by Mina Vaughn
He held out his hand, wanting a minute to explain. “Come on, who makes these kinds of demands?” he said, face turning red, gesturing at my page of requirements. “Must be self-employed? Must be responsible for role-play props and costumes Monday through Thursday? Seriously, you’re out of your mind. Where’s that freaking bell?”
That was probably the most tedious thing about the mixer—the timer.
Every four minutes, the bell would ring, and someone else would come up to my table. Brian was the fifteenth guy to arrive and get frustrated before minute three. That meant I’d have to make small talk with my rejection for another minute before he moved on.
“So, how about them Sox?” I asked.
“I don’t like baseball,” he grumbled.
Neither did I, especially since I was staring down strike three.
However, I’m sure if I counted, I’d really be on strike twenty-five. I’ve only had a handful of subs that could stand up to my rigorous demands for more than a month.
The bell rang and I sipped my drink, preparing for another disgruntled man who couldn’t handle my demands. The last of the night, if my watch was correct.
Then I saw him.
An absolutely beautiful specimen was making his way toward my little table.
I sipped the soda again, careful not to smudge my lipstick. Typically, Dommes were easy to find at mixers—the redder the lipstick, the stricter the rules. Mine was crimson on the border of downright arterial. I had hoped that my selection would weed out the weaklings in the pack. I touched it up just in case it had faded and bent down to put the compact back into my bag. By the time I sat back up, he was in front of me.
“Hello,” he said sheepishly, eyes downcast.
This was a good sign. Subs ought to act their place at events like this—unlike that last jackass. Please, please be up to my challenge.
“Sit,” I said to him, gesturing. His posture was erect, but guarded. This man was very stylish—a corduroy blazer over a graphic tee, paired with perfectly fitted dark jeans. Urban, hip. Thank God no leather—I didn’t care how long I’d been involved in this sort of thing, I would never get into leather. Unless it was required for a scene . . . then it would be acceptable. He folded his hands neatly in his lap, and began the conversation in a surprisingly self-deprecating manner.
“I have something,” he said, eyes still downcast, “I should tell you before we begin.”
I leaned forward, ready to berate him for speaking out of turn, and not letting me begin our conversation. The nerve of these guys.
Then again, this was speed-dating and I didn’t want to waste time with a lecture, so I allowed him to begin.
“I’ve never been kept by a Domme. I have been advised to tell you in advance a few of my qualities that have been turn-offs. Firstly, I can tolerate any kind of pain.”
Odd, but not a deal breaker. I did the “go on” gesture, rolling my pointer finger.
“I flinch at nothing, nor do I bruise or redden. Many women have found this off-putting, if you like that sort of thing.”
“Um, I’m a substitute teacher. I dish out pain all day. I’m not that kind of Domme,” I explained to him, trying to put him somewhat at ease. His posture relaxed somewhat.
I probably shouldn’t have disclosed my occupation to this guy, but what was he going to do? Show up at every secondary school in the Seacoast Region wearing assless chaps?
“I also have very cold hands,” he said, trying to hold back his smirk. “It’s been problematic in nearly every encounter I have had. Here, feel.” I reached out my hands and touched his.
Freezer burn.
I recoiled slightly, but caught myself and steadied my hand. I said nothing. His eyes remained downcast.
He was stunningly handsome, I appraised, examining his face. Strong jaw, straight nose, blue-black tousled hair, and lips full enough to almost be considered feminine.
Almost.
“I don’t mind cold hands. I’m from Nevada—I love to feel the cold compared to the heat I grew up in. It’s refreshing,” I said. Oh boy, here comes the hurt, I told myself as I handed him my list of needs and wants. “I do, however, have a very long list of requirements, and I’m afraid I’ve scared everyone off, too. I’m just as used to rejection as you seem to be,” I laughed. Half the local community thought it was great that I was a strong woman who won’t settle for anything less than what I want, and the other half thought I was an insane bitch. “In fact, they call me the Deal Breaker.” He smirked again, a small dimple forming in his chin.
