Wargasm

by Sosie Frost

  A cold fear drilled through me, stealing my voice. That was fine. He had more than enough to say for the both of us.

  “That isn’t what a dom does,” Anthony said. “And if you haven’t learned that by now, then I’ve done a terrible job teaching you what this lifestyle is all about.”

  I twisted the blankets. “I don’t get it. You wanted to be in charge of me. Make my decisions. Have me call you sir and master. You gave me a freaking collar. Isn’t controlling me what you want?”

  “No.”

  “Then what do you want from me? Christ, Anthony, tell me now, because I don’t understand anymore?”

  Anthony’s expression hardened, the same clenched jaw and narrowed eyes he used when looming over me at Duchess. Except this time, the look wasn’t the result of excitement and fun. He distanced himself. The unguarded, comfortable Anthony was gone, replaced by the facade of the man who performed and acted. The man who explored his desires through planned scenes so he could walk away without tangling in the delicate and unknowing complications of desire, emotion, and lust.

  My stomach rolled.

  His words were every punishment I’d endured from his hand. “I don’t dominate you to break you into a shell of a woman. I do it because you allow me. Because you’ve given me that control.”

  “And I surrendered to you.” My chest ached like the blankets were made of crushing lead. “I trust you, Anthony. Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it.”

  “Not like this. I can’t make life decisions for you. You need to figure it out yourself.”

  I groaned. “What? School? Jobs? That isn’t important!”

  “Yes, it is. You need a plan. You aren’t this weak, Morgan.”

  The word hurt.

  “No offense, but I don’t want to talk about this now. Not here.” I reached under the pillow and dangled one of the restraints in the air. “This is a safe place for me. I don’t have to worry about the world when I’m with you. This place…it’s my escape from real life.”

  Wrong thing to say.

  Anthony looked away, as if I’d hurt him. Maybe I had. I didn’t understand.

  “Is that what I am to you?” he asked. “An escape?”

  “That’s a good thing.”

  “No. It’s not. Duchess isn’t an escape for me.”

  “You aren’t listening. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Yes, you did.” Anthony refused to hear me. His anger simmered, brimming to the surface in a quick scowl. “You meant every word. That’s what you think of this lifestyle. How you treat it. You think that this life—our relationship—is a game.”

  I counted to three before answering. I probably needed to go to ten, but I didn’t want Anthony boiling over. “Eating sushi off naked women and getting blow jobs under tables isn’t a game?”

  “It’s a demonstration of power, Morgan.”

  “You don’t think Duchess is your way to relax after working for eighteen hours a day? That you don’t go there to play and blow off steam?”

  Wrong question. Wrong assumption. Wrong everything.

  Anthony stiffened. I prepared to launch out of the bed after him if he slammed the door on me. The knot in my stomach sprouted barbs and latched on to my insides.

  Anthony’s voice grated my bones. “I am this lifestyle.”

  “I know, but—”

  “If you took Duchess from me, you wouldn’t have the same man anymore. I see the world in black and white—dominant and submissive, control and surrender. It’s how I work. It’s how I manage relationships. It’s how I exist. It’s my life¸ Morgan.”

  “I wasn’t insulting you.”

  “Yes, you were. If you never went back to Duchess, if you stopped calling me sir, what would change for you?”

  I’d be miserable, lost and confused. But I didn’t answer.

  Anthony snorted. “That’s right. You’d be the same Morgan. Same old college dropout, afraid of failure, Morgan.

  Why did I even bother covering my nudity with the sheet? Anthony saw me naked plenty of times. But this…

  This was a new way to be stripped. Condensed down to my worse attributes.

  I could live with the label college drop-out. Everyone knew that about me—the alumni tag on Facebook wasn’t fooling anyone.

  But afraid of failure? No fucking shit. Who wasn’t terrified of failing?

  Anthony.

  When had he ever been afraid? When had he ever counted his last quarters to buy a sack of rice and bag of beans from the store? When had he ever faced down a crowd of hundreds of people, all whispering and mocking a terrible musical performance?

  “You don’t understand,” I whispered. “You could never understand.”

  “Why?”

  My voice hardened. He didn’t need to patronize me. “Nothing’s ever rattled you, Anthony. Nothing’s ever challenged you.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Your biggest fear is trying to fuck some slut at Duchess and not getting hard.” I choked on the harshness in my voice. “Don’t equate your sexcapades with my life. I’m hurting here.”

  His laugh wasn’t kind, so rough I thought it’d scrape my exposed skin. “That’s cute, Morgan. Real cute.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  “I’m not done yet.”

  “Then I’m not listening.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. You’re shutting down because it got tough. Do you always run away when life get difficult?”

  “So not fair.”

  “I care about you, Morgan.”

  “That’s a funny way of showing it.”

  “I organized that audition for you. I tried to push you back to the violin.”

  I groaned. “But you knew it wasn’t what I wanted.”

  “It’s what you need.”

  “Just drop it! I am not going to play violin again. That isn’t what I want in life.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Why does this bother you so much?”

  “How doesn’t it bother you? You’re wasting all of your talent!”

