Soul Rest

by Joey W. Hill

  "I'm going to the ladies room. You don't need to take me home. I'll just catch a cab."

  She was already walking away swiftly, making a beeline for the bathroom. She wasn't sure if he'd heard her or not. The faces she passed were a blur, and when she got to the restroom, she shut herself into one of the stalls. A mural of wild horses was running along the cinderblock wall across from them. She could see it through the cracks. What the hell was wrong with her?

  Same thing that was always wrong with her, and she always tried to bolt. It was so fucking tedious. It was one thing to push someone away when they were getting close. Classic abandonment issues, do it to them before they could do it to you. But Leland seemed to trigger it in her randomly. She couldn't predict anything with him, so she was unable to protect him from her fallout. Dragging him into her train wreck wasn't fair to him.

  She'd go back to making do with her solitary Dom/sub fantasies with her vibrator. Or just focus on the functional, 'apply electronic device to responsive part, turn on full power, have quick orgasm and then move on with the evening's blog notes and research.' Yet even when she tried to do that, her imagination would sneak into it. She'd find herself hearing an authoritative male voice, commanding her to spread her legs. She'd see the shadow of that Master holding the vibrator in his hand as he whispered wicked things in her ears. When you come without permission--which was going to happen, since he was the one making sure she would fail--I'll spank you, then fuck you.

  She'd hold the vibrator trapped between her thighs and tuck her hands under her ass. Cupping her buttocks, she'd imagine her arms were tied behind her back, her breasts thrust up shamelessly, so she was unable to hide their aroused state. She'd bite into her pillow so her screams were muffled.

  Up until Leland, she'd come harder during those solitary sessions than she'd ever come during vanilla sex with a living, breathing person.

  She could say the Dom at Club Surreal had corrupted her, ruined her, but he'd only taken her to the door. She'd chosen to open it, and discovered a part of her identity that made her feel less miserable about the other parts of who she was. But she'd closed the door before she could get more than a taste, hadn't she? She hadn't gone within a foot of a BDSM club since. She hadn't encouraged her blind dates or one-night hookups toward topping her, because none of them had that vibe that made her want to test that boundary.

  Okay, well...maybe that wasn't entirely true. During sex, she'd found herself pushing them, taunting them in passive-aggressive ways, and some overtly aggressive ones. One guy had evacuated the hotel bed as soon as the sex was done, put on his clothes and left her with the terse farewell of "Nobody wants to be in bed with a total bitch." Another had suggested, not too subtly, that she was too mean, too aggressive. She challenged a bed partner to the point it was exhausting, not pleasurable.

  With a sigh, she came out of the stall, washed her hands, looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were guarded, her mouth firm, her body set in tense lines. Time to get a grip and apologize. Go home and resume her life. Forget the throbbing, screaming need that told her he'd been about to agree to another session tonight. He'd have taken her back to his place and made wonderful, amazing things happen to her. But that was that bad definition of a brat, wasn't it? Misbehaving to get exactly what she wanted. Well, she wasn't going to reward her own bad behavior. Leland might be kind enough to do so, but she had enough honor not to put him through that.

  "Christ, you are fucked up," she told her reflection. "Get back to what you do best." If she was home within the hour, she could work off her nervous energy with some writing until she found exhaustion and sleep.

  But first, time to swallow pride and offer her date a heartfelt apology. He was a great guy. He deserved way better things than putting up with her shit.

  Chapter Seven

  When she came out, she wasn't surprised to find him leaning against the wall, waiting on her. But he had that rock carved look to his face that suggested she should retreat behind the deceptive safety of the door that said Cowgirls Only.

  "Listen," she said, forcing the words free. "I'm sorry. I know I'm not worth all this. I--"

  He straightened, took her elbow. "Come with me."

