Alright, darling, Patryck says, clicking the collar into place -- tan leather, heavy with studs and a silver name tag that bounces against the small of his throat. Paulie. How does that feel? Not too tight?
You didn't have to, Paul says in lieu of a real reply. It itches, in a mental rather than physical way, jabs at him in that way only gifts can.
But I wanted to, Patryck replies, almost a snap. Paul looks down and watches as Patryck's hand draws up to take his chin and force their eyes to meet again. How's it feel? he asks again, and this time Paul swallows and says, Fine.
Patryck raises a brow.
Paul holds that golden gaze for a few seconds, before darting his own away. Sir.
Something stirs in his gut. He feels so much smaller than himself, has during this whole ordeal from the minute Patryck had told him to remove his clothes and sit down on the edge of the bed. A dog collar; he can't believe Patryck really took him up on that.
That was weeks ago. He remembered.
Now here Patryck stands in a tight black shirt and jeans, his hair pulled back into a ponytail. When Paul had first seen Patryck naked, the ponytail on his shoulder, he'd had a fleeting thought of pulling it -- pulling Patryck back onto his cock, over and over.
Then he had tried and Patryck had snapped don't touch my hair and how he only tries when Patryck is asleep, brushing it back behind his ear. Watching him breathe.
When I wake up, it's a room of pink. Pink, fluffy bedspreads, heart-shaped pillows, pastel pink along the walls -- Carebear vomit as interior design.
The first thing I do is pinch myself -- once, twice, three times enough to leave an angry red mark on my arm before I vault myself into the bed and breathe in the linen scent of the pillows.
Flop onto my back, look around again -- an open door to what appears to be a bathroom, given the glimpse of white title, and a TV in the opposite corner, a gray cube of machinery and plastic like I used to have when I was a child.
Thank God. I'd been waiting to redo the scene where the imprisoned lead of Oldboy, in his isolation and despair, jerks off to the commercials on TV.
Paul honestly hates the word “spank” -- or rather, the inherent question it raises here in Patryck’s bedroom atop the bookstore atop the Red Army’s base of operations, here with him resting naked across PAtryck’s lap, here with Patryck ghosting one palm over his back, his thighs, as the other fiddles with the thin leash attached to
Paul’s the collar. A light awareness, like when someone plays with the ends of your hair.
That question: isn’t history repeating itself?
Yes, I have daddy issues, next question.
Paul feels that horrible flesh in his face as Patryck runs his fingers up to gently cup his balls, run his knuckles along the underside of Paul’s cock, the tip leaking from the kisses Patryck had given him once
his the new collar was on. The softness of Patryck’s lips, the feel of his calloused fingers over Paul’s neck, the shame of being so naked, so bare -- he’s a man, what do you want from me?
Paul shifts away when Patryck's hands start to trace up from his balls to the cleft of his ass, that cold skin grafting over his lit nerves.
What's wrong? Patryck asks.
Paul buries his head in his arms, sighs. He doesn't know what to say, other than that something instinctive says no, not there, but --
Do you want to stop, darling? Patryck's hand runs over his hair, smoothing it over. Or are you just playing?
Paul raises his head, looks back. What do you mean?
Do you really want me to stop or do you really want me to punish you?
Patryck gives a small smile. Just because I give you an order doesn't mean you have to follow it, Patryck explains. Tord was the worst at that, good Lord -- he has to be beaten into doing anything. But then again -- and here he runs his hand down Paul's neck to his back, pausing to linger on his broad shoulders-- I'd probably have to go a lot harder on you. You're a big guy, a brief but firm pat on his rump. You can handle it.
A thoughtful noise. I didn't know you could do that, he says a bit quietly, more to himself.
So please, if you're going to be a brat, please keep it to a minimum, Patryck says. Tord was hard enough to handle and he's only half your size.
What do you mean?
Patryck's eyes widen, that look of having so much to complain about that the best angle of attack is unclear. Simply put, Patryck says, gesturing slowly for emphasis, it's not fun to have to browbeat someone into doing even the most trivial things. Imagine how sexy it is to be a parent and having to drag your child across the room and essentially puppet them into picking up their toys. That's how it would feel.
Paul cringes in his turtle way. Patryck laughs, ruffles his hair again.
So just-- don't do that. He cups Paul's cheek. It's too exhausting.
We don't --
No no, it's fine, darling. Just...A sigh, then: this is a lot of work for me, too. If you truly don't wanna do something, just tell me. Now, what's the safeword again?
Paul thinks for a moment. Justine?
Yes -- a thumb over his cheekbone -- and you can use the colors if you want to slow down, too. Now, a hand looping around the leash. Patryck's golden eyes patient, almost free of lust entirely. Are you ready?
Say it, love.
Yes, sir. What's over the--! Paul chokes as Patryck yanks the leash in the opposite direction, foiling his fledgling escape.
You'll have to do better than that.