My eyes trail down her body. I pause over her very full breasts, practically bursting out of the tight, little tight tank top she is wearing. Those would be beautiful pressed together with my cock sandwiched in the middle. Her waist is thin, but not overly so; her stomach flat, but soft, her hips are flared, and her thighs are thick, but muscular. Maybe she is a runner. I want to see if her ass is thick and juicy to match her tits and thighs.
This woman is fucking perfect.
I let my eyes slowly travel up her body again and then suddenly move up to her eyes, bright blue. Recognition hits me. She isn’t just some woman. She is Maggie Rogers, the widow of the man I have just replaced on the team. He was killed in a bar six months ago, accidentally caught in the middle of a freak gang rival bar fight.
I don’t know why she is in here, but I don’t care. I won’t let another man touch her. My cock and my brain both heartily agree. I always thought Maggie was beautiful. She dutifully sat in the stands at every home game, cheering for her man and sweet. Innocence has always poured off of her in waves. I stand and walk over to her, determined to keep her away from the idiots in this place. I have never spoken to her before, so I know she won’t recognize my voice, but I can’t not go to her. Something inside of me calls to her.
“Hello,” I lower my voice a touch.
“Uh… hello,” she stammers, looking wide-eyed and uneasy.
I can practically taste the innocence on her.
It is beautiful.
“You look scared,” and she does. She looks like an anxious little bunny rabbit and I love it. I want her more than I could have ever thought possible, the fearful naivete thing is working for me in a way it never has before.
“I… I have never done anything… like this before.”
I shamelessly watch as she nervously takes a big gulp of air and I can see her legs shake in her incredibly high heels. Her little skirt is in my way because I want to see those delicious thighs quake. I want to know how they would look as they grip my head right before I make her come. I shake off the image, I have to, or I will end up taking her right here and now.
“Come and sit with me. Have a glass of wine, we’ll chat,” I place my hand at the small of her back.
There is no way I am letting her out of my sight, not here, not now and possibly, not ever.
I lead her over to a private table in the back, motioning toward the bartender to take our order. Maggie is nervously wringing her hands together. I gently, but firmly, place my large hand over her tiny ones and give them a light squeeze. Those big blue eyes shoot up to mine and her beautiful plump cherry lips part in shock.
“Don’t fidget, you have no reason to be nervous. What you see around here is different but it is all consensual and nobody will touch you unless you permit it,” I inform her. She gulps in air as the bartender makes his way over to us. His name is Paulo and he is a male submissive, his eyes downcast as he asks for our order.
“Another beer for me, white wine for the lady.”
“Yes, lovely, thank you,” she whispers as Paulo nods and scurries off.
I don’t understand men who want to be dominated. It isn’t in my nature, not at all.
“What is your name, lovely?” I ask, wrapping one of her curls around my finger. I need to touch her soft hair, and it is - soft, and thick just, like I had imagined.
“Marguerite, but people call me Maggie,” she exhales.
I place my finger under her chin to raise her eyes to meet mine. I enjoy the submissive downcast eyes in the bedroom alone. In public and in conversation, I want whatever woman I am with to focus solely on me. I’m sure that makes me sound like a bit of a spoiled brat but I don’t care.
“What would you like to be called?” I ask. I watch closely as she chews on the corner of her bottom lip and I want nothing more than to pull the plump lip into my mouth and chew on it myself. She is so very tempting.
“Marguerite, I think,” she admits softly. I smile as I nod at her and she rewards me with a beautiful sight, her own returned smile. it is dazzling.
“I’m Jackson,” I say. There is no use in making up a fake name; she doesn’t know who I am and for now that is perfectly fine.
“I shouldn’t be here,” she whispers before taking a sip of her wine. I imagine her tongue tastes like the fruity drink at this exact moment and I have to bite back a groan.
“Why? If you are curious, you should see it all for yourself. Decide what you like and what you don’t like. nobody will judge you here.”
