by Tasha Fawkes
I suppose it didn't really matter.
Even so, I did enjoy the holiday season in the city. The lights, the Yuletide spirit and everything that entails. I spent every Christmas with my mother, more out of an unspoken rule than preference. This year, I'm also spending the day with Karen. The two of them together. I sigh. They seem to enjoy each other's company, but I don't really want to spend time with either one of them. Actually, my presence at my mother's house today is out of my sense of obligation rather than any true desire to bond. As far as my mother is concerned, it’s just another holiday, and that spoils the ambiance for me. Looking around at the decorations in the living room, it all seems rather pointless. Why does she still bother?
Since I arrived early this morning, Karen due to arrive soon, my mother has bedeviled me with questions about the upcoming marriage arrangements, the plans, the details, none of which I know nor care about. Karen is handling most of it. She doesn't ask my advice or opinion on anything, and I don't really want her to. I find it all rather tedious. I’m not looking forward to any of it. I don't allow my reasons for that to rise to the surface. Not today.
We sit in the living room now, she’s sitting in her favorite white-upholstered armchair, so proper, so stiff, her cup of coffee balanced ever so carefully on the saucer resting on her knee.
I sit in the corner of the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, arms outstretched, my cup of coffee untouched on the table in front of me. Magazines fan just so, as if the housekeeper has taken a ruler to make sure that the arrangement of Home, Gracious Living, and Bon Appetit all appear equidistant to each side of the table.
"Did you hear me, Daniel?"
I glance up at her, an eyebrow lifted in question. "Sorry, what did you say?"
She frowns with disapproval. "I asked why you didn't attend the board meeting two nights ago? There are some important decisions to be made about expanding our reach into South America."
What can I say? That I was busy that afternoon indoctrinating Ashley into the world of bondage? That I originally planned to make the meeting, but because I'd taken more time with her than I had intended, at lunch and then in the room, I was running late? That I left that room in dire straits, considering that I didn’t allow myself to achieve release, and I had to take matters into my own hand, literally, in the bathroom downstairs in the hotel lobby to seek said relief?
I almost smile. How would Mother respond if I actually admitted to such a thing? She'd probably have a heart attack. I sigh. "I talked to Roger yesterday. We're having lunch tomorrow to discuss those issues."
Her frown deepens. "Daniel, you know as well as I do that the board meeting is the appropriate place to discuss such things. It's to be decided by everyone, not just you."
I shake my head. I don’t want to argue with her today. "Actually, as the CEO, I have every right to make such decisions on my own." She begins to protest, but I lift a hand and stop her. "Don't worry, I'm not going to jump into anything without analyzing the data and consulting with the other board members. But I've been busy. I can't just drop—"
"You're running an international import-export company, Daniel. Your struggling publishing company is no match for—"
"We're not struggling," I say patiently, likely for the hundredth time since I've opened the business. "Actually, we're doing quite well. We have three releases this month, with excellent authors." I nod, thinking about it. "I've signed each of them to multi-book deals. Things are going well."
She says nothing but lifts her coffee cup to her lips, not glancing my way. I know what she’s doing. It’s that old mantra that I'd grown up with: if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all. Usually, she doesn't hesitate to speak her mind, but perhaps, like me, she doesn't want to spoil Christmas. As if.
I can't understand why my mother is incapable of supporting me in my true passions for what I want in my career, and life. True, my position as CEO of the family business is an obligation, but I take it seriously even though my heart is in publishing. She knows that, but she doesn't care, or at least act like it.
Which brings my thoughts—with a certain amount of resentment—to Karen as I glance at the clock on the mantle of the cold fireplace. She’s late. Again. My mother calls her tardiness "fashionable" but I just find it annoying and rude. I sigh, shift my position on the couch, and glance around the room, neat as always; a place for everything and everything in its place. I grimace. What is with the Disney references? A Freudian desire to revert back to childhood, when things weren't so complicated?
