Slow Seduction (Struck by Lightning)

by Cecilia Tan

  “I’d like to think that if I need to leave there I could honestly say to him: ‘This isn’t fun. I want to leave.’” I tore off a piece of Indian bread and took a bite.

  “But you’re not so naive as to think that’s always the case,” Paulina said. “Sometimes, you have to do what you have to do to keep yourself safe. We’ll come get you. Promise.”

  “You’re so sweet! I’m pretty sure I can handle myself, but thank you.”

  It was very nice knowing someone had my back if it turned out Damon George was not what he seemed.

  The hotel Damon had picked was near yet another famous place I had read about in books: Charing Cross. When I had first arrived in New York to start grad school, the same sort of thing had happened to me in the city. Broadway, Wall Street, Times Square, Madison Square Garden, these were like mythic place-names I’d heard all my life. Once I got used to being a New Yorker, they turned into mere addresses again. Here in London that feeling was even stronger, though, everything more historic, more ancient.

  The summer sun was setting as I made my way across Trafalgar Square. Tons of people were milling about, including lots of tourists taking photos of a big statue of a guy on a horse. I didn’t attempt to get close to the statue, concentrating on figuring out which of the streets leading away from the park I should take.

  The hotel entrance faced the plaza in front of the Charing Cross train station and had various flags flying. I breezed past the main reception desk, and in the hallway beyond it was greeted by the flickering of tiny candles in glass jars all along the marble floor and on every stair of a grand staircase spiraling upward. Damon, I mean, Mr. George, had texted me the room number. I climbed the stairs, the candles making everything seem surreal and magical. On the second floor I found the elevators and up I went.

  At the door to the suite I saw a small envelope taped next to the door handle. Please don’t make this another wild-goose chase, I thought, as I peeled it free and opened it. Inside was the room key. Okay, at least it wasn’t instructions to go to some other hotel. I checked inside the envelope to make sure. Wait, there was a note.

  Printed in small, neat letters:

  If you are willing, unlock the door, come into the room, close it behind you, and strip. Leave your clothes in a pile by the door, along with your overnight bag. Crawl to where you find me. When you demonstrate your willingness, you also demonstrate your trust and your understanding that I will not harm you. If you do not trust me to keep you safe, leave now.

  I paused to think about it. Did I trust him not to hurt me? Yes. Did I trust him to keep to the society’s rules? Definitely. But did I trust him beyond that? Not a chance. Damon George had his own agenda, somewhere underneath it all, but that wasn’t really all that relevant to me. I had my own agenda, too, after all.

  I’m doing this for you, James.

  I slipped the key card into the lock and the door opened. I closed it behind me. Looking around the room, I saw it was a spacious parlor done in rich eggplant purple and cream colors, with a sitting area to one side, a small dining table, and then through a wide entrance, the sumptuous bedroom with windows overlooking the plaza.

  I could see the back of his head. He was seated in an armchair, looking out the window. His suit jacket and tie were draped over the back of the chair.

  I took off my clothes and folded them into a neat pile as instructed. When I had nothing on, I dropped to the velvet-soft purple carpet and crawled over to him. I debated as I went whether I should stop next to the chair or go all the way around to the front.

  Hmm. Was I allowed to ask? Or was the instruction sheet a kind of “silent treatment”? Or was it all a test to see how I would interpret its meaning? That seemed like the sort of thing he would do.

  I settled on crawling around in front of him and putting my head down on the carpet like it had been at the end of the “interview.”

  Seconds ticked by. I figured that was part of the test, too. We’d see which one of us got impatient first.

  He did. “Please me,” he said.

  I looked up. “Excuse me?”

  His expression was stern. “Did you not hear me? I said please me.”

  I blinked at him for a few more seconds, trying to think of what to do. “I don’t know you well enough to know what pleases you.”

  “Then it is your job to guess and find out,” he said.

  His shirt was unbuttoned partway. That gave me an idea.

