My cunt clamps down on Nate’s cock as though it were one of the vices in the wood shop, intent on squeezing every single blast of cum from him.
As ecstasy pummels me like a high-speed train hurtling into the night, the thought of his sperm binding itself to one of my ova pops into my head.
The singularly unsexy thought is sexier than anything that has happened on the desk. It’s the final straw.
I see stars.
Four
Have you ever felt the pressure to perform?
If I felt that pressure in any part of my life, it probably should have been in the bedroom. With the new demands Nate’s making on me, perhaps, I should be feeling a little overwhelmed. But the irony is, I’m not. If anything, I’m coping marvelously. A part of me is wondering how I’ve been so blind for so long… Yeah. That’s how well I’m taking to this lifestyle.
If there’s one part of my life, where I’m feeling completely bowled over and highly sensitive, it’s in the studio. For over a decade, I’ve repressed most of my artistic tendencies. In all those years, I’ve never picked up a ball of clay or had the urge to blow glass. My one concession has been to have a notepad and if the muse struck, I’d jot the design down. That happened infrequently, but often enough. And I don’t really consider it an expression of art. Drawing isn’t my medium.
But how I’ve gone from that, even if it was bare bones art, to nothing, absolutely jack shit, I really don’t know.
I could work from my old designs, if I’d thought to bring my notepads. Shame art hadn’t been on my mind, when I’d been rushing to escape homicidal, psychotic, arsonist Russians with a grudge against me!
Hopefully that phase of my life is done and dusted and when things calm down and I can return to New York, without fear of any potential repercussions, then I’ll pack everything up and have it shipped over. I’ll also put the apartment on the market. Because this is where I want to be.
New York wasn’t home; Blue Ridge is.
My only concern is the distance separating Mona, Eddie and myself. I hate that we’re going to fall out of touch. It’s on the cards. I’m not stupid, but it still hurts. They’re all I’ve had these last ten years.
Meeting them at evening school changed my life and theirs… for the better. When I landed in New York, Blue Ridge might as well have been Mars. I had all these smarts, a hell of a lot of knowledge, just nothing practical. I’d been useless for the real world and I’d taken a course in administration in the hopes of getting a job as a PA. Eddie and Mona had had the same idea.
We’d all met in class and somehow hooked up, popping out for coffee. Soon after, Mona had met her dickhead ex, Dan, married the scum-sucking asshole and quit class to take up cleaning to help pay the bills. Eddie and I had continued and managed to get jobs in the sector. We didn’t lose touch with Mona, even though she’d left soon after we’d first met, and afterward, we became the female version of the Three Musketeers.
A decade is a hell of a long time. A lifetime. Christ, there are kids on the ranch now that were still tucked away in their mom’s bellies, when I left. They’re on the verge of leaving elementary school now! When I look at the passage of time in that particular way, I could freak out. However, I’m more likely to freak at the idea of rarely seeing my two best buds.
In fact, the very idea makes me want to bawl.
Fuck, I’m turning into a real baby. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve cried over the last ten years. Yeah, I’m not the emotional sort. But I spend seven weeks in Nate’s company and I can’t turn off the damned faucet!
With a grimace, I continue to shade in the caricature I’ve drawn of Uncle Sam. Resplendent in St Nick’s costume, on the back of a sleigh pulled by straining Thoroughbreds thanks to the size of his gut.
My muse has devolved. No longer can I create beautiful works of art, I’m reverting to a teenager. A mean one at that! Great.
These last few days, I’ve had a lot of time to think. Too much time. Thinking can be dangerous, especially where I’m concerned. The hours I’ve wasted in the studio, the unstimulating and fruitless, abyss-like moments, I’ve spent them pondering the future. And I’ve come to see the longer I’m here at Blue Ridge, the more I want to be here. Hence the decision to sell Papillon’s premises.
Yeah, okay, a part of that decision rests on the fact that Nate’s here. But mostly, and maybe it’s because I’m older, it’s because my roots are here. This place is in my blood. Denying it for so long has merely made me long for the connection once more. Even if I always buried it away and tried to hide from the ties I have to this land, they’re undeniable now. I’m here and even though I’m going to lose my sisters, I don’t want to uproot myself again.
