by Liz Crowe
Like magic, I find myself on my back on the sofa and Jaz above me, my hands pinned above my head by his. Gazes locked, he licks his lips. “Think about me. Don’t think about any man but me.” Grip tightening on my wrists, he drops onto me and presses his lips to mine.
I see stars and hear bells, and I offer no resistance when his tongue presses my lips open and finds mine, stroking it, curling around it, dancing with it, while my body struggles to coerce his into an act of intense intimacy. He draws my hands down from above my head and around behind his neck, encouraging me to hang on, to pull him in, while he runs his hands down my sides until he scoops them around my ass and pulls my lower body against him. I can feel the length of his hardness against my belly, insistent and pulsing, and the sex rises off of us like fog above the water on a cold morning. I’m immersed in the gnawing desire that consumes me and threatens to take me down, and I’m lost in that kiss. That scent he wears, cedar and citrus all mixed into a warm breeze, surrounds us, and the weight of his body makes me wonder if he can feel the thrumming of my blood through my veins as my heart rate increases. God, he’s so much man in such an alarmingly handsome package that I’m not sure I can handle this, handle him, handle a relationship with him. He works his way from my mouth down the side of my jaw and on down to my neck, nipping, licking, and sucking, and I writhe with need. I manage to groan out, “Oh, god, Jaz, please?”
“Please what, babe?”
“Please. I need you. Please?”
Grinding his pelvis against mine, he nips my lower lip. “I need you too. But we’re not going there tonight. We’re going to do something a lot more intimate.” What could be more intimate than what I want to do? His lips press into mine again, and we kiss for what has to be twenty minutes, hands roaming each other’s clothes, fingers in each other’s hair. The kisses finally turn into sweet, shallow, quick ones, and then he looks down at me and grins. “Come on. We’re going to do something that will teach us a lot about each other.” He grabs his overnight bag and then takes my hand to retreat toward the bedroom.
Yeah. This is going where I want to go. At least I think it is.
“You got a robe?” I nod. “I want you to take off everything and put the robe on. I’m going into the bathroom to do the same.”
What the hell is he planning? He disappears into the bathroom and I strip off everything, then put the robe on. I think about leaving it gaping open, but I’m fairly certain that’s not what he has in mind. He comes out in his robe, three bath towels in his hands. “Come on.” I follow him as he starts back to the living room. Once there, he takes one of the towels and spreads it out in the middle of the room on the big rug. He points to it. “Have a seat.” I sit right square in the middle, but he says, “No. On one end. Facing out.” I move to the end and turn.
Once I’m situated, he sits on the other end with his back to mine, and then he hands me a towel. “You may need this. I know I will. Untie your robe and open it.” The cool air hits my nipples and they go even harder than they already were. “Now, you’re right handed, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. Put your left hand behind your back and grip mine.” When I do, I find his left hand behind his back and our fingers hook together. “Lean back into me and I’ll lean back into you. We prop each other up. Got it?”
“Got it.” And there we sit. What next?
“Listen to me, baby. Here’s the way it works. I tell you what I’m doing to myself, and you tell me what you’re doing to yourself. If we’re lucky, we’ll come at the same time.” Oh my god. He wants me to masturbate again. Seriously? I lean over just a little and he barks, “No. Don’t look at me. Just listen to my voice.”
I can’t help it. I want to see that cock. I’ve felt it against my belly, and I want to touch it so badly that I can hardly stand it. But I can feel his body moving, and I know he’s stroking himself. Then he growls out, “Kimmie, I’m so damn hard. I’ve missed seeing you this week.”
There’s a inferno setting up in my pussy that can’t be ignored. I’m really going to do this. Before I can decide what to do first, he moans, “Play with your nipples, babe. Get ‘em really, really hard.”
They’re already so hard they ache. I pinch one and then the other, and then I get a little brave and twist one. Even though I don’t realize it, I must let out a little moan because I hear him murmur, “That’s it, baby. Get into it. God, my cock’s hurting. How do they feel, baby? Aching for me?”
“Yes, sir. They are.”
“Kimmie, tell me how they feel.”