Or on my sense of duty to my mother, whom I do love, which is the only reason I've allowed her to convince me that marrying Karen is a good thing? She doesn't know about my secret. She doesn't know about my membership in an underground and very secret society—
a club of sorts, where those with my… proclivities can indulge with others of a like mind without judgment.
I don't love Karen, I know that. I’m not even particularly attracted to her. She’s beautiful, no doubt, but now that I’ve indulged with Ashley, I have trouble keeping my mind off her. I've never indoctrinated a newbie into the world of bondage, but her delectable willingness and enthusiasm during our first encounter, a pre-introduction into that world has gone so very well. My dick espouses interest at the memory—
I hear voices coming from the front of the house. Moments later, Karen sweeps into the room, as she usually does, as if she’s a movie star arriving on the red carpet. No doubt, she’s beautiful, her corn silk waves draping delicately along her shoulders and her slender build by no means absent of voluptuous curves.
Still, as she arrives, much to the delight of my mother, I can't help but compare Karen to Ashley. Ashley being the opposite of Karen in hair color, height, as well as personality. When talking with Ashley, I feel myself attracted not only to her figure, but her large, warm brown eyes, quite different from Karen's dark blue eyes that rarely display any signs of emotion. She’s cool, Karen is, and slightly haughty; a trait I normally admire in women, but that sense of aloofness carries over into just about every other aspect of her life.
I stand, as expected of me, forcing a smile toward Karen, who approaches with a smile on her lips as well, wraps her arms around me, and air-kisses each cheek. Still close enough to catch the hint of the aroma coming off her bright red lipstick and the floral perfume she wears, triggering an instant headache. I’ve politely—and repeatedly—asked her not to wear such fragrances, as they tend to trigger migraines, but as usual, Karen Queen does what she wants, when she wants, and however she wants.
"Karen!"
Mother greets her, animated for the first time since I arrived over three hours ago. I watch the two greet one another with true affection. They’re birds of a feather, the only thing separating them in personality being their age. They’re both pretentious, both drama queens, and not only competitive, but jealous in nature. At the moment, they were smiling, head-to-head, murmuring in French, which I never cared nor bothered to learn.
Finally, my mother turns to me with a smile, her hand clasping Karen's. "Karen just informed me that she’s found the perfect florist to decorate the church for the wedding. Isn't that wonderful?"
I nod, pretending interest, wishing I were anywhere but here. I want to be back at my desk at the Pen and Quill. Familiar and comfortable territory. Even though it’s Christmas Day, I’d rather spend my day editing than enduring… this.
I return to my place on the sofa and Karen follows, sitting close, reaching for my hand, leaning her head on my shoulder.
"You need to come with me to the florist the day after tomorrow," she informs me. "You have to help me decide whether we're going to go with roses or tulips."
I glance at her. "Tulips in winter?" I don't meant it to sound condescending, but as usual, Karen takes it that way. She lifts her head from my shoulder, pouting.
"Daniel, don't be that way," she says. "You know as well as I do that we're more than capable of acquiring tulips i
n wintertime."
She glances at my mother with a slight shake of her head. She fidgets for several moments, and then with a grin, which I suppose is meant to be seductive, she leans upward and whispers into my ear.
"Come with me upstairs, Daniel. I want to show you something."
I glance down at her, starting to shake my head. I’m not interested—
"Please, darling?" she purrs, casting a glance and a wink toward my mother. "It's important."
"Go ahead, Daniel," my mother says, sipping her coffee. "Indulge your fiancée… heaven knows you need to be more gracious with your time."
Before I can reply, Karen grasps my hand and tugs me out of the room and upstairs. She enters my old bedroom, shuts the door, and then pulls her blouse over her head, giggling softly.
"Come on, Daniel, won't this be fun? Fucking here in your old room while your mother sits below, waiting patiently for us to come back down? And on Christmas Day? Now, that's the kind of present I want."
So, I indulge her, without much effort or enthusiasm, but she writhes beneath me, moaning and groaning—
loudly at times—as if to prove to anyone in the household who just might be interested, that we’re doing it in my old bedroom. As if anyone cares. I certainly don't.
