by Jodi Payne
He lingered, licking and nuzzling, letting Sam’s scent settle on him. Then he lifted his head and tried to memorize the stunning look on Sam’s face, feeling a little giddy, and curious to see how long it would take for Sam to come back from whatever planet he was on.
“You…damn.” Sam began to breathe, hands moving over his shoulders, his scalp, keeping them connected, even as Sam’s abs began to tremor, trying to let go.
He knew his jeans would burn against Sam’s hips in all the wrong ways, and there was no hiding the neglected bulge behind the denim anyway. So instead he settled himself back on the couch and pulled Sam into him, letting Sam have all the contact he wanted. He pulled the blanket over them so Sam didn’t catch a chill.
“That’s it, just breathe, stud.” He grinned, combing his fingers through Sam’s hair.
Sam leaned in close, one hand flat on his belly. “Breathing. You want me? I ain’t a selfish man.”
He laughed gently. “Yes. I do want you. But you only have a couple of hours before your shift, and I don’t want to rush. I want to enjoy you all night.”
“All night sounds amazing. Like a gift.”
“That’s what it is. Like a shared gift. And believe me, it’s better when the clock isn’t involved. Especially the first time.” Or so he understood. His first time was definitely rushed, and although it wasn’t horrible, it wasn’t particularly good either. Sam would be his first…well, his first first, and he had this strange sense of responsibility and pride about that, since he was able to make plans and not be impulsive. Maybe Sunday night, at his place. Not here. Definitely not here.
Sam kissed the corner of his lips, his jaw. “I have a thousand thoughts, but they’re not so loud. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, don’t start thinking you’re going to get a blowjob every time you call me.”
Sam began to laugh, the chuckles starting low and becoming warm and full, honestly happy.
He had to laugh too. Possibly because Sam probably would, but also because when that wonderful joy Sam had in him got out, it just couldn’t be ignored.
“Okay, stud. You should close your eyes for a while so you’re not a complete disaster at work. And before you even ask, I am staying with you until you leave, and I’m walking you out.” And he was giving Sam his coat too, but he wasn’t even opening that to discussion right now.
Sam searched his eyes; then he just snuggled in like he was used to not sleeping alone. “I will take it. I’m going to be on pins and needles until I get this place behind me.”
Sam kissed him again, almost asleep.
He whispered good night, but he was fairly certain it fell on sleeping ears. Even now, in the quiet of his late lover’s apartment, James wasn’t on his mind. At the edges, maybe, but it was Sam that had been his priority every second since he’d left his condo.
He’d sincerely, earnestly loved James. But he was captivated by Sam, enamored by everything raw and honest about the man, and utterly beset by needs of an entirely different nature.
20
Sunday was cold and clear, and Sam thought it would never ever not amuse the hell out of him to see his breath.
He had his coffee, Thomas’s coat, his gimme cap on, and hope.
He’d done his job the last couple of nights, controlled the crowd, didn’t get his ass kicked—he was pretty fucking proud of himself. It wasn’t his dream job, but he would be lying if the adrenaline hadn’t been going ninety to nothing.
It had been something else to walk out and see Angel and his Harley there, waiting to make sure he got home.
Embarrassing as fuck, but also…
Yeah. He hadn’t put up too much of a fight, had he?
Sam went into the club, tucking his cap in his back pocket and searching the quiet bar for the man he needed to see.
Scotty raised an eyebrow at him, looking him over, then half pointed down the bar, hands full of bar towels. Thomas had a glass of ice water and was watching football on the big TV behind the bar. The rest of him was a study in black and hard to make out in the shadowy bar lighting.
“Thanks.” He nodded to Scotty and headed to Thomas. “Who’s winning?” Hell, who was playing? He felt like he didn’t know anything without any TV.
Thomas turned to face him and looked him over frankly, head to toe. “I am.” One more sip of water and Thomas was on his feet and holding up a key. “Room six, boy. Take the key.”
