Several people nearby look over. “No! I just mean he's always seemed so carefree, but he also has a dark side. Which I guess isn't so surprising—we all have one.”
They clearly want more information but that's all I feel comfortable revealing. Anything more would feel like a betrayal of Tristan.
It isn't as if I owe them the details, anyway. I mean, it's my sex life. I have a right to some privacy.
“Be careful,” says Lydia. “A dark side may sound sexy, Kelly, but it often means trouble.”
Amy nods sagely. “Great sex,” she says. “Bad social relationships.”
That upsets me. I don't like thinking of Tristan as being socially dysfunctional. Anyway, from what I remember, his relationships lasted a decent amount of time.
I know why I'm really so reluctant to tell my friends. This is all moving very fast, and I know they wouldn't approve. They'd think Tristan was taking advantage, and call him a creep looking for another cherry to pop.
Which he's not. But they wouldn't know that, because they don't know him the way I do. They couldn't know how he made me feel, or that I spent all day yesterday dreaming about him, and us, and all the possibilities of what we could do—and how much they scare me.
“So what did you end up doing in San Jose?” I ask Amy and Lydia, to change the subject. And Amy talks at length about all the shops they went to, and this amazing Vietnamese restaurant. Lydia butts in with commentary, and the two of them tell shared inside-jokes that only partially make sense, but we all laugh anyway.
But my head is still in Tristan's apartment, feeling his mouth on my body as he makes me experience pain in a whole new light.
I can't stop thinking about when I'll see him again.
When I get home, there is a message from him on Facebook. It says, How are you feeling today?
How am I feeling? Hot and bothered. Confused.
Good. Went to lunch with Lyd, Kay, & Amy.
He's online, but doesn't respond back right away. He must be doing something. About five minutes later, he sends a response. Where did you go?
Thai place. Maybe you've heard of it. All Thai'd Up.
He sends me an emoji of a winking devil. Never have.
Maybe you should go. Seems like your kind of place.
There's a brief pause. Are you sure you'll all right?
What is that supposed to mean? I said I was, didn't I?
You're joking about rope bondage. Laughing it off. Are you feeling defensive?
I stare at the screen incredulously. No. I'm fine.
I bet it was hard, letting me blindfold you. And then having to hold your hands so far out of the way. Did you feel very vulnerable, Kelly, opening yourself up to me? Were you afraid that I'd take advantage of you?
My mouth goes dry. I don't respond. But apparently he's not finished typing, because the computer beeps again.
What if I tied you up? What would you feel then?
“Oh God,” I say aloud, startling Garfield, who's creeping on his way to his cat dish.
I can't believe we're discussing this on Facebook! AHH
Why? Nobody else has access to your account, right?
No, but that's not the point!
Part of me wants to close the chat window. But I don't quite dare. And I'm curious to see what he says next.
You said you wanted to submit to me. That means you submit to me not just physically, but also with regard to my judgment. Why does bondage make you so uncomfortable?
It's different.
And?
I'm afraid.
Yes, I know. Of what?
I don't want to get hurt.
There's another pause, longer this time.
I'd be a shit Master if I let my sub get hurt.
There's more than one way to hurt someone, tho.
How do you think I'm going to hurt you, Kelly?
I think he's going to break my heart.
Kelly?
I g2g.
I sign out, change out of the clothes I wore out with the girls and into my jammies. Then I open the XXX.doc and stare at it for a few minutes. It seems a bit silly now; I can't think of anything new to add.
With a sigh, I close the document and crawl into bed. Garfield hops in after me, and I hold up the sheet, making room for him to curl up beside me. Then I fall asleep.
I wake up to a pounding on my door and my phone ringing. I answer with a bleary, “Hello?”
“Open the door.”
What is he doing here? “What are you doing here?” I look at the clock. “God, it's, like, 8 P.M.”
“Open the door and let me in.”
Should I?
