“Fuck! Fine!”
“No!” she barked and stood. Her breath brushed on my neck. “Not fine. You commit, or we don’t do this.”
I looked toward the horse. There, lying willingly, no binds to hold her, no blindfold or gag, was a pale redhead. Another woman stood behind her; a Domme. She wasn’t using a traditional flogger, she was using a ballchain cat.
The sub’s face was tear streaked, yet she looked to be in heaven. At peace. Relieved. I wanted that peace.
I turned and I searched Mistress C’s green eyes. There was confidence. There was authority. There was … hope. I cocked an eyebrow at her, accepting her challenge and started to unbutton my shirt.
“I need this. I want this,” I whispered, nodding slightly.
A tiny smile appeared on her face. A curt nod. I had my permission.
I strode to the horse where the pale thing lay in her private nirvana. I unbuttoned my shirt and draped it on a coat hook. I felt several eyes on me. Did they recognize me? I knew that the general understanding here was anonymity, but I couldn’t help but wonder if someone would recognize me. I felt like I was on the set of my first photo shoot. Like all eyes were on me and judging.
I didn’t see the redhead leave. I didn’t see Mistress C appear next to me. But suddenly the redhead was gone and the horse was free. Mistress C extended her hand for me to take my position on the horse. I felt odd. I looked at her. The look in her eyes set all my fears aside. I drew from her confidence.
Standing in front of the horse, I eyed it and took a deep breath. As I settled my body on the cool leather, she asked with her mouth brushing on my ear, “Cuffs?”
I took a few more breaths and considered the choice. Tied down? Or here on my free will? I wanted both. But I knew what I needed. “Cuffs.” I needed to know I had committed.
Swiftly, Mistress C cuffed my wrists and ankles. I lay there knowing what to expect. I had the training. I tried to steady my breath in preparation for the flogger. I knew that she would bring me to subspace first. Then the punishment. I started to panic when I realized we hadn’t agreed on a number of lashes. That was supposed to have happened first. Part of the establishment phase. I didn’t have that. She hadn’t asked.
But then, the first of the falls came across my back. The sting was sharp. It was reassuring. Instantly I felt a calm fall over me. A second, then a third cascade of leather strands caressed my back. Again and again. With each crashing, I gave in. I gave up my struggles. The frustrations from the job. The annoyances of the women who wanted to be with me because I was a model, not because I was me. The shame for needing to demonstrate control over those women. The warmth that covered my back was comforting and at the same time, oddly erotic. I nearly felt drunk.
“Are you ready?” I heard Mistress C say. Her voice echoed in my head slightly. I heard her clearly enough, but it was distant. So this is subspace, I thought. I nodded, slow and numb. I needed more.
“Say it. I cannot go further.”
My mind searched for the rules. “Yes, Mistress. More, please.”
A moment or four passed. Whoop-tsch! The warmth that hit my back was initially a tiny spot. Then that heat radiated. And with the growth of the whip’s bite, I felt things—bad things—surface under my skin.
It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t agony. It was etherial. It felt like it was happening to someone else. Perhaps I was watching.
Whoop-tsch! This second crack opened the space. I felt anger bubble and surface.
Whoop-tsch! A third crack. Shame. My heart ached. A soup of emotion swirled under my flesh.
There were several more; I’d lost count. As for the whip, I don’t know if I heard the crack before it hit, as it hit or after it hit. But as each crack shouted, my head and heart opened and let go.
Whoop-tsch! This last crack was harsher. It opened something. A giant whoosh of air left my lungs. I felt it was done. My body collapsed. I relaxed. I was spent.
The episode shocked me some. It reminded me of running or working out… at first it’s uncomfortable, but you enjoy the survival, and you want to push yourself. Like that runner’s high, endorphins flooding your senses. The edge between pain and pleasure was so blurry.