Shit. I’ve never done this before. “Um, they’re really hard and, um . . .”
“What happens when you twist them? How does that feel? Tell me, Kimmie. I want to hear you say it.”
“Um, it makes my clit tingle.”
“Yeah.” There’s a little tiny grunt and he lets out a long whoosh of breath. “Tingle and burn?”
“Yeah. Oh, yeah, it does.” There’s something growing, churning, twisting in my belly, and I want to do something about it. “Can I touch myself, sir? Please?”
“Yes, girl. Do it. Run your fingers down into your slit and find that hard little button. It’s hard, isn’t it?” He’s starting to sound a little stressed, and I hope I don’t disappoint him.
“Yes, sir. It’s hard.” Fingers grazing across my clit, everything in my body goes on red alert and I groan, “Oh, god, sir, yeah.”
“Wet, angel?”
“Yes, sir. Dripping wet. Oh, god, yeah.” It’s swelling and expanding, my finger working even more feverishly. “God, sir, I want to come, please?”
“In just a little bit. Torture yourself a couple more minutes. I’ll tell you when, babe. Okay? Oh god yeah, baby. Yeah. Your hips want to buck, don’t they?”
“Yes, sir.” Oh, god. This is crazy and yet it feels so damn good. I can feel every stroke he’s giving himself, and all I can think about is having him inside me. Want is eating me alive, and I don’t know how much longer I can hold off. “Oh, god, Jaz, please? Please, I need to come. Please?”
“Uhhhh. Yeah. Oh, yeah. Yeah, get ready, baby. Shit, Kimmie, you make me so damn hard. Ohhhhh, yeahhhhhh, okay, baby, come for me. Come on, Kimmie. Yeah – do it.”
I shudder hard and then my body turns loose, my abs in spasms, my legs stiff as boards, my finger working madly. I can feel Jaz behind me, his left hand gripping mine, his right one working his hardness and then the bunching of the muscles in his shoulders as I hear him moan out, “Oh, fuckkkkk, yeah, yeah, oh god, yeah. Oh, Kimmie, babe.”
We both still, our hands still locked together. What just happened? Before I can process it all, he whispers, “Have you ever done that with anyone else?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s what I thought. Close up your robe. Use your towel to clean yourself up if you need to.” That’s an understatement. There’s a mess that the towel under me caught at least, and I wipe as best I can, then tie my robe closed. I hear something – he had a condom on and I didn’t realize it. How neat and efficient. I start to get up, but he says, “No. Sit right there. Tell me: How do you feel about what we just did?”
“The truth?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“The truth is . . .” If the words come out, I’ll have to force them. “The truth is . . .”
“You want to fuck me?”
I take a deep breath and sigh deeply. “Yes. I want to fuck you.”
I expect him to laugh at me, but instead he says, “I want to fuck you too. But not yet. Cleaned up?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. Come here.” Rolling to my hands and knees, I find him sitting cross-legged on the towel, and I give him a questioning look. And he does the one thing I was hoping he’d do.
He opens his arms. I scurry into his lap and his arms wrap tight around me, his face buried in my hair. I don’t quite know what to do with my arms so I just wrap them around his waist while he hugs me to him, and there’s something so swee
t and simple about it all. I’m trying to figure out what it is I’m feeling, and then it hits me.
Peace.
The house is silent, and his arms are warm and strong. His heartbeat trips in my ear as I press my face to his chest, and I let out a deep sigh. I don’t want to move, just want to sit here all night. His breath is warm on my scalp when he whispers into my hair, “Oh, Kimmie. You’re so precious.”
Relief washes over me and I let the tears course down my cheeks. When he feels me sob against him, he turns my face up to his and kisses me again. There’s so much in that kiss, and I can’t understand how there’s a man here with me to whom I could be so connected to, someone I haven’t slept with, and yet the bond running between us is so strong that I can almost see it shimmering in the room. I’m starting to believe he’s right, that there’s something long and wide and deep tying us together, and I want to sit here in it and let it warm me from the inside out. That gash in my heart, the one that’s been bleeding for eight years, is scabbing over and starting to heal. I can feel it. Suddenly, I have an overwhelming need to see him.