As head administrator and guardian of this place, my position here is cemented. But still, it’s expected of me to dabble with my art. To create, to be an artist. And for whatever reason, the muse has definitely leaped off the sinking ship. Maybe she got shot alongside Nate?
I grimace at the thought. Pencil clinking against the desk as it drops from my fingers; I slouch down, press my elbows to the tabletop and rest my head on my hands. The endless hours of doing nothing have given me time to ponder why my muse has shriveled up like a ninety-year old eating sour altoids.
Change doesn’t bother me, or at least, it didn’t. Eddie hates it. She likes everything to be in a fixed position and she would be quite content if they never moved. I’m more like Mona. We roll with the punches. But the changes to the studios don’t sit well with me and I’m wondering if that’s why I’ve been so unproductive.
Maybe because the renovations are so alien to what I’m used to. As a teenager, the studios were all smallish rooms. Each person had his or her own space, with a door and a window. One allowing them to see the world, the other allowing them to lock it out. But now, the open-plan space is almost aggressively exposing. I feel bare here and I don’t like it.
A wall of windows offsets the huge floor plan and I can’t deny, they let in the most beautiful light. For the painters, they must be in heaven. But for me and for what I’m accustomed to, it’s a nightmare. Every artist has a cubicle. A large one, bigger than the old space I used to have here. But if I peek over the sides, I can see others and it’s discomforting.
I understand the method and the thought process behind this redesign. Hell, I agreed to it. We needed more space than the old system allowed us to house.
There are four resident artists at Blue Ridge. An installation artist, a photographer and two painters. But we’re also a haven for visitors. People who come and stay at the ranch for a bit of R and R. In truth, we’re like a weekend spa for geniuses. We only accept people with acknowledged credentials and they have to pay their way, but over the last few years, under my guardianship, we’ve established a name for ourselves in the upper echelons of the industrial, technological and artistic world as a place to relax and recuperate if you’re of a certain skillset. At the moment, we have six guest-artists here. In the old building, we would never have been able to accommodate so many. As it is, we have a further five cubicles free.
This studio came with my prior approval. I discussed plans with the architect himself. This open space means the purest light can flood every single artist’s working area. Artificial illumination is entirely unnecessary until darkness falls.
Theoretically perfect, yet, in practice, it’s a nightmare. That I’m the only one that feels that way, makes it all the shittier.
Pretty early on, after my arrival, I returned to my bedroom and took down all the old designs and drawings I’d pinned to the wall. I’d hoped if I pinned them to the cubicle walls, it would make me feel more at home. But it hasn’t worked. All my equipment is here. All the necessary accoutrements and gear that I require to create anything my imagination cooks up and yet, said imagination is on hiatus.
For the last two hours, I’ve been trying to draw something. Anything. After desperation struck, I figured I could let this whole new par
t of my life, my submissiveness, inspire me. In the depths of my brain, I envisaged a series of works. All redolent with the poignancy of submission and the strength of my Dominant. A part of me is excited at the idea, but my mind’s eye can’t picture the pieces. Hence the fat Santa on the sleigh.
In all honesty, I’ve created the image without even meaning to. My mind has been elsewhere, drifting from New York to Mona and Eddie and why they’re still incommunicado.
From the Russian arsonists to Nate’s slow healing… and then, what’s been going down in the bedroom. On top of what’s due to occur this very day.
Just the thought has my blood pumping harder and between my legs, I can feel the lips of my sex start to grow slick with arousal. Being denuded of hair makes it way too easy to get wet patches on your pants. Not that I’m complaining. A few damp stains are worth the trouble when I consider how damned sensitive I am now.
Fuck me; every sensation is magnified, amplified even! One slight touch and I want to quiver, tremble at the flood of emotions barraging me. It’s intense and frigging incredible.
Yesterday, Nate told me I was to greet him with all the pleasure I felt at being in his presence after a day spent apart.