Like an angel from the unknown, my body was blanketed with something, my wrists and ankles were released. My arms were guided into sleeves. I was pulled back and my feet found the floor. I tried to stand, but found that I was in a stupor. Mistress C was suddenly under my right arm and she helped me … away… to someplace dark and warm.
I was laid down on a soft surface… a bed? A sofa? I felt a pair of hands snake under my shirt. A cooling moisture was rubbed in methodically. I imagined that each area of pain on my back was a hole. And those holes let the bad feelings that I had all trapped inside of me escape. And, as those pains were being eased away with the lotion, the holes were being closed. I relaxed into the touch.
“How are you feeling?” a soft voice fell on me.
“Good. Better,” I breathed. “Thank you.”
A last touch on my skin and the hand disappeared. I heard a door close. Silence hugged me. I relaxed fully. And slept peacefully.
Watching Jack under the whip of Mistress C was a sight. I admired how she wielded a whip. Always with respect and freakish accuracy. And Jack. My darling Jack… He was so very stoic. Took each bite bravely, contemplating it and giving into it. I watched the pain and anguish of the past years surface and release.
Just last night we talked about me using a whip on him. We had been drinking. He asked me to do it. He’d had a tough trip. He said he’d spoken to some subs he’d been with who told him that the bite of the whip could release the stress and anger and frustration. I refused because I had been drinking. One of the first rules of Dominance was to not exert under the influence. It was a good rule for me. I enjoyed exerting my Domme tendencies more than the drink, so I found myself drinking less and less so I could morally take the handle of a whip.
As Mistress C helped Jack off of the horse, I saw a new man. Jack was still handsome and proud, but now he seemed to have a new peace. Mistress C took him to a room where she would deliver the after care. Too bad she wasn’t going to fuck him after the lashing—did Jack know that she was lesbian?
CHAPTER 15
March 1986
The next couple of years brought some changes.
I finally decided to get my own place. Found a reasonable condo on East Fifty-first Street. It was a shit hole given that men didn’t earn a fraction of what women did, even if I was working for some of the biggest names in fashion, but it was my shit hole.
Becca and I continued to be the best of friends. If I wasn’t crashing at her place, she was crashing at mine. We continued to work, but as we both aged, work became more and more difficult to get. Becca continued to see R, or Rita, but it wasn’t exclusive. Becca still kept her at arms length. I continued to have random, domineering sex with whoever was willing. But I stayed away from tapping into the modeling pool to indulge my new found preferences in the bedroom.
Becca, Lisa and I continued to visit the club, but Becca and I would also practice at home. Now we weren’t just banging each other for release. We would paddle, or whip each other…then fuck. It was still not an emotional thing for either of us. Just a release.
Our “sessions,” as we called them, became a routine. If one of us felt like we needed a session, we’d kneel in the middle of a room. The other person would see it and start firing questions. Asking if the kneeler had been bad, to which degree of badness, and what punishment they wanted and how much. Not exactly a conventional D/s relationship, but it worked for us. Most of the time we’d make shit up, but sometimes we were brutally honest. Becca would bring up sad things from growing up with her overbearing parents and how she felt inadequate because of it. She’d ask for a few lashes to let the darkness out. I would sometimes be overcome with sadness, because the women I was with were only with me for my ‘celebrity’ status. I felt dirty and ashamed, and I would
need a bite to feel something….anything… because too often, I had stopped feeling. In the privacy of our homes, the release felt so much greater than the release from a whipping at the club. And to receive aftercare in the arms of a true friend was far more healing.
The slowing career was bothersome. It was all I knew. A future without this job was scary. I was getting gigs, sure. And they were great, especially the after parties, but the runway had pretty much stopped for me. As a 24 year old, I couldn’t compete with the new 16 year old men coming onboard. I was still under contract for big names, and I prided myself on being the exemplary model on set. It was my strength. I was on time, courteous, and took direction—and was not a diva, like some of these new kids coming into the business.
