Chapter Text
First, do no harm.
These are words by which I live my life. It is a code, a vow essential to the role I have. It is a responsibility that I do not take lightly. Trust is a delicate and consuming power. It can’t be divided and bestowed in parts; it can’t be taken by force. It must be wholly given, and once it is betrayed, it dies a quiet and permanent death.
But my field isn’t medicine. It’s education.
At least, that’s how I see it, as the evolution of my growth from student to teacher, but the transition is never a complete one. Even as I instruct, I have to learn, to observe closely and diagnose needs, to test theories, to test limits. What I give, I receive. The more I learn about my subject, the more encompassing my ability to anticipate and meet the needs of those under my control.
Isn’t that what it means to be a teacher?
Perhaps this is why I asked him to call me Sir. I’ve varied my names over the years, my titles, but I’d never chosen this before. He was my first in that respect.
Though part of me knew it was the only way for me to find what I most seek: balance. A center. Since I’d read his profile, stared night upon night at his pictures, I’ve felt out of sync with myself, that incurable dissonance that, before now, has kept me searching, kept me from settling on one. Maybe there is no one for me, and that is fine. There’s a steady stream of contract offers, and I’ve been able to make a life on my own. Several in fact. My business does not cross to my personal, nor my personal into my core. I’ve heard there are some who can integrate all of these, and the concept of that rhythm is tempting. It is something I keep close to my thoughts every day, like a shadow that dims my experiences just enough for me to know the copper of dissatisfaction. It keeps me hungry, keeps me drawing up contracts and poring over profiles of hundreds I will never know, those who have never known themselves. So much anxiety is to be had in the fog of ignorance, and that is a darkness I run from constantly.
Balance is the only peace.
The balance I seek from one with as much to offer as I do, whose gifts can match mine, one in whom I can forfeit the only treasure I bear: trust.
Balance requires an equal.
That’s why I’ve never liked the word domination. Its inaccuracy is offensive. Structure and discipline are not a conquest; they are a path. I don’t want to overwhelm a subject, merely to guide him, allow him to break free from the chaos of his life, to instill the freedom of acquiescence, to quiet his mind from the demons that compel him to squander opportunities, to deny his worth. To lie. To steal. To let his own inhibitions be overrun by impulse and shortsightedness, making him a slave to baser instincts that lead inevitably to ruin.
That’s where I come in, to transform ruin into rebirth.
My own experience as a sub is what taught me about the wise exercise of control. Before then, I had no idea what control was, but I sure as hell tried to exert as much of it as I could. I was angry through most of my youth. Really, it was rage. I hated my family, their limited and narcissistic view of the world, one that divided all things into two categories: worthy and unworthy. I was perpetually in the latter, and they quickly carved me out of their lives like a cancer. I wasn’t disowned and thrown into the street; nothing so definitive. I just didn’t exist. I was invisible.
Everything I did up to the age of 24 was to solve that problem. Don’t see me, Dad? Fine. How about if I get stinking drunk and piss over the mezzanine at the opera? Or bring home a string of men whose names I would never even bother to learn, fuck them loudly in the foyer and the kitchen and the pool deck? Would crashing my car into the fountain downtown make you look up from your newspaper long enough to look into my eyes?
Hey, Mom, what if I steal your favorite jewelry and art, including that museum piece you got on loan for the Met Gala, and throw it all in the sea or use it to buy enough narcotics to anesthetize a professional football team?
No problem. I was flexible.
My training was not a last resort as it is for so many like Timmy. It was a lark. At least, that’s what I thought at the time. I figured it could shock and appall as much as any other abomination of which I was capable. I never expected the revelations it brought me, never expected that stillness and simplicity would allow me to unlock the centers of my anger, to discover that anger is not real, that it is merely a phantom guard dog that protects us all from what we would rather not feel--pain, fear, loss, grief. When the lock opened, I nearly drowned in the flood.
For my whole life, I’d been a source of shame, and I had done my best to show everyone that was indeed what I was. Of course, this never left room for patience and forbearance, for the peaceful simplicity of a quiet and focused mind. And in the end, once I’d been forced to relent, to unknot my fist and spread my hand, I realized that it was empty. The control I’d thought I’d seized was an illusion.
