Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 90795 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90795 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Shivers ride the waves and dips in my spine, warmth heating my groin, yes, but at the same time, it trips something in my brain, pushes this button I spent my twenties and part of my thirties denying was there, hating it because needing to be submissive made me feel weak.
Maybe it still does. I don’t know how I feel about it anymore, mainly because outside of these moments arranged with Doms who fit my needs, I try not to think about it at all. I don’t like to think about anything I don’t understand or that I can’t explain. The fact that this just is, that I crave this thing and it settles the chaos in my head—and yes, really turns me on—doesn’t suit my personality. “It still feels strange when you call me boy. Let’s go inside.” I nod toward the house.
“Because you’re older than me?” Sir asks. Yes, I’m going to try and only think of him as Sir. Colton is too personal, and that has nothing to do with why we meet. This is simply an arrangement, one where we fulfill each other’s needs, then go on our way. Hell, I might not even meet with him again after today. Maybe I should find someone else, someone older, someone who’s not so…him.
“Yes.”
“Is that a new limit for you?” Sir asks as we reach the door and I unlock it.
Is it a new limit for me? I can’t say. I’ve always felt a little weird about it, even though I’ve never mentioned it with a Dom before. I just…I don’t know. I’m not a boy; I’m a man. But I also understand what boy means in a situation like this. And as much as I don’t think I should like it or as much as it makes me… I’m not even sure how to word it. But regardless, it turns me on too.
“I’m not sure.” I lead him into the house.
“Why don’t you tell me your reasons behind being conflicted about it?” Sir sets his keys and cell on the table by the door, at home here as I imagine he is everywhere. He’s wearing a tight-fitting T-shirt and faded jeans that look like he’s had them for years.
“As we already said, I’m older than you.”
“Being called boy has nothing to do with age.”
“Yes, I know, but…it messes with my head sometimes. But then, it also makes me feel…coddled? I don’t know if that’s the right word. I don’t know why these kinds of things are hard for me to explain. I’m typically better with words than this.” And I would typically never share my weaknesses with another person either, but here, in this space, I’m not the same James Valentine I’ve always been. Here I can…let go…and know the person with me will take control in a way that doesn’t make me feel chaotic like I did as a child, but soothed. Free.
“Would you like to know what I think?” He crosses his arms, and I notice how blunt his nails are, his hands aged compared to the rest of his appearance and beat up.
“Well, you don’t really know me, so I’m not sure you’d understand how I feel better than me, but okay.”
He gives me another one of his annoying smirks that frustrate me more than they should.
“Humor me.” Sir walks into the living room. I almost joke about him making himself at home, but I don’t. “From what I’ve seen so far and our discussions online, even though you’re so beautifully submissive when you let yourself be, you still struggle with the desire in here.” He presses a calloused fingertip to my temple, and I shiver. “Being called boy makes you feel less in control, which you want but don’t want to want. And being told you’re good makes you feel exactly that—good. And you don’t let yourself feel that very often. Maybe you don’t even believe it’s true. You also don’t seem to be used to being taken care of. So calling you a good boy hits a few of your triggers, makes you feel things you don’t want to let yourself feel.”
The back of my neck prickles, my stomach swooping in a strange way as I take a step back from him, straightening my polo shirt. “You don’t know me.”
“Am I wrong?” Sir asks, but I don’t answer. “But you are a good boy, James, and you want to be a good boy. You preen so beautifully when I call you that. A soft, pink blush blooms across your cheeks, and I know from last time how hard it gets you.”
He’s right. Damned if he isn’t right. Even now, having him speak to me, the low timbre of his voice, has blood rushing to my groin.
“So unless you tell me not to call you boy, I’ll continue to use it when I feel it’s appropriate. If you tell me red, I’ll stop. Same rules as last time. Red means stop, yellow means slow down, green means continue. What is your color?”