Black Jack

by Mari Carr

  “I wonder if you and I might not have the same problem, Liz. I glanced in the male subs room for a minute and they all looked like a bunch of pansies. I bet you would chew them up and spit them out in a heartbeat.”

  Liz stared at him in astonishment. “You looked in the male subs room and…?”

  “I didn’t see you. Then again I wasn’t really looking very hard at anyone in there.”

  “You didn’t see me in the room for female Dominants and male submissives?” she repeated, knowing she sounded stupid.

  “No.” He raised one eyebrow, the question apparent in his face if not in his words.

  Liz took a deep breath and reached one hand into her pocket, curling her fingers into a fist.

  “Marc, there was a reason you didn’t see me there.” Liz laid her closed fist on the tabletop with the back of her hand resting on the cool Formica. Marc looked first at her hand then her face, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown. With her gaze locked on his, she slowly uncurled her fingers.

  Marc stared at the crumpled red ribbon in her palm. For a minute he simply gazed at it in confusion, and then the implications hit him. A picture of slender necks circled with red ribbons popped up in his mind’s eye.

  Startled, he met her gaze. He read defiance and power in her eyes, both a thin mask to cover her fear of rejection and uncertainty, he was sure.

  He glanced back down at the ribbon curled on her palm. In one motion he swung his legs off the bench and sat up straight. He took the ribbon from her hand, letting the tips of his fingers caress the soft hollow of her palm.

  He lifted the ribbon, draping it over his index finger, drawing out the moment as he studied it. Raising his eyes to hers, he smiled and clenched the ribbon in his fist.

  There was a stabbing pain in Liz’s chest. She released the breath she’d been holding for too long and shuddered as she inhaled again. Terror, excitement, and dread filled her. Had she made a mistake, or the best decision of her life? Marc wasn’t a stranger the way she’d planned.

  “Liz, do you mean to tell me you were wearing this ribbon?” His voice was lower than normal, almost threatening, yet he was smiling.

  Retreating behind her pride, she lifted her chin. “Yes, I was.”

  His grin widened. “You’re a submissive?”

  Her chin notched up another degree. “Yes, I am.”

  “Well, isn’t that interesting?”

  “Drop the smug attitude,” she snapped.

  “Are you getting fresh with me? That’s a risky thing to do.” He suddenly sounded smarmy and fake Dom-ish. Her perfect man was turning out no better than the wannabe Doms.

  Liz gritted her teeth. “Don’t think that just because I’m a submissive you can treat me like a mindless toy.”

  Abruptly Marc’s expression became serious. “I don’t think you’re a toy. I was surprised—”

  “You think that because I’m a woman who has her own life, who can stand up for herself and make her own decisions, I can’t look for something different in the bedroom? I am so tired of men’s inability to see a woman as a complex person. Why can’t I be submissive in the bedroom and nowhere else? And why is it that a man just assumes that if I am submissive, I will fall to my knees and beg to suck him off while he taunts me with petty threats? As far as I’m concerned, he had better be willing to fight for my submission, to earn it.”

  Liz’s hands were fisted on the tabletop as she leaned forward. Anger had knotted the muscles in her shoulders and back. There was a hollow, gray feeling in her stomach. Marc hadn’t laughed at her, but he also wasn’t really the man she was looking for. He’d jumped right to the attitude she despised. The faux threats, the condescension…

  Marc, rather than pulling away, was leaning toward her, absorbing her anger and drawing in the emotions in her words.

  “Liz, Liz, let me finish my thought. I would never treat you like a toy. I didn’t mean to be arrogant or condescending. That was a dumb-fuck thing to say.” He studied her for a moment. “I can only imagine that you would be an incredible submissive.”

  She took a breath, closing her eyes and visualizing the anger leaving her like water filtering through a sieve. When she was calm, she opened her eyes.

  “That’s sweet, and thanks, but I know my attitude isn’t…” She sighed and toyed with her straw. “I want sex, Marc. I want lots of sex. I want pleasure and pain and bondage and yes, I want to be controlled, but if that control involves being told to vacuum the house naked while not having sex for days, then I’ll walk.”