My first Dom was a fair but hard man. He lived somewhere in Montana, though the exact location was never known to me. He was a rancher, accustomed to breaking the mustangs who assumed they could still be wild on his land. His patience was the only thing more enduring than his firmness as I continued to wriggle and thrash against the confines of our arrangement, and he made clear to me the final step I needed to make. “You decide,” he said to me one night while I was kneeling on a wooden plank outside, stark naked save the wrist and ankle restraints and the blindfold over my eyes. “You decide how you respond, and that is all. If life has not made that clear to you yet, then I sure as hell will. Nothing else is up to you.” Then he’d leaned close to my ear and murmured, “Stop trying to control the outcome of things.”
My second and final Dom proved the rancher right. He swore that pain was the one conduit to enlightenment, that the bliss of agony is what kept humans at peace. In short, he was a sadist. One week into our association, he burned my shoulder with a heated fireplace poker as a punishment for oversleeping. When the shock of pain had subsided, I’d risen to my feet and stared him directly in the eye. I towered over him, and I’d seen him shrink back and raise his weapon higher. In that moment, I decided my response. I ripped the poker from his hand and threw it out of the front window of his house, shattering the glass. And then I left, turned and walked right out the front door and never looked back.
I would never forget how that felt, to be a sub who could not trust his Dom, to know that when the given trust is violated, any sub can decide to take everything away.
Game over.
That will not be my fate.
I will only work with professionals who take every precaution for me and those that they train, and Submissive Solutions is the best by far. Every sub I’ve contracted has reminded me in some way of myself before I entered the system, lost in the web of their own self-destruction, a breath away from Involuntary status. It’s never been about sex. I’ve never wanted it to be. I have paid for the service of these people, and prostitution is not an enterprise I want to engage in. I admit to participating in sexual acts with a sub on occasion, their consent explicitly stated numerous times, but those interactions were rare. It had been a need that I was compelled to fulfill; it had started and ended there. The only things I’ve offered consistently are money, order, and wisdom; I’ve desired nothing in return but the satisfaction that I’ve performed my own role effectively.
When I saw Tim’s pictures, I knew immediately this time would be different. Even in standard black and white, he is stunning. One I kept at the top of the stack. His face was close to the camera, like he’d slid up next to it to tell it a naughty secret with one thick eyebrow cocked. I had stared at the sultry downward turn of his eyes, which are large and hypnotic, lashes so thick they shaded his cheekbone. His soft lips pulled up in a ghost of a smile. I had run my finger over them, imagined the give of his flesh under my finger, how his tongue would peek out as he’d try to wet it and pull it inside his mouth in the wake of a soft moan.
I think of that now as I watch him in the conference room from the office next door, the animation in his face as he speaks to Flo, the motion of his hands, and whatever he’s just demanded, she’s surprised. Or panicked. But Tim’s face is not one that gets people to say no. She frowns and stands abruptly after slapping her laptop closed, and she disappears from the monitor. A few moments later, there is a polite knock at the door and the latch scrapes.
“Excuse me, Mr. Hammer.”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I’m afraid we’ve a small problem.”
My blood curdles slightly. “What kind of problem?” My voice is cold even to my own ears.
“It’s Tim, Mr. Hammer, he...ah...he’s made a request of you. An insistent request.”
I chuckle. “Has he now?” Oh, Timmy, what am I going to do with you?
“He would like to speak with you.”
“Speak with me?”
“Yes, sir. I know it is highly unusual, but you seem quite adamant about sealing this contract, and I’m not sure if--”
I sit forward, my jaw tight. “I am. I won’t let this one walk away.” I clench my fists. “Does he want more money?” I don’t give a shit. I’ll pay ten million if I have to.
“No, he has no issue with the compensation…” She winces. “But given your interest in this one, well, I feel I should warn you. Our trackers have his heart rate at 131, BP 142 over 85, cortisol and adrenaline spiking.”
