Page 9 of A Stable Daddy

Breath catching in my throat, my voice comes out rough when I prod, “What do you need, Ryan?”

“Discipline, Daddy,” this time when he says the title, it’s with more confidence, but then he hesitantly adds, “please?”

I search his blue-grey eyes for any sign that he’s pushing himself past his limits. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was: after the experience he had earlier tonight, regaining control would be important to any Sub. But there’s nothing in his expression throwing red flags. He’s calm, not manic. Any hesitance can be attributed to the newness of the Daddy kink, rather than fear. And that blush –that beautiful, tempting pink flush over his skin— doesn’t seem to be caused by shame or anything negative.

It’s not difficult to make my decision.

“What kind of discipline, darlin’?”

Relief seems to wash over him. I watch as his shoulders sag and a sheen of tears glosses his eyes before he blinks the moisture away. “Spanking, please. Or a paddle if you have one.” He swallows again. “No set count. I…it’s not unusual for me to hit subspace with a bit of impact play.”

I nod slowly, processing the information. “Thank you for letting me know.” Tilting my head, I smile softly, “Do you come when you’re spanked?”

I’ve been with Boys who do and boys who don’t, but knowing ahead of time allows me to accommodate the sexual enjoyment into the discipline. For example, if a Boy has been bratty, I might incorporate some orgasm denial as the real punishment.

Ryan bobs his head, his throat working before he answers verbally. “Most of the time, yeah. Usually just before I hit subspace, or as part of it.”

“Can you reach subspace without coming?”

“I—” the question seems to stump him for a moment, and he cocks his head in contemplation, his eyes getting a faraway look about them “—don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“That’s fine,” I assure him, reaching up to cup his jaw, mesmerised by his silver goatee, so neatly trimmed. I stroke his bare cheek with my thumb, feeling the scratch of a day’s stubble. “I’m just making sure I do right by you, darlin’.” He leans into my touch and closes his eyes, reminding me of an oversized housecat. “Do you have any limits?”

“No degradation or humiliation,” Ryan tells me firmly. “And…and I can’t kneel or rest on my knees for very long.” He hangs his head, adding, “I’m old and it hurts, and not in a fun way.”

The embarrassment and sadness in his voice is painful to hear. “Hey now,” I try to sound warm and placating while simultaneously wanting to go and put the fear of God into anyone who has shamed him for things out of his control,“you’re perfect, Ryan. Besides, people of all ages have physical limitations. It doesn’t make playing with you any less enjoyable. In fact,” I smirk, “I like gettin’ creative.”

He lifts his gaze and smiles tentatively back at me, then abuses his poor lip with his teeth again. “What about you? What are your limits?”

“Lying,” I answer easily. “You have to be honest with me the whole time. Even if it means pausing to talk things through. If you lie about how you’re feeling, I’ll know, and I will call red.” I try not to think too hard about the man I moved halfway around the world to be with, only to discover his lies. I highly doubt Ryan would be capable of that level of deception…not that whatever is happening between us will go further than tonight, anyway. Clearing my throat, I gently ask, “Will you be honest with me, darlin’?”

Ryan nods. “Yes, Sir.” He shakes his head. “Sorry. Yes, Daddy.”

He remembered that I don’t like to be called ‘Sir’.

The effort he’s making to accommodate me warms me from the inside, even though I didn’t remind him that titles like ‘Sir’ and ‘Master’ are a limit for me. I chose not to do so deliberately, because ‘Daddy’ is so different for him. If we were planning to make whatever this is between us an ongoing thing, I would have said something. But for one night, ‘Sir’ would have been fine. I just want him to be comfortable.

Nevertheless, I’ve already told him that if he doesn’t want to use the D word, he doesn’t have to. I’m not repeating myself. Instead, I smile and lean forward, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to his lips. “Good boy.”

He trembles with anticipation, and I pull back from his personal bubble, picking up the t-shirt from the bathroom countertop. Arching an eyebrow at him, I hold it up. “Shirt on or off?”

“Off,” he says after only a short moment of consideration.

“Good boy,” I reiterate, loving the way the praise makes him shiver. Taking his hand, I lead him back out into the main room, where my gaze swings between the bed, the couch, and the window overlooking the city.

“Would you prefer to be spanked lying down over my lap, or standing up, braced against the window?” I ask him. “Would lying down be better for your joints?”

His chest seems to rise and fall faster as he looks between the bed and the window, once again biting his lower lip. “I love the idea of the window,” he admits, “being on show for the city, y’know? But—” he looks back at the bed “— lying down means more connection to you, and if I hit subspace and crash…”

“Bed it is, honey.” I cross the short distance from the bathroom door to the king-sized bed, then drop my jeans and tug my shirt over my head, leaving me in my tight, red boxer briefs and nothing else. I wait patiently as Ryan’s eyes widen, taking in the ink that litters my skin.

Most were impulse decisions made during my rebellious youth to rattle my conservative parents. Every time my dad would make a comment about me looking more like a ‘thug’ than a cowboy, I’d reward myself with a new tattoo. The collection of black and grey artwork is eclectic, scattered over my arms, hands, torso, legs, and even on my neck. Cherubs, eagles, Latin text, scorpions, chains, and even a rose can be found illustrated on my skin in permanent, crisp dark ink. There’s more on my back, which Ryan gasps at when I turn to pull down the covers, and I wonder whether he feels the same way my pops does.

Ryan’s got his own ink, of course. A beautiful, brightly coloured, red Japanese flower set against intricately shaded finger waves in black and grey sits on his right forearm, wrapping around the limb as naturally as you please. But that’s it. So it’s likely that his piece means something to him, but he’skept the rest of his body free of ink for a reason. Unlike me, treating my flesh like an open canvas, decorating it whenever the whim strikes.

“Your tattoos…” he breathes when I turn around again to face him. His expression isn’t critical, though. It’s awed. “Wow.” He reaches out tentatively to run the pad of his index finger over the thin, intricate lines of the tattoo on my left pec. A weeping angel, hugging her knees to her chest in grief, her long hair obscuring her face, but her wing extended behind her. The gentle touch of his skin on mine feels electric. “These are beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I acknowledge, not wanting to go into the story behind the myriad tattoos.

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