by Lulu Astor
I would lick my lips if I had any saliva left in my mouth. It evaporated the moment after it tried to choke me. He’s not saying anything, a situation that I always find completely unnerving. It’s up to me to defuse the situation.
“Ian! Why didn’t you let me know you were coming home early? I expected you tomorrow morning.”
“Clearly,” he says, not moving a muscle.
“Is there a problem?”
“You tell me, Ella. Do you have a problem?”
“No, I don’t. Do you?”
“My only problem of the moment is you.”
“Why?” I ask, genuinely confused as to his anger with me. What did I do?
He finally unfurls his arms, stands up straight, and walks over to me, his long legs closing the distance in three strides. “Why? Why.” He says the second interrogative rhetorically with a bitter little laugh. “For one thing, your phone was ringing and you weren’t answering it. I picked it up the second time and saw there was a text message from someone named Michael. Who is Michael? I didn’t want to read your personal messages so I’m left to wonder. My imagination is taking me to unfriendly places, Ella.”
“What are the other things?”
“Other things?”
“You said, for one thing, implying there are others. What are the others?”
“You didn’t answer your phone when I called last night either, so I’ve been worried. Also, Mason told me you shook him off when you went out last evening with Mariah. More stress for me. I’ve been standing here debating the wisdom of dragging you by the hair into the dungeon where I could properly punish you for your multiple transgressions.”
I rub my eyes again. “Ian, I didn’t mean to lose Mason last night; in fact, I’m trying to get him and Mariah together. But we couldn’t find him when we were ready to leave so…” I shrug. “I apologize. And Michael is the old friend I told you I was planning to meet. He’s just a friend, nothing more. Dragging me to the dungeon is not a good idea, FYI, unless you’re interested in a swift yet crippling kick to the groin along the way. If it’s any consolation, you’ve given me stress, too.”
No humor at my remark registers on his face… at all. He is really pissed off. His voice is deadly soft when he asks, “How is that?”
“Whatever you’re keeping from me, Ian. And whatever happened with Natasha that you’re not telling me. And the fact that you insist I take Mason with me wherever I go when supposedly everything’s been resolved.”
“Fair enough. Let’s go reconcile our differences in the dungeon.”
“No. That’s not smart. Sex is supposed to be loving and fun, not a way to vent aggression.”
“What’s wrong with occasionally employing it as an outlet for aggression? No one gets hurt, not really.”
“I don’t like it, that’s why.”
He gets closer to me, leans down; he’s in my face as he whispers, “Liar. You, Ariel Strong, love it. You love it when I tie you up, torment you, tease you, tickle you, and ultimately, fuck you till you scream. How long will you continue to deny it?”
My respiration is speeding up. I haven’t even had coffee yet but at this point, I probably don’t need any. Is he right? Do I love it? My body is reacting in a way that doesn’t please me: it’s contradicting my words. I can say I don’t like it, but he can tell I do by my body’s response. Am I some kind of masochistic pervert?
“What are you going to do?” I ask, voice barely audible.
His eyes bore into me; right now they’re the color of a roiling sea. “I never divulge my evil plans, Ella.”
When I don’t respond, he wraps his hands around my throat and kisses me, squeezing slightly to assert his domination. Should I go for it or tell him no?
“Okay,” I finally croak out, “but no dragging by the hair.”
He stands straight. “Agreed. You know the drill once we’re inside.”
“Okay, but first I have to brush my teeth.”
As we walk to the room, I contemplate the dynamics of our relationship. When Ian is feeling the need to dominate me, he creates reasons to justify it. He’s not really angry with me. He may have been worried but he’s had far worse worries of late. It seems to me he’s manufactured issues so he could get me into this room and do things to me.
In a moment of penetrating insight, I realize that I too must need the justification. My sense of self requires that I pretend I’m doing it to satisfy Ian’s needs, not my own. For in admitting I like to be dominated sexually, I feel like I’m acknowledging an irrefutable weakness. And that is an admission I find nearly impossible to concede.
