Show and Tell: A Forbidden Flowers Story

by Lynne, Donya

  He laughed again, and God, it was a luscious sound.

  He was tall. He was fit. He was a Dom. And she could listen to him talk for hours. What more could she ask for?

  “Anything else?” she asked. “Is there anything else you’d like to know about me?”

  Silence, then, “What’s your favorite sexual fantasy?”

  Where did she start? “You want me to narrow it down to just one?”

  He made a noise, like how many are there? “Active imagination?”

  “I’m an author, Warren. An active imagination comes with the territory.”

  “Touché.”

  In fact . . . “Do you really want to know my sexual fantasies?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then read my books. Every book I’ve written includes at least one scene that came from my own fantasies.” She glanced toward her window with its open curtains. “And, actually . . . I can tell you one right now that always gets me hot.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  She scanned the apartment buildings on the other side of the park. “My curtains are open.”

  He moaned his approval as if he already knew where this was going, but he didn’t interrupt her.

  “The lights in my bedroom are off, but there’s a nightlight in the hall. It’s quite bright. It lets just enough light into my bedroom that if someone had a telescope in one of the apartment buildings on the other side of the park, they could look inside my bedroom window and watch me masturbate.” She hesitated. “You, for example. If you lived over there, and if you had a telescope, you could be watching me right now. Naked. Stretched out on top of my bed. Playing with myself while I talk to you. You could see firsthand what your voice does to me.”

  In the silence that followed, Jenna felt as though Warren was cataloging what she’d just told him, chewing on it, tasting its energy and all the possibilities it offered.

  “Does it excite you to be watched?” he asked. “To fuck for an audience?”

  “The idea excites me.”

  “But the reality doesn’t?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ve never done it.”

  More silence, then, “Just how far are you willing to take this, Jenna?”

  She was breathing heavily, wet between the legs again, and eager for him to take her on another trip through her fantasies. But did she want more than that? Or was this enough?

  “I don’t know,” she said honestly.

  “Then think about it. I’ll only ask you one more time, and when I do, I’ll expect an answer.”

  “But—”

  “Good night, Jenna.”

  Before she could say another word, he hung up.

  She pushed up onto her elbows as her head whipped around. She stared openmouthed at her phone, still plugged into the charger. Had he just hung up on her? Again?

  A moment later, the music she’d been playing before his call resumed.

  She had hoped he would talk her through another orgasm, but instead, he’d ended their call as if she’d had no choice in the matter.

  Well, he was a Dom. Ending their conversation without giving her a chance to get in another word was a Dom move, so she shouldn’t have been surprised.

  But in no way was this the last she had heard from him. Warren would call her again. And when he did, she needed to be ready to answer his question.

  Chapter Five

  Warren did call her again the following Wednesday night, then again on Friday, and twice more the following week.

  That’s how things went for the next month, but he never asked her again how far she wanted things to go.

  It was just as well, because she still didn’t know. She knew she didn’t want the calls to stop, and while each call fed her curiosity a little bit more about what it would be like to meet him in the flesh, she still wasn’t sure if she wanted to take her fantasies about being dominated into the real world.

  Four weeks after that first phone call, on Thursday night around nine thirty, he called her again.

  “This is a surprise,” she said.

  He always called her on Wednesdays and Fridays, never on Thursdays.

  “I’m busy tomorrow night and won’t be able to call,” he said, “so I took a chance that you’d have time to talk tonight.”

  She’d become so addicted to the low timbre and casual confidence of his voice talking her to orgasm that she instantly went wet. It was like she’d been conditioned—or even hypnotized—to respond to his voice with the highest level of sexual excitement.

  “I’m glad you did,” she said. “I’m busy tomorrow night too.”

  While they had talked several times since that first night, they had agreed not to share any identifying information beyond what they already knew about each other. They still hadn’t exchanged last names, where they worked, or much about their jobs beyond vague references regarding things that had happened at work. Warren knew she was Lillian Bangs, erotic romance author, but that was as personal as it got. Which meant it didn’t surprise Jenna when he didn’t give her more details about his Friday night plans and didn’t ask about hers.

  “I finished your books today,” he said.

  “You did? You really read them? All of them?” She had almost forgotten that he’d bought them. He hadn’t mentioned them after that first night, and their conversations usually steered down BDSM Boulevard or Phone Sex Lane pretty quickly, so she’d put it out of her mind.

  “Every word,” he said.

  “And . . .?” She was both anxious and excited to hear what he thought.

  “Have you ever been to a sex club?”

  “No.”

  “Never?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because you write like you have.”

  It was the greatest compliment he could have given her. Her head was filled with fantasies about the BDSM lifestyle, but having never set foot inside a sex club, she’d had to use what she’d read about them online or in books to construct the clubs her characters were members of. Of course, a few dirty movies and image searches had helped too.

  “I’ve done my research,” she said, forcing back the desire to pump her fist.

  “Yes, you have.”

