by Lilia Moon
It’s not at all fair to him, but I’m not reasonable Ari tonight.
His knuckles keep playing with the ends of my hair. “Can I touch you with my fingers?”
I blink again. I just offered him pretty much the entire bag of kinky toys. Shiny ones that baby Doms like to think they know how to use. “Yes.”
His fingers pause, and then resume their slow foreplay with my hair. “Sexual touch included?”
My knees feel shivery again. “Yes.” There’s a small voice in the back of my head clearing its throat, because I rarely green-light sexual touch with beginners, but I ignore it. I want him to touch me, and sometimes I need to actually fucking get what I want.
I swallow as I hear the words of my own inner rant. He’s going to be my Dom for the next hour or so, and he needs to know how flammable I am tonight. I find my big-girl panties and tug. “I want you to touch me, but I can also feel that I’m pretty unsteady about wanting that.”
He smiles, and this time his fingers brush my cheek. “Thank you for telling me.”
More lines we teach the beginners, but he means every word. “Any other questions, Sir?”
He shakes his head.
I know all the things he’s forgotten. I don’t care. Except for one. “I use the club safewords.”
He winces, and in that moment, I can see all his uncertainty.
Chapter Twelve
Jackson
Crap. Beat, totally missed. I can see it all over her face, and I’m sure she can see it all over mine.
I sit up straighter. I meant what I said to Quint yesterday. I’m going to screw up and we’re all just going to have to deal. Starting with me. Ari’s opened a door that I knocked on with my drums and now I need to walk us through, screw-ups and all. I get my Dom persona back in place and slide my fingers under her chin. It feels huge, touching her like this. Momentous. Important. “I have one ground rule for tonight.”
She pauses. Breathes in and out a few times. Settling back into the roles I’m asking us to play. “What is that, Sir?”
I thought it would be entirely weird to be called that, and during our trainee practice sessions, it absolutely was. Now it just feels like an honor. “I want you to stay out of trainer mode. I know you can swim circles around my skills, but I want you to set that down. Safeword out if you need to. Don’t rescue us.”
There’s a moment where I think she’s going to refuse, and then her head tilts, resting a little more weight on my hand under her chin. “Why?”
One word, straight into the mess in my guts. “Because I watch you. You don’t play for real with baby Doms. You’re good, and they learn a lot, but you’re not really submitting.”
Her eyes flare. I’ve just stepped on touchy, holy ground. “I submit as much as my Dom can handle.”
There’s only one way through this, and it’s straight in. “That’s you making a judgment call, and it’s not yours to make tonight. Not if you stay in the scene, anyhow. I know we haven’t played together before, and I’m acutely aware that I’m very new. But if we do this, I need you to give that judgment call to me. If I fuck up, safeword out. But until then, the scene is mine and your job is to submit.”
I sound like some Dom from a bad kinky movie—but I’m paying attention, and something I’ve just said has turned a key in a lock somewhere deep inside the woman with her chin in my hand.
She smiles faintly. “Yes, Sir.”
She means it. It might have been the most awkward request in the history of kink negotiations, but she got it and she understood and, if I’m reading her signals right, she’s glad I made it.
Which means it’s time to get off the couch. Except I have no idea where to begin. I have the parameters, and I have a universe of possibilities—and most of them are light years beyond my skills.
I keep touching her hair and holding her chin, because those are the two things keeping this together, and I think. She asked for impact toys, and I know I’m decent with them for a beginner because most of them are just oddly shaped drum sticks. But I’m also looking at my two hands and what they’re doing right now. The hands she’s permitting to hold her. I don’t want to give that up.
I reach down beside me for the bag that rarely leaves my side and pull out the first drum I ever made. I set it down between my knees and shift my gaze back to Ari. She’s not watching me anymore. She’s staring at my drum. I put a single finger under her chin and tip her wide eyes up to meet mine. “Dance for me, beautiful.”
Chapter Thirteen
Ari
He’s surprised me.
I’m so rarely surprised anymore, and my insides are turning over in response to what he’s just done. He’s supposed to head me for the nearest bench or set of chains and get me firmly under his physical control. That’s what we teach. Let the restraints help you. I taught him how to adjust cuffs myself.
He taps his finger under my chin. “Stand up, head down and eyes closed, hands behind your back.”
Part of me hears his green as he realizes that I need more instructions if he’s going to keep control of the shape of this scene. Part of me shivers. He’s choosing to restrain me with nothing more than his voice and my obedience.
That’s a ballsy move. Which is either an accident or he’s been watching me well enough to know just how much I like it when a Dom makes me fight with myself. I stand slowly and follow his directions. The shivers in my belly have earned him this much.
I feel him move past me, and I hear the slide of furniture and the soft, calm murmur of his voice as he gives instructions to someone else. I’m not surprised people are helping. Scening in the lounge technically isn’t allowed without permission, but everyone will assume he has mine. Not to mention the other Doms in the band who’ve been breaking that rule for months.
I know why he’s doing it. This is his turf. He’s comfortable in here. He knows how to work the space, the audience, the props.