  His tone was probably the one he used when he escorted suspects to the car. A tone that said everything would be all right, as long as they didn't do anything that would compel him to totally kick their asses. He guided her out the door, back into the parking lot. She parted her lips, but found she didn't know what to say. His set expression didn't encourage conversation anyway. Opening the passenger door of the truck, he lifted her into the seat, guided the seatbelt over her and buckled it at her hip. She wanted to lay her palms on his broad back, inhale his scent off his neck and shoulder. She knew she shouldn't touch him now, no matter how much she wished to do so. He was probably taking her home as fast as he could be done with this.

  An ache rose in her throat. When he circled around and got into the truck, she turned her face toward the window, her hands clutched in a knot in her lap. When his hand covered them, squeezed, she looked toward him.

  "Your fingers are cold." He released her to fiddle with the vents, direct them toward her lap before turning it on low. "It starts out cold, but heats up pretty fast." Turning over the ignition, he twisted around to back the truck out of the cramped parking area that was little more than a narrow gravel perimeter around the bar. His hand was on the headrest behind her as he navigated the vehicle. When he removed it to put the truck in drive, he touched her shoulder briefly before pulling out of the parking lot.

  He wasn't mad at her at all. She'd acted like a bitch and an idiot, and he was concerned that her fingers were cold. She turned her face away again, stared sightlessly out the window at the passing scenery. The ache had moved down, like a heavy padlock in her chest, making it hard to breathe. Her mind went away a little bit, because thought and awareness were just too difficult. She only surfaced when the truck came to a stop. They were in his driveway.

  "Celeste."

  She wouldn't look at him. She'd locked her neck in this position, denying herself the sight of him. She ascribed it to her usual perversity. A ruggedly handsome, patient, good man. What woman would want to look at that, right?

  Every single one of them, unless the woman in question was certifiably insane.

  He left the truck, came around to open her door. When she met his gaze, she realized why she hadn't wanted to look at him. He was blurry around the edges, which was what happened when her eyes were filled with tears, spilling silently down her cheeks. She didn't believe in crying. He cupped her face, his brows drawing down over his kind eyes as he followed the damp tracks with his thumbs. "C'mon darlin'. I know what you need."

  He unbuckled her seatbelt, put his arm around her and slid her out of the truck against his side, holding her suspended that way before letting her feet touch. He locked the doors, kept the arm around her as he took her up to the porch, again holding her close. She felt like she could have tucked herself against him, lifted her feet, and he would have carried her forward without a hitch in his step.

  He didn't turn on any lights in the house. He held on to her elbow as he closed and locked the door after them, set the security code, and then took her around the circle of furniture in the living room to the short hallway. He brought her to the empty room where he'd wrapped her in rope, that incredible session that had made her long for more connections with him like that.

  A table had been set up in the shadows in the far corner. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, a street light filtering through the window shade showed her the picnic blanket-size mat was still in the center of the floor, but it had been folded over into a rectangle and there was something else arranged at the four corners, a small pile of glinting chains and gleaming silver cuffs.

  She jumped as the door closed behind her. Leland's hands had slipped from her, and she turned to see him leaning against the door.

  "Stays warmer in here with the
door shut. Can you see well enough to go to the corner of the room, darlin'? By the window."

  "Y-yes."

  "Go there now. To the card table."

  She complied. The top third of the windows were visible above the shades, showing a sky lit with a scattering of pinpoint stars, competing with the rose glow of the city. Looking down, she saw a cluster of candles and a long-necked lighter in front of her.

  "When you light the candles, your session will start. When you light them, you're telling me that I'm your Master, in charge of everything that happens in this room."

  "And if I don't light them?"

  "That wasn't multiple choice, Celeste. I'll stand here as long as you need to wrap your mind around it, but the plain fact is I am your Master. You lighting the candles tells me only that you know that. That you accept it for tonight."

  "I'm afraid of what I'll do. I'll ruin it. I thought I already had."

  "No," he said. "As long as you try to be as honest with me as you can, Celeste, you can't ruin anything. I can tell you're trying really hard to be honest. But sometimes you're brutal and honest. Honest with me, brutal with yourself. We're going to handle that."

