Chapter Three
The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, but I didn’t wake on my own.
A quiet voice stirred me—steady, calm, and familiar.
“Time to get up.”
I blinked, still heavy with sleep, as the man stepped into the room carrying a small bundle of clothes.
He laid them on the bedside table: a pair of loose sleep shorts and a plain white tee, soft and worn in just right.
“Wear these,” he said simply. “Get cleaned up, then join me for breakfast.”
There was no rush in his tone—just quiet instruction.
I nodded, the weight of the previous day still resting in my limbs.
I slipped into the clothes, the fabric cool and light against my skin.
The bathroom was just down the hall. I took my time, washing away the last vestiges of sleep and yesterday’s intensity.
When I entered, the kitchen was quiet but warm.
On the table sat a simple breakfast: a bowl of fresh fruit—slices of ripe melon, strawberries, and peaches—and a steaming cup of tea.
He gestured for me to sit.
No words were necessary.
The morning stretched out gentle and unspoken, but full of meaning
After breakfast, he sat back in his chair and met my gaze.
“The day is set,” he said. “At 10 a.m., your witness will arrive.”
I blinked, trying to parse the meaning behind the casual phrasing.
He continued, “Normally, you wouldn’t observe another trainee’s session this early in your own journey. But Jacob needed a witness, and the schedules aligned.”
I nodded, feeling the weight of the arrangement settling over me.
“There’s something else,” he added, voice low. “The witness—this other person—doesn’t know you stayed here last night. It’s important to keep that to yourself.”
I understood immediately. This was another layer of discretion and trust.
He stood and paced slowly. “Go to the shower room, clean up and get dressed. Then take a drive. Maybe grab a coffee. Return by 10:15 a.m. sharp.”
The precision in his tone brooked no argument.
I swallowed and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The plan was clear. The day was unfolding like another lesson, another test.
And I was ready.
The car’s engine hummed as I pulled out, the tires crunching softly against the gravel driveway. The world outside was quiet—still waking up, just like me.
I let the windows down a crack, breathed in the cool morning air, and settled into the rhythm of the road. The familiar landmarks blurred past, but my mind wandered elsewhere.
Memories of the night before tangled with the uncertainty of what was coming. The taste of submission. The sting of correction. The strange warmth of being seen and reshaped.
An ache started in my chest—part longing, part fear.
I almost wanted to turn the car around, to escape this world of rituals and expectations, and drive back to the life I’d left behind, where things were simpler, safer.
But something deeper held me fast.
Curiosity. Hunger. The knowing that what I’d tasted wasn’t just a fleeting moment—it was the beginning of something far bigger.
I clenched my jaw, took a deep breath, and focused on the road ahead.
Coffee would wait.
I would wait.
And when I returned, it would be on my terms.
Because I was ready.
I pulled into the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath my tires once more. The house stood quiet, as if waiting.
Inside, the front room was already occupied.
There, standing exactly where Jacob had been the night before, was a figure I hadn’t seen before.
He was tall, composed—his gaze steady but unreadable.
The man beside me nodded toward him.
“This is Francis,” he said simply.
I swallowed, feeling the weight of the moment settle over me.
Francis didn’t speak, just offered a brief nod of acknowledgment.
The room felt smaller somehow, charged with the unspoken tension of what was to come.
I shifted my stance, hands behind my back, and waited.
The man’s gaze shifted to Francis.
“Tell him a little about yourself,” he said quietly.
Francis straightened, then looked directly at me.
“I’ve known him for many years,” he began, voice calm but edged with something like respect. “Our paths crossed well before any of this began.”
He hesitated, as if weighing what to say next.
“I’ve been on this journey for a couple of years now,” Francis continued, “learning, unlearning, surrendering in ways I never imagined.”
His eyes flicked toward the man, then back to me.
“Today’s session… I’m both looking forward to it, and apprehensive about what it will yield in me.”
There was a weight to his words, a quiet vulnerability that softened his composed exterior.
I nodded slowly, feeling a strange kinship already forming, though we were strangers.