As I peer through the peep-hole, I wonder if this is one of those situations where I ought to call the police. Boyfriend goes on murderous rampage. Kills idiotic twenty-five-year-old. But he doesn't look angry. He looks worried.
That sounds exactly like what an idiotic twenty-five-year-old's last thoughts would be.
Hoping I'm not making a big mistake, I open the door and he bursts in without waiting for permission—although I guess opening it in the first place signified implied consent.
“Don't ever do that to me again,” he says. “When I ask you questions like that, I expect an answer. You are not allowed to shut me out and ignore me. If you do that, we cannot have a relationship together. Do you understand?”
I look down at the phone and realize I have about five text messages and three missed calls. All from him. I look back up at him, and start to understand.
“I was asleep.”
“And I was worried,” he growls at me. “You're telling me how nervous you are, how frightened, and that you're afraid I'm going to hurt you. Then you disappear and I can't get a hold of you—what the hell am I supposed to think?”
My back hits the wall. “I…I'm sorry.”
“Are you?” Tristan walks forward, boxing me in, but he doesn't touch me. He can be plenty dominating with his presence alone. “I don't think you are.”
I go back to feeling scared again. He towers over me, and he's very strong. When he pinned down my wrists, I couldn't move them at all. It occurs to me that, if he really wanted to hurt me, he could. Easily.
I don't want to think about him like this, I really don't, but it's hard not to, when I'm wearing my thin ribbed tank top and boxers, and he's standing there looking so scary.
Maybe I shouldn't have let him in.
“I am sorry. Really.” I wet my lips. “I could…show you,” I venture hesitantly, reaching for his pants.
Tristan grabs my wrist and holds it against the wall, and I start to veer towards terrified. “This isn't a scene,” he says. “This is me, trying to figure out what you want.”
Not a scene. Not assault. He's just trying to keep me from touching his cock. “You're scaring me,” I whisper.
“I'm sorry.” His eyes find me in the dark, and he relaxes his grip on my wrist, although he does not let go. “I did not mean to do that. But I need to know what you want.”
“I want—” what do I want? “I want a relationship with you.” I gulp. “I want to be exclusive. I don't…I don't want to be just another notch in your bedpost.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he says, when I start crying.
Tristan releases my arm, and pulls me against him. He embraces me tightly, then steers me to the table, where I sit blotting my eyes with a paper towel while he brews some tea. He puts the steaming Grumpy Cat mug in front of me and stands there with his arms folded.
“Take a sip.”
“It's too hot.”
“Then blow on it.”
I blow on the tea and take a tiny sip.
“First of all, the women I choose to sleep with are not notches in my bedpost. Just because I choose not to fuck and tell doesn't mean I don't respect them. I do. Just like I respect you. And you will respect that.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Second of all, if you get this upset, I want you to let me know immediately in
stead of freaking out about it and doing all this passive-aggressive avoidance bullshit.”
I take another sip of tea. He chose the chamomile and it's starting to make me feel pleasantly warm and sleepy.
“No passive-aggressive avoidance bullshit,” I mumble.
Tristan sighs and kneels down next to me. “For the last time,” he says, very firmly, “is this really what you want?”
“Yes.”
“Stop saying 'yes.' I want to hear you say it.”
“I want to be your submissive. I want to submit to you in all ways, and not just physically or sexually. I want you to—to fuck me.” I stare at my tea. “It's just so much.”
He cups my face in his hands. “It's okay to be afraid.”
And then he kisses me, chastely, on the mouth.
“Next time,” he says, “we'll set some boundaries. I thought starting slow might be best in your case, but maybe if I start treating you like an actual submissive you'll find yourself slipping into the role more easily.”
“I think you're a good Dom,” I say sleepily.
Tristan chucks me under the chin. “You wouldn't know.”
“Soon, though.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “But not now.” He kisses me again, but this time it is far less innocent. Both of us are breathing harder when he pulls away. “Finish your tea,” he says. “And don't forget to lock your front door.”
