by Ava Sinclair
Have I had anal sex before? Yes. I lost both my virginities to the same guy in college. His name was Wayne Hill, and he was the captain of the lacrosse team. The other guys admired him both for his athleticism and his sexual prowess. And he was an excellent athlete. But he was also an excellent liar. I was also his first, and he swore me to secrecy after our first fumbling night together. Once we got the hang of it, he was especially keen to try ass fucking, mainly because he’s bragged about doing that, too. It was slow and—in retrospect—painfully hilarious, with me sweating and grunting and saying, “No, wait,” every ten seconds before gritting my teeth and letting him push a little further in. Wayne was as scared as I was, and kept saying, “Oh, god. I’m not going to injure you, am I?” But I urged him on because I’m stubborn and wanted to see what all the fuss was about since some of my girlfriends claimed to love taking it up the ass.
No, it wasn’t satisfying, and I suspect that most of the girls who raved about it did so because they wanted the reputation of being willing to try anything. And like me, afterwards they could say they’d done it. Wayne and I broke up shortly afterwards. He really was a sweet, goofy guy, and I advanced his reputation by telling everyone how awesome he was, because image was so important to him. Today he’s a television reporter. I saw him on a newscast when I was in Oregon. He’s bald now.
It probably makes little sense that I’d want to try anal again, especially with a man as proportionally blessed as Mr. M., but I’m as addicted to the learning curve as I am to him. He pushes my limits and breaks down the inner resistance I’ve constructed to contain my wanton side. I like being nervous about what he’ll do. I like being afraid. I like knowing that I don’t have a bit of control.
“Take your panties off,” he says when we’re inside. He’s already undoing his tie as I walk to the middle of the living room and bend over, teetering a bit on my high heels as I reach under my gown to pull off my panties.
“On your knees.” Mr. M. has removed his jacket and cummerbund and tossed them both over the back of a chair. I look back to see him undoing his gold cufflinks. His eyes are on my ass. My legs are parted, spreading my labia. My pussy is all but dripping with arousal, my swollen clit aching for his touch.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he says. He walks to the table and opens the drawer. He pulls out a thick riding crop and my eyes widen. He comes back over, tapping the crop against the leg of his trousers. There’s an obvious tent in the front. His cock is straining against the fabric, pushing toward me. “Get that ass up,” he says.
“You’re going to punish me?” I ask, disbelieving.
“No,” he says quietly. “I only punish you when you’re bad. But I’m going to give you ten with this riding crop because I love watching you take it, love hearing your little cries. I love seeing the welts form on your skin. I love kissing away the hurt. I’m not doing this because you’re bad. I’m doing this because I can.”
I stick my ass up. My fingernails are pushing into the carpet. My heart is pounding and I can feel sweat forming under the back of my bodice. The sound of a swish cuts the air and a blinding sting catches me off guard. I cry out and surge forward, nearly falling.
“Hold your position,” Mr. M. says. “And count.”
“One.” My voice is heavy with tears. That fucking hurt. It landed on my lower buttocks, just above my thighs, and the second one lands directly above.
“Ow! Two!” The tears track through my makeup and splash to the carpet under my face.
“Three!” I scream the word as the third cut of the crop falls. My body resonates with pain, like the thrum of a guitar string after it’s been plucked. I’m swirling in it. But I stick my ass up, wanting to prove to him what a good girl I am, wanting to give myself as an offering to his beautiful torment.
The fifth blow falls, and I wail. I feel his hand on my back, steadying me as I sob out the halfway mark. The rest of the count is barely intelligible. I sob the numbers, mangling them. By the time the tenth is done, I’m rocking my ass from side to side and Mr. M. is kneeling behind me, his hands on my cheeks as I wriggle in a vain attempt to shake off the pain.
He’s avoided the spot where the tattoo is. I can hear him praising me, telling me what a good girl I am. He laves the welts with his tongue, drags it up through my slit. My clit becomes my epicenter of feeling. Everything is condensed to that tiny bit of real estate between my legs. It feels almost heavy with want. The pain and pleasure are mingling as I fall swirling into subspace.
