Safeword: Davenport

by Candace Blevins

  Zach paused to get a drink, and Dana made a mental note to never, ever, lie to him.

  "At about the two week mark she rebelled, said she didn't want to submit anymore—she wasn't a child and was tired of the rules. I quietly unlocked and removed her mitts, put them in the playroom and locked it before returning to my workshop. I stopped the catered food deliveries since she had her hands back, but I didn't tell her what to cook. I didn't tell her what or when to eat, when to go to sleep, or when to get up. I didn't do her morning inspection after her shower, didn't say anything when she wore sweats and a t-shirt to bed, didn't react when she sat on furniture. I was friendly, hugged her and gave quick kisses here and there, told her I loved her, cuddled in bed at night."

  He raised a shoulder and dropped it. “I acted in the way I believe normal vanilla husbands do. She tried to force my hand by going on a shopping spree and spending way more than her monthly allowance. She also got a speeding ticket on the way home. I told her I was sure she'd budget better the next month, and how sad I'd be if she were hurt in a wreck. Three days after I took her mitts off, she came to me on her knees, begging my forgiveness. She was lost without my direction, without the safe boundaries I'd built around her. She was terrified at the prospect of making her own decisions, and she pleaded with me to take charge again."

  "Is that why you freed her? You knew she'd change her mind?"

  "No, I released her because she withdrew her submission. I hoped she'd offer it to me again, but once she said she didn't want to submit anymore, it ended our power exchange agreement."

  "Okay, sorry—go on with the story. I'm assuming you accepted her back?"

  "Yes. I informed her the one-month punishment started over and she happily agreed. I didn't lock her in the playroom for the first few days, as I felt she needed to be near me. I locked her to the bed at night, and had her lay on the floor near me while I worked, as a substitute. She asked me to punish her for overspending and for the ticket, but other than subtracting out the costs from her allowance the next two months, I did nothing—she hadn't belonged to me when she did those things and thus she didn't get absolution for disappointing me."

  Zach stopped, looking at her with a fierceness in his eyes. “She needed a twenty-four/seven arrangement with restrictive boundaries, and extreme consequences if the rules weren't followed to the letter. It fell in line with my kinks, and I'm not declaring I did it all out of the goodness of my heart, but I'm not actively seeking someone who needs such intense management. I want a partner."

  Dana absorbed his words a few seconds before saying, “We got grief from the community about safewords also, but in our case it was because if I safeworded, I had to compensate by enduring a different kind of pain. Some in the scene accused him of punishing me for using a safeword, but it wasn't punitive. For instance, if I couldn't handle something he did with needles—if I gave a slow signal he'd usually help me deal with it, give me time in between, or maybe move in from another direction. However, if I said the stop safeword he'd remove the needles as quickly and gently as he could, make sure I was okay, bandage whatever might need it, and put everything away. Once I'd recovered to his satisfaction he'd put me through his estimation of about one and a half times the pain I'd safeworded out of—hours of exercise, or a cane, or some other devious torment. It worked for us because I had a way of stopping a scene if was truly too much, but it wasn't an easy out."

  "Did it work for you last night, agreeing to ten strokes with no safeword?"

  Dana had thought about this, and was happy he'd brought it up so she didn't have to. “Yes, but I don't think asking me in the heat of the moment should happen anymore. Get me to consent to that sort of thing before the scene, not during.” Her words sounded bossier than she intended, so she tried to explain. “I'm not sure how I feel about it right now, but I felt submissive to you, and it appears the process of putting me into a headspace where pain is a good thing also triggers my need to submit. We'll have to figure it out, but the idea we can do this without power exchange is a pipe dream.” She took a breath and finished, hoping he understood what she was trying to say. “And asking me to negotiate once I'm in that frame of mind—"

  He interrupted her. “You're right, of course; no more of that unless I've cleared it beforehand.” He moved her dishes to his tray and stood. She followed, not realizing she was still naked until she was up. She looked at Zach, with his boxers on, and reached for the sheet.

