Good.
“But then I think about you being here the other night when I was so sick and, I mean, if you were some fucked up, sadistic bastard…”
That’s exactly what I am.
“You could have done anything to me, killed me really, and you didn’t. You just took care of me. I think I can trust you enough for one night.”
I felt the grin spreading on my lips and it wasn’t evil, wasn’t depraved. It was just the smile of feeling accepted, the smile of hopes building up. But she had questions. It was important that she felt as prepared as possible before anything happened.
“What are your questions?” I paused, but cut her off before she spoke, changing the subject a little. “Actually, before we start even talking about things, let’s decide on your safeword. Or something to let me know if you’re not okay with something that’s happening.”
She nodded, but her face belied her confusion.
Let’s keep it easy. “I think using traffic light colors would be easiest, most straight-forward. Green for ‘I’m good. I like this. Let’s keep going’. Yellow for ‘I’m a little anxious, scared, uncomfortable, overwhelmed. Can we ease up, but not stop’. Red for stop, and everything will stop.” I liked that there was a middle ground, and, hopefully, it was easy to remember. “What do you think—green, yellow, red? Will those work for you?”
“Yes.” She looked so demure and obedient. Head slightly downcast, looking up through her lashes with big eyes, hands in her lap, voice soft. I wanted to jump on her.
Restraint. I reminded myself I was playing the long game. I wanted more than tonight, wanted to draw it out, so she was my slave in all things, so she was begging me to fuck her, wanted only to be in my bed or anywhere else I told her to be. “Tell me what the safewords are. I want you to tell it back to me so I know we’re on the same page.” Closed loop communication, less chance for a misunderstanding.
“Green means go—I want more. Yellow means slow—I’m freaked out, but don’t stop. And red means stop.”
I tried to stop myself from saying ‘Good girl’. But it was a perfect answer.
“Okay. Good girl. Now, tell me your questions. I may not answer them completely. Part of how this works is that you don’t always have all the information in advance and I make the decisions for you, for what I want for you.” The cold heat of control was snaking its way through my body. I felt it in the palms of my hands, in my chest, in the stretch of my neck. I felt solid, in my body, powerful. Her eyes widened as she saw it, then her pupils dilated. God, she’s hardwired for it.
She spoke softly. “I don’t even know what my questions really are. It’s just all of it, you know? Like what do you want to do to me? What is the difference between getting hurt and getting harmed? I don’t know…so many thoughts are circling in my head that I can’t really keep track of them all.”
“What I want to do to you…is a very long conversation and truthfully, I don’t want to tell you everything yet. I want to make you experience things you haven’t experienced before and telling you about them in advance would ruin it.” As I spoke, I took our glasses to the kitchen. I had to put a little distance between us before I lost my hold on my control. From the kitchen, I continued, while I refilled our glasses.
“It’s essential that you understand the difference between hurt and harm. It’s like when I spar with my Jiu Jitsu buddies. I might get hurt, but nothing goes so far to harm me. I may have some bruises, but I’d never get a broken bone, never really have anything bad happen to me. It’s the same thing. Some things may happen that are intense sensations, maybe even some pain, but nothing will ever harm you in a way that has lasting effects. In this type of exchange, it’s my job to take care of you, even as I push you to your limits. The other side to that, your job, is to remember the safewords and tell me honestly if something is too much, too fucked up for you, too painful, too scary. Whatever.”
I sat back down on the couch, a little closer to her, and she asked, “So, are you hinting at wanting to tie me up and whip me or something like that?”
I sighed, internally marveling at her innocence. “Tie you up? Definitely. Whips? I don’t know, not tonight at least.” Her hands flexed in her lap. That scared her a little. “But there are times that I do want to hurt someone—and that someone would most likely be you. More than anything, I just like to be in control—whether it’s physical with some sort of restraint or psychological where I get you to a point where you do something you never thought you would because I want you to do it, because you belong to me and want to make me happy.” I mean, isn’t that what every man wants? I was such an asshole.
