“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 youarea 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?”
My breath hitches.
My heart races.
My brain tells me to say red or yellow, but when I open my mouth, that’s not what comes out. “Green.” Because deep down, I crave being told I’m a good boy…I want it…maybe need it, no matter how much I don’t want to.
Sir grins. “Good boy.”
I try really hard not to show a reaction—how my muscles tighten because of my dislike of enjoying those two words, but also the way I want to melt into him because of them. I want to drop to my knees and have him tell me over and over how good I am.
“Take off your clothes.”
My dick twitches at his demand, but that voice is there too, the one in my head telling me I shouldn’t want this. That I’m in control of my life, and that giving any kind of power to anyone else will only hurt me, but like I do so many other things, I ignore it.
I start with my shoes, Sir standing in front of me, arms crossed, watching as I remove those and my socks. I begin unbuttoning the two buttons on my polo next, before removing it.
“Same rules and limits as last time?” he asks.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Anything you specifically need from me?”
No. Yes. I don’t know.
My indecisiveness makes frustration burn at my nape, but it’s okay here. Sex is the only place it is. “No, Sir.” I fold my shirt and set it on the arm of the couch, my shoes lined up on the floor below it, one sock in each. I do the same with my slacks, remove and fold them, then my underwear, leaving a neat pile, before worrying they might fall off and setting them on the end table instead. “Sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing? You didn’t do anything wrong. I think it’s cute that you’re tidy.” He winks.Winks.It’s absolutely ridiculous. What am I doing here with this guy?
“I’m a forty-year-old man. I’m hardly cute.”
“Forty-year-old men can be cute. One is standing in front of me right now.”
I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to try and do that—flatter and praise me. I don’t need that.” It’s not that I don’t believe I’m an attractive man. I’m your normal, everyday man my age. I’m fairly handsome and don’t really care about that, but hearing it from him isn’t why we’re here.
“I think you like praise more than you realize. We know you like some humiliation too, but in that pretty little head of yours, being told you’re cute is the same as being a good boy, isn’t it? You don’t think you should like the praise, but you do.” He reaches out, wrapping a hand around my already hard and leaking cock. “This twitched when I called you cute, just like it does when I say you’re a good boy.”
