August was nothing if not respectful. Raised and trained to honor the discretion of Dominants, August did so now, stubbornly refusing to contact Dante after their last e-mail exchange, despite the fact that he wanted to. The bruises and bites Dante had left were still yellowing, sensitive to the touch, and his wrists still ached with the need to be pinned.
The last nights (however many, it felt like an eternity) had been lonely, and August had cried. Far more than he had in years. It had been a quiet kind of routine he’d gotten into with Inya, and with the Domme gone, August had had to spend time in retrospection.
It had been obvious, August considered now, how he’d begun to question his claim since that day in his office, and it had probably been written all over his face and in all of his kisses every time she’d lain her lips against his. And it was still in every crevice of his identity now, from his lectures to his demonstrations, from his nightly routine to every time he jerked off.
Which was why, perhaps, it ached so badly to see Dante crossing through the hall now, after a particularly emotional lecture in which he advocated for finding a Dominant who inspired complete devotion. His eyes caught the Dominant’s briefly, but he turned them immediately down again, avoiding confrontation. // @revclling