The room is early-morning dark and cool, and my skin shrinks in protest when I remove my clothes and kneel. My eyes are cast down so I’m unable to see what he’s doing, but my ears tell me that drawers are opening and closing, and his footfalls are heavy across the hardwood floor. After a few moments his shoes—beautiful Italian leather—come into my view. “Stand,” he says and helps me up by the arm.
I keep my head down, wondering what he’s planning. I don’t wonder long, though, for he immediately begins to buckle cuffs on my wrists and ankles. “Come,” he says when he’s done, and leads me over to a round cushioned piece of furniture. It looks like a hugely oversized ottoman and he tells me to climb onto it on my hands and knees.
Every time I obey a command, I can feel him watching me closely. Is he trying to unnerve me or appraise my mood and level of anxiety? He’s left me in this position for at least five minutes without saying or doing anything. At one point, he comes over and using the toe of his shoe pushes my legs open wider without saying a single syllable.
“We’ve explored this before: I’m going to render you helpless, take away your sight and sound. Any commands will be relayed by touch. It requires a high level of trust but I think we have it by now. Do you trust me completely, Ella?”
Without hesitation, I answer in the affirmative.
“Let’s give it a try. First, your sight.” He slips the black satin blindfold over my head and tightens it till it’s snug. “Now, your hearing,” and I feel the cushioned earpieces descend over my ears and the room falls deathly still for me except for the deafening sound of my own respiration. Taking my left wrist, he pulls it back and clips it to my left ankle. My balance is precarious at this point but he gently grasps my shoulders and lowers me to the ottoman thing. I rest my left cheek on the soft fabric as he tethers my right wrist to my other leg.
If losing your sight heightens your other senses, then losing both sight and hearing makes the sense of touch incredibly vital. I feel everything keenly: the warm slightly callused skin of his hands dancing on my backside, the ends of his fingernails, clipped short though they are, skating lightly up my thighs, his satiny lips brushing my skin—everything. I’m practically quivering in anticipation of the hard stuff. One piece of the hard stuff in particular.
From one moment to the next I cannot predict his position. Sometimes it seems he’s in front of me but a half-second later, he’s behind me. It’s as if there are three of him, coming at me from all angles. Though he hasn’t touched me in the places that count, I feel an inexorable shift toward an orgasm.
Suddenly, a hundred pings of sensation hit my shoulders, proceeding up my back, and down my rear, my thighs, calves, ankles. A flogger.
The pings get sharper, more painful but in such tiny gradations as to be almost imperceptible. I know it’s pain now but I can’t tell how we got there. This is the punishment part.
When it gets so sharp I’m about to tell him, it begins to wind down. His hands run over me again, soothing the bite of the flogger. Nice and easy, I drift toward a dreamy trance until his fingers find my nips and pinch—hard. I rear back but find I cannot move my body but for an inch or two. It’s still too much for him so he knees my legs out wider. Now I have no purchase to move at all.
Pain, pleasure. Pain, pleasure. It continues for a long time, until I’m panting. Tears are running down my face from the ex
tremes and he pushes into me without any advance notice. Empty one second, full to bursting the next. The detail I notice most is his body heat: his body is on fire and it’s igniting mine. I come so fast that it takes me unaware.
He rips off the headphones and begins to whisper in my ear. Dirty words he’d never say otherwise—filthy, even. The heat ratchets up again, degree by degree. I want to see him, touch him but he’s like a phantom lover. At least I can hear him, his ragged breathing, his sounds of exertion, flesh slapping flesh, my moans layered with his growls.
I’m climbing a mountain, frantically chasing an orgasm that is tantalizingly just out of my reach. Beads of sweat race down my back, slip down my neck toward my head, following the incline of my body. He slaps my backside so hard, I see white and the orgasm comes crashing upon me like a rogue wave. I hear him grunt as he slides into his own satisfaction.
I don’t think I can move ever again.