Nine
Ashley
I spent an uneventful Christmas Eve day and Christmas Day dividing my time between my dad's house and my mom's, and of course, spent quite a bit of time over the holiday by myself in my apartment. My dad invited me over to spend some time at his place on Christmas Day in the afternoon, which was nice. I briefly saw my younger brother, Andrew, and his girlfriend, Melanie.
It was pleasant, but really nothing to rave over. My dad had put up one of those faux DIY Christmas trees in the corner with a string of lights, a few ornaments, and a few presents under the tree. I bought him a box of various tobaccos. An avid pipe smoker, he’s somewhat of an aficionado, so I figured he would appreciate that. He bought me a sweater. I didn't get anything for Andrew or Melanie, nor did they get anything for me, which was just fine. Since he started dating Melanie, Andrew and I don't talk as often. Understandable really, and I don't mind.
I usually keep so busy with work and fiddling with my writing that the days and weeks often speed by, so much so that weeks sometimes pass before I speak to any family members. But it isn't my manuscript or any work I am currently editing that has my thoughts occupied this Christmas. It’s the memory of Daniel and I in the hotel room.
Every time I think of his gorgeous body, those gifted fingers, and his skill at provoking passion from my body leaves me rather stunned. I’ve never, never felt that way with a guy before. In fact, comparing my other experiences with that I’ve shared with Daniel, I realize that my sex life is incredibly bland and boring. And I wasn't even allowed to touch him!
Without admitting to myself that I’m actually desperate for Daniel's phone call or text message, or an email, as he promised, I try to bide my time. Still, every time I think about what he did to me; the feelings he evoked, the excitement I experienced, and the tingles of pleasure, I get hot and wet. So much so that while showering, I have to relieve myself, leaning into the corner of the shower, the water pounding down onto my breasts, my eyes closed and imagining that it’s Daniel's fingers, his tongue, evoking those feelings and briefly releasing my passion.
After enduring two days where my thoughts are consumed with nothing but Daniel, and at times even forgetting that it’s Christmas and my mind should be elsewhere, I start the day after Christmas with a resolution that I will take care of chores, maybe work on my manuscript a little, and practice patience.
Stewart left text messages several times, and called once on Christmas Eve, then once more on Christmas Day, hinting that we get together. I begged off, claiming that I wanted to spend some alone time with my family. He believed it, and while I felt a little guilty for lying to him, I saw no other polite way to avoid him. The thought of kissing Stewart now, or even sleeping with him left me feeling…
I’m not quite sure how to explain it, even to myself. He has the right equipment, but comparing him to Daniel… I shouldn't do that. Some people are just more experienced. It’s obvious that Daniel is more than experienced in the sex department, but it’s more than that. He’s a Master. A Dom. And I desperately want to be his slave.
I try to distract myself yet again, gathering up a load of laundry and taking it downstairs to the laundry room. While waiting for the laundry to finish, I run the vacuum, do a little bit of dusting, and then open my refrigerator, thinking it’s about time for a good clean out. I stare at the leftovers, the takeout containers, and the quart of milk already turning an odd tinge of yellow, and wrinkle my nose. I close the refrigerator door. Glancing at the clock, I see it’s time to transfer the clothes to the dryer.
I head downstairs to do just that. Halfway down the stairwell, the phone in my pocket vibrates. I pull it out, my heart leaping with excitement, but dulling when I don't recognize the number. Not Daniel. I’ve been getting barraged by telemarketers lately, and at that instant, annoyed that Daniel is keeping me waiting, a relatively rare but ferocious streak of misguided revenge burgeons. While I usually ignore any call I don't recognize, I decide to answer this one. I'll remain silent, which often serves to annoy the hell out of the telemarketer after they go through their spiel.
I answer this call, ready to give the silent treatment, prepared for the instant rapid-fire promotion on the other end. I get nothing. Silence. I frown, glance down at the screen, and see that the call is still connected. Finally, a male voice speaks.
"Hello? Ashley?"
