“Aren’t rules supposed to be negotiable in a BDSM dynamic?”
She’s clearly done her research, and it turns me on more than it should.
“When it comes to a dom/sub dynamic, everything is negotiable, but when you’re in my room, if we’re going to do this, I have certain rules that are non-negotiable.”
“Okay,” she says, drawing out the word.
“Our dynamic only exists within the confines of these four walls. You cannot ask me about my life outside of the club. Is that clear?”
She nods and then speaks as if she already knows I’m about to correct her. “I understand.”
“There will be no feelings involved. You may experience intense emotions while in a scene and feel the need to confess them. You need to remember that the things we do in this room are designed to test your limits, emotionally and physically. It will make you feel things. I have held subs while they cried. I have watched them scream and curse and break down. This type of power exchange is not for the weak.”
Her shoulders visibly tense. “Got it.”
“You have a problem, I’m helping to solve that problem. That’s all there can be between us,” I say, as if codifying the sentiment could possibly make it true.
“No catching feelings.”
“I will reach out to you when I feel another session is necessary.”
“Yes, sir,” she says with bite, not her usual sweet submissive tone.
“And I know it’s a double standard, but you have to be completely honest with me. I need a clear understanding of your emotional state, your health, and any concerns you may have so I can ensure your safety and trust.”
“Yes—”
“Strip,” I growl, interrupting her before she can finish the “sir.”
She hesitates briefly before complying, and my cock swells with pride at her willingness to obey. When she takes everything off except her panties, I take a step toward her, backing her up against the door. “I said strip. I want you bare before me, pet.”
“But last time I left my panties on. I just figured…” she trails off, her earlier fight gone as she pulls down her panties. “Sorry, sir.”
“Is that a rule you want to negotiate?”
She thinks for a second. “No, sir.”
“Go stand in front of the cross,” I command, and she quickly complies. I follow the sway of her ass and clock the two day old dark bruise on her left cheek. I blow out a deliberate breath for show and growl. I know how she got the bruise, but I need to pretend like I don’t if I’m going to sell this. I stomp toward her, stopping inches from her body.
“Who did this to you, pet?” I ask, gently tracing the edges of the bruise, and she winces.
“It’s nothing,” she shrugs.
“Don’t lie to me, pet. Who gave you this bruise?” I say, gripping the flesh above her cheek and pulling her against me.
“It was a random guy. I wasn’t looking where I was going, and I fell when I opened the door while he was exiting.”
Why is she making excuses for that frat fuck? I saw the whole thing, watched her make herself small the entire walk to the classroom, and saw that fucker knock her over as she triedto get out of the way. She was looking where she was going; she was hypervigilant.
Overcome with the desire to teach her a lesson and dole out my punishment, I grip her by the neck, turning her face toward mine. “I prefer you wear my bruises, pet. Would you like that?”
“I… Uh, that sounds…” I wait for her to form words, but she continues to stammer. When I see her thighs clench together, I relax, knowing she’s exactly where I want her.
“Use your safe word if you don’t want that,” I say, running my free hand down her right ass cheek. Cocking it back, I hover near her skin, ready to strike, or pull away.
“Please, sir,” she begs in that breathy fucking whisper, and I fight the urge to rub my cock against that bruise. I release my hand, letting the sting of the slap reverberate against her cheek, before rubbing soothing circles around the spot.
“What else happened?” I ask as close to her ear as the mask will let me get, frustrated it won’t allow me closer, but thankful for its existence, especially now that she might recognize my voice.
