Page 50 of Body and Soul

I preened internally at his gentle praise, a different kind of heat unfurling in my chest - softer and sweeter than the inferno of lust that had consumed me moments ago. I lived for Shepherd's approval, craved it like a drug.

His fingers carded through my hair, blunt nails scratching lightly at my scalp, and I sighed in bliss, arching into his touch. He petted me how I liked, as if he could sense what I needed. Long minutes passed like that, with me curled naked in his lap, boneless and sated, as he soothed me with tender touches and soft words of praise. Shepherd's steady heartbeat and even breaths lulled me, his clean scent and solid heat wrapping around me like a blanket.

Gradually, awareness of my surroundings filtered back in past the buzzing static of bliss in my head. I became cognizant of the way Shepherd's crisp dress shirt rasped against my oversensitive skin, the bunched fabric of his slacks under my bare thighs. And the hard, thick ridge of his erection pressing insistently against my hip.

Guilt pricked at me as I registered Shepherd's unsatisfied arousal, hot and heavy against me. He'd given me such intense pleasure, had praised me so sweetly as I shuddered apart for him, and yet his own needs remained unmet.

I shifted in his lap, deliberately brushing against the rigid length of him through his slacks. Shepherd inhaled sharply, his fingers tightening reflexively in my hair. Emboldened, I nuzzled into his clothed erection, mouthing at the straining fabric.

“Please, Sir,” I breathed, flicking my tongue out to trace the shape of him. “Let me take care of you, too. Use my mouth.”

Shepherd's hand fisted in my hair, tugging my head back. I whimpered at the delicious sting, meeting his heated gaze. His pupils were blown wide, only a thin ring of brown visible around the black. But there was a firmness in his expression too, a resolve that told me he wouldn't be swayed.

“Eli,” he said, a note of warning in his deep voice. “You’re approaching a hard limit, according to our agreement.”

My stomach dropped at Shepherd's words, frustration and desperation clawing up my throat. I knew he was right, that we'd negotiated the terms of our arrangement and sexual contact was strictly off the table. But in that moment, still floating and drunk on his touch, his praise, all I could think about was how badly I needed him - needed to feel that thick cock stretching me open, claiming me, anchoring me.

“Please, Sir,” I whimpered, not above begging. Tears of frustration pricked at the corners of my eyes. “I need it. I need you. I'll do anything.”

Shepherd's expression softened, but he remained resolute, catching my wrists in his large hands when I reached for his belt. “Eli,” he said firmly, “I said no. Now, we can renegotiate the contract if you’d like, but not right now. We both need clear heads before we change anything. Now, if you keep pushing this limit, there will be consequences.”

I hung my head, shame and frustration burning through me at the gentle rebuke. “I'm sorry, Sir,” I mumbled, my voice coming out smaller than I intended. “I didn't mean to push.”

Shepherd sighed, cupping my face in his warm hands and tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. His dark eyes were serious, but not unkind. “I know this is new to you, Eli. I know you’re still learning, but you mustn’t let your impulses get the better of you again.”

I bit my lip and nodded, blinking back the tears that still threatened. “I want to be good for you, Sir,” I whispered, raw honesty bleeding into my tone. “I want to serve you well, to be the submissive you deserve. I just... I need you so badly. All the time. It's excruciating.”

Shepherd's thumbs swept over my cheekbones in a tender caress. “Oh, sweet boy. Youaregood for me. You please me more than you know.”

A broken sound escaped me at his praise, something between a sob and a sigh. I leaned into his touch, soaking up the rare moment of softness.

Shepherd's hands fell away from my face and I immediately missed their warmth, their steadying presence. “Go on now,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “Go get yourself cleaned up and changed into something comfortable. I'll order us some food and we can relax together for the rest of the evening.”

I nodded, slowly extricating myself from his lap on still-wobbly legs. My softening cock gave a half-hearted twitch of interest as it brushed against the wool of his slacks, drawing a shaky exhale from my lips. Shepherd's hands found my hips, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the jut of my hipbones as he helped me stand.

Shepherd's touch steadied me as I stood, but the absence of his warmth left a hollow ache in my chest. I swayed slightly, my legs still weak, and his strong hands guided me until I found my balance. His gaze followed me, heavy and dark, but he remained composed, his control unwavering.

“Go on, Eli,” he reminded me, his voice soft but authoritative. “Do as I said.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded again, the sting of disappointment still fresh, but the comfort of his praise lingered. I wanted to make him proud, to prove that I could be the obedient submissive he desired.

Without another word, I turned and padded toward the bathroom, feeling Shepherd's eyes on me the entire way. Each step took me farther from his touch, the urge to turn back and beg for more almost overwhelming, but I fought it down. He’dgiven me what I needed—reassurance, care—and he was right. We both needed clearer heads.

Sometimes, what I needed wasn’t the same thing as what I wanted. It was a difficult lesson to learn.

I squinted at thelaptop, the blinking cursor a steady reminder of how little I'd managed to accomplish. A dozen books and journals on paraphilic disorders lay scattered across my desk, a disorderly mirror of my thoughts. I leaned back in the leather chair, pinching the bridge of my nose, but the mounting headache didn’t fade.

Minutes bled together as I stared at the screen, the words blurring. Even academia, my oldest refuge, offered no escape today. My eyes drifted, inevitably, to the worn leather notebook at the edge of my desk—a lifeline to the fractured parts of myself. The note from Azreal weighed heavily upon my mind.

I stared at the same sentence on the screen for what felt like an eternity, the words blurring together into an incomprehensible jumble. My fingers hovered over the keys, frozen in place, unable to transform the swirling maelstrom of my thoughts into coherent language. The late July sun streamed through the window, casting elongated shadows across the room, a starkreminder of the morning hours slipping away while I remained mired in this unproductive limbo.

Despite my best efforts to concentrate, my gaze kept drifting to the leather-bound notebook perched on the edge of the desk. Its weathered cover and frayed edges bore testament to the countless times it had been opened and closed, a silent repository for the innermost thoughts and struggles of the disparate parts of my psyche. The notebook was a lifeline, a tenuous bridge spanning the chasm between my alters and me, allowing us to communicate in a world that demanded a singularity of self that I could never fully embody.

I minimized the syllabus document and opened up my email, scanning through the new messages. One from the department head about budget allocations, a few from students inquiring about adding my class. Nothing pressing. I tabbed over to the encrypted messaging app the Laskin family used for sensitive communications. No new updates there either. I felt restless, my considerable self-control fraying at the edges.

With a sigh of resignation, I reached for the worn leather, the supple material warm and familiar beneath my fingertips. I flipped it open and my eyes immediately fell upon the angular scrawl that filled the page, the handwriting both foreign and intimately recognizable. Azreal's words stared back at me, stark and ominous against the creamy paper.

Valentine warned the cult might move out of the country. Keep your guard up.

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