  “Christ, you sound just like my father—” I choked on the word. “Family.”

  Oh God. The room spun. I held my head in my hands as he sighed.

  “Ever think they might know what’s best for you?”

  I shrugged. “Fine. Tell me what you think is best. Want me to go back to school? How about if I take my violin to Duchess? I’ll play them all a little song, and you can show me off and prove to them that I’m worth something.”

  “Listen to yourself. Stop doing what you think I want and start acting in your best interests.”

  My hands thumped against the bed. “I’m trying to be a good submissive!”

  “Then I must be a terrible teacher because you aren’t getting it yet.”

  “Then what do you call all the times we went to Duchess? The restraints? The spankings? I did everything you wanted, and I was good at it.”

  “No.” The truth cut us both. “You did it because you thought that submitting was all you were good for.”

  “That is not true.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I ground the heels of my hands into my eyes. “I submitted to you because it made me feel like I was different. Like I could become a new person. That I could forget everything bad that happened and take control of something new and exciting in my life.” I hesitated. “I wanted to become someone important to you.”

  I held his gaze for only a second—a single measly second when I bared everything I was and ever hoped to be to the man I hoped would understand.

  He looked away.

  My heart crashed against my chest until it was bruised and broken. The perfect offering for a man as sadistic as my Anthony.

  “This isn’t about me respecting myself…” My whisper choked on tears. “This is about you.”

  Anthony didn’t answer.

  I said it for him. “You d
on’t respect me.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You don’t have to. You think I’m wasting my life. You think I’m wasting your life.”

  I hated the hissed intake of his breath. It was a stall. A way to spare my feelings.

  Why did he even bother?

  “I want to see you succeed,” he said.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Nothing.” I snapped. “I get it. You want me to respect myself and make good decisions and become a strong, capable woman so you can fuck the dignity right back out of me.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Come on, sir. What’s more impressive? Fucking a barista or fucking a concert violinist?”

  “You’re twisting this.”

  “I get it. You’re all about presentation. The show. You want to impress people, make them envy you. And the only way to ensure you’re the star of the scene is to ensure the slut you’re fucking is worth watching. And now that I’m not the exotic little virgin anymore, you need a new hook.

  “Morgan—”

  I ignored him and rose from the bed, reaching for the nearest shirt. I picked up his, swore, and pitched it into the closet. My skin prickled with goose bumps. I ignored them and rummaged through my half-empty bag. I found a shirt and panties, and it was a good enough start.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m going home.”

  If he hadn’t expected that answer, he was as much an idiot as he was an asshole. But his brow furrowed, and he dropped the holier-than-thou attitude.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I’m not good enough for you. Admit it.” I stared him down, the single pink sock on my foot clashed with the yellow panties peeking from under my work shirt. “Your penthouse and Mercedes and Duchess. I’m not good enough for it. Say it!”

  His hesitation didn’t last long. “Not if you don’t try.”

  Another sucker punch and a roundhouse kick just for laughs.

  “I have to get out of here.”

  I didn’t look at him. Couldn’t, even if I tried. I pawed through the laundry basket and shoved as many of my clothes into my bag as I could. Unfolded and dirty—because afraid-of-life Morgan couldn’t handle doing laundry and being responsible for one fucking afternoon.

  “Stop it,” Anthony said. “Get back in bed. We’ll talk.”

  I zipped the bag and nearly took my finger off with it. “I think we’ve said everything we needed.”

  “And I think we’ve said a lot of things we don’t mean.”

  “I can’t handle any more conversation right now.” I didn’t recognize my voice, a year’s worth of frustration and denial condensed into a hiss. “I’ll let myself out.”

  “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “I won’t take long.”

  Anthony didn’t get out of my way. He stood there, watching me wrap up the bits of my life that had accidentally migrated to better pastures. If I any pride left, I might have cried, no matter how hard I wished. At least if I left slobbering and sniffling and wet with tears, it might have proved that what he said wasn’t true.

  But the cold numbness proved his every accusation.

  I didn’t know who I hated more—him or me.

  I grabbed my things and escaped from the apartment without saying good-bye. Without saying anything. I didn’t think I’d ever speak a word to him again.

  I’d been right about one thing these past weeks. I was in over my head with Anthony.

  But I hadn’t realized how head over heels I was for him.

  And that hurt most of all.

  21

  I’d made it two weeks post-Anthony by crawling home from work and sleeping away the rest of my days, nights, and misery.

  Rose wouldn’t hear of it.

  Come to Sorceress, she said. It’ll be fun, she said.

  After all, Sorceress was only a biker-dominated strip club in a dark and dangerous part of town. What could go wrong?

  Well, nothing, not with Rose, Queen Bee of the Anathema MC, watching over me. She issued standing orders—which her boyfriend, the club’s president, strictly enforced: unlimited drinks and no screwing with me. Literally or figuratively. Just a night of fun and distraction from an unrelenting broken heart.

  Which meant I claimed a table in the far corner of the club and played games on my cellphone until the battery nearly drained. Four games and one drink later, I wanted to crawl into a hole and hide from the world. But Rose had a set tonight—guitar, not stripping like the blonde beauty with legs to her neck twirling around the pole for the club’s VP.

