by Alison Tyler
“Even if what I want is to let Alex in. I don’t know how far. I don’t know how much. But in. Can you do that?”
“Yes, Jack.”
I am, as I’ve said, at my heart monogamous. And I am loyal. But Jack wanted more.
And I wanted Jack.
Yet it goes deeper than that. I grew up in a bohemian household, and all I ever wanted was normal. I wanted my dad to go to work with a briefcase, like my friends’ fathers. I wanted to attend the pretty white church down the block. And I learned fairly early on that you can’t always get what you want.
But maybe my 1970s schooling ran deeper than I’d thought. Maybe the hippy talk of being different, of breaking other people’s expectations, of living outside the box finally sank in.
“You won’t feel dirty?” Jack asked.
And I understood. Jack wasn’t only asking if I was willing to obey his requests. He was asking if I could change my whole definition of what was normal. If I could look at what we did together as acceptable, as healthy, as clean and good and wholesome.
“Of course, I’ll feel dirty,” I told him, and he started to frown, until I said, “I always feel dirty, Jack. That’s part of what I am. I felt dirty when I was with Byron because I wanted what he couldn’t give me. I couldn’t be the girl he hoped for. But I felt dirty even when I was with Brock, because he could give me what I wanted. Because of the very things I wanted.” Those feelings weren’t going to evaporate because Jack asked them to. “I don’t care,” I told him, feeling so lighthearted I wanted to laugh. “I don’t care about other people at all. I just want you.”
Jack wrapped his hand up in my hair and pulled me tight to him. He kissed me as hard as he had the night before, but this time, the kiss was leading forward. This time the kiss was the prelude. There were no answers yet. No real ones. I didn’t have a clue where Alex would belong. But I was ready to find out. As I was ready to slide my body against Jack’s, to feel how deliciously hard he was beneath his clothes, to rock on him, trying to make him lose control for once. Trying, in my own pale way, to take charge.
He leaned back for a moment, staring at me, understanding my mission and clearly getting a kick out of my attempt. His blue eyes were brighter as he watched me, as he let me work my body on his. I was his private lap dancer, grinding my hips forward, connecting in the fiercest way. I wanted to make him let loose. I wanted to make him come, the way I’d gotten Connor off at work. Make him come in his pants. I don’t know why I thought I could. I don’t even know why I tried.
Jack laughed, a dark rippling sound. Then he gripped my arms and pulled me off him, stood up and threw me over his shoulder, taking me down the hall to the bedroom…taking me to what suddenly felt like home.
Chapter Twenty–Nine:
Dr. Jack
Sure, there were times when we simply fucked. You have to understand that, right? Every so often, Jack bent me over the bed and took me from behind. Or he caught me coming out of—or going into—the shower and we reveled in watery bliss. We did it in the kitchen and on the balcony, in his car and in the garage. We were “normal” in that aspect. I mean, in the aspect that every interaction didn’t involve whips and chains and potential infractions of Jack’s various rules.
But I have to say that I don’t get off on sweet sex. In my heart, I believe that being into BDSM has a lot in common with being gay or lesbian. I mean, I get that people might wonder how we could keep up the intensity, that shimmer of pain each and every time we did it—but that’s like asking a gay man, “Don’t you ever want to just fuck a woman for once?” I’m hardwired to want some sort of kink in the bedroom. It’s what’s in me. I don’t need to cry every time I have sex. I don’t need to be reduced to that liquid form of iridescent shame. But I need something more, something else besides your standard hot romp beneath the sheets.
That’s the truth.
During the few times it was good with Byron, my mind took me to a different place. I told the story I needed to hear in order to gain the pleasure I craved.
So even when Jack hadn’t bound me down, or pulled out a gag, or slid off his belt to make me kiss the buckle—there was still the power in him. His hand still gripped tight in my hair to pull back my head as he worked me. Or his words still teased me, taunted me, as he explained what would happen if I didn’t perform exactly right. He never expected me to be something I wasn’t. He never wanted me to turn into someone else.