He said, and I quote, “Tomorrow, we’re going to start a routine. I’ve been trying to ease you into this, and tomorrow’s a brand new day. At five-thirty, I’m going to come to this room and at five-thirty, not a minute before or after, you’re going to be at the foot of the bed, knelt before it, head bowed, naked, waiting for me.
“I’m going to give you my hand and you’ll kiss it and then, you’re going to tell me if you broke any rules. Do you understand, princess?”
I’d nodded and told him that of course I did.
And boy, had I!
Even now, my body buzzes at the very idea of such a ritual becoming a part of our daily life. The idea of greeting him naked, head bowed; kneeling before him... every part of me shivers and shakes, longing for five-thirty, when we can start this next aspect of our journey together.
Every day is a rebirth, a renewal. My submission and Sir’s domination are always reasserted.
My excitement is dampened by my concern over the sculptor’s version of writer’s block and I take the opportunity to get to my feet and stretch. Crouched over this desk for the last four hours and nothing, nothing to show for it, I stretch a little more. It’s too easy to feel disheartened. Yesterday, I just played with clay, hoping I’d get a feel for it, create something with it. But stunted, I gave up and crept off toward the homestead office to catch up with some paperwork.
Being on site is a hell of a lot easier than it was being in New York.
For the most part, I’m left alone. If there are any problems, they go to Nate and that’s a part of his job. Although I am trying to encourage them to come to me, I know that will take time.
Overall, I oversee general decisions, issues and potential problems on the commune and he puts my ideas into practice.
I see the bigger picture for the IQ squad itself. Something, which can be a pain in the ass. If I’m honest, I’ve had plenty of why me? moments. From the wasted hours at the studio, to the head-scratching moments at my desk in the office.
The parts making me happy are the reconnection with the land, the place itself and then, the time spent with Nate.
Sighing, I gather my stuff together. It’s time to quit before I pull my hair out or draw more mean cartoons of everyone on the ranch.
Gathering the Thermos flask containing the smoothie Nate prepares for me on a morning and which I drink through the day, I slot my cell into my pocket with my free hand. As I stride out of the studio, I can see eyes on me, people questioning why I’m leaving. There’s no routine here, no nine-to-five working day. But some work is expected. If not a part of the rules.
I ignore them, a snarky thought in my head being I’m the boss and can do whatever the hell I want. I don’t say it; I don’t want to alienate them completely because I’m in a shitty mood.
Outside of the studio, the huge one-story building that is both a pleasure and a curse, I cross the yard to reach the homestead. Overhead, the clearest blue sky you could ever imagine sparkles and glitters with the sun’s rays. It’s so bright, I squint a little and underneath my feet, vibrant green grass crunches and snaps, filling my nose with its earthy, clean scent.
Breaking into a jog, because I don’t want to talk to anybody and for the moment, the yard is relatively empty, I head up the homestead verandah steps and into the building.
Silence.
Sam and Nate mustn’t be here.
Relieved, as I’m not in the mood to chat, I climb the stairs, bypass Nate’s quarters and head toward my old suite for a bit of privacy. Luck isn’t with me, because the minute I open the door, I wish I hadn’t bothered to come. The room is most definitely not how I left it. If anything, it’s filled with all the workings of a surprise.
Ladders, paint buckets, tools, large dust sheets that cover the exposed floorboards… This place is obviously being decorated. I’d actually wondered about that. This suite of rooms is three times the size of Nate’s quarters. It makes sense to use this space for ourselves.
In truth, this area is a self-contained apartment within the house. It’s ideal for the depth of discipline Nate wants to introduce into our lives. It doesn’t matter that Uncle Sam probably never uses the lounge downstairs, preferring his own quarters. There’s no way in hell I’m going to sit naked on the sofa if there’s any chance anyone’s going to see me.
And I have a feeling this will be coming soon… Nate fully dressed as he watches TV, me sitting beside him on the floor. Curled up against his legs, perched on a pillow like a pet.
I shudder at the thought.
