Click

by Tymber Dalton

  His forearm crossed her throat, pulling her in, pulling her close. In her ear, his soft voice.

  “I am the only one with the key to this lock,” he said. “It’s My lock. By putting it on you, it means you’re Mine. Is that what you want?”

  She felt herself sinking back into subspace, the comfort of his strength, knowing she could push back against him physically or emotionally and he was strong enough to bend and stand before her without giving way or breaking.

  Her higher power.

  “Yes, Sir,” she whispered, her fingers clutching his forearm. He wasn’t trying to choke off her air, but even if he had, she wouldn’t have struggled.

  She didn’t want to struggle.

  She wanted him to overpower her, her anchor, her lighthouse.

  The only safety valve she had where for a few blissfully short hours at a time she could give way to someone else, let go of all control, and retreat from the world at large. With all trust and certainty that he would never let her fall nor fail.

  Never.

  “You want to wear My collar, My lock, be Mine?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  In her ear, the soft, quiet click of the new lock snapping shut.

  And His voice whispering in her ear. “Done.”

  She nearly came right there.

  “Who’s My good girl?” he whispered.

  “Me, Sir,” came the automatic response from her.

  “When you’re alone this week, you’ll feel your collar around your neck and know I’m always with you. Part of you. Be strong, for Me, pet.”

  “Thank You, Sir.”

  “You’re very welcome, pet.” He put the key on his keyring and presented it for her to kiss. “I’ll always have it on Me. Okay?”

  She nodded, hard, in the way he knew meant she’d be crying before her car even reached the highway.

  Hopefully good tears that she could process in a healthy way with that little bit of emotional safety in place.

  It was on his way home a little later that the thought struck him that his own wedding anniversary had only been a week earlier, making him wince.

  Crap.

  Well, at least his wife never pried about the details of what they did beyond scheduling.

  Dom fail.

  Not that he would ever lie to his wife about it, but she likely wouldn’t believe that he hadn’t given an ounce of thought to the actual date.

  At the time, all he’d cared about had been the pain in her eyes, the hitch in her breath, the fear in her voice as he tried to prolong their good night. Wanting to do something, anything, to make it marginally better for her tonight.

  Wanting to fix it for her. Feeling horrible he had to send her home to an empty house. Hoping the security blanket of not being able to take her collar off herself without the use of a pair of bolt cutters would help ease her anxiety until her husband returned home.

  He wiggled in the seat a little, his own well-beaten ass a wonderful feeling. She’d topped him first, then he’d sprung up frisky and feisty and had taken her in hand in return.

  He’d ask her husband later if he’d want a copy of the key. Or he could always hide a copy at their house the next time he was over there, just in case.

  Then again, the thought of that little key now residing on his regular key ring stirred something inside him. That she trusted him enough to let him do that to her.

  That she wanted to be the only person to wear his collar.

  That she wanted him to be the only one to hold the key.

  He reached up and adjusted his own collar, nearly identical to hers. One he couldn’t wear during the day at work. At least she could wear hers all the time since she worked from home.

  Lucky pet.

  * * * *

  The stainless-steel chain collar around her neck softly jingled as she walked. Inside the plastic tube slung over her shoulder by its carry strap, her canes and crops rattled softly against the plastic.

  In her other hand, she held the handle to the rolling bag she used for her other implements. Tonight she wore the black boots similar to his, the heels softly clumping on the parking lot’s concrete as she crossed it heading toward the club’s door.

  He wasn’t there yet.

  Late as usual.

  She’d have to give him a few extra for keeping her waiting.

  They’d discovered it was far better for him to bottom first, if they were going to switch. Topping drained her, in a good way, but bottoming to him meant she was done for the evening once their scene finished.

  Whereas bottoming to her revved his engine better than any nap could, leaving him ready to play and vent some of his Toppy energy.

  She envied that about him sometimes, but didn’t resent it. Just another way this part of their lives worked so well, as if scripted by some unseen hand. Nearly a year since he’d locked his collar on her, and she’d never been uncollared since. When he had to replace the collar due to wear, he locked a new one on her first and swapped out the tag before cutting the old lock off.

  He’d even offered to switch to a different kind of fastener, a smaller link with a twist end that he could permanently glue shut with Loctite, more discreet than the little padlock, but she’d refused.

  She preferred the lock.

  She liked the knowledge of him being the only one who had the key.

  Even though it meant a TSA pat-down every time she flew.

  She was checking in at the club’s front desk when he walked in. She shot him a glare, which he ducked before walking over to her. “Sorry, Ma’am.”

  “Uh-huh. How late are we?”

  “Nine minutes, Ma’am.”

  She reached up and tousled his hair, grabbing him by the earlobe and pulling him in close. “What happens when we’re late?”

  “The pup gets extra cane strokes, Ma’am.” Already he sounded like he was dropping into a deep submissive headspace. Not exactly subspace, because, unlike her, he could literally transition back and forth in a second or two.

