“The submissive part? Yes? All the more reason why that discussion will be necessary, princess. But let’s get back to other matters for now. What are your feelings about and experiences with impact play?”
“I’ve done a lot of it, as a Top and a bottom. I’m fairly good with a flogger—”
“I’d say better than good,” he interrupted. “I’ve seen you Florentine. Your double-handed rhythm is flawless.”
“Okay, better than good—I’ll take the compliment. I can also crack a singletail, and have a small collection of whips. As a Top I’ve used paddles, slappers, canes, English tawse. As a bottom I’ve experienced most of those things.”
“And?”
“And I like stingy sensation more than thud.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm, what?”
“In the UK, anyway, they say sting is a more sophisticated taste than thud.”
“They say it here, too, but I’m not so sure about that. It’s simply what my body responds to.”
He leaned in once more. “And how is that, exactly, Layla? Does it make goose bumps rise on your flesh? Your heart pound? Does your body twitch as it resists anticipating each strike? Does it release all those lovely brain chemicals—endorphins, dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin—that make you fly?”
She swallowed, blinked once, color rising again in her smooth cheeks. “Yes. All of that. Or it did at one time.”
“So, are these things a yes, a no or a maybe?”
“Yes to all of it,” she said without hesitation, making him smile.
“Excellent. Now what about electrical play? Be sure you answer honestly.”
“I don’t use it as a Top, and never as a bottom. It . . . it scares me, to be honest.”
“Honesty is what I want of you. But are you telling me no?”
She swallowed again, bit her lip. “I don’t know.”
He watched as the pulse ticked in her throat. Her pupils were enormous, and she’d crossed her arms over her chest.
“The electrical really scares you,” he said.
“Yes. It does.”
“But it’s a maybe—is that it?”
She nodded. “If I’m going to do this, then I may as well face some of my fears.”
“I think doing this at all is facing your fears.”
Her green eyes went dark and stormy. “Damn right it is. And while we’re talking about some of my hard limits, I will not bottom at the club. I’m known as a Top there now, and I prefer to keep it that way. I am absolutely not going there and bottoming in front of other people.”
“Agreed. It’s one of my favorite things, you know—electrical play. But I understand it’s not for everyone.”
“I’ve seen you with a violet wand at the club. With Tasers. I really don’t like the fucking Tasers. That is not happening.”
“I’ll make note of it.”
She nodded.
“You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” he told her. It was true, with her flushed cheeks and her green eyes blazing, the square set of her shoulders. But then, she was always beautiful. Beyond beautiful, this woman.
“Is that a distraction technique?” she asked, still huffing.
“Merely making an observation,” he answered, only half a lie. “Tell me about your limits.”
“Aside from the usual—scat, anything nonconsensual, anything involving minors, risky cross-contamination—my hard limits are humiliation, age play, anything that leaves a permanent mark, marks that can’t be hidden with clothing, foot worship, needles, and I will not sleep with you just because we play.”
He ignored her comment about sex. For the time being. “I notice you didn’t mention knife play.”
“That’s because knives are not a hard limit.”
“Interesting. Fear play with a blade? Scratching? Actual cutting?”
“Scratching is fine. And fear play. I’m not really afraid of much, and I sort of like the idea of pushing that boundary.”
He grinned. “I’m sure we can find something for you to be afraid of.”
“And I’m sure you know saying that to me will mess with my head.”
“Of course. But don’t you find that negotiations are really the beginning of play? That even discussing what we will and won’t do is a little thrilling? That it all really begins here?” He sat back in his chair, and without waiting for her to answer he said, “Tell me about your triggers.”
“Why did you wait until after negotiating specific toys and acts to ask me about triggers?”
“Because sometimes your response to a question—your body language—tells me more than you can with words. Most people hold the real truth about their triggers back, or aren’t aware of them enough to verbalize clearly. But you’re a Domme—and a good one, from what I hear, and from what I’ve seen at The Bastille, so you must already know that.”
She nodded. “I do. I wanted to see if you did.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Testing me, are you?”
“Maybe a little.”
Leaning forward, he caught her gaze with his. Hers looked a little haunted. A little wary. He kept his tone low. “You have to trust me, Layla, or this is not going to work.”
“I trust you as much as I can any man,” she answered with a small shrug.
He sat back. “Ah, there it is. But you can, you know. I take the responsibilities of dominance and play very seriously. It’s the only way I can do it. It’s part of the reason why.”
“Is it? Why is that?”
Blowing out a breath, he scrubbed a hand over his head. “We all have our pasts, don’t we? Let’s just say being a Dominant fills up a part of me that needs it—needs to feel responsible, to be behaving responsibly, if that makes sense.”
“It does. I’d still like to know what it’s about. That sort of real need to be responsible? That kind of hyperresponsibility? It’s not a bad thing, not at all, but there has to be something in your history that’s made you feel that way.”