And then, with a click of the latch, he is gone.
Chapter Six
Last night seems so surreal—Tristan blowing into my apartment like a whirlwind—Tristan wrapping me in his arms like he was afraid to let go—Tristan kissing me.
I was so afraid when he burst in like that, because I didn't know what he'd do, but his words were so gentle and concerned that they put me immediately at ease. It's hard to rectify the two images: Dominant Tristan and best friend Tristan. The line between them has become so blurred.
My phone buzzes, and this time I check it immediately. It's from Tristan. Want to have lunch?
As soon as I read his words, I realize that I do want to see him, in spite of my misgivings. I want to make sure he's okay with everything that happened. That will mean that everything is okay with me, too.
I'd love to.
Good. Where?
I come up blank. You pick.
Be ready in 15.
Fifteen minutes isn't a lot of time to get ready.
I pace back and forth in front of my closet, selecting items and then discarding them. What should I wear? Something sexy? Something casual? Something fancy?
I can almost imagine what he'd say. “Just be yourself.”
Easier said than done. I spend so much time and effort manufacturing my identity, sometimes I don't even know who I really am anymore.
I decide to go with one of my MLP shirts. Because I wore one on the day that I told him how I really felt, which makes it feel lucky, and because this one—the purple one—has a low-cut sweetheart neckline. When I wear it with my Victoria's Secret push-up bra, it makes my breasts look a full cup-size bigger. I tug on a pair of jeans with worn-out knees and quickly put on a dusting of light makeup.
I look pretty good, I think.
Tristan rings my bell exactly fifteen minutes later. I know, because I keep compulsively checking my phone. I peer through the peephole while I tug my hair into a ponytail. He's wearing a gray rugby shirt with cobalt khakis. One of his hands is shoved into his pocket as he looks at something on his phone. He's wearing his glasses; they make him look almost deceptively innocent, more like a graduate student than a Dom.
I open the door and smile up at him. “Hello.”
“Hey.” He shoves his phone back into his pocket. He looks tired, like he didn't sleep very well last night, which makes me feel guilty. Because I know at least part of his sleeplessness is my fault.
“I'm just gonna grab my shoes, okay?” I say, as I slip on my flats, looking around nervously for Garfield. He has a thing about the door—namely that if it's open, he'll make a beeline for it, and I'll have to chase him around the complex. He appears to be hiding, though. Thank God.
“Kelly.”
I glance at him over my shoulder. “Yes?”
“Wear your hair down when we go out.”
“Like this?” I pull out the scrunchie, letting the dark strands fall around my face. My hair is frizzy, because of the humidity, and I comb my fingers through it to tame it.
“Just like that.” He steps back to let me lock the door. “I was thinking Japanese.”
“That sounds great. I love sushi.”
“I know you do.”
Is that why he picked it?
When we get to his car, he opens my door for me. I laugh and slide in, and say, “Well, thank you, sir.”
“'Sir' is one of the most common names subs use for their Masters,” he says, when he gets into the driver's seat. He glances at me. “Did you know that, Kelly?”
“No.” I buckle my seatbelt. “No, I did not.”
“I should make you call me Sir,” he says to himself.
A sexy, upbeat dance song starts playing when he turns on the engine, like something you'd expect to hear in a club. Or during a sex scene in a movie.
“Who is this? I don't think I've ever heard of them.”
“Probably not, they're from Norway.” He turns up the stereo. “They're called Donkeyboy.”
“Is that anything like a pony girl?”
“I don't know,” he says. “Maybe you should ask them.”
I pick up his iPod and start scrolling through the songs while he drives. Tristan makes playlists obsessively, for pretty much everything. There's even one on there called “Kelly,” which he made specifically because I was always commandeering his music whenever we carpooled.
“What's St. Andrew's Cross?” I ask.
Some asshole in a Mercedes almost hits us and Tristan lays on the horn. “I deejayed at a BDSM dungeon for a while. That's my playlist. Fucker,” he says of the other car.