  He motioned behind her. “Get a robe from the closet. We bought them for our guests to use, when we threw parties, one should fit."

  She found one in her size and followed him with her empty tray, wiping them down as he loaded the dishwasher. “How'd you get the wax off so easily last night?"

  "It's an oily wax, supposed to nourish to your skin, and peels off easier than straight paraffin. I originally intended to use the normal stuff, but when I was reaching for it, the oily seemed the right choice. It meant I didn't get to flog it off you, but I was happy with the way the scene flowed. A few flecks remained behind from the pillar candles—we can take a shower and I'll get those off you now, if you'd like."

  "Honestly, I should probably head home to get ready for work. I need to finish some final prep before I meet a new client."

  "Okay, give me ten minutes and I'll drive you. Are we still on for Friday? Pick you up at six?"

  "Yes, I look forward to it."

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  Chapter Six

  * * * *

  Dana pushed the buttons on the elevator, knowing Zach would prefer to but needing to feel a little in control. Dinner had been nice, and the symphony performance was mesmerizing. She'd enjoyed his friends and felt as if all but one of the women liked her. When the group split up after the concert, she'd invited him to her place for drinks.

  Zach was quiet on the ride up, but as she was unlocking her door said, “You invited me here so we'd be on your turf."

  She sighed. “Maybe. I do want to talk about a few things, and we're less likely to jump into a big scene without all your toys."

  "Maybe we can chat in the hot tub?"

  Giving him a get real look, she said, “Let's start in the living room, shall we?"

  She stepped out of her shoes three steps inside her doorway—standing in the lobby to hobnob during intermission had done a number on her feet. Walking straight to her small bar area, she pulled down two whiskey glasses and opened the cabinet doors to show off her liquor collection. “I'm gonna fix myself a Jack and Coke, what'll you have?"

  His eyes skated over the bottles. “How about a rum and Coke."

  "I've got light, gold, dark, and overproof. Dark works well with Coke, unless you prefer one of the others."

  He raised an eyebrow, smiling. “Whatever you think is best."

  She mixed their drinks, showing off a bit since she'd bartended her way through college, and handed him his drink as she started towards the living room.

  She sat on the sofa and assumed he'd sit beside her, so she wasn't sure what to think when he chose one of the chairs instead.

  "I don't bite. Or, not too hard anyway."

  "I think you wish to talk with our clothes on and distance between us, which doesn't bode well."

  "Oh, no. It's fine. I'm sorry if I made you think...” Frustrated at starting off with a misunderstanding, she dove right in. “I saw my therapist yesterday, and resolved a few issues. I was conflicted about feeling submissive towards you, and she helped me see submitting to you doesn't take anything away from my relationship with Garnet. This wasn't the first we've talked about it, but it finally made sense."

  Dana took a quick breath, continued before she lost her nerve. She'd practiced this in her head and now it came spilling out. “She also brought up the dangers of dating someone who's lost a spouse—how we've got two ghosts floating through our relationship. She said we should be careful to avoid the habit of speaking about them too much. They're our past, and while some discussion is
necessary, to see where the other has come from and learn the type of things we've both done, she said we might consider them more of ex-husband and ex-wife, and only talk about them as often as it'd be appropriate to mention another kind of ex."

  Another fast inhale and she rattled the rest out. “It's important to have conversations about them, so we learn about each other's past, what has formed us into the people we are today—but those discussions should be lengthy and detailed so we don't keep bringing it up."

  Zach was smiling when she finished. “You see Kirsten."

  Stunned, she just stared at him, speechless.

  He gave a wistful grin. “It's hard to find a kink friendly therapist in this town. Is it any wonder we're using the same one? I saw her this morning and heard similar advice."

