by SJD Peterson
~*~
My shrink has suggested I start keeping a journal to write down my feelings each night. Therapy, he calls it. Help me get in touch with my feelings, he tells me. Well, I’m sure he’s making me do this because he’ll want to talk about what I wrote, so I’m going on record as saying I think this is a really, really, really stupid idea. I’m writing to myself for fuck’s sake. If that isn’t stupid, I don’t know what is. I will be the good little boy and play along.
So, my feelings huh?
Well, beyond feeling like a fool, I’m also irritated. I woke up in a piss-poor mood, and as I’m sitting here in my bed with Nash in his across the hall, I’m in an even worse mood than when I woke up today.
I don’t get it. He likes having me in his bed, I like being there, and yet here I am in “my” bed. I don’t want this to be my bed or my room or my space. I want to be in his, and I don’t fucking understand why I can’t be. I think he’s just trying to be a dick. It’s the only reason I can think of as to why he denies us both what we want. I did nothing today to warrant punishment. I don’t understand him at all.
Other than being irritated, I’m also confused a lot. I’ve been that way since the first night Nash pulled me away from Troy and took me into the back room at the Underground Club. Nash is a very odd duck. I knew instantly he was. I mean, seriously, what kind of Dom takes a boy back into a fetish room and only asks for a kiss. It’s not normal. I tell ya what kind, the type that has a screw loose. Now, don’t get me wrong. It was a nice kiss and the guy is smoking hot, but I didn’t like how it knocked me off-kilter, and I have to admit, I was pretty disappointed I didn’t get so much as a slap or a good fucking.
Nash is a total weirdo.
If Nash thinks he’s helping me with my issue with pain, he’s not. I could teach him a thing or two about pain. I tried to play the nice, sweet little sub, did all the right things, used all the right words, including safewording, just because I thought it was what Nash wanted to hear. It didn’t work. I got so fucking anxious I started thinking about cutting again. I played the role for a while, but each day it gets harder and harder to pretend. He doesn’t hit me hard enough or often enough. I don’t think he understands what that does to me, how it leaves me feeling empty with too much time to think about things. Things I don’t want to think about. Things that should be left in the past. It’s getting harder to keep them there. They keep escaping from the iron safe I’ve constructed. This is my prison. I’m the keeper of the keys, locking bits of me behind cell doors. The safe is where the weapons are held. The lock must hold. The things within will destroy me as surely as a knife would pierce my flesh. No, I’m not going to think of the blade, what it represents, or the release only it can provide me. Goddamn it! If only Nash would get tougher, was a better Dom, then I might not have to wait too long for its kiss. I wouldn’t be so angry and confused all the time.
This is his fault.
I feel like an idiot most of the time, and I’m beginning to think Nash is doing that on purpose. But why? Doesn’t he know how to take control and be consistent with it? It’s easy. He tells me what do to, and I do it or get my ass beat. Plain and simple. Done and done. But he’d rather talk about why I misbehaved. He demands respect. When I want to feel the bite of leather, I disrespect him, but again, he wants to discuss the reasons behind my behavior rather than correct it properly. It’s a two-way street—he pushes and I push back. He swings the crop and I take it. Fuck! How can anyone not get it? Maybe it’s not me that’s fucked-up and stupid, but Nash who has the issues. That’s got to be it. Nash is forcing all this shit from my past to come out. He’s the one taking me back to a time I don’t want to think about. He is the one wielding the lockpick. It will be all his fault when the safe springs open and I reach for the knife. His fault when I finally give in to the need to cut, and oh how that need is growing. To feel that release, to purge myself of all the bad shit, watch it ooze from my body.
When the blood runs from my body, it will be Nash’s fault, not mine.
I am not weak.
Nash is simply not strong enough.
