Dominating Jess: A Fantasy Fulfilled Novella

by Rachel Nixx

Better to stay right here and wait for Jake.

  And damn him, he must have known that was the conclusion I’d come to.

  A tall man who stood alone looked me up and down, his very black eyes moving slowly and assuredly, as if he knew that it was his right to stare at me. He was handsome, I supposed, though I was in such a terror that I almost didn’t notice. What I did notice was that he picked up his coffee from the bar and moved to stand next to me.

  Right next to me. I stood facing out toward the room—at least that way I could see what was coming. He, however, faced the wall and stood shoulder to shoulder with me, drinking his coffee slowly. He stood so close I could feel his body heat on my right side.

  At first I thought I was imagining it. His wrist brushed my elbow. I pulled away, thinking I’d swayed into his space.

  But then it happened again. His upper arm touched mine. I stood stock-still, hoping that if I just ignored him, he’d go away. As luck would have it, no one was watching me now. No one could help me if he tried anything else—

  Which he did. He let his arm fall so that the back of his hand brushed my bare ass. I blinked, hoping I betrayed nothing. I could do this. I could ignore this man. Jake would be proud of me when he came back.

  The man curled his fingers and dragged his nails over the skin of my right ass cheek. It felt almost good. Devastatingly erotic. A soft touch, after the hard ones I’d had already this morning.

  But his hand didn’t stop wandering. One long finger trailed up to where the thong disappeared into my crack. He stuck his finger under the lace and pulled. The feeling of the fabric slipping out of me was almost too much to bear. I struggled to breathe around the gag. Still the man didn’t even turn toward me, keeping his eyes on the newspaper he’d picked up with his free hand.

  And no one in the whole crowded cafe seemed to notice that the man’s hand was now kneading my ass, pushing and pulling, pinching softly. It was all I could do not to wriggle against him.

  Then, from the back, his long finger parted my cheeks and pressed the lace against my asshole. A gentle insistence. Then his finger wandered further toward the front of me, and as he pressed the lace against me, I knew he could feel that I’d soaked my thong long ago. His finger didn’t enter me, but like he had with my ass, he pressed the lace in toward my cunt.

  I closed my eyes and tried not to sway. I would have given anything for his finger to push harder, to make its way inside me. I arched my hips almost imperceptibly, and he punished me by drawing his fingers away. My stomach clenched. I needed...

  “I thought I told you to keep your eyes open.” Jake stood in front of me, his voice harsh. I’d never heard him speak like that before, and I was terrified.

  With one motion, he pulled the chain, ripping off the nipple clamps. If I’d thought they hurt going on, it was nothing compared to what I felt when they were removed. Black dots danced in front of my eyes and I screamed against the ball gag. A young woman with blue tattoos at her wrist looked at me and smiled.

  No one would do anything, then. The man next to me had pulled his hand away when Jake grabbed the chain and was now pretending he’d done nothing, completely absorbed in his newspaper. I wasn’t even sure Jake knew he’d been touching me.

  “There, you felt that, didn’t you? That’s just the start, slut. Remember, your only job is to be my whore. That’s all. It’s pretty simple.”

  Of course, he didn’t say what his version of treating me well was. I felt as if I didn’t know this Jake. He was so foreign to the man I knew at home, the man who grew huge tomatoes in his postage stamp garden and brought me the chèvre he knew I loved from the farmer’s market near his place. No. This was a different man. I was scared of this Jake, terrified to my shaking ankles.

  Good God, if this was what women paid him for, no wonder he could afford that gorgeous Park Slope brownstone. I’d give him my pin code if he asked.

  And I wanted him more than I’d ever wanted anyone in my whole life.

  Chapter Two - Whipped in Public

  Jake undid the leash (I’d been right, it came loose with one light tug) and turned, leading me through the red curtain at the back and up the stairs.