  Hmm, that made it easier. She took a deep breath and felt the tension easing out of her body. She spoke slower now, no longer worried about his reception to her words. “Okay, so I'd like to talk about them now, get the questions out of the way so we can move forward. I always do a news search on new clients, so I know your wife died while you were vacationing in the Caribbean. Do you feel comfortable telling me what happened?"

  He stood and walked to her, bringing his drink with him, sitting on the sofa and drawing her into the comfort of his arms. She rested her head on his chest and rubbed his arm, staying quiet until he figured out what to say. He took another sip and set his glass on the end table.

  "We were visiting Antigua, where they drive on the other side of the road. We'd planned to spend the morning shopping. She wanted privacy to buy me a gift, asked me to go amuse myself awhile, promised she'd be in that shop or the one next door. I'd read of an artisan across the street and hoped to purchase some handcrafted jewelry as a surprise."

  He stopped, reached for his drink, took a swallow, and absently set it down, his hand returning to her back, cool from the glass. “Whoever finished first was supposed to sit on the bench in front of the other's store. The jewelry counter was packed with people and I was encouraged to look around until someone could wait on me. If....” He shook his head started again. “Witnesses say she looked left and stepped into the street, not realizing traffic would be coming from the right."

  "You never got to give her the gift."

  "No. She'd bought me a pair of unique sandals; she had a knack for finding things I'd love. I got her earrings and a painting. I wore the sandals for weeks, only taking them off at night. Your turn,” he said, his hand trailing a comforting path down her back. “I know Garnet had food poisoning; are you comfortable talking about it?"

  She'd talked about it during therapy for hours; she could do so now with Zach, so she dove right in. “We were vacationing on an island resort in Thailand when he got sick. We'd been deep sea diving and he'd fallen on the boat in rough waters on the way back to the resort. He started feeling bad that evening and we went to the resort's clinic, the only medical facility on the island. He had a headache, nausea, sensitivity to light, and was a little confused—we assumed he'd gotten a slight concussion from the fall. They kept him under observation the rest of the night, and he felt better the next day. The doctor released him, said he was fine, and we sat on the beach and talked after a light dinner, since he didn't have much of an appetite. But when he woke the following morning, he was worse again and was weak and his balance was off."

  She stopped to take a sip, focusing on the burn of the Jack Daniels instead of the ache in her heart. “The doctor was still saying concussion, but I wanted a second opinion. I got plane tickets for us to leave the island that afternoon, researched the best hospital for brain injuries, arranged for a driver and translator to meet us at the airport. Two hours before we were to leave, he had a seizure and began losing hand-eye coordination. The clinic staff finally agreed it was more than a concussion and helped arrange for an emergency medical evacuation. He was in a state of the art hospital within an hour and a half of the seizure, but he lost consciousness en route to the hospital and never woke again. He died a few days later. The autopsy said it had nothing to do with the fall—the cause of death was listed as food poisoning. Something he ate created a form of meningitis, and if not diagnosed and treated right away, antibiotics can't help after a certain point. If he hadn't fallen on the boat, if we didn't assume head injury...” She stopped, remembering only madness lay down the what if line of thought.

  He rubbed her back, his voice raspy as he said, “I got so mad at the people who said I'm sorry after Bethany died. They didn't do anything, why were they apologizing? Eventually I realized it was a way to try to express they wished it hadn't happened. It's hard to know what to say after hearing such a sad story, when someone so important was taken away unexpectedly."

  Dana nodded; she'd had the same thoughts, come to the same conclusions. “I'm guessing if the two of us end up together there won't be any vacations in our future."

  His hand moved to her arm, still rubbing, and she wondered if he were comforting himself, or her. He adjusted them so he could look into her eyes. “That'd be sad, don't you think? To live our life in fear?"

  "Maybe, but I couldn't relax and enjoy myself, so it'd be pointless take a trip that'd only stress me out."

  "Have you gone on a vacation since he passed?"

