Fancy Man and the Southern Gentleman

I chewed on my lip. This was one crazy white man. Did I really want to do this? That, by the way, was a rhetorical question. A man with a body to die for was begging me to make him my slave and use him as sadistically as I wished. And the cherry topping this temptation was that no one and nothing else had helped him with his problem. Could I?

He might as well have waved a red flag before my eyes. I charge at challenges. No. The question wasn’t whether I wanted to do this. It was whether I should do it. Probably not… but I was going to anyway, and I’d better make sure Charles knew what he was in for.

“If we go through with this, then things are going to get a lot worse,” I warned him. “You will come out of this with scars. Physical scars. No shit.”

“I believe you. I’ve gotten scars before. Go ahead.”

“There’s more. Those slaves, my ancestors if you’d like to think of them that way, didn’t get a safe word. So you don’t either. I punish you for as long as the ghosts want me to. Hours, days even. You’ll get no say in what happens. And you won’t be able to stop anything.”

There. Now the eyes were locked on me. He shivered, telling me that he knew just how salient that point was. I don’t know what other tops had done to him, but if I was going to do this, then I was going to do it my way. Meaning no micromanagement from Charles, no changing his mind later. He was going to have to give me the freedom and control to do as I saw fit.