by Alexis Hall
“But I want the kinky sex.”
She laughed. “Then tell me something else you like.”
Of course, this was its own piece of pain. Remembering all the things I’d done with Caspian. How much I’d loved it when he’d pinned me, exposed me, made me beg and squirm and ache. “I like being restrained.”
“Well, isn’t this my lucky day.”
“And I like feeling…I don’t know how to explain.”
“Well, why don’t you try?” The way she said it, commanding, but somehow playful too, sent a happy shiver down my spine.
“Slutty? And embarrassed kind of? A bit. But not, um, degraded or anything.”
“Anything else you don’t like?”
“Yes, I don’t like…I don’t want…I don’t want to be passive. I mean, I know it doesn’t make sense because I want all this other stuff that means I’m not in control, so probably I don’t know what I’m talking about. But I hate it when…I just. I don’t know. I need to be involved. God, I’m being a weirdo, aren’t I?”
“We’re all weirdos, poppet.”
“What I really love is when I can”—a blush charged out of nowhere and tomatoed me—“serve someone’s desire. Through surrender and suffering and…stuff.”
The corner of George’s mouth curled into one of her unreadable half smiles. “It makes you feel powerful.”
“Yes. Now I’ve said it aloud, it doesn’t seem very submissive.”
“Submission is many things. It can be whatever you want it to be.”
An odd sound made its way out of my mouth, eventually resolving into a shaky giggle. “It’s nice talking about this. In a strange sort of way.”
“Making people articulate their predilections is rather a kink of mine.”
“Are you going to articulate any of your own?”
“I thought I just did.” I gave her what I hoped was a rebuking look. But it was probably more of a pout. And eventually she went on, “I believe sex, like art, has the capacity to strip people to their essential selves. And I enjoy that. Very much.”
“You’re not being very illuminating.”
“On the contrary, I just told you exactly what I intend to do to you. Is red your safe word of choice?”
“It’s a classic for a reason.”
“Then red it is.”
I opened my mouth. Then closed it again. Suddenly all I could think about was standing in front of Caspian, telling him I wanted my safe word to be Mace Windu when really I just wanted him to believe how safe I felt with him.
“Or not?” George asked into the silence.
“Can I have—” Actually, it wasn’t a Samuel L. Jackson moment. It would have reminded me of Caspian in a bad way. Made him, and all the ways we’d failed to understand each other, too present. “How about Poe?”
“Works for me.”
It worked for me too. Probably in the future I’d want something else, but for now this was what I needed: a memory of Caspian, at his happiest, watching The Force Awakens with me, protecting me from hurts I couldn’t bear.
I glanced at George. “What about you? Anything you don’t like or I shouldn’t do?”
“Well, ideally one would be too old for dysphoria but apparently one isn’t.” Her fingers tapped restlessly against the wheel. “Which is to say, when it comes to my dick, you may touch it, suck it, and beg for it to your heart’s content. But it’s never going inside you.”
“Touch it, suck it, beg for it. Got it. Um…”
“Yes?” she purred.
“What about my dick?”
“I don’t know, poppet. What about it?”
“Well. How about…I mean…could it maybe go in you?”
There was a pause. Then laughter. “I’ll think about it. If you’re very good.”
Chapter 5
George lived in a house—yes, a house, not a hypermodern apartment or a nineteenth-century mansion—in a tiny hamlet near the Swale. It was pretty and white-painted and not at all like anything I would have imagined for her until I stepped inside and saw how the light, silver-spun from the marina, moved through the space like it was alive. She’d done the lateral living thing familiar from Caspian’s many, many properties, but I’d always found it on the edge of oppressive before. Intimidation by square footage. Here there was just a clean, bright openness, full of colourful rugs, nooks I wanted to explore, and furniture I actually wanted to sit on. She had books and paintings. Flowers on the kitchen table. Mugs on the drying rack. Fashion magazines piled up in corners. Such beautiful, everyday things.
“Oh wow.” I moved over to the French windows. “This is lovely.”