  “May I touch you?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I reared up on my knees and shuffled forward to finish unbuttoning his shirt and untucking it from his trousers. Once it was free, I could see he was so erect that the red tip of his cock had pushed past his waistband. That gave me a very definite idea of something that might please him.

  I put my hands behind my back and worked his belt open using my teeth. At first it was a little tricky, but once I got the end free, it took one smooth pull to undo the buckle. His fly was a single button and not overly tight, which made it simple to open.

  All the movement made him even harder, and a good inch or two was protruding by the time I was ready to tug his waistband down farther with my teeth. I didn’t pull it far, only enough to expose another inch, and then I licked what was showing. He smelled spicy and clean, like he’d showered when he got here. I maneuvered the head into my mouth and sucked gently. I couldn’t tell how long he was, but the head fit easily in my mouth, making me think he was smaller than James.

  “Well, well, Karina, if I worried you were going to be frigid, I guess those worries are gone now.” He chuckled. “Without taking your mouth from where it is, what I’d like you to do next is reach between your legs and make yourself come. Keep sucking me. Do I need to tell you to be careful of your teeth? No? Good. Now go on.”

  My cheeks flared with heat as I did as he asked. Somehow sucking him wasn’t as personal as this. But I slid two fingers down my seam and wasn’t surprised to find how wet I was. My clit throbbed. I ran my fingers on either side of it and sucked a little harder to keep him firmly in my mouth.

  It became tricky as I got closer, as my breathing grew choppy and little sounds of desire burbled up my throat. Concentrating on not biting him, keeping my tongue and head moving, while also trying to get myself off, was difficult. I think it was supposed to be.

  He made it easier when he got impatient, I think, or overwhelmed with desire, and sank his fingers into my hair, taking charge of my head and moving me up and down on him. Now all I had to do was keep breathing and rubbing myself furiously.

  I expected him to stop me before I could come. That was what always happened in these situations, isn’t it? Doms seemed to deny you at the last second.

  Not this time.

  When I started to come, I made seal noises, muffled by the cock in my mouth. Ngh ngh ngh.

  “Keep going!” he hissed, his voice rough. “Make yourself come again!”

  Ngh ngh ngh!

  I didn’t really have a second orgasm so much as that first one didn’t end and instead went to the next level. He came with a shout, his cock jerking in my mouth as he shoved himself deep. It was too sudden for me to even try to pull away, and he held me firmly. As it turned out, it was probably better that I didn’t pull away. Everything I’d ever heard about it tasting bad or being difficult to swallow was negated by the fact his come went right down my throat. After he backed away from me, I coughed a little with a kind of tickling burn in my throat, but that was all.

  I thought for a moment he was going to tug me up into a kiss. Maybe he almost did. Then we both came to our senses a little.

  “Is your clit sore?” he asked.

  “Not particularly,” I answered.

  His smile was evil as he shed his clothes. “It will be. On the bed. On your back. Legs spread.”

  Oof. My legs were weak from coming, and I stumbled a little as I climbed up onto the silky duvet. The bed had a long decorative strip like a pashmina scarf laid across the
foot of it. He wrapped one end around my ankle, ran it behind my neck, and then wrapped my other ankle. As bondage went, it wasn’t very challenging, even when he pulled and bunched it behind my head, making my legs spread a few more inches.

  The next thing I knew, he dove face-first into my pussy, licking and sucking and snarling like a lion at a piece of tasty meat. If that sounds comical, that’s because it was. I didn’t laugh though, figuring that would probably not go over well. And he was good with his mouth. I was coming again within minutes, bucking against his tongue and crying out. James excepted, I wasn’t used to men who actually knew how to please a woman.

  He pulled my hips to the edge of the bed then and kept licking, this time sucking hard on my clit until it was trapped between his teeth and torturing the most sensitive bit with jabs of his tongue. I couldn’t really struggle with my flesh in his grasp like that, and I cried out instead and drummed my fists against the bed. He didn’t relent until I’d come again, even though I hadn’t thought I could, the pitch of my screams going up as I did.

