"So, how should we go about it?" Emilia asks in a fake cheery voice, once they enter her hall and she locks the door behind them.

Let's face it, she hoped that they'd come into her flat and...

His hand heavily lay on her shoulder, and she had but a second to enjoy the heat of his palm as if burning her through the fabric of her blouse. He spun her, and his mouth greedily claimed hers, stealing her breath, throwing her mind into a whirlpool of passion.

Instead Oates decorously takes off his coat, toes off his shoes, and is now standing, his arms passively hanging along his body. He's also looking under his feet.

Emilia quickly reviews what she knows about the man - and what she's learnt about the basics of BDSM. Emilia isn't touching the SM portion of it with a bargepole. B is for bondage; and she's really on the fence regarding B. At least for now.

D is for discipline.

And somehow it's the D aspect of it that suddenly isn't that... unpalatable.

"Alright, let's discuss the limits then," Emilia says firmly.

Oates' gaze jumps to her face, probably at the sound of the familiar terminology. He's still silent, and it feels charged. Emilia needs to speed up the proceedings, or she will start questioning it.

"Let's go to my bedroom," she says but then adds quickly. "But first, please, go wash your hands."

This is an experiment: she hasn't got the slightest idea whether she's being too pushy - or au contraire, she should've skipped the 'please.'

Oates nods, drops his head, and leaves for her washroom. Emilia considers waters officially tested. She releases a shuddering breath. Everything is shaking inside, mostly from anxiety - but it is the tiny percentage of her jitters that is caused by the memories of being in bed with the man, that pushes her to continue.

In the bedroom, she tidies up a tad, relocating books and notebooks onto her desk; and after a moment of hesitation, she takes the cover off her bed. Oates is back, and he stops in the door.

"Sit, please."

Emilia points at the bed. He makes a step forward.

"And take off your jacket."

It takes a significant effort to swallow 'please' this time.

He obeys. Dressed in the already familiar combination of a white button up and a waistcoat, he's quite a sight, especially in a contrast with Emilia's jolly bedding with a floral periwinkle pattern.

She stops in front of him.

"So, what are you into?" she asks, rummaging in her memory for results of her admittedly provisional research into kink. "I've never done anything non-vanilla, so we'll have to start slow."

She almost misses a shadow of an uncomfortable grimace that runs across his face - but only 'almost.' He lifts his face and opens his mouth, his hand going up at the same time.

And that's when Emilia is absolutely certain that he has just decided to give up on what he wants at this moment; and he's going to touch her; and be soft with her; and they might kiss and even shag now; and it'll be brilliant - but that's not what he needs right now.

"No!" She winces away from him. "Not yet!"

His eyes widen.

"You haven't answered my question," Emilia says. "We need to set limits, and―" She pauses and rephrases, "I need to understand what I want to try. Four C's, right? 'Caring, Communication, Consent, Caution.' So, let's communicate. Tell me what is 'green light,' what's a 'maybe,' and what's definitely off limits."

She can tell that she's made the right choice because his hands lie down parallel on his thighs.

"Blood play is a hard limit for me," he answers slowly. "Any edgeplay that involves cutting is a no-go."

Emilia jolts - that was way out of her comfort zone! - but she reminds herself that it's good news. Consent needs to be informed, after all.

"Restrains are definitely green light, but no pinching or clamping. It needs to be tight pressure but no cutting or heavy bruising. Blindfold, Kinbaku, collaring, impact, mostly paddling; but no breathplay and no whips. In an established relationship, conditionally, yes to prostate massage and pegging."

Emilia has been cataloguing his responses; some will need further research - Christ on a bike, what in the name of sanity is 'kinbaku?' - but this is where her mind comes to a figurative screeching halt. Pegging?! Even someone as uneducated as her knows what it is. Also, what does 'an established relationship' even mean in this context?!

"I'm into sensational play, but I still haven't found a dom that I'd enjoy it with," he continues. "I have a hard limit at tickling. But sometimes even the lightest touch is off-putting. It's finicky. I enjoyed you rubbing my back, and I never had that before." He frowns slightly. "I can't figure it out. Maybe it's the size of your hands, or maybe it's because I fancy you. And I usually dislike when people touch my face, but you did before, and I got hard. And I like kissing you, that's rare too. I'd love to explore that."

