by Joey W. Hill
She’d never had a lover she’d trusted enough to blindfold her, or restrain her in a way she couldn’t remove herself. Her spotty Dom/sub attempts with lovers had been very low-key. Even when she’d dared to invite one of her relationship partners, like Gerald, into that dark part of her head, she hadn’t trusted any of them to treat her like one of the submissives she’d seen on her adventures with Alice. But that hunger when she watched them be blindfolded, chained, was a dragon, gnawing on her soul.
A form of magic. Chains on the body become a way to free the soul . . .
For heaven’s sake, it was just her alone here. Dropping the robe on the bed, she stepped into the lace thong. The friction of the back strap against her rim, the way the rest hugged the labia, made her aware she wore a garment that only had two purposes—arousing herself and a lover. When she lifted the choker in front of the mirror and put it on, she watched her nipples tighten, felt a similar reaction between her legs.
She hadn’t opened the curtains in the living area, so she didn’t have to don the robe to move back through the house. It felt decadent, walking down the hallways and through the rooms that way. She pretended her Master had commanded her to wear only this until he came home from work. Such secret 24/7 Dom/sub fantasies usually featured her Master as a man in a suit, his clean-shaven jaw strong, his lips firm with authoritative resolve. She’d kneel by the door, her eyes down as he came home from a day at the office.
Now instead of seeing creased slacks and shiny shoes in her mind’s eye, she saw heavy work shoes beneath the cuffs of jeans. When Logan squatted, tipped up her chin to give her a heated, approving kiss, his warm brown eyes took her over, the rasp of his five o’clock shadow a welcome abrasion to her fair skin.
Okay, Logan could be today’s fantasy. That didn’t mean anything. Logan was a charismatic man and very self-assured. Dominant. Master. She rolled the words over in her mind. She’d always told herself it was a title those in the D/s community gave themselves, like an adult calling himself Captain Kirk because he donned a Star Trek uniform for a sci-fi con. It didn’t translate outside the mass delusion of that exclusive community. Logan was the first Dom she’d met who clearly emanated what he was outside a club environment. He’d affect a ninety-year-old grandmother, let alone her.
Since she didn’t care to dwell on the fantasies he likely inspired in all those female gardening customers, ninety-year-olds or otherwise, she retrieved the box from the table and the ice tray from the freezer. Snagging a dish towel to fold beneath it, she brought all of it back into the living room.
First the cuffs. When she fitted one around her wrist, latching it with that ticking click noise, she remembered Logan’s fingers circling her wrist. When she secured the other cuff, a tiny expulsion of cream bloomed against the crotch of her thong, dampening her flesh. Nerves tingled across her breasts as if his fingertips had teased the flesh there.
She’d gotten into the habit of treating a self-inflicted climax like the impulse decision to eat a cookie. Empty calories but instant gratification, no matter the shame or regret afterward. It was easy enough to do, whether by manual or electronic means. As such, she thought about lying down on the floor right now to masturbate. Given how the cuffs were affecting her, she expected it wouldn’t take long. More empty calories, but the impulse was strong. Really strong.
If Logan was here, he’d order her to go through with the whole experiment first, denying her. Building her response, much like the very thought of him making her do his bidding did now. More dampness between her thighs, a hard contraction that made it even more difficult to resist that masturbation urge. If the mere idea of Logan bending her to his will could result in that reaction, how dangerous would the reality be?
Gerald had told her BDSM was deviant behavior, something that could quickly become a sex addiction if she indulged it. Since he’d treated patients who’d gotten lost in that world, he’d unnerved her with the half-assed diagnosis. Probably the only thing that had saved her from being fully sucked in was Alice’s reaction to the comment when she’d told her about it. What a fucking idiot. The other thing that had kept her from being swayed was his delivery, more a resentful accusation than the honest concern of a lover.
This was just her in her living room. No accusations against, no persuasive suggestions for. Just her own mind and her own reactions to face.
