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Dom/sub Page 9

by B. D. Dark

Oops! Shit! Yes, that yellow light did turn red just before I breezed through. I scan for sirens and lights, blindly rummaging in my bag for the annoying cell phone.

  De-da, de-da… De-da, de-da.

  Slide. “Shit! Shit! Shit! What?”

  “Tsk, tsk. Is that anyway to answer a friend’s call?”

  “Jonathon? Hey! Sorry, just ran a red light trying to find the phone.”

  “Ah, love, I knew you were dying to be handcuffed by the message you left on my voicemail this morning, but isn't that a bit extreme?”

  “Oh, Jonathon! I am that fucking desperate!” I laugh, wrapping myself in the warmth of his Dublin accent.

  “Never fear, love. I have a plan! So, wherever you were headed, turn around and join Maxwell and me downtown at the Main Event tonight. There’s a lovely demonstration on branding happening.”

  “Sorry, Jonathon, It's Single's Night at Community Central.”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk, Julia, Julia, Julia. Why do you insist on attending those damn Novice Meet and Greets? You are so much better than that!”

  “We’ve discussed this, Jonathon. The newbies have never heard of me or Jasper. No expectations, no wide eyes, no pointing and whispering behind my back.”

  “Yes, lovie, I can appreciate all that, but how many meetings must you attend before you realize that there is a reason that those gits are still single? Doesn't it seem strange that it's the same crowd every meeting and no one ever partners up?”

  “I hadn't noticed.” I had, but I wasn't up to admitting it. I was still hoping for Prince Charles’s evil bastard brother to show up dressed in leather and chains.

  “Come on, love, I have a wee bit of a surprise for you.”

  “And you fucking waited until the last second to spring it on me?" I respond to his tone of voice more than what he said. Suspiciously, and suspicious with good reason, considering the way last year’s surprise birthday bash went with the strippers from hell that came as part of the surprise, and that wasn’t even taking into consideration the horror of the cross dresser who jumped out of the cake dressed as Marilyn Monroe, singing “Happy Birthday.”

  “Come meet me. It’s a nice surprise,” he promises.

  “No gay male strippers, right? Because tonight’s plan is to get laid, and I can’t waste my time on gay men ‑‑ no offense, but really.”

  “I promise I won’t try to fix you up with a gay man. I want you to have sex as badly as you want to have sex.”

  “I kind of doubt that.” I sigh. “No female impersonators trying to upstage Cher or Marilyn or Mae, right?”

  “You are correct. No singing, no feather boas, no sequined tiaras, although now that you mention it, we haven't gone out in a long time ‑‑ we're due!”

  “Jonathon!”

  “Truly, just a branding demonstration,” he replies too innocently, putting my radar on full alert.

  “You aren't intending on branding me, right?” I ask nervously, remembering my own night facing glowing steel.

  “Ah, love, tempting, but I fear Maxwell would never speak to me again.”

  I weigh my options: the company of two friends who commiserate with my predicament and an evening's promising entertainment of searing flesh, or the chance of finally meeting an eligible Dom at Single's Night. I sigh. Jonathon is right about one thing ‑‑ after being with Jasper no Newbie will be able to offer what I really need…and yes, getting laid is still of primo importance, but finding a Dom who is able to master me is what I’ve been waiting for all along.

  I pause at a stop sign, U-turning in the middle of an intersection, deciding. Not such a hard decision, after all.

  * * * * *

  I park two blocks away from the old stage theater that hosts The Main Event ‑‑ not for lack of parking closer, but because I don’t want to take the chance of being seen, recognized, or interrupted. I might not be going to get laid by a man tonight but that is no excuse for not taking matters into my own hands.

  I shimmy my dress up around my hips, simultaneously plunging my hand between my thighs, pushing panties out of the way in the process, then to the tune of The Doors's Riders on the Storm on the classic rock channel, engine running, heat from the defrost hitting my face, I touch myself, because although meeting friends seemed like a good idea ten miles ago, I was really, really psyched about getting laid tonight and now my chances of getting a good-old-fashioned-fuck-before-dawn is less than slim to none.

