Starting Over

Violet's Flashback: Meeting Toby

Toby's face remained emotionless. "I understand your point, but there are boundaries."

"Fuck boundaries," I said with an eyeroll. "I just haven't gotten spanked since Gabe and Molly abandoned me. And you're the only person I have right now cuz of this stupid house arrest. How'm I supposed to meet anyone with this bullshit?" I asked, pointing to my tracking anklet.

He digested my argument.

Squirming in my seat, I said, "You know I'm right."

He was still processing, knowing I wouldn't be able to handle the silence.

"As long as we communicate and don't let it get messy, we're fine. I'll even tone down the sass for ya... a little."

A loud cackle echoed through the room. "Is that even possible?"

"Afraid you can't handle me, sir?"

Toby kept his cool, not reacting to my taunting. "No. I'm concerned about the impact of opening our friendship to a highly intimate activity."

"You're such an adult... what does that even mean? No wait, it don't matter. You know who I could call? My old dealer... he'd spank me and hook me up with some blow."

"Do not try to manipulate me." His tone was so menacing, I should've taken the hint (but we all know I didn't).

"Oh, so you're the only one allowed to play mind games?"

I expected a half-smirk (Gabe would've appreciated me firing back at him like that), but received a glare.

But he still didn't really speak, so I kept yammering on. "Sheesh I can't believe I'm this desperate to get spanked. Please just help me. As a friend. We can do it your way. We can even make... 'boundaries'."

Toby tortured me with a few more seconds of silence, then replied in his most serious voice, "If we do this, you'll make the rules, and I'll act solely as the enforcer of consequences. Do you agree?"

"Ugh, rules, but fine. Yeah."

Toby was so different from Gabe, who enjoyed the power struggle. I felt a pang in my chest at the memory of him, emptiness spreading through my body as I remembered how bad I fucked everything up.

Instead of entertaining that spiral, I returned to the matter at hand. "Actually, I already have 'goals' written out." I dug in my pocket for the folded up loose-leaf paper. Straightening it out, I cleared my throat and started reading the scribbles I'd made in therapy earlier that day. "Complete homework and school assignments. Arrive on time to classes and appointments. Use conflict resolution skills — my therapist 'encouraged' me to add that one."

"Understandable."

"Use healthy coping skills instead of drugs/alcohol/gambling. Meditate daily." With that last one I made a sour face, crumpling up the list and tossing it across the room.

"Describe the arrangement you're imagining."

My cheeks flushed thinking about admitting my fantasy aloud. "I've been journaling... just kinda tryin' to figure out my anger stuff. I dunno... maybe you could check in weekly to make sure I'm still doing it and also sticking to my goals. Use whatever implements you find effective. Just hold me accountable."

"What are your limits with punishments?"

"I'm open to anything in the beginning and am vocal and obvious when something isn't okay."

"Could've fooled me," he teased, bringing me back into brat-space (is this even a term? Maybe I'm inventing it).

My eyes rolled, but then I bit my lower lip, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable, in a good way. "So? Will you do it?"