The Assignment

by Jade A. Waters

Dean interrupted my thoughts. “I have about a thousand appointments this week for a new project, so I won’t be able to call much. Can I text you instead? Is that okay?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Great. I’ll need to think on the perfect date for you.” He gave a pleased-sounding murmur. “I have an idea though, before I get off the phone.”

  “Okay. Shoot.”

  He seemed to mull over this idea for another minute, finding the ideal words to say aloud. “I’d like to give you an assignment. A task to complete before I see you.”

  An assignment? Was he insane?

  But in that moment, I was so intrigued, I’d do anything he asked. I felt it in my veins, and in the boiling of my blood that heated me when he spoke.

  I channeled all the sass I had left within me. “Uh, wow. An assignment? Well, aren’t you a total Dom.”

  “Would you call yourself a total sub?”

  My breath hitched. Could I? I’d liked the role in the past, though I hadn’t entirely understood it. “I’d call myself open-minded.”

  “Yes. Exactly. I’m into exploration.”

  “Me, too.” For months, I’d been saying I needed someone to explore with, a connection without all the fuss. Selby had been harassing me over the idea, but it was what I wanted.

  I wanted to play.

  “So, what’s the assignment?”

  Dean drew the wait out for what felt like a full minute. “I need to work out the specifics, but I’ll text it to you in the morning.”

  I pouted. “Why not now?”

  He clicked his tongue. “Patience. In the morning.” He inhaled, and the phone rustled against his chin. “In the meantime, I’m looking forward to our date.”

  “I am, too,” I said.

  “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.”

  When he hung up, I peered at the phone.

  I’d signed up for a mystery assignment and a date with a guy who’d asked if he could tie me up and fuck me.

  Not a sub, my ass.

  * * *

  Wednesday morning, my phone chirped with a message before my alarm went off.

  Good morning, wild girl. I have your assignment.

  Groggy yet strangely alert, I balanced the phone in my hands. It was still dim outside the blinds, the streetlamps from the parking lot of my condo complex set to turn off about the same time my alarm went off. They shed an eerie glow over my room, darkening shadows on the walls and tempting me to fall back to sleep.

  But it was six twenty, and Dean wanted to tell me what to do.

  I’d tossed and turned most of the night. His words kept running through my mind to paint images of the date we might have on Friday. That had me at a loss. How could I possibly know what would happen?

  Would there be sex, or would we talk?

  Would there be rope?

  Could I seriously pretend I didn’t know what would happen, all week long?

  As soon as I’d stopped thinking about the date, I’d moved on to the assignment, and Dean’s natural, dominant demeanor. Charlie’s Dom tendencies had been spontaneous—a reaction to me screaming back at him in another of our verbal wars. I’d loved and hated it, wanting him to smother me in the weight of his body and yet terrified with the accusations he’d tended to throw around before he had. This concept kept sneaking into my mind when I thought about Dean and our date, and of the potential chaos this path could lead me down...

  But somewhere in the night, I’d understood my restlessness was pure excitement. I’d tried to ignore the rawness of my nipples when I’d rolled around in my dampened sheets, to pretend I hadn’t noticed the swollen ache of my clit as I’d rested my hands on my upper thighs. I’d told myself that no, I wouldn’t touch myself in the middle of the night thinking of something so confusing and muddled in my brain.

  I blinked in the dim morning light, as primed as I was hours ago, the slick sensation of arousal building at the sheer thought of Dean’s impending order.

  I could pretend this bothered me all I wished, but nothing sounded hotter while I lay there clutching the phone.

  I typed, Good morning. I’m ready.

  Good, he sent.

  I slid my other hand down to my thigh, a casual move that didn’t mean anything. That was what I’d say if someone asked me, but I had no one to answer to but me.

  And maybe Dean.

  Your assignment, Maya: I want you to seek out a public place where you’ll think about your sensuality. Your needs...your thoughts of sex. All your desires. Scrawl them there, discreetly yet publicly. It should be a short phrase—let’s say 5 to 8 words. Take a picture and send it to me. Do this three times by Friday.

