My mother told me that guys would continue to cheat on me if I didn't put out. But I was so afraid. It felt more like a chore than a passion, and when I finally did let a boy touch me, it was as sexy as a visit to the gynecologist's. I thought I was broken inside, that there was something wrong with me. But maybe…I just hadn't been with the right person?
I've been with Tristan less than a week, and even though I'm still a virgin, I know he doesn't plan on keeping me that way for long. We've done more things than a lot of non-virgins have.
I run my hands over my breasts, pinching the nipples the way I think Tristan would, and then slide my fingers into the waistband of my pajama pants.
He's awakening something in me. Desires I didn't even know I had. Energizing my fantasies, and kindling my imagination into a fiery inferno of sizzling lust.
As I bring myself to orgasm, I imagine myself tied up and gagged. He runs a leather flogger up my belly and uses it to prop up my chin so he can kiss me. When our lips touch, he smacks my thigh, and my scream is in my throat, but I can't let it out, because if I do, he'll only punish me more. And I know he's going to do everything he can to break me.
Because I glanced over those sheets, and I have an idea of what he wants to do to my body.
Pleasure and pain.
Agony and ecstasy.
Passion and torment.
I gasp. My fingers are covered in clear, sticky fluid. I get out of bed and change my underwear, tossing the soiled ones in the hamper, and then wash my hands.
I suppose the real question here is, if he does break me, will I be able to put myself back together again? Or will I be left there, to be scattered among the winds?
Chapter Eight
I go through Tristan's list—really go through it—the next day. I'm prepared. I have a fresh mug of coffee and the three high-lighters he gave me lined up beside the thin stack of papers like I'm about to go to war. My laptop is propped against the table-leg, in case I need to look anything up.
I can do this.
It takes three hours to go through every item on the list. He must have had a lot of sex. The thought makes me uncomfortable—was it with a few select women, or was he undiscerning in his choice of partner?
When I text Tristan to tell him that I've finished with his assigned homework, he tells me that he wants to meet up to discuss it.
I'll order takeout, he adds. From All Thai'd Up.
Ha ha. Very funny.
He sends me a winky-face.
My cell bleeps again, and I automatically assume that it's Tristan having the last word on top of his last word, but this time it's Kayla, which surprises me. I've barely thought about her at all these last few days.
R u still alive? Haven't seen u on FB in days. U ok??
Apparently, she's been thinking plenty about me.
Fine! Sorry. I'll try 2 get on. Bn super busy.
U free 2 talk?
Yes.
She calls immediately. I pick up on the first ring.
“Kelly,” she says, “what the hell? Where have you been? I sent you four Facebook messages. You haven't looked at any of them.”
I take a moment to curse that Facebook feature that allows people to see when you've actually read their messages, replete with time stamp. Who thought that was a good idea? I mean, really.
“I'm sorry,” I say again. “I've just been so busy.”
“With Tristan?”
I don't respond.
“Kelly,” she says gently, “I know you've been in love with this guy, like, forever—and believe me, I am so, so happy for you—but don't let him take advantage of you. Sometimes people take advantage of someone's affection because they know that it will lead to sex.”
I don't like this. It's like Kayla has heard that secret voice inside my head whispering that this whole situation is too good to be true and the two of them have been conspiring against me. I wonder what Kayla would be saying if she knew what Tristan and I have really been doing.
No, on second thought, I know exactly what she'd say: Kelly, run the other way.
“Everything's fine.”
Is it?
“Like I said, I've just been really busy.”
“Have you two had sex?” she asks bluntly.
“What? No!” I'm startled to answering honestly. Semi-honestly. Not penetrative sex, anyway. “And even if we did, that's none of your business!”
“One of his ex-girlfriends is friends with my little sister,” Kelly continues, “and when I told her you and Tristan were tentatively dating, Rachel told me some pretty fucked up stories about what her friend did with your Tristan.”
My breathing stops. “What?”
“Don't freak. Okay?”
Oh, I'm already freaking.
“She says that Tristan used to choke her—strangle her—until she almost passed out.”
I know this is true, because “breath control” was one of the items on Tristan's list. I put it as one of my green no's, by the way. The idea of that terrifies me.
“She also said that he would rub her skin with sandpaper until it was raw for days, and stick needles into her skin. Including her nipples. Her nipples, Kelly. Oh my God, I almost threw up in my mouth.”
I'm feeling a little nauseous myself.
“He hasn't tried anything like that with you?”
“I have to go,” I say stiffly. I've just gotten a text from Tristan that says, I'm here.
“Kelly, please be careful.”
I hang up on her. Then I go out to meet Tristan. But like Tristan, Kayla just has to have the last word.
Guard your nipples.
“Hey.” Tristan checks out my face and immediately realizes that something is wrong. “What's wrong?”
“Kayla called.” He knows Kayla. They were sort of friends in middle school, but inexplicably drifted apart in high school. I won't pretend I wasn't secretly glad.
“How is Kayla?” he says agreeably.
