by Susan Ward
I don’t feel different when I’m with him, not in any way. Just the same old same old. No racing pulse, no heat in my panties…nothing. The Krystal I am every minute of my life.
That must be why I’m not the least bit emotional knowing I’m cutting Daryl loose at the end of the weekend. If I don’t feel butterflies for him after two years, what’s the point of trying to drag this out into college?
Daryl will thank me later for ending us.
It’s the only right next move for our relationship.
Ending it.
“Do you care what I turn on?” he asks, pulling me from my thoughts to find him watching me.
My gaze shifts to the nondescript brown shopping bag beside him.
“Tonight I do. I absolutely care what you turn on and how you do it. Or couldn’t you tell by my text?”
After a fast glance to make sure Madison and Nick aren’t listening, he tosses me a wolfish and excited grin. “That one was hard to miss. You’re very exact, even product links in your instructions tonight so I wouldn’t get it wrong. You’re thorough when you want something from me.”
Tingles start to run my body in anticipation.
“Did you buy what I asked you to?”
He bobs his chin. “Yeah, I did, all there, but I had to go to West Hollywood to get it. It was worse trying to keep Nick from snooping on the drive here. He thought it was a going-away present for you and kept wanting to see since he hadn’t brought Maddy anything. Wanted to know how much trouble he’d be in with her later. Crap, I hate buying that stuff. Can’t you just order it online, Krystal? The clerks always look at me like I’m some kind of perverted, messed-up asshole.”
The tingles die a fast death. Why did he have to say that to me, especially since we both know in a couple of hours he’ll be into it?
“Well, if you don’t want to, you shouldn’t have brought it,” I say stiffly, lifting my chin. “Maybe Maddy is right. We should put the word out and have a party tonight instead.”
His looks at me, semi-panicked. “I didn’t say that, Krystal. You know I’m up for anything you want to do.”
He breaks off, flustered, and quickly turns his face away from me.
He starts tapping buttons on the audio system.
The music blasts.
Five decades old.
Why does every So-Cal guy under twenty-five crank up Led Zeppelin thinking it’s good date ambiance stuff?
Smiling, he moves to plant his hands on my chair as he closes in for a kiss. My lids lower as our mouths connect. The kiss builds the way I like—medium pressure, not overly invasive, little pushes and twirls of tongue and no longer suffocating as he used to be when we first started dating.
His hands glide up the tops of my thighs, pausing as his fingers push into my flesh.
Bite of contact, not tentative caress—oh yes, Daryl, you are more into what we do together than you’ll ever admit to yourself. I bet you Googled before you got here how to use the stuff in the bag properly.
I pull back first and stand up, holding my hand out to him. “Why don’t we give Maddy and Nick some privacy?”
His brows hitch up. “You want to cut out on them this soon?”
I shift my gaze to Madison. They haven’t come up for air since they hit the couch. “Somehow I don’t think they’ll care if we leave. Besides, it’s been a month.”
The skin across his cheeks tightens and his eyes shimmer. “Don’t remind me.”
“Come on, let’s go to my room.”
The pulse in his neck jumps.
He grabs the bag from the floor and hurries me down the hallway.
Inside my bedroom, he closes the door, leaning back against it and watching my every move around the room. I slowly ease my feet from my shoes, then pull off my shrug and my dress as his burning gaze locks like he can’t drag his eyes away from me.
Gracefully, I sink down on my knees to kneel, chin down, staring at the floor, as I wait for him.
“You will call me balletomane and do exactly as I say without hesitation.”
Daryl’s voice alters into something firm and in command in a way I never hear outside the bedroom. He’s so sexy and a turn-on during my special nights, when he’s usually so tentative when he speaks to me, but he doesn’t even stumble over his tongue with my little variation—balletomane instead of master or sir.
Has he finally figured out this isn’t a sex game for me?
“Yes, balletomane,” I say obediently.
He crosses the room to stand above me. “What is your safe word tonight?”
“Tendu.”
“Look at me,” he snaps. “What did you say?”
I tilt back my head, seeing him palming his cock straining in his jeans before I meet his steady stare. “Tendu, balletomane.”
He sits on the bed behind me. “Lie facedown across my lap.”
I spring to my feet and position myself on his thighs.
“You’ve been a bad ballerina, haven’t you?”
His palm lands with stinging force against my butt cheeks. Heat spreads down my legs and up across my back.
“Yes.”
I jerk as his hand connects with my flesh again. “What did you say?”
Another hard smack and this time that tingling alertness grows between my legs.
“Yes, balletomane.”
He drops the bag beside his leg beneath my nose.
“Tonight, you pick your punishment.”
So, OK, I know that’s not how this is supposed to go, since it’s in my nature to do endless research until I know every minute detail about everything, but Daryl didn’t know anything about kink, so I could rewrite the rules into a more beneficial and Krystal-like creation ensuring I maintain a certain level of predictability over him. Getting what I need from this in a risk-minimizing set of ground rules. Because really, I’d have to be an idiot to completely trust any guy.
Which I don’t.
Not even Daryl.
