Unforgettable

by Aleatha Romig

  It takes my hazy mind a moment to realize that I’m not the only one who’s orgasmed. His hand continues to move up and down as a silky white stream coats my skin.

  Obey and you’ll have the best orgasm of your life. If you’re very good, we both will.

  His words bring a smile to my face.

  I continue my stare of his hand over his large penis when all at once he pushes his still-hard cock away, hiding it behind the layers of material. His shoulders straighten and neck elongates. His dark gaze has lost the spark of earlier, deepening into the dominating stare from the man in the window.

  Unsure what to do, I remain still as he walks into the shadows near the back of the room and emerges with tissues in hand. I hold my breath as he lowers himself, bending his knees and sitting upon his haunches, and slowly and methodically wipes away his seed, cleaning my skin.

  My smile fades with uncertainty as I watch his every move. Though I believe I shouldn’t say a word, I want to protest his care, to say that he’s marked me and I don’t want his mark gone. Once he’s satisfied, he again offers me his hand. Taking it, I stand on wobbly legs as he lifts my dress from the floor and lays it gently onto the sofa.

  “Do you have a name, gorgeous?” His deep voice speaks to my core like it did when he was directing my movements.

  “Yes, Sir.” My voice sounds different, more demure yet confident.

  Is that possible after only one experience?

  His cheeks rise as with one hand he lifts my chin, bringing our gazes together, and the other snakes around my waist, pulling my naked body against his clothed solid frame. “What is your name? Whom should I request upon my next visit?”

  Next visit?

  My pulse increases.

  Did I plan to return?

  His grip of my chin tightens as he raises it higher. “No, Sir is still an option.”

  I swallow, saying a silent apology to my sister. “My name is Moira, Sir. How will I know when the next time will be?”

  “You’ll be informed, Moira. Until then, remember what happened. Think about it. Dream about it.”

  I am certain I will not forget what happened—ever.

  I nod, my breasts heaving as my heart thunders against his chest. The cologne cloud from before is now mixed with the lingering scent of our arousals.

  “One more thing,” he says. Not waiting for me to respond, he continues, “Do not touch yourself again.” He releases my chin and reaches for my hand. “If these fingers...” His lips kiss the tips of the fingers I’d just used to touch myself. “...touch that perfect pussy, the next time we’re together, your pussy will meet a crop before getting any opportunity for relief.”

  A crop.

  There!

  His neck straightens. “Come now, Moira. I’m waiting for your answer.”

  My answer?

  A crop?

  My mind is consumed with the idea.

  I don’t have an answer. I have questions.

  And then it hits me, the answer he’s waiting to hear.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Yes, Sir...what?”

  “I want there to be a next time and I won’t...” Why is saying the words more embarrassing than doing the act?

  “You won’t touch yourself.”

  I nod. “Yes, Sir. I won’t do that.”

  His lips curl in amusement. “You’re precious.”

  “Is that bad? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, Moira, you are perfect.”

  Perfect.

  How can one word fill me with such contentment?

  His lips brush the top of my head as he releases me. Reaching for my dress, he stills as his gaze scans from my blonde hair to my shoes. “That body shouldn’t be covered, but the idea of anyone else seeing you like this is strangely upsetting. Get dressed and wait. Don’t leave this room alone. I’ll send Dorothy to retrieve you and accompany you to your car.”

  “She suggested the bourbon bar?” I don’t know what made me mention it. The truth is I’m too overwhelmed with what just occurred to enter a bar or meet more people.

  His head shakes as his dark gaze narrows under the mask. “No.”

  “No?”

  “Wait for Dorothy.”

  “Yes, Sir.” I think about coming face-to-face with the woman who brought me here. As I do, my cheeks fill with heat. “Will she know what we...?”

  “Being viewed by others may be approved by you, but it’s not by me. No one knows but us. Assumptions will be made based on Lace and Leather. However, only we know what occurred.”

  I let out a breath. “Thank you, Sir.” Clutching my dress to my breasts, I stand enthralled with a man I barely know. And then it occurs to me. I don’t know him at all. As he begins to walk away, I ask, “Sir, do you have a name?”