“She told me something interesting.” He glances at me but doesn't appear to realize anything is up. “She said that her sister is friends with one of your exes.”
Now he looks wary. “Oh? Which one?”
“The one whose nipples you used as pincushions!”
“Fuck.” He glances at me again, looking as if he wants to take me in his arms. But he keeps his hands on the wheel instead of touching me. “I know who she's talking about.”
“So it's true?” I squawk.
“Mostly.” His face is grim as he stares ahead. “I met her at St. Andrew's Cross when I was twenty-two. She had a reputation. I didn't know that when she asked me to top for her. Not even when she made some very bizarre requests for our contract.”
“What sorts of bizarre requests?”
“Some people get off on pain,” he says tonelessly. “Lots of pain. Sometimes, they want pain during sex, but just as often, sex has nothing to do with it. It's about the endorphin rush.”
The body's natural opiates.”
“Kayla's sister's friend is a painslut. She's hooked on her own endorphins, the high that she gets from pain. She wanted me to stick her with needles, yes. Which I did, reluctantly, because she begged me, and because she never, ever said her safeword.”
He closes his eyes briefly when we pull up at a red light.
“She also wanted me to burn her, cut her, put out cigarettes on her skin. One time she came in with a taser and asked me to use it on her. I refused. It's illegal to assault someone with a stun gun, and I didn't want to go to jail. Plus, the effects are so intense, so concentrated, within such a limited span of time, especially on bare skin, that there was no way she would have been able to change her mind if the pain became too much.”
“Holy shit,” I say.
“I ended up reporting her to the Dungeon Monitor because I was so concerned. She was later kicked out of St. Andrew's—not for that, necessarily, but because she had a habit of harassing the Doms who wouldn't give in to her demands and advances.
Stalking them, taunting them, interrupting their scene. That sort of thing. There were…many complaints.”
“I imagine.”
“I have limits,” he says. “Long answer to your question is that I'm not overly fond of edgeplay. I've had some subs in the past who were, and while I respect that, the experience will not be repeated on my end. Short answer to your question is that I'm not planning on doing any harm to you or your breasts.”
“That's a relief.”
He parks in his parking space and quickly walks around the car so he can open my door. “It was wrong of Kayla to scare you like that,” he says. “I'm glad she looks out for you, but she shouldn't have dropped a bomb like that without diffusing it first. That's just cruel.”
“I think she was freaking out.”
“Even so. Participating in the BDSM scene does not make me some kind of sex criminal—nor you a victim.”
When he opens the door, the smell of Thai food assails us. My stomach growls loudly.
When we are inside the apartment and the door is closed firmly behind us, he adds, “I would like to try some milder tit torture with you, if you're willing.”
I'm aware of my nipples tingling against my bra. “I think I put that as a maybe,” I say faintly.
“Do you have the list with you?”
“Yes. It's right here.” I reach into my purse and pull out the typed-up sheets. With all the ribbons of color, it looks like a preschool art project.
“Colorful,” Tristan remarks. He sets the papers beside his plate. He serves me first, giving me a generous helping of beansprouts and rice noodles, and in spite of my protests, most of the shrimp.
After he serves himself, he takes a bite of the noodles and picks up the list. He scans over it quickly, almost insultingly quickly considering how much time it took me to highlight. Then he sets it aside.
“Well,” he says. “That's surprising.”
A pang shoots through my stomach. “What is?”
He sucks a wayward noodle into his mouth. “What changed your mind on the clamps and the floggers? You were so averse to them at first.”
“When I researched them…it said that there were different kinds. Different…levels of pain. And when you bit me…that felt quite nice, even though it hurt. I thought that maybe…this might feel good, too.”
I glance up at him, shyly.
“It can,” he says, noncommittal. “We can try it. I have several different kinds of clamps. The clothespin style might be best for you. It's relatively mild. The flogger is, too. I have a whip, but I bought that for a sub who actually liked it when I left marks. It might be too intense for you, though it's there if you change your mind.” He tilts his head. “You're interested in acting out a rape fantasy with me?”
I bite my lip. “I don't know.”
“Be certain. That one can be very traumatic. It takes a lot of planning and discussion beforehand. That might be one to discuss after we actually have sex.”
He shuffles the papers, and grins.
“You're willing to dress like a schoolgirl for me.”
“There's a lot of girls dressed in sailor suits at Fanime Con. Sailor Moon and all that. They looked cute.”
“I already have a costume in mind,” Tristan says, with a wicked grin. “You'll have to give me your measurements so I can order it. This one comes with an underbust corset and a matching G-string. I wouldn't call it cute.”
“What would you call it?”
“I'd call it pony girl, and I'd tell her to bend over.”
He laughs at my expression, and reaches across the table to stroke my hand. “My sweet little virgin,” he says. “It's such a pleasure to deflower you, one petal at a time.” Then he turns back to the papers. “Let's see what your hard limits are. No anal, no anal play. No clit clamps or genital torture. No pet play.”
He mock pouts.