Mr. M. has his cock out. He rubs it across the slick inner folds of my pussy, christening it with my slick juices. He’s telling me how hot I am, how much I please him. A smile lights up my face, which is pressed against the carpet. He pushes into my pussy, but he tells me not to come. And my smile disappears. I was so close, and I’m not sure I can fight the orgasm that threatens to overtake me. My legs shake with the force of holding it back. Mr. M. pulls out, and I can feel the head of his cock pressing against my bottom hole. He grabs my hips, holding tight, and this is not the slow apologetic entry of an untried college boy. Mr. M. instructs me on how to open myself to him. He tells me how to push back from the inside, which seems contrary until I realize how this softens the resisting muscles. I feel his head slide inside, and there’s a painful stretching sting as he moves deeper.
“Stop!” I cry. I try to think of the safeword but before I can say it, his hand is between my legs, pinching my clit and suddenly the blissful pressure of that pinch merges with the stinging fullness in my bottom and the orgasm that had downshifted accelerates rapidly.
“Oh, Mr. M!” I say in shock, and he emits a deep laugh as his fingers continue their expert manipulation. I want to come, but I know I must wait. He’s close to being fully seated, and I marvel that I’ve been able to take him. I glance back to see him watching his cock disappear into the depths of my ass. I feel his pubic hair pressing against my bottom as his pelvis connects with my ass cheeks, flattening them. Mr. M. begins to move in and out, stroking and squeezing my clit as he pumps into me. I’m swirling in a whirlpool of sensation. My pussy is empty but my ass is incredibly full, and it’s satisfying in a way I can’t even describe. Mr. M’s manipulation of my clit is driving me mad. I want to come. I beg permission, my voice rising in desperation.
“Come on my fingers,” he says, and pushes two inside me, hooking them to press against my g-spot. I’ve never come so hard in my life, the pleasure waves buffeting my body and stealing my breath. Now I know what all the fuss is about, and have developed another skill to pleasure my man. My Mr. M.
He stays in me until he softens and slips out. Mr. M. instructs me to stay where I am. He leaves the room and comes back in a bathrobe. He has a wet washcloth, and he uses it to clean the cum leaking out of my ass. He rubs some sort of soothing cream on the welts. He has something else, too, a hand mirror.
“Do you want to see your ink?” he asks.
I nod and look back. It takes a minute to discern it through the opaque protective tape, but I nearly cry when I do. It’s a key. I slowly rise to standing and turn, wordlessly, to open his robe. My fingers move across the lock on his chest. I look up at him, my eyes asking the question I can’t bring myself to utter.
Mr. M. takes my hand. “Every bad boy playboy stereotype you’ve imagined? I’ve been the embodiment of them. Mimsy Brenner is right about me. I’ve treated women like delicacies, sampling them here and there. She said she can’t remember all their names?” He drops his eyes. “I can’t either.”
I stare at the lock tattoo. “But there was someone,” I say. “And afterwards you locked your heart away.”
“I was young,” he says. “Too young to understand that I couldn’t buy affection, that I wasn’t entitled to it. I’d already hurt my share of women, and when my turn came, I couldn’t handle it. I decided I’d never get close to someone else again, never make myself vulnerable.”
A chill runs through me. “Is this why you feel the need to be in control?”
“Initially. And there was no shortage of women who enjoy a man who takes charge. But I realized being a dominant was who I was. I was just missing the one woman who could satisfy my variety of needs.” He puts a hand to my face. “Sloane. My Sloane. You’re that woman.”
I’m stunned. Whatever I expected, it wasn’t this.
“We have an arrangement,” I say. “A contract. I want something real.”
I step away. Isn’t this what I want? Isn’t this what any girl wants—a billionaire to sweep her off her feet? I think of the tenderness mixed with pain, the generosity mixed with all his demands. And I know I don’t want it to end. But a relationship? I don’t know how to begin.
