Page 5 of For Real

And maybe, at last, I was going to take it back.

So I did it. In the middle of some East London party, beneath the eyes of untold strangers, for a nineteen-year-old boy whose name I hadn’t even bothered to ask, I mustered what little grace I could remember, and went to my knees.

Clasped my hands behind my back.

Some doms, maybe even most doms, might have wanted me to bow my head, but I still wasn’t sure who I was doing this for, and I wanted—I wanted—to look at him.

There was a stillness in the room. Because nobody had ever seen me on my knees before. I’d bled and screamed but never knelt.16

And in the silence, my boy just gasped. It felt like his mouth on my cock. His eyes were wide, as hazy as stained glass on the brightest imaginable day. He swayed a little and put a hand against the wall to steady himself.

“How does it feel?” I asked.

He swallowed. “Perfect. It’s…perfect. Can I touch you?”

Oh God. Too complicated. Don’t. Yes. “Not if you ask me.”

He stepped into the space between my legs, and I had to crane my head right back to hold his gaze. My height counted for nothing now. Here, at his feet.

He ran a finger down the exposed line of my throat. How did he know to do that? I made a sound for him, rough and low and helpless. Then he collared me, his palm warm against my neck, and it was all I could do not to push forward into the safety and the threat of that simple, instinctive touch.

What had I done?

“How does it feel?” he asked.

Perfect. I swallowed under his hand. “Like I’m indulging you.”

But he only grinned and tightened his grip just a little, not enough to hinder my breath but enough that I felt my every inhalation. As though it was his choice to give them to me. The racing of my pulse filled my head like the beating of a thousand wings.17

“Liar.” His foot nudged my cock.

Oh God. I was so hard for him. For this.18

“Fuck.” He gave a soft and lovely little moan. “Fuck. I could come from this.”

I had no answers for him.

Except, suddenly, I did, my voice hoarse beneath his hand. “Come home with me, and you can.”

2

Toby

Oh my fucking God, I’ve pulled the shark. Well, not pulled. Whatever it is when some guy goes to his knees for you in the middle of a club and then offers to take you home.

And it’s like nothing and everything I’ve imagined.

My hand on his throat. My foot against his cock.

I don’t know where I found the courage to do this. But I think it’s because of how he’s looking at me while he kneels there.1

He makes me feel like I could do anything.

I hold out my hand to help him to his feet, because it only seems polite somehow, but he ignores it, and he’s up, whoosh, so graceful, and all I can think is how badly I want to strip it from him. Make him give that to me too.

I’m not graceful, and I’m never going to be. Mum says it’s something you grow into, but she’s been saying that for about ten years now. It kind of sucks: the moment you look in the mirror and you realise that there isn’t going to be any more growing out of or growing into or growing full stop. That this is it. What you’re stuck with.

I mean, it’s fine, don’t get me wrong. I’m not Quasimodo. But in my head I’m about six foot two, and I’m hot and dangerous and definitely not fucking cute.

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