The air between us shifted.
The ritual was beginning.
The man gestured toward the door that led to the chamber.
“Both of you,” he said evenly. “Undress. Assume your positions.”
Francis and I moved silently, shedding clothes with practiced, deliberate movements.
We knelt side by side, backs straight, hands behind our heads—the familiar posture that had become a language of its own.
But there was something different about Francis.
He wasn’t distant like Jacob had been.
Nor as composed as I sometimes felt.
Instead, he was openly, quietly checking me out.
Not in a crude way, but with an intensity that made me catch my breath.
I felt the heat rise to my cheeks, a sudden rush of excitement tangled with a flicker of fear.
What did it mean? Was this part of the ritual too?
I didn’t have time to answer.
The door opened again.
He appeared.
The space shifted.
And the ritual began anew.
Inside the chamber, the rituals began once again—steady, precise.
I was led through the familiar motions: posture corrections, verbal prompts, the tactile inspections I’d come to expect. The rhythm soothed and sharpened me all at once.
Francis, however, was sent to the corner—a place of quiet observation and reflection. He stood with his back pressed lightly against the wall, hands folded before him, eyes watching us both.
After some time, the man paused, breaking the flow of commands.
He looked at Francis and nodded.
“Come forward,” he said.
Francis stepped out of the corner and approached me slowly.
Then, with a subtle authority, the man invited, “Inspect him.”
My breath hitched.
Francis’s hands were tentative at first, brushing lightly across my arms and shoulders, tracing lines as if trying to read a new language.
His eyes met mine briefly, and in that glance was a mixture of curiosity and something deeper—respect, perhaps, or recognition.
I stood still, letting the inspection unfold, every nerve alive with awareness.
The chamber felt charged differently now, as if the ritual had opened a space for more than submission—maybe connection.
The man watched silently, allowing this new moment to settle between us.
Francis’s inspection was thorough—every inch of me examined with a careful, almost reverent touch that sent shivers down my spine. His hands moved deliberately, tracing muscles and bones as if committing me to memory. It was invasive, intimate, yet never crossed into disrespect. There was a softness beneath the intensity, like he was honoring something sacred in the act.
I was so caught up in the sensations that I barely registered when Francis stepped back, fading into the shadows at the edge of my awareness.
Then the man reappeared.
Stripped down to a black jockstrap, his skin gleaming faintly in the low light, every muscle defined and taut. He looked even fitter now, more formidable—like a warrior stepping into the arena.
My breath caught.
Francis beside me gave a small nod.
The man’s presence filled the room differently this time—more commanding, more dangerous.
The ritual was far from over.
The man’s gaze sharpened, the quiet command settling over the room like a weight.
“Enough,” he said firmly. “Now, you will inspect Francis.”
I hesitated for a brief moment, caught between curiosity and uncertainty.
But the man’s eyes held no room for refusal.
Slowly, I stepped forward.
Francis stood tall and steady, his body tau, muscles flexing subtly under my gaze.
I reached out, my hands trembling slightly as they moved over him.
His skin was warm and alive beneath my fingertips, every contour and curve speaking of strength and discipline.
The air between us was thick with unspoken tension.
I could feel his breath, steady and measured, and somewhere deep inside, a spark of connection flickered as I probed every centimeter of him.
The man watched silently, his presence a reminder of the boundaries we were all here to respect.
The inspection was mine to hold.
And I was ready to learn.
The man’s voice cut through the charged silence—calm, precise, and undeniably authoritative.
“Hands behind your back,” he commanded, directing me with a sharp glance.
I obeyed immediately, feeling the weight of his control settle over me again.
“Francis,” he continued, “kneel. Face forward. Keep your posture.”
Francis lowered himself smoothly to his knees, his gaze steady and unwavering.
“Now,” the man said, turning back to me, “approach him. Begin with a full inspection—touch, posture, alignment. Use your hands as you were shown.”
I stepped forward, heart pounding, hands moving carefully over Francis’s body once more. Every motion was deliberate, every touch a lesson in control and submission.