I pull back and put a hand on either side of his face, my palms to his cheeks. Looking straight into his face, I look at those tiny laugh lines I noticed before, the little scar in his left eyebrow, the gray patches at his temples. Those eyes, those sweet, brown eyes, have little hazel flecks in them, and his lashes are long and thick. Narrow nose, and those perfect lips. Just perfect. I trail my fingers from just under his ear and down his jawline, feeling the beginnings of that scratchiness that he must’ve kept shaved while he was gone. When I draw my finger across his lips, he kisses the tip as it passes right under his nose. The smile he bestows on me is gentle and warm. “Sir?”
“Yes, angel?”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“I want to scene with you.” I can’t stop myself. The words start to tumble out of me. “I’ll do whatever you want. I want to be with you. You can have me; I’m yours. Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”
“I don’t want you to sacrifice yourself to me. I want you to partner with me. I want this to be a partnership, something that works for both of us. This isn’t about you giving to me; I want to owe you as much as you owe me. I want to scene with you, and I want you as my submissive. But beneath it all, I want us to have a real relationship, not something that’s defined by leather or steel or rope. It needs to exist because we’re comfortable with ourselves and each other as people, not Dom and sub. I did that for years before I got . . . well, before. And I’m not interested in that anymore. It’s so fucking shallow. I don’t want shallow anymore, Kimmie. I want deep and meaningful.”
“Me too, sir.”
“Will you do something for me?”
I nod. “Anything. Anything at all.”
There’s an innocence in his eyes that takes my breath away. “Just once, call me ‘baby.’ Please?”
My heart breaks for him, but the fissure left behind opens my heart to his, and I know that without even having to ask. “Yes, baby. I’ll call you baby all night if you want, Jaz. Will you stay tonight? Please?”
“I can’t. I’ve got to go home. I’ve got to be up early tomorrow morning to go back to the plant and I don’t have clean clothes with me. But soon, I promise. I’ve got something I want you to do.”
“What?” Hell, I’ll do anything he asks.
“I want you to come over to my place this weekend. I’ve been here. You should see where I live. That’s how you really get to know someone, by being in their living space and seeing what they’re really like. Want to do that?”
“Yes! Oh, yeah, I’d love to!”
“Good. Okay, so tomorrow is Friday. How about we meet at the club tomorrow night, see if we can negotiate some little scene, and then we’ll make arrangements for you to come over on Saturday?”
“Sounds good! Oh, and your leathers are finished.”
“Can you bring them to the club tomorrow night?”
“Sure!” Now I’m getting excited. This is going to be amazing, I’m certain of it.
“Good. I think it’s fitting that I wear the leathers you made for me the first time we scene together. Very fitting. So I’m going in the bathroom to get dressed and then we’ll do goodnights, okay?”
“Okay.” I decide to really go out on a limb. “I’m so glad you’re back, baby. I missed you this week.”
His smile is a mile wide, and he grabs me around my waist, his hands wide and strong, dropping his forehead to mine. “I missed you too. I’m glad I’m back. And when you come over, I’ll cook. Think of something you’d like to have and I’ll go get everything Saturday afternoon. How’s that?”
“That’s great.” There are so many things I want to say to him, to tell him how I feel. My heart’s crashing into his at breakneck speed, and I want it. I’ve only known this guy two weeks, and I feel safer with him than with anyone I’ve ever known. I can’t wait for tomorrow night.
When he comes out of the bathroom, he takes my hand and leads me to the front door. The overnight bag hits the floor again, and he scoops me up and kisses me. Then he picks up the bag, gives me a peck on the cheek, and murmurs, “Bye, baby. See you tomorrow night. Six o’clock. Don’t be late.”
“I’ll be early.” And I’m sure I will be.
Chapter Five
Apparently I am indeed early, because he’s not here yet. I wait for a few minutes, kind of stand around by the bar, and he still doesn’t come in, so I head to the locker room and change.
