Was it Gaiman? “I don’t want to die. I’m not ready. I haven’t experienced things yet. Read enough books. Had sex.” The words weren’t ori...inal, probably from that Neil Gaiman short, but at the time, nothing else mattered. The man smiled, cracked teeth leading the way. “I thought you’d say that. Why don’t we make a deal then?” He dropped the satchel from his shoulder and pulled out a thick black box. The lid came off and I recognized neatly carved chess pieces sitting in velvet-lined squares.. “Thrash.” “Smack.” These were the words he preferred. Less of a Daddy Dom vibe to them, he said, as he fed her Tasmanian oysters from his own plate, sliding them down her throat straight from the shell, glistening with lemon and rock salt. “Far more appropriate to what goes on between two consenting adults.” Though the harsher sound of his preferred words frightened her more than a little, she could see well what he meant. She liked the term “discipline” however. Very much so. And another word. More

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