Page 77 of Naughty November
I drag my nail over his forearm to draw an isosceles triangle, with the long point facing towards his right. Neither of us moves for the few seconds it takes for his skin to react.
I can recall the moment I discovered he had dermatographia as though it were yesterday rather than years ago. He was worried about a test our science teacher had sprung on us without warning. He rubbed his arms while outpouring his frustration. What if he hadn’t done well? His skin went an alarming shade of red, and then, two or three minutes later, white, puffy welts formed. I thought he’d done himself a serious injury, but he assured me it was nothing and barely hurt before showing me how even the lightest scratch would cause the same reaction.
“Are you sick?”
Jools had cracked up laughing. “No! The doctor said no one knows what causes dermatographia. He said it’s like I have an allergic reaction to minor injuries.”
“Sounds painful.”
“It’s not. Promise. I think it’s kind of cool. Except when I have to sit next to Billy.”
“Why?”
“He draws on my arm and I don’t like it. I’d let you draw on me if you wanted to.”
“Why me?”
“Because it’s you.”
Am I still the only person he’ll let draw on him, or has he met other people he trusts during our years apart? I decide not to ask, instead focusing on him as bright red lines appear on his skin.
“A Play button,” he whispers.
“Tell me you don’t want this, Jools. Tell me to walk away, and I will.”
He catches hold of my hand. “I don’t want you to walk away.”
“What do you want?”
“You. I’ve always wanted you.”
ONE
DEVIN
I take a deep breath as I look around the dungeon—my dungeon. It’s my first night working at The Library, a kink club in the centre of London, themed in the style of a Victorian grand library. I won’t be bringing submissives in here right away. I need to meet them first, discuss their needs, wants, and boundaries, and plan scenes for them. Even so, it’s good to be here—good and almost surreal.
Someone knocks on my door. I turn around and smile at the man standing in the doorway. He fits the club’s vibe perfectly. His hair is dyed black, except for a floppy streak at the front, which has been dyed red, and he’s wearing Victorian gothic clothing, all in black. I feel underdressed in smart jeans and a shirt. He looks strict, whereas my style is encouraging and affirming. The couple who trained me dubbed me the ‘friendly Dom’.
“I have the room next door, so I thought I’d introduce myself. I’m Stefan.” He steps into the room and holds out his hand.
I shake it, noting his firm grip.
“I was asked to give you this.” He gives me a piece of paper.
I glance at it and then frown. “A kink list?”
“It’s being sent to all the club members to entice them to try a new kink in November. Expect to get at least a few subs who have never been to a professional Dom before, but who want to try out some of the things on the list safely.”
“And probably a few who’ll come back throughout the month to tick off as many as possible?”
“That’s the hope.”
I scan the list, which ranges from tickling to primal play, edging to sounding. I smile as I spot ‘writing on skin’. It sparks a memory of a hotel room in Amsterdam three years ago. Of a beautiful man whose skin would be perfect to write on. I haven’t seen Jools since I left for my flight to the UK, but that hasn’t stopped me thinking about him. He’s left a mark on my heart that will never be erased. What’s he doing right now? Is it morning in Australia? At one point, I knew exactly how many time zones were between us, but that knowledge faded years ago when our back-and-forth messages petered out. Is he all right? Is he happy?
“How are you feeling?” Stefan asks.
I fiddle with the hem of my shirt. “Nervous.”