  Marc’s eyes darkened, the pupils swelling until the iris was only a thin ring. The happy, normal bustle of the diner faded away, until there was nothing and no one but them. The tension and chemistry encircled them like a thick-skinned bubble, and inside the air was dense and dark, like maple syrup.

  “You blindsided me.” Marc’s voice was a low rumble. “You know I don’t handle surprises well. I like to run the play that was called. Let’s pretend that didn’t happen. Pretend I didn’t say what I did.”

  Liz let out a slow breath and sat back. “I’m sorry I jumped on you like that. After all the bullshit I had to see tonight at the center…”

  Marc imagined some of the so called Doms from the gathering putting their hands on her. Reminding himself of his dentist’s warning about grinding his teeth, he unclenched his jaw.

  “Those dicks weren’t fit to lick the bottom of your shoes,” he growled. “They couldn’t handle you.”

  “Are you implying that you are?” She searched his face. He wouldn’t want a submissive like her. Would he?

  He met her gaze squarely. “Yes, I think I am.” He held out his hand.

  Returning his stare, she took a chance, both on him and on her fantasies. “I think you are too.”

  Chapter 2

  The next night Liz met Marc at a rotating restaurant atop one of the city’s most expensive hotels. Considering the planned discussion for the evening, it might have been better to meet at either his condo or her house but this particular restaurant boasted enclosed booths with walls that touched the ceiling.

  After trading a valet her car keys for a ticket, Liz strode to one of the black glass elevators. Stepping in, she positioned herself so she could use the reflective dark glass for a last-minute check of her appearance. As the elevator began its quiet ascent to the fortieth floor, Liz gave the hem of her little black dress a quick twitch. Made of a thick silk, the strapless dress hugged her curves in a way that spoke of tailoring, not spandex. Rather than a straight bodice, this dress had a molded top, the fabric rising over each breast with a deep dip between. Clipped to a hanger, it looked like the top of a heart, but once on, it was nothing but sex appeal in black silk. Tonight she had decided to dress it up with a gold and black antique shawl. Black strappy Coup D’états with burnished gold detailing and black chandelier earrings completed the ensemble.

  Liz knew what she probably should be wearing. A loose skirt, button-up shirt, no underwear and hooker makeup were what most girls in BDSM stories wore. One of the classes had covered the topic of attire. When she had questioned it, asking why a Dom would want his sub to look sloppy, the instructor for the evening had told her that “sloppy” was her opinion and the only person whose opinion mattered was that of her Dom. As much as Liz was trying to understand submission as the world told her it was, she just couldn’t make herself agree.

  She didn’t want to look like a sidewalk hooker; she wanted to look like sin and sex in leather and velvet—a courtesan, not a whore. While the idea of not being allowed to wear underwear was sexy as hell, Liz had boobs, real boobs, the kind that liked to rest closer to her navel than her chin without assistance. This dress would be a tragic fashion mistake without the half corset she had on underneath lifting her breasts. As the light in the elevator panel moved from floor 29 to 30, Liz checked her hair. While normally it was straight, she’d used hot rollers to give it a soft wave. The curl shortened her hair so it just brushed her shoulders. She
’d pulled back one side, exposing her neck. With the soft wave, she looked like a sultry femme fatale from Hollywood’s bygone era. Her makeup was done in the darker shades appropriate for an evening look—a smoky eye, careful blush to boost her cheekbones, and deep rose lips with a high gloss finish. She looked like a high society girlfriend, too pretty to be a stockbroker herself, too voluptuous, too sexual, to be a stockbroker’s wife.

  Liz was proud that she could hang up her Anne Taylor business suit for a Tadashi Shoji cocktail dress and not only look good in both, but like who she was in both.

  When the elevator door slid open with a slow hiss, she was standing dead center of the car, one hip cocked, the shawl draped over her arms and framing her black silk-encased waist. Stepping carefully from the elevator, she savored the moment. She was minutes from taking her first real step toward making her fantasies realities in the flesh. No matter what happened, she could savor the anticipation. She rolled her hips as she walked—boom, tisss, boom, tisss—the heavy thump of a floor drum followed by a single tap of a cymbal.