“Good,” the man’s voice intoned. “You will learn through giving and receiving. Through presence and attention.”
He paused, letting the words settle.
“Tonight, your obedience and awareness will deepen. You will follow every command without hesitation.”
The air tightened, the ritual ascending to a new level.
I was caught between anticipation and surrender, ready to push further into the unknown.
The man’s voice rang out with crisp authority.
“Both of you, bend over the table.”
We moved without hesitation—Francis and I—kneeling and lowering ourselves until our hands gripped the edges of the smooth surface, backs arched, and our bare asses exposed to the cool air.
Next came the restraints: thick leather cuffs securing our wrists and ankles to the table’s legs, binding us firmly but not painfully.
We were face-to-face, only inches apart, the weight of proximity mingling with the vulnerability of exposure.
The man appeared between us, holding a slender switch—dark wood gleaming under the dim light.
“First,” he said, “one stroke each. Then five. No sound, no movement beyond what I command.”
He raised the switch and struck my backside sharply once, the sting blooming immediately.
Then, with equal precision, Francis received his single stroke.
A beat passed, taut and silent.
Then five more—each delivered with steady rhythm, deliberate and unyielding. The heat built, the pain a sharp reminder of control.
Our breaths came faster but our bodies remained still.
Then, abruptly, the man stepped back and vanished from sight.
The room seemed to exhale, yet his presence lingered—an invisible weight pressing into the air.
Though unseen, I could feel his watchful eyes, the unyielding power held in his absence.
Silence stretched between Francis and me, the ritual suspended but unbroken.
Though the man had stepped out of my line of sight, I knew he was still there—just beyond the edge of the room, his presence a palpable weight pressing into the quiet air. I could feel him, even if I couldn’t see him, like a shadow stretching long and steady over us.
The sting from each stroke pulsed through my skin, sharp and insistent. But beneath the pain was something else—a strange release, as if each strike unlocked a door inside me I hadn’t even realized was closed. The ache blurred and burned and settled all at once, filling me with a strange kind of clarity.
I found myself longing for more—not just the physical sensation, but something deeper. A chance to prove myself. To him. To myself. To Francis.
Every sharp crack of the switch was a question, and every breath I drew was an answer.
Am I enough?
Am I worthy?
The silence stretched, the air thick with unspoken challenge.
I shifted slightly, feeling Francis’s steady breath beside me, and the unbroken connection of shared submission.
And somewhere in the quiet, I felt the beginnings of something new stirring—strength forged through surrender, a will shaped by obedience.
The man was still there, still watching, still guiding.
And I was ready to keep proving it.
After a long, tense moment, the man stepped back into view.
He had shed the black jockstrap, standing completely naked now, his body taut and erect under the soft light.
Francis and I were the same—exposed, vulnerable, yet strangely grounded. There was no shame here, no awkwardness. Just a quiet acceptance that this was how it was meant to be.
His gaze swept over us, steady and appraising.
“Very well done,” he said, voice low but filled with approval. “Both of you took it with grace and strength.”
The words settled over us like a balm, washing away any lingering doubt.
He moved slowly between us, his presence commanding yet calm.
“This is the path,” he said simply. “The surrender and the power. The pain and the release. You are both learning to own it.”
His praise wasn’t empty—it carried weight. Recognition. Encouragement.
And for the first time that day, I felt a flicker of pride ignite within me.
Without pause, the man shifted the energy in the room, his voice dropping into a sharper, more commanding tone.
“Now, the next phase.”
He circled us slowly, eyes darkening with intent.
“Francis, you will remain restrained and bent, but your focus will shift. You will watch carefully as he guides you.”
He turned toward me. “And you—stand.”
My legs wobbled slightly as I rose, the restraint still pressing at my wrists and ankles.
“Approach,” he ordered.
I stepped forward, heart pounding as he handed me the switch.
“This time, you will deliver the strokes. One. Then five. Each with control, precision, and respect.”
The weight of the switch was heavier in my hand than I expected.
“Begin.”