  The club was hazy, loud, and the pink neon lights gave me a headache. I wasn’t drunk, though I wished I was. I also wasn’t mortified by the strippers like Rose had feared. Duchess had numbed me to most nudity. If nothing else, the dancing girls and cheering men reminded me of a more blue-collar, grittier version of Duchess. Even the blonde dancer in charge had an air of Simone about her. No-nonsense. Tough. Commanding.

  I shouldn’t have missed it. Him. Her. The club.

  But I did.

  That thought destroyed me more than realizing I had to open the café in six hours.

  Rolling in hung-over wouldn’t earn me any raises, and drinking would waste the money I earned with my double-shifts. By my estimation, I’d needed to save another nine-hundred dollars to pay Anthony back for the car repairs. Then I could throw a check in the mail and be done with him.

  Not that he expected me to pay him back—or even thought I could.

  But working to exhaustion, eating only ramen noodles, and wearing my hair in a braid instead of heading to the salon did wonders for my bank account.

  I didn’t need Anthony’s charity. Or his scorn.

  Or his embrace. Or his kiss.

  I just needed to stop thinking about him.

  It would have helped if I hadn’t ordered a gin and tonic. I didn’t even like the drink. I just wanted the taste. A memory of his kiss.

  God, I was pathetic.

  Eleven was too early to call it a night. Rose wouldn’t understand, especially as she had only begun her set for the evening. I’d earn her forgiveness later. Now?

  I just needed to get away.

  No dice.

  A man slid into the barstool beside me. He wore a heady cologne that didn’t suit him at all. Tanned, muscular, and blonde, he sat too close and nudged my arm all wrong. I checked his clothes.

  No leather. No patch. Great. He wasn’t part of the MC. He hadn’t gotten the memo to leave me be.

  His voice drawled over the music. “Hey, baby.”

  No thanks. I gave a polite nod and picked up my phone, ending our brief encounter.

  “You’re too pretty to sit alone.”

  Seriously? I grimaced as the man checked me out, practically lifting my skirt for a better look. I didn’t want anyone appraising me anymore. Hell, I’d even worn long sleeves and a longer skirt, trying to hide my skin from the world.

  From anyone but Anthony.

  “Lemme buy you a drink,” he said.

  I tapped my untouched gin and tonic. “No thanks.”

  “That’s no way to party.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He flagged a topless waitress down, admiring her rack as much as my own. “Fix a Jack and coke for my girl here.”

  Hell no. I shook my head. “You can keep it.”

  “Wow. You play hard to get.”

  “I’m not playing.”

  The guy grinned a toothy smile. He leaned in too close and set a meaty forearm against the table, separating me from my purse. He wobbled towards me. Drunk.

  “What’s wrong, baby?” He tried to rub my shoulder. I ducked away. “Tell me your name.”

  I looked over the club. Rose strummed her guitar on stage, her crystal voice an absolute dream melody deserving of far better digs than this. Martini sat in her boyfriend’s lap in the sea of bikers set up around what ap
peared to be the MC’s reserved table. Too many guns up there and not nearly enough privacy. I’d thought I made the right call by sitting in my own corner.

  Whoops.

  I didn’t know what trembled my stomach, but something about the guy didn’t feel right. He demanded too much and presumed even more. His voice wasn’t playful, and he moved to intimidate me, as if I’d swoon as his body cornered me from the rest of the club.

  He had all the same moves as Anthony, but none of the control. The thoughtfulness.

  This man was just trying to get laid. But Anthony…

  Anthony was dominance.

  My refusal didn’t stop him. He leaned in closer, forcing his hand onto my shoulder.

  “Dance with me.” He squeezed.

  I edged my drink away from the freak, just in case he plopped something into the glass. He was arrogant and forward, but that’s how he thought a dominant man acted. Cocky and smooth, offering drinks and getting in a girl’s personal space.

  He was very, very wrong.

  “I’m not interested,” I said.

  I moved his hand away, but he seized my wrist. And tightened.

  My stomach heaved.

  “I think you are.” His voice wasn’t a whisper despite what the alcohol told him. “Pretty little thing like you needs someone to give her a push.”

  “Stop it.” I jerked my arm back. He didn’t let go. His fingers dug into my soft skin, and it hurt. “I said, let me the fuck go.”

  “Dance with me.”

  He hauled me from the chair. I lurched as he pulled me away from the safety of my table.

  Uh-oh.

  I fought against his hold, but his drunk, brute strength overwhelmed me. He was probably six-feet and had a hundred pounds on me. The warning bells in my head turned to banshee cries.

  He had me trapped.

  And the douche wasn’t taking me to dance at all.

  He headed towards the back of the club.

  To the bathrooms.

  I dug my heels into the floor and flailed, practically dislocating my shoulder to escape. I yelled, but the music blared over my profanity. Shoving and pushing only hid me behind his body as he rammed me into a wall.

  He ignored my cries.

  And, for the first time in weeks…