But all of that doesn’t mean Jack was never light-hearted. On this day, he carried me back to the bedroom caveman style and slung me onto the bed. I looked at him, watchful, as he headed to our closet.
Was he after one of the little costumes he’d bought me?
Or one of my sets of high-heeled slippers, with the feathers on the toe?
Did he want me to dress up like Bettie Page?
Or maybe put on the rubber catsuit, that was hell to get into and out of, but lots of fun while it was on….?
No, Jack was on a mission. He pushed to the back of the closet, reemerging with the doctor bag, and my legs clenched together in instant anticipation. Jack looked gleeful as he set the bag on the bed and started rummaging within. He hadn’t actually played doctor with me. He’d let Alex have the fun. And the mood had been so skewered that night. But this was different. Jack’s blue eyes shined almost mischievously as he set out the gleaming instruments.
He didn’t seem to be interested in some full-on fantasy today. He didn’t need me in a tie-robe. Didn’t leave the room so that I could strip in privacy. He simply wanted to try out the tools, nodding for me to take off my clothes while he continued to arrange the instruments.
I watched, eyes wide, as he slid on a pair of those ultra-thin rubber gloves. They seemed to transform him, and even though he was playing lightly with me—no warnings, no cold instructions—his very posture was different.
There were hardly any words as he tried out the various devices, using cool lube to prep me before sliding a stainless-steel speculum between my nether lips, spreading me open. An instant blush turned my cheeks dark berry. Jack was inspecting me, and he took his time, his fingertips brushing my clit as if by accident. I was obviously wet, had been since he pulled out the bag—had been, honestly, since he threw me over his shoulder—but Jack didn’t chide me about my arousal. He made little comments under his breath, to himself, as he “worked.” And then he told me to flip over.
Being on my stomach was both better and worse. I could face away from Jack, so he wouldn’t see the expressions flitting across my face. But I knew—or could guess—what was coming next, and that made me want to grit my teeth, to freeze entirely.
Once more, I felt the lube on Jack’s gloved fingertips, although he probed me here slightly longer than was medically necessary, his fingertips slipping inside of me, first one, then two. I groaned and arched my hips, automatically. The next toy felt like a butt plug—Jack slid the device inside of me, and then he pulled some part of it out. It was like a funnel—spreading my cheeks only slightly—and Jack lost interest in moments. Pulling the whole thing out and trying something new.
My heart was racing by now, and I wondered how long Jack would wait before fucking me. He had to be hard. He had to be ready. I was stripped naked and letting him probe and position me exactly how he craved.
But Jack’s got an iron will. He tried out toy after toy, employing the thermometer, so that I felt as if my cheeks were now on fire. Humbled, so turned on by the way he was touching me, and so embarrassed that I was turned on. It never changes for me. I will never get over these types of reactions.
Finally, Jack seemed finished, moving aside the instruments and telling me to roll over.
I faced him, and he grinned at me, his gorgeous smile lighting his face, and then said, “Hands over your head.”
Now he was binding me. But I thought he would simply fuck me. He seemed done with the toys, and there hadn’t been that many others, had there? But once Jack had me in place, he pulled out a fin
al device, a tiny spiked wheel that made me catch my breath. It looked like a miniature version of the spur cowboys wear on their boots.
“What’s that for?” My voice was a whisper.
“It’s a nerve stimulator,” Jack said authoritatively, but I don’t think any doctor has employed it precisely how Jack did, running the tiny spiked wheel over my erect nipples, so that I thrashed as much as the bindings would allow, then tracing the wheel down my belly, closer and closer to the place between my thighs.
“Jack—”
His eyebrows raised. Was I going to say “No”?