It made him a little dry mouthed, the way Thomas became so different in here. He didn’t know that he was ever different. But maybe. Maybe. Little Sammy wasn’t a guy they’d recognize at home. Maybe Bowie.
He nodded and took the key. “Yes, sir. Room six ahoy.”
He wasn’t going to pretend not to be in a fine mood, or that he wasn’t tickled shitless to have a day to spend with Thomas.
Thomas sighed behind him, and the man’s boots echoed against the tile in the quiet hallway. When he keyed into the room, Thomas stepped around him. “Hang the key on the hook on the doorjamb and come to me.”
Thomas’s orders were stern, but not overly loud or angry.
He did as he’d been asked, the key dangling and making a sound oddly like wind chimes.
Thomas smiled once Sam had stopped moving and kissed him. “Hello, sweetheart. It’s good to see you.”
“You are a sight for sore eyes, I swear to God.” He couldn’t hide his grin.
“I have a wonderful day planned for us, but it will be new and strange to you. You may not understand it all, and at times I may decide not to explain. So I need something from you before we begin.”
Thomas paced away, leaving him standing there. “Do you know what a safe word is?”
“I think so. I know what it is, but not how you decide about the why of it. Nothing I’ve read makes sense on that front.” He got the whole “yes, yes, no” concept, but how did you use it? Why not use it whenever shit was worrisome? Did that piss someone like Thomas off? What if you just totally fucking forgot it? This was not real clear.
Thomas chuckled. “All right. What you’ve read probably indicates that you would use a safe word to end an activity when words like ‘no’ are an expected part of a scene. That’s true and fine, but that barely scratches the surface. Your understanding of the depth and power of a safe word will grow as you start to understand yourself better, your own needs and limits, and mine.”
Thomas took something from a small box on the credenza and walked back to him slowly.
“For now, think of it as a word that will get my attention. We won’t be doing anything today for which a simple ‘stop’ or ‘no’ won’t have true weight. I expect you to speak freely. So think of your word as a step beyond that. It’s not just ‘Stop,’ it’s ‘Stop and I need something.’ It’s ‘Stop and there’s something wrong.’ Because sometimes it’s hard to articulate what it is you need. You just know, for example, that simply removing a blindfold isn’t enough. You might need reassurance, but if you’re overwhelmed, saying that in the moment isn’t possible. Does that make sense?”
“I think so.” If not, he’d figure it out. The thing he appreciated out of all those words was “hard to articulate.” That was him. He didn’t understand how Thomas could do it, unpack all the mess inside and make it something worth forcing out of your mouth.
Thomas handed him a piece of chalk. “Write it on the wall in big letters.”
He tilted his head, confused for a second. Write it on the wall? People don’t write on walls. Write what? Had he missed something? All those thoughts zoomed through before he could blink, but then he figured it out.
Right. Or write. On the wall. The word.
He’d thought about this part, because he’d reckoned Thomas would ask. It seemed like a deal.
Revolver.
Part of his studies and his favorite Beatles album.
He stepped back after carefully drawing the letters on, chuckling as they tilted dangerously to the left: Revolver.
Thomas
nodded and took the chalk away. “Okay, now just humor me and say it for me?”
“Revolver?” That was a little weird but easy enough.
Thomas laughed. “Are you unsure? Say it again, please. With a bit more conviction.” It was weird, but Thomas did seem to be listening.
“Sorry.” He had to chuckle too, just because. This was one of the weirder things he’d done, and he’d been to the snake museum in Waco. “Revolver. Better?”
“ ‘Revolver.’ Better. Yes. Give me your shirt, please.” Thomas stood in front of him, waiting with his hand out, and trying out his safe word a few more times. “Revolver. Revolver. Seems like a lot of syllables, but we’ll see how it works for us, shall we?”
“Is that a deal?” He started unbuttoning—cuffs first, then the front. “The syllable thing, I mean.”
“Well, in the heat of the moment, you don’t want to be trying to shout out ‘megalomaniac’ or something, when ‘cheese’ would get the job done faster and with less brain work.” Thomas gave him a big grin.
