Page 84 of Governor

I hope.

He smiles. “Yes, the kneepads are for you doing this. For when I decide you need a long session on the floor. Want you to appreciate how difficult these can be first, though. Go ahead and check the laundry, please.”

I do, and what was in the dryer is ready to come out. I move a load from the washer to the dryer and bring in the dry clothes to fold them.

When I do, I find him braiding rope onto one of the panic snaps. Fascinated, I watch. I’ve never seen that done before, the way he’s splicing the end of the rope into itself.

He watches me watching him and smiles. “Ironically, I learned this in Boy Scouts.”

When he’s finished, he’s created a piece of rope that’s approximately forty feet long and has panic snaps braided onto both ends. He neatly coils and stows the remainder of the rope in a plastic shopping bag.

“I’ll cut that into shorter sections later,” he says.

“Can I ask a stupid question, Sir?”

He smiles and picks up a small metal ring, one of two he’s also purchased. He threads the ring onto the rope and then loops the end of the rope around the coffee table leg, hooking the panic snap to the ring before pulling the rope taut.

Ah.

Carter hooks the other panic snap to my right ankle cuff. It’s amazing that I’ve grown accustomed to wearing the cuffs so quickly. I stupidly stand there, staring at my foot.

“Of course you may ask, boy.”

“Why?”

Carter smirks. “Since we’ll be limited in some things we can do, I’m going to improvise. Everything I do to you has a greater purpose. Teaching patience, self-control, obedience. Willful disobedience when necessary. Protecting the property. Sometimes, just for sadistic funsies and fucking with you, but not until later, when you’ve learned this side of me better and know what’s play and what’s serious.”

He unclips the rope from my ankle and the table. “Trust. Routines. I will start small and build you up. This is for our dorm room.” He coils the rope. “It’s long enough to give you full movement inside our room and the bathroom. You’ll wear it at night, and when you’re in the room when I’m not there. Just like with your collar, you’re not allowed to remove it without permission, only for pre-determined reasons and emergencies. I will take it off you every morning.”

“What if someone sees it?”

“We’ll keep our room door closed and locked,” he says, handing the rope to me. “When you’re not using it, stow it in one of the totes under your bed. For now, go put it with our things.”

“Yes, Sir.” I do that, then return to finish folding our laundry. When that’s completed and I’ve put it away, I return to the living room, where Carter’s watching TV on the couch, to find out what he wants me to do next.

“Lunch, boy?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He pats his lap. “Spanking first.” He hasn’t changed out of his shirt and shorts.

I’m still trying to sort all this out in my mind, but I find myself walking over and climbing into position over his lap once my brain’s processed the command.

Carter’s hands settle on my ass and the back of my neck, his fingers there curling around my collar. “All right, boy. I’ll take this one a little easy on you. This’ll be fast, then you can make us lunch.”

I have no conscious memory of ever being spanked as a child. My mother had far more effective and painful ways of punishing me without laying a hand on me, punishments that wounded me far deeper.

A spanking would have at least been some attention she’d paid to me. Physical contact.

As Carter gives me my first ever spanking, I feel not only his hand striking my flesh, but that blissful quiet returning to my brain. Part of my brain is still processing pain, stinging heat blooming in my ass cheeks, even the fact that I’ve started crying again.

The other part of my brain feels like it’s dropped into that sweet, dark, velvety safe space once more, and everything in that world is peaceful perfection.

When I finally come back to myself, I’m still facedown over Carter’s lap, sort of. He’s leaned over, mostly lying on the couch now with one arm draped over my back, basically stretched out next to me.

“I think you’re right about something, Sir.”

“What’s that, boy?”