  Snuggling deeper into the leather seat, I close my eyes, sighing at the first finger slide through my own slick moisture. It feels good, really good, and I’m not even trying to make it feel good yet. I’m just that fucking horny.

  Sliding my fingers through my folds, I gather moisture on my fingertips before traveling up to my clit. I rub myself softly, thinking of my small girl nub as a little penis. I think about what a man must think about when he’s touching himself…damp, pink folds and the salty-sweet taste of pussy. I think about small round tits with tight, suckable nipples.

  “Ahhhh.”

  I think about leaving my teeth prints in the perfect dark, rosy areoles surrounding those tight, really incredible suckable nipples and then I am biting my way down the path of soft, smooth flesh that leads to the slick slit and tiny nub that I want to drive crazy with my tongue.

  “Ahhh, ahhhh, ahhhh.”

  I think about dipping my tongue between the folds of wet flesh…tasting, licking, plunging my tongue…in and out, in and out, until she is screaming my name on her lips…

  My fingers slide with a memorized rhythm and it is my own voice crying out, “Master! Master! Ahhhh! Ahhhhh! AHHHHHHH!”

  I shake myself; my orgasm, so quick, too quick to have even been worth the effort. “Fuck!” I am frustrated, not relieved, I came…so what? And adding insult to injury, I masturbated to the image of me, again, not just a woman, but me, as if I was Master Jasper making love to me because I cannot, will not remember, fantasize, or even allow myself to think about the times we actually did have together…and I can’t even imagine a man other than Master touching me.

  It’s pathetically laughable that I would imagine I could have found a man to fuck me tonight when I can’t even begin to envision it. I am such a loser. I masturbate, pretending to be Master making love to me so that I won’t feel like I’m cheating. What have you done to me, Master?

  Chapter Two

  Opening the heavy, ornately carved front doors, the scent of old wood assails me as I enter the small, ancient theater otherwise known as The Main Event. Once it was an old play house with live stage performances, transformed for a decade to vaudeville before being transformed into a short-lived cinema, then for several decades left abandoned and crumbling. It was given new life when one of the founding members of the local BDSM group discovered its hidden beauty and discreetly bought it, turning it into the glorious shrine to the past it is now, adding the spice of kink to its illustrious reputation.

  The doors make a loud thud as they close behind me, startling me back into the room, and then the vision of tonight’s packed crowd overloads my senses. I’d forgotten how many couples attend the advanced BDSM technique demonstration sessions and I, walking in alone, draw every eye in the place. I know almost everyone by name. Almost everyone here knows me as Master Jasper’s property since he used to teach a fair majority of the advanced techniques at classes held here on this very stage…with me beside him.

  I hate epiphanies and in a blink of an eye I am assailed with the truth. I’ve been so carefully protecting myself from the pain of losing Master by closing off this part of my life that I have avoided anything that would remind me. That was why going to Novice Meetings uptown was so much easier than coming here, where I rightfully belonged, and meeting men who had no idea how to be a Dom was preferable to coming here where most of the Doms are experienced. I’ve been saying and doing everything I could to ensure that I never find a Master. What is wrong with me?

  I hear whispers behind my back. It’s her. It’s really he
r. Are you sure? I’m sure. Who’s she here with? She’s alone, it’s so sad. I don’t know how anyone could replace Master Jasper. Seriously, no one could. Do you remember…

  I close my eyes, thinking what a bad idea coming here was. What was I thinking, letting Maxwell and Jonathon talk me into coming here tonight ‑‑ during a branding ceremony? Master branded me…here…at this theater… So many people here knew him ‑‑ knew us. I should have realized people would recognize me…and talk.

  I see Maxwell first. He grabs me and pulls me into an over-exuberant hug, stealing my breath, and for a moment making me forget the stares and my brand. “I’m such an idiot. I shouldn’t be here,” I whisper into his ear, rubbing the spot on my hip where the scar of Master Jasper’s brand suddenly flares to new life, itching like crazy. “People are talking.”

  “Yes, they are! Let them talk.” Maxwell hugs me tighter. “Besides, when you’re in the room, people have always talked! Since when are you afraid of what people think?”

  “Before, people talked about how wonderful my relationship was with Master. It made me proud to stand by his side. Now, they pity me.”