He stops, a pensive crinkle between his eyebrows. He's probably trying to remember if he's missed something - while Emilia can't quite recall how to breathe.

Did he― Did he just― just say―

Her editors often reprimand her for overly fanciful punctuation, and especially for her insufferably excessive use of italics; but Emilia never writes in 'all caps' in her books. She's snobbish this way.

Did he just say he FANCIED her?!

"That's it, I think," he says. "So, what do you―"

"Daniel," Emilia interrupts him. She doesn't think she's ever sounded that assured in her whole life. "I'm going to go wash my hands now, and you will stay where you are. And then we will explore the touching and kissing; and we'll see how it develops. Does that work for you?"

He nods and smiles. That is a new smile - eager and a bit shy.

She's going to 'explore' this man from stem to stern, all puns intended! Until he begs for mercy; even more puns intended!

"My safe word is 'plumbing spanner,'" he says.

"Excellent." Emilia takes off her cardigan and pulls up the sleeves of her baggy tunic. "And lose the waistcoat," she orders. "Unbutton your shirt, but don't take it off."

Before she turns around to head out of the room, his fingers are already working on the waistcoat.

***

When she's back - refreshed, and minty after a spot of tooth-brushing - she finds exactly what she needed to forget the last of her doubts.

Blimey, how is he so lush?!

During the first time, in his flat, she noticed a scar, about three inches long, on his left pectoral muscle. It's pretty obvious since the man is furry. It's not something she's ever given a lot of thought to, but she's discovered that lots and lots of body hair might be to her liking. Maybe she'll make her next protagonist Greek.

She wants to stand closer, but perhaps it's too early for physical contact between their lower halves. Commanding him to 'open his knees' is still a tad 'above her pay grade,' so she points and then wiggles her finger left and right. That seems to require no additional clarification - and soon she takes a step forward.

When the very tips of her fingers brush along the scar, she's rewarded with a coarse exhale from him.

"I think we should blindfold you," Emilia mutters, mesmerised by the glaring difference in their physique.

The hair is rough; some large, long muscles move under his skin when he draws a deep sharp breath, after she slides her hand up and strokes his collarbone with her thumb.

"I'll be more relaxed if you can't see me. You said that blindfold was a 'yes,'" she reminds him.

"But I want to see you," he says in a low voice.

He licks his bottom lip, and she understands that he's blatantly staring at her chest. An unexpected strike of inspiration zaps through Emilia's oxytocin, beta-endorphin and estradiol flooded brain; and she presses her index finger to the tip of his nose.

"Beggars can't be choosers, Daniel," she murmurs.

She withstands his stare; his face is animated enough now, so she can pretty much see when it clicks for him. He swallows, his strong neck moving.

"Please?" he whispers. "Please don't blindfold me."

"Alright," she benevolently agrees. "But it'll cost you."

Where is this pluck coming from, Emilia? she asks herself in bewilderment. And that's when she realises that there's no Kate and no 'Milly' appellation.

"What do I have to do?" he asks.

"Unbuckle your belt and open your trousers."

She doesn't need to ask him twice. Evidently, she's just awarded a carrot where she was supposed to give a stick. Time to tighten the leash.

"What would you rather I take off?" she asks. "My top or my bottoms?"

"Top," he answers - very, very quickly. Someone's gagging for it, innit?

"I thought you liked my arse," Emilia says with a laugh and pushes her hand into the thick heavy waves on the back of his head. "Is this some sort of masochistic self-denial?"

She pulls, making him tilt his head back.

"But I like them too," he rasps out. "Please, I― I want―"

Emilia tugs harder.

"What is it? What do you want?" she asks. "I won't know unless you explicitly say it, Daniel."

"I want to kiss..." 

His gaze drops onto her cleavage.

"No, I don't think that's happening."

Emilia releases her grip on his locks and steps back. His jaw slacks.

"I don't think you've earned that yet," she says. "I still need convincing."

He's peering at her, his expression imploring. "Please?"

"Please what?"

"Please kiss me."