  The hostess didn’t even ask her name, simply rose and with a murmured, “Will you follow me, ma’am?” led her around the teak-paneled entryway. While the entry was stationary, just behind it the rotating floor began. Situated in one of the hotel’s round glass towers, the restaurant took one hour to go all the way around—the only interruption in the view when the floor rotated past the entryway. Liz stepped onto the slow-moving floor and followed the hostess. The booths were on her left, the floor-to-ceiling windows to her right. The restaurant was so large, it was hard to tell how far around the circle she was from the entryway once it passed out of sight. Just ahead of them, a man slid out of one of the booths. Marc.

  *

  She looked like sex on a stick. Expensive sex on a stick.

  Marc barely noticed when the hostess drifted away. As he had in the parking lot, he gave her a once-over, a slow appraisal. He tried to start at her feet and work his way up but he got distracted by her breasts. He heard the hiss of air as she took a deep breath and then had to do a little deep breathing of his own as those fantastic breasts rose and fell. They seemed to call out to him, “come, Marc, pet us, love us, play with us.”

  Manfully ignoring the fact that he had just had an imaginary conversation with her tits, he started again with her feet. She had on strappy things, which looked painful but did amazing things to her calves. The skirt of the dress hugged her thighs and hips just so, the material pulled taut by her one-hip-cocked stance. On the way to her face he once again was drawn in by her breasts. After a quick eye caress and mentally promising to have a nice long conversation with those babies at a later date, he made it to her face. Her eyes seemed more exotic tonight, surrounded by dark girly stuff, her lips were very red and kissable, fuckable. That perfect blonde mane just touched one side of her face. She was the girl-next-door after she moved to the city and learned a few things. There was no uncertainty in her eyes—she knew she was ravishing—but there was challenge, as if she dared him to disapprove. She had a long wait coming if that’s what she was waiting for.

  “Liz.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips, placing an open-mouthed kiss on the back. “You’re utterly gorgeous.”

  “Thank you, Marc,” Liz murmured as goose bumps rose along the back of the hand he’d kissed.

  *

  He looked great in a dark-gray suit with a white shirt and navy tie. Not exactly the most GQ outfit but it was a classic look that would never stop working for the gentlemen, and considering his size, Liz shuddered to think of the cost of having suits tailored. His hair had been brushed so that it fell back from his face without being tucked behind his ears. Liz had to stop herself from reaching over and pulling one lock forward just to re-create the rakish look from last night.

  He eased her into the booth, opposite where he had been sitting, with a hand at her back. As he slid in across from her, she took stock of the table, eyeing two black leather portfolios. Seeing her look at them, he slid them down onto the seat with a teasing smile. As the waiter glided up, they settled easily into the routine of two urbanites enjoying a high-quality meal out on the town. After the waiter listed that night’s meal options, they chose the fish, Marc seamlessly selecting an appropriate white wine. Liz mentally lifted an eyebrow. While she had never taken him for a dumb jock, that level of wine knowledge was a bit above the norm.

  After the waiter had glided away, she asked about it. “Where did you acquire such extensive wine knowledge?”

  Marc settled back into the booth and smiled. “I wish I could say that I was a true connoisseur, but a buddy of mine from my pro days bought a vineyard as an investment and then got really into it. For years I got cases of different wines for holidays until he finally dragged me up to his vineyard for a week. I learned more than any man could ever want to know about wine and grapes. For example, do you know why they plant rosebushes at the edges of the grapes?”

  The conversation continued as the four-course meal was served, moving easily from one topic to another. Liz was once more struck by how easy it was to fall back into a friendship with him. They talked about their jobs—Liz’s venture capital company, Marc’s post-pro career as a sportswriter and commentator.

  When the entrée was gone, Marc asked the server to hold off on dessert. He reached down next to him and then carefully placed the portfolios on the table. Liz sat up a bit straighter, a shiver running down her spine.