  “It’s amazing how much can be learned from the internet.”

  Until now, she had resisted asking him what it was like inside a club, but with him bringing it up, she felt the time was right.

  “What about you?” she asked. “When was the last time you were in a sex club? Or do you belong to more than one?”

  “Last Saturday night,” he answered. “And only one. But I used to belong to three.”

  “Back when you were younger and full of hormones?” she teased.

  “Something like that.”

  “And now you’re not?”

  “Oh, I’m still full of hormones. I’m just more selective.”

  “Meaning . . .?”

  “My tastes have become more refined in my old age.” He emphasized the words with an air of sarcastic humor. “I also know what I want now. The club I belong to suits my needs.”

  “And the other two didn’t? Which is why you left?”

  “Something like that.”

  Something like that was a favorite answer of his. Noncommittal. Vague. Mysterious. She couldn’t help wondering if that was on purpose.

  “Do you normally go to the club on Saturdays?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Every Saturday?”

  “Not always.”

  “But more often than not, right?”

  “Yes.”

  She couldn’t help feeling jealous of the nameless, faceless woman—or women—who got to experience the pleasure of his company when he made an appearance. Did he take whatever pleasure Jenna gave him during their twice-a-week phone calls and give it to his true submissive on those coveted Saturday nights when he exercised his special talents in the real world?

  “Do you
have just one submissive?” she asked.

  “No.” He spoke quietly, almost sympathetically.

  “More than one?”

  “No.”

  She frowned. He didn’t have just one, but didn’t have more than one?

  “I haven’t had a submissive for almost a year,” he said, ending the suspense before she could inquire further.

  “Why? What happened?”

  “It was time for her to move on.”

  “Move on?” She had thought that once a Dominant and a submissive were together, that was more or less it. They were together.

  “Dom/sub relationships are like all other types of relationships,” he said.

  “Meaning . . .?”

  “Meaning some last longer than others.” He made a quiet sound, like he was thinking back to his former submissive and how the relationship had ended. “I brought my last sub into the lifestyle and trained her, knowing I would never collar her. Then she struck up a friendship with one of the other Doms I introduced her to, and that friendship grew into love, and now she’s his sub and not mine. In fact, they’re engaged.”

  Okay, that had taken an unexpected turn.

  “And losing her to him didn’t make you angry?”

  In all her research, she’d never come across a situation like this and was struggling to take it all in. Because, if it were her, she would most definitely be upset if someone moved in on her turf.

  “I didn’t lose her to him.”

  “But she left you for him.”

  “No, I willingly released her to him.” He paused briefly, as if gathering his thoughts. “I was her trainer, but that was all I was. Yes, she and I were attracted to each other and had good chemistry; otherwise, we never would have agreed to the terms of the arrangement, but we both knew we were never going to be a couple.”

  Jenna had always assumed that a Dom and his or her submissive were, in fact, a couple. That they didn’t enter into a D/s relationship with each other unless they were either dating beforehand or planned on dating as part of the arrangement.

  “I guess I don’t understand,” she said.

  “It’s simple. She wanted into the lifestyle and needed a Dom. I was in the right place at the right time, between submissives, and I agreed to take her on. And, sure, we had fun together while it lasted. But she was never all I needed in a submissive, and I was never all she needed in a Dominant. So, as I trained her, I did so while keeping an eye out for a Dom who would make a better long-term fit for her.”

  “Sounds impersonal.” Jenna wasn’t sure she could become Warren’s—or anyone’s—submissive if he didn’t want to be with her outside the playroom.

  “It does,” he said, “but it wasn’t. Dominant/submissive relationships are very personal. They must be to work. Just because they don’t always extend beyond the club doesn’t mean they aren’t personal or don’t matter. You have to understand that while D/s relationships are like vanilla relationships in many ways, there are some aspects that will always be different. For example, even among couples who happen to be members of the club, when they’re in the club, they take on completely different roles with each other than they do in their normal, day to day lives.” He paused to take a contemplative breath. “The point is, I knew my last submissive was never going to be mine and only mine, and I was okay with that. We had a great relationship within the boundaries of the club, including all that being at the club entailed, but away from the lifestyle, we were just good friends. We still are.”

  “So . . . you weren’t mad when she became that other Dom’s submissive?”

  “Not at all. In fact, I was the one who introduced them.” He made a noise like he was a proud papa bear. “There’s a certain fulfillment in knowing I had a hand in helping a submissive find herself not just in the lifestyle, but also with the right Dominant. It gives me satisfaction to know I was part of her journey and helped her blossom into the beautiful, self-assured flower she was meant to become.”

  For about a dozen reasons she couldn’t fully acknowledge, Jenna didn’t want to know how many submissives he had helped find themselves. It wasn’t that she was jealous. She just didn’t know where she stood and wasn’t comfortable thinking that if Warren were ever to become her Dom that he would only want to train her for someone else, then move on.