“Fair enough. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious would be…a tongue twister.” Okay, now he was tickled. He handed Thomas his button-down, then pulled off his undershirt.
“Mmm.” Thomas took the shirts and drew a line from his collarbone to his waistband with a warm finger. “Sorry, did you say something?” He got a wink, and Thomas went to hang his shirts over the back of a chair.
He hooked his thumbs in his waistband, watching Thomas move. The man moved like a bullfighter somehow, steady, like he knew what he was doing but was ready to jump if he had to. Sam could watch that for a while and be happy.
Thomas turned to look at him and rolled up the sleeves on a crisp black dress shirt. The leather pants the man was wearing were tight enough to pull, leaving absolutely nothing—like, nothing—to the imagination. He came over, carrying a red-and-black thing all made up of a handle and straps in one hand, stepped close, and dropped a thick pad at his feet.
“On your knees.”
His immediate and damn near undeniable reaction was Fuck you, but the simple fact was that if he could let a bunch of bar-fly badass wannabes beat him into the ground for a job? He could give this to Thomas. The man had earned his trust, had earned this. Hell, he’d cried in front of Thomas. Had been out of his mind with guilt and hurting. At least today he was in a good mood and he’d slept.
Didn’t mean he didn’t want to snap. It just meant that he knelt down and trusted that Thomas had his back.
Thomas put a hand on his head and sighed, the sound long and maybe…relieved? Neither of them moved for a bit except for Thomas’s fingers, stroking through his hair. He thought he might have felt them trembling.
Finally, Thomas hooked a hand under his chin and bent to kiss him. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
“I trust you.” And if Thomas needed this from him, it was something he’d give.
“You’re a wonder, Sam.” Thomas kissed him again and pressed the leather thing into his hands and took a few steps away. “Just look that over. Have you seen one of those before?”
“No, sir. It’s heavier than it looks, isn’t it?” He looked up at Thomas, curious. What was this about? He knew what it was for, but what did Thomas want from it? He’d proved he could take a beating, so that couldn’t be the endgame.
“It is. It’s called a flogger, which is fairly self-explanatory, I’m sure. They come in lots of different configurations, but that particular one is fairly advanced. The falls aren’t very wide or very long; the handle has a decent weight. That one has a bite when I want it to.”
“So that leads to a shit-ton of questions…” Why advanced? What was simple? Why did the handle matter?
What scenario involved “bite when I want it to”?
“You get three.” Thomas didn’t take it from him, just left it in his hands.
“The big one is why? The little ones are just…details.” The little questions weren’t near as important.
“That is the big one, isn’t it? Why what, exactly? You’re leaving that to me?” Thomas paced past him, and the next time he heard the man’s voice, it was almost directly behind him. “Why did I give you the flogger? I like that one. The answer is because it’s probably the most often-used instrument in the scene, the most well-known outside it, and the one that best illustrates what I do.”
“What do you do?” Or more specifically, why? What is the deal? He almost laughed at himself. That question never had an answer. A thousand answers, sure, but not one.
“Today? I answer questions.” Thomas laughed. “Back to the flogger, then. While that is immediately recognizable to everyone in the scene, there isn’t just one type. I told you that one is advanced. That one hurts. It can hurt a lot if I want it to. But you can find them with longer falls or wider falls, lighter handles, longer handles. They can be all different types of leather. Some of them have weights or balls on the ends. Some of the falls are cut on an angle for a deeper sting. The combination you pick is important. So the lesson is probably obvious by now, hm? That everyone has different goals and a different combination that works for them. That goes for Dominants and submissives alike.”
Jesus, who knew? There must be a market for shit to beat people with. He couldn’t wait to inform Bowie. The son of a bitch would have a new life’s calling.
“All right. So why am I telling you that? Think about this. Why are you on your knees right now? And try to go deeper than because I told you to be. Really. Try to think about what it has to do with you.”