Oh my God, it’s Daniel. I cringe. "Hi, Daniel," I say innocently, as if nothing happened. "How are you?"
There’s a brief moment of hesitation before he speaks. "Can you meet me at the hotel today?"
I pause, halfway down the steps, my heart leaping with excitement, anticipation, and a surge of desire. "Sure, I'd love to. When?"
"Now."
I freeze. I took a shower this morning but didn’t shave. Crap. I have laundry to deal with, and then changing clothes… all of which will take about an hour. I don't want to keep him waiting. Still…
"Have you changed your mind?"
I hear the change in his tone. Quiet. Firm. His "boss" voice.
"No, no I haven't," I say. "I just have to change real quick, but I can be there in about… twenty minutes?" I cringe again. What am I thinking?
"I'll meet you in the bar downstairs."
The call disconnects. I stare down at the screen, cursing myself, and then bolt down the stairs and into the laundry room. The wash cycle is complete, but I don't have time to wait for the clothes to dry. Yanking the damp clothes out of the washing machine, I smash them into the laundry basket, turn around, and race back upstairs. No help for that. I’ll just have to wash them again later.
I quickly disrobe and rush into the bathroom, grabbing my can of raspberry-scented shaving cream from the edge of the bathtub. I quickly shave my legs, trim up my pussy hair, and quickly swipe the blade under my arms. I complete my ablutions in about three minutes. Dashing back into the bedroom, I open my closet door, nibbling on a fingernail as I try to decide what to wear. I finally groan, realizing it doesn't matter what I wear. Chances are I’m not going to be wearing those clothes very long anyway.
My breasts tingling with excitement, and my pussy offering throbs of anticipation, I quickly throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. No bra, no panties. Simple. This is me.
In less than ten minutes I’m out of the apartment, my heart pounding. Downstairs I push open the door of the lobby and step outside onto the sidewalk, wincing at the bitterly cold air that threatens to suck the air out of my chest. Thank goodness it isn't very busy. Being the day after Christmas with most businesses still closed for the holidays, I manage to hail a taxi in under a minute. I climb in, give the driver the address of the hotel and sit back, hands clasped in my lap to still my trembling.
By the time I enter the bar located on the west side of the hotel lobby of the Westin, I’m ready for just about anything. I think. I can't deny my nervous apprehension, coupled with expectation. It’s kind of like opening a very special present on your birthday; not exactly sure what you’re going to get but knowing that it’s going to be good.
As I walk into the bar, I see Daniel sitting at the bar. It looks like he’s nursing scotch. He isn't smiling. My heart skips a beat. Did I keep him waiting too long? Did he change his mind?
He turns and looks at me for several moments, gazing from my hair, which I pulled into a ponytail, to my sweatshirt, down to my jeans, and then my tennis shoes, sans socks. I stare back, waiting for him to laugh, to tell me to get lost, something, but after several moments, he merely grins. I allow myself a mental sigh of relief.
"You want a drink?”
He probably thinks I need to calm my nerves, but I don't need liquid courage. I need, want, to experience what he has to offer. I’m ready to open the door and experience the world that I’ve only read about. Do I need a drink for that?
"No thank you, I'm good."
He grins and downs the rest of his drink. "You ready?" He glances down at a small gym bag at the base of his stool.
I follow his gaze, briefly wondering what he has in there. In a matter of moments, I’ll probably find out. In spite of my anxiety, I’m also more than turned on. This kind of attention, not to mention his charisma and his good looks, and the memory of his hard body, has my heart trip-hammering. I’ve only experienced a minute portion of his sexual prowess, I’m sure.
"Well?"
"I'm ready," I nod.
He abruptly places his glass on the bar, reaches into his shirt pocket and removed a twenty-dollar bill and places it on the bar. Without a word, he leaves the stool, reaches down to pick up the gym bag, and with his other, grasps my hand.
We walk out of the bar and into the lobby, heading for the bank of elevators. Once inside, the door dings shut and the car begins its upward journey. I imagine we’re heading to the penthouse suite, where we enjoyed our previous liaison. What if—