The building is a beautiful example of Art Deco architecture. Daniel told Ian it was constructed shortly after the famed Woolworth building, both in Lower Manhattan, and the design borrowed heavily from it. This one was not a skyscraper, however: it was a five-story limestone building, a former warehouse, now turned into giant lofts. The wedding is being held on the top floor, and includes the roof deck. At 62 degrees, it’s chilly for an outdoor event but Ian says it’s sure to have heaters, plus I’m wearing a silk wrap.
The cocktail hour is almost at a close when we arrive late due to our delayed flight, so we order drinks first and then look around. Daniel is nowhere to be seen but Ian spots a few people he knows and we gravitate toward them. One of them is Jackson Delacroix, the man who introduced Ian and Daniel.
“Mr. Blackmon, fancy meeting you here,” Jackson grins as he walks toward us to close the distance. “And, of course, the lovely Mrs. Blackmon-to-be. Hello, Ella.”
“Jackson,” I greet him, forcing a smile. Despite everything that’s ensued since that first fateful phone call he made to me, I still can’t seem to entirely shake the feeling that he’s an adversary.
“Glad you two made it in time for the ceremony. It’s slated to begin in,” he glances at the elegant timepiece on his wrist, “eight minutes. Think Daniel is nervous?”
With a mischievous smile on his face, Ian says nothing in response. I jump in. “I’m sure everyone is nervous when he or she marries. It’s the nature of the beast.”
“Aha, so you admit marriage is beastly.”
I smile sweetly. “It’s a revered institution… if you like living in an institution.”
“Ha! Ian, you’ve got a live one here. Yes, Ella, I think you’ve nailed it. Marriage is an institution. Glad I’m divorced.”
Tastefully suited ushers come to guide and escort the guests into the room where the ceremony is to be held. As it is nondenominational, a chapel isn’t required. The padded antique pews are arranged in a semi-circle so everyone will be afforded a view of the bride and groom and there are white candles and flowers all around the room. While the reverend stands waiting, his back to the gathered guests, everyone is swiftly seated. I watch the rear, anxious for a glimpse of the bride. I’ve never met Olivia, even when I was staying at her home, but Ian has, and he told me she is exceptionally beautiful—but I expected no less from looking at Daniel.
Speaking of Daniel, he now enters the room and every female eye is on him instantly. He looks so tall, his carriage perfectly erect, and his face devoid of any emotion. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen any emotion on Daniel’s face. He is wearing a tuxedo that I wouldn’t mind seeing on Ian at our wedding: it’s silk, cut with narrow lapels, and fitted to accent his long legs and broad shoulders. In a word, or maybe two, Daniel looks spectacular.
Just behind Daniel is a tall, bearded redheaded guy who is likely his best man, followed by an elegant, middle-aged couple—I think they’re Daniel’s parents. A moment or two behind them come yet another pair: I almost can’t unglue my eyes from them to look for the bride. The man is tall and darkly gorgeous—black hair, tanned complexion, and light eyes—and the woman shines in contrast, blond and athletically beautiful. Ian leans over to whisper in my ear.
“That’s Derek Girardi, the sculptor and Olivia’s father. The woman next to him must be Olivia’s mother.”
I tear my eyes away to look at Ian. “Isn’t she his wife?”
He shakes his head. “They’re divorced. His current wife is an Ethiopian model…” he gestures with his chin, “that’s her over there, seated in the first row. Daniel tells me Girardi’s splitting with her and going back to Olivia’s mother. Interesting, eh?”
“Like a soap opera.” I look again. The man guides his companion to her seat in the front row and exits. Now everyone is seated, the room is hushed, and the strains of music waft through the room, floating on the air currents. I feel as if I’m in a dream. Everyone is beautiful here: the parents, the guests, the room itself… I want my wedding to have a similar feel.
The music picks up volume and tempo as the bride appears. She’s holding onto her father’s arm, almost leaning into him and her nervousness is palpable. Olivia is so young, but Ian didn’t lie: she is simply stunning. Against the white dress, her complexion is golden and her light blue eyes emerge prominently in contrast. My eyes are drawn immediately to her gown. Is it nicer than mine? I think it’s a Vera Wang and the design suits her age, figure, and coloring perfectly—sexy yet demure.