He was wickedly handsome. If the room was less well-lit, I’d be tonguing his earlobe right now.
“All right,” he said, glancing at the dossier. “Hit me.” He laughed at his choice of words for the situation. I did, too.
I shifted into uber-Domme mode and breathed in deep, ready for my long-winded explanation.
Last chance, Cerise.
“The requests I make of my subs are simple. Show up at my house Monday through Thursday at two PM sharp. On Monday through Wednesday, I will give you role-play prompts. You must come up with the details, props, and costumes. You will e-mail me details about the scenarios while I’m on my lunch break so I can arrive home in character. When I get home at three, you will be in costume and in character. Whatever outfit you may have for me will be hanging in my bathroom. We will perform the scene from three o’clock until whenever I feel it’s over. You will then eat dinner with me and return home. On Thursdays, you will create an original scenario. You have free rein on those days, but please be creative. I may not be a dominatrix in the traditional whips-and-chains sense, but I want your full subservience when you are with me. You will have three-day weekends to yourself.” My voice was strict like a smack on the wrist with a wooden ruler. I hoped he understood that just because he was creating one scene per week, he was not in charge of where it went. I knew my methods were unconventional, but hey, whatever gets you off, right?
He listened intently, head cocked to the side, eyes still not leaving the table.
“Is that all?” he asked.
I gasped to myself. A taker? Usually guys weren’t down with the hours and the financial demands of coming up with new costumes and props four days a week. Then again, judging by this guy’s clothes, he could afford it. Don’t think I didn’t notice the curvy Rs on his Rock & Republic jeans. That cut retailed for $259 at Nordstrom.
And yes, in addition to being a Domme, I was a serious denim whore.
“No, that’s not all,” I said, worried that this would be the deal breaker. “You must come up with our first scenario right now. Don’t let me down.” I expected him to either tell me to fuck off, or to walk away in a daze after spending several minutes blathering his way through a half-assed attempt to come up with something that might excite me.
Of course, when hearing I was a teacher, nearly every potential sub told me the scenario where he was failing my class and wanted extra credit.
And would do “aaaanything” for it.
So, the men who usually made it to this round never made it out. Unoriginal pricks.
“I think I have one you’ll like, if I may,” he said politely.
I must be dreaming. “Proceed,” I said, both anticipating and dreading what was going to come from his lips next. Please don’t be a student scene . . .
“I’m a vampire who has endured decades of loneliness. All I want is a woman who I can worship—who will look past all my flaws. I need a fearless Domme who will punish me for all my past misdeeds.”
This guy was either insane, or a fucking genius.
And to be perfectly honest, I didn’t care.
“Sold,” I said. “I like that kind of originality, and seriously, you’re going to need it with me.” I handed him my card and explained that I’d be checking YES for him on the official tally. The organizers of
the mixer would tell me at the end of the session if he picked me as well, in addition to other matches. Which there would be none.
He rose with me, took my card, and looked me in the eyes.
And somehow just got more beautiful.
His eyes were gorgeous. Blue tinged with purple. That elusive indigo color they say is in the rainbow, but I’ve never seen it. Stunning. He smiled and I forgot about everything around us.
The speed-dating for pervs, the interview process, and for a moment—just a moment—my dominant behavior.
“I’m William Gentry,” he said.
No, you’re flawless.
“Cerise by day,” I stumbled out, and straightened my shoulders. “Mistress Cherry by night.”
His small smile spread into a broad grin. “I like the pun.”
My jaw fell even lower. “You know that cerise—” I stumbled.
“Means cherry in French, yes. Clever,” he said, voice lowering dangerously, “and very sexy.”
Pull yourself together and stop ogling him. He’s going to be your sub.
