Tips and Tits: The Word from Mistress A
Suicidal Sex Bees
I read an article about bees that I initially thought was a joke. It took some research, but when I confirmed its accuracy, I thought: huh…based on my experience with men, that makes sense. Male honey bees basically commit suicide to have sex. I swear to the goddesses, it’s true. When honey bees mate, the head of the dude bee’s penis explodes inside the queen, and the horny little drones drop dead. The Queen takes a mating flight where male bees swarm her like she has some sort of magic vagina—she probably does, because aren’t all vaginas magical? They fight for a chance to mount her (in the air! A commendable talent!), and eventually, one courageous little bee achieves success. Once inside, the drone’s penis explodes, and the bee falls from the sky and drops dead. Dead. And penisless. The drones are fully aware of what they’re in for. If I were a dude bee I’d say, screw it, I’ll find another way to orgasm that doesn’t involve weenie destruction and loss of life. But nope. The drones go into it knowing they’ll die, and doing their duty. The queen has sex with several drones during her flight, and she saves the excess sperm up to use for later. From this little nature lesson, we learn that 1. Males of all species will do pretty much anything for an orgasm, and 2. Don’t mess with a woman because your dick might explode.
Update: When I first learned about suicidal sex bees, I thought it was an appropriate comparison to the male species in general: that a man’s driving force is sex. It’s certainly one of the top forces on my own list, and I can’t really fault the little honey makers. …However, recent events have caused me to re-examine my thought process. I’ve discovered that not all men are suicidal sex bees.
The evening had ended on a high note—at least from my perspective. I’d been horny as hell though, and had to spend a serious amount of time with my vibrator before I could finally fall asleep last night. I narrowed my eyes wickedly and hoped Cade had been in a similar predicament.
By the time I’d woken up this morning, I already had a text from him telling me he was looking forward to our next date. He was on top of this ridiculous dating game, but I wished he was on top of me.
I was drinking some coffee and getting ready for a girls’ night with Syd and Courtney, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how things had progressed since my first meeting with Cade. The one that I’d tried desperately not to think about, but kept popping up at the most inopportune times—namely in my dreams, and when he was standing right there in person—in easy clothes-ripping range. Those stupid dress shirts he wore and their stupid buttons were asking to be destroyed.
The first time I’d met Cade, before the coffee shop introduction, had happened two weeks before Halloween. I pulled out my journal. I didn’t keep it regularly, but when something happened that I felt was important, I tried to write it down and re-examine it later. It was a trick I’d learned when I was younger, and one I still used when trying to work through problems and emotions. I opened the page to the date where I’d chronicled the entire meeting, and re-read the entry from October.
* * *
Sex, scares, and hot guys. Great goddesses, I love Halloween! I found the perfect costumes. Sexy siren for me, and She-Ra for Syd. She’ll hate the short skirt, but she needs to get out of her comfort zone.
I slipped into the dressing room to try mine on. Once all of the pieces were in place, I checked to make sure everything that should be in my costume, was. I wasn’t planning on a nip slip, but with a corset this small, I could never tell when the girls might make an appearance.
I stepped out of the private dressing room into the larger dressing area with more mirrors so I could see myself from every angle. I noticed appreciative glances from a couple of guys behind me. The reaction both annoyed, and invigorated me. Men hadn’t always looked at me that way, and I liked it.
The obsidian black and scarlet corset was almost completely see-through except for some strategically placed pieces of lace. It came with matching panties, the back of them covered in frills. Black fishnet stockings and studded six-inch high blood red stilettos completed the ensemble. The costume was hot, and judging by the reaction of the men around me, it was the perfect level of heat.
Pleased with my attire decision, I stepped down and walked over to a table full of products and a shelf above it, looking for accessories to add as the final touch to my sexy siren ensemble. A whip might be handy, though I wasn’t sure if I wanted to carry it around all night. A masque wouldn’t be a bad idea either.
As I examined my options, I had the unmistakable feeling of eyes watching my back. I put a box of body glitter down on the table and used the opportunity to glance up. A guy wearing dark slacks, a button-up white shirt open at the collar, and grey sports jacket was watching me steadily. He looked about my age, early to mid-twenties. His light blue eyes trailed slowly over my form, from my studded shoes to my fishnet covered legs, pausing to cast an appreciative glance at my chest before his gaze rested on my face. I didn’t faze easily, but something about this guy, his commanding presence, had me holding my breath. His shoulders were wide, with hair the color of a wheat field mid-July. His square jawline was punctuated by a dimpled chin. He licked his lips, and I stumbled a bit.
I don’t stumble.
Not even in six inch heels on ice during the middle of winter.
And he didn’t back down. He held my gaze, unapologetic, and unwavering. I could feel the chemistry between us from across the room. I tried to move my eyes away, but they were frozen in place, held by his. It seemed like we were in some unspoken tug-of-war.