Alice had always kept the living area clear to do her yoga, which made it the best area to do it. Logan had been here, tending Alice, so he knew the layout of her house. At his store today, would he be thinking about Madison doing this, in the thong and choker? If she invited him to dinner at some point, would he stand in the doorway to this room and visualize her kneeling here?
Of course he would. For all his Master-of-the-Universe routine, he was a guy. The moment he’d said thong to her, he’d probably stripped off all her clothes in his mind. From here forward, if she wore a parka to work, he’d still see her as a naked paper doll.
He’d probably chuckle at her cynical observation, making her nerve endings ripple with the masculine sound. Hell, just hearing it in her head, they danced. Kneeling on the carpet, she shifted into a seated position on her hip and reached into the box with her bound hands to remove the deck. She loosened the drawstring bag so the cards could slide out. The backs displayed a brilliant blue color with detailed gold edging. A note had been slipped under the band holding the cards, the folded top showing more of his neat handwriting.
Read this. Don’t look at cards first.
She opened up the note and found a repeat of the instructions he’d given her. Had he given these out before? And to whom? It didn’t matter. She could hear his voice, his calm, authoritative way of talking as she read the words.
Fan out the cards in a circle around you, face down. Choose thirteen at random to turn over. Whatever is on the card, consider how that picture or word makes you feel. Does your pulse elevate? Are you afraid? Intrigued? Aroused? If it’s a body part, touch yourself there. Think about someone else touching you there. Let the cards create a fantasy for you.
She laid out the cards around her. In the center of that blue field on the back of each card was a single gold star, something that had been obscured by his note. While it was pretty, eye-catching, the face sides were works of art.
Her first card showed a fecund goddess with heavy, bare breasts lying amid lush red flowers. In the top left corner, in bold calligraphy, was the word Breast. At the bottom right corner was a smaller word, the ink more refined. Heart.
She thought about the direction on the note. Touch yourself. The goddess in the picture was doing it, supporting one breast in a hand. Madison cupped her own breast, ran her fingers over it. She imagined herself as that goddess, drawing a male like Troy to her, an earth mother offering sustenance and pleasure. Bringing his mouth to her nipple, she’d cup his head, twine her fingers idly through his sandy hair as he pulled on her breast and desire swirled in her loins like planets orbiting a sun.
Her mind twitched impatiently away from that, toward far more dangerous imagery. Logan’s hand closing over her breast, possessing it, thumb passing over the nipple, his other hand at her waist, holding her still as he bent. He didn’t intend to suckle her like a child of her universe. He was here to conquer a goddess, so he captured the nipple in his heated mouth, nipping and pulling on it in a way she felt all the way to her womb, making her thighs loosen for him . . .
She turned over another card, the next word sending an arrow of sensation directly to the subject. Cunt. It was in white letters against a black cavernous circle, around which were twined black and red roses. A snake made a circle around all of it. A smaller word was printed in the lower right corner, against a tiny blood red heart. Soul.
Curious, she chose three more cards and discovered the same pairing pattern: Possession/surrender. Pain/release. Blindfold/trust.
She stared at that last card for a while. It showed a man and woman twined together, bound by red rope so
they couldn’t move, but they didn’t look as if they desired to do so. His arms were wrapped over her shoulders, hers threaded beneath his to cling to his waist and back, her face pressed into his chest. She was the one blindfolded.
Two more cards. Collar/belonging. Whip/flight.
Her reaction was climbing at an exponential rate, the flesh between her legs throbbing, her neck pulse thumping. With every restless shift of her body, she was reminded she wore the cuffs, the choker, the thong. She looked like a submissive, a sex slave, kneeling on the floor and playing sensual games with herself until her Master came home.
Unnerved by the thought, she forced the focus from herself to Logan’s training of Troy. She imagined the male submissive in nothing but a collar, kneeling in an aisle of the store while customers moved around him, unconcerned, knowing he was waiting for his Master . . . Was he waiting for his command? His punishment?