He’d taken off his gloves, and his bare fingers spread my pussy lips and I held my breath as ever so lightly he grazed my clit with the instrument. And—fuck—I saw stars. Jack seemed to be gauging my reaction, moving the device down the insides of my thighs before tracing it back up to my pussy. The sensation was unreal. At the level he was touching me, I’d never come, but I couldn’t manage to ask him for more. Those tiny little spikes were maddening. And then Jack—knowing precisely what was going on in my mind—turned the wheel on its side and dragged it across my clit like that, to give me greater contact, sending me instantly swirling into climax.
He dropped the toy immediately and climbed onto the bed, freeing his cock and fucking me in his clothes while I was still coming, pushing the limits of my pleasure beyond one simple orgasm. His cock thrust so deep into me, over and over, and I stared up at him while he fucked me, watching his face, watching the change come over him.
When he came, I came once more, from the combination of the pressure he gave me, sealing his body so tightly to mine, and from the look in his eyes as they held mine. Never leaving me. Focused on me even when the pleasure left him shaking. He demanded the same from me, the same intensity. Not allowing me to go within myself when I came. To hide. To disappear. He held me with his look alone, no words, no threats, so that we were bound together.
Bound as one.
Chapter Thirty:
Free–Falling
I had already been signed for a third novel while still finishing my second. The contract was for a detective novel, which I hoped to write in my best Raymond Chandler style. I’m a noir fan to my core.
I began my mystery without any idea of “whodunit” or what they’d done, but wanting to capture the feel of Chandler and Hammett and Delacorta, and some Elmore Leonard. I’ve grown as a writer over the years, in that I outline a bit better now and often have at least a general idea which of my characters will end up together. But at the start I was much more of a free-falling writer, spiraling after my characters wherever they might take me.
And Jack, Alex, and I were free-falling as well.
Not in a bad sense. Not in a dangerous, no-parachute sort of way, but in a no-stated-rules manner. I understood Alex was going to be more involved from here on. Yet there had been no town council meeting, no updated regulations posted on the wall to observe: LIFEGUARD MOST DEFINITELY NOT ON DUTY. The only real difference that I could discern was a more gentle quality between Jack and Alex. When Jack spoke to Alex, he seemed to be less rigid. Less the employer, more the friend.
Of course, that didn’t mean he was less strict with me.
I had the freedom to write, as always, and I could travel the city without Alex hounding me. But when Jack was home, when he was in the mood, I was all his.
During this time, Jack was working hard. The way Jack worked was new to me, so many hours, so much intensity. I was used to Byron, I was used to Byron, beyond laid-back, missing deadlines. Jack was surrounded by people who worked exactly the same way he did. It didn’t seem strange to them.
On what downtime he had, Jack worked me with the same intensity he brought to his career. He was focused. He never missed a beat. There are some people for whom failure is truly a four-letter word. That’s how it was for Jack.
I’m devoted in my work, too. Sometimes I truly feel as if I could write and write and never stop… This is probably why I was never all that stressed about signing on for novels back to back. I wrote for hours on my mystery, taking breaks only for inspiration, driving to my favorite spots in L.A. to find areas I wanted to write about.
If you look hard enough, I’ve always felt, you can actually see the noir L.A. under the surface. There are plenty of places that still seem straight out of the ’30s, ’40s, and ’50s. If you squint, you can almost see the characters from Sunset Boulevard, or The Big Sleep. Yes, much of old L.A. has been torn down, but plenty of the old-time era remains.
I’d drive to coffee shops and sit in the windows, people watching. I’d go up to the Observatory and stand at the railing looking out at the city. Then I’d return to my work and write until my fingers ached. My breaks during this book were for food, drink, and Jack.
Not that Jack had to compete with my work. I was always ready to set down my pen when he came home. Ready to pour him a drink, or put on an outfit, or come toward him with a paddle, begging, head down, when he’d gone too long without using it on me. And too long? What is that precisely on an actual clock?
A day?
An hour?
I don’t know. Can’t explain the drive, the need, that overtakes me every so often. The urge that might make me dress up before Jack arrived, sliding into something long and tight and slinky or short and hot and naughty. Waiting, helpless, for Jack to walk through the door. For him to take one look at me and understand.