  A whip of heat shot down my legs. I had no problem expressing my wants—but in public? Writing them? Sending pictures? That was ludicrous.

  This might be too ludicrous.

  Selby’s worried face popped into my mind. Why would you subject yourself to that? She’d asked it a few times when I’d told her Charlie had dominated over me.

  I shook myself and typed back, Seriously?

  Yes, seriously. Do you object?

  I rested the phone on my chest and rubbed my eyes with my free hand. My other one had a mind of its own. Thinking of this, of sending him the pictures, had led my fingers dangerously close to my cunt.

  Did this actually excite me?

  Yes.

  I tapped out my response. Or else...? I hesitated, hovering over the send button. If I didn’t, would he punish me?

  Did I want punishment?

  A tremble ran through me when I hit Send.

  Dean responded at once.

  If you want me to fuck you Friday, you’ll follow my guidance, Maya.

  That was it for me.

  I typed, Okay, and dropped my cell to shove my other hand beneath the sheets.

  My pussy lips were swollen, my belly warm with heat. I slipped my fingers between my folds, wetting them and dragging them back up to my clit. I circled it to tease myself, then lifted my hips and snuck two fingers inside.

  Years of practice made it easy, but sometimes I astonished myself. I was so open and wet. I slid another finger in, rocking up to feel all of them as far as I could. My phone vibrated through the blankets, a message from Dean I was too busy to tend to. I gritted my teeth and swept the fingers of my other hand over my clit, working them fast like the ones I drove in and out, amazed by how wet these visions had made me. The idea of telling him what I wanted, of him tying me up and fucking me...

  “Shit,” I moaned. In the near dark, my eyes pinched shut, I pictured Dean’s face. His eyes beckoned me to play with him. I heard the growl of his words telling me what to do, and I inched my fingers out once more before jamming them all the way in. The orgasm rolled through me fast, a tormenting wave that swept through my limbs as my alarm screamed to rouse me from the sleep I’d never had.

  When I caught my breath, I turned the alarm off and read Dean’s text.

  That’s a good girl.

  * * *

  “A thirty-nine-year-old architect who sails? Maya! Where do you find these men? He sounds hot. The best yet. Why are you worried about this?”

  Maddie raised her glass, the orange juice mixed with seltzer water her favorite lunchtime beverage, since we couldn’t drink during the workday. I clinked my glass against hers and took a sip of my pomegranate version. Thank God she’d returned. I loved my job, but having her there made everything more bearable when the stakes were high or the clients were having a rough time.

  Maddie pushed her fork around her plate, her lips dry and her olive skin paler than usual from the flu she’d fought all Memorial Day weekend. Henry and Timothy, her husband and son, had suffered through it last week; inevitably, she’d caught it too.
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  “He is hot, yes,” I said. I couldn’t get his eyes out of my head, or the deep timbre of his voice. Or his damn assignment, for that matter. “I’m intrigued—”

  “Crap. I’m intrigued. Dark hair and eyes? And he sails? Henry’s in trouble. If this doesn’t work out for you, I’m leaving him for your man.”

  I lowered my glass and chuckled. “Yes, super-dark hair. It’s nearly black. I think he’s Croatian, or Russian. The eyes, though—they’re unbelievable. Gray-blue, like waves tumbling in an ocean storm...”

  Maddie grinned as she chewed the last bite of her chicken salad. “Uh-huh. You’re not into him at all.”

  I blushed. “I’m nervous. He’s...dominant.”

  Maddie flagged our server, a young man new to our favorite café three blocks down the road from WOFC. Most of the staff recognized us and knew we were in and out in forty minutes or less, so they’d bring the check moments after our food arrived. We liked to draw out the stroll and get some fresh air during our lunch break, which meant we had to eat fast.

  She looked at me seriously. “The concerning type of dominant?”