“Meaning?”
“I’m afraid that...well, our data shows that at these levels, he’s very close to bolting, so I thought--”
“What’s your number?”
She stares wide-eyed. “Excuse me?”
“What’s your cell phone number?
She rattles off the digits, and I press them into my phone’s keyboard. It starts to ring immediately. She digs the device out of her portfolio and holds it up in two fingers like it’s an asp, and she blinks at me vacantly.
I level my gaze at her, sharpen my tone. “Take it to him.”
She rouses and scurries from the room.
What balances the rope of any demand is the need at the opposite end which has necessitated it. He needs a tangible connection. He needs to feel the firm binding for his trust before he can step out over thin air with nothing but a contract as his parachute. That is not too much to ask. I can do that for him, but it won’t come without a price. In return, he will slake my growing thirst.
On the screen, I see Flo enter the conference room and hold out her phone to him. He hesitates, and I smile. Good boy. Caution is called for when you exceed established boundaries.
“H-hello?”
“Timothée,” I say, and it feels like a sigh. I’ve practiced his name in my head, said it countless times into the folds of my pillow as I had paced at the shore of waking and sleeping, while his eyes had hovered above me, pale skin just out of the reach of my fingers.
“Timmy,” is the demure response. Oh, Timothée, so unaware of your own grandeur.
“Timmy,” I echo.
I see him bite his lip, an adorable tell. Is he always this open with his every thought? “And you are…?” There is too much air in the question to support the weight of its attempt at boldness. He is unable to conceal his disappointment when I tell him to call me Sir, and all I can think of is how extensive, how gorgeous, this responsiveness will be in the months to come.
“Thank you for agreeing to this. I really appreciate it.”
As it happens, so do I. “What pretty gratitude,” I coo to him. “You’re very welcome.” I lean closer to the monitor, watch as his tongue circles his lips, his hand as it stitches through his hair when he talks, and it looks better mussed, like he only gets more magnetic the more off-kilter he feels. Giving up control suits him perfectly, and his body screams that to me with every movement. It’s as if Nature has planned this for us from the start.
“Why the hair removal?”
The question is a sudden one, and I smirk. I had decided this from day one, and now that I’ve seen him in life, I want it more. The skin is the body’s largest organ. It breathes, it gives, it sheds and renews. None of that should be obscured from me, not when he is mine, and when he realizes his own power without that unnecessary mask, he will understand. When he feels the pleasure of touch uninhibited, it will be undeniable.
“Because I like it. That’s all you need to know.”
“Where do you live?”
“Los Angeles. Have you ever been?” The words are out of my mouth before I realize it, already joined with thoughts of where we could go, of where I could take him during the day that he might love, and I feel a heat at my collar when I consider the spots we could head to when it is night. “If you’re a good boy, I’ll show you some of it.” I swallow. His effect on me is strong, and I will have to remember this. I will have to be Spartan with myself when we finally share the same air.
The simple praise makes him shiver deliciously, and I feel my temperature rise higher. I chuckle from pure disbelief. “I can tell you’re going to be perfect for me, Timmy,” and I know my voice betrays me, practically dripping with an arousal I can’t yet contain. “I can’t wait to meet you in person.”
“If I decide to sign,” Timmy squeaks.
You’ll sign, Timothée. You feel it, too, and I see it all over you like my fingerprints. “Would you like to test it out? See if we’re compatible?” Timmy’s elbow slips from the table, and the phone pulls away from his ear slightly, so I give him a nudge of assurance. “No pressure. I’m not testing you, I already know that I want you. But if you need a test for me, I’ll give you one. Your choice.”
Choose me, Timothée. For the love of God, choose me.
His shoulders finally relax. “Yes, okay. Sir.”
I have him describe the room as a preamble before I clear my throat to empty some of the softness and prepare it for command. “I want you to stand up, walk over to the window, and face out.”
“Why?”
Question everything is a mantra that has led all of us into disarray by leading to perpetual dissatisfaction, questions upon questions without the answers to go around. Where there is trust, there is no need to ask.