  She looked over her shoulder at him, at his silhouette. He had a thumb hooked in his jeans, his other leg straightened to brace himself as he leaned against the door. "I'm in charge of everything that happens in this room," he repeated. "Including your behavior and how to handle it. Light the candles, darlin'."

  She looked back down at the candles. Somehow she had the lighter in her hand, but she held it for a couple seconds, listening to her breath, loud in her head, feeling light-headed as she contemplated what she might be about to do. No, what she was going to do, because he'd ordered it. She wouldn't refuse him. Not a Master's command.

  She flicked on the lighter, bent and lit the candles, one by one. There were thirteen of them, different sizes and colors, all sitting on a big tray. When they were lit, her gaze was drawn to what else lay on the table, lined up in a neat arrangement.

  A thin, flexible rod whose length shone in the reflection of the flickering light. A flogger with black rosebuds at the tips. A paddle with a cushioned, satiny-looking business side in a rich purple. Another whip that looked like a coiled piece of cloth attached to a handle. Six condoms. A gag with a short, thick phallic mouthpiece attached to a large rectangle that would cover the mouth completely. A collar with a two-inch wide strap and a ring attached to it. The collar was lined inside with a cushion of purple velvet. Her fingers were on it, caressing the plush, before she realized what she was doing. She drew back.

  "Celeste, turn around and face me."

  She did, wondering if he could hear her heart thudding in her chest. In this dim light his eyes were dark, burning coal. "Take off all of your clothes. Fold them neatly on the end of the table. Then bring me the collar and the gag."

  The candles' scent was a mix of cinnamon and vanilla, with a trace of something muskier, like a man's desire. She was in an erotic dream, one from which she didn't want to wake. Her tears were still drying on her cheeks, her throat still ached and her stomach hurt a little, but it was feeling better. He'd touched her face in the truck, wiped away her tears, and what she saw in his expression told her he might know things about herself she didn't know. When to soothe and when to demand, like now.

  "That's a pretty outfit," he said casually. "If it's not off in the next two minutes, I'll be the one taking it off. You'll wear one of my shirts and no panties home because I'll cut it all up for cleaning rags."

  The hard gleam from those dark eyes told her he meant it. She bent and unzipped the boots, holding on to the table to pull them off her feet, remove the thin ankle stockings beneath. Then she unzipped the brown skirt, wiggled out of it. Pulled the angel wing shirt over her head. Reached behind her with fumbling fingers to unhook the gold lace bra. With a brief hesitation, she shimmied out of the matching panties. The warming air of the room touched her skin.

  "Jewelry, too."

  The shell choker and five earrings followed. He'd stayed at the door, silent and watching. She put her clothes on the end of the table. He didn't need to remind her of the rest of his command. It was what had made her fumble through the removal of her clothes. She wasn't sure how neatly she'd managed to fold them, but they were in a reasonably symmetrical pile. She closed her hand over the stiff strap of the collar and the rectangular part of the ball gag. Her fingers split onto either side of the thick rubber phallus that he would put in her mouth, taking away her ability to speak.

  The wood floor was worn smooth under her bare feet. It was less than fifteen feet to cross, but it felt much longer, though he straightened and closed the distance between them, so she came to a stop on the cushioned mat.

  "On your knees, darlin'."

  A shiver went through her knees, her lower abdomen, and she swayed. He put his hand on her shoulder, her elbow, the pressure taking her safely to the floor. Once there, she stared at the shiny buckle of his belt, the way the strap defined his waist, the powerful upper torso above it, the straight lines of his hips below, the impressive shape of his genitals under straining denim, emphasized by the pressure of his thighs on either side of them.