  Two flights up, he opened a glossy black door. Inside, instead of the business office I expected, was a huge darkened room. Red floor-to-ceiling drapes filtered out the daylight and small tables lined the perimeter of the room. The men at the tables barely glanced up from their cards. A waitress wearing little more than a sheer black nylon dress carried a tray of small cups. I didn’t know if it was coffee or alcohol she was circulating, but I suddenly craved it, whatever it was. Against the rubber, my tongue was dry. Oh, for just a sip of water. I tried to catch Jake’s eye to somehow telegraph to him what I needed, but he studiously ignored me.

  He pulled the leash sharply, leading me to a huge man standing at a long wooden bar at the end of the room. Tall, with a broad chest, he wore a well-made charcoal suit and had eyes that said he didn’t give a shit.

  Jake said, “This is Zee. You’re on loan for a little while. I want to play a hand or two.” He patted me on my rump and pushed me forward. “Make sure you do what he says, or he’ll make it harder for you. And not in the good way.”

  This right here, this was what I’d been afraid of. I remembered with vivid clarity the conversation we’d had before we left on the trip.

  Jake and I had met for drinks at a small neighborhood bar near my apartment. Over vodka tonics, I’d asked him, “How do they allow themselves to do it?”

  “How are you going to allow yourself?”

  “No, not me. I’m not talking about that. I’m going because you’re my friend, and I lost the bet.” I paused. “Okay, and I’m curious.”

  “Just curious?”

  I said, “Learning about dominance and submission will be good for me to use in my classes.” I reached for his glass of water and without asking, sipped.

  He raised his eyebrows. “So you’re thinking this will be a business trip?” His expression said he didn’t believe me.

  “I can admit I have some things to learn.” So many things.

  “So you’re going to be submissive in order to learn dominance?” Jake asked.

  “Why is everything a question with you?”

  He leaned forward, his face serious. “This isn’t a game, Jess. This isn’t something you do instead of going on a cruise to Acapulco. This is real. As I test you, what’s really going on is you testing yourself.”

  His intensity gave me butterflies. “But...”

  “No buts. The women who pay me for these trips have very real intentions behind what they’re doing. I make sure of that because I don’t take my work lightly. This is what I have to give to people, and it’s important to me.”

  I must have given a slight eye-roll because he wrapped his hand around my wrist. His fingers were strong. He wasn’t kidding. I tugged the slightest bit and he tightened his grip. I became nervous about the plan for the first time.

  I said conversationally, “I could not only pull away from you right now, but I could flip you to the floor and pin you with a knee at your neck.”

  He nodded. “I know you could.” His grip was getting painful.

  “Then why are you still holding on to me?”

  “Because you’re letting me.”

  “Oh.” And with that, I got it. It was a huge idea. On our trip, I would be allowing him to touch me. To hurt me. To...humiliate me. And I’d realized at that moment I wasn’t going on the trip with him in order to learn about dominance. Not at all.

  Now, in the red room, Jake placed my leash in Zee’s hand before walking to a small table of men where he was greeted as a friend.

  I was on my own now. With Zee.

  The man towered above me. The elegant suit didn’t cover up the fact that he’d look equally at home in motorcycle leathers. A scar marked his left cheek, dragging his lip up in a permanent sneer, and I could determine no specific emotion on his face. Was he pleased to have me
? Annoyed? Angry? Not knowing was the most frightening part.

  “This way,” he said in heavily accented English. He turned and walked to the center of the room. He pulled the leash but he didn’t have to. I stayed close on his heels. Men were starting to notice me now, several of them turning in their chairs and lighting cigarettes, as if they were getting ready to watch a show.

  I had a feeling I might be the star attraction.

  In the middle of the room, a metal locking hook hung from the ceiling like a simple, unlit chandelier. My insides twisted as I looked at it. I couldn’t reconcile how I felt about this: I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be placed here on view. I wanted to be controlled.

  And I wanted so badly to run. It was good I was hobbled, or I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t have made a break for it.

  Zee stopped and turned, putting his hands up as if to stop me, also. I stood stock still, conscious that my nipples had tightened again. They still hurt from the clamps and were throbbing low and steadily.