The ritual demanded everything—focus, obedience, and the rawness of power balanced by care.
Each strike was a test and a lesson, and as I moved, I felt the gravity of the moment deepen.
The session was no longer about submission alone—it was about trust, control, and the shifting balance between us all.
I did as I was told.
The switch in my hand felt like an extension of my will—light, pliant, alive. I stepped behind Francis, still bent over and bound to the table, his body steady and strong, his breath slow but audible. The dim light caught the line of his back, the pale tension of his skin stretched and waiting.
“One,” I said softly, almost to myself.
I brought the switch down.
A clean stroke. Deliberate.
Francis didn’t flinch. But I saw it—the shallow dip of his breath, the shift in his hips, a slight flex of muscle, and then a softening. It wasn’t stoicism in the pure sense—it was poise, deeply practiced, and something else: welcome.
The man stood behind me, silent. Watching.
“Five,” I murmured, and began again.
Each stroke landed with care. Not hesitation, not fear—just precision. With each impact, Francis seemed to deepen. To sink. His jaw slackened slightly. His fingers curled against the restraints, not in resistance, but in rhythm.
And then there was the tell I hadn’t anticipated. The lift of his hips into the last strike. A subtle arch. A half-exhale that was unmistakably pleasure. His body gave it away even if his face never would.
He was hard.
Not just aroused—joyful.
It flickered through me like a bell ringing: joy. Not just surrender. Not just performance or discipline. This was something else. A kind of sacred gladness. A communion.
The man stepped forward, took the switch from me without a word. I stepped back.
Francis stayed still, glowing with quiet, defiant radiance.
Something in me opened.
And I knew I would never again mistake pain for punishment, or pleasure for permission. This wasn’t about those things.
It was about truth.
And it had many forms.
The man gave no verbal praise, just a faint nod as he took the switch from my hand. He moved past me without a glance, approached Francis, and with a soft word I couldn’t quite make out, began to unbuckle the restraints. Francis stepped back slowly, carefully, his body holding a tension that felt earned rather than exhausted.
“Corner,” the man said simply.
Francis obeyed without hesitation, crossing the chamber and resuming his place—facing the wall, hands behind his back, head slightly bowed, but not in shame. It was something more resolute. He had served.
The man turned back to me. His eyes, as always, were unreadable. His presence filled the space again. Then:
“Table. Assume the position.”
There was no pause in me this time. No flicker of resistance. I turned and bent forward, lowering myself into the same posture I had held earlier—chest against the padded edge, arms stretched forward, ass exposed to the cool air, breath deepening.
The restraints were familiar now, the table’s grain beneath my fingertips strangely grounding. I felt the man behind me, slow, methodical. His hands moved with practiced ease, binding me again. Not cruelly—firmly. Like a craftsman securing his work.
I was exposed. I was ready.
My skin still hummed from the earlier exchange. My thoughts, though, had changed. I wasn’t thinking about how long this would last, or how I might endure it.
I was thinking about how Francis looked, stripped to his core, trembling slightly and beaming with something I still didn’t understand.
And I wanted that too.
Not just the pain.
The release.
I inhaled, steady and open.
And waited.
My breathing steadied. I waited.
Then—his hands.
Not the sharp sting of the switch. Not the firm correction of posture. Just… hands. Unexpectedly gentle. Warm. And slick.
Lubricant.
My muscles tensed before I could stop them.
He was touching me there—preparing me. His fingers deliberate, spreading the cool substance over and in my hole, massaging it in slow circles, then deeper, pressing just enough to test my openness. My breath hitched.
Panic rose in me like a sudden tide. My wrists tugged instinctively against the restraints. I wasn’t ready for this. Was this next? Was he going to—?
I bit down on the question before it could fully form in my head. My heart raced, pounding in my ears louder than Francis’ earlier cries, louder than the hum of the chamber’s dim lights.
This hadn’t been discussed. Not directly. I had agreed to follow. To submit. But this? Was he about to mount me? Would I be taken, right here, like this, with Francis in the corner—watching?
