by Smith, Maren
She was a quiet one. He’d give her that. She didn’t even give her usual ‘yes, Sir.’
“All right,” he said, breaking the silence. “Other than the obvious, how has your day been?”
Her quick glance back showed more than a hint of startlement before she just as quickly masked it. “Oh. Sorry. Um… o-other than the obvious, Sir, how has your day been?”
He’d have laughed, except he had the sneaking suspicion she wasn’t making a joke. “Not bad. I don’t mind talking about it, if you’re really interested. But that wasn’t a subtle hint for what you should do whenever we first meet up in the evening. I really was just asking about your day.”
Hugging her pack, she stared out the window, her fingers fidgeting restlessly with the shoulder strap. “I filled out the negotiation.”
“Were there parts you found difficult?” he asked, careful to keep his tone neutral and his eyes on the road. Now and then, he peeked at her out of the corner of his eye, trying to judge by her expression how she felt about what she’d read in the paper he’d sent her. It wasn’t a contract, not exactly. He’d been in the lifestyle long enough to have seen his share of Master/slave, Dominant/submissive and even play-partner contracts. Almost all of his negotiations had been verbal and usually only involved what he needed to know to bring specific submissives through specific scenes. Like a one-night-stand, that type of play was direct, to the point, and no strings attached.
This definitely was not that. Honestly, he didn’t know what this was, but he knew he was going to have to be very careful with Puppy. There were damages here that he was only beginning to catch glimpses of. It would take time to uncover the full depth of them, but the last thing he wanted between then and now was to make any of that damage worse.
“A few,” she admitted, looking down at her backpack. Reluctantly, she unfolded her arms from around it. The backpack had a fold over flap that protected a drawstring top. Opening it, she pulled out a slightly crumpled stack of papers that had been folded once in half. She tried to straighten the crumples before unfolding them. Thinking she meant to show him which part had given her particular trouble, and since he was just now slowing down to stop behind a city truck at a red light, he glanced over too.
“What’s that?” he asked, catching sight of the job application.
She folded the papers again, hugging them now to her chest behind stiffly folded arms. A touch of pink flushed her cheeks as her eyebrows buckled. “It’s nothing.”
He couldn’t tell if she was embarrassed, confused, unhappy, or a mix of all three. Curious now, he gently pressed. “Looks like an employment application to me. I didn’t know you were job hunting.”
“I’m not.” She quickly turned her head to look out the side window. “It’s stupid.”
The light chose that moment to switch to green again. As soon as he was through the intersection, he immediately flipped on his turn signal and pulled into a grocery store parking lot. Parking in a stretch of empty stalls at the farthest end from the store, he shut off the engine and got out of the car. He used the short walk around the car to re-enforce his patience and practice his deep breaths. Only when he was sure he wouldn’t lose his temper did he open her door.
Taking the papers from her unresisting arms, he put them on the dash above the glovebox. Then he unbuckled her seatbelt, untangled her from the strap and offered her a hand out.
Her breathing was quick, shallow, and uncertain as she stepped out to stand before him. She offered no resistance or protest as he turned her around to face into the now empty car. Hands clasped in front of her, she picked at her already near non-existent fingernails.
“Hands on your head,” he ordered.
She obeyed, a mix of confusion and worry warring across her too-thin features. That look exploded into open startlement when he slipped his hand up under the back of her shirt, grabbed the waist of her pants and wedgied her right up onto her tiptoes.
She gasped, grabbed the top of the car to catch her balance, and then reluctantly returned her hands to her head. She stared straight ahead, her eyes huge.
“Think carefully,” he warned. “Why is it stupid?”
Perched on her tiptoes, all but panting her breathing was so fast and uncertain, her face flushed a bright, hot red.
There were people in the far end of the parking lot, walking to and from the store. There were cars on the street, speeding up and down on all sides of the block-sized parking lot. Her eyes kept darting from vehicles to city bus to shoppers to sidewalk pedestrians, and he knew exactly what she was thinking. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t possibly—spank her right here in the open.
“Try me,” he promised. “If you think a spanking is the worst I can do right now, you’re not using your imagination. Considering the location, I’m far more likely to take you shopping, and if you’re not worried by that, you should be. I’ll bet you anything, that store has a lovely selection of fresh ginger root. I promise you, I will pick a big one. I’ve got a knife to peel it with under the front seat of my car. Imagine having to carry it in your hand all the way back into the store, so you can insert it yourself in the bathroom. I’ll verify it’s in before we leave, and I will take the long way home just to make sure you have plenty of time to enjoy the effects. Now,” he said, lowering his voice to little more than a growl behind her ear. “I asked you a question. I expect a prompt and honest answer. Why is it stupid?”
Her blush deepened, coloring from her forehead all the way down her neck. “B-because...” she tearfully admitted, her hands closing into fists in her own hair. “I can’t do it.”
Letting go of the back of her pants, he turned her until she had no choice but to look at him. “You don’t think you’re qualified?”
She shook her head, blinking hard to keep back the shimmer of tears that quickly filled her eyes.
“Words,” he reminded.