Marguerite’s nostrils flare a bit and she looks around the room, taking in all the perceived depravity. Then turns those gorgeous blues back on me, full of a fire I haven’t seen before.
“My husband died six months ago and I found out he frequented these types of clubs all over the country and had several mistresses. I came here to see what I lacked. Now I know,” she whimpers as the tears well up in her eyes and I have never hated Sammy more than I do at this exact moment. He had this beautiful, naturally submissive creature in his bed. He cheated on her and abused her submission by not valuing and nurturing it, safely.
“You lack nothing Marguerite; he was the one who lacked.”
I can’t tell for sure, but I think that the man could be gorgeous. His eyes are dark and have a depth I have never seen before. The fact that I’m fairly certain he just told me that I am not the one who lacked in the failed marriage between Sammy and I makes me feel almost good about myself. Although we obviously were married until the day he died, I now view the whole charade as completely failed. I would never know how many women Sammy took to bed while we were married; it is obvious by the look of this club that sex flows freely between people. They probably don’t even know each other’s names.
“I think he was a Dom, that was what one of his girlfriend’s told me.”
Becca has been invaluable to me. After our first conversation, I called her back to apologize. She told me exactly what Sammy had been into and where they had met. I now consider her a friend and we are both working through Sammy’s betrayal. It still hurts deeply to imagine the photos of them kissing and looking so very much in love but it wasn’t Becca’s fault and I am trying not to hold it against her, not when Sammy is the one who is deserving of all my anger. As for Vivi, I have not heard from since the initial phone call. I hope the young girl has moved on.
“He wasn’t a real man, a true Dom, or he wouldn’t have betrayed the beauty of your love or your submission. He would have nurtured your relationship, built trust and dominated you, his wife,” Jackson says, his hand cupping my cheek as his thumb strokes my bottom lip. His touch is so subtle I can hardly feel it. Sammy hardly touched me, let alone nurtured any part of me. I feel drawn to Jackson already and lean a bit more into his warm palm.
“I’m not… I couldn’t be like these women,” I say, suddenly shaking myself away from his mesmerizing touch. I can’t believe that I am just letting a stranger touch me in a place like this. Coupling that with the fact that I am so inexplicably drawn to him, a man into all of this.
I look around and focus my gaze on the woman who is strapped to some type of cross. One man’s hand is between her legs and another man is striking her back with what looks like a type of whip with a bunch of little pieces of leather. It looks excruciating. That could never be me. I would die of embarrassment. She is so exposed, her bare body entirely on display for all to see.
“Ah, Linda. Yes I must admit she is a bit much.” He chuckles and my eyes dart back to his.
“Some people like to be exposed for all to see. Some prefer the illusion of being caught and you’ll find them nestled in the dark corners, away from the spectators’ eyes. Some Dom’s want the world to see what they possess and will even allow another man to please his submissive; but just like in other parts of life, not every single person in this club has the same tastes.” I let Jackson’s words linger in my mind as I look around the room once more.
I really inspect all of the people this
time instead of the big attractions around me. There are more couples covered than exposed. Just like Jackson said, some are nestled in corners, obviously enjoying each other, but not boasting about it like Linda. A few people are also simply talking, like we are. I have seen people screw at regular clubs before, in the darkened corners and shadows, so really the only odd things are the few fully exposed and displayed people around the room.
“And you, Jackson? What about you?” I ask. It is a brave question for me.
I can feel my heart thumping in my chest. My blood is pumping furiously throughout my entire body and I can feel my center fluttering. For the first time in, probably my entire life, wetness pools between my thighs in anticipation of this strangers touch. Jackson leans in and places his lips so close to my ear I can almost feel them touching me, his breath like a caress.
“I am possessive; I might let another man see my woman, but I would never let anybody touch what is mine. My submissive would be just that… mine. Mine to touch. Mine to look at. Mine to make come. Mine to fuck,” he utters faintly into my ear and a shiver runs down my spine at his words.