  “No, just more in control than I’m used to.”

  “Ah.” She gave me a warm smile. “So what? There’s nothing wrong with a man who likes to hold doors and pull out chairs. I thought that drove me nuts about Henry because I’m so damn independent, but you know, I think it shows how much he cares for me. You’re far more independent than I was at your age, and I know most of that is your history—” she patted my hand in the maternal way I’d grown to love, “—but enjoy it. Let someone take care of you.”

  I didn’t think tying me up and fucking me fit Maddie’s concept of taking care of me, but I nodded anyway.

  “Plus, he’s an architect. He’s practically an artist, and artists...they’re crazy and hot.” She swung her head from side to side, her green eyes flickering with delight. “Trust me. I may be forty and married off with a five-year-old running around my house, but I was a crazy girl once. I speak from experience, hon. Artists are crazy and fucking hot.”

  I snickered. Selby was practically my sister, but with our differences, I enjoyed having someone who rooted for my more scandalous choices. Maddie’s unusual background helped. She’d come into social work six years ago, a newly married, retired corporate exec who’d gotten tired of the bullshit. She’d fallen into that after three years in Paris, the period she referred to as her Naked Days. I loved her stories from those years—she’d graduated with two degrees and chucked them aside to run amok in France, landing an unsteady gig as a nude model and moving in with her Parisian sugar daddy, Sébastien. Even now, she beamed when he came up. He’d proposed to her over caviar and champagne the same night she’d decided to head back to the States, and after she’d taken a mindless corporate job in Chicago, she’d met Henry in an airport ticketing line.

  Two months later, they’d gotten married and moved across the country. Maddie had studied to finalize her social work degree, and Timothy had come less than a year later, bringing plenty of change to the household. Though Maddie loved sharing her earlier years, the new state of her life made her endlessly happy.

  “You’re hilarious,” I said, laughing. “I’m not saying I’m hesitant. I’m strangely drawn to him and excited about our date. But the intensity is—fast. Overwhelming. Plus Selby’s freaked about it, which doesn’t bode well.”

  Our server came with the check, but Maddie handed him her card before he had the chance to set it down. We tended to alternate, and today was her turn to buy. After he ran off, she eyed me.

  “Selby isn’t your mother, nor would that matter. She’s your best friend and she cares for you, but this is your life. Be overwhelmed. Live in the moment. Enjoy the ride! You’ve got to embrace your freedom to do whatever the hell you want.” She said it while pointing at my left side, then winked.

  I closed my hand around my ribs, cupping the tattoo I’d gotten seven years ago as the final acknowledgement that I’d freed myself of Charlie and was ready to live however I wanted. Maddie hadn’t been there when I got it, but she knew about it. So did Selby, who’d stood beside me for the entirety of the experience—the scroll of a simple phrase in Greek running along my side: ελευθερία.

  Eleutheria.

  Freedom.

  I crumpled my napkin and dropped it beside my plate as our server handed Maddie’s card and receipt back to her. “You’re right, Maddie.”

  “I know. I usually am,” she teased. After she signed the form, we stood to head back. Maddie took her place at my side. “Plus, part of this is selfish. I have to live vicariously through your date with the hot architect. Oh, the sparks!”

  She was right.

  Life was one giant box of opportunities, and it was currently waiting for me to crack it open and dive in.

  * * *

  Have you thought about completing your assignment?

  I stifled a sharp inhalation after reading Dean’s text once Maddie and I returned to the office. My lunch break was about finished, but I had to say something back. It was easy to confess to him that I couldn’t stop thinking about it, because the idea raged in my head, constant, pressing.

  Enthralling.

  Dean’s response to my confession was two single words, gripping me, demanding of me: I’m waiting.

  I gulped. I hadn’t told Maddie about the assignment—not yet—and the knowledge of Dean’s request sent shivers through me all day. Through paperwork, phone calls and filing, the idea kept distracting me. It was as if Dean had reached through the phone last night and again this morning to mark me with his expectation that I follow through. Like he saw that urge, that wish, churning within me.