I expected her to tell me to fuck off. I had just basically told her I wanted to make her do shit she didn’t want to do, that I wanted her so twisted up over me that she’d do what I told her to. Her face was thoughtful, a moment of rejection passed over her features, but it softened and disappeared—and was replaced by peace. Peace? Not what I’d expected. “What is it? What is that reaction?”
She didn’t pause now, just answered immediately. “My mom is a feminist and I mean like bra-burning, shatter the glass ceiling feminist. I grew up with these messages of ‘don’t ever let a man control you, control your life. You are in charge of you. You can do anything a man can do, be anything a man can be. Don’t ever let yourself feel like less because you’re a woman’. And it’s a confusing set of feelings to be so intrigued by what you are saying and so interested in giving up control. Does it make me less of a feminist? Or mean that I have less value or something? That seems like bullshit, but I really don’t know.”
I wasn’t really expecting to discuss feminism, and my domlust banked itself in my cock as I tried to answer intelligently. “Well, I can’t answer that question for you, but I can tell you three things that may help you decide for yourself. One, none of this lessens your worth in my eyes in any way. Two, I think the submissive person actually has almost all the real control. The dominant person really only has control of the playtime world that both people willingly choose to go together and three, I know a super-feminist woman who is into kink. I’d be glad to introduce you to her. She may have some insights that would help you.”
She smiled and took a deep breath. Acceptance.
This was the beginning of her submission, of her learning to belong to me. I savored the moment on the precipice, the anticipation. I wanted to memorize the moment and mentally cataloged the feel of the couch under me, her shallow breaths, the low light in the room, and the red stain on her lips from the Sangria.
Chapter Ten
Leda
The XX, Infinity
He was staring at me intently and I shifted in my seat, ate a chocolate with caramel in it, the caramel squishing out when I bit. I wiped it away with a finger, but then had caramel on my fingers, so I started licking it off—all messy and I felt like an idiot, very uncool—until I looked up at him and the naked hunger in his eyes rocked me back in my seat and stole my breath. He could go from normal to a little scary in a heartbeat, or maybe it was there all the time, in layers or something.
“Stop. Take your fingers out of your mouth.”
He said it with such authority that I blindly obeyed him, but the look on his face and the steel in his voice had me on edge, a tickle inside, that breathless feeling again. He took my hand and brought it to his mouth, licking at the caramel. Then scraped it off with his teeth. Not biting me. Not hurting me…just scraping his teeth along the length of my finger. The sensation was intense and different than anything I could remember experiencing with any of my exes.
He paused, taking my fingers out of his mouth. “Green?”
“Green.”
He pulled my hand to his mouth again and started biting into the fleshy part of my palm and it didn’t hurt exactly, but it was that same type of intense and different. My skin felt hypersensitive. I felt hypersensitive. His iron grip wrapped around my wrist and he moved his mouth on me, biting my forearm, the inside of m
y elbow. His mouth was hot and wet and his teeth scraping me was almost too much, nearly ticklish punctuated with the light sharpness of his bite. My breathing was shallow and quick. I flushed and he pushed me back on the couch again.
“Green?”
“Green.”
He pinned my arm above my head and pulled my other arm up to mirror it as he laid his body against mine, letting his weight settle on me, pushing my breath out of my lungs. He watched me closely. With his free hand, he tilted my chin up, scraping his teeth along my jaw and down my neck, to my collarbone. I sighed, stretching and arching into him. He suddenly climbed up me, his knees on either side of my rib cage, his weight exclusively pressing on my chest so I was very aware of each breath. Without letting go of my wrists, or breaking our gaze, he one-handedly took off his belt.
Is he going to pull his cock out right now? I felt the first quake of real fear building in my chest—fear of what sex with him would be like, fear that I truly did not know what to expect next from him. I think he saw it in my eyes, because he changed further, like he was bigger again, stronger, less tentative even. I took a deep breath, saying nothing. But his hand left the fly of his jeans and instead joined the other hand at my wrists, using his belt to start tying them, fastening my wrists together.