When I move back toward the bar, he’s sitting there, and I’m pretty sure he’s waiting for me. He gives me a sexy little smile when I get closer, and my knees feel weak. My outfit isn’t horribly revealing, a bustier top and a pair of matching panties, and I wonder if it meets with his approval. I don’t have to wait long to find out when he whispers in my ear, “You look delicious,” and nips my earlobe.
“Thank you. You look pretty damn fine yourself.” I hand him the bag I carried in with his new leathers inside. “You’ll look even finer when you put these on.”
“Ah! Thanks! And by the way, next time, don’t go into the locker room until I get here. The idea that I’m going to leave you sitting here while I disappear in there doesn’t sit well with me.” I check his face to find that he’s telling the truth. There’s some stress there that wasn’t before. “I’d really like for you to go back into the dressing room and give me time to change. Probably five minutes is all it’ll take at most. That way at least I know where you’ll be.”
“Yes, sir. No problem. I’m sorry.” Now I feel bad. I’ve already messed up and I haven’t even done anything yet.
“No, it’s okay. Just a thing for me, that’s all. Come on. I want to get to it.” With that, he sets his glass down on the bar and leads me back toward the locker rooms. He points to the doorway for the ladies’ lockers and I stroll back in and sit down on one of the benches. While I wait, I count the tiles on the floor, then try to imagine showering in one of the little shower cabinets with him, soap all over both of us, his body slipping and sliding up and down mine. I look at the clock again – three minutes.
I stand and contemplate peeking out the door, and that’s when I pass the big mirror. Something catches my eyes and I turn to see myself there, just a slip of the woman I had been a few years earlier. I’ve always looked in the mirror and seen the Kimberly I remembered, but reality hits me in this moment and I see what I’ve become. What little body mass I have is stretched out on my five foot five frame, and I’m angular and thin, the dark circles under my eyes accentuating their blueness as they stare out from my pale, slack face. Even though my hair is thick and full with almost no gray in its forlorn shade of light brown, it’s unremarkable. It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything with it or really paid it any attention. That leaves me to wonder: What the hell does he see in me? I make up my mind that even though I don’t know what’s caught his attention, maybe I should at least take a pass
ing interest in my appearance, maybe get a new hairstyle – highlight or color or something – and some new makeup, possibly even have a manicure and pedicure. I could at least go to the mall and have my eyebrows threaded so they wouldn’t be so dark and thick. If he’s kind enough to want to be seen with me, I should be kind enough to not embarrass him with my disinterest in myself. I look like I just escaped from a refugee camp, for god’s sake.
Five minutes. Surely he’s done. When I sneak a look out the door, I gasp.
He’s standing there, leaning up against a post in the room. My god, he’s something. There’s not an ounce of fat on that body, and he’s shirtless. Yeah. Heat starts to pool low in my belly, and it’s hard to breathe. It’s all I can do to get back to him with my legs shaking and knees practically giving way. The only thing running through my mind is the idea of his hands on my body. That’s what I want more than anything.
I’m finding it hard to speak when I make it to him, and all I can get out is a strained, “Sir?”
When he turns, he smiles. In that smile there’s want and arousal, but there’s also something else too, that thing I can’t quite put a finger on. His eyes don’t leave mine as he says, “Let’s go find a place to sit down and negotiate.”
That same sofa we sat on before is empty, so we commandeer it and sit down, and I turn sideways to face him. He sits casually, knees apart and a hand resting on each; he doesn’t put his arm across the back of the sofa like before, or lean in toward me, or anything even remotely that intimate. He just sits there for a second before he speaks. “So. What do you need? What do you want?”
I almost say I need pain, but for some reason, that’s not what I’m thinking. It seems odd but it’s also encouraging. All I manage is, “I-I-I-I’m not sure.”
His eyebrows drop into a low “V.” “You mean to tell me you’ve known since last night that we were going to do this, and you haven’t given any thought to what you need?”
“Well, I have . . . sort of.”
“And?”
There’s a fumbling around in my brain as I look for the words to articulate what it is I feel deep down inside. “I usually need pain. Now, I still need pain. I’m just not sure what kind.”