I can feel my nipples harden against the thin bra I am wearing and my breath is quick and heavy. I lick my dry lips as Jackson leans away from me. His eyes are on mine, challenging, as if he is quietly asking me if I could agree to such a thing, being his to do with as he pleases.
“And where is your submissive?” I ask, my voice deeper and huskier than before.
“I haven’t collared anybody. I’m single at the moment. Would you like me to show you around before you leave?” he asks. I gulp and look straight into his dark eyes.
“Leave?” I ask, confused. I never said anything about leaving; in fact, I am enjoying his company.
“Yes, little bunny, it is getting late and there are things that occur in the darkest part of the evening that you would find undesirable; perhaps even a bit frightening. I am going to show you around, call you a cab, and send you home. Then, once you’re safely inside, you’re going to call me and we’ll talk,” he orders. I just stare at this man, a man who is giving me orders like I am bound to follow them. The kicker is that I want to follow them; I want to do what he asks just to please him, which is completely ridiculous.
“You can’t tell me what to do. Maybe I want to see what happens later.”
I don’t. I mean, I really don’t.
It all kind of scares me. The chick getting hit with that whip thingie while she’s being finger fucked is more than enough for me, considering the only man I have ever been with is my husband. I watch as Jackson’s jaw clenches and his eyes narrow from beneath his mask.
“I can’t tell you what to do… yet.” He punctuates that last word so that it hits me hard and wraps his hand around the back of my neck, tangling his fingers in my hair.
“I can, however, enlighten you that while a bit of stubbornness is well received, I am protecting you from losing your innocence.” He leans in very close to me as he says, “and that innocence is something I happen to very much like about you, Marguerite. I won’t see you shatter it for foolish pride,” he states firmly as his perfectly shaped lips touch my neck softly before he lets me go and stands up.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to the restroom and you can make your decision. If you’re still sitting here by the time I come back out, I’ll know your answer. If not, I’ll be disappointed. I think you’re lovely and I desire to know more about you.”
Jackson walks away, leaving me alone with my glass of wine, contemplating whether I want to see more kinky sex or not. Is there really any question about it? I close my eyes and down the rest of my wine, shuttering at the way the spirit suddenly assaults my senses.
“Hey there, honey,” a man murmurs, sliding into Jackson’s vacated seat.
I look over at him and try not to burst out into a fit of giggles. He is exactly what I imagined seeing when I walked into this place. He’s wearing tight leather pants that look like he’ll most likely have to cut from his body. His large belly is hanging over his tight pants and he is wearing a leather vest. To complete the look, he has a choker with silver spikes around his neck and double hoop earrings in his ears. He’s shaved his head completely bald and is smiling at me like the cat that ate the canary. He’s absolutely creepy.
“Hello.” I try to stifle my laugh, but it is so difficult.
“What is your name, baby girl?” He practically groans and I want to run. Instead, I inch away from him slightly as his finger trails up and down my arm.
“Maggie,” I admit.
“Your skin is so creamy, I would love to mark you up pretty girl,” he pants his eyes trained on my cleavage. I scrunch my nose at his words, not fully understanding them.
“How?” I ask quizzically. You know what they say about curiosity? Well, apparently I’m not the bunny Jackson thinks I am but a kitty. I can’t help but be curious about what exactly he means.
“I want to use my cat o’ nine tails all over your lily white body.” I blink once and tilt my head to the side, trying to figure out exactly what he’s talking about.
“Cats? You do stuff with cats here?” I ask completely horrified as I picture sweet little kittens being tortured.
“Marguerite,” Jackson interrupts, extending his hand to help me from my chair. His eyes are hard on mine focused and questioning.
“This man was just telling me something about cats,” I say, slipping my hand inside of Jackson’s larger, warmer one.
“Richard, she’s mine,” Jackson growls, I want to protest, but Mr. Creepy is just that - creepy.