  From a concealed pocket Zee drew a thin white rope. With his hands on my shoulders, he turned me around. He undid Jake’s silken ties, removed my bra which had still been twisted at my elbows, and for one glorious moment he let me rub my hands together. The sudden circulation was both pleasant and slightly painful.

  “Enough,” he said, and turned me again so that I was facing him. He wrapped my wrists together in front of me with a tight but comfortable knot. Maybe this was all it would be. He’d string my wrists up on the hook above, and I’d be watched by everyone in the room. I could take that. I knew I could.

  Somehow, though, I doubted that was all Zee had in mind.

  I was right about the hands-overhead. The hook was on a lever system, and he winched it down low enough that he could loop the rope’s knot over it. Then he cranked it up again. My arms got higher and higher until my weight came off my heels, and I was teetering on my toes inside my stilettos.

  Then, without another word, he walked away.

  Maybe I’d been right. Maybe this was all I would get.

  And God, it was enough. A man in the corner was pointing at me, making a gesture like he was talking about my calves, and another one waggled his tongue at me. I hung there, feeling the blood drain from my fingers. I kept my eyes wide open, as Jake had said to do—Jake, who had his back to me, as if he didn’t care what happened to me. He had a handful of cards in his hand and what looked like whiskey on the table next to him.

  Long minutes passed. I was by myself, with no one near me, smack dab in the middle of the room, hanging by my wrists. Strangely, whatever he’d done to string me up wasn’t painful. It should have been. And yeah, it was uncomfortable. My muscles were already aching, my calves tightly tensed. But it wasn’t bad.

  Maybe it was the adrenaline. I watched as the man sitting next to Jake threw his cards on the table and then looked at me. He seemed to take my measure for a good number of seconds, then slid his eyes to Jake, saying something I couldn’t hear, not that I would have understood him anyway.

  Jake shrugged. I wished to hell I knew what they were talking about.

  I took a deep breath, the kind I taught in class, pulling it all the way into my diaphragm and letting it out slowly for a count of ten. I was used to the gag now, and I liked the way my tongue rested against it. It was almost relaxing.

  Then Zee was behind me, and I wasn’t relaxed anymore.

  He said something to me in a low, guttural voice. He was so close I could feel the heat of his body against my back, my ass. He touched my shoulder with one finger, just a light touch, but I almost jumped out of my skin. He laughed at my reaction, then ran his finger along the top of my shoulder, up my neck, and then swept my hair out of the way. He raked his nails against my nape. I got chills, goosebumps rising on my arms and legs. My nipples tightened again.

  With one swift move, he wrapped his hand around my hair, pulling my head back. With his other hand, he undid the catch on the ball gag, and it dropped from my mouth, saliva stringing out, wetting my chin.

  “Oh,” I couldn’t help saying. I whispered, “Thank you.”

  In a heavy accent, Zee said, “You do not speak.” He let go of my hair and I raised my head again.

  I heard something, a swoosh of air, the second before something landed on my back. The pain was instant and intense, streaming through me with a clear brilliance.

  He held the whip in front of me, as if to get my reaction which should have been obvious. It was a thick black braided handle with many short leather strips coming from it.

  And it hurt like a motherfucker.

  “What do you think?”

  I was too scared to say anything.

  Zee shook his head. “Now, you speak. What do you think?”

  Quickly, I tried to figure out what would be the best answer. Did he want to know I was terrified of him hitting me again? Did he want me to be strong and pretend I didn’t mind? What would save me here?

  “Thank you,” was all I could gasp.

  Zee nodded. “Good.”

  And he hit me again, the short strips landing in the same place in the middle of my back. I couldn’t help the scream that tore out of my mouth, and I realized why he had removed the ball gag. The men at the tables paused in their games to tilt their heads toward us. Through the tears that swam in my eyes, I saw appreciative nods in my direction.

  Another blow. I screamed again, ending with a whimper that trailed off pathetically. The pain was like none I’d ever had before. It was knife-sharp, coursing through my body, almost unbearable.