As they pass by us, I get a closer look. Damn, her father is hot. What must it be like to have a father who is as young and good-looking as your boyfriend or husband? Must be beyond bizarre.
Now I realize what’s different: the reverend has his back to us and Daniel is facing the guests. Brilliant. We can watch the bride and groom instead of the officiating reverend. Why don’t all weddings do that?
Derek Girardi escorts his daughter up the aisle and then around the reverend, placing her at Daniel’s side. He takes Olivia’s hand in one of his and reaches for Daniel’s hand with the other. About to place her hand in her new husband’s, her father first kisses Olivia’s fingers, and then kisses them again. At the fourth or fifth kiss, he says in a voice loud enough for many to hear, “I don’t want to give you away,” and a titter of laughter snakes through the front rows. Then he finally does, putting the couple’s hands together and saying something inaudible to Daniel. Daniel merely nods solemnly in response.
Ten minutes later, the ceremony is over. It was a beautiful wedding, short and sweet, and I adored it. Now, finally, I can see emotion in Daniel’s visage: he is beaming the most radiant smile I’ve ever seen—it could electrify the city of Manhattan. I suppose he truly loves his new wife.
We have a total blast, helped along by copious amounts of top-shelf alcohol. Jackson and his date prove to be more than entertaining and Ian chats with another man he knows through business dealings. Daniel and Olivia come over to greet us when we separate from the others. Seeing them up close and personal doesn’t at all diminish their beauty.
“Ian,” Daniel says, then signals a waiter holding a tray with glasses of champagne and the man rushes to accommodate him.
“Daniel, congratulations. Beautiful wedding, by the way.”
“Thank you. Hello, Ella. I’d like you to meet my wife, Olivia. Olivia, this is Ella, Ian’s fiancée.”
“Oh, hello. It’s so nice to meet you finally, Ella. I’m sorry I kept missing you when you were in New York. Thank you for coming so far to share the day with us. We very much appreciate it.”
I give her my biggest and best smile. “”Hopefully, you’ll be able to attend ours, too. And I’m so glad we were able to make it here because this wedding is magnificent and I wouldn’t want to have missed it.
One by one, Daniel takes the crystal flutes of champagne from the tray, handing a glass to each of us and thanking the waiter.
“Ian, I believe we agreed to toast a glass of champagne to yet another coupling?”
There’s the Ian smirk as he lifts his g
lass. “Yes, I recall. To happy endings.”
The four of us tilt our glasses to the center and sip the champagne. It is an excellent vintage.
“What kind of champagne are we drinking?” I ask, after swallowing that first silken sip.
Daniel and Ian look at each other, smile, and say in perfect unison, “Dom Perignon.”
I’m confused as to how Ian knew it was DP with one sip, but it seems to be an inside joke between the men.
Daniel cranes his neck to catch a glance at someone passing by. “Oh, lest I forget. Ian, I promised to introduce you to Derek. Hang on.” He signals his father-in-law as he’s passing by. “Derek? May I introduce you to a friend?”
The man smiles and joins us. Damn, I’m surrounded by startlingly handsome men. I must have done something to please the gods recently. The past year or so I’ve been lucky beyond measure in that regard.
“Derek, this is Ian Blackmon. Ian, Derek Girardi. The lovely young lady next to him is Ella Strong, his fiancée.”
Derek bestows upon us a smile that would make most women drop their panties at his first request, and everyone exchanges handshakes and pleasantries.
“Derek, Ian has been diligently trying to acquire one of your smaller pieces to no avail.”
“Oh? Thank you for supporting my work, Ian.”
Ian nods, smiling while Daniel continues, “I was hoping you might help him procure one of the pieces that you hold back, Derek.”
The older man nods his head. “I happen to have some earlier, more diminutive works in my studio. If you and Ella have time during your stay in New York, you’re more than welcome to drop by and see if there’s anything to your liking.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Girardi. I will certainly do so.”