George seemed startled by my enthusiasm. “I’m glad you like it.”
“Remember, I live in a dog biscuit factory with a feral person. I honestly can’t remember the last time I was somewhere that looked like home.”
Her eyes swept over me. There was something a little sharp about George’s attention—not unpleasant, when you got used to it, but it was always there. The cool edge of a letter opener prising you dextrously apart until all your secrets came spilling out. “Mind if I get my camera?”
“I guess? But why?”
It was never far from her hand. And I’d helped out on enough shoots that the snaps and clicks and whirs of George in action were almost soothing. “Because I’m interested in how you look.”
“I’m pretty sure I look ordinary.”
“Nobody’s ordinary.”
I managed to stand still, or at least still-ish, for about five seconds, before asking, “Can I see?”
She nodded and stepped closer so I could peer at the LCD screen. And there I was—not quite in shadow, a delicately dappled boy, half-turned towards some private horizon. My heart squeezed in strange recognition of my own sadness. And then…then I just felt nebulously pissed off.
Because I was so fucking sick of being sad.
There was a soft clack as George put down her camera. She wasn’t as tall as Caspian, but she still had a couple of inches on me, which meant I had to look up when she slid a finger under my chin and turned my face to hers. I’d forgotten how vulnerable-making it could be, that teetering expectation of a touch, and I almost flinched, wanting to whoomp myself closed like an anemone. With Caspian, I’d held nothing back. And in return, he’d taught me to be afraid.
The breath shuddered out of me. “I…I don’t know what to do.”
“You’re going to ask me to kiss you.”
“Am I? Why?”
“Because you need to. And”—her eyes flared with sudden heat—“I want to hear you.”
Fuck, what a mess. I didn’t know it was even possible to be miserable and angry, and hating someone and missing them, and kind of into someone else, and scared of that, and what it might mean, all at the same time. But apparently it was. And I was nailing it.
“Oh God,” I gasped out. “Kiss me. Fucking kiss me. Please.”
And she did, and it was nothing like Caspian, and I didn’t die. Of course it hurt, the not being Caspian, I mean. Because, honestly, there was part of me that still believed he was it for me. That I could have lived the rest of my life with no other kisses but his. Except he wasn’t and I wouldn’t. And George’s mouth on mine offered a new surety—a future that could exist for me without Caspian.
She pulled away too soon. “Time to see my studio?”
“Um…okay.”
I followed her upstairs on slightly wobbly legs. The space, which took up the entirety of the third floor, was about fifty percent what I was expecting—whitewashed walls, and polished boards, and the paraphernalia of the photographer’s art—and fifty percent a whole lot kinkier. I made a heroic effort to look interested in one of those big satin umbrella things, but my gaze kept pinging back to the bondage table on the other side of the room. At least, I assumed it was a bondage table, or else dinner got really unruly around here.
“What can I say?” murmured George. “I like to combine my pleasures.”
<
br /> I made a sound. It was not a dignified sound.
She laughed, crossed to a red velvet-covered chaise that was probably—or maybe not—a prop, and dropped down onto it. The whole scene was so very Tipping the Velvet it almost made me wish I had a camera of my own. “Why don’t you have a look round?”
It probably said something about the life I’d been leading recently that this wasn’t the first time someone had invited me into their dungeon. Well, I say invited. I’d practically forced my way into Caspian’s. At the time I’d been pretty excited because I’d wanted to play with all the kinky toys but then he’d had some kind of post-traumatic-stress-related breakdown. And now, whenever I remembered the place, I ended up thinking about Caspian instead. All the pain he’d tried so hard to keep from me. Obviously I wasn’t delusional enough to think I could fix it or even make it better but…I could have loved him. And even that he couldn’t give himself.
Also: He was engaged to Nathaniel. Engaged. Engaged to fucking Nathaniel. It wasn’t a complicated concept. Why couldn’t I get it through my stupid head? Except my stupid head wasn’t the problem. It was my stupid heart which wouldn’t let him go. No matter how comprehensively he was done with me.