I drop the phone on the table for just a few seconds as I undo my belt and the button of my slacks.
“Okay, I’m there.”
“Good boy.”
I ask him some innocuous questions to keep him occupied while I get comfortable, and as I watch him gaze out at the skyline, I make a small correction so that I have a complete view of him for what will happen next. “Take one half step backwards.” When he complies, I add casually, “Now, I want you to kneel down.”
He bristles as I knew he would. But I see something else in the crinkle of his brow, a latent curiosity that compels him. Perhaps it is just resignation, but he has no reason to think he has to comply. He doesn’t know I’m watching. He could easily lie, but it is clear to me that lying is not his strength, not with how much truth he emits with every breath.
He sinks to his knees on the plush carpet. “I did it,” he tells me firmly.
I’d believe him even if I could not see him.
“You may sit back on your heels,” Timmy’s hair glints in the muted sunshine that filters through the window. I want to stroke it, feel how it absorbs the light and turns it into heat. “You’re doing a good job, Timmy. Excellent so far. Except for when you asked for an explanation. Do you know why asking for an explanation isn’t allowed?”
His throat works against itself. “Because I don’t need one?”
I smile. “Exactly. You learn quickly. Are you ready for the next step?”
Timmy nods. “Yes. Sir.” And every time he says it, it sends the same jolt through my gut.
“Good.” I scratch at my cheek, glad for once that I did not pack a razor for this trip because I need something to give me resistance, itchy stubble fighting my nails with each swipe. “This may be a little difficult, but I want you to do your best. If you can’t, there will be no consequences. I want that to be clear.” I grip the phone tighter and push it closer to my mouth. “There is no punishment if you cannot comply right now. I will still want your contract. Tell me you understand.”
Tell me tell me tell me...
“I understand, Sir,” Timmy says, and he seems pleased, eager, and I exhale with relief.
Affection paints every syllable of my next order: “Unzip your trousers and pull out your cock.”
Timmy gasps, and I absorb every minute change in him. His mouth contorts slightly, the initial shock overridden by a deeper hunger shining in the darkness of his eyes, in the flash of tongue over his bottom lip.
“Timmy?” I call to him softly. “Did you hear me?”
“Y-yes,” Timmy stutters. “I don’t...you want me to do that here?”
I lay my hand flat on my stomach. “Yes. Right now.”
The tendons of his neck jerk like marionette strings as he swallows again and again, the point of his larynx threatening to poke through the skin. You know you can do it, Timothée. Trust me. Timmy’s hand drifts to his crotch, grabs his zipper. I copy his movements as he pulls it down slowly, reaches inside. When his hand hits his cock under his boxer briefs, he gasps again, luckily obscuring my own.
“Tell me how you’re feeling,” I say tightly, shunning the impatience, the desperation.
“I’m...nervous. What if someone sees? What if someone walks in? Flo, or someone...else?” Timmy babbles, half an octave higher than before.
“Is that all you feel?” I prompt. Tell me everything, Timothée. I need everything.
“No,” he says finally. “I’m also...it’s a little bit…”
“Exciting?” My question is nearly a hiss.
“Yes.”
I’m sweating. I feel it soaking through the armpits of my shirt. I don’t know how much longer I can wait.
“Timmy, I am going to give you until the count of five to comply.” I keep my voice measured so that the words don’t snap off in his ear. “By the time I reach five, I want you to have your cock outside of your pants, in your hand.”
“What if I can’t?” Timmy asks.
I might die. “Then you can’t.” And need makes me weak, so I offer, “You go back to the table, and I will allow you to ask me one more question, and then I will hang up.”
He readjusts his grip on the phone, and his torso twists as he looks down and away, curls overtaking one eye. “But you won’t revoke your offer?”
“No. I already told you my offer will remain regardless.” I flex my fingers. “One.”
He doesn’t move.
“Two.”
His whole body undulates slightly as he breathes heavily, wars with himself between should and would. Then, wonderfully, he spreads his knees further, bites his bottom lip with a single white tooth. It’s all I can do not to groan.
“Three.”
