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Chapter Six

The weeks after the gala passed in a blur of responsibilities, exhaustion, and tentative steps toward something better.

Three days after the event, Lincoln’s phone had rung with news neither of them had been waiting for, yet somehow both had expected—his father had passed in his sleep.

What followed had been ten hectic days filled with drives to Lexington, long conversations that went nowhere, and the lingering weight of a history Lincoln had long since buried.

The funeral had been a formal, stiff affair, attended by people who barely acknowledged his existence.

The Andrews name carried weight, but it had never carried warmth, at least not for Lincoln.

His father had never asked for him. Hadn’t uttered his name on his deathbed. Hadn’t sought closure.

And that, more than anything, had been a final answer.

Still, something had come of it. Jefferson had stayed in touch.

Their calls, once stilted and awkward, had started finding their rhythm.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was more than before, and Lincoln counted that as something.

A silver lining in a mess of tangled grief and old wounds that weren’t his to mend.

Now, finally, life was settling again. The obligations had been fulfilled. The worst of it was behind them.

And Henry had decided it was time.

Lincoln followed him through the familiar corridors of Club Indigo, the steady hum of music vibrating through the walls.

They passed members in hushed conversation; the occasional knowing glance exchanged between those who understood what tonight meant.

The club was more than just a place—it was home.

Their home. And it had been too damn long.

The scent of leather and candle wax greeted him as Henry opened the door to one of the private rooms. Lincoln stepped inside, eyes scanning the space out of habit, cataloging every detail.

The spanking bench was positioned in the center.

The St. Andrew’s Cross stood waiting against the far wall.

A sturdy leather chair sat in the corner, the placement strategic—a place for Henry to sit back and watch when he chose.

And then there was the bed.

Lincoln stilled.

He turned his head slightly, catching Henry’s gaze. His Master stood in the doorway, expression unreadable, though Lincoln knew better than to take that at face value.

“You got us a bed in here?” Lincoln asked, his voice even.

Henry’s lips curved, just slightly. “I wanted you to be comfortable.”

Lincoln arched a brow. “Comfortable or controlled?”

The flicker in Henry’s gaze told him everything he needed to know. “Is there a difference?”

He snorted. “Not for me.”

Henry shut the door with a soft, final click. “Strip and kneel.”

No hesitation.

A sharp intake of breath. The faint rustle of fabric.

Henry didn’t watch. Not yet. He set his bag down, unzipping it with deliberate slowness, letting the anticipation stretch. He felt Lincoln’s obedience before he saw it—the air shifting, charged with expectation, the quiet control of measured movement.

When he finally turned, his breath hitched.

Lincoln knelt in the center of the room. His thighs spread just enough to be open but not inviting—not yet. His back was straight, his shoulders relaxed, but Henry could see the tension lurking beneath, coiled and waiting.

His boy.

Finally.

Henry stepped forward, slow and deliberate. His own pulse thickened, his body responding with an intensity that almost took him by surprise. It had been so long—too long—since he’d had Lincoln like this.

Henry took his time, circling Lincoln in slow, measured steps. The air between them thickened, charged with anticipation, with the quiet hum of obedience settling over the space. Lincoln held himself still, his chest rising and falling in steady, controlled breaths, his gaze lowered.

Henry let his own focus narrow, slipping into the headspace where everything else fell away—the past year, the lingering hesitations, the weight of life beyond these walls. None of it mattered here. Not now.

"Only us. Only this."

He stopped in front of Lincoln, tilting his chin up with two fingers, forcing their eyes to meet.

"Do you trust me?"

Lincoln’s breath hitched, his pupils dark and dilated, but his answer was firm. "I do, Master."

Henry brushed his thumb along Lincoln’s jaw, a silent reward. "What’s your safeword?"

"Red to stop. Yellow to slow down."

"Will you use it when you need it?"

"Yes, Master."

Henry’s fingers flexed against Lincoln’s skin. He already knew the answer, but he needed Lincoln to say it, to claim it. "What do you need?"

A hesitation—so slight most wouldn’t have caught it—but Henry did. The small intake of breath, the way Lincoln’s fingers curled into loose fists, the shift of his weight. And then, the words fell, raw and sure.