  When he let go, he stood with a triumphant grin. “And to think that frigid bitch Vanette thought you were too repressed to perform sexually. Come here.”

  By “here” he meant his arms; he threw himself onto the bed, and I dragged myself up to put my head next to his on the pillow. He spooned me, but if I thought we were going to rest, I was wrong. His hand immediately worked its way between my legs and over my clit until he had a finger inside me.

  I groaned as he stroked me deeply.

  “Okay, Karina, truth time,” he murmured in my ear. “Why no sex?”

  “Ngh. This isn’t sex?”

  “You know perfectly well what I mean.”

  Even though I had just come four times, the sensation of him touching me inside was so delicious. “Vanette was right. I’m saving myself for someone.”

  “Some dom.”

  “You could say that.”

  “But you’re not a virgin. This isn’t your marriage bed we’re talking about.”

  “No. I’ve had sex with him.”

  “And is this prohibition his idea? Does he know you’re being trained by the society?”

  “No. We’re…we’re separated right now.”

  “Ahhh, so it’s your idea to try to be loyal to him while you’re apart.”

  “Yes.”

  “A very noble, if inconvenient, idea.”

  “What’s inconvenient about it?”

  “That I want to fuck you so very much.” He rutted against me, and I could feel him regaining his erection. I stiffened in his arms, but he murmured to me, “Don’t worry. I keep my promises. Although now that I think about it, you didn’t say I couldn’t fuck you in the rear.”

  “I…you’re right…I didn’t.” Argh. Had I created a loophole?

  “You’re very tense, Karina.”

  “Um.” What was I supposed to say? I’m sorry? Wait, can I get a do-over? I’m not sure I want you to fuck me up the ass? “It’s just that I suck at this submissive stuff.”

  He nuzzled the back of my neck, which was rigid as a board. “Karina, Karina. I’ll be the judge of whether you, ha-ha, suck. You did not suck at sucking, by the way.”

  “I didn’t?”

  “No, I was quite pleased.”

  “Really? Then I did it. I pleased you. Literally.” He wiggled his finger inside me and a wave of lust ran through my body. “Ah, stop it! You’re trying to weaken my resolve.”

  “I’m not. I promised I wouldn’t fuck you and that means even if you begged me to now, I’d know better than to do so. We’ve moved on to discussing whether you forgot to count anal sex, too, though?”

  “It’s hard to keep track of what we’re talking about when you’ve got your hand up my snatch!”

  He laughed and said, “I know. That’s the whole point. But you’re right. I’m undermining my actual goal, which is to hopefully figure out the puzzle that is you.” He slid his hand free and dragged his damp fingers across my belly. “Up. Into the shower with you. We’ll discuss this more when we’re clean.”

  He slapped me on the bare ass then and I yelped. “Oh, you infuriating, confusing man!”

  He rolled off the bed and sauntered toward the bathroom. “Ha. More infuriating and confusing than the master you’re saving yourself for?”

  “Yes!” I threw a pillow at him and he danced out of the way, laughing.

  Washing up was a brisk, genial affair. Despite the room’s luxurious size and the fact that there was a Jacuzzi tub for two, the shower stall was not large enough for both of us. We took turns; he went first. Damon made small talk while he scrubbed himself.

  “So have you had a chance to see the sights? Parliament, all that?”

  “Not yet. I’ve been working days at the museum—plus some nights, as you know—and I’m helping my landlords renovate in exchange for rent in the evenings.”

  “Oh, painting, that sort of thing?”

  “Demolition, mostly. This week, anyway. I’m going to try to get to York next week, though.”

  “For sightseeing?” He stepped out and toweled his hair, leaving it a mass of glossy black, not unlike Perseus’s in those Burne-Jones paintings.

  “I hear it’s really nifty. The old medieval city and all that. Plus lots of chocolate shops.” I got into the shower and shut the door. The glass was clear, not frosted, so he could see me perfectly well, and the stall was open at the top, so I could hear him as long as my head wasn’t under the spray.