  Marji

  Mr. Santana.

  Broad shoulders.

  Commanding timbre.

  Full lips.

  Dark, penetrating stare.

  The feel of those lips on my hair and fingers makes me want them on other places, makes my skin yearn for more.

  I wake from my restless sleep covered in perspiration as my hand snakes down my stomach and my fingers tease the waistband of my underwear. These aren’t made of lace. These are ones I’ve had for years, boy shorts made of cotton. And as my dream fades—the one of Mr. Santana sitting on the chair in the darkened room directing my movements, his deep voice commanding the removal of my dress, leaving nothing but the lace thong and high heels, and telling me to come to him, not on my feet, but crawling on my knees—reality sets in. I’m not at Lace and Leather. I haven’t been there since last Saturday night. It’s now nearly Thursday morning, and I’ve heard nothing from the man who said I’d be informed about our next meeting nor from Dorothy or anyone else at the club.

  My hand stills as I stare up at the ceiling in my bedroom and watch the reflections of light from the outside lamps dance across the surface.

  He told me to think about what happened. He told me to dream about it.

  I’m not certain how one man can have that much influence, but with each passing minute, hour, and day what happened at Lace and Leather is all I can think about. It’s unforgettable. Even at work, I have had to delete entire pages of notes as Dr. Kizer’s dictations morph into my experience, morphing further into my fantasies.

  I’ve told myself I would visit the club once, experience the things I’ve heard about, and be done.

  That isn’t what happened.

  I want more.

  I want so much more, and in every vision, every glimpse into my imagination, Mr. Santana is there with his dark eyes gleaming as a crop reddens my skin. I’ve been online as well as transcribed clients’ thoughts. My mind knows that the leather will bite and yet despite the way my heart thumps in wary anticipation, I want to experience it. I want the pain because once he’s done, I’ll hear his voice. ‘No, Marji, you’re perfect.’ And then that cock of his will take away the pain, bringing me pleasure that my own hands could never match.

  My fingers move lower, under the waistband.

  I suddenly realize the error in my fantasy. He doesn’t know my real name. I don’t know his.

  “Come on, Marji,” I say aloud to myself. “You’re probably never going to hear from him again. What are you going to do, spend the rest of your life without satisfaction? How will he know?”

  Exhaling, I pull my hand up to my chest and roll onto my stomach, keeping it pinned beneath me. If I placed a pillow beneath me and moved my hips, that isn’t touching, is it?

  His dark eyes appear and I know that he didn’t forbid what I’ve imagined, yet it was implied. Sighing, I roll again, throwing the covers off only to wake minutes later with a chill and pull them back on.

  This is agony.

  “Saturday will be a week,” I say aloud to the darkness. “Seven days. If I’m not informed by Saturday, I will take matters into my own hands.”

  I’ve given the idea of my information some
thought. Since the club uses pseudonyms and the forms are filled out with identification numbers, how can I be informed? I even asked Dorothy that the night she came to retrieve me.

  Letting out a long breath, I think back to her entrance.

  * * *

  NEARLY A WEEK AGO

  Time has passed, yet I’m not sure of how long. The window across the room is still dark, the way Mr. Santana made it and now I’m wondering if the couple is still there. Did he let her come? Did he allow her any satisfaction?

  A smile comes to my lips.

  Did he mark her as I was marked?

  I startle as the sound of knocking refocuses me. Standing, I smooth my dress and walk to the door. “Yes?”

  “Moira, it’s Dorothy. I was told you are ready to leave.”

  Taking one last look around the room, I make a mental note to remember everything about it, from the leather sofa to the large chair near the back and the table with chairs near the front. I said I’d return, but if I don’t, I don’t want to forget what happened.

  I plaster a smile on my lips as I open the door. “Thank you, Dorothy, for coming to get me.”

  Behind her ruby-studded mask, her green eyes glisten and her painted lips part as her smile broadens. “We’re happy you decided to join us tonight at Lace and Leather. While it’s getting late, the bourbon bar is still serving. Perhaps you’d enjoy a drink before you go?”