“I’m qualified,” she whispered. “I worked as a librarian for four years during college.”
“Then why can’t you do it?”
Her face fell as she stared at him, that look saying plainly: What’s wrong with you? Why would you even ask me that? “Because I can’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“It took four hours to work up the courage just to ask for the application,” she told him. “I can barely talk to people without freaking out. I’ve had four jobs since I got out and I lost all four within a week of being hired. I have panic attacks. I break into sweats. I throw up. I. Can’t. Do it!”
“And yet you picked one up anyway,” he softly pointed out.
She stared at him, flustered and teary-eyed and frustrated with herself. “I’ll fill it out, too,” she countered, laughing at herself in a way that would have pissed him off if she weren’t also crying as she did it. As fast as the tears spilled through her lashes and onto her cheeks, she swiped them away. “I’ll fill it out, but have panic attacks the whole time because that’s how messed up I am. I’ll have panic attacks just thinking about walking to the bus stop to take it back to the library. If by some miracle I actually make it there, I’ll have more panic attacks just trying to make myself go inside. It’ll take me hours to work up the courage to turn it back in, and I guarantee I’ll throw up at least once. I’ll panic when the phone rings, and that’s even if they bother to call me in for an interview. I don’t know if I’ll be able to make myself go to that, because then, if I do, what if I get the job? I’ll have to go to work. Not once, or twice, but over and over again. And I’ll panic every single time and I-I’ll never make it through a single shift without running to the bathroom to hug the toilet or cry. So after all that, I’ll struggle through one day—maybe two—only to get fired again because I can’t do it!” Rant over, her shaky breath caught on a hiccup and her shoulders wilted. She stared up at him, her big brown eyes full of tears as she offered a hopeless shrug. “Knowing all that… don’t you think it’s stupid?”
“Knowing all of that,” he countered, “don
’t you think it’s brave when someone that ‘messed up’ still has the courage to walk up and ask for an application anyway?”
She burst into tears all over again even as she laughed. It was an ugly sound, full of both doubt and confusion. It also died quickly back into silence when he didn’t join in laughing with her. “Y-you think I’m brave?”
“What would you call it?”
She shook her head. “But I don’t feel brave. I feel scared all the time. Y-you don’t know—you don’t see what happens.”
Her eyes shifted away from him, but he brought it back with a touch under her chin, redirecting her focus back on him. “And yet, you did it anyway. You got the application, even though you were scared. You came to Black light and said hi to me, sitting down right beside me, even though you were scared. Despite everything that’s happened to you, despite being afraid, you keep trying. That, sweetheart, is the very definition of brave.”
She stared at him, seeming not at all convinced by his logic. She didn’t argue with it, either.
Cupping her too-thin shoulders, he gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Would you like another chance to be brave all over again?”
Touching her, he felt her body tense. “What do you mean?”
“I was going to take you to Black Light,” he said. “But there are times when a person needs to be broken down in order to be built back up again the right way. I intend to make sure you have a hard, emotional release. That means first we’re going to go over the contract so I know where your limits are, then we’re going to agree on aftercare, and then, honey, I want you to put yourself in my hands and trust that I won’t harm you. So, do you want to do that at Black Light, or do you want to come home with me so it can happen in private? Just so you know, there’s no wrong answer here. Both options will require an equal amount of courage.”
Before he’d finished talking, he could see she was already struggling with it. Worry etched itself in all the lines of her, filling up her eyes, tightening the press of her lips and tension of her shoulders and back. She drew in a shaky breath, eventually letting it out again in a sign that seemed to steal all the breath from her body as she came to her decision. “Your home. I don’t want to do it in public.”
“See?” Carlson couldn’t help smiling. “I told you you were brave.”
Leaning in to kiss her on the forehead wasn’t something he’d planned to do. Very little thought went into it at all. It was just a reassuring touch. Something Doms did for their submissives, and surely this was one of the many situations that both warranted and deserved it.
But from the moment he slid his hand over the top of her head, granting unspoken permission for her to lower her hand, he knew this was more than mere afterthought. Too late, already he was leaning in, and he could feel the warming ripples of awareness that came into him as he breathed in the mixed scent of both her and faintly floral shampoo, just before pressing his lips to her forehead.
Like something a man would do, comforting a good friend or his own kid sister.
Except the physical response that shot through his veins was anything but the feelings anyone should have toward their sister.
Slowly lowering her hands, she lay them on his chest instead. At no point did she try to push him away, and the touch of his lips on her forehead lingered just a little too long before he finally stepped back again.
They looked at one another.
Clearing his throat, Carlson pasted on a smile. “In,” he said, holding the car door for her.
He made good use of his walk back around the car, discretely adjusting himself in his pants in order to hide the physical response he hadn’t known he was going to have. Because had he known, he never would have offered to take her to his home. Where the privacy or his intentions might be misconstrued, especially to a woman as badly mistreated as the news articles claimed Puppy had been.
He was going to have to tread carefully.
He was going to have to keep his libido in check.