  “It was all I ever wanted for her,” he continued. “It was clear from the start that I wasn’t her forever, just her trainer. It was my job to prepare her for her true Dom and to help her recognize when she’d found him.”

  “Are they still together?” Jenna asked.

  “Mm-hm. In fact, he collared her, and in a few months they’ll be married. Everyone got what they wanted.”

  This was all so fascinating.

  “Do all collared subs marry their Dominants?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Think of it like marriage. You can get married, then get divorced when things don’t work out. It’s the same premise. A Dom will collar a submissive, but sometimes things don’t work out, and he takes the collar back. Or the submissive gives it back to him.”

  She’d had no idea there was still so much to learn about the lifestyle, but Warren was giving her quite the education.

  “Have you ever collared a sub?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not one of those Doms who thinks collaring and marriage are temporary institutions. To me, they’re permanent. They’re for the rest of my life. Which means when I find a submissive I want to collar, it will be because I want to marry her. In sickness and in health, till death do us part, inside the playroom and out of it, and all the rest. Divorce isn’t an option for me, in marriage or collaring.”

  Every time Jenna and Warren spoke, she found his character to be a bit more pleasing, her trust flowing a little more easily. He never pushed her, never said anything that even hinted at impatience, and always showed her respect, even when he was describing how he would make her get down on all fours and crawl across the room while eating grapes from his hand or something. Or how he would parade her naked in front of his friends like a horse up for auction. Or make her bend over the table at a dinner party so he could fuck her while everyone ate dessert. Because how could it be disrespectful when listening to him say such things got her so hot?

  “So,” she said, “are you one of those Doms who lives the lifestyle twenty-four seven?” She had raised the question that first night, but he had never answered it.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Being a Dom is a role I play, it’s not who I am. I can turn it on and turn it off.” She heard him snap his fingers in the background. “I’ve had satisfying vanilla relationships and satisfying D/s relationships.”

  “You’ve had vanilla relationships?”

  “Are you surprised?”

  In all her research, she had never read about Doms who did the vanilla thing.

  “I just thought—”

  “That all Doms are always on? That we’re always bossing someone around and giving orders?”

  “Well . . . yes.”

  “Many Doms are like that, but I walk my own path. I don’t need the lifestyle. I enjoy it, and I’m good at it, but if I’m interested in a woman who’s not into being dominated, I can shut it off.”

  “Would you shut it off with me?”

  His devilish chuckle put a smile on her face. “I most definitely would not shut it off with you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you enjoy it too much . . . and you make me enjoy it even more.”

  “I do?”

  “Oh yeah. You make me want to do things I haven’t done in years.”

  “Such as . . .?”

  He laughed again, just as lasciviously. “Patience, Jenna.”

  “I’m not a patient person.”

  “I know. You have yet to wait for me to give you permission to come.”

  They’
d had phone sex several times, and each time he got her so turned on she couldn’t hold back. Orgasms and Warren’s voice were like lightning and thunder, a perfect pairing.

  She smiled to herself. “I guess you’re just going to have to keep working with me.”

  “Or tie your hands to the headboard so you can’t touch yourself.”

  She liked the sound of that. “To do that, you would actually have to come to my apartment.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  “You’re teasing me.” He enjoyed teasing her about coming over to her apartment and acting out their phone fantasies in person, because he knew it pushed all her buttons in all the right ways.

  “If you continue to disobey me, you’ll leave me no choice.”

  She lay back on the bed and started fingering herself. “Then by all means help me continue to disobey you so I can get you over here. Tell me what you’ll do to me.”

  And he did.

  And she disobeyed.

  Again.

  Being bad felt so good.

  Chapter Six

  The next night—a coveted Friday night she usually spent writing—Jenna donned one of only two cocktail dresses she kept in the back of her closet for special occasions.

  She had bought the bronze, hand-beaded Rachel Gilbert square-necked design for her cousin’s wedding three years ago and had worn it exactly six times. Tonight made lucky seven. Paired with nude Stuart Weitzman three-inch sandals, the below-the-knee hem made her look taller than she was. Always a plus when you were usually the shortest person in the room.

  With her matching beaded clutch in hand and a wispy, cream-colored shawl slung around her shoulders, she hopped into the back of the Lyft when it pulled up to her building. Then it whisked her away from her writing for the evening to a charity event for battered and abused women at the Met.

  If she was going to take time off from fulfilling her dreams of becoming a full-time author, this was the event to do it for. She was as passionate about the charity as the partners at her firm were, two of whom were women who did volunteer work for women’s shelters.

  Jenna herself had donated royalties of her book, Unchained, to the charity. The book had been about a woman in her late thirties who had suffered abuse at the hands of her first husband and how she had never quite been able to get her life back together after leaving him. Then she met a man—a Dominant—who helped her put the final pieces back into place while helping her discover her passion for intimacy again. It had been a challenging book to write, walking a fine line between respecting the sensitivity of the heroine’s past abuse while pulling her into a world where a lot of things could have triggered her.