He would be staring at the floor. She couldn’t see herself in the same position, surrounded by people like that. Or could she?
As her mind’s wheels turned, she flipped six more cards, taking her to the thirteen. Then she kept going, until she’d turned over all of them. They ran the gamut of sexual play, from positions, to role playing, to toys . . .
She slid from her hip down onto her back, the slick cards pressing against her skin. She stretched her cuffed hands over her head, her body elongating, arching up, as if she were displaying herself for a lover. She wanted to spread her thighs, wanted to be commanded to spread them. She wanted his hands gripping her, pushing them apart, making her do his will. She closed her eyes, not wanting the reality of her surroundings judging her.
She rotated her hips, taunting him. Yes, she was bound to his will, but she would do all she could with her body to beg him to come to her, to touch her. He would stand back in the shadows and watch, letting the moments stretch out, her body getting more and more excited as she lifted her hips, lowered them as if he was already inside her. Fucking her. He wouldn’t let her demand, wouldn’t let her take control. He would let her keep doing what she was doing for his pleasure, his enjoyment, and that would just make her hotter.
Now at last he would speak. Touch yourself, Madison. Rub your cunt for me.
She shuddered at the thought of his whisper, his fiery eyes burning her. She lowered her hands, and when the cool metal of the cuffs pressed against her pelvis, her fingers reaching her clit, her body bucked up, ass and shoulders pressed into the floor. A gasp broke from her lips. “Yeeess . . . please . . .”
He liked her begging, enough to make her do it for all eternity. He was a sadist, and she craved that, didn’t want him to give in to her. She wanted to know he held the power, the decisions. That she, the ultimate control freak, controlled nothing. Her only choice was to belong to him.
Sliding her fingers beneath the thong, she found her labia silky slick with her juices. She tweaked her clit, stroked the tender inner crevices that had so many nerve endings. She pushed up beneath the clit hood, increasing the intensity there, and then slipped her fingers inside herself. Watching her fuck herself with her fingers would make him harder, maybe make him take a step out of the shadows. That powerful body getting closer . . . She thought of his muscled chest beneath her hand, fingers twining and tugging on his chest hair.
She rose and fell, her hips twisting and grinding against her touch and the floor. The cuffs pressed into her lower abdomen, her thighs, and the fingers of the hand she wasn’t using dug into soft flesh. “Please . . . may I . . . let me . . .” She whispered it, and heard—at long, long last—the order.
Go over for me. Only for me.
She tightened up all over, forcing her thighs to remain open to increase the intensity of it, even as she wanted to curl into a ball around that hand and contain all those spasming nerves into one prolonged wave. She cried out, the sound echoing in the spacious room, and she rode the feeling until it ebbed away under her fingers, leaving her twitching and trembling there on the living room floor.
She turned onto her side, curling around that core. When she brought her trembling hands back up to her face, she smelled herself as she tucked her fingers under her cheek.
The ice cube tray had turned to water, the key floating at the top. She could unlock herself at any time. She didn’t move toward it. She didn’t want to leave this feeling behind. Somehow, the cuffs were vital to holding on to it. She preferred to think of herself as waiting for him to remove them. She’d wait as long as he required. Days if necessary.
It made her think of that scene in Secretary, Maggie at the desk in her wedding dress. A lot of people hadn’t understood that scene. Probably like Gerald, they assumed it was a sickness. But it was no different from the knight who swore an oath of fealty to a king and went into a hopeless battle for him. The test wasn’t the battle. It was proving his oath was more binding upon him than anything else, that his devotion and loyalty to his king, his Master, couldn’t be swayed.
It was a fantasy, yes, because you couldn’t trust another human being that much, could you? But you could pretend for a little while.
The cards beneath her were sticking to her perspiring flesh. When she moved the one beneath her cheek, she discovered it was the Possession/surrender one. The graphic was a woman kneeling, a collar on her throat, a tether wound around the hand of the male lover who stood over her. She looked up at him, and he touched her face. Even as an illustration, the bond between them was unmistakable.
