Page 71 of Edging Coach
He winced. “When you put it like that, I sound selfish. I could go to Vancouver, right? Abbotsford’s too small. But I can go into Vancouver. Maybe meet someone you trust and?—”
“No.” I might’ve said the word too abruptly, because he jerked.Make this right. I grasped his hand. “I mean…let’s sort through things here before we move on. And yes, I can vet Dominants for you in Vancouver. I have connected with several Itrust, and if they aren’t looking for new bottoms, then they can probably recommend someone. I think—” I swallowed. “I think you need someone full-time. I mean not 24/7 or anything like that. You have a life. But you need someone strong to take care of your needs. And I don’t just mean the physical. You get all up in your head and you lose focus. I don’t know if that’s stress, your divorce, or some other factor.”
“But if they’re in Vancouver—assuming I can’t find someone local?—”
“Don’t assume. There’s a kinky group who go for dinner in Langley once a month. I can speak to the organizer. If there’s someone local—Abbotsford, Mission City, or Langley—that might be best.”
He cocked his head.
“Discretion is a thing. Outing is verboten. Obviously. Some kinky people are out to their family, friends, and coworkers. Some are firmly in the proverbial closet. You’d never out a gay player or coach?”
His expression of absolute horror—wide eyes, open mouth, huge frown—assured me what I’d already known. Just because he’d been out while playing in the League—and obviously still was—it didn’t mean he’d out anyone else.
“So, again, with proper vetting, you’re good. What I’m saying is closer is better, but you can absolutely do long distance. FaceTime is a thing. They have this thing called the telephone?—”
He rolled his eyes.
“Sign of disrespect. Don’t do it again.” I bit into my toast—slathered in peanut butter, of course. One could never get too much protein.
He hung his head. “Apologies, Sir. You’re right.”
“You didn’t know. Or you did, and you weren’t thinking. I need you to be very deliberate in what you do. Now, in themoment during a scene is one thing. While we’re doing other things, I need you to be respectful. If you disagree, you bring it up. I’m not into the slave/master dynamic. But you will, as we agreed, obey my orders. If there’s something unsafe—or a hard limit you discover that I don’t know about—then you’re not just encouraged to speak up. You’re obliged. Nothing is supposed to happen that you don’t consent to. You get that, right?Safe, sane, and consensual.” The BDSM motto. One that encompassed a lot. But not everything. Still, the phrase was a good start.
“Is this where we talk about safewords?”
I nodded. “I just go with the stoplight colors. If you’re discussing a green salad, I’ll know you’re not telling me to proceed in our scene. Yellow peppers won’t be a reason for me to slow down and check in with you.” I pointed to the tomato. “You say red in the context of a scene, everything stops. Immediately. No questions. No recriminations. Nothing but a total halt. Again, if you’re ever in a situation where that doesn’t happen, you get to safety as soon as possible, you walk away from that relationship—no matter how invested you are—and you call me right away. I don’t care what our circumstances are. If I’m a thousand miles away or down the street. You call me.” I hesitated. “Or whoever your safe person is.
“Even if you’re in a full-time relationship—you need to have a safe person. Can be a Dominant. Someone you trust. Could also be a submissive. You need to make friends with other submissives. Online anonymously is fine. You need someone who can be a sounding board. Who can guide you if things are going off the rails.”
He sighed. “This sounds super complicated.”
I shrugged. “Or it’s not. BDSM is not just fucking with the body. It’s fucking with the mind. Or hell, it might just be the mind. There’s a Domme in New York. Men pay her so they canclean her condo. Obviously both parties are getting something out of it?—”
Jack waved his hand in the air. “So, like, I would pay a guy so I could clean his house?”
“Yep. Submission fetish. Might or might not involve the reward of sex, but just as often not. Some people just want to be told what to do. Often the more powerful they are in their professional lives, the more they need help decompressing.”
He shook his head. “There’s a whole world out there I know nothing about. I thought I’d gone down enough rabbit holes.”
“Millions of people with nearly infinite kinks. If you can dream it up, someone somewhere is doing it.”
“I don’t want to be humiliated.”
“I know. Or rather, I guessed. You want to be told you’re a good boy.”
He nodded.
“Easily done if you behave.” I gestured to our amazingly empty plates. Somehow, we’d discussed some really heavy thingsandmanaged to eat a healthy meal. “You’re going to strip, do the dishes, then come over to the couch.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Don’t I need a shower?”
I laughed. “I intend to get you dirty. Then I’ll give you a shower as a reward. If you’re a really good boy, I might even give you a blowjob.” I rose. “I’ll be waiting. Wash the dishes by hand, then come and see me.”
We rose.
He removed the robe, carefully folded it, then put it on a chair.
While I headed to the bedroom, he began washing the dishes.