“E-mail me to schedule a time to get acquainted and exchange checklists. I expect us to engage in this scenario tomorrow or the next day,” I said stiffly, trying to maintain my best possible poker face.
“I look forward to serving you,” he said, and walked away.
I politely took the paper coaster from beneath my Coke and dabbed away the drool.
Was I up to this?
Of course, when you are trying to seem nonchalant, that’s when you are the clumsiest, right? There I stood, fumbling with the keys to my meek but eco-friendly hybrid, as William eyed me from across the parking lot. He hopped in his new SUV gracefully, pretending to check his mirrors. He was staring at me pretty obviously, and I began to dampen my skivvies thinking about the things I was going to do to him.
“Um, Chilly Willy?” a tall brunette said to me, appearing out of nowhere, arms crossed beneath her breasts sternly.
“Erin!” I meeped. “You scared the shit out of me!” The keys dropped into a puddle.
“You are scaring the shit out of me, my dear,” she said, waggling her pointer finger at me accusingly. “Did I see you give your card to Chilly Willy back there? What happened with Roy?” She bugged her eyes and her head cocked in William’s direction.
Oh.
I took a deep breath and shrugged my shoulders. “Roy didn’t work out,” I said quickly, and then gestured toward William. “And as for William—have you seen him? He’s gorgeous. Plus, he’s actually agreeing to my terms,” I said casually. Erin was a killer Domme—really stern when she was in the zone, even with her friends. A plain-Jane administrative assistant by day, a fierce conqueror by night. We didn’t really socialize with each other at community functions—normally she and I just shopped and drank tea and talked about tying up men.
Like all girls, right?
Erin continued giving me the evil eye. “That guy has issues, Cerise.”
I leaned against the car, pretending not to care. “Are you going to offer details, or are you just going to give me the creeps?” I took out my lipstick and slicked on another coat of Red Velvet.
She shook her head and looked lost in thought for a moment. She was trying to find the right words. “He,” she began, finally settling on an answer, “he’s just not normal.”
“Hey, Erin, try being more vague. That would help.”
“You really haven’t heard of him?” she asked, uncrossing her arms and placing them on her slim hips. “Look him up on the Flog Blog or FetLife. Before he lived here, he had a few encounters in Philly—I guess he lived there for a while before he moved to Portsmouth. His Dommes all say the same thing—they couldn’t get anywhere with him. His cold hands were such a turn-off.” She lifted her thin eyebrows at me, waiting for some shocked expression.
“Hence the nickname Chilly Willy?”
“I’m not done,” she growled. “He’s also really dodgy—it’s like he chickens out or something once things get steamy. Jennifer said he literally ran out the door after they started messing around.”
I had enough. “Sounds like fun,” I said. “I’ll just wear running shoes instead of fuck-me boots so I can chase him down the street.”
I joked only because I didn’t want her to know how desperate I was to find out if all this was true. I couldn’t let her know I’d be devastated if I didn’t find another sub soon. Most important, I needed to be on equal footing with her.
She was now Brent’s Domme, and I didn’t want her to get too high and mighty just because she was fucking my leftovers. I kicked Brent to the curb about four months ago. Erin played the humanitarian and took him in as her own, but they’re not completely monogamous. Anyways, we hadn’t spoken about it.
“So, what exactly are you doing here?” I asked, remembering she was happily paired.
“I’m running this event. I was the girl who did the tallies at the end.”
I poked her arm playfully. “And you didn’t tell me about it?”
“I thought you and Roy would get along.”
I frowned. “I don’t think I can ever eat salsa again without dry heaving.” I stood on my toes and tried to meet her at eye level. “And am I too short to be a Domme?”
She dismissed my non sequiturs. “Well, let me know if you need any medical assistance when you’ve got frostbite on your nips,” she said smiling. Good, at least we were still on friendly terms. “Up for some tea next Saturday, Shorty?”
I frowned and hesitated as I mentally flipped through my calendar.
“C’mon, you’re gonna need to defrost.”