  I shake my head, recalling Mr. Santana’s response when I mentioned the same thing. “No, thank you. I think I should go. Is my car accessible?”

  “Are you sure, sweetie?” Dorothy asks as she lays a hand on my shoulder. “The first visit can be...well, let’s just say a few fingers of good bourbon can calm the nerves.”

  The truth is that after that amazing orgasm, I’m about as relaxed as one could get. That doesn’t mean that the last few minutes or more that I was alone weren’t nerve-racking. They were. Nevertheless, there was something in Mr. Santana’s tone as he forbade a stop at the bar that lingers in my consciousness.

  “Really,” I say with all the confidence I can muster, “I’m ready to go.”

  “Very well.” She releases my shoulder and reaches for my arm, weaving hers through my elbow. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

  Though we’re walking toward the staircase and no one else is about, I can’t help but feel on display. “I did,” I answer softly. At the top of the stairs, I stop and turn to her. “How...? He said...he’d request me.”

  Suddenly the sentence felt wrong, like I am an off-menu dinner special, a table at a fine restaurant, or more likely, a prostitute at a house of ill-repute.

  Dorothy looks me in the eye. “Moira, you are a beautiful single woman. You may come back to Lace and Leather whenever you desire. There’s no rule to stay monogamous. I am certain if you entered the bourbon bar tonight or another evening, you would have a list of willing candidates.”

  “But...if I wanted to stay...monogamous?”

  Her lips pull tight. “Honey, if Mr. Santana makes a request for you, I can send you a text, if you allow me to have your number.”

  “Don’t you already?”

  “No. If Lace and Leather were to contact you, it would be through your referral. We keep no identifying personal information on hand.”

  My referral. Does that mean they’d contact Dr. Kizer?

  “And if I give you my number, you won’t share it?”

  “No, dear. It’s totally up to you.”

  I nod. “I’d like to know if he requests me. He said he would.”

  Her neck straightens. “Oh, he did?”

  “Maybe it’s just a line,” I say, disheartened.

  “Moira, listen to me. Mr. Santana doesn’t need lines. There was a time when that man was the most sought-after Dom. He has a reputation that from all I’ve heard is not conceived of lore. If he didn’t want to see you again, he wouldn’t have made the comment.”

  “Then yes, please take my number.”

  * * *

  THURSDAY MORNING

  I wake as sunlight streams through my bedroom window. Filtering in from the outside is the melody of birds as I roll on the cool sheets. I must have finally fallen asleep and yet my first thought isn’t of the morning or the sunlight. It’s of him, of us, of what happened.

  It’s crazy because there have been men I’ve slept with—well, not slept but had sex with—who I didn’t think this much about. Mr. Santana and I didn’t have sex but then again, we had more.

  I sigh as his dark eyes come to mind.

  Lying on my back, I prop up my pillow and reach for my phone.

  09:35 a.m.

  Holy shit!

  I’m late for work.

  Kicking off the covers, I phone Dr. Ami Kizer. She answers on the first ring. “Dr. Kizer, this is Marji.”

  “Yes, Marji, my phone told me that. Is everything all right?”

  “No. Shit. I’m sorry. I must have overslept. I just woke up.” My mind is racing as I hurry toward my attached bathroom. “I’ll be there by...” I think about the commute. “...a little after eleven at the latest. I’ll try for sooner. I’m so very sorry.”

  Dr. Kizer laughs. “First oversleeping incident in over two years, no worries. Are you certain you’re all right?”

  Am I?

  I’m hot and bothered and losing sleep over a man I don’t even know.

  Perfectly normal, right?

  “I’m good.” And then I recall her schedule. “You have Luke McAroy at ten and Mr. and Mrs. Jenson at eleven.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “You can keep the phones going to the answering service,” I offer. “I’ll catch up as soon as I get in. I’m so sorry.”

  “Marji, calm down and get here as soon as you can.”

  “Thank you.” I disconnect the phone call and sigh.