  She pulled him in for a kiss and patted his cheek. “Go take my stuff inside, get yourself signed in, then bring your stuff in.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  She smiled as she watched him grab her things and carry them inside the club.

  Behind the desk, her friend smiled. “Switching it up tonight?”

  “We always do.”

  She smiled again as he emerged from the club’s interior and joined her at the desk to check in. Once he had paid, before he could turn to walk outside, she snagged his hand and crooked her finger at him.

  He bowed his head and stepped up next to her.

  Hooking a finger through his chain collar, she pulled him in close. “Who’s My good boy?” she whispered.

  “I am, Ma’am.”

  She kissed the top of his head. “Yes, you are. Go get your stuff.”

  He left the office, an unmistakable bounce in his step.

  She went inside and found where he’d left her things. The club wasn’t crowded yet. They’d play early, especially since they were switching. He didn’t need extended aftercare time the way she did following a scene. Then Sir and His pet would have the rest of the evening to socialize with their friends.

  For now, Ma’am was going to beat the everlovin’ crap out of Her pup.

  Once they had all their things inside and he’d changed out of street clothes, she’d staked out the large A-frame to play on. The party starters, since no one else was playing yet.

  Fine by her. She didn’t Top him to have an audience.

  She Topped him because she wanted to, because she loved the trust he had in her, because she loved playing his body like a musical instrument.

  Because she loved hearing the tone in his voice and seeing the slightly glazed look in his eyes when he dropped down deep and hard into submissive mode.

  Knowing she’d done that, that she was the only person who got to do that with him.

  He wore a leather jock to protect the famil
y jewels from stray hits, and a leather hood to protect his face. Around his ankles, leather cuffs, which she snapped to a spreader bar. Suspension cuffs immobilized his hands, clipped to chains overhead. A blindfold and a ball gag completed the ensemble.

  She watched the rise and fall of his chest for a moment before moving in and stroking his back, his arms, his legs. He knew the hits would come sooner rather than later, but she wanted him relaxed when they did.

  It was always better that way.

  Starting with bare-handed slaps to his ass and thighs, she warmed him up, quickly progressing to a leather paddle that was more smacky thud than sting. Suede mop floggers that wouldn’t hurt anyone but were great for warm-up. A couple of silicon spatulas repurposed as matching percussion implements.

  Back and forth, using her hands and implements, working her way around him, the world fell into oblivion. If it didn’t exist within a three-foot radius, it might as well have been a million miles away. She loved playing here because of the layout. People rarely strayed into her space. In other places, there’d been times she’d had to deliver “accidental” backswings to people with a riding crop or other implement because they’d encroached on her scene.

  But not here.

  Watching him, using her hands not only as implements but as instruments to test him with, to check the temperature of his fingers and make sure he wasn’t past his limits, she stepped him up, changing implements every few strokes and never letting him get too complacent.

  When she felt he was settled too deeply in, she’d step behind him and pound on his outer thighs with her fist, in a trigger area she’d accidentally discovered could nearly take his legs out from under him.

  An exploit he used on her now as well.

  It always made him laugh even as he gritted his teeth and swore at her around the gag.

  She loved the laughter as much as she did the noises she extracted with pain.

  It was more an innate sense of pushing his upper limits than a time constraint when she finally amped things up to their “big finish.” Out came the heavy Delrin hexrod.

  The mother of all implements.

  She rolled it up and down his spine, presenting it to him. “Ready?”

  His shoulders rose and fall with his breathing. “Yes, Ma’am,” he mumbled around his ball gag.

  With one hand around the front of him, resting on his stomach, she laid the cane across his ass. “Five good ones.” They would count as his “punishment” strokes for being late, too.

  Smack!

  She rarely made him count. Mainly because she enjoyed watching him process the pain, could almost see the mental effort going on inside him as he rose up on his toes to process it.

  Once he was flat-footed again, the second stroke, harder than the first, which had been pretty damn hard.

  He rarely marked. Not with this implement, at least. The best she could do was give him a sore ass as a reminder of their play.

  And he would definitely be sore in the morning.

  By the time she’d delivered the fifth and final stroke, his arms had tensed, every muscle contracting and fighting as he worked his way through the pain to the other side, where he could surf the endorphin high for a few minutes.

  She quickly gathered her implements before unclipping his ankles from the spreader bar. Then his wrists, one at a time, slowly, carefully watching him. Once she knew he was steady on his feet, she grabbed a blanket and led him over to the nearby corner where they’d rest. Putting him down on his hands and knees, she returned for her implements, moving them before sitting down next to him.

  He shifted position to lay his hooded head in her lap, his arms clasped around one of her legs.

  Closing her eyes, she smiled, breathing deeply as she laid a hand on the top of his hood. “That’s my good boy,” she whispered. Her energy flowed and swirled around them. She enjoyed this part of the process, too, settling in with him as he recovered. It allowed her to refocus, prepare for her downshift into subby time.

  After several minutes, he nuzzled her leg with his head. She reached over and got the bottle of water she’d prepared and took the ball gag off him, letting him drink. He nodded when he’d had enough.