  I tucked my phone into my purse and slid the bag under my desk, trying to ignore the vision of him tying me up and holding me tight that I couldn’t get out of my head. I hadn’t even kissed the guy yet. I didn’t know him, either. Why was I ready to do whatever he asked?

  And how could I tell him all my wants in five to eight words?

  I honed all my energy for work that afternoon. I kicked ass, working through far more than I’d normally accomplish in four hours before clocking out for the day. On my way out I gave Maddie a wave, and she returned it with two thumbs up, despite the furrow of her brow from the stack of paperwork she’d delved into.

  It took over an hour to get home, but when I got there I changed for a run. It had been my workout of choice for decades, something I’d done for sport in high school and well into college, and though I didn’t go near as far as I used to, a four—to five-mile jaunt tended to soothe my nerves.

  Halfway out the door, I paused. I’d tucked a key in the slim-line pocket of my pants, and strapped my phone into an armband to keep my travel light. But I needed something else.

  I ran back into the kitchen for a pen, sliding it beneath my shirt and into the side of my sports bra. The snug fit would keep it from falling out while I ran, and this way, I’d have it accessible. Just in case.

  For the majority of my run, I thought of what to write for the assignment. There were too many ideas in my head, and that pen digging into my side didn’t help me forget. I hit my stride about a mile in, inhaling the fresh air while I cruised along my favorite trail that passed Selby and Alex’s house and led to Bay Farm Island. My playlist included a variety of pop and rock songs with an occasional oldie, the tunes spurring me on until I passed the Bicycle Bridge and headed onto the loop that circled a field used for a landfill a few years back. About two miles in, covered with sweat and panting with my speed—partially because that’s how I ran, but also because I kept thinking of Dean’s husky voice—I stopped on the far side of the fenced-off field to stretch. My route went on for a while, taking me under the bridge and along the water before I doubled back. It occurred to me then where I should go to complete the first part of my assignmen
t.

  I picked up my pace. The wind caressed my face as I continued around the field, and by the time I hit the cluster of trees approaching the Bicycle Bridge, the spot was deserted. It was often like this, depending on the time of day. On the weekends, a bounty of runners and cyclists appeared, but evenings were quieter, the sun tracing its slow descent over the water until dusk embraced the path. I made my way to a tree at the end of the bunch, one that stood out from the rest, right at the fork in the path formed by splitting back across the bridge and under it. The tree was tucked back from the water, and if you stood beneath its limbs, you could hear the rumble of traffic over the freeway side of the bridge, and the steady laps of water beneath the bicycle branch. Because of this, the tree had become a hangout landmark of sorts. People had carved on it over the years as if everyone who populated the area had a tacit agreement that the others were off limits—this was the sole tree covered with graffiti, scratches and notes of past visitors. I loved and hated the site, the rebel in me wanting to leave my mark and the orderly side wishing we’d all leave the tree alone.

  I stopped beneath the branches to observe the hundreds of phrases covering the bark. There were marks of couples, tags, cartoons and simple quotes.

  And now there would be a mark from me.

  I peeked back along the path when I drew the pen from my bra, my pulse frenetic. It had nothing to do with my run and I knew it—I kept seeing Dean’s words in my mind.

  Think about your sensuality. Your needs...your thoughts of sex. All your desires. Scrawl them there, discreetly yet publicly.

  This was fucking crazy.

  I stepped up to the tree. My needs, my thoughts of sex, my desires—all of them centered around Dean.

  I wasn’t sure why, but I pined for him there with me against that tree. I longed for him to shove me back on it, creeping closer until my body was lodged between the sturdy bark and that hard, masculine body I couldn’t wait to explore. I wanted him to grab my chin, to turn my face up to those stormy gray eyes of his and say, “Tell me what you want.”

  I clenched my thighs together. My wetness wasn’t sweat—it was need. Want. Curiosity.