"Make me hurt, Sir."

A deep, possessive satisfaction curled low in Henry’s gut.

His grip tightened on Lincoln’s chin for just a second before he claimed his mouth, devouring his boy in a kiss that left no space for hesitation.

He didn’t just kiss—he took , exploring, teasing, coaxing Lincoln deeper.

A clash of tongues, a gasping breath stolen between them.

He nipped at Lincoln’s lower lip, dragging a moan from his throat, swallowing every sound like it belonged to him.

Because it did.

Lincoln melted into him, surrendering, his body pliant but buzzing with need.

Henry slid his hands under Lincoln’s arms, gripping tightly as he maneuvered him backward, step by step, never breaking the kiss, never loosening his hold. When Lincoln’s back finally hit the solid frame of the St. Andrew’s Cross, Henry pulled away just enough to whisper, "Hold on to the beams."

Lincoln obeyed without question, his fingers curling around the wood.

"You’re not allowed to come," Henry said, the warning laced with promise.

Lincoln’s exhale was shaky but resolute. "Yes, Sir."

Henry turned away, walking to his bag without hurry, letting Lincoln stand there, bare, waiting. Waiting for him.

The anticipation was part of it—the ache of patience, the slow, inevitable build of want.

He took his time, selecting his tools with practiced ease: wooden clothespins, a vibrator with a bulbous head, alcohol wipes, and a sleek metal sounding set. When he returned, he half expected Lincoln to have shifted, to have lost his careful grip in the wake of his own need.

But his boy was exactly where he had left him.

His back was pressed firm against the cross, his hands steady on the beams, his body thrumming with restraint. That composure wouldn’t last.

Henry smirked. Good.

He reached for the first clothespin, catching a small fold of skin just above Lincoln’s left wrist between his fingers.

The flesh there was pliant, less sensitive than other places, but it still made Lincoln twitch.

Henry pinched lightly, before replacing his grip with the wooden clip.

A sharp exhale ghosted from Lincoln’s lips, but he stayed still. Henry hummed in approval.

Another pin. Then another.

He worked his way up the forearm, each clip placed a hand’s width apart.

The other arm. Move on to the legs.

Each one carefully placed, each bite of pressure sinking deep into Lincoln’s skin, marking him, piece by piece. Henry worked methodically, knowing exactly where to place each clip for maximum effect.

Once, in the past, he would have taken the single-tail whip to them, snapping them free with a sharp flick of his wrist. They weren’t there yet. They would be, in time. But Henry had never been careless with his aim, and he wasn’t about to start now.

By the time the last pin was in place, Lincoln was panting, his cock standing stiff and leaking at the tip, glistening under the dim light.

"Such a good boy for me," Henry murmured, leaning in to press a lingering kiss against Lincoln’s lips.

A quiet, desperate sound escaped Lincoln’s throat.

Henry pulled back, brushing a hand down Lincoln’s side before murmuring, "Now hold your position. And don’t come."

He reached for the vibrator, flipping through the settings until he found the one he wanted—a deep, drilling pulse designed to shatter control.

Then, without warning, he pressed it against Lincoln’s perineum.

Lincoln yelled , his whole body jerking violently, his grip on the beams tightening as his thighs quivered.

Henry tsked, shaking his head in disapproval.

"I’m sorry, Master," Lincoln gasped, his voice breathless, wrecked. "I wasn’t prepared for that."

"Don’t worry," Henry said smoothly. "You will be next time."

He reached for the alcohol wipes, tearing one open with a sharp rip. The cool sting of antiseptic filled the air as he carefully cleaned Lincoln’s cock and groin, preparing him for what was next.

Lincoln was already shaking his head before Henry even reached for the sounding rod.

"Master—"

"Shhh," Henry soothed, wrapping a firm hand around Lincoln’s shaft, steadying him.

The smallest dilator in his set was polished steel, smooth, cold. Henry placed the tip at the slit in Lincoln’s cockhead, pausing just long enough to let Lincoln feel it.

Then, with infinite patience, he let gravity do its work.

The rod slid inside, deeper, slow and unyielding.

Lincoln’s head hit the wood behind him, his lips parting on a ragged moan.