My belly shivers again. Fettered is my turf, and very few people who play with me are smart enough to rebalance that. I still don’t know if Jackson is pulling this off through dumb luck or something else, but his first couple of steps have unsettled me in ways no one has managed for a long time.
His breath slides warm against my ear. “You’re going to dance for me now. I’ve cleared space behind you. I’m going to go sit with my drum, and when you hear my beat begin, I want you to open your eyes. They’re to stay on me. You can watch my face, my hands, my shoelaces—it doesn’t matter, so long as your eyes are on me.”
My brat makes a solemn vow to do nothing but stare at his balls. “Yes, Sir.”
His hands stroke the bare skin of my arms, down to where my wrists are joined behind my back. He gently moves my hands apart. The shaking in my belly levels up.
I wait, expecting an order to undress. Getting a sub naked is standard Dom operating procedure.
His hands move, gliding up the soft blue velvet of the mini skirt and corset Chloe made for me. I’ve barely taken them off since I unwrapped them. “I like who you are when you wear this. Keep it on.”
My head reels. He’s breaking every damn rule there is—and keeping the most important one. He has my utter and complete attention.
Another breath down the back of my neck and he’s gone. Not far. I feel him settling into the couch at my knees. The soft sounds of leather squishing. The barest of air currents moving by my legs. His fingers touch the inside of one of my knees and skim upward, a slow, attention-getting feather. They pause at the hem of my mini skirt, which I now know is about four inches too long.
I hear my soft whimper and the way he breathes it in.
His fingers trace light circles on the soft swell of my inner thigh.
I want to melt right where I stand.
Chapter Fourteen
Jackson
I don’t want to move. Ever. I could sit right here like this, in the glow of Ari’s dawning arousal and my aching need, and never leave.
But neither of u
s are ready for that.
I slide my fingers away more slowly than I’ve ever done anything in my life, put both hands on the well-worn leather of my drum, and start tapping a slow beat.
My head is already wincing—it was ages ago I gave her my instructions, and I should have repeated them. My hands don’t panic. They know there’s a language that doesn’t need any words. I call to the blood that lives in her veins, to the legacy of ancestors who were born dancing and died that way. Move. Feel my beat. Let my drum move you.
Her body starts a slow sway, one that jitters a bit as her head tries to intervene.
I let my hands keep talking. Dance for me, beautiful.
Slowly, the beat moves up from her feet into hips encased in blue velvet. I don’t push. I want her to stay there for a while, to find all the range in the part of her body where the people of Gambia believe the soul lives. Fertile, sacred, sexy hips.
I can see people forming a semi-circle behind her. I wrap them in with my hands. I used to play for a single dancer in front of the fire all the time. The performer and the drum are everything. Anyone else is just shadows—but shadows matter. Shadows bask in the rays of the dancer and all of who she becomes.
I hide a grin. Ari’s eyes are still closed, and she’s still dancing like an urban white kid, all contained and neat. I put a more primal energy into my hands. A sensual one. Teasing her with the touch of my drums.
Her arms jerk away from her body and then right back down. Her eyes open, grabbing for mine like a lifeline—and then like someone she wants to stab.
Shit. Nobody in Africa gets mad when you drum them a dance. My hands move to soothe, but that’s the wrong answer. I’m not here as her drummer. I’m here because I asked to be her Dom. Which means she doesn’t get to stand there and glare at me.
I don’t bother adding that to my mental list of screw-ups. At this point I just have to live with the fact that they’re going to be legion. Instead, I meet her eyes with the steadiest look I can manage and add demand into my hands. Dance, beautiful. NOW.
There’s a moment when I’m not sure I’ve won, but then she capitulates. Sort of. Her temper moves into her hips and locks them up, making her movements jerky. Tense. Awkward. A dancer headed straight for the kind of humiliation that is one of her hard limits.
I’ve somehow managed to dump totally exhibitionist Ari into the one thing she doesn’t want to do for an audience.
I gulp, because my nice simple scene just crashed into hard and I can see the problem but I have no idea how to fix it. Enough time and enough drumming and a little light teasing and I could get her through this, but those aren’t the right tools for tonight. I wanted to have control and I need to use it. I thought we could recreate some of the magic that happened in the yoga studio and use that as our foundation, but I’m staring straight at a crack that’s about to break this thing all to hell.
There’s probably a list of ways a mile long to fix it, but I can only think of one. I need to collect my sub back up and head into territory she knows better than the lands where I just tried to take her. I lift my drum, keeping up a one-handed beat, and head over to Eli’s cello set-up, hastily borrowed for my scene. Barstool seat for me with a box to elevate my drum and my feet. I assemble myself without rushing—that much of Quint’s training has stuck. Then I beckon Ari forward.
She steps toward me, her forehead wrinkling in confusion, her hips still doing their awkward, cranky dance.
I put my hand on her hip as she arrives, bringing her to my side. Physically using my drum and my hand to gently pulse her hips. Letting her feel one simple, steady message.
It might be a really small container and a really small dance—but I’ve got her.
Chapter Fifteen
Ari
He’s trying to fix it. I swallow the bitter taste rising up my throat. He couldn’t have known. I’m not sure anyone at the club knows that no matter how big a show-off I am in everything else, I only dance in crowds. Leftover trauma from a ballet teacher who wanted my body, but not my soul.