No words came. The man didn’t speak either. Just the quiet pressure of his slick fingers, pressing, circling, then withdrawing.
He paused. Still behind me.
My body was rigid now, every muscle knotted in anticipation, fear, confusion—and something else. Some ember of curiosity, betrayal’s twin. But I couldn’t name it yet.
Then, as if sensing the spiral in my head, he laid one hand flat across the small of my back. A gesture of grounding. Possessive, yes—but calming too. The other hand reached forward and gently brushed my shoulder.
“I said I would guide you,” he said, low and even. “That hasn’t changed.”
And with that, the panic ebbed slightly—enough for me to exhale. Not gone, but held in place, restrained just like me.
I didn’t know what would come next.
But I was still here.
Still present.
Still his.
He stepped away, leaving me bent and breathless, my skin still tingling from where his hands had been. I listened to his footsteps as he moved about the room—deliberate, unrushed.
Then the scrape of something being dragged across the floor.
A mirror.
He positioned it carefully, angling it just so—so that now, without turning my head, I could see the entire chamber behind me. Myself, restrained. The table. The edges of the dimly lit space. And then—
Francis.
Still in the corner, facing outward. Still, except for the rise and fall of his breath.
Our eyes met in the reflection.
I didn’t look away.
Then the man spoke—low, measured, with that same calm control that never needed to be loud to be heard.
“Francis. Come here.”
Francis turned. No hesitation. No protest. He crossed the room, stopping just behind the frame of the mirror—then stepping into it. Into my view. Closer now.
I watched him approach as though I were both present and outside myself, observing it all in glass. He looked taller in motion, more composed somehow. Still wearing only the black jockstrap, his body was lean and purposeful. His face unreadable—but softened, maybe, by some internal shift.
The man placed a hand lightly on Francis’ shoulder.
“There is trust here,” he said. “Between you and me. Between you and him.”
Francis gave a small nod.
Then the man turned to me—meeting my eyes through the reflection.
“You will watch,” he said. “You will see. What you fear. What you want. What waits beyond both.”
He stepped back.
And left Francis standing just inches behind me.
I couldn’t see the man anymore.
But I could feel him still—his design, his rhythm, in every gesture.
Francis took another step.
And I held my breath.
The man stepped forward again, holding something small and wrapped in foil. He handed it to Francis without ceremony, but the gravity was unmistakable.
“You know what to do.”
Francis took it with a quiet nod. His hands were steady as he tore the wrapper, rolled the condom down over himself in one smooth motion. There was no performance in it—only purpose.
Then he moved behind me.
I could feel his presence before I saw it in the mirror again—closer now, his shadow stretching across the floor. He paused just behind, one hand resting lightly at the base of my spine.
Our eyes met in the reflection. His gaze asked the question without words.
I nodded—small, deliberate.
Yes. I welcomed this.
He placed one hand on my hip, the other guiding himself carefully. And then, slowly, unhurriedly, he entered me. The stretch was sharp, but not cruel—more like a wave cresting, breath held at its peak.
I gripped the table's edge, letting my body adjust, absorbing him inch by inch. Francis moved with exquisite patience, checking my face in the mirror again, and then settling into a rhythm that was more communion than conquest.
Then the man stepped into frame.
He was already sheathed. He came up behind Francis, laid a hand on his shoulder as if to steady him—and then, without breaking the rhythm, entered him too.
Francis gasped. A sound not of pain, but of surrender.
The room fell into motion—three bodies connected in perfect alignment. There were no words now, only sound. The low cadence of breath, the rustle of skin against skin, and the building swell of moans—mine, then Francis’, then the man’s—rising and falling like a chant.
Time slipped. There was only this.
I felt it cresting—somewhere deep and undeniable. Not just pleasure, but release—emotional, physical, primal. It hit me like a tide, and I let go, arching into it, letting my moan tear free.
Seconds later, I heard the man’s breath catch, a short sharp exhale—and then Francis shuddered between us and groaned as his body gave in.
We stayed like that—entwined, shaking, breathless—until the silence returned.