He came toward me, stopping less than three inches from my face. He had no problems with crowding my personal space. He was so big that it would have felt like an invasion from across the room—in fact, it had. With him this close, I got the impression he’d already fought the silent war between us, and conquered. He reached up like he was going to grab the back of my neck, and pull me to him for a heady kiss. My breath sawed out as my heart hammered in my chest. He watched me, his eyes assessing, and seeing something he liked. His lips lifted in the lazy, sexy smile of a man who knew he’d caught his prey. He was confident and absolutely sure of himself. His hand came down, and I was about to close my eyes when he picked up a box behind me.
“You don’t want to forget these,” he said, handing me the box. His hand brushed mine and my whole body tingled with pin pricks of heat.
He walked away.
I looked down at the box.
Handcuffs.
* * *
I snapped the journal shut, not trusting myself to re-read it again without immediately calling Cade and begging him to get naked. He’d watched me, and I’d felt like he had wanted me, but then he’d turned and walked out without saying more than a sentence, not giving his name, and definitely not finding out mine. It had made me insanely curious about who he was, which was probably his goal. At first, the fact he hadn’t asked for my information had been a hit to my ego…until I’d gathered my items and taken them to the register. Tango, the adult store goddess who’d been helping me find my costume had told me he’d stopped by the front to ask my name. A couple of weeks later, he’d walked into The Grind and Syd had formally introduced us. Brynn isn’t a common name, and it probably wouldn’t be hard to narrow down who I actually was. Especially since he was good friends with Syd, and Syd and I talked about each other frequently.
I’d taken Cade’s ridiculous “no sex” idea as a challenge, but he had no idea how hard it was for me. It hit on every insecurity I had. Whether I believed it or not, for the past five years, men had told me I was attractive, and I’d never had a guy turn me down for sex. I hated admitting it, but I needed that validation. Cade was asking me to not get it. Repeatedly. Sure, he’d said he wanted me—more than once—but I firmly believe that actions matter more than words, and Cade was telling me there would be no action for a while. If he didn’t desire me enough to want to rip my clothes off, it could very well send me into a down
ward spiral, and make me start believing the self-hate I’d spent so long trying to overcome. I’d have to make sure I kept that in check, and didn’t let it happen. My self-esteem shouldn’t be tied to whether a man wanted me or not. The psychologist in me was well aware of that. But I had relationship PTSD, and that validation was important to me, even if I didn’t want it to be. It was something I struggled with daily.
I pulled some clothes out of my closet. We were going to dinner and a movie for girls’ night. My hair and makeup were already done, I just needed to change. I pulled on some dark wash skinny jeans and a canary yellow scoop neck sweater, and went downstairs to wait for Syd. She was at Jax’s, but she was picking up Courtney and me. I sat on the high back chair by the window so I could see when she arrived.
My phone buzzed on the table. I picked it up and saw a private message on one of Mistress A’s social media accounts.
Just so you know, I prefer commando as well.
I read it and rolled my eyes, thinking it was another creeper messaging me—the internet was full of them, and it happened often. Especially with a job in the public eye that focused on sex. Though I imagined anyone who declared themselves a Mistress and had a sexy logo as a profile photo had a higher creeper hit rate than average. I was about to delete the message when I noticed the signature.
Master Z.
I narrowed my gaze at the screen. Was it really Master Z, or someone claiming to be him? I clicked over to his profile. The page referenced Master Z’s website, and looked like his account. That didn’t mean anything though. Anyone could create a fake account and pretend to be him. I went to his website and checked for social media links. I clicked on them to cross reference. It was the same page! So the message really was from Master Z! I narrowed my eyes, a low growl emitting from deep in my chest. Master Z had a serious set of balls.
I typed back a response.
Congratulations. I’m glad my panty article was interesting. Thanks for not copying that one, asshole. Eat a bag of dicks.
The man was infuriating. If he thought he was going to get in my pants after stealing my idea and then sending me stupid messages about the state of his underwear, he was seriously mistaken.
My phone buzzed again.
I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you mad.
I glared at the screen and typed back.
Then you shouldn’t have been a Grade-A douche pickle and stolen my idea.
It buzzed again.
You’re right. I shouldn’t have piggybacked on your success, and I apologize.
My anger lost a little steam. I liked that he’d admitted what he’d done wrong, was direct, and apologized immediately when he realized I was upset, without trying to defend his actions. Those were hard character traits to find in a person. I knew the psychology behind a person admitting their culpableness and apologizing sincerely without defending their actions. It immediately makes the person who was wronged less upset, and they’re more willing to forgive the one who hurt them. My heart rate started to calm a little, my reaction illustrating the psychology perfectly. I decided to engage him further.
Why did you do it then?
My phone buzzed.
I liked what you were doing and admired you and your site. I thought it would be helpful to have a man’s perspective as well. I never intended to steal your idea—I just wanted to complement it. And “douche pickle”…that’s funny.
I was slightly less huffy. I liked when someone had the balls to own what they’d done. A sincere apology mattered to me. Master Z had given me that, and only explained when I’d asked him to. That made it easier for me to hate him a little less.
