Control (The Protocol, #1)

by Lasairiona Lewis

That’s it. I’m licking this man and claiming him as my own. I want to come like this every single morning. Ankles cuffed to wrists, fingers in my ass and pussy, and this whip-quick tongue brushing precision strokes against my clit. I’m definitely in heaven.

Those words, that praise, it sends warm shivers coursing through my body, giving me confidence to ask for more.

Aren’t doms supposed to want you to do their bidding? What kind of dominant wants to make you come repeatedly on his tongue? He pauses what he’s doing. “The pleasure kind.” Fuck. Did I say that out loud?

His tongue is back on my clit with a renewed determination. I don’t know how it’s not exhausted. Does he just spend hours waggling his tongue and practicing doing this to women until they black out?

This man is orgasm Satan. He’s going to make me come until I die and join him in the underworld.

“Green.” “You sure?” Nope. I’m pretty sure he’s sucking my soul out of my clit piece by precious piece. Am I gifting my soul to the orgasm devil? Sure feels like it.

“I’m sure. But I don’t think I can come again.” He beams up at me before licking his lips. “Challenge accepted.” Two more orgasms and a nap on his chest later, I wake up somewhere close to noon.

“I guess you could even call me a service dom. A Dom that mostly concentrates on the submissive's pleasure. Sometimes we’re enthralled by it.”

“Good girl. I’ll see you downstairs. Coffee?” “Black. Like my soul.”

“Any allergies? I should have checked before I started.” I walk up behind him to steal a strip of bacon resting on the paper towels. “No allergies. And I love food. I didn’t get this ass from eating celery.” He scowls at me over his shoulder, frying pan in one hand, spatula in another. “You’re lucky my hands are full or I’d spank you for that kind of shitty self-talk, Addison.”

When I pull open the door, my stomach drops. A young boy, maybe ten or twelve years old stands in front of me surrounded by bags at his feet. He’s clutching a giant Chewbacca Squishmallow pillow. I only know because my niece has one as well. There’s no way this kid isn’t related to Thor. He has the same wild blue eyes, the same shaped chin, and his hair is the same color. Despite the screaming voice in my mind telling me this kid is Thor’s kid, I hold onto some kind of hope that maybe he’s his younger brother. Or a nephew... cousin... something.

Wordlessly, he hands me over a piece of paper in his trembling hand. Part of me knows I have no business at all accepting the paper, or reading it, but the curiosity burns so deep in my gut that I shamefully accept the page and unfold it. Dear Thor, This is Matthew, or Matty. He’s your son. He’s autistic. And while he’s an amazing child, I just can’t do it anymore. Please don’t try to look for me. I need a break. There’s a notebook in his backpack with further information about him. Good luck. Caz

I read the letter again before staring at the child. Then read it a third time. Fucking hell. It’s the least empathetic, or sympathetic note I’ve ever read, especially considering she’s just dumped her kid on a guy she probably hasn’t seen in a while.

I swallow a few times before rereading the note in case I missed something on the first pass. Nope, it’s every bit as cold as it was the first time over. I guess when you’re leaving your kid, you have to detach yourself from the feelings even just a little. Though I have no experience with it. My sister’s daughter is autistic too, and I’ve been around my sister and niece enough to know that it can certainly be challenging. But to abandon her son altogether? It’s so hard not to let judgment cloud my mind in this moment.

Thor’s voice breaks the silence as he steps out onto the porch. “Who is it?” Handing him the piece of paper, I avoid his questioning stare. “Your son.”

Glancing over the letter in my hands I wrack my brain trying to remember who the fuck Caz is. I see it. This kid looks like me, so there’s no clues in his features as to who his mother might be. Fuck. He looks like me. It’s like looking at an old photo of myself as a child, right down to the gangly limbs and the dimples in his face.

This can’t be for real. I can’t have a kid just... dropped off on my doorstep. Who the hell just drops a kid off with a note? Fuck.

Caz from eleven years ago. I’ve literally got nothing. At all. And this poor kid seems to have his wordly possessions scattered around his feet. Fuck.

One fuck is not enough for this situation. But I can’t spear my hands into my hair and scream like every cell in my body is yelling at me to do. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck do I do with a kid?

She collects the pile of blankets to Matty’s left and hurries inside. I’m never seeing this woman again. She looks like she might keel over. We went at it pretty hard last night, and the last thing I need is for her to pass out at the wheel as she’s driving so I’m glad she’s taking the initiative to self-care.

I’m not sure how I’m going to call or text her to check up on her later after all this. But I want to. I should. Dom Thor kicks in for a faltering second. But as much as I want to take care of her, I’m trying to focus on something, anything that isn’t the damn near fully grown child ON MY FUCKING DOORSTEP.

“Did she leave because of me?” “No, kiddo. She was going to leave anyway.” “I bet she was going to stay to eat breakfast.” Kid’s not stupid. I won’t treat him as such either. “You’re right, she did leave sooner than planned. She probably just wanted to give us space.”

He eventually sits, still clutching the oversized pillow. I should probably take it off him before it ends up covered in maple syrup but if I was just dumped on a stranger and abandoned by my mother, I’d need a comfort item too.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. Father. Shit. Fuck. Fuck.

I’m not cut out to be a father. I mean, sure, it’s something I’ve always wanted, but I’m in my thirties. I live a playboy lifestyle. I guess I thought if it was...

The temptation to call social services and hand this child over to someone better qualified than me is overwhelming. But I stamp down that instinct, at least for a moment. The kid’s probably terrified, and the last thing he needs is for the person he was dumped on to throw his hands up and say “nope, not it,” and leave him too. As someone whose father abandoned him as a child... well, suffice it to say, that shit causes some deep trauma I’m ...

