Crossing Lines Chapter 18

**Noah**

I sat across from him, knees bouncing under the table like a damn freshman on test day.

The folder sat between us like a bomb. And honestly? It kind of felt like one.

“Any questions before we begin?” he asked, voice calm, cool, and way too steady for someone about to walk me through my own spiritual death and rebirth or whatever sacred ritual this was.

I cleared my throat. “Uh. Yeah. So—just to be clear—this contract isn’t like… legally binding, right? You’re not gonna, like, sue me if I accidentally call you Coach instead of, like, Master of the Universe or something?”

Aiden blinked once. “It is not legally binding, no. But if you break your word, there will be consequences. Starting right now.”

I coughed. “Fun consequences, or like… Catholic guilt and a hundred push-ups?”

He raised an eyebrow.

*Oh, crap…* “Sir. I meant to say, Sir.”

His expression didn’t change. “You’ll find out.”

*Gulp.*

He opened the folder like it was sacred scripture. “Let’s begin.”

We started with soft and hard limits. Let it be known: I came prepared. I’d read that whole packet earlier. Twice.

Didn’t help.

“Golden showers?” I whispered. “That’s… like, pee, right?”

Aiden didn’t blink. “Yes.”

I cleared my throat. “Scat?”

“Hard limit for most. Feces play.”

“Jesus. A hard, neon-colored NO.” I blinked down at the paper. “What about figging? That sounds like a dessert.”

That earned the tiniest tilt of his head. “It involves inserting raw ginger. It burns.”

I winced. “That’s a no from me.”

He nodded, expression unreadable. “Then mark it as a hard limit.”

I paused, then frowned. “TPE?”

“Total Power Exchange. 24/7 ownership.”

“Oh.” My voice squeaked a little. “Like… all day?”

“All day,” he confirmed.

I nodded slowly. “Okay, yeah, cool, cool. Not today, Satan.”

Aiden cleared his throat. “Sir.”

I blinked. “What?”

He gave me a look that could melt glaciers. “When you speak to me—especially in a scene or discussion of rules—you will use ‘Sir.’ You agreed to that, and this is the second time I’ve reminded you.”

Shit. “Right. Sorry—Sir.”

He inclined his head. “Continue.”

I turned back to the sheet like it was going to bite me. “What’s pet play?”

“You roleplay as an animal. Common forms include puppies or kittens.”

“Like… tail and everything?”

“Yes.”

I rubbed my temples. “Is there a glossary? Or like… a decoder ring?”

He didn’t smile, but something in his eyes said he almost wanted to. “Most of these,” he said, tapping the page, “are extremes. Many won’t apply to you. But it’s important to learn the language and make informed choices.”

Right. Informed. Sure.

But he didn’t let me off the hook. “That said,” he continued, flipping to a summary sheet in the back, “we can simplify this part into broader categories for now. You’ll still need to review them later in detail, but I want to get a sense of your instincts.”

I nodded, swallowing hard. “Okay.”

“First: *Bondage*. Ropes, cuffs, restraints.”

“Fine,” I said quickly. “As long as you’re not hanging me from the ceiling.”

“Noted,” he replied, unfazed. “*Bodily fluids*—urine, blood, spit, scat.”

“No,” I said, already gagging. “Sir. That’s a hard limit.”

“Understood. *Humiliation*?”

I hesitated. “Like… what kind?”

“Verbal degradation. Name-calling. Mockery. Public exposure.”

I shifted in my seat. “Soft limit. If you call me ‘*slut*,’ I might punch you.”

Aiden made a small note, completely unfazed. “Duly noted. *Impact and rough play*? Spanking, slapping, floggers, hair pulling?”

“…Fine,” I mumbled. “As long as you don’t break bones or pull out teeth.”

“No bones or teeth. *Non-impact play*—feathers, ice, temperature, wax?”

I shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

“*Non-monogamy*?” His tone changed slightly—lower, firmer.

I shook my head. “I’m not into that.”

He met my eyes. “Neither am I.”

I blinked. “Wait, really?”