He was seriously going to have to get the smell of her out of his nose and off his lips. They hadn’t even done a negotiation yet, for crying out loud. There’d be plenty of time later on to figure out what kind of relationship they wanted to have. There was no sense in risking the regrets that came from rushing too fast into intimacy.
“Just so you know”—he cleared his throat again—“sex is still off the table.”
He was pretty sure he needed that reminder more than she did. Turning her face to the window, Puppy said nothing.
Chapter 9
Pulling into his driveway, Carlson parked in front of a red-brick, one-story ranch house with a white-painted garage that was stuffed too full of exercise equipment and camping gear to accommodate a car.
“No,” he said, when she unbuckled her seatbelt and reached for the door handle. “You are my submissive, but I am a gentleman. I prefer you wait while I get your door.”
So, she sat there, waiting for him to let her out of the car, before following him up the walkway to the front door.
“Ladies room?” he asked, letting her into the house. When she nodded, he pointed out a small half-bath guestroom just down the hall from the open living, kitchen, and dining room area. “Help yourself.”
When he held out his hand, she put the contract negotiation into it and then headed down the hall with her backpack clutched over her shoulder.
“Hey,” he called, just before she slid the panel door closed. “No freak outs or panic attacks. You’re going to be okay. We’ll talk when you come out.”
Nodding once, she slid the door closed and he headed into the living room, pausing to turn the gas fireplace on before dropping the folded stack of papers on the dining room table. Opening the fridge, he pulled out supper fixings. He wasn’t a fancy guy. He also wasn’t a chef. But he did know how to make a mean grilled cheese sandwich. Checking the time, he put that together with a can of creamed corn which he heated up on the stove, and then quietly set the table for two with brewed iced tea to drink.
He checked his watch again, giving her five minutes more. Then seven. And then at the point where dinner was done and he’d been sitting there for ten minutes, he got up to knock on the bathroom door.
“Are you freaking out?” he asked.
A few seconds passed before she slid the door open and, true enough, there she stood, with a dry washcloth twisted between her hands and puffy red eyes that showed she’d been crying.
Beckoning her out of the bathroom, he let her keep the washcloth. He didn’t scold her, either. He just steered her into the dining room and sat her down at one of the places he’d set.
“What do you want to talk about first?” he asked. “The negotiation, the application, lunch, or the ‘I’m stupid’ comment?”
She looked crestfallen. “I’m in trouble for all that?”
“No.” Heading back to the stove, he stirred the corn and collected the sandwiches from the oven where they were keeping warm. “The negotiation contract you’re not in trouble for. You’re not in trouble for the job application either. You’re only in trouble for the last two. Do you want to tackle the good stuff first or the bad stuff?”
He served her, cautioning, “Be careful, it’s hot,” before returning the empty pot and plate to the kitchen. “What?” he asked, when he noticed her staring as he came back with silverware.
“You didn’t cut my crusts off.”
So, she was a Little. He was careful to keep his disappointment from showing. “I can cut them off if you’d like.”
“N-no,” she said, surprised. “I don’t mind crusts at all. It… it’s just, my mother does it all the time. It drives me crazy, to be honest.”
He sat down beside her. “Have you asked her not to?”
Puppy shook her head. “She cries. It’s easier to let her cut my food or,” she looked down at herself, “buy me this, than to listen to her cry.”
“I know a few Littles who would love to be small enough to wear clothes
like that, or even to have someone there to cut their crusts off.”
The look she gave him was the closest to mutiny that he’d yet seen from her. “I’m not a Little.”
He smiled. “I hadn’t pegged you for one. Eat. You’re already a meal behind, so I want that entire plate empty before I take you home tonight.”
She looked at her plate while he spread a napkin across his lap.
“Since you declined to answer, I’ll start with the negotiation contract. Before I do though”—he unfolded the papers and lay them flat between their plates so she could see them too—“I just want to make sure, these are honest answers, right? If you need to change something, I’ll let you and you won’t be in any more trouble for it. But I don’t want to proceed if there’s anything in here that’s less than an honest representation of what you want. These answers aren’t for that other guy,” he specified, pointing out the nearest window to wherever that ‘other guy’ was. “These answers are just for you and me, right?”
She nodded. “Yes, Sir.”
He gestured to her plate. “When we get to the part you had trouble with, let me know. Now, unless you want me to take you back to the bathroom, eat.”
His comment did exactly what he was hoping it would. Her startled look melted into a surprised bark of a laugh and, finally, she relaxed.
They say Helen of Troy went down in history for having the face that launched a thousand ships. Had her smile been anything like Puppy’s, Carlson thought, then small wonder that war lasted ten years.
Smiling now too, he took a bite of sandwich and began to go through the seven-page contract. He checked her hard limits, then soft limits, both of which she’d marked ‘N/A’. That concerned him, especially when he saw where she’d marked ‘yes’ to a willingness for sexual service. What really puzzled him was what she’d crossed out altogether.
“May I ask why you go by Puppy if you’re not interested in pet play?”
She ducked her head, fixing her attention on the soupy creamed corn that she was scraping into a pile away from her sandwich, of which so far she’d taken only two bites.