Page 72 of Wings
"How does it feel," Tyson asked carefully, "seeing your rights formalized this way?"
"Safe," I admitted, glancing at Gabe. "Like I matter. Like my consent matters not just now but always."
"Because it does," Gabe said firmly. "These aren't restrictions on my power, baby girl. They're the foundation that makes the power exchange possible."
Tyson nodded approval before continuing. "Our club has become more and more ddlg friendly. It’s important to all of us that we get this all right. Now we move into daily protocols. These are the structural elements that maintain your dynamic during regular life."
The next pages detailed schedules and expectations that were already familiar but somehow more real in writing. Some of it we’d been over before, but it was all here in one place. Bedtime routine depending on what shift I’d be working at the hospital. Three meals a day with at least one being substantial. Morning and evening check-ins via text when apart. Permission required for purchases over fifty dollars.
"These seem small," Tyson explained as I initialed each one, "but structure creates security. Knowing expectations prevents anxiety and provides framework for the dynamic to flourish."
He was right. I could feel myself settling as we worked through each protocol, the familiar rules that had already made my life feel more manageable now backed by formal agreement. The fountain pen grew warm in my hand as I worked, each initial an acknowledgment that I wanted this structure, needed it even.
"Punishments and corrections," Tyson announced, turning to a new section. "Divided into categories based on severity of infraction. Note that all punishments must be proportional and purposeful—never delivered in anger, always followed by discussion and aftercare."
The list was familiar from our discussions but seeing it written felt different. Corner time for minor infractions like forgotten check-ins. Writing lines for attitude adjustments. Spanking for deliberate disobedience. Each punishment carefully calibrated to correct while maintaining care.
"The sub-section on funishments is separate," Tyson noted with the ghost of a smile. "Those are rewards disguised as punishments, meant for play rather than correction. Different headspace, different intention."
Heat crept up my neck as I initialed that section, remembering the time Gabe had put me over his knee. That had started as a punishment, but quickly changed into something else. Thecontract accounted for all aspects of our dynamic—the serious and the playful, the corrective and the connective.
"Health and safety protocols," Tyson continued, his voice gentling. "This section is particularly important given your history."
My hand stilled on the page. This section detailed regular STD testing (even though we were exclusive), respect for therapy boundaries if I chose to pursue counseling, and immediate cessation of any physical discipline if I was injured or ill. But more than that, it included provisions for mental health—recognition that some days the dynamic might need to shift, that trauma responses required patience not punishment.
"Gabe insisted on this section being comprehensive," Tyson said quietly. "He wanted it clear that your wellbeing supersedes any protocol or rule."
I initialed the section with a flourish, each mark a step toward something I'd never thought I deserved—safety wrapped in structure, freedom found in surrender.
"Now we come to the more personal sections," Tyson said, closing his folder with deliberate care. The sound echoed in the candlelit room like a gavel marking the end of one phase and the beginning of another.
He stood slowly, reading glasses disappearing back into his vest pocket. The formal witness was receding, leaving the man who understood that some negotiations required privacy. "These negotiations should be private between you. Let me know when you need me back for the final signing."
His gaze moved between us, weighted with meaning. "Take your time. Be thorough. This document will guide your dynamic, until you review."
The door closed behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo. The room felt smaller instantly, the candle flames flickering as if responding to the shift in energy. Just Gabe andme now, with pages that would detail every intimate possibility between us.
"Hey," Gabe said softly, recognizing my sudden tension. He pushed his chair back, then patted his thigh. "Come here."
I moved without thinking, settling sideways across his lap. I could feel his heartbeat through the expensive suit fabric, steady where mine raced.
"We don't have to negotiate everything tonight," he said against my hair. "Just the foundations. The rest can grow as we do."
"I know." I picked at a non-existent thread on his jacket. "It's just... seeing it all written out . . ."
"Makes it real?"
"Makes it intense." I forced myself to meet his eyes. "In a good way."
He reached around me for the next section of the contract, angling it so we could both read. "We go through each item. Yes, no, or maybe for now. Nothing's set in stone except hard limits. And remember—your arousal is not consent. Being wet for something doesn't mean you’ve agreed to it."
My face flamed at his directness, but that was Gabe—cutting through potential shame with practical acknowledgment. He knew my body's responses, knew how easily I got aroused during these discussions. This was his way of ensuring my consent came from my mind, not just my body's reactions.
"Spanking," he read, starting with something already familiar. "We know that's a yes, but let's define it. Hand only, or implements too?"
"Both," I managed, voice smaller than intended.
His hand rubbed slow circles on my back. "Paddle, crop, flogger?"