That was something he didn’t know the answer to—even though he’d learned not to say that to Thomas, it didn’t change the truth of it. He was down there because Thomas wanted it, because obviously he was trying to figure something out, something he was pretty sure he didn’t want to figure out, maybe. It was easier to not be a part of the whole equation because he wasn’t sure, and the bad whys were more than he could face right now and he knew it. He’d been about as fucked up—both high and low—in the last few months as any man he knew.
Sam looked up, met Thomas’s gaze, and hoped to hell somehow Thomas understood that he just had no way to answer.
Thomas nodded and took the flogger from his fingers. “You have shown me such trust. I know it has to be awkward for you to be on your knees and not understand why. I am so grateful for that gift. Stand up, sweetheart.”
Sam felt the ratcheting tension dissolve with a pop, the mounting rush of thoughts ease back to a buzz. Okay.
Okay.
He hadn’t fucked that up.
He took a deep breath and hopped up, trying to figure out the right thing to respond with. He went with “Thank you” because that was what he meant.
“I don’t want you to kneel again until you want to. I’ll ask. I may even ask often. No matter what else is going on, I’m telling you to say no if you don’t feel you fully understand the nature of the gift you’re giving me, and how that is reflected upon you. You won’t disappoint me if you say no. It won’t upset me if you say no. It’s important to me that kneeling be done in the proper spirit, or it’s simply about control. I don’t want that. Understood?”
Not even a little. He didn’t understand altogether why he did something for Thomas that he flat-out wouldn’t for anyone else. Why he did a bunch of things that he wouldn’t for anyone else. He’d done it, though, because Thomas asked him and that was important to him. “I fucked up, didn’t I? I’m not trying to, I swear to God.” He chuckled softly at himself. “Do you regret showing me James’s book sometimes?”
Did it make Thomas regret that he didn’t have James here to do things right?
“I don’t have any regrets about you. Not a single one. You didn’t fuck up. There’s no way to fuck this up, sweetheart. I meant that if the only reason you’re doing any of this is because it’s what I…”
Thomas’s eyebrows dipped into a deep frown for a second; then his whole expression changed and he smiled. “You’re doing everything right. You’ve do
ne everything I’ve asked and even offered some things I haven’t specifically asked for. You haven’t fucked up at all.”
“Good deal.” He answered Thomas’s smile, feeling like he was on one hell of a bucker, just trying to keep his free arm up. Thing was, he suspected Thomas was on a ride of his own and trying not to face-plant. “You know, there’s this saying that if you get off on your feet, you weren’t riding hard enough. I think this is like that.”
“I think you might be right.” He’d seen Thomas in leather, in a cowboy hat, and in a sweat shirt with a goddamn pink unicorn on it, but he wasn’t sure he liked any of those looks as much as this one. It was the same look Thomas had when he was standing with that twenty-foot cross-eyed gorilla at Ripley’s. Relaxed, light. Young. And he figured it wasn’t one Thomas gave himself permission to wear very often. “You want to get a beer?”
“Sure. Let me get dressed, honey. Two shakes.” He unfastened his belt as he headed over to the chair with his shirts.
“Hang on.” Thomas snagged his arm, pulled them together. “It has to be the right combination. If this is something you want, we’ll figure it out. If it’s not, it doesn’t change this.” Thomas’s kiss was strong but sweet. Heated but patient. “They’re separate things.”
Sam cupped Thomas’s jaw, confused as hell but willing to go with it. He loved Thomas, right? Right or wrong, it was what it was, and he was going to deal. “We’ll reckon it, honey. No worries.”
“No worries? I’m talking to the king of worries.” Thomas let him go, but he felt those eyes on him. “Come home with me. Stay the night. We can start figuring it out.”
“I’m all in.” He grabbed his undershirt and tugged it on, then started working on his shirt. “Let’s go.”
21
Sam stared out the window of Thomas’s apartment, watching the sun set. They’d shared a couple of beers, and they’d managed canned soup and grilled cheese sandwiches without killing each other or burning anything important off.
He thought they were dancing around each other a little bit, but that was the deal. Negotiations.
