Though his past actions would suggest otherwise, there’s something about Kurt that echoes boldness. During our first encounter on the subway last summer (when I pulled the old arm-brush-while-feigning-sleep maneuver on him), the way he pressed back against me—deliberately sneaky—piqued my curiosity. I’m rarely caught off guard, but he managed to get my attention. This naïve young piece of ass couldn’t see himself clearly enough to realize he needed my unique brand of pleasurable punishment.

A man like Kurt should be told what to do. He doesn’t like to make up his own mind. As much as he might protest at times, he’s secretly pleased when I order him around—treat him roughly.

And you know, I like giving it to him rough.

***

It’s evening rush hour on the West Side. I haven’t seen Kurt in ages, but when I’m standing next to him under the awning of the subway station, it feels like yesterday’s déjà-vu. Late April rain drums on the paned glass above us. Its quiet, pleasant thrumming soothes me. The monotonous pattering has the opposite effect on Kurt. He’s darting his glance from side to side, looking more self-conscious than a virgin in a porn shop.

It’s been nearly four months since our New Year’s Eve hookup. We haven’t kept in touch. Once or twice, I’ve wondered why he hadn’t broken down yet and at least texted me, but I didn’t press the issue. After all, I’ve had more than my share of obliging stand-ins. A hot piece of ass is a hot piece of ass.

Still, I’ve been curious as to his whereabouts. He’s usually so submissive and reluctantly accommodating. I wonder if he’s picked up a trick or two from my repertory of mind games.

“Kurt,” I say. “How are you faring these days?”

He looks at me with those mopey brown puppy eyes and I want to teach him a lesson. This little sub has been dodging me for months now. But I don’t want him to know I’ve missed pounding him into the floor until he begs for more.

“I’ve been good,” he says, not looking at me.

I notice he’s dyed his hair a lighter shade of brown. It suits him.

I feign annoyance. “I’m thrilled for you.”

He hunches over. “Look, I’ve gotta go. I have an early-morning meeting tomorrow, so I need to wake up at five a.m.”

Kurt and his weak excuses. Always so pathetic.

“It figures.”

Biting my bottom lip suggestively, I lean into his personal space. He jerks back.

“So . . .” I pause for effect. Although his body language is stiff, he’s hanging on my every word. Just as I knew he would. His eagerness makes me twitch. With a soft sigh, I continue, “See you a little later, then.”

“You mean, like . . . no, Luc. I can’t.”

His eyes find mine—desperate, searching. I know his heart’s racing, since he’s blushing like this is new. Like we’ve never screwed before. It pleases me to see the ghost of his naïveté.

I lick my lips. “You can’t?”

“I can’t—we can’t—” he stutters. A random guy bumps into him without apologizing. Kurt folds into himself like a crushed paper crane, observing the crowded entrance with self-conscious scrutiny. No one’s paying us any attention. They’re all too focused on their own shit to bother. However, Kurt remains his usual paranoid self.

“We can’t keep having sex,” he nearly whispers, still concerned with the passersby.

I raise my eyebrows at him in an imitation of surprise. “I never suggested we have sex.”

“But you said you’d—!” Kurt’s voice grows in volume. Then he remembers himself. He quickly glues his eyes to the ground, avoiding the stares of a few now-curious pedestrians.

“You said you’d see me later,” he mutters.

“Yes, that’s the generic thing to say to someone when you don’t really care if you never see him again.”

I get a sick thrill out of watching him wilt as he digests my insult. Kurt Craven is the perfect name for him. I couldn’t have named him better myself. Honestly, I have to restrain myself from throwing him down and punishing him in public. It’s a tempting thought, the eyes of strangers watching me as I pull down his pants and give him the best, most painful spanking of his life.

My hands itch to do the work they were born to do: pleasure through punishment.

“Sorry. I guess I misunderstood your intent.” Kurt’s cheeks flame a dull red.

I laugh. “Did you?”

He looks lost. “I have to get home. See you later, Luc.”

It almost stings, the way he throws my words back in my face. Almost—but not quite. I’d have to have feelings for him in order for it to actually hurt.

I let him walk away. Sometimes, it’s necessary to give the chain a generous amount of slack so the pet feels free. It’s that sense of false security I’ll use to draw Kurt back to me.