William and I continued to work on my career, and he seemed to respect all that I did for his company. That said, he was ready to take things to a higher level of competition, and asked me if I wanted to work for him in other ways, like scouting. It was an interesting proposition. I figured I didn’t have anything to lose, and only everything to gain, so I started scouting for William and helped bring in new talent. I learned a lot, like it takes many years to gain a foothold in this business of running a modeling agency. Many companies are never widely known, and are small boutique operations. That’s how WMW Models, Inc. had been. Now William wanted to go nationwide, and eventually global. My contracts with the big products helped him get to that status where he could finally consider it. William and I were a great pair, and his company grew stronger and stronger. I kept working, but not like I had when I was younger.
In the spring of 1990, my thoughts turned to college. It was why I had gotten into the whole modeling thing anyway. So, even though I was twenty-fucking-nine years old, I collected information from NYU, Columbia, and Fordham. I was hoping that while my grades in high school were nothing to boast about, perhaps my career days as both a model, and helping to build a (now global) modeling agency, would carry some weight.
One night, while we were both in town and hanging at my place, Becca and I had a blast pouring over the catalogs and imagining ourselves in a variety of professions, post modeling career. I had no idea what degree to get, or what I would do with the degree once I’d earned it.
“A chemist! It’s perfect for you, Becs. You’re always mixing up drinks, now you mix up real chemicals!”
“Shut up!” She pushed back. “Thirty-five year old women do not go back to school. Well, they do, but not this one. Anyway, I already have my English degree. But I would do better at chemistry than you would do in business school,” she snorted, pushing a catalog in my direction.
“I’d run a kick-ass business!”
“Right. Doing what?” she mused.
“I dunno. Maybe I’ll open my own modeling company. A boutique agency. I’ll focus on male models.”
“You’ll go broke in a week. You know better than I that men bring in shit checks. Twenty percent of nearly nothing isn’t even worth the effort. You wouldn’t have a New York address, that’s for sure. You’d be back in Hoboken.” We both collapsed into laughter, remembering my days when I’d first moved out here.
When we’d calmed down, she pulled the business catalog back to her view.
“So, are you quitting modeling?” she asked hesitantly. Her career had grown to near stand-still, but she stayed involved with pet charities. Becca was one smart cookie and had done a terrific job of saving her money. She owned her condo outright, and lived on the interest her savings provided. It was as if she’d gone to college to study Business, not English.
“No, I still have another couple years on contracts, unless they cut me loose.” I muttered. It felt like only time.
“They wouldn’t do that. Your face is the link to those hot jeans and super sexy cologne. Times Square still isn’t over your underwear billboard.”
“You’re only as good as your last gig, though, right? These young kids coming on… I can’t compete.”
“You don’t have to. You are your own brand. You’re Jack Stevens. I think you’d do all right,” she said with a straight face. “I can see it now,” she mused, looking off into the distance. “Stevens Modeling Agency.”
“You think? Hey! You could work for me. I’d be lost without you.”
“Ooo! Can I be your secretary?”
“Sure. I wouldn’t trust any one else. We’ll call it… Becks. Becca and Jack’s.”
“We’d be unstoppable.”
“The problem is that I’m a dunce bucket and could never get into any of these schools. Not to mention, I’m nearly over the hill. I should look into a community college instead.”
“Nonsense. Twenty-nine is nothing! Besides, what’s celebrity and experience if you can’t use it?”
“I’m not a household name like you, Becs,” I grimaced. “No one knows Jack Stevens.”
“Oh, they may not know your name, but they know your face—and those abs.”
“What? These?” I pulled up my shirt and flexed my six-pack. Becca just rolled her eyes at me and shook her head.
We sat just looking at one another. That’s the thing about a best friend. Sometimes you don’t have to say anything. It was that way with Becs and me.
“So, if you’re gonna grow up and go to college, are you also going to get serious about a girl?”
“I’ll get serious about a girl if you do,” I challenged. She and Rita, were still as tight as ever, even if she wouldn’t let Rita move in.