  “Great time to oversleep, Marji,” I say to myself. It’s true. I was looking forward to seeing Luke McAroy again. A smile comes to my lips as I recall him at the supermarket with his adorable daughter, how amused he was with her, lighthearted, and caring. I was glad when Dr. Kizer told me he’d called her, even happier when I answered the phone to schedule this appointment. It is hard to imagine that great guy at the store followed Dr. Kizer’s suggestions in the past. Maybe it was at his late wife’s suggestion.

  Turning on the shower, I turn and peer into the mirror over the sink. The image staring back has messy blonde hair and big dark circles beneath her eyes. “Yeah, you’re perfect all right. A perfect mess.

  “Maybe you should think about a real man like Luke and give up the fantasy of Mr. Santana?” I shrug. “At least then you could sleep.”

  Forty minutes later, dressed and ready for work with my long, wet hair braided over one shoulder, I grab my phone from the nightstand. It’s then that I see that I have a text message.

  It’s probably from Dr. Kizer. That thought doesn’t stop my pulse from increasing. I tap the icon and the message comes into view.

  * * *

  MOIRA, THIS IS DOROTHY. YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUESTED AT LACE AND LEATHER THIS FRIDAY NIGHT AT 8 P.M. MR. SANTANA WOULD LIKE TO SEND A MESSENGER WITH YOUR ATTIRE AND INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE EVENING. IF YOU AGREE TO MEET HIM ON HIS TERMS, PLEASE RESPOND WITH YOUR ADDRESS.

  * * *

  My knees give out as I sink to the edge of my unmade bed. He wants to see me again.

  That’s what I wanted, isn’t it?

  Shit, Friday is tomorrow.

  His terms...what does that mean?

  I reread the text message. He also wants my address.

  Is that safe?

  Do I trust him?

  Shit.

  Lucas

  I open the door to Dr. Kizer’s office as a million memories bombard my thoughts. There are so many that I hesitate, unsure if I can enter. It’s then that I see her; Dr. Kizer is sitting at the assistant’s desk, Marji’s.

  I’m surprised by my twinge of disappointment. No matter how I try, I haven’t been able to get Marji o
ut of my mind, not since Callie and I ran into her—well, Callie literally ran into her—at the grocery store. And then there was Moira at Lace and Leather who also made me think of Marji. I guess I’d hoped that seeing her today would bring any questions or illusions of their resemblance to a close.

  “Luke,” Dr. Kizer says as she stands. “I’m so happy you decided to come see me.”

  “Are you doing your own front-office work now, Doctor? I could tell some others about your practice if things are slow.”

  She smiles. “I always accept referrals, but this isn’t a statement on the practice. We’re busy. It’s only that Marji is running late.” She gestures toward her office door. “Come on back. I have coffee brewing. It’s not going to be as good as Marji’s, but if you’d like a cup, we can get one before beginning your session.”

  My session.

  The reality is that I almost didn’t make this appointment. Once it was set, I almost didn’t attend. After talking to Dr. Kizer on the phone, I did as she recommended and made a trip to Lace and Leather. I hadn’t expected to enjoy myself. I half expected that any remaining tendencies I possessed toward domination would be gone. I thought I could enter the bourbon bar and basically toast to the loss of a lifestyle that was no longer.

  What I sure as hell didn’t expect to do was to meet a first-timer who would sweep me off my feet.

  When I told Moira that I would request her, I’d been sincere. It was all I could think to say as she stared up at me with those mesmerizing blue orbs, wide and staring at me from behind her white mask, her pert red lips, and her warm, nude body against me. It was her fucking first time, and she couldn’t have been more perfect, more genuine, or more trusting. She hit every damn button and checked every box on my list of desires, even ones I’d thought no longer existed.

  Then I spent all day Sunday with Callie, doing everything to get Moira off my mind. We went out for pancakes. We went to the zoo and then to the aquarium. It was as I offered a movie that my four-year-old set me straight. “Daddy, I want to go home. It was fun at Grandma and Grandpa’s and the pancakes with strawsberries and the animals and fishies. I’m tired. Can’t we go home?”