  Yet at the same time, I was astonished to find myself leaning back toward Zee as if I wanted him to hit me again.

  I didn’t. Of course I didn’t.

  Did I?

  The only thing this pain reminded me of was when I got my tattoo. Getting the cherry tree that curved from the bend of my right arm and up my shoulder, the blossoms dropping down my back, was some of the most intense pain I’d ever gone through. But then, trapped for hours in the tattoo artist’s chair, lightheaded and nauseated from the pain, I’d felt something else: a pleasure-filled heat, knowing that I’d chosen this for myself. I’d memorialized my seventh birthday when my mother filled my bedroom with cherry blossoms still on the branch. I hadn’t known then that she’d stolen them from the landlord’s tree, and that she did it because she couldn’t afford to buy a gift. I’d just known I’d loved it, and I chose to tattoo my body with the memory. I had put myself through the pain.

  And it was the same now. I’d signed up for this.

  Zee hit me again, and my thoughts scattered as I tried to remember how to breathe afterward. My back felt more numb now, a relief.

  I’d chosen this. I’d allowed Jake to take me here. And over weak white wine served in tiny plastic bottles on the plane on the way here, he’d taken out a black Moleskine notebook.

  “Tell me what you want. I have a contract I’ll need you to sign later, when you’re totally sober. But for now, we’ll just make notes.”

  I had smacked his arm lightly and pulled the airplane blanket tighter around me. “I thought you were supposed to give me what I want.”

  He nodded, but his face stayed serious. “I can’t do that unless I know what that is.”

  I looked at the thin man seated on the other side of Jake. The man’s eyes were closed, but I lowered my voice anyway.

  “Just give me what you give the others.”

  “Impossible. Everyone has a different vision.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t...”

  “You’re going to have to get over that shyness.”

  I met his eyes, and my heart jumped inside my ribcage. I guessed I would. He’d probably see me naked soon. Jesus.

  “You look nervous suddenly,” he said. “What are you thinking about?”

  I shook my head again.

  “One thing,” he said. “Tell me one thing you want.”

  I found a piece of courage. “Being naked,” I said softly. “In fron
t of...”

  “In front of people.” He made a note. “What else?”

  “I feel like I’m being psychoanalyzed.”

  “Interesting. What else do you feel?”

  I heard the joke in his voice, and I relaxed. “I feel like you’ll do the right thing. Even if... even if someone else is touching me.”

  He made another note. “You know everything we do is driven by you, right?”

  I nodded.

  “So now, tell me what you want and, more importantly, what you don’t want.”

  Pushing my shoulders back, I said, “I want it all.”

  Jake raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You want a stranger to take a razor and bleed you in front of an audience?”

  “No!” I drew back. “What?”

  He shrugged. “I’m just saying. What people want differs. So you have to tell me. You want to be touched by strangers.”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Do you want to be fucked by strangers?”

  I swore the sleeping man to Jake’s right stirred a little. I whispered, “Yes.”

  “Fucked where?”

  “What?” Did he mean indoors, outdoors...

  “Ass, mouth, pussy, or all three?”

  “Good God.”

  He laughed and took another sip of his wine while he waited for me to recover from the question.

  I jumped off the cliff edge I felt I was standing on. “Anywhere. In answer to that.”

  He made another note. “Pain level?”

  I squirmed. This had to be more embarrassing than anything he would do to me, right? “High tolerance.”

  Looking closely at me, he said, “You sure, tough girl?”

  “Of course I am.” I wasn’t. I wasn’t sure of anything. Was I even doing the right thing? I felt too much when I looked at Jake. What we would do together wasn’t going to be a problem, I thought. What I was feeling for him right now—again—might be. But goddamn it, this was his fucking job. This was what he did for a living. He didn’t feel for women. He just worked for them. He’d explained that to me when we’d first started talking about doing this.

  As if he could hear my thoughts, he put the armrest up between us. He put his arm around me, drawing my head to his shoulder. For the first time, he kissed the top of my head. “You know this isn’t what I normally do, right?”