We slip our hand inside the flap of his briefs, circling our palm around the skin of his cock. It’s glorious. We grow harder by the second.
I’m nearly frantic at this point. “Four.”
We pull our cock out, cradling it in our palm.
“Five. Good boy. ”
My heart punches in my ears, and I close my eyes to absorb each of his high-pitched, fevered gasps. It is the only way I have to breathe right now, so I let my mouth fall open for just a moment, let myself take in the glory of this perfect sunrise that makes me realize how many years I’ve spent living in darkness, to kiss the sky before I have to return to earth.
“I knew you could do it,” I ooze at him. “You did very well, Timmy. Put your cock away now, and zip up. You may return to the table.”
Timmy gives us a firm stroke, his breath catching in my throat.
Oh, God. No. This can’t happen. If he...
“Stop.” I grit my teeth. “I said put it away, not jerk off.”
I see the devil in his eyes. We stroke him twice more, and he closes his eyes at the sensation, rolls his head back, pumps his hips just a bit forward. Any more and I’ll come, and fuck do I want that, but--
“Timmy.”
He immediately lets go, and as he makes his way on fawn’s legs back to the table, I melt into the cushion of my chair. Holy shit, I’m in a lot of trouble. We both do our best to sort ourselves out, still hard as a rock. I try to covet the sensation, the anticipation it offers. I’ll have a year with him. I’ve at least been given that. I can wait.
I know his needs are different, however. “When you get home, you may make yourself come.” I shove the heel of my hand into my crotch. “I want you to think about this when you do. About what it felt like to kneel in front of that window, where anyone could see you, and how it felt to do it because I wanted it.”
Timmy lets out a soft moan, and I can’t help but chuckle again. Yes, quite a lot of trouble. “You’re going to be perfect for me. I can tell.”
Timmy’s hand rises to his throat. “Is that what it’s going to be like?” He squeezes slightly. “Sir?”
“Better,” I assure him, allowing myself one more press to my groin. “I promise.” I clear my throat. “Now, I have to return to work. You may ask me one more question before I do.”
Timmy sits forward in his chair, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Why me?” he asks. “Why did you pick me?”
Simple question. It has a simple answer. “I picked you because I liked what I saw, and I think we will fit.”
“But I’m not even really a submissive,” Timmy splutters. “You could have someone who—”
“You’re exactly what you need to be.” My voice is louder than I intend. “And exactly what I want.”
Timmy chews on his lip, swipes at his hair. “Okay.” I can tell he doubts that, but I can also tell that it is himself that he doubts, not me. That is one of the many things that his education will solve. We will do that work together. “Do you--”
I cluck my tongue, smile warmly at the screen, want to reach out and rub away the furrow of concern on his forehead. “I said one more question. I’ve allowed you to ask one and a half. Don’t you think I’ve been generous?”
Timmy’s lips ripple in the smile of an imp. “The half wasn’t a question,” he points out. “It was a statement. You volunteered information without being asked.”
I bubble a surprised laugh. Clever boy. “Touché.”
He sits a little straighter. “Thank you for being generous with your answer. Sir.”
I want to pick him up and carry him out of the building right now. “You’re welcome. I’ve enjoyed talking with you, Timmy.”
“Yeah, me, too. With you. Uh...thank you again for the call, Sir.” It’s natural now, that formal appellation. He adapts so well.
“You’re welcome again. I hope to meet you in person soon.”
I disconnect the call and spin the chair away from the screen, re-situate my clothing, flap the sides of my suit coat to help cool the fading perspiration. I wander over to the windows of the office, look out at the buildings that would’ve watched Timmy in all of his debauched glory. I hope you enjoyed it. He’s all mine now.
Eventually, there is a hesitant knock at the door. “Mr. Hammer?”
I turn and smile. “Yes, Florence, please come in.”
She clutches her armful of papers. “Is everything to your satisfaction?”
“Yes, of course.” I massage my jaw for a moment. “This one will challenge me, as much as I hope to challenge him.” Then, I button my jacket and pick up my briefcase, give her a sharp nod. “File the papers immediately.”