“On second thought…” It was only when George spoke that I realised I’d been standing around in a sorrowful daze. Dammit me. “Come here.”
As I’d quickly discovered when Caspian got all high-handed with me, I didn’t do so well with orders in my daily life. But in a bedroomy-dungeony context? And when the alternative was drifting about like the Ancient Fucking Mariner in a sea of my own memories? Yes please. I trotted gratefully back to the chaise.
“Strip.”
“Um. What?”
“You know”—she flashed a grin at me—“remove your clothes so I can subject you to my female gaze. You’re pretty, poppet. I want to see you naked.”
I swallowed. “What…what happens after I’m naked?”
“All sorts of depraved things.”
Well. Guess I was sold. I began pulling at my garments.
“But Arden?”
There was an edge to the way she said my name. It made me pause, half in and half out of my jumper, and peer out through the head hole like an animal from its burrow. “Yes?”
“You know how to stop this. Next time, I tell you to do something, I’d advise you to do it.”
“Or what?” I heard myself say. And the worst of it was, I didn’t quite know why I was asking. Not to push her exactly. But I think I needed to know, in the same way you’d reach for the wall with your hands when you were trying to find your way in a dark room.
Then came a rough tug and rush of air and I emerged into daylight to find George standing over me. She dropped my jumper to the floor with a soft flump. “Depends on my mood. But I might be inclined to punish you.”
“Oh.” I swallowed. But in meeting her eyes, found only warmth. “It’s been…kind of a while. Sorry.”
And with Caspian, it had been instinct. Knowing what he needed perhaps better than he did.
She reached out and twisted the sparkly unicorn horn barbell through my left nipple until I went up on my toes with a squeaky little gasp. “Is that what you’re looking for? To be punished?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” Weird shivers were racing up my arms. Nothing to do with the temperature. And then I heard myself blurt out, “Am I broken?”
“Broken? Why?”
“I…I used to be really good at casual sex.”
This earned me an eyebrow twitch. “I’m glad to hear it. And look forward to reaping the benefits.”
“That’s not what I”—I twined my hands together—“this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.”
“How is it supposed to be?”
“Easy.”
She was quiet for a horrible forever.
“For both of us,” I added quickly. “You shouldn’t have to deal with my…my…whatever is wrong with me.”
“Well,” she drawled. “I’ve never been particularly interested in easy. But I think you need to tell me what you want. As honestly as you can.”
I stared at my feet…which were no help. Damn you, feet. “I’m not sure.”
“Try again.”
God, she could sound stern when she wanted to. And it was super hot.
Closing my eyes, I let the words come before my brain could stop them. Before I even knew myself what they were. “I want to…feel something that isn’t about him. I want to have something that isn’t his.”
Another silence. I risked a peep from beneath my lashes, and found George grinning like a shark. “I can give you that.”
“And w-what would I be giving you?”
“The knowledge that you want this from me.”
I was used to George’s laughter. Her bossiness. The way she teased and flirted. But these glimpses of sincerity were doing funny things to me. Making me feel special.
“I do.” It came out in a rush of longing. And all at once, the world got a whole lot simpler. Because I recognised what George was looking for. It was what I’d tried to give to Caspian. What I’d needed to give. The impossible tangle of strength and vulnerability that was submission.
Dropping to my knees felt like fucking homecoming.
“Please,” I said.
And George made a rough sound of satisfaction, her fingers light in my hair and against my face. “What a gift you are. So very sweet.” Her lips curled into the wickedest smile I’d ever seen. “I am going to ruin you, poppet.”
It took her about ten minutes.
She chained me to the table thing—actual chains that clipped to the cuffs she put on my wrists, and thighs, and ankles. I’d never been so thoroughly tied up before. Apart from some unexpected bow tie shenanigans at Ellery’s birthday, Caspian had always preferred to control me with his hands and body. And I was fine with that. But I couldn’t help responding to the novelty, my skin prickling with curiosity as George positioned me the way she wanted—facedown, arse up, legs shamelessly wide—and bound me tight. It was more impersonal than clasped wrists and the heat of someone else on top of me, but fuck, it was intense in a whole different way. When Caspian held me down, I’d always known I was a word away from freedom, but metal couldn’t hear me, couldn’t feel me. I needed George. And that extra layer of dependence made my stomach flip and my heart quicken. It was sexy and scary and everything I liked.
