?”
His smile is so faint I almost miss it. “She’s frustrated because most baby Doms are idiots. She’s sad for reasons you’ll need to work out for yourself.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So you just came over here to refill my drink?”
He snorts. “You’re cut off. Any more pink poison and you’ll hurt those pretty vocal chords of yours.”
Scorpio caught me singing with friends down by the lake last week. She’s not listening to my protests that drummers don’t sing. “She’s trying to turn us into a barbershop quartet.”
Quint laughs, loudly enough that half the lounge turns their heads. Including Ari, who gives me a long look that makes her sadder, and then turns away.
Damn.
“Her patience with baby Doms has been going downhill lately.” Quint takes away my glass and replaces it with something that looks like plain water.
His tone is friendly, but I hear the warning. Ari isn’t just cranky. If I want to have a snowball’s chance with her, I need to do it before what’s riding her eats any more of her insides. Which means my ass has to get off my stool. Now.
I look deep into my glass of water as my guts congeal into a cool, surreal mass. The last time they did that was a stinking-hot, late-summer day in Gambia. The funeral of Kengali’s favorite aunt. He sat down to drum her body home. Ten beats in, he handed me his drum. No words, no looks, no advice. Just the drum.
It was the first time in three years he’d let me touch one.
I look up and let Quint see my resolve. If I could be what Kengali needed that day, I can damn well be what Ari needs tonight. But I’ll take advice if I can get it. “Any suggestions?”
He picks up the cloth he uses to polish his bar. “Keep it simple. BDSM is a head game. You can have a totally effective scene with nothing more than your fingers and your voice.”
Interesting advice. “Ari mostly plays with impact toys.”
Another faint smile. “I know.”
I wait. I know something about this guy’s rhythms, and I don’t think he’s done.
He lifts up my glass and polishes the bottom. “Play the head game with her. See if you can get her to submit to you just a little. Build that trust for her that she can let go with you and you’ll catch her.”
I meet the gaze of the guy who just promised to be there to catch us both, and then I stand up. I leave my glass. I’m going to be needing my hands.
Chapter Eleven
Ari
I feel him coming before he arrives. I feel him, and I want to turn around and blast him with a temper tantrum of epic proportions, because if he’s not a total idiot, and I don’t think he is, then he should know I’m riding the edge of hot and unreasonable tonight.
Which isn’t his fault, but it means that this is really sucky timing to reach out and touch whatever happened in the yoga studio to see if it has legs.
He stops at my shoulder, and the two subs I’m talking to both go quiet. Which means he’s got his Dom face on. I look over, curious, because I’m not sure I’ve ever actually seen that. And blink.
His entire body is wearing the pure, clean lines of confident Dom. Quiet and understated, but no less potent. I want to scan the lounge, see who’s watching, who’s noticed, who’s putting him up to this. But I’m having a hard time looking away.
He’s a match and he’s come to play with my fire.
He reaches out a hand toward my elbow and stops. “May I touch?”
This from the guy who gives me easy hugs when I help him lug his drum gear around. He’s not asking for permission to put his fingers on my skin—he’s asking for permission to change the rules.
On a smarter day, I would say no.
I nod silently. Two can play the game of changing the rules.
He smiles and wraps his fingers around my forearm. No force. Just precision. “Will you come sit with me? I’d like to talk about doing a scene with you tonight.”
Lines right out of Negotiation 101. I should know—I wrote them. The first moves to take control of what and where.
My fire decides it wants to play. I let him guide me. Let him feel my resistance, even as I move my feet.
He chuckles in my ear. “I don’t scare off that easily, beautiful.”
Damn. That’s not in the manual. “I’m not trying to scare you. I’m not in the mood to work with a trainee. If that’s what you’re looking for, I can find someone else to scene with you.”
He turns me to face him. “Do I look like a guy who wants a nanny tonight?”
He’s not experienced enough to know the misstep he just took. I look up at him with my best brat fluttery eyelashes. “No, Sir.”
He busts up laughing, which is totally another misstep, but one that chases some of my pissiness away. Most baby Doms have no idea what to do with a brat, and he doesn’t either, but Jackson the drummer thinks I’m funny, and that warms me up a little inside.
I watch, impressed, as he slides back into his Dom skin. He nods his head toward the bar. “Would you like to talk where Quint can listen in?”
I open my mouth to say I’m more than capable of babysitting a negotiation—and then I realize what he’s just done. This is a test. Trainees don’t have to sit at the bar after they’ve graduated.
He wants to know if I can let him out of that box in my head.
Tricky baby Dom. I look over at my favorite squishy couch in the corner. “There works.”
He guides us there smoothly, like it was his idea. Which is interesting management of the lines of power. He’s impressing me so far, even with my crankiest pants on.
He waits until I sit and then takes a seat to my left, turned toward me, his knees locking mine against the couch. Managing the angles. Establishing the physical container. I try to put my checklist away. He’s not asking to be a trainee
Dom tonight. And my knees feel shivery. I look up at him from under my eyelashes, but this time I’m not bratting. “What did you have in mind, Sir?”
I watch the last word land and run right up his spine. “I’d like to know your hard limits for a scene with someone new.”
He didn’t ask for the list for someone with his level of experience. I check in with the fire inside me, and I tell him. It’s a short list, and a fierce one, and it contains a bunch of kinks he probably can’t even spell yet.
He nods like I’ve just said I prefer milk in my coffee. “Tell me more about why humiliation is a hard limit.”
I can feel my eyebrows flying up. Pushy Dom, and he’s picked what most would see as the softest kink on my hard limits list for follow-up. “I’d rather save that for a later conversation.”
He just holds my eyes.
That’s Quint’s favorite trick, dammit. I sigh. “Respect really matters to me, and I don’t feel respected if my Dom is calling me names or trying to make me feel less than adequate. I’m not judging the kink, but it absolutely doesn’t work for me.”
He nods. “What does make you feel respected?”
The fire in me stands up and takes notice. He’s not trying to push at my hard stops—he’s trying to figure out what makes me tick. That’s in the manual, but most Doms take years to notice. I swallow and give him the answer he deserves. “When I’m seen. When my small reactions are noticed. When you call me beautiful and mean it and you’re not talking about my body or my face.”
He reaches out and strokes his fingers along the tips of my hair, barely touching them. “You’re unhappy tonight. Will being seen help with that?”
I blink. “I’m cranky as fuck tonight and you’re asking to play with fire.”
“No.” His voice is quiet, but I hear every word. “I’m asking you to trust me a little bit with what’s underneath.”
Shit. He clearly doesn’t know what singed eyebrows feel like, and somehow, my pissy fire respects that. “I’d like impact play. Something hard enough to get my attention.” No way Quint let Jackson graduate without being at least basically competent with a couple of impact toys, but he likely has no idea what I mean by hard. “Partial nudity is fine, penetrative toys and vibes are fine, no sex.” I’m being aggressive and I know it, and I know it’s because he touched a tender spot.