“Green?” he asked, his voice soft and tender, even as he tightened his belt on my wrists.
“Green.” But my voice was much shakier this time.
“What are your safewords, baby girl?” he asked as he climbed off me, kneeling at the side of the couch.
“Green, yellow, red.”
“Are you green?”
“I’m green.” I said it with more confidence and he held my gaze for a moment. His eyes held satisfied warmth. He was pleased. I felt embraced in his presence and wanted in a way I had never felt before.
In all my previous relationships, I had felt generically wanted, wanted for my ability to provide a warm, wet place to put a penis. This was different. This was being wanted for all of me, being wanted for my specific body and my specific mind, my specific reactions to what was happening. Even though we’d just met, even though it was all new. I let it ride, let the questions fade away, dropped the worries. I felt hedonistic, slick with wanting, golden and lit from within.
“I’m only going to touch you. I’m not taking any of your clothes off, not trying to push you too much tonight. Just touching you. You will not speak unless it is to say your safeword.” As he said it, he pulled my T-shirt up just enough to reveal my abdomen and laid his hand flat across me. It was warm and firm, a hint of some calluses, but most of all it felt big, as if all of my attention was sucked into the sensation of his hand on my skin. He held his hand still for a few beats longer then started gently moving it in small circles on my tummy. The movement against my soft skin created this wonderful dragging friction between us. He held me transfixed and I closed my eyes, laying my head back and willing myself to relax into his touch. His fingers traced circles and lines centering on my navel and the light touch was almost more intense than it would have been if he had grabbed me. Each pass of his hand over my skin felt full of promise, full of risk.
In just a few minutes, I panted under that touch and he climbed back onto the couch, on top of me with his knees on either side of my thighs. He sat back on my legs and continued with both hands on my rib cage, rubbing up and down my sides, coming blissfully close to my breasts without touching them. I was restrained by his body on my legs and his belt lashing my wrists together, and it forced me to focus on what he was doing. His touch, his nearness and my agreement not to speak. Without having the distraction of my own wants or my own attempts to do something, my focus was completely undivided.
He traced his hands down to the button on my jeans, fingertips grazing the edge and dipping inside just a bit. I drew a sharp breath. I wanted him to tear my jeans off and plow into me. At the same time, I never wanted him to stop what he was doing. And the stray thought crossed my mind again, that I had only known him for a short time, maybe this was too much too soon. He leaned over and traced the line of my jeans around the sides of my body and under me, rubbing with a deeper pressure into the muscles of my low back.
A low moan slipped past my lips and I dropped any other thought. At my moan, his breathing became more pressured and I glanced at him. His face was set in lines of calm concentration, but when his gaze flicked to mine, it was heated. He brought his hands back around to the front of my body, over my jeans to my hip bones, gripping them and rocking my body side to side slowly. It centered my focus on my pelvis and my wetness grew, the beginning of an electrical awareness of my pussy, just begging to be touched.
I was starting to get impatient and made a little whining sound deep in my throat. He watched me, almost detached, nearly distant, but not gone, not empty. He sensed my impatience and quickly brought his hands up the sides of my body to my shoulders as he lay down across me. He filled my field of vision and it was too intense. I closed my eyes to escape it, but he said, “Open your eyes. I want you right here with me. I want to see every reaction.” His voice rolled over me, warm, liquid.
Another moan slipped from my lips. He brought his fingers to my lips and traced them. All the while, I was almost outside myself, fascinated with him, unsure where he was leading me.
“You were supposed to be quiet, but maybe I wasn’t completely clear, baby girl. No sounds at all, unless you are using your safewords or responding to me. Do you understand me?”