Chapter One
A DARK cloud had descended upon Nash’s house. It was thick and heavy. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to push it aside to find what lay beneath it or find the source of it. All he knew was there was something wrong. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was, but it was there nonetheless. Over the past week, since he’d taken Joshua to the Underground Club, there had been a definite change in his sub. It had been a good night. They’d spent the evening in the company of others in the lifestyle, watched a great demonstration of fire play, then returned home to a night of blissful shared orgasms. There was no reason he could think of for the change in his boy, but he was definitely different. Joshua completed his chores without question, doing as expected of him, taking his discipline readily, but taking no pleasure in any of it. Nash couldn’t decide if Joshua was brooding or distracted. He’d asked him on several occasions: while in the safe room, when he was in a good subspace, early in the morning while snuggling and sleepy, and while hanging out on the couch chitchatting. Each time Joshua would claim there was nothing wrong. He sounded sincere, but there was something. Nash couldn’t help but feel as if he was failing. It was his job to know his sub, to know what he needed and take care of said needs. He shouldn’t have to ask Joshua what he needed. He should know.
Nash sat up in bed, leaned against the headboard, and ran his fingers through his hair. He blew out a heavy breath of exasperation. There had never been a doubt that things would be difficult with Joshua, considering Joshua’s past. Nevertheless, he hadn’t expected that every step Joshua took forward, he’d stumble back three. In some aspects, things were going well between them, better than Nash had ever dreamed. In other things, it had gone completely wrong. Until he could figure out why on the latter, he was completely ineffective in fixing the problem.
The bedside clock flashed six. Joshua wouldn’t be up and bringing Nash his morning coffee for another thirty minutes. He had time. He grabbed his cell from the bedside table and dialed a familiar number.
Malcolm answered after the first ring. “Good morning, sunshine.”
“Hey, Malcolm. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, not at all. Although, the boy I have bent over my knee, waiting for his morning spanking, may disagree.”
“Ah, shit. Sorry. I’ll call you back later.”
“I’m kidding. He’s getting my coffee. One cannot redden naughty butts until he’s had an adequate amount of caffeine. So, what is so important that you’re calling me this early?”
“I was hoping we could meet for lunch today. I’d like to toss a couple things at you,” Nash explained.
“Something wrong?”
“I’m not sure. Something is nagging at me, but I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe I’m paranoid.”
“You sound genuinely worried. I don’t detect a hint of the confidence I heard in you the last time we spoke. However, I highly doubt it’s paranoia.”
“I’m not worried, exactly, not yet anyway. It’s more like… I don’t know. Maybe I am…. I…. Christ, Malcolm. I’m not even sure about anything anymore. I’m stumped. Let’s talk later. My thoughts are a bit foggy. I haven’t had my morning cup of joe yet either. Morning spankings aren’t the only thing one shouldn’t do without an adequate amount of caffeine.”
“Agreed. How about noon here at the club?”
“I’ll be there and thanks.”
Nash ended the call and set his cell back on the table. He tucked his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. He felt marginally better. Malcolm had a good read on people. He might not have been around Joshua very much, and Nash didn’t have specifics to tell him, but Malcolm was a great sounding board. Even with vague feelings stirring inside Nash, Malcolm might be able to throw out some ideas, stir them up so to speak, and help Nash move forward toward a path to discovering what was going on with Joshua
and what Nash was missing.
While he waited for Joshua to wake and bring his coffee, Nash wandered back through his memories from the first time he met Joshua—picking apart each interaction, every gesture, and nuance of Joshua’s demeanor, looking for something, anything to explain the unease he was experiencing. Their first kiss, Nash’s anger at Troy and how quickly the Dom had given up Joshua. Each scene, every response Joshua had to both pleasure and pain. Nash even considered each time they simply sat next to each other watching TV or lay on the couch snuggling. There was something there, dammit.
As he analyzed each event, he kept returning to the conversation he’d had with Kirk the first night Nash had taken Joshua into the back room.
“Trust me, that’s a hornet’s nest you do not want to get tangled up in. That boy is a complete and utter fucking mess.”
“What do you mean by mess?”
“He has no limits. Like zero fucking limits.”
“That’s impossible. Everyone has their limits.”