“Come see me when you want to have some real fun, baby girl,” he says, leering at me. I shudder at his words. He winks and then ambles off of the chair and strolls away.
“What did he talk to you about?” Jackson’s voice is deep, stern and harsh.
“Something about a cat with tails. I didn’t understand,” I admit. Jackson’s hard look turns into a knowing smile.
“This is why I wanted you to leave here before it got too late. Innocence,” he breathes as his fingers slides from mine. He moves to wrap around my waist, his black eyes focus solely on me.
I search his face and know that whatever my decision is will determine whether or not we talk again. Obviously, I am as innocent as he says. If I stay, he certainly would not want anything to do with me; but if I leave, he will call me, and maybe more.
Do I want more?
From a man who frequents sex clubs?
A man I hardly know?
I had that once, with Sammy. Obviously, it didn’t work; but this is already out in the open, no hidden secrets. I now know he lives this lifestyle the question is, can I live it as well?
I like that Jackson doesn’t want to flaunt his women for everybody to touch. I couldn’t handle something like that. However, I know that he would expect sex almost immediately and that is something I’m not sure I can do either. No man other than Sammy has touched me, ever.
“If I leave and go, you’ll call me and then what? I don’t know your expectations,” I say nervously. Then he smirks and the sight is so beautiful that I step closer to him, our chests brushing against one another – well, my chest and his flat stomach. It’s a simple touch, but it sparks something deep inside of me.
Desire.
“My expectations are simple, Marguerite. I will make you mine. I will dominate you and care for you. First I think it would be nice if we got to know each other. That is, if you allow me to woo you,” his voice is so soothing and gentle that I almost don’t hear him over the bass of the music from the club - almost.
“I’m scared,” I stupidly admit. The, suddenly, his breath is on my neck, his lips slowly traveling up the side of my throat to my ear. His mouth millimeters away from touching my skin. His proximity sends surges of want and desire throughout my entire body.
“You should be, little one… you should be terrified,” he whispers. My stomach clenches, my core pulses, and my breasts become aching
ly heavy as my nipples pressing against the fabric of my satin bra yet again.
Jackson never bothers showing me the club. Instead, he walks us outside to wait for a taxi and then he takes my phone and adds his number. I am in a haze, a lust filled haze, the entire time. When the taxi eventually arrives, he pays the driver as I give him my address. Jackson takes the time to murmur that he expects a phone call as soon as I walk through my apartment door. I nod, unable to speak. It is as if my tongue is made of cement, my mouth is so dry. I blindly follow his directions, like I have no mind of my own, like my self-control has turned to mush.
“Be a good girl now,” he exhales placing his lips on my forehead before closing the taxi’s door. He knocks on the top of the car then takes a step back.
My whole body shivers at his words and I look out of the window, my eyes fixed on him.
What the hell has just happened?
I still haven’t been able to make out the rest of his face, but his eyes - I saw them and they are so beautifully black and focused completely on me. I don’t need to see the rest of him to know, deep down in my soul, that there is something there. Maybe it is just chemical, just two bodies attracted to each other, but perhaps it could be more? I never felt this way with Sammy - ever. I was always attracted to Sammy because he was a very handsome man, but we lacked a connection. Perhaps I knew that he was keeping a huge piece of himself from me and that was why we just couldn’t be together the way we should have.
I can feel guilt clawing at me, but I tamp it down. There is no way in hell I should feel guilty about contemplating moving on from my adulterer husband. I should be able to find love and happiness without guilt hanging over my head, not when I wasn’t the one lying and cheating.
“HAVE YOU LOCKED YOUR DOOR?” his voice is calm but holds an edge, an edge not to be defied. It makes me shiver.
“Yes, Jackson, the door is locked and I am turning all of the lights off and walking into my bedroom,” I admit to this stranger. My bedroom is now my sanctuary, a place that I have redecorated into a peaceful space for me.
Catching Maggie Page 3