He wouldn't do it. Wouldn't ask Blair to kneel beside his desk, stay an
imaginary leash-length behind him when they walked. Wouldn't make Blair
strip when they walked into the loft, wouldn't keep him naked except
for a curve of leather fastened snugly around his neck.
Wouldn't order him to silence, command him to speak, wouldn't make
Blair bend and spread and cry out and whimper.
Wouldn't reach down and stroke Blair's head, calming him until the
trembling and the tears stopped, his other hand cool against reddened,
punished skin.
Wouldn't. But he wants to.
And Blair's waiting so patiently…