Perhaps the idea should terrify me. The depth of control Nate wants to have over my life... it should scare me, but if anything, it acts like a big hug. Wrapping me in cotton wool, protecting me from the hard knocks in life, his love and dominance a shield from the nasty outside world.
I think back to the contract I signed and a conversation that sprang up from the hard/soft limits agreement.
“There’s nothing on here about being shared.” I’d asked the question not out of any desire for it to happen, but to state clearly that it was and would never be on the cards.
Having my nipples pierced, cleaning in the nude, being flogged… all of that did something, twisted my insides into knots. But being shared? No way.
“Is that disappointment I hear?” he’d asked and I’d immediately shaken my head. “Good,” he’d stated and reached for me, cupping my cheek in his large, warm paw. “I’ll never share you, Marina. So that’s one thing, even if you’re in denial about wanting to experience something like that, you can get it out of your head. I don’t even want to play in public. Nobody will see what belongs to me, have you got that? Your pussy, ass and mouth are mine. Nobody else’s.”
His possessiveness had thrilled me. If it was something he’d felt throughout the length of our relationship, then I’d never noticed it until he’d made that statement.
I didn’t want another man to touch me, to bend me to his will. Nor did I want to play in public.
I get that it’s part of the lifestyle. Rosalie, one of my pro subs, had been a part of many clubs and play scenes in New York. Being a sub had been about more than just earning a wage. It had been a part of herself.
But the idea of it did and still does nothing for me; in fact, I couldn’t have stood it if Nate wanted to display my submission in public.
I’m not ashamed of these traits in my nature. I think they’re odd, popping out to play now, but then, I think maybe I’m only submissive with the one Dominant. Okay, that’s like Happy Ever After in the BDSM fairy tale collection… highly unlikely.
But the idea of anyone else touching me, spanking me, urging me to obey their rules, disciplining me… I feel nothing but repulsion. Where with Nate, it’s like turning on the ignition of a space shuttle. To infinity and
beyond!
Standing in the doorway, I rest against the jamb and close my eyes at the thought as a goofy grin creases my lips. What he does to me, should be illegal. Under his control, I’m a creature intent on destroying any ideas I had about myself. Did I think of myself as a feminist? Perhaps! I don’t know for certain. I had stringent ideas about what was right and wrong on the subject. So to go to the extreme, to know that in a few hours’ time I’ll be expected to subjugate myself to my Sir... the idea should be repulsive and instead, it dazzles me.
The need it inspires, now that is overwhelming.
I shudder again, my hands curl into fists and my nails dig into my palms. So turned inward am I, so focused on my thoughts, I jolt as Jase’s Texan drawl breaks my concentration and permeates my eardrums.
“Aw, shit. You weren’t supposed to see this.”
I spin around, startled at being jerked out of my thoughts and spot the rueful grimace on the Texan’s face. He’s quite an attractive man in all honesty. As tawny as Nate, same hazel eyes as Nate. As brawny and as tall, yet, he isn’t Nate.
He has a crush on me. I’d be blind not to spot it and I’m in no way being bigheaded. I’m just aware of his attraction to me and if anything, I’m discomforted by it. In the past, I’d have been amused. Found it a compliment. Now, I know trouble lies down that path and I’m trying to prevent it from happening.
Every now and then, he highlights his attraction by uttering an inappropriate comment. Mostly, they make me chuckle. Things about my ass... just teasing remarks that are amusing because they pop out. He doesn’t mean to say them. It’s for that reason and that reason alone that I haven’t smacked him. I’m quite capable of it. Hell, I’m capable of a lot more. I did more than just an administration course at evening school. Self-defense classes are a must for any single woman living in New York. I’m more than capable of looking after myself.
“I won’t say anything if you don’t,” I murmur, knowing Nate will be pissed off that I inadvertently ruined what is obviously intended to be a surprise. The words were muttered by the Marina of old, the new me cringes. This is the kind of lie I specialize in. Damn my hide.
Frustrated Instincts (Marina: Part Three: Naughty Nookie Series) Page 6