Page 37 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

The next pages detailed schedules and expectations that were already familiar but somehow more real in writing.

Some of it we’d been over before, but it was all here in one place.

Bedtime routine depending on what shift I’d be working at the hospital.

Three meals a day with at least one being substantial.

Morning and evening check-ins via text when apart.

Permission required for purchases over fifty dollars.

"These seem small," Tyson explained as I initialed each one, "but structure creates security. Knowing expectations prevents anxiety and provides framework for the dynamic to flourish."

He was right. I could feel myself settling as we worked through each protocol, the familiar rules that had already made my life feel more manageable now backed by formal agreement.

The fountain pen grew warm in my hand as I worked, each initial an acknowledgment that I wanted this structure, needed it even.

"Punishments and corrections," Tyson announced, turning to a new section. "Divided into categories based on severity of infraction. Note that all punishments must be proportional and purposeful—never delivered in anger, always followed by discussion and aftercare."

The list was familiar from our discussions but seeing it written felt different. Corner time for minor infractions like forgotten check-ins. Writing lines for attitude adjustments. Spanking for deliberate disobedience. Each punishment carefully calibrated to correct while maintaining care.

"The sub-section on funishments is separate," Tyson noted with the ghost of a smile. "Those are rewards disguised as punishments, meant for play rather than correction. Different headspace, different intention."

Heat crept up my neck as I initialed that section, remembering the time Gabe had put me over his knee. That had started as a punishment, but quickly changed into something else. The contract accounted for all aspects of our dynamic—the serious and the playful, the corrective and the connective.

"Health and safety protocols," Tyson continued, his voice gentling. "This section is particularly important given your history."

My hand stilled on the page. This section detailed regular STD testing (even though we were exclusive), respect for therapy boundaries if I chose to pursue counseling, and immediate cessation of any physical discipline if I was injured or ill.

But more than that, it included provisions for mental health—recognition that some days the dynamic might need to shift, that trauma responses required patience not punishment.

"Gabe insisted on this section being comprehensive," Tyson said quietly. "He wanted it clear that your wellbeing supersedes any protocol or rule."

I initialed the section with a flourish, each mark a step toward something I'd never thought I deserved—safety wrapped in structure, freedom found in surrender.

"Now we come to the more personal sections," Tyson said, closing his folder with deliberate care. The sound echoed in the candlelit room like a gavel marking the end of one phase and the beginning of another.

He stood slowly, reading glasses disappearing back into his vest pocket. The formal witness was receding, leaving the man who understood that some negotiations required privacy. "These negotiations should be private between you. Let me know when you need me back for the final signing."

His gaze moved between us, weighted with meaning. "Take your time. Be thorough. This document will guide your dynamic, until you review."

The door closed behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo. The room felt smaller instantly, the candle flames flickering as if responding to the shift in energy. Just Gabe and me now, with pages that would detail every intimate possibility between us.

"Hey," Gabe said softly, recognizing my sudden tension. He pushed his chair back, then patted his thigh. "Come here."

I moved without thinking, settling sideways across his lap. I could feel his heartbeat through the expensive suit fabric, steady where mine raced.

"We don't have to negotiate everything tonight," he said against my hair. "Just the foundations. The rest can grow as we do."

"I know." I picked at a non-existent thread on his jacket. "It's just... seeing it all written out . . ."

"Makes it real?"

"Makes it intense." I forced myself to meet his eyes. "In a good way."

He reached around me for the next section of the contract, angling it so we could both read. "We go through each item. Yes, no, or maybe for now. Nothing's set in stone except hard limits. And remember—your arousal is not consent. Being wet for something doesn't mean you’ve agreed to it."

My face flamed at his directness, but that was Gabe—cutting through potential shame with practical acknowledgment. He knew my body's responses, knew how easily I got aroused during these discussions. This was his way of ensuring my consent came from my mind, not just my body's reactions.

"Spanking," he read, starting with something already familiar. "We know that's a yes, but let's define it. Hand only, or implements too?"

"Both," I managed, voice smaller than intended.