“You mean you don't want to be my prancing little pony girl? Okay, that's fine. And we briefly discussed breath control. I didn't realize that was a no.” He folds the paper up and shoves it in his pocket. “I can work with this.”
“You're not…disappointed?”
Tristan blinks. “About what?”
“How many times I said no.”
“No, Kelly. I'm not. I'm proud of you for how many times you said yes. And quite honestly, considering your limited experience, I'd be very disturbed if you agreed to everything on this list.”
“So are we going to…do something?”
“Yes,” he says. “I'm going to take you home.”
What?
“You're mentally and emotionally exhausted,” he says. “You researched a lot of things that pushed the boundaries of what you're willing to take sexually, and then there was that scare with your friend.” Tristan frowns.
“Then why did you bring me over here?”
“Because I wanted to see you.”
“Oh.”
“Kelly, I don't have to want sex from you to want to spend time with you. We had a platonic relationship for fourteen years. I'd be a major asshole if I threw that all away just because you were willing to spread your legs for me.”
He hugs me, and he feels very warm.
“That said, I have a whole slew of things planned for that sexy body of yours on Wednesday.”
“Like what?”
“I'll give you a hint: I'm going to pick one of your pinks, and one of your oranges.”
“What should I wear?”
“Those navy shorts you think are too small on you,” he says. “The ones you claim are always giving you wedgies. I think they'd be just right without any underwear.”
He puts my arms around his neck and his arms around my waist. Then he slowly rocks us back and forth, like we're dancing in a high school gym or something. It also puts him in the perfect position to whisper in my ear.
“I also want to see you wear that white ribbed tank top. The one you were sleeping in a few days ago when I came to talk to you about our relationship. I can't get it out of my head. I want to see it with my necklace—and nothing else.” He tugs at my shirt collar. “Especially not underneath.”
I feel panicky. “That top is completely see-through.”
He rests his chin on my head. His breath tickles my ear. “I remember,” he sighs.
“Tristan, please. Don't make me wear that. Or at least let me change at your apartment or something. There's so many creepy guys who ride the bus at night. Last time, one of them stared at my chest the whole ride over. It really freaked me out. I was afraid he'd do something.”
Tristan stops rocking me back and forth. “Why didn't you call me?”
“I thought humiliation was part of the exercise.”
“Humiliation,” he says, “yes. Not fear for your personal safety. If you ever feel that unsafe again, I want you to let me know immediately.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't apologize. Your safety should come first and foremost. It's my job to take care of you, not put you in positions where you feel as if you might come to harm.”
“You are so sweet.”
“Don't say that. It shouldn't be sweet of a man to respect a woman's boundaries. It should be common sense. Sweet implies that it's a sacrifice on the man's part, an act of gargantuan selflessness. That isn't how it should be at all.”
He has a point. As a society we frequently praise men for doing nothing more than simply choosing not to be an asshole. Like not date-raping the girl he drives home. Or not punching a girl's ex in the face during a confrontation.
“You're right,” I say. “I never thought about it that way, at least not in so many words, but you're right. The inherent misogyny in that statement is mind-blowing.”
“Told you so,” he says smugly.
“Well, fine. You're a compassionate human being then.”
“The compassionate human being who's going to fuck you right out of your skin. With your consent, of course.”
“Putting the sensual into conse
nsual?” I quip.
“Mm-hmm. We could be the poster children for PC BDSM.”
“Ugh. Not children. That makes it sound all gross.”
“You did agree to play the naughty schoolgirl.”
“And what does that make you? The horny engineer?”
“Please. BDSM is supposed to be an escape into fantasy. Panting, sexually deprived code-jockeys are, unfortunately, a very grim reality—although I did see a very cool flogger on eBay made out of Cat-5 cables. I was thinking about getting it actually.”
I adopt a deep, sleazy voice, the way I imagine a porn actor would talk. “Did somebody order a modem repair?”
“Baby, I'm going to dial you up, and then penetrate the shit out of your firewall.”
“Just don't give me a virus,” I laugh. “Use safe search.”
Tristan nuzzles me. “God, I love you.”
I try not to show how much that statement affects me. “So what do I wear on Wednesday?”
“Exactly what I told you to. But don't take the bus. I'll come for you in the car.”
“Literally?”
He pinches my cheek. “Now where's the fun in that?”
Chapter Nine
Wednesday comes far too soon.
My ankles have been tied to my thighs. It's like being in stirrups. Tristan has bound my arms to his bed posts, so I'm half-reclined, half-sitting, propped up by his pillows. “Comfortable?” he wants to know.
“Yes, Sir.”
He unbuttons my shorts and slides his hand down my shorts. “Let's get you warmed up. You're wet already, but I want you swimming.”
His fingers find my clit and begin a slow massage.
“I want those shorts to rub against your swollen clit, and I want you to think about my cock when they do, and how it's going to feel inside your cunt when we fuck.”
“Are we going to fuck today, Sir?”
“Such a mouth on you. No, pony girl. But soon.”
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