“Sometimes I’m bad,” he says in a breathy voice as he draws one hand over the vinyl. I don’t think he means wicked, as he sometimes refers to himself. He means bad in the best way possible.
“Even good boys like you need discipline.”
“You think I’m good?”
“Very good,” I assure him. “The best kind of boy.”
Christ, what am I even saying?
He opens his mouth, but no words come out; only his tongue emerges to swipe along his full lips. “Have you thought about it before? Spanking me?”
Every single fucking day.
“Once or twice,” I tell him casually.
“With my pants on or off?” His head tilts to one side. This is a dangerous game we’re playing, one with an uncertain outcome. I cannot risk his mental health or scare him away, no matter how much he tempts me, and yet I don’t want to lie to him either.
“Off,” I tell him truthfully.
“My grandfather never spanked me,” he muses, and I think,no, he spoiled you rotten, and that’s why you’re so used to getting your way.I could spoil him too, and punish him and make him beg…
“He probably should have though, huh?” he asks with a lofty smile.
“Spankings are more satisfying to me when they’re consensual.” I almost ask him if he wants one—it’s on the very tip of my tongue to offer—but I pull back. That’s a line we cannot cross, and especially not without a lot more discussion and negotiation. Giovanni’s eye then catches on the examination table.
“Nowthatis some kinky shit,” he says with a dry chuckle as he makes his way over. “What do you do here? Play doctor?”
“Exactly. Have you ever had an enema?”
“No,” he says, looking embarrassed. He must not recall the one Dr. Greyson gave him before stitching him up. Probably for the best. He was on a lot of pain medication at the time and practically catatonic from the trauma. “Isn’t that for when you’re, like, constipated?” he asks.
“Yes, but not only that. It can be very pleasurable for the giver and the receiver. To go from feeling so uncomfortably full to entirely empty, a total purge.”
“Like confession,” Giovanni says.
I love his mind.
“Yes, like confession.”
“But then you have shit water everywhere,” he says, considering the practicalities, rather than the audacity of the practice itself, which doesn’t go unnoticed by me.
“I have a bedpan to collect and dispose of waste.”
“And you like that?” He scrunches his nose adorably. “Playing in the sewer?”
I smile at his turn of phrase. I’ll correct his kink-shaming language later, but not now while he’s still exploring. “I like it very much. I like to clean a boy out and then plug him with something big or milk his prostate until he’s begging me to stop, see if I can make him cry or come or both.”
Why am I sharing this with him after months of cohabitation? Something in the mood or the chemistry between us.
“You like making boys cry?” he asks, sounding interested.
“I do.”
“What about me?”
“What about you?”
“Do you want to make me cry?”