That doesn’t mean Jack gave me what I wanted right away. It only means that he knew what I was asking for, what I craved. And knowing always gave him power—even more than he already had. He could stretch out an evening, sure that I would be the most obedient pet ever as long as he held out my fantasy in front of me. Promising me that if I behaved—if I could only behave—he would take me where I needed to go.
And then there were the times when he told me what he wanted, what his fantasy was for the evening, and I rebelled. Understanding that by not doing what he desired, I would ultimately get what I wanted.
Does that make sense?
And then there was the almost unreal time when my publisher in New York called Jack and told him to spank me, reaching through the phone lines from Manhattan to playfully explain my necessary punishment to Jack. This was the first time my work and sex life had truly collided since Nathan. I’d made a huge error: I had turned in the manuscript, but one of the two files was corrupted, and I realized that I didn’t have a backup.
I had the printout. I had a previous version. But I’d made changes at the end and somehow hadn’t saved them onto my computer.
This meant that I had to retype nearly one hundred pages in an extremely short time period. I’m a fast typist. Superfast. But it was a lot of work. Needless work. Stupid work. I hadn’t told Jack right away, because I was mortified by the blunder. My publisher, thinking the whole thing was humorous, ratted me out to Jack, with the careful instructions that Jack was to bend me over his lap and spank the daylights out of me.
He was laughing as he said it, but Jack took the instruction to heart, catching me off guard with a little unexpected question.
“You always back up your work?”
I looked into his eyes and knew that he knew. Although I didn’t know how.
“I do now,” I said, trying to be lighthearted.
Jack nodded. “Let me help you remember to do so in the future.”
It was a crazy kind of spanking, because I protested. Jack had said from the start that my writing was my own. That must have meant that my writing career was also my own, I thought, and therefore if I fucked up, it had nothing to do with Jack. But Jack had enjoyed his banter with my publisher, enjoyed the teasing instruction, and was determined to carry it out.
I fought at first, telling him I’d already typed up the replacement pages, had the disk ready to go out FedEx the next day.
“But why didn’t you tell me about it? I could have gotten someone to type it for you.”
“I didn’t want—”
“To what?”
“To look like an idiot.”
Jack grinned. “And how do you look now?”
My shoulders sagged. “But Jack,” I tried anyway. “It doesn’t have anything to do with you. With us…”
“It has everything to do with me. Everything you do has something to do with me.” He’d lost his smile. “Do you understand that?”
I nodded.
“Bend over my lap.”
It was the hardest hand-only over-the-knee spanking he’d ever given me, making me burn and beg. Somehow, my attitude made it worse. If I’d resigned myself from the start, I would have absorbed the pain better. But because I was angry at my publisher, angry at Jack, I ended up feeling every single blow—to both my ass and my ego.
For Jack, this was theater. Pure entertainment. For me, it was like having my mistakes put up on a billboard for all to see.
When he was done—at least, when I thought he was done—he pushed me off his lap and looked down at me. “That was for failing to back up,” he said, his voice stern. “Now, meet me in the bedroom for the next round.”
My eyes were wide.
“If you have to ask me why, then we’re at a far different place than I’d thought.”
I didn’t have to ask. I knew why. I’d struggled. I’d fought him. I hiked my jeans back up and walked toward the bedroom, growing wetter with every step I took.
Chapter Thirty–One:
Alex’s Transformation
Alex was in and out of the apartment as always, working early and staying late, because Jack was the busiest he had been since we’d met. It’s not that there was no physical interaction at this time. It’s only that I can’t really imagine writing down every time we had sex, every different way that we fucked. I’ve already explained my philosophy about sex—how you can have non-monotonous monogamous encounters if you keep your mind open. If you’re willing to take things to a higher level.
Well, after Jack had finished the big case he was working on, he was willing.