I feel sick. My day job is a work from home position. I might be a bar manager by night but that’s essentially just for the fun of it. I don’t need my pay check from Protocol. Working there fuels my need to be around people without getting too close to people. And it gives me a space to safely express my sexuality, which is a huge part of my life.

By day, I’m a scientific literature reviewer with a biomedical science degree. I’m a contractor. Generally working around three hours a day and bringing in pretty damn good money because of the field I’m in. That’s my bread and butter. But my bar job, that’s my me job. That lets me be myself, and gives me the strength and bandwidth to work from home, alone, to keep a roof over my head and food on the table.

I can’t leave my job at the bar, not even for my kid. It would destroy us both. I’d sink into a miserable space and resent him for it. I’d—wow. Talk about getting ahead of myself. I’m already writing us...

This is such a bad idea. I can’t adult for another human being. But something inside me knows with one hundred percent certainty I’m a dad now. This is really happening.

The only thing I can think of to do, is to talk to him. I’m sure this isn’t the first time he’s had a meltdown like this, so maybe I can get through to him on some level, and he can figure out a way to help me, help him. That’s a shit-load of responsibility to put on someone so small. I need a better plan.

“Matthew, buddy. I really don’t know how to help you right now. And I’m so sorry about that. But I’m here, okay? I’m here, and you’re safe, and you can do whatever it is you need to do to get through this. I promise you, everything is going to be okay.”

Well, shit. I went and promised something I had no business promising. But I’m resolved. No matter how long it takes, no matter how hard things might get, I’m go...

“Mom?” “What’s wrong?” “Nothing, I just⁠—” “Thoren Bartholomew Snyder, don’t bullshit me. I wiped your ass for years and know exactly what your shit smells like. Start talking.”

“What else did the note say?” “He has autism.” Mom grunts. “Thor, honey, you don’t have autism, you are autistic.” She clucks her tongue. “It’s not something he has, it’s something he is.

“How do you know so much about it?” “Betty McClay’s granddaughter is autistic. She’s younger than Matty, but it’s been a baptism by fire for Betty. She has thirteen grandkids, and Darlene is the first who is neurodivergent. Betty calls her neurospicy.” “What the fuck is neurospicy?” “Watch your language around my grandson, Thoren.”

When I close his door behind me, I slither down the door and land my ass on the floor. Green binder in my lap. I have no clue what autism is, or how to help Matthew navigate the world while being autistic. But I sure as shit am going to try.

I don’t run. Like, never. Cardio and I aren’t exactly on first name terms. But when I say I fled Thor’s house as though someone was chasing me and asking to share my food, it’s an understatement. My ankle hurts, I probably twisted it... from all the running.

Kenzie Does this require an in person intervention? Paige I’m not going to Thor’s house if he’s still pounding her lady town. Voyeurism isn’t my kink. I’m not at Thor’s anymore. I’m back at home. But I think I need an emergency Sub Club meeting. Kenzie On our way.

Not being able to keep a roof over my own head feels so irresponsible. When all I was trying to do was split costs until I could save up a down-payment on a forever home. Paying half the rent meant my bank account would get nice and fat. I was trying to be responsible.

This is why I don’t adult. It never works out for me. I need constant adult supervision.

Tears burn my eyes as a lump appears in the back of my throat. I refuse to cry. Not because I’m not alone, but because I hate feelings and refuse to let them have power over me.

“Holy shit. Thor’s a pleasure dom for sure. He just kept rolling your orgasms until you couldn’t come anymore?” Nodding at Paige, I refill our glasses. “Yeah. I think my soul left my body. But I’m pretty sure he kept telling me to be a good girl and come for him. But by that point I was just hearing colors and seeing sounds so I might have just imagined he said that.”

“Orgasm denial.” Paige grins at her own words. “How long has it been?” Kenzie’s stare hardens. “A day.” Paige cracks up laughing. Like, full belly laugh, tears in her eyes, clutching her stomach laughing. Kenz smacks her arm. “Stop it. It’s not funny. It’s awful.” Kenzie looks like she might cry again. “He says he’s trying to teach me patience. I feel like not orgasming for a whole day is patient enough. But apparently he doesn’t agree. He’s driving me insane.”

“He’s making her edge like six times a day.” “When do you have the time?” “I don’t,” she snaps before downing so much of her wine she’s probably going to need to take a ride-share home. “He’s making her do it anywhere and everywhere.” “Everywhere?” My eyebrows jump. “Like where?” “Restaurants, bathrooms, my car, the parking lot, work...”

She hangs her head in her hands. “I was almost busted by one of the players on the team last night at work. Hand in my pants in my office, edging for the millionth time. They stopped by ‘cause they sa...

I can’t help laughing. Working as a trainer for the college hockey team is usually her happy place, but she seems so distressed. I guess it’s easy for me to laugh since I spent the past twenty-four ...

Oh, the master of orgasms. He’d totally love ...

Maybe now he’s a dad he’ll stop working at the club. I can’t imagine it’d go down too well with the PTA moms that he works in a sex bar. Except, wouldn’t that be damn near every housewife’s dream? Single dad who looks like Thor, who works in a BDSM club? Fuck. Now I’m all the way jealous.

Kenzie’s phone vibrates on the table and she groans. Paige howls with laughter, picking up Kenzie’s cell. “Better get to it. Chop, chop. And we’ll tell him if you don’t, so make the noises believable.” Paige is enjoying herself way too much. “Paige, your Domme is showing.” I tip my glass to her, and she clinks hers against it. “It’s been too long since she’s come out to play.” “I hate you both,” Kenzie mutters as she pushes back from the table.