“I don’t share,” he said flatly.

Okay then.

“*Sexual activity*?” he asked next. “Penetration? Oral? Mutual touch?”

I fidgeted, felt my face go red. “Not up my ass,” I muttered. “I’m still… you know.”

He raised a brow.

“Straight,” I added, avoiding his gaze.

“Very well,” he said calmly. “Unless you ask me to.”

“That will be *never*... Sir.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “We will see.”

I skipped over a small section and circled back to what I *did* understand.

“For my safeword,” I said, clearing my throat, “I’d like to go with… ‘*Mercy*.’”

His eyes warmed, just a bit. “A classic.”

“I was gonna go with ‘*bananas*,’ but figured it might not work mid-panic.”

He didn’t laugh, but his eyes told me he wanted to.

Then came the deeper stuff. Fears. Desires. Punishment and reward. He asked calmly, professionally, like it was just another Tuesday night at a board meeting—but the questions? They weren’t easy.

“What do you fear most in this dynamic?”

Being abandoned. Not being good enough.

Letting someone down who finally gives a shit.

I shrugged. “Failure, I guess.”

“I see… And tangible fears?” he asked, one brow lifting.

*Oh, smooth. I see what you’re doing.*

“I don’t have any, Sir,” I lied.

The warmth in his expression vanished. “Noah, do you remember what we said about trust?”

“Yes, Sir.” I bit my upper lip.

“Without truth, there’s no trust. And there’s one rule that can never be broken. All mistakes can be punished and forgiven—except lying. You lie to me, and you’re out. Same goes for me. So I’ll ask again. Do you have any fears?”

My mouth went dry. “You just want me to tell you so you can use them against me.”

“Sir.”

*Oh, my God.* “Sir.”

“And yes,” he said calmly, “I probably will. If it helps you heal.”

Smooth as hell…

I looked down, rubbing the back of my neck, trying not to pull my hair—childhood habit, anxiety trigger. “Small spaces I can’t escape from. And… cockroaches, Sir.”

He nodded once. “Good. Thank you for the honesty. Now—what do you want most?”

That one took longer. But when it came, it was simple.

“Peace.”

A small pause. Then, quietly:

“And that, Noah, is exactly what I’ll give you.”

We kept going. He explained the difference between discipline and punishment. Talked about rules, structure, obedience. And when we reached the question about health or medications, I hesitated.

He noticed.

“Noah?”

“I used to be on something for anxiety. I’m not anymore, Sir.”

He said nothing. Just waited.

“I figured out ways to handle it. Coping mechanisms. And… I’m okay now. Mostly.”

“Good.” His voice was still calm, but I caught the protective edge underneath. “If that ever changes, you tell me. Immediately.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Finally, we reached the end.

He slid the last page toward me. “This is the declaration of intent. You don’t have to sign it now, but read it.”

I read aloud, slowly.

*“I, Noah Blake, request the acceptance of my submission by Aiden Mercer. I offer my trust and obedience freely, and in return, I ask for guidance, protection, and the structure to become my best self…”*

*“I agree to speak honestly, to voice needs, fears, and boundaries without shame. I surrender control only with the understanding that my safety—emotional, mental, and physical—will be your responsibility…”*

*“This contract is valid for a trial period of six weeks, at the end of which we will either renew, revise… or end it.”*

I looked up. “Six weeks?”

“A full cycle. Enough time to assess compatibility.”

“What if I’m terrible at this?” I asked. “Like, what if I trip during my first kneel and get a concussion?”

“Then I’ll teach you again. Slower. On carpet.”

That earned a laugh—real, breathy, nervous. “You’re serious about all this.”

“Deadly.”

And I believed him.

My fingers traced the edge of the paper as I said, quietly, “I want to try.”

And when he nodded, approval soft in his eyes, I felt something inside me settle.

Maybe I was crazy. Maybe this whole thing was one long delayed spiral, but right now, I felt seen. Safe.

And—for the first time in forever—wanted.

Just then, I signed myself in body and soul to a man I knew nothing about.