I scroll through the list of bands. There's a lot of Britney Spears, Depeche Mode, and Enigma, and hard rock songs from the seventies and eighties. I play “Infinity” by The XX. The moody downtempo song fits in perfectly with the foggy San Francisco backdrop.
Tristan parks in a parking garage and the two of us start walking. I'm surprised and pleased when he laces his fingers through mine. His touch sends sparks shooting up my fingertips and straight into my heart.
He stops outside a place called Hana Hana and I'm disappointed when he pulls his hand away. “This is it.”
“Oh! I've heard about this place. It's supposed to have an amazing happy hour.”
“It's quiet, too,” he says. “Secluded. Perfect for a private discussion, I thought.”
I gulp. “I suppose we do have a lot of things to talk about.”
“Yes, we do.” He wraps his arm around my waist, which is even better than the hand-holding. “I forgot to mention. I like your breasts in that top.”
“Thanks.” I blush—but why am I embarrassed? I wanted him to notice. “I like your glasses.”
“Most people say I look better without them,” he says, amused.
“People say the same thing about my shirts,” I grumble.
“I'd have to agree with that.”
I hit him on the shoulder. “Pervert.”
“You don't know the half of it.” He skirts his fingers under the hem of my shirt and tickles me. I try to slap him away, and he grabs my wrist and tickles me harder.
“No! Stop it!” I can't stop laughing. “Tristan!”
He tips me backwards, leaving me very prone, with only his arm for support. The way he's holding me, it's like we're going to start waltzing down the street at any moment.
“Your breasts jiggle when you laugh like that.”
“Fuck you.”
His expression is unrepentant as he sets me on my feet and smacks my ass. “I might just take you up on that.”
“Shh! Peo
ple are staring.”
It's true. Our tussle outside the restaurant is drawing some furtive looks. Some look disapproving. A few are clearly trying not to smile. Some aren't trying at all.
“That, I can't have. Looks like I'll have to make like the Illuminati and do a cover-up.” He whips his coat out from under his arm and slings it around my shoulders.
“You are such a freak.” I yank the coat off and throw it at him. “It's too hot for that.”
Tristan's eyes go back to my breasts as we walk towards the door. “It's kind of weird,” he says. “That pony's eye is right where I'm pretty sure your nipple is.”
I have the urge to fold my arms over my chest. “Oh my God, what are you, fourteen?”
“No. I was worse when I was fourteen. I'd be trying to dry-hump your leg with a boner.”
“Please don't say 'boner' in public. You weren't that bad.”
“Well,” he says. “Maybe not around you.”
A bell tinkles overhead, putting a momentary end to the conversation. The waiter is this really cute Asian guy who looks a bit like Lee Min Ho. He greets us with a cheery sumimasen. “How many? Two?”
“Yes—and can we get a booth please?”
“Sure,” he says, bowing his head.
The Lee Min Ho-lookalike seats us in the back, and the low lighting gives the place an intimate feel. It seems too cosy for a dinner between friends. Does that mean this is a date? Is Tristan my boyfriend? He acts like it, but so far our relationship seems like it's based more on sex than actually going out and pursuing our common interests.
But maybe he's trying to change that?
Tristan scans his menu, and then sets it aside. “You order for me,” he says. “Apparently I'm not very 'adventurous' when it comes to fine dining.”
It takes me a moment to realize that he's referring to what I said at the Tapioca Barn. “I can't believe I said that.” I duck my head. “How ironic.”
“It was certainly very amusing.”
Yeah, maybe to him.
When the waiter comes back, pen and pad at the ready, I order a bowl of wakame as an appetizer, two bowls of miso soup, two salads with wasabi dressing, sake maki, an oshinko roll, and the “hana roll”—a specialty roll that has salmon, scallions, avocado, masago, and unagi sauce drizzled over spicy mayo. It sounds amazing.
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