Thankfully, I have a late meeting, so I’m spared the torment of standing so close to Stuart in the kitchen that my nasal passages tingle with the scent of cut grass, summer days, and unbearable strictness. I know that even as I try to cope with all that, he’ll respectfully boss me around with an infuriating smile, totally oblivious to the fact he’s asking me to do things I’ve never done before. It makes me feel stupid. Monumentally stupid. So stupid I feel like I’m being smothered, like I have something heavy on my chest and pressed over my face.
Of all the feelings I hate, being made to feel stupid might be the one I hate most.
I know I should know how to do this shit, okay?
I know that. But I don’t. I don’t know how or when the hell everyone else learned how to do these things. That’s what confuses me most. Chopping garlic, for instance, how the hell are you supposed to get those little clove things out of their papery jackets? Taxes? Yeah, don’t even know where to start on that. Fabric softener? When, why, and how much? Sautéing shit—what even is that?
I’m pretty sure I missed the entire week of school when they taught this stuff.
I’ve tried to catch up. I swear I have, but I’m still behind. It stresses me out so much I can hardly stand it. Feeling stupid is a trigger for me. I start spiraling as soon as I feel it. I dated this girl named Cindy once. We weren’t together all that long, but she told me I was being triggered when I felt like a fool and strongly suggested I start working on it. I haven’t spent all that much time working on it yet, but I also haven’t forgotten what she said, especially since she said it right before she unceremoniously broke up with me in front of most of the water polo team.
Dinner is ready when I get home and Stuart is in a jovial mood. He must have been home for a while because he’s already showered. He’s wearing slippers, an old pair of jeans, and a white T that fits his form so closely it makes me feel harassed and hangry, and a strange, circular sense ofwantthat’s so intense I don’t know its name.
Whatever it’s called, it’s been gnawing at me since the first time Stuart spanked me, and it’s getting worse every day.
He has me wash up and sit at the table before serving my food like always, carefully wiping the plate clean around the edges before handing it to me and making sure none of the different types of veggies touch each other. There’s almost enough meat tonight, and even though I see broccoli on his plate, there’s none on mine. He asks me about my day the same way he has since we made the Daddy arrangement. Like he cares. Like I’m important. Like what I say matters.
I should love it. It’s what I’ve always wanted. Someone giving me their time and attention without looking over my shoulder at the kitchen clock to check the time as I speak or cutting me off and changing the subject when I start really getting into what I’m talking about.
I should love it, but I don’t.
Or I do, but I hate it just as much.
My neck prickles with heat. I scratch roughly, but it does less than nothing to help. I chase the itch to the back of my neck and then rake my fingers over my scalp. It’s no use. This isn’t an itch I can scratch. Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried and tried and almost rubbed my dick raw in the process. This isn’t something I can take care of. The guy who can sits to my right, at the head of the table, slowly running aquamarine eyes over my face and chest.
He has the kind of eyes that look sensitive. He’s probably allergic to cats or dust or something like that. They look like the type of eyes that go red if he reads for too long or doesn’t get enough sleep. They take the severity of the rest of him and turn it upside down.
They turn me upside down too.
He has no fucking business having eyes like that.
They make me quake inside. Scared. Terrified, really. They make me feel as though something big exists, that it’s close and real, but I can’t have it. In my time, a lot of people have told me I’m spoiled, or a brat, or a spoiled brat, or some other combination of negative attributes that amount to the same thing.
Tonight, for the first time, I’m coming face-to-face with the realization that it might be true. Sitting so close to what I want and not having it makes me feel unhinged. Not just unhinged. I’m teetering dangerously close to losing my shit.
Mercifully, it’s Friday, and on Friday, we have wine. One and a half glasses each, so there’s enough left over to freeze.
God help me.
I lift my glass to my lips and take three large sips in quick succession.
“Slowly,” Stuart says kindly.
And like that, I’m no longer teetering on anything. I’m throwing myself headlong into an epic and total loss of shit.
“Iknowhow to drink wine,Stuart.”
It gives me a disproportionate amount of pleasure to call him Stuart. I haven’t called him Daddy since that strange business after the first time he spanked me. It wasn’t deliberate at first. The word just didn’t seem to roll off my tongue. Not before, during, or after our pissant little altercations. Not even when he opens his arms afterward and holds me tight against his chest. My mind blurs when he does it and time drags out impossibly, but still, I don’t say it.
Looking at his unbearably handsome face, drawn and concerned, gives me a strong feeling that not saying it might be one of my greatest achievements.
“Watch your tone.” His tone is measured. Mild. Totally controlled.
It’s the final straw. The nail in the coffin. A red rag to a bull.
“Watch my tone?” My voice lilts up and mixes with something that sounds whiny but quickly turns ugly. “Watch my fucking tone? Or what,Stuart?”
He looks taken aback, almost confused. It doesn’t last long. “You know perfectly well what that tone gets you. You’ve earned yourself a spanking, young man.”