“Not Joshua. He’s as bad as a heroin junkie, only his drug of choice is pain. He’s constantly looking for the bigger and better high. He’ll let you kill him before he’ll safeword.”
Nash wasn’t sure why, but he had a strange feeling his current problem with Joshua could be answered by what Kirk had told him. Over the past couple of months, he’d assumed Kirk was wrong. Nash had been able to easily get Joshua to use his safeword. Joshua wasn’t limitless. Nash had found some. Sure, the limits he’d uncovered were small, but still, he’d found them. Hadn’t he?
Closing his eyes, Nash concentrated on recalling the moment he’d discovered the first one. He remembered how strong Joshua had been. Nash had never met anyone who could take so many blows without so much as a grunt, an involuntary twitch. How many had he given before he’d gotten a response, six, seven, ten? Nash wasn’t sure of the exact number, but he did remember getting a sound. He also recalled the way it had made him feel, his excitement at finding a limit, a small one, but he’d been happy, even cocky. Thinking at the time that Kirk was and idiot. But was he? Or was it Nash who was the idiot?
Seriously, Nash, think about what I said long and hard before you consider playing with that boy. He may not have limits, but I assure you, he will push you to yours.
Nash opened his eyes and reached for his goatee, only then remembering why he’d shaved it off. Each time he was unsure or worried, he’d run it through his thumb and index finger. After Malcolm had pointed it out, Nash had shaved it, worried Joshua would be able to pick up on the tell and use it against him. His chin might be smooth, but he hadn’t broken the habit. He dropped his hand onto his lap and played with the sheet instead.
He will push you to yours.
Nash couldn’t get the conversation out of his head. The longer he thought about it, the more convinced he was that the current problems could be found within Kirk’s warning.
He will push you to yours.
The door creaked, and Nash turned his head to see Joshua coming into the room with a tray, the scent of freshly brewed coffee accompanying him. Maybe with a sufficient amount of caffeine, he could get a grasp on his thoughts.
“Good morning, Joshua.”
“Good morning, Sir,” Joshua replied. He kept his head bowed, eyes lowered respectfully as he set the tray on Nash’s lap, then went to his knees next to the bed.
Nash added cream and sugar to his coffee, then stirred it as he studied Joshua. His posture was perfect, his breathing slow and even, not a single outward physical sign of anything amiss, yet the unease clung to Nash.
He patted the bed next to him. “C’mere, boy.”
Joshua rolled to his feet and slid beneath the covers with such grace and ease he barely disturbed the tray.
Sitting shoulder to shoulder, Nash didn’t turn toward Joshua, instead took a sip of coffee. It was the perfect temperature, so he took another larger drink. “How did you sleep?”
“Fine.”
“I thought I heard you get up a couple of times.”
“Yes, Sir.”
When Joshua didn’t elaborate further, Nash studied him as he finished his coffee. This weird feeling of unease was driving him crazy. He didn’t dare ask Joshua what was going on. He doubted he’d get a straight answer. Joshua was always vague these days. Nash also didn’t want to give away just how out of sorts he was. His lunch with Malcolm couldn’t come soon enough.
“I notice you only brought one mug in. Have you already had your coffee?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What time did you get up?”
“Five.”
Nash cocked his head. “I heard you in the bathroom around three, but I didn’t hear you get up at five.”
“I was quiet, Sir.”
“What were you doing?”
“Nothing, Sir.”
Okay, this small talk with one-word answers was getting ridiculous. “Is there something you want to talk to me about?” Nash asked.
“No, Sir.”
“Then why are you wringing your hands? I can tell there is something bothering you. I wish you would talk to me.”
Joshua instantly stilled the movement of his hands. “Nothing to say. I’m fine, Sir, really.”
Nash ran his hand up and down Joshua’s thigh in a soothing manner. “All right, look. I know you’re not being completely honest right now.”
Joshua stiffened.
“It’s okay, I’m not mad, and I’m not going to force you to tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours. Not this morning anyway. I will give you a couple days to get it straightened out, but in the meantime, I’m here when you’re ready to talk.”