  “Blindfold off?”

  He nodded.

  She unbuckled it and watched as he blinked, then focused his hazel-green eyes on her.

  She felt the shift in his energy, the frisky bounce-back from pup to Sir.

  When his eyes narrowed, crinkled at the outside edges in a smile, she knew her already soaked panties had just gotten a little wetter…

  * * * *

  He fought the urge to punch the accelerator and squeal the tires as he turned into her driveway. She’d done her level best to push every last one of his goddamned buttons in as passive-aggressive a way as she could, apparently. Two years since collaring her and sometimes these little incidents cropped up. Not nearly as bad as they had in the beginning. She was far better now about not triggering.

  But when she triggered, she triggered hard. He hadn’t had to deal with one like this in a while.

  Yes, he’d had to go on vacation. Not the best time, but it’d been scheduled for months, and it wasn’t like he could tell his wife sorry, I have to stay behind because my girlfriend’s upset. And work had been crazy right up until he’d had to leave, so he hadn’t had any time to spend with her.

  And then since he’d returned two days earlier, he’d barely gotten two words out of her via text. Yes, he was worried about her. He knew she’d taken the death of her grandfather hard—who wouldn’t? And it’d happened just a couple of days before he left town for two weeks.

  But she had her husband and family there by her side. She wasn’t alone.

  She didn’t need him.

  At least, that’s what he’d thought.

  And tonight when he’d asked her if she wanted to go to the club, she’d said no. He’d agreed to meet a couple of friends over there, then the passive aggression started. She wouldn’t come right out and ask him to come over.

  Finally, knowing the only way to kick her out of this damn cycle was to confront her, he’d angrily agreed to come over.

  He’d given her his orders—to be waiting, naked, collared, and cuffed, kneeling on the floor when he walked in.

  He’d fucking beat this attitude out of her. Well, not beat it out of her, but maybe derail whatever bad track her brain had settled into enough they could have a productive conversation on the other side of it.

  When he slammed his car into park, he shoved the car door open and got out, slamming it behind him. He yanked his implement bag out of the trunk, and slammed it shut, too.

  She’s going to have a fucking black and blue ass to remember this night by.

  The front door was unlocked. Her husband was already in bed and didn’t care what they did out in the living room. How the poor bastard tolerated her when she got this pissy, he didn’t know. He must just knuckle under and put up with it.

  There she was, exactly as he’d ordered. Only…

  He pulled up short in the doorway. She was already sobbing, her entire body shaking. She never cried before their scenes.

  The only time she ever sobbed like this…

  He closed the door and set down the implement bag, hurrying over to her, kneeling down in front of her. “Pet?”

  He’d read about, but had never actually heard, a keening wail before.

  Now he knew exactly what one sounded like, because as he had to physically peel her up off the floor and sit on the couch with her balled up in his lap, that’s exactly what she did. Wordless, painful sobs wracked her. Her mind wasn’t there. She’d already gone to wherever it was his beatings took her when she needed a cathartic cry.

  Cries she could usually only achieve with a helluva lot of pain being applied first.

  I’m an idiot.

  He should have recognized it. It wasn’t something that had come up in a while, her inability to process grief. He’d seen her make such mag
nificent strides during their time together that he’d naturally assumed she’d be okay.

  The refusal to admit just how badly she was doing. Her brave and futile attempt to hold everything together, to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

  Eventually, it had to fall apart.

  Normally, she only fell apart with him, confident he had the strength to pick her back up and fit her pieces together again. A role he wasn’t entirely comfortable with, sometimes worrying she placed more faith in his abilities than he had in himself.

  Through her sobs, she was trying to whisper something.

  “I can’t understand you, pet,” he gently said.

  “I’m sorry, Sir,” she managed before breaking down again.

  “No, it’s okay. I’m the one who’s sorry, pet. I thought you’d be okay. I didn’t know how bad off you were. I should have known.”

  This resulted in renewed tears.

  It took her the better part of an hour to cry herself out in his lap. He waited on her, not moving, not rushing, knowing if she didn’t get through it, it would only pop up again worse later. She had a pattern. One he’d fucked up by not thinking about sooner, but a pattern nonetheless. She held onto her pain until she could safely let it go with him.

  While they each loved their spouses and didn’t want to ever leave them, while they clicked on fundamental levels with each other, this was the downside to poly. He couldn’t be there every time she needed him. It wasn’t as bad for him, because he could easily hold in his submissive side and needs as long as he had to, or get masochistic fixes in other ways.

  She couldn’t.

  When she lay hollow and still in his lap, softly sniffling, he laced fingers with her. “Better?”

  She nodded. “I’m sorry, Sir,” she repeated.

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “Did you want to beat me now?”

  He shook his head. “No, pet. I’d rather just snuggle here with you, I think.”

  She sniffled, a hitching, hiccuping breath. “But I earned it,” she said.

  “No, you didn’t. I was angry. I wasn’t recognizing what you were going through. That’s my fault.” He gently squeezed her hand. “I should have known better and tried to make time for you before I left.”