In ten years of kink, it’s never come up—and poor Jackson somehow stepped into that quagmire in the first three steps of a virgin scene.
I breathe again and feel him breathing with me. Feel his solid, steady grip, gently swaying my hips. His thumb strokes the inch of bare skin between my corset and skirt, asking a little more of me to move. Giving me something to move with.
A dance my body understands.
I huff out a soft sigh as the tight threads inside me begin to loosen back up, and belatedly remember I’m supposed to be looking at him. I open my eyes and let him see my gratitude. Nice save, sexy drummer man.
He smiles a little and his hand slides down, briefly cupping me in a way that has my brat gasping for air, and then continuing his journey until his fingers are skimming the swell of my inner thigh where he began. His drum quiets a little. “Touch yourself, Ari.”
I blink. I can usually read where a scene is going in my sleep. This one has taken a wrecking ball to my sub psychic powers.
He grins, and it’s full of pleased cockiness. “We’re going to try a different kind of dancing. Show me how your fingers and your pussy like to move together.”
That’s a standard Dom trick, but he’s not going to be able to see much with my clothes still on. I slide my thumb under the waistband of my mini skirt and wait. Maybe he’ll get the message.
His fingers tap away on the drum, unconcerned.
Fine. Whatever. Not rescuing. I shove my hand down inside the skirt, which is a tight fit, and an interesting kind of bondage. I aim something fairly close to a glare in his direction.
He’s not ruffled at all. “Eyes on me. Let your fingers move to the beat of my drum.”
Pushy Dom. I slide my fingers into the folds of my pussy, annoyed at how wet I am. This is the most uncomfortable scene I’ve been in for a long time, and it shouldn’t be arousing.
I play with my wetness a little, trying to get my head back in the right game. He didn’t want a trainer, but he doesn’t deserve this, either. He’s made a simple request. Touch myself. Give over some of my arousal to his drums. Let him see.
Let him see.
The twisted wires in my head finally straighten out and I do what I should have done right from the beginning. I stop moving. This is just like hot yoga. Let him see that I don’t know where to go yet. Let him and his beat come find me.
A long, slow breath and the tide rises inside me, easy and cheerful and free. Welcoming the simple pleasure of slick fingers and slick folds and a body that always enjoys a quickie, even if it’s one by my own hands.
Jackson’s drum speeds up, encouraging my fingers as I find my most responsive places. This won’t take long. I’m craving release now, and enjoying the man who’s helping me get there. I look at him and let him see the pathway I’ve found. We’ve got this.
The drum thunks hard and shifts gears.
I stare at the guy who just crashed my nicely building orgasm into a wall. On purpose.
He picks up the beat again, but it’s different this time. Asking for something different.
I grit my teeth as I hear what it’s telling me. He’s not asking. His drum is speaking with freaking Dom voice. He wants the orgasm he takes, not the one I give.
Which is total justice for the shit I just pulled. I was topping from the bottom without even thinking about it, and his fingers, calmly tapping on that damn circle of leather, are letting me know that he’s happy to crash me into a wall any time I might like to try that particular form of disrespect again.
I swallow, and my throat is dry. He might not have chosen an impact toy for my ass, but he’s somehow found a really good one for my brain.
I meet his eyes and nod. Message received.
I get a faint smile, and an even fainter nod of approval.
My brat tries to rise again, and I totally know why. He has me squirming, and it’s not because he wants me to come on command. It’s the way he’s
asking me to come. His drum is speaking of breaths by my ear and feather touches on the insides of my thighs.
He doesn’t want my fast, fiery quickie. He wants me to open first.
I swallow, but the desert in my throat hasn’t changed. This is dancing all alone with everybody watching, only worse, and I have no idea how he’s finding all my fragile places in one scene, but he is.
His eyes are glued to mine. Two dark, steady, seeing rocks.
My body is responding, because this is exactly what it wants. Surrender into the hands of a man strong enough to catch me. But my body is an idiot, because we’ve careened off brick walls this entire scene, and not all of them are his, and whatever promises his hands might be whispering in the dark of my lounge, he’s not ready for me to be that open. That soft. To be all in with all my fragile places and my hard ones.
The wetness under my fingers changes to the distinctive glide that comes right before a really good orgasm. I curse silently. I don’t want to give him a soft orgasm, but he’s pulling one out of me anyhow.
The beat of his drum thrums straight into in my pussy. Asking me to let myself head over that swell.
I don’t know why I’m resisting. I orgasm as easily as I breathe, but this one doesn’t feel easy. I’m back to awkward, and I don’t like it. We’ve landed ourselves in a scene with too much demand and not enough trust, and only one of us knows that, and I need to do something or we’re going to break.
I don’t want us to break. Jackson doesn’t deserve to have me safeword out. He’s earned that much of my respect. I might not be as excited to play with baby Doms as I once was, but I don’t humiliate them.
I gather myself. A small orgasm doesn’t need me to let go much, and I’m really close. I can give him that and we can all go home mostly unbroken.