Page 25 of The Handler
I pull her chair back for her. “Stay close.”
She puts her hand in mine and plasters herself to my side. I try to lie to myself and deny that I love it. It’s just the environment causing her to act the way I’ve dreamed of. Don’t care. I’ll take it.
Nooks are marked off with either partial walls or tape on the floor with different equipment—a cross here, a cage there. Points of attachment are seemingly everywhere. Alex’s definition of heaven. Amy pauses. I glance around. Ah, the spanking bench. I move us closer. Without blocking the other viewers or crossing the taped lines, I make sure my girl can see perfectly.
The sub tied to the bench has on a bustier and a tube skirt currently bunched around her waist. Her plump ass is a perfect rich red, and the way her skin shimmies when the paddle connects is mesmerizing. The Dom’s rhythm is expertly timed with the thump of the music pounding through the Box. Amy shivers against me.
“Do you want to play?”
“Yes, Sir.” Her words are barely more than a breath, but I’m tuned to her response.
“We can wait for the bench. Or I can take you over my knee at the table. Or we can use some straps and see if you can still hold position.” I don’t care where she wants me. I’m completely at her mercy.
“The bench?”
A surprise frisson of disappointment washes through me that she’s willing to wait. But I’m appeased when the Dom sets down the paddle and unbuckles his good little sub. Tears streak her face, her bleached-blond hair sticking to the moisture. She’s a beautiful mess. Exactly where I want to take Amy.
The small crowd dissipates because no one is next in line. A dungeon worker sprays a cloth and wipes down the equipment, much like what would happen at the gym. I step forward to verify the protocol for using the bench next. He confirms that it’s open.
I set my toy bag on the small table next to the bench. Amy is right behind me when I turn. I spread my stance and cross my arms. “Kneel.”
She lowers into position on the floor without hesitation and with an unexpected grace for someone who’s been away from the scene for years.
“Look at me.” She lifts her gaze, and the reverence there sucks my breath. Fuck, I’ve missed this. “Let’s talk about this scene. We’re going to use the same rules as before. Nothing sexual, just a release for you. What do you need? My hand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Flogger?”
She nods.
“Words.”
“Yes, Sir.” Her answer is so breathy it’s barely more than a nod.
“Crop?”
“Yes, Sir.” Good. She’s not backing down. Can I push her?
“Cane?”
She hesitates. I’ve never used a cane on her and have rarely used a crop. She doesn’t require much to go soaring. “It’s okay to say no. This is about you.”
“I don’t want a caning. This time. Sir.”
Aw fuck.This time.She’s already thinking about next time, and I’m getting high on her gift of trusting me—now and in the future. But I have to stay focused to make sure she’s taken care of. “Safe words?”
“Red, yellow, green.”
I nod. She’s always stuck to the basics. No “strawberry milkshake” bullshit for this practical accountant. “Anything else you want to discuss?”
“I might have to end the scene early. I’m not sure…after so long, Sir.”
My shoulders reflexively go back a bit. Even though she’s unsure, she trusts me. “Let me take care of you, but use your words if you need to.”
She nods, and I let her get away with silence. She’s second-guessing herself. Time to move this along. “Ready?”
“Green, Sir.” The gift of her permission, her power, triggers me into action.