“Ha! Been there, done that. I won’t survive it again if I do. But at least I tried. I don’t believe you’ve even tried.”
Jack would make an amazing boyfriend, or husband. Caring. Smart. Handsome as hell. Would she mind the relationship Jack and I have?
And as for me getting serious… Rita, dear, sweet Rita. She’s the best. And I trust her. I do… And—I love her. Maybe I should get “serious” about her. If we got “serious” would she let me keep Jack? Would she break my heart?
CHAPTER 16
Well, Becca was right and I was easily accepted to both NYU and Columbia. Guess my ten years modeling, plus working for William and the status of his business, along with his letter of recommendation, and knowing William, he probably sent a donation… it all paid off. Mental note: Repay the favor.
I chose Columbia because they responded to my application first. Imagine my surprise when I’d gotten accepted into NYU, too. I registered for classes and was genuinely excited about school, which was hilarious because I’d always hated school.
I was in my second semester at Columbia when I met Kari. We were both in Psychology 101. She was a pre-law major. Beautiful with long brown hair, large hazel eyes, and olive toned skin. Shy. She had this laugh that was definitely one of a kind, a melodious quality and light. And, she was incredibly smart, even if she didn’t know who I was. She had no idea I was a model. And maybe that was the appeal. She was with me because of me, not my celebrity status.
Kari was so different, reserved, even more than the girls I’d ever gone out with back in high school. Her mother was an elementary school teacher, and her father, a criminal lawyer. Kari was shy about public displays of affection and sex talk. Anything with an innuendo and she was blushing. I found that aspect about her rather endearing. Cute, even. Almost like when I was back in high school. Dating a virgin. I think she still had her V-card, I was pretty sure she did. I didn’t have the courage to ask, and she wouldn’t come right out and say.
I had high hopes when I took her out to dinner on Valentines Day, but she only let me get to “second base.” Her words, not mine. She was barely out of high school herself; nineteen years old. A full ten years younger than me. I’d never thought of dating someone so young before. I don’t know if Kari knew how old I was, and I didn’t tell her. I didn’t really look my age. A benefit of working in an industry with so much focus on looks, I’d always taken good care of my skin, therefore, I looked pretty young. I found the age difference between Kari and me to be comforting in a we
ird way. Like I was her protector.
Becca’s challenge about getting serious about a girl rang in my head when Kari and I first started seeing each other. So taking the relationship seriously, I stopped seeing other women. It took a ridiculous amount of control and I was convinced I was going to develop some horrible disease. One doesn’t simply go from four to seven fucks a week, to just his hand, which I was now all too familiar with. I even stopped sleeping with Becca, besides—I was hoping she’d get serious about Rita. But something about being with Kari made it worth it. She made me want to be an upstanding guy. I didn’t even feel the need to dominate her, although the thought of turning her olive-toned skin a deep pink crossed my mind more times than I cared to admit.
When we’d go out, she wasn’t coming on to me, or bragging about her own achievements. Instead, I took her to dinner, or some touristy site, I even took her skating at Rockefeller Center. I let her drag me shopping, and to the State Supreme Court, and French films in quirky little theaters. I thought she was trying to wind me up with a sexy film, but no. She just liked French and spoke it fluently. We had discussions about the president, about the economy, about what we wanted to do with our degrees. She was planning on using her law degree in the corporate setting, but hadn’t pinned down exactly how. I lied and told her I didn’t know what I wanted to use my business degree for. We joked that she would come work for whatever business I was going to run. We had real discussions. Real fun. And a real connection. Even if I wasn’t completely honest about who Jack Stevens was—a horny, dominant, ‘old man’ who, by the way, was a model.
Things were going really well. In fact, we had plans for her birthday in late March that involved a hotel. I couldn’t believe it when she agreed. I booked a great room at the Waldorf. But before we got to that hotel, she learned of my career, and got a little weird on me. Started pulling away.
Not In My Wildest Dreams (Dream Series) Page 8