I nodded. “We have a date with Earl Grey, my dear,” I said, giving her a quick hug. She spun on her heel and walked briskly to her car.
Before she opened the door to the little green coupe, I opened my window and shouted, “Tell Brent I said hi,” and peeled out.
Suck on that!
CHAPTER THREE
Cerise
Strawbery Banke was beautiful at sunset.
The old, historic homes sat on the water comfortably, the way they had for at least a century or more. The gardens glowed luminously at dusk, petals closing slowly as the sun set.
It was a great place to sit on a bench and discuss your sexual limits.
William arrived at seven o’clock on the dot, and I smiled at his punctual nature. He sat next to me and placed his hand on my shoulder and gripped it with sincerity.
“I’m so glad you wanted to meet,” he said, eyes intense and unblinking. He was a lot more confident than when we had first met.
“I just think it’s important to get through the difficult stuff before we get to the goods.”
He rolled his shoulders casually. “I wouldn’t say discussing limits is difficult,” he said smoothly, “especially since I have so few.”
My eyebrows drifted upward. “Only a few hard limits?” I asked incredulously. “You do realize a standard checklist has a few dozen questions? How long have you been in the scene?” He must not have much experience with our subculture if he thought he only had a few.
“My only hard limits are food play, blood play, and multiple partners. That’s it.”
“So you’re looking for monogamy?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Me, too,” I replied, checking his list again. I see he crossed off some of the more off-color hard limits, the ones involving animals and excrement. Guess he didn’t want to get caught talking about that sort of thing in the park.
As I read down the list, my eyebrows came down from their loft and furrowed. “Breath play isn’t even a soft limit?” I asked. Not that I liked it, but most people refused to do something so dangerous.
He shrugged. “It doesn’t get me off, but I don’t mind it.”
I crossed my legs as he talked about getti
ng off. Bizzy, my bossy vag, was nagging me to move in for the kill. I inched closer to him. He didn’t act as though he was going to chicken out, like Erin had said.
“Public servitude?” That wasn’t for the faint of heart, I thought to myself.
“Would you like to collar me now? Here, in front of that tour group?” he asked, gesturing toward the large bunch of elderly folks touring the historic homes.
I gulped and resisted the urge to fan myself. “Some other time. What about canes?” Those hurt.
“I actually really enjoy them.”
He must have buns of steel. I’d never met a guy who didn’t weep when I used a cane.
“You are one tough cookie,” I blurted, then realized you should never call a man a cookie.
He laughed. “I guess. It’s more that I’m open to all experiences, and I’m . . . durable. So, tell me, aside from role-play, what are your turn-ons?” He slid his hand from my shoulder down my back. He kept it chaste, but I swear I could have mounted him on the spot. Which would have entertained that group of blue-hairs a great deal more than the details about Portsmouth’s fishing heritage.
“Well, I suppose it all comes back to the scene. I love attention to detail and originality. If I can truly lose myself in a scene, then you’ve done a good job. I like my men thorough,” I explained, arching my back and pressing my body farther into his hand, “in every way.”
He scooted closer, took his eyes off me, and scanned the horizon. “And your limits?” he asked nervously.
I pulled a paper out of my purse. “Not nearly as fearless as yours, but I’m definitely open to many experiences. Like I said, it’s all about the scene. If you incorporate any of these soft limits into a scene, and do it really well, I’d be interested.” He nodded, taking in my checklist.
“I’m a little traditional,” he explained shyly, “so please don’t be disappointed if I don’t . . . um . . . do some of these things to you at first. I’d like to build up to your soft limits.”
I blushed. “That’s sweet,” I said, nearly gushing. “I mean, as far as bondage stuff goes, it’s sweet.” I remembered the story about Jennifer, and even though I knew Erin was lying through her teeth, I thought I’d be safe and just ask. “So, which Dommes have you served in the Portsmouth area? It’s a small community.”