Then came the blindfold and the heat of George’s breath against my ear as she whispered, “Now you’ll feel what I want you to feel.”
My answer was a whimper and an involuntary wriggle that made the chains rattle. Normally I wouldn’t have liked not being able to see, but it was a fear-of-missing-out-type deal—especially with Caspian, who I’d always thought was being stingy with me, rather than just painfully self-conscious for reasons that only now made sense.
Sigh. Regrets. I had a few. I got why he hadn’t told me. But why the fuck hadn’t he told me? Instead of leaving me floundering, hurting, trying desperately to understand him. Except then I remembered how much he’d given me too. The trust it must have taken to put himself in my hands and let me coax his pleasure through his fear.
My lashes scraped against the fabric over my eyes. Apparently I was crying again. Oh joy. What a bundle of sexy fun I’d turned out to be. But I was also starting to appreciate the darkness. Partly because, the way I was currently arranged, all I was losing was a sideways view of a bare wall. But also because it felt safe.
It was quiet behind my blindfold, the edges of everything inside me softened somehow, and everything else magnified until my world was mostly physical. The pressure of the cuffs against my skin. The heat of the leather beneath me. The arch of my spine and the curl of my fingers. The helpless twitching of my toes. Tiny sensations but indisputably there, like stepping-stones leading me back to…me.
“Forgive me a cliché,” murmured George, “but you look good enough to eat.”
Needless to say, I was well up for bei
ng eaten. I just hadn’t realised how literally she meant it until I felt the too-intimate ripple of her breath against my…well, y’know, my arsehole.
“Oh…oh Jesus. F-f-fuck.”
Her only answer was a wicked laugh. And something that involved her mouth, like, on me. Right on me. Enveloping me in this wet heat and…God…suction. There was suction. And it was a good job I was chained down, because otherwise I would have hit the fucking ceiling. It was like my sphincter was Monaco and every nerve in my body suddenly wanted to take a luxury vacation.
I’d done this before. Okay, I’d done it once. Because the other guy had really wanted to. Except we’d both been epically wankered, so the only thing I’d really got from the experience was a hazy memory of it not being all that it was cracked up to be. And the first words out of his mouth the next morning had been “Uhhhhh, what the fuck kind of kebab did I eat last night,” which hadn’t made me feel, y’know, great.
But anyway, the belated moral of that story was: “Maybe don’t combine sexual experimentation with being off your face.” Because, it turned out, this was everything it was cracked up to be. And a bag of chips. I couldn’t have told you precisely what she was doing back there—only that it was magic. The tug of her mouth and the prod of her tongue and these long, decadent licks that turned the path from my arse to my balls into a tramline of shuddery bliss.
The thing was, I just wasn’t prepared for the pleasure. On any level. Physically, I was making the most outrageous fuss about it—thrashing and bucking in my bonds, and wailing with every fresh touch, as the sweat slid down my back—and emotionally was even worse. It was like I didn’t know how to process nice things anymore. Which made no sense because I’d always been a total fan of them before. But I guess feeling them now would have been letting go of Caspian.
Fuuuuuck. I thought I’d done that. What with the being dumped and him being engaged and everything. Except I’d always taken pain for him. Even, apparently, when he didn’t need me to.
I heard myself sobbing in a sort of heartbroken but also turned on beyond all reason kind of way. George curved a palm soothingly over my upturned cheeks. Which wasn’t much of a respite, but truthfully, I didn’t really want one. If nothing else, I could recognise a gift when it was offered. And this was its own special torment—a Sisyphean arousal that made it impossible for me to escape my body. It kept me helpless and frantic and wrecked. And took away everything else.