  She shook her head. “No. I live in one of the top twenty-five vacation destinations in the US. Why do I need to go anywhere?"

  "What if we visited a large city with excellent medical facilities, where they drive on the right side of the road?"

  She sighed, aggravated at his doggedness. “I spent a week in Los Angeles a few months ago for a design convention. It wasn't recreational, it was work, but still, I'm capable of travel. Last year I went to Chicago for a convention. I don't know what I'll be comfortable with in ten or fifteen years, but right now I get plenty of R&R at home and don't need to go gallivanting around the globe in search of it."

  "Okay."

  There were several moments of silence, as she waited for him to expound on his single word answer. When he didn't she said, “That's it? Just, okay?"

  "Yep. We're both familiar with therapy. If I think we're allowing our pasts to dictate our future I'll ask that we talk about it with Kirsten. I understand where you are now and trust we'll find a way to move forward together."

  The realization he assumed this would be a long-term thing between them both thrilled and terrified her. “Oh. Well. Alrighty then. Tell me what you expect from a submissive?"

  He chuckled. “Talk about doing a one-eighty. I'm not sure I understand the question, but I guess I expect a submissive to submit, to show respect, to follow orders. Is that what you mean?"

  "Not exactly. If you had me, hypothetically speaking, for twenty-four hours, what rules would you give me? What rights would you want to negotiate for the agreed upon duration?"

  "I'd ask you to arrive at my house at ten o'clock tomorrow morning and expect to belong to me through six o'clock Sunday evening... no, until Sunday at noon for our first time, with a few hours after for us to talk. Maybe go out to dinner. Whether you stay the night with me Sunday night outside of a scene will be entirely up to you."

  She did the math—twenty-six hours of submission, with probably six to eight hours of sleep thrown in. Her insides flittered as she said, “We need to discuss limits, especially before such a long scene, but...” She sat up, met his gaze. “If I were to consent—what rules would there be?"

  "Do not eat breakfast. A garage door will be open when you arrive, and you'll pull in and the door will close. Step out of your car and undress, and lock your clothes, shoes, and purse into your trunk. Bring only your keys into the house, and place them on the hook by the door as you enter the kitchen. You'll see wrist cuffs, pick them up and bring them to me."

  They talked for two hours before he kissed her goodnight and left. Dana had three orgasms before she went to sleep, and awoke feeling as if she'd had more in her dreams.

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  Chapter Seven

  * * * *

  Dana stood naked in the garage, her bare feet on the cool brick steps, her fingers hovering over the brushed nickel doorknob.

  She pulled her hand away from the door, telling herself it was ridiculous to be so nervous about taking this last step, but her knees were weak, and her stomach had swarms of butterflies battling hordes of yellow-jackets. On the plus side, her pussy was tingling and her clit remembered this was the place it'd finally been played with properly again. But she didn't feel submissive. She felt a little silly, actually.

  Last night, she'd asked if he'd start off with something to help her get into the right headspace. She was afraid she'd only be able to feel submissive if he was giving her pain, and it was obvious he needed a woman who'd submit to him outside of a scene.

  Reminding herself she'd have to trust him to help her get there, she took a deep breath, twisted the knob, and pushed the door open. The hook was where he'd said it would be, and she hung her keys and reached for the soft leather cuffs before walking across the kitchen to him—the hardwood floor warm under her feet. The symbolism of her bringing the cuffs to him wasn't lost on her—he wanted it to be clear she was offering herself to him.

  Zach had been working at the counter when she entered, but turned to watch her walk to him. Their eyes met and she calmed inside, his expression conveying he was happy to see her, and his confidence assuring her he'd know what to do.

  He wiped his hands on a towel and took the cuffs from her. “Very good, pet."

  They'd discussed at length the night before what they'd call each other, and had agreed on pet and Sir for now. Hearing him use the term was disconcerting, but it succeeded in helping her slide the first inch towards the right headspace.