I rummage through the bag—and yes, it’s all there, exactly as I ordered—then I lift out the nipple clamps. For a moment, I study them. They look simpler than I thought they would after seeing them online. Kind of like tweezers connected by a chain.
Maybe Daryl bought cheapo ones.
Shoot, I hope they work as well as blogs claim they do since my smallish nipples are very sensitive but my tolerance to pain’s so high. They don’t look at all as severe as I anticipated they would, but holding them out to him brings my arousal to a place I never get with Daryl any other way than letting him be my balletomane and me his submissive ballerina.
“Is that what you want tonight?” he asks.
“Yes, balletomane.”
He runs his hand down my naked back as he leans in to kiss my reddened backside before nipping sharply with his teeth.
“Lie on the bed, face up,” he orders, setting me back on my feet.
With feline grace, I spread out and wait for him as he undresses. Before he comes to the bed, he goes for the ropes and then the crop.
“You’ve been a bad ballerina,” he reminds me, smacking the crop across his palm to make a sharp snap before lightly brushing it up my leg to tease my demanding lower lips.
For the first time since Daryl arrived, the pulsing in my veins moves to my sex, hungry for how this will be, knowing I’m in control of us and myself, what he will feel, what I will feel, though he doesn’t know that.
He thinks I submit to him.
That’s part of the turn-on, part of the thrill of what we do sexually together. My controlling him through the act of mastering the greater power of my body to ascend to a place beyond my heart, my brain, and even pain.
It’s the essence of ballet.
Total dedication to the physical.
Blocking out the heart.
All feelings.
Pleasure.
Pain.
Devoting myself completely to only my b
ody as I let movement come alive into emotion, rather than surrendering to my feelings to guide the acts of my flesh.
Mastering flawless technique.
Precision.
Control.
Beauty.
Agony.
Ecstasy.
These are the elements I seek to conquer.
To achieve something beyond what the heart can create.
The unattainable nexus of movement, pain, and pleasure.
Chapter Six
Daryl does a sharp jerk on the chain as he pounds into me, and the piercing pain from my nipples shoots all through my body, making every cell sizzle and heat pool between my legs. The pain and demand inside me are nearly unbearable now.
Another jarring thrust.
I can’t move.
My arms and legs are tied to the bedposts.
There is nothing I can do but hover in the agony roiling with desperation across my flesh.
“Do you like this?” he asks softly, his teeth grazing my stinging rosy tip. He brings up his thumb to rub slowly around and over the top my nipple, putting pressure on the clamp before his finger backs off.
I close my eyes, trying not to surrender to the fire coursing through me now.
He eases out and slams into me again. Fingers claw in my hair, jerking my head backward to look at him. His flushed face is tight with excitement, and how he fills me warns he’s close to coming.
My limbs want to move and match his constant, tortuous rhythm.
I moan and he stills.
“Open your eyes,” he commands, and as my lids rise he thrusts hard into me.
I’m breathing heavily.
My blood is burning.
The anticipation in my veins exhilarating.
I’m on the edge.
“Do you want to come?”
“Please, balletomane,” I beg, craving release.
His caressing hand turns into a smack and my senses jump. His heated breath scorches my flesh as he lowers his face, taking the chain in his teeth.
Another sharp tug.
Another blast of glorious, searing pain.
He thrusts into me.
Each pump feels like a depth charge exploding across my body. Each tug on the chain a ripple of sensation. I groan loudly as he plunges relentlessly into me, the build toward orgasm overwhelmingly intense.
I’m not sure I can take much more.
He eases off—trying to control this, trying to prevent both of us from coming. I struggle to raise my hips up into him, to stroke his cock with my walls and bring my climax.
He freezes and stops my hips with his hands. “You’re a very bad ballerina.”
I arch my back up into him. “Yes, balletomane.”
His ragged breaths match my own and my insides quicken as he picks up the pace again.
“Come, Krystal, come when I do,” he orders between each thrust.
His command is my undoing, and I tumble over the precipice, my body convulsing as he starts to quiver.
“Oh fuck.” He groans, and he spills into me with his forehead pressed into my neck. His pumping melts down, slower, slower into little spasms instead of thrusts.
He jerks out of me and collapses atop me.
“I thought you’d never come,” he murmurs, breathy and exhausted.
I’m still panting, trying to slow my breathing, feeling loose-limbed and my muscles without tension, unfurled and gloriously relaxed.
“We are definitely doing the nipple clamps again,” I whisper raggedly. I had no idea my body was capable of feeling that way, excruciating tautness followed by violent release, indescribably powerful.
Moving up on my body, he gently touches kisses across my face. “Did it hurt, Krystal?”
I laugh. “Duh, Daryl, of course it did. Isn’t that the point? But the blogs didn’t lie. That was amazing.”
“I love you, Krystal,” he whispers, tracing the line of my cheek with his lips, and I grow agitated. I want to move away from him, but I can’t because my arms and legs are still bound.
Damn it.
He knows I don’t like fuggling.
“My arms, Daryl. My legs,” I remind him pointedly. “You can untie me.”