“I’m going to talk to you as a woman now,” I say, “not as a contractually bound sex slave.”
“Good.” He sighs with relief and nods. “Good.”
I cross my arms and step back, trying to think of what to say.
“Do you have a sex addiction?” I ask. “Because if you do…”
He puts up a hand. “It’s nothing like that, Sloane. It’s not sex I’m addicted to. It was the search. The search for something to fill me…” He turns away. “Damn…” His hands are on his hips and we both stand in silence.
“Are you saying you don’t want me, then?” he asks. He sounds so vulnerable.
“No, Mr. M.”
He turns back. “Liam. Call me Liam.”
I smile and smooth a strand of hair behind my ear. “No, Liam. But I think we both may have entered this contract with the same goal. In a way, we both want control. We’re both afraid of our feelings. I wanted permission to let myself go without commitment. You wanted permission to restrain yourself to one woman without commitment. Maybe the contract worked for us because it fed both our needs and our fears.” I sigh. “It let us play it safe.”
“I don’t want to play it safe anymore, Sloane. Not with you. You’ve been tested, and you’ve proven yourself.”
Tested. The word jars me.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I didn’t want to get hurt again,” he says. “But even when tempted, you were faithful. Even when I arranged casual interactions with others…”
My head begins to swim. I feel sick. I don’t want to ask the question I’m about to ask. “Blake Thornton,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “Is that what you’re referring to?”
“Look. He’s a friend…” He walks over to me. “He knows me, okay. He knows what I went through, how close being cheated on pushed me to the edge. He offered to help me…”
I back away as he approaches me. “That,” I say, “was a direct manipulation of my professional life.”
“No, no.” He tries to smile. “He really was looking for a lawyer. He really was…”
“Don’t!” I put my hand up. It’s shaking. I’m shaking. I cross my arms. “And Camille?” Tears sting my eyes. “Was she a test, too?”
His shoulders droop. “No,” he says. “I wasn’t worried about that.”
“Why?” I ask. “Because the idea of me with another woman is an allowable excitement but the idea of another man sticking his cock in what you consider your property isn’t?”
“Sloane,” he says. “You don’t understand. I was falling for you. I was…” He puts his hands out. “I was scared.”
“Scared?” I walk over to him, shaking my head. I’ve never been so fucking angry in my life.
“If you’re scared, you ask questions,” I say.
“What question?” he asks, exasperated. “You said you didn’t want anyone. But when we were together, I felt a bond forming. I didn’t want to scare you off with questions. I thought maybe…”
“What? That if you could determine I was a slut you’d be spared the trauma of being told no to a direct question of whether I have feelings for you?”
The reality of my words seems to hit him. And I want to feel sorry for him in a way. Here’s a man who’s had everything he ever wanted handed to him, except love. He can’t buy it. And like me, he’s got so much baggage that he’s decided to mitigate his risk in the most artificial ways possible. Contracts. Manipulation. What a fucked-up pair of souls we are.
“I don’t think this can ever work,” I say.
“It can,” he says. “It has to. Sloane…” He walks over to me and takes my hands. “I fucked up. I fucked up in the worst way possible. But will spend a lifetime making it up to you if you let me.” His eyes search mine. They are no longer certain. They are soft and pleading. They reflect the vulnerability I feel and fear. “Sloane,” he says. “I love you.”
“I need to think about it.” I suddenly want to cry and I don’t know why. Mr. M.—Liam—looks pained and I expect him to get angry and tell me it’s a one-time offer, like in the movies where the guy tells you if you walk out the door not to come back. But instead he kisses me on the forehead. “Call me when you’re ready. I’ll be waiting.”
He calls a car for me and just like that I’m on the way home. To my home. I’ve been at his place more than mine. I spend more time with him than I’ve ever spent with any man. I know it’s hard for him to understand why I need time to think. Hell, it’s hard for me given that I’ve let myself fall for him. But we’ve been living a fantasy, and he’s talking about real life. And real life scares the hell out of me.