I nodded my head. No sounds at all? Then it was all I could think of, the enormity of this man’s presence over me, the heat and electricity of my skin under his touch and not making a sound. Any clinical detachment of my own was gone, and I started moving under him, grinding my hips up into him, trying to get my legs out from under him, without success. He leaned down on me harder and I could feel the rock-hard bulge of his erection against me. I wanted it so bad. He traced his fingers across my collarbone again while nuzzling his scratchy chin into my neck.
I stretched up, attempting to kiss or suck or bite his neck and, without even minimally pausing what he was doing, he brought a hand up to my chest, right over my sternum and pushed me back down, growling into my ear, “Don’t move, baby girl.”
My reactions to him were so confusing—there was a rush of fear, but the excited fear of a rollercoaster ride, and the intense want for anything he wanted to do to me. This was so unlike the drunken and desperate frat-boy fumblings in college. This was methodical, intentional. He was completely in control of himself despite the hard-on digging into my pelvis. It was as if he had no intention of getting himself off, like he just wasn’t worried about his own experience.
The hand on my chest slipped up to my jaw, turning my head to allow him full access to my neck. That hand then traveled up my arms to my bound hands, grabbing the loops of his belt between my wrists and tightening his grip, and consequently, tightening the pressure on my wrists. His other hand continued traveling up and down my curves, light and completely maddening. All I could do was accept—accept all of what he gave me, accept how he played with me. I shuddered another sigh and willed myself to relax into it.
When I thought I was going to lose my mind with how much I wanted him and the sensations all over my body, he sat back up, pulling my tied wrists with him so that I was sitting up as well. Without speaking, he climbed off the couch and pulled me to standing, then turned me so that I was facing the couch.
“Stay right there. Don’t move.” I felt his absence behind me and a moment later heard him in the kitchen. The refrigerator or freezer opening and closing again. “Mmm, good girl,” he said as he came back. I heard something I was sure was ice clink into his glass, now emptied of Sangria. What is he going to do with ice?
“Now, for your punishment.” He stepped up behind me, his hand on the back of my neck and his lips at my ear, speaking in a growly purr. I couldn’t fucking breathe. “You stayed up past your bedtime. You need enough sleep to be healthy a
nd you’re going to have to learn to listen.”
I started to turn my head to him to let him know what I thought of that, all sexual tension forgotten for a moment, but he caught my jaw in his hand, refusing to let me turn. “No talking, but I think that might be too hard for you. I can help. Open your mouth.”
Again, I obeyed him before I even really thought about it. He stepped behind me, left hand still on my jaw and right coming around to put an ice cube in my mouth. Once it was in, he sealed his left hand over my mouth, but left my nose unblocked. I felt myself tense at this next level of intensity, feeling so restrained and confined in him. With his hands on my face, his body was pressed tight against me and it felt like he was surrounding me in every direction. My mouth was so cold and his hand clamped on me kept me from moving. He stepped back to my left side, shifting his left hand on my mouth. His right hand traced over my skin to the back of my neck and started pushing me forward.
“Still green, baby girl? You can nod yes.”
I nodded.
“If you need me to stop, you can speak behind my hand or shake your head. Understand?”
I nodded again.
“Good girl. Now, bend over and put your hands on the back of the couch.” Once I was positioned, he added, “Don’t move until I tell you. I don’t want to have to hold you in place for this.”
My breathing was more ragged, but he kept going, his right hand caressing down my back, then to my ass, cupping the cheek and squeezing just a bit. He took his hand away and I was sure that a spanking was to follow. I braced for it, but it didn’t come, instead I felt the shock of another piece of ice on my back, just above the band of my jeans. He just held it still for a moment, letting me absorb the sensation. Then standing behind me, he kicked my feet apart a little, so there was room for him to stand directly behind me, his hips pushing into my ass, with the length and girth of his cock against the seam of my jeans. I was so wet. My panties felt tight and hot, like they were full of warm pudding, sticking to me, a wild contrast to the ice on my back and in my mouth. He traced the ice up my back, pushing my shirt up and bending to lay his body over mine.
Wrecked (The Blackened Window) Page 8