In her last few relationships, the crap had taken over such that sex wasn’t a conduit to deeper emotions—it was a way to avoid them. Here she was surrounded by cards that spoke of sexual things. If the designer had left it there, she might have remained more detached. But adding that one provocative, emotional word to each, as well as the incredible detail of the illustrations, spoke of the far deeper things the physical were supposed to mean. Things she’d shut herself away from, because if the basics of the relationship were missing—trust, belonging, laughter . . . love—what was the rest, but a hollow illusion?
She’d never chosen her relationships based on her craving for a Dominant. She’d run from that, because the choice meant relinquishing control, and no one could be trusted that much.
But a woman could only let fear and repressed desire run at cross-purposes for so long. Gazing at the thirteen cards she’d turned over, she realized how many of them were about the world of Dominance and submission. There were as many cards in the deck not about that type of sexuality, so what did it say, that she’d picked those at random?
Coincidence. Accident. She wasn’t going to get maudlin here.
When it came down to it, her personal shit wasn’t important. What was important about tonight was that it had clarified how she could connect with her customers. She hadn’t failed yesterday because she couldn’t sell. She’d failed because, in order to connect, the conduit had to be as open on her side as on the customers’. She was going to have to embrace things she’d kept at bay, face what kind of sexual being she was in order to coax the same to life in those who walked through her door.
It was a useful revelation, but the idea of actualizing it brought the same overwhelming anxiety it always did. She curled into a tighter ball, trying to stave off the despair that started to spiral in her lower belly, spoiling the same track desire had taken only a few moments before.
Then she thought of Logan. His touch, his eyes, the understanding that lay in both, reaching as deep inside of her as the fear and desire combined.
Damn it, she wasn’t backing away from this. Even if she was a screw-up in her personal life, she’d never been a screw-up when it came to business, school, or anywhere the public stood in judgment of her performance. She was going to do what was needed to make this work.
Which meant she was going to go on Friday. She would watch Logan train Troy, would learn more about relinquishing control . . . at a safe distance.
Even as she had that thought, her mind scoffed at her. Looking at the car
ds, the cuffs and the key, she knew one thing for certain.
The words “safe” and “Logan” would never be paired on a card together.
Keep reading for a special preview of the next Naughty Bits novella
THE TRAINING SESSION
Available May 2014 from InterMix
What did one wear to help a modern day Master train a sex slave? Was it black tie, or like going to a Habitat for Humanity worksite, where one expected to get sweaty and dirty?
In the end, she did what most women did. She let the thought she’d be around two handsome men guide her, such that she tried to dress up while not technically looking like she’d expended that much effort. She wore a pair of black jeans with an off-one-shoulder top over it. The silky fabric belted at the waist and formed a short skirt over the jeans. Then she brushed out her hair and slid into a pair of heeled boots. The shirt clung to her breasts, the off-the-shoulder style a little sexy, without being slutty. It reinforced her intent to support the mood but not become part of the performance. No matter that her damp palms and elevated pulse rate seemed to indicate otherwise.
It wasn’t quite dark when she pulled into the alley behind her store, but twilight was settling in, the time of possibilities. She hadn’t returned to Naughty Bits this week, instead focusing on the grand opening details from home. A side benefit of that was she didn’t have to worry about Logan cornering her to find out if she’d done what he suggested with that wooden box. When he’d called the house, responding to her second early morning message about her schedule, she’d let it go to voicemail. He’d thanked her for letting him know her schedule and told her to give him a call if she needed anything. Very cordial.
Don’t forget about Friday. I could use an assistant. The boy can be a handful.
She’d spent the interim days doing this and that, but she still couldn’t bring herself to do much in the Wonderland room. She did have her coffee in there Friday morning, looking at the assortment of outfits like a museum display as she thought about the past . . . the future.