His hand rubbed slow circles on my back. "Paddle, crop, flogger?"

The words alone made me squirm. "Maybe? I don't know what they feel like."

"Then we mark those as 'explore with discussion,'" he decided, making notes in the margin. "Nothing new without talking first, showing you the implement, maybe trying one stroke to see."

Every step was deliberate, consensual, careful.

"Bondage," he continued. "Position restrictions, rope, cuffs?"

"Yes." This came easier, memories of him holding my wrists making me shiver. "I like feeling contained. Safe. Like I can struggle but not escape."

"Rope?"

I considered, picturing the intricate knots I'd seen online. "Maybe? It's beautiful but seems complicated."

"I'd need to take classes first anyway," he assured me. "Safety with rope is complex. We'll mark it as future possibility."

We worked through the list methodically.

Each item required real thought, real discussion.

Some things were easy yeses—sensory play made me curious, especially wax despite the nervousness it caused.

Others were definite nos—anything involving others, humiliation beyond gentle teasing, age play younger than my natural little space.

We continued through scenarios that made me grateful for his lap to hide in.

Domestic discipline—yes, with specific infractions defined.

Orgasm control—yes, but with limits during work hours.

Public play—soft limits carefully outlined, nothing that would truly expose us but subtle things that made me squirm to consider.

"What about this one surprises you?" he asked after marking 'maybe' next to temperature play. "Your face changed."

"Ice seems scary."

"So maybe ice for grounding, not punishment?" He made another note. "That's why we talk through each item, baby girl. Context matters."

The next section made my whole body heat. "Sexual scenarios," I read aloud, then immediately regretted it.

"We can skip details for now," he offered, but I shook my head.

"No. I want . . . I need to be brave about this part too." I took a breath. "Yes to multiple orgasms. Very yes. Also yes to edging, even though it makes me crazy."

" Because it makes you crazy," he corrected with a dark smile that sent heat pooling low. "Love watching you beg."

We worked through positions (all yes except ones that hurt my back), toys (yes to most with discussion first), and locations (bedroom, nursery, carefully selected semi-public spaces). Each agreement felt like stepping deeper into trust, admitting desires I'd barely admitted to myself.

"Anal play," he read neutrally, watching my face.

"Maybe?" My voice came out squeaky. "I mean, not immediately. But if we worked up to it slowly . . ."

"Training protocols exist for a reason," he agreed, making notes. "Slow, careful, with full veto power at any stage."

The casualness of 'training protocols' made me blush harder, but also felt reassuring. Nothing we did would be rushed or assumed.

"Somnophilia," he continued, then paused at my expression. "Sleep play. Being touched or taken while sleeping."

"I . . ." The fantasy had lived in my head so long, admitting it felt impossible. But his patient silence, the steady beat of his heart under my palm, made me brave. "Yes. Waking up to you already touching me, or inside me . . . The vulnerability of it . . ."

"We can experiment, and of course you can use your safeword."

"You make it sound so reasonable."

"Because it is. Fantasy doesn't have to be shameful, Kiara. The things that turn you on, that make you feel submissive and small and mine—they're gifts. You trusting me with them is everything."

We reached the psychological elements section, and my breath caught. This felt more exposing than any physical act.

"Praise," he read. "I think we know that's a yes."

"The biggest yes," I confirmed, smiling despite my nervousness. "When you call me good girl, I just . . . melt."

"Good to know." He made an exaggerated note that made me giggle. "Degradation?"

"No." This was firm, immediate. "Never. I know some people like it but . . ."

"But you need to be built up, not torn down," he finished. "Treasured, not humiliated. That's perfect, baby girl. That's you knowing yourself."

Name-calling (only sweet ones), pet names (extensive list provided), verbal commands (yes yes yes). Each negotiation peeled back another layer, revealing the shape of what we were building together.

"One more section for private negotiation," he said finally, voice gentler. "Sharing."

I tensed immediately. "Like . . . with others?"

"No. Sharing information. The contract asks about privacy levels—what can be discussed with others in the lifestyle, what stays completely between us, how to handle questions from vanilla friends."