  Marc took one and placed it in front of her. She let her hand rest on it but kept her eyes on Marc.

  “I’m going to be honest with you, Liz. I’m having fun and you look fucking amazing. Right now I’m worried about the catch—there has to be one, right?”

  He smiled and Liz laughed. She felt the same—this was too easy, too perfect.

  “It’s eerie that we would find each other again under these circumstances, when we each want what the other,” she smiled, “possesses.”

  “Then let’s get to business. Tell me if we aren’t seeing eye to eye on anything I’m saying.” Marc took a small sip of his wine before continuing. “You’re looking for a Dom. I’m looking for a sub. I’ve had some experience and pretty much know what I like, and know that what I want is not the ‘standard’. From what you said last night, I think you might be the same, but we need to be sure. In here,” he tapped his portfolio, “is a BDSM checklist.”

  Liz let out a little breath, her fingers tingling with excitement. BDSM checklists outlined and categorized every possible kinky toy and scenario in the BDSM world. She’d seen a sample in class, but never a full one, since real ones could be hundreds of items long.

  “This is my checklist, so I’ve removed anything I won’t do, or stuff that’s really fucked up. Mark your answers and then we’ll swap and go over it. If nothing matches up, we’ll have dessert and…” He trailed off.

  “And no hard feelings,” Liz finished for him.

  “Exactly.”

  Liz smiled. This was better than anything she’d dared hope for. She was a logical soul and the idea of a checklist was very appealing. He knew what he was doing.

  As the city rotated past, Liz opened her portfolio and began to read.

  *

  Marc leaned back and took a sip of his wine, enjoying both the view beyond the glass walls and the sight of his lovely companion. He could already imagine her chained to a wall in his bedroom, her hair tangled around her as she fought him at the same time her pussy dripped for his cock.

  Since he’d put the list together and had done this before, it wouldn’t take him long to fill it out. As he watched her bite her lip and swallow hard, he decided he wouldn’t hold anything back. Usually he toned down his desires and wants, making sure that he wouldn’t scare his partners when they went over the list. But this woman… Marc took a deep breath as his dark urges rolled through him. He wanted to do everything to her.

  *

  Activity

  Abrasion

  Anal p
lugs

  Anal sex…

  Liz had to stop and take a breath, look away from the list. Her skin was tingling with arousal and she was wet. She’d read three lines and she was already panting. Half-disgusted with herself, she closed the portfolio. She was so lost in her tangled thoughts and feelings that she’d forgotten that Marc was there until he spoke.

  “Too much?” he asked quietly.

  Liz looked over at him, a quick smile and platitudes rising to her lips. She knew what it was like to be made to feel a freak for wanting this. She wouldn’t do that to him. Just as she was about to reassure him, tell him it was all right and she was just excited, she stopped herself. She took a breath and released it slowly.

  “Do you ever hate yourself for wanting this?” she asked instead. She meant for the words to be strong but they came out like a plea.

  He sat back, clearly surprised. “Well, yeah, sometimes. Do you?”

  She looked down at her fingers, curled together on top of the checklist. “All the time.”

  His large tan hand covered hers. His palm was so large it dwarfed her joined hands. He was warm, she was perpetually cold. “Lizzy, listen to me.”

  She looked up. There was no sympathy in his gaze, but there was understanding. “There is nothing wrong with us,” he told her. “We’re mature, consenting adults engaging in responsible sex. Some of this stuff,” he gestured to the portfolios with his free hand, “is even mainstream. You don’t think people try a little light bondage, a little spanking? They do.”

  “But that’s not what we want, is it?” Liz wasn’t sure why she was pushing Marc. She wanted him to say something to make this okay, say something to make her feel as if she weren’t damaged in some way.

  “No.”

  “Why? Why can’t I just accept the life I have? Wanting this is…” She trailed off, shaking her head.

  “Selfish. Greedy.” His voice was firm. “You should be satisfied with vanilla sex, but you’re not.”