Joshua was quiet with a thoughtful expression. Nash added more coffee to his mug from the carafe and added the fixings. Joshua said nothing. The etched lines of tension around Joshua’s eyes told Nash that Joshua was thinking about what was weighing heavily on him. Nash wanted nothing more than to demand Joshua tell him, but he held back. He could demand a lot from Joshua. Their contract afforded Nash certain liberties. Forcing Joshua to talk about his past or his innermost feelings wasn’t one of the things covered. It was Nash’s job to earn his boy’s trust so he felt he could share such things. Until then, Nash would have to be patient—not one of his strongest attributes, but he was working on it.
The silence stretched out, not the comfortable kind but the type that was full of tension.
Resigning himself to the fact that Joshua wasn’t going to open up and share his thoughts, Nash asked, “What have you prepared for breakfast?” Maybe small talk would lead to something more in depth.
“I made a spinach and swiss quiche. I also cut up some fresh pineapple, kiwi, and strawberries. I hope that’s okay, Sir.”
“Sounds wonderful. I’m having lunch with Malcolm today, so don’t worry about preparing anything.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Nash sipped his coffee without taking his eyes off Joshua, who steadfastly refused to look at Nash. Once again, the silence became painfully uncomfortable, so goddamn thick Nash nearly choked on it.
“I—”
“It’s….”
They looked at each other. Briefly, Nash smiled, but Joshua looked distressed and turned away.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt you, Sir.”
“No, it’s okay. Go ahead.”
“I was thinking. It’s just…. The only reason I’m not saying anything is…. Well, I’m trying to work out a few things in my own head. I haven’t figured it out yet, so I’m not ready to share until I do, ya know?”
Joshua’s words cut Nash like a knife. “Yeah, I do,” Nash said, struggling to keep the profound disappointment out of his tone. He did understand it but certainly didn’t like it. His boy should be able to share such things, and it was painfully apparent Nash had failed miserably. His poor boy didn’t feel as if Nash could help him work through an issue. Nash swallowed down his sigh, kept his face neutral. He tucked a wayward curl behind Joshua�
��s ear, then ran a finger along the soft, dark hair on Joshua’s jaw. “I’m here whenever you are ready to talk, okay?”
Joshua pushed into Nash’s touch briefly, then seemed to catch himself and pulled away, straightening his posture. “Thank you, Sir.”
Again, Nash had to swallow down a sigh. Dammit, not only were they on different pages but oceans apart. If only Joshua would just talk to him. But no matter how much Nash wished otherwise, it wasn’t going to happen at the moment. No sense in beating a dead horse. It wouldn’t do any damn good and might even push Joshua further away. The one thing he could do was keep Joshua’s daily routine normal and hope he came around.
Nash set his mug down, then moved the tray to the nightstand. “All right, boy, get your paddle out of the drawer and let’s get this day started.”
“Yes, Sir.” A spark of excitement lit up Joshua’s features. He quickly got up and hurried across the room.
At least Joshua was still happy about something. It was a start. After speaking with Malcolm, hopefully Nash could come up with a clear plan on how to lessen the distance between them.
STANDING AT the stove, heating a can of chicken noodle soup, Joshua clenched his ass and smiled. Maybe he should start keeping his mouth shut more often. It certainly seemed to have put an extra bit of power in Nash’s swing during morning discipline. It still wasn’t up to the level Joshua liked, but maybe in time, he could manipulate Nash to give him what he wanted. Perhaps then he wouldn’t need Dr. Hobson or the stupid journal.
The only thing he wanted was to keep his head down, do his chores, bark when told, and, in turn, get the pain he craved. If he could only obtain that, he wouldn’t have to worry about all the other bullshit.
He dipped his spoon and brought it to his lips. “Motherfucker,” he yelped and dropped the spoon. It landed in the pot, causing the scalding hot liquid to splash and land on his bare chest. Scrambling, he snatched up a towel and wiped his chest as he cut the stove off. Jesus, how long had he been standing there lost in thought and enjoying the burn in his ass?