"That’s a good boy," Henry murmured, rubbing slow, soothing circles over Lincoln’s hip.

"Sir," Lincoln gasped, his entire body trembling. "I need to come—Master, please ."

Henry grinned, dark and satisfied. "No, my boy. You can’t come. Fight it."

Lincoln whined, his legs shaking. "I can’t ."

"Yes, you can," Henry countered, his voice low, full of certainty.

And then, he proceeded to prove Lincolnwrong.

Henry stepped back, watching the way Lincoln’s body trembled under the weight of pleasure and restraint. His boy had always been beautifully reactive, every touch, every command drawing something visceral and raw from him. But tonight—tonight was different.

This was their first scene in years. A reset. A return.

And Lincoln was feeling every inch of it.

His grip on the St. Andrew’s Cross had tightened, knuckles paling as he fought the dual sensations wracking his body—the pulsing vibrations against his perineum, the slow stretch of the dilator sliding deeper, the sharp pinch of clothespins biting into his skin.

He was perfect.

Henry let his fingers skim down Lincoln’s side, featherlight, watching how his boy’s muscles jumped at the contrast of sensation. A rough palm, the press of nails, a brief squeeze of flesh—it all sent fresh shudders through Lincoln’s frame.

“Breathe,” Henry murmured, his tone firm but low, guiding. “You know how to do this. Take it in. Hold your position.”

Lincoln gasped, his body strung so tight it was almost vibrating with tension.

“Master, please—I can’t?—”

“You can,” Henry countered, his voice steady, his grip unyielding as he cupped Lincoln’s jaw, forcing their eyes to meet.Grounding him. Anchoring him.

Lincoln’s pupils were blown wide, his chest rising and falling too fast, his body warring between surrender and desperation.

Henry pressed his lips to Lincoln’s temple, inhaling the sweat-dampened scent of his skin. “I’m here. You know this dance. Trust yourself.”

Lincoln exhaled shakily, swallowing down his immediate plea. His fingers curled around the beams again, the fight shifting from‘I can’t’to‘I’ll try.’

A slow smirk curved Henry’s lips. “That’s my boy.”

He kept the vibrator pressed firm, angling it just right to send waves of pleasure rippling through Lincoln’s body. At the same time, he tapped the base of the dilator, sending a sharp,thuddingsensation deep inside Lincoln’s cock.

Lincoln screamed .

His spine arched against the cross, heels lifting from the ground as he fought toobey, to hold himself together, to cling to the control Henry demanded.

Henry chuckled, low and dark. “Oh, you are right on the edge, aren’t you?”

Lincoln whimpered, the sound raw and desperate. “Yes, Sir.”

Henry trailed a hand down Lincoln’s chest, tracing the ridges of muscle, pausing at the erratic pounding of his heart before sliding lower. The head of Lincoln’s cock was flushed a deep red, so wet with precum it was glistening under the dim light.

He was shaking.

Every nerve in his body was straining, every muscle locked tight with the effort of holding back.

Henry lived for this moment—the perfect balance between agony and pleasure, between surrender and defiance.

“You will hold it,” Henry commanded, his voice like steel.

Lincoln let out a choked sob, hips jerking, desperate for friction that Henry refused to give.

Henry leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Lincoln’s ear, his voice a promise and a threat all in one. “I own your pleasure.”

Lincoln shuddered violently, his body sagging against the cross as if the words themselves had stolen his breath.

Henry smirked, kissing the side of Lincoln’s neck beforeslowly, deliberately, cruellyturning the vibrator up a setting.

Lincoln screamed his denial.

Henry gripped his jaw, forcing their eyes to meet. “Tell me your color.”

Lincoln’s entire body trembled. His lip wobbled, his eyespleading.

But his voice, when it came, was hoarse but strong.

“Green.”

Pride surged in Henry’s chest.

His boy was fighting.

And Henry would take him to the very edge before bringing him back.

He slid a hand into Lincoln’s hair, tightening his grip just enough to make Lincoln feel it.

“Good boy.”

And then—he pressed just enough pressure on the dilator.

Lincoln’s scream turned guttural.

He wasn’t breaking.

But oh, he was so damn close.