“Just give me a second to recover, baby.”
He nuzzles behind my ear and kisses me again.
“Can you at least recover not on top of me? You’re heavy, Daryl.”
He flushes. “Sorry, Krystal, I forgot.” He rolls off to sit beside me.
My phone beeps.
That easily the languidness leaves my flesh.
I raise up my head. “Daryl, check my phone. If that’s Maddy and you don’t answer, she’ll barge in here looking for me.”
Nodding, he grabs it from the nightstand, swipes it open, and reads the notification. “Yep, it’s Maddy. They’re coming back from the beach and she wants to know if we want to go down to the Santa Monica pier with them. What do you want me to tell her? How about I’m tied up right now and can’t answer the phone?”
He busts out laughing.
Pleasant afterglow gone.
Daryl being Daryl again.
“Jeez, why do you have to be such a jerk at times?”
My jab rolls off his back. “I have an idea on how to keep her away. Why don’t I send her a picture instead of a text?”
He laughs harder, pretending to take photos of me.
“Not funny, Daryl. Stop it. Tell her we’ll be out in ten and then untie me.”
“You have no sense of humor, Krystal.”
“I do, too. You’re not funny. You’re being rude right now and I don’t like it.”
He starts typing away on my phone.
“Why does everything always have to be your way? Can’t you ever lighten up and have fun?”
“When you joke like that it isn’t funny. It’s mean. Crap, I didn’t hear you complaining while we were doing it, and now you’re using it to make fun of me. Not nice, Daryl.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not making fun of you. I’m just having fun. You’re such a control freak. Just like your old man. Everything has to be your way. Even the jokes I make.”
There’s a hint of disdain in his voice.
The mention of my dad makes my temper ignite. “Well, if you don’t like it, why don’t you get the fuck out?”
He sighs heavily. “Yep, you even sound like your dad. I say one thing you don’t like and you break up with me.”
“I didn’t break up with you.”
“Well, maybe you should, since it’s obvious nothing I do makes you happy. Frankly, I don’t think any guy can make you happy.”
My body grows cold as the entirety of my blood rushes to my face. “That was mean, Daryl. You apologize right now.”
“It wasn’t mean. It’s the truth.”
The harshness of his voice churns my insides. I don’t know why he’s being so combative and petty tonight, especially after having such a good night, and I struggle to organize my thoughts to find a way out of this flash argument.
“Daryl, let’s drop it before we both say things we don’t mean. I don’t want to get into a fight.”
The way his eyes study me is unnerving. “Don’t you have anything else to say to me?”
The hope in his voice twists my heart. He wants me to apologize to him, but I can’t do it. Not after all the unkind things he said.
“If you expect me to beg you not to break up with me, it’s not happening.”
His jaw drops. “Oh fuck. I didn’t break up with you. Don’t turn this around on me.”
“You’re being ridiculous, Daryl.”
His eyes lock on me like a laser, and there’s a sudden look of comprehension. “You’re planning to dump me this weekend, aren’t you?”
Damn, what did I let slip through on my expression?
How does he know?
“It’s not like that—”
“Don�
��t lie to me, Krystal.”
“Can you untie me so we can talk?”
Another notification from my phone.
“Fuck,” he growls, checking the screen again. “Your cousin is a pain in the ass.”
“She’s not my cousin. She’s my aunt,” I remind him.
“God, you have a fucked up family. No wonder you’re so fucked up.”
“Don’t talk crap about my family. And I’m not fucked up. Not in any way.”
He shakes his head, staring at the nipple clamps. “You think this is normal?” He holds the phone up, camera facing me. “Why don’t I send a picture so we can ask Maddy what she thinks? Since she’s the one person in your life you almost listen to.”
“Don’t you dare, Daryl.”
A flash.
My arm instinctively moves to stop him, and the ropes cut into my wrists.
“Untie me now,” I demand.
“Eventually,” he says before crossing the room to pull on his jeans.
“Daryl, what are you doing?”
“I think Maddy should see these. You won’t listen to me. Maybe you’ll listen to her.”
“If you send those to Maddy I’ll never forgive you.”
He focuses the camera and there’s another flash.
“Delete that now, Daryl.”
Snap. Snap. Snap.
“This isn’t funny,” I shout.
“It’s not meant to be.”
“Ten minutes ago you said you loved me and now you’re threatening to humiliate me.”
“I do love you, Krystal. That’s the saddest part of all of this,” he counters, his voice raw. “I was just trying to make a point when I said I should send pictures to Maddy. I didn’t mean it. But, Jesus Christ, you should have seen your expression, and now I’m thinking maybe I should.”
His gaze turns grim as he studies me and his expression changes into something more dangerous than anger. Hurt—so much less manageable in a guy than anger—and that warns this fight could spin out of control.
I struggle for something to say to end this. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said the things I said tonight, but dragging Maddy into our private stuff isn’t a solution to anything. You know that. Can’t we just sit and talk it out like we always do?”
We stare at each for ages. He breaks off first and lets out a shuddering breath. “There’s nothing left to talk about.”