  "First this." He stroked her lips then parted them, guiding the phallus into her mouth. Fitting the rectangle over it, he buckled the strap behind her head. She let out a needy sound as he cinched it so it molded over her lips, the straight edges pressing against her cheek and jaw on either side. Unlike a regular ball gag, it rendered her incapable of any kind of speech. Her gaze lifted to him, a pleading look in her eyes she didn't know how to explain. He cupped her chin, ran his fingers along her windpipe, shortening her breath further.

  "My beautiful sub. There she is. Wanting everything her Master will demand of her. Keep your chin up."

  The collar was next, and her eyes closed at the sensation of it being buckled and secured, snug against her throat without hampering her breathing. He caught his fingers in the ring attached to it, tugged so her eyes opened.

  That tender expression was there as he stroked her cheekbones, around her eyes. He nodded toward the table set up with the candles and the toys. "Your Master was going to break his own rules tonight. I was going to take you home, no matter what I said about waiting. But because I've let you see that, I also need to show you that was my decision. Your Master is in control. Not you. You earned a punishment tonight. So we start with that."

  Holding his fingers in the D-ring, he moved around her. She experienced a peculiar leap in her lower belly as his hold made her turn around on her knees, and she had to make a couple awkward steps on them to follow him, relying on the pull on the collar to steady her and help her know where he wanted her to go. Bringing her down on all fours on the mat, he squatted in front of her. As he lifted a length of silver chain from the floor, she saw the other end was attached to what looked like a sturdy cabinet pull, screwed into the floor a few inches out in front of the mat. He attached the chain to the ring in her collar, holding her there.

  Her gaze slid to two other pulls at the corners, the mat tucked up under them. Two more were positioned parallel to the mat at the midpoint on either long side of the rectangle. If she could turn around, she expected she'd find a pair at the back corners. While they looked like guides to keep the mat in place, they had another purpose, since each had chains and cuffs waiting at them.

  He wrapped the two front cuffs around her wrists and clipped them to the corner pulls. Rising off his heels, he circled behind her, did the same to her ankles. The cuffs at the midway part of the two sides of the mat were wrapped around her thighs. He made adjustments to those chains so her knees had to stay spread shoulder width.

  After he had her restrained, he stood up and walked around her, trailing his fingers over her back, her hip.

  Her stomach was doing flip-flops, her hands tight in the bonds. When he circled behind her, the tautness of the chain between the collar and floor kept her from looking at him. But when he
came back to the front, she could lift her head enough to stare up at him. He was pure virility standing over her like this, his aroused cock impossible to miss under the jeans, his steady but lust-inflamed look leaving no doubt what he planned to do to her.

  Whatever he wanted.

  He'd silenced her tongue, kept her from moving. That dark part of her that wanted to fight twitched against the chains, and she despaired as she felt the ugliness of it stirring, but he'd taken away her ability to safe word. She had to rely on him to completely care for her. To know what she needed. To protect her.

  Insane, right? But she was shaking with desire, fear and need, and couldn't think beyond what he would do to her next.

  He picked up the short whip that looked like a rolled piece of cloth. "This is called a dragon tail. I don't usually start with it, but I want you to have a taste of it up front. Your punishment will conclude with this, and I want you dreading and anticipating it."

  He threaded it through his fingers, moved to her side. In the corner of her eye, she saw him take hold of the tip end of the rolled cloth in one hand, his other grip sure on the handle. The position reminded her of a tennis backhand, a sport she'd played briefly in school with borrowed rackets and old balls devoid of bounce.

  He released the tip in a short, snapping movement.

  Holy Christ. She yelped at the sting against her side, as bad as being popped by a wet towel. She tried to jerk back, but he followed that blow with another one on her buttock. She cursed him against the gag, but it came out a petulant mewl.

  "Maybe one more to emphasize the point."

  She shook her head violently, but he'd already moved to the other side, hit her on the rib cage. "And maybe just one more, because I'm all about balance."

  She jerked against her bonds, screeching as he popped her other buttock harder. He laid his hand over the burn, rubbed it briskly. When he dropped to one knee to kiss it, she tried to jerk away, glare over her shoulder.