  “Really? I was only there once, for a big to-do at the Minister. That’s the big church there. Always figured I’d go back, but, you know, it’s a big country.”

  “I’m planning to take the train.” The water was still hot from him using it.

  “Train is definitely the best way to get around. Ah, here’s a tip. Don’t be confused by the so-called National Rail. Unlike in America, there are lots of train companies. They’re like airlines.”

  “That would explain why there are so many train stations here.”

  He laughed. “I suppose. Never really thought about it.”

  I ducked my head under the water and when I came out he was in the bedroom, dressing. He had put on a casual shirt and what looked like soft pajama bottoms or sweatpants. He was pulling on a pair of socks.

  My bag and the pile of my clothes that had been by the door were nowhere in sight. I had a towel wrapped around my head but didn’t see anything else for me to put on. “Do you have something you want me to wear?”

  He looked up. “Your skin. I want you to be completely comfortable in your skin. Although, you’re actually far more at ease about it than I thought you’d be, Karina. I was expecting you to be all shivery and blushing when you crawled over to me.”

  “I wasn’t?”

  “Not like you were ashamed of being naked, or degraded by it. Which you shouldn’t be. You’re gorgeous. It’s no crime to be beautiful and it’s no shame to show it off. Something the Greeks understand much better than the English.”

  “It’s also a lot warmer in Greece,” I pointed out.

  “True. The warmer climates certainly encourage one to show one’s skin. Look at Brazil. Hmm, but then again, Finland, Sweden, they love their nude saunas…” He stood and went back into the bathroom, emerging with a hand towel. He gestured for me to follow him into the parlor, where he put the small towel down on one of the two padded dining chairs. “Here’s something you might not know about sauna etiquette. When you go inside the sauna stark naked, you always bring a towel, so that you don’t leave a stain on the seat. Whether sweat or other.”

  I sat on the towel while he picked up the phone and ordered tea and dessert.

  He took the other chair then, and ran his fingers through his still-damp hair. “Now, where were we? Ah yes, your demeanor. I was expecting you to be less comfortable with nudity because most Americans are.”

  “You’ve seen a lot of nude Americans?”

  He gave me a wolfish grin.
>
  “Okay, fine. But did you miss the part about me doing performance art? I think that kind of got me over any nudity issues I might have had.”

  “Ah. You hadn’t actually said you were bare-arsed, so I didn’t make the assumption. Hmm. I would have liked to have seen that performance. Were you entirely naked?”

  “I was. Although my face and upper body were hidden from the audience. I was…” How to describe it? “Sort of inside a sculpture, with my ass and legs hanging out.”

  “All in the name of art?” he teased.

  “Ha. I guess. And because my partner wanted me to.”

  He nodded. “Let’s talk about this partner.”

  Yes, let’s, I thought. You try to figure out the puzzle of me, and I’ll try to figure out the puzzle of James.

  “I take it he’s a dominant man, but is he a sadist?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, did he like to hurt you?”

  “At least sometimes. Like the riding crop, or paddling me, or spanking me. But it wasn’t the main focus.”

  “And it doesn’t sound like he was into humiliation, or your shame about nudity would be intensified, not lessened,” he said. “What kind of dominant was he, then?”

  “Um, is control freak one of the types?”

  He snorted, holding in a laugh. “Yes, dear, I suppose you could say it is. Describe to me what you mean by that.”

  “Aside from the whole public exhibition side of things, he seemed to get off on—and I mean that figuratively and literally—controlling me. And himself, actually. Having rules and plans. Asking me to do things and having me obey.” That first night we’d met, if I’d laughed and said no way when he’d asked me to go looking for the marble in his pocket, what would have happened? He would have laughed, too, and moved on. He would have gone home alone, like he said he had planned to.

  It struck me then how much I had derailed James’s plans by saying yes. And what had spurred him to invite me into the game? He had once told me, in a romantic moment, it was because there was something special about me. Did I still believe that?