Not empty. But full.
Like something sacred had just passed through us all.
We had showered together in silence, Francis and I. There were no words—just the soft rhythm of water, the occasional accidental brush of skin, and the quiet intimacy of shared space after something profound. We washed each other gently, efficiently, as we’d been instructed. His hands were sure, mine slightly trembled, but he said nothing, and I was grateful.
The man had disappeared—retreated to his private sanctuary upstairs while we toweled off and dressed in the folded clothes laid out for us. Mine were the same as earlier: soft cotton shorts, the plain white tee. Francis wore similar, his damp curls clinging to his forehead.
Now we were seated in the front room.
It felt different—less like a waiting area, more like a place of return. The air had changed, stilled, but it wasn’t heavy. Just quiet. Lived in.
The man arrived exactly twenty minutes later.
He looked calm, casual, in a linen shirt and dark slacks—his bearing no less commanding, but softened now by something… almost warm. He poured himself tea from the small tray on the sideboard and sat across from us, legs crossed, spine straight.
For a moment, none of us spoke.
Just three men in a sunlit room, wrapped in the quiet aftershock of something transformative.
Then the man looked at Francis. Then at me. Not sternly, not indulgently. Just seeing.
“You both did well,” he said simply.
The words landed like a balm. Not praise. Not reward. Just truth.
And that, somehow, meant more.
After Francis left—with a handshake, a faint smile, and something unspoken lingering in his eyes—the man turned to me and said, “Come on. I’m going to roast some vegetables. Potatoes too. You can keep me company on the porch.”
The sun was higher now, lazy and warm, and the back porch looked out over a sloping yard with a few unkempt herbs growing in cracked terra-cotta pots. It was a lived-in kind of space—wooden slats worn smooth, mismatched chairs, and a small charcoal grill that hissed when the man opened it and tossed in a handful of smoking chips.
He handed me a glass of water and gestured for me to sit.
“I like this time of day,” he said as he started chopping. “Late sun, cooler air, everything quieting down.”
I nodded. My body ached in deep, good places. My mind felt strange—both light and heavy. But the simplicity of it—the knife on wood, the clink of olive oil in a bowl—made it feel okay to just be.
We talked.
Nothing serious. He asked what kind of work I did. I told him—without embellishment or apology. He told me he used to be in publishing, then taught literature for a while. Now he worked part-time as a consultant, which meant, according to him, “I read things and tell people they’re either good or crap. And occasionally get paid for it.”
We laughed.
He asked what I was listening to these days. I told him. He’d heard of a few of the bands. I hadn’t expected that. He told me he still played vinyl—hadn’t bought a CD player yet. I told him I still made mix tapes, although from my playlist online. That got a grin.
The vegetables sizzled. The potatoes were wrapped in foil, tucked among glowing coals. The breeze carried the scent of rosemary and charred garlic.
No rules. No protocol. No ritual.
Just lunch. Just two men sharing space.
And somehow that felt just as intimate.
After the meal, we worked in easy tandem. I cleared plates while he rinsed them. He handed me a towel and I dried. We didn’t say much, but the silence wasn’t empty—it was companionable, warm. He made some passing comment about how few people dried dishes properly anymore, and I made some remark about my grandmother being a stickler. It earned a low, approving chuckle.
When the last fork was in its place and the counters were wiped down, he leaned against the sink, arms folded, and studied me.
“You’ve had a full morning,” he said. “And a heavier night than most first-timers.”
I nodded. I could feel the weight of everything settling into my body—satisfaction, confusion, curiosity, ache.
He reached out, gently touched my shoulder, then let his hand fall away.
“Go take a nap,” he said, voice kind but unmistakably firm. “Rest. We’ve got a big night ahead of you.”
I didn’t ask what he meant.
I just obeyed.
Back upstairs, the room was as I’d left it—small, sun-drenched, plain. A simple space. I peeled off my shirt and slid under the single blanket, still faintly warm from the midday light.
As I closed my eyes, I didn’t try to make sense of what was coming next.
I only knew I wanted it.