Chapter Twelve
He’s clearly surprised to see me, and why shouldn’t he be. I’ve arrived without calling, without making an appointment during what is a very busy time for him. Pinnacle Clothiers is opening three stores all at once, and coordinating those efforts isn’t easy. Still, I’m ushered into his office when I arrive, and Blake Thornton knows this isn’t a business call.
“Miss Millbank,” he says, and for a moment is silent while he waits for his secretary to shut the door. “I would ask the reason for your visit, but I think I know.” He sighs and sits back in his chair. “Damn Liam. I told him that was a shitty idea.”
I don’t ask if I can take a seat. I walk over and plant myself in the chair across from his desk.
“You compromised my professionalism,” I say.
“No. I’d have used your firm anyway. All the good things I said about you—the professional things—I meant them, too.” He shakes his head. “Liam would have been best to have kept silent.”
“If you believe that, you’re no better than he is,” I say. “I’m beginning to think that telling me about your little plan was the most honest he’s been with me since we met.”
“I deserved that,” he says. “But I think I may be more inclined to cut Liam some slack since I know him so well.”
“And I may be less inclined because, as it turns out, I don’t,” I reply. I pause. “So tell me, because he wants me back and before I give him an answer, I need to know what I’m dealing with. What exactly did he tell you about our relationship?”
“Only that it was unconventional, that he was falling for you, and that it scared him.”
“Why would it scare him?”
“Because he’s not let himself fall for anyone since Lydia.”
So the woman who hurt him has a name. “What happened?”
“She was his childhood sweetheart. Both from good families. He adored her, and it was mutual. But his sexual tastes ran darker than hers. And as much as Lydia tried to be submissive, it wasn’t in her nature. They were talking about getting married and she suggested therapy for his problem. I’ve never seen him so low. He was torn between his dominant nature and his frustration at the gaps in their sexual language. And I understand. I’m a dom, too.” He looks at me knowingly. “Something tells me you understand, too.”
I’m not about to give this man any more information. I’m here to get answers, not give them. “Go on,” I say.
“Long story short, Lydia was also working with a therapist who told her that Liam was being selfish, that if he loved her he’d give up his sick fantasies. Lydia wasn’t the strongest personality. Rather than acknowledge that
they weren’t compatible and breaking it off like an adult, she found someone else. Liam caught them together. He was totally blindsided. Keep in mind, he did love her very much. And rather than apologize, she told him he was a freak, a monster, and threatened to expose him in society as a pervert if he mentioned that she’d cheated.
“So as far as our friends knew, they had an amicable breakup. But Liam took it hard. I don’t care how many women he’s fucked, in his heart he’s a monogamist. He’s looking for one mate, one sub. And it seems to be you. What he asked me to do was wrong, and I apologize. But what I did, I did for a friend. I was with him when he got that lock tattoo. I know you’ve seen it. And as melodramatic, there’s a reason he did it. He’s not as strong as he pretends to be. I don’t think he can take another betrayal.”
“I wouldn’t have betrayed him,” I say. “He’d have known it if he’d just asked.”
“I agree,” he replies. “And if I weren’t such a pushover for him, I’d have told him just that. But sometimes we don’t see the harm in our actions until after the fact.”
I stand up, thanking Blake Thornton for his time. I ask him not to say anything to Liam about our visit, and he vows not to. I believe him.
“Sloane,” he asks. “What are you going to do?”
I turn back, searching for an answer.
“I’m going to go for a run,” I say. “I’m going to go for a run and make a decision.”
* * *
I’ve never called in sick since I started at the firm. But I did yesterday so I could come here to Chicago and confront Blake Thornton. Now I must decide. I can’t just forget Mr. M. I was right about the tattoo. It’s an extension of the mark he’s left on my life.
He’s done what I asked. He hasn’t phoned me. This isn’t like the movies. He’s not left a string of messages. He’s not hired a skywriter to propose. He’s not filled my home with a hundred dozen white roses or sent me expensive gifts I can’t accept. I’ve asked for space, and I’ve gotten it.