I typed back.
Thank you for the apology.
He responded.
You’re welcome. I really would like to get to know you better.
I shook my head, not comfortable with that in any way. I’d done my best to keep my identity a secret. I didn’t want the news leaking now, and definitely not to someone who was essentially a competitor. I hadn’t even told Syd, the one person I trusted more than any other person on the planet. I certainly wasn’t telling this guy.
My fingers flew over the screen.
No one knows me.
He wrote back.
By choice?
Yes.
We can keep it over messaging if that makes you more comfortable.
I weighed the benefits of getting to know Master Z. He’d pissed me off to no end, but he’d apologized. And there were advantages to having someone else I could talk to about the situation we were both in. Someone who understood the need for secrecy, and someone I could brainstorm ideas with. We were essentially writing similar things, just from different perspectives. A collaboration at some point might not be a bad idea. I hated saying no to things, because you never knew what might come from an opportunity.
I typed out a response as I saw Syd’s headlights pull in the driveway. I went out to meet my girls and sent the message as I got in the car.
I’ll think about it.
Tips and Tits: The Word from Mistress A
Adult Toyland
Want to know what I love? Toy stores!!! The kinds that require proof of age to peruse. Contrary to popular belief, adult toys have been around for eons! If you doubt me, go take a gander at one of the many museums dedicated to the history of sex. Even the cavemen had dildos, and they’re on display…though I question the person whose idea it was to make them out of wood. Splinters suck, and your nether regions are the last place you want them. In the early 20th century, women were often sent to mental hospitals, diagnosed with hysteria. In reality, they were just seriously sexually frustrated humans, and the men they were with had no clue how to navigate a woman’s lady parts—or maybe just didn’t care. The women patients were treated with vibrators and a doctor who knew how to work a clitoris. Thank the goddesses someone had been taught this essential information. If I’d been alive at the time, I would have faked hysteria to gain access to sex toys; I’m certain plenty of women had the same idea. The holy grail of battery assisted orgasms is a toy that moves, as well as provides clitoral stimulation. Personally, I have an entire collection. Depending on my mood, I like different vibrators for different things. If you’re going for G-spot stimulation, that’s a completely different toy than one for the clitoris, and there are hundreds of toy options within each stimulation category. Check out my list below, then go to your local adult toy store and ask the employees for advice. Don’t be embarrassed—you’d be hard-pressed to come up with something they haven’t heard before. If you’re in a relationship, and your partner isn’t a douche (and why would you be with someone who was?), go together. Browsing for sex toys can make for excellent foreplay, and I almost guarantee you won’t be going home without naked on the agenda, and some new ideas. Also, I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: if your partner’s intimidated by toys, they’re not good enough for you.
We walked into the swanky restaurant and got a comfy circular booth before settling in and ordering drinks. The restaurant served small plates meant to be shared, so we ordered several items and waited for our drinks and food to come. The server had brought bread with various dipping sauces. Courtney and Syd both grabbed a piece. I did not. Carbs were not my friends.
“Are you still liking your new place?” I asked Courtney.
“I love it!” she said, dipping her bread in something that looked like olive oil and parmesan cheese. “Paige does too. I’m happy we have a nice home and stability.”
I nodded, glad they both had that as well. I got the feeling Courtney had been drifting for a while. It was good to see her in her element, doing a job she loved, and putting down roots for herself and her daughter.
“How’s work?” Syd asked her, dipping her own bread into an olive oil and crunchy garlic mix.
“Good,” Courtney said. “Some things are challenging, but overall I really enjoy it.”
Our server broug
ht our drinks. I loved fruity drinks because they made me think of stretching out on a beach in the sun, waves crashing in front of me. I wasn’t sure why, but the beach grounded me. I loved standing in the sand, the grains cradling my toes. There was something about the rhythmic melody of water lapping against the shore that calmed me immediately and helped quiet my mind. I needed to move to a warmer location, and figure out how to get a beach house. Maybe if Mistress A kept going well, that dream wasn’t out of reach.
“What’s been difficult?” I asked Courtney.
Courtney took a sip of her drink, complete with a bubble gum pink umbrella, and answered, “We’re working with several girls. Personalities are bound to be an issue when that many people are in one place. A lot of them have gone through trauma. Some have been the victims of abuse, some even rape. Others have given their kids up for adoption, or had abortions, and feel a tremendous amount of guilt, sadness, and anger. And a lot of women have no other support network. Family and friends are out of the picture for one reason or another, and many of them feel abandoned. It’s a lot of emotions and baggage to work through, but we try to help with all of those things. We have a great team of counselors, and our staff work really well together.”
“I can’t imagine being a single mother,” I said. “I think you’re amazing for being able to do it.”
She stirred her drink as she answered, “I had a lot of help.”
“Still, being a parent is hard enough when there are two of you doing the work. You only have yourself and took it on without a second thought. I admire that.”
Chasing Brynn (A Tempting Novel Book 2) Page 11