  Maxwell steps back from me, taking a long look up and down. “They won’t pity you for long. My God, Julia, you’ve grown even more beautiful since I’ve seen you! And look at this!” Maxwell ruffles my head playfully. “So is this the new, ruffled, just climbed out of bed look?”

  “Actually, before the wind, rain, sleet, and the close encounter with your hands, it was a sleek, cosmopolitan, slightly funky look.” I lie, laughing.

  He steps back and frowns, pushing my bangs out of my face as he takes in the results of nature and gravity. “It's an improvement over bald.”

  I stick my tongue out at him and in return he exudes sarcasm. "Sleek? I can almost see that.”

  “I was never bald!” I pout.

  “Mmm, kind of like Sinead O'Conner isn't bald.”

  “Hel-lloooo, stubble,” I insist. “I was never shiny-head bald.”

  Breaking into a huge smile, he makes me realize he's been teasing. “I liked bald!” he insists, drawing me down the aisle and rubbing the top of my head as if I'm the shorter, younger sibling. “I like this better.”

  Although for the moment I’d forgotten the whispers, trailing behind him a surge of fresh rising panic assails me. The throng folds around us like a strangling glove, whispers, and beneath the whispers Jasper’s name and mine. Do you think she’s here alone? I’m sure she is, I heard she left the scene.

  “Breathe, honey,” Maxwell commands, looping his elbow around mine, walking faster and pulling me through the crowd. He prods me along, issuing commands. “You look like a scared rabbit! Stop looking so worried. Jonathon is holding seats, so stop biting your lip and unfurrow your brow! You look absolutely fabulous! I was only teasing about your hair! So smile, chin up, and remember to watch your language.”

  It is her! It’s Julia! My God, she’s beautiful!

  “What?”

  “Watch your mouth, pretend you’re in school, and no cussing in front of the kiddies. Okay?”

  “No. Not okay. I really do watch my mouth around the students all day. Here, on the other hand, we’re all adults, and if a flying fuck creeps out, we’re all old enough to deal with it.”

  Leading me down the center aisle, my heels sink into an oriental patterned carpet that seems plusher than I remembered. Glancing at the stage, the velvet drapes are now black velvet instead of the red satin I seem to remember. Maxwell pulls me to a dead stop and I realize I’ve missed what he was saying. “Pay attention! I don’t want you to screw tonight up, sweetie, and Jonathon brought along one very special, very dominant Mr. Gorgeous, and he will not get anywhere near naked with you if so much as one curse word escapes those adorable cupid lips of yours.”

  “You’re joking. Not only did you trick me into coming, now you’re fucking telling me that you and Jonathon are trying to hook me up with a damn priest?”

  “Darling, as much as I agree that damn, fucking, and priest go together in a sentence, tonight they don’t…not if you want to get this Dom to notice you…and darlin’, trust me ‑‑ you so want this Dom to notice.”

  “How gorgeous is he?” Nodding nervously, I try to remember how to breathe as I scan rows of opulent, scarlet velvet seats for Jonathon, catching sight of him just as he turns to see us stepping down the three steps into the orchestra seating. After catching his wink, I realize that he has turned his attention back to the mystery man.

  My attention is drawn once again to the throng of followers I attracted with my entrance. And Maxwell and Jonathon can’t imagine why I insist on going to the novice BDSM meetings. There’s something to be said for anonymity.

  It isn’t her. Yes, it is! Ask her. I’m not asking her; that would be rude. You ask her. I don’t need to ask her, I don’t think it’s her. Maybe it isn’t her, Julia would be older…

  I pivot on my heel, facing the two closest whisperers. “Rude is talking about me behind my back. Go away!”

  I make shooing gestures with my hands, feeling better as the crowd disperses. “Why did I agree to come here tonight?”

  Maxwell nods toward Jonathon and the mystery man. “Because of him.”

  Chapter Three

  Tilting my head, I take in the line of the mystery man's thigh, seeing the obvious outline of very firm muscle. I swallow hard, lusting harder. He turns and his profile is revealed. I try to put the strong features together in my mind to form a face. At his quick glance my way, I could wet myself he’s so hot and young ‑‑ not young as in too young, but young, my age or only slightly older. I’m not sure how I feel about that. “Dear God.”

  “Yummy, isn’t he?” Wrapping his arm tight around my waist, Maxwell’s free hand takes the liberty of smoothing the charcoal gray fabric over my midriff. “Oooh! Cashmere? Fabulous! Do you remember the little pink sweater set I gave Jonathon last Christmas?”

  I nod absently in response to Maxwell’s question, amending my silent prayer quickly, Let him be a Dom that knows what he's fucking doing.

  The little doubtful voice in my head laughs hysterically at my naiveté, laughing and pointing and rolling around in the back of my head so that I can’t even manage a decent fervent prayer without cursing. I mean, really, really, really knows what he’s fucking doing ‑‑ and willing to do the fucking part too, because tonight isn’t so much about getting tied up and spanked…although that would be a definite bonus…but a whole lot about fucking, fucking like bunnies who just can’t get enough fucking! Okay? I wonder if God listens to prayers about getting laid. I’m certain he listens, but does he ANSWER getting laid prayers?

  “Cashmere and silk!” Maxwell exudes, dragging me back to the conversation. “It was absolutely to die for and he ruined it. Red wine on Valentine’s Day…”

  Maxwell's chatter becomes more and more distant as I return my attention to Jonathon. Usually, I would be very annoyed if I thought they'd fixed me up on a blind date without consulting me. However, as Jonathon's head nods toward me and his companion turns again, this time drinking me in from head to toe with a single look, I decide that if he has broken the bond of true friendship and interfered with my loveless life, I will forgive him ‑‑ immediately.

  The stranger keeps looking and I manage to meet his eyes only for a moment before his intensity overwhelms me and I drop mine. An experienced Dom then, I decide, based solely on the intensity of magnetism streaming from the man's eyes. Oh my, could I be so lucky?

  I look up to see that he is still looking and I am torn between knowing I should look away and really not wanting to. I settle for quick glances, hoping he won't notice; after all, the room is dimly lit ‑‑ very dimly lit. He is so gorgeous…tall, lean, dark hair…I find myself wondering if he has brown eyes? Or maybe green? I love green eyes…

  Reaching Maxwell and Jonathon's row of seats, both men offer greetings, though only Jonathon embraces me, kissing both cheeks, as is his way.

  “Jul
ia, always lovely.”

  “Jonathon. It's been too long,” I answer as he releases me and I feel as though he is performing, being more formal than I am used to, but perhaps it is my imagination.

  Physically maneuvering me by my shoulders, Jonathon turns me to face the stranger, saying, “Julia, I have someone I want you to meet.

  “Julia, this is Everett Hawthorn; Everett, Julia Moran.”

  Everett stretches out his hand and I accept, shaking. He has a strong, firm handshake, nothing wimpy about it. Dry palm, nice. Time moves in slow motion as I look at our hands shaking and I wonder if there is some form of magical field of energy visible, because it feels like there should be. Meeting his eyes, I smile, he smiles, and it is an overwhelming moment.

  His eyes are green.

  I swallow hard, still lost in his gaze and hands, hoping we aren’t shaking hands an inappropriately long time, because it feels like we could be verging on inappropriate, but he doesn’t release my hand, and shouldn’t he be the one doing the releasing? Is there an etiquette book on handshaking? One that answers all those important questions. Like, how long is too long? Who releases whom? And if he holds my hand forever and doesn’t let go, and if I don’t let go either, then what?

  He releases, thank God, and I'm certain we didn't shake hands an inappropriately long time because Jonathon is still talking, and if it had been too long, he would have surely stopped talking and lifted his brow. He always does that when there is an etiquette faux pas imminent, lifting his brow as if to ask, are you certain you want to do that? And then, I know I mustn’t do that because it exceeds social norms. It is just one of the many ways that Jonathon has filled in since Master’s death…helping me to navigate my way. Sometimes I question my dependency on Jonathon but most days I’m just thankful to have him as a friend.

  I look at my palm, feeling cold and empty, his warmth disappearing with the lost contact. Rubbing my palms down the length of my skirt, I glance over to Jonathon, seeking some sign that he approves or disapproves. But he seems strangely unreadable tonight.

 

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