by Stasia Black
It takes several moments but eventually everything I’ve said seems to finally sink in. “Daniel lied to me,” she says.
I nod. “He knew what he was doing. He targeted you on purpose because you’re a brand-new Domme. He’s pushed too far with his previous Mistresses and they’ve all dropped him for trying to top from the bottom. He’s gone outside the club before to find partners who will abuse him. The last time he did, he ended up in the hospital beaten all to hell with broken ribs and internal bleeding.”
I cut myself off with a sharp shake of the head. “Some of us at the club had an intervention. This was a couple years ago. We thought it was rock-bottom and that he finally wised up. Then he goes and pulls this shit.” I shake my head. Jesus even thinking about what Daniel did tonight disgusts me. I’ll make sure that little shit never steps foot in the club again. “Miranda thinks it’s just a setback, but I’m done with him. He’s through at the club.”
Callie’s gaze goes to the ceiling. The furrow between her brow deepens as she frowns and her eyes dart slightly back and forth. Whatever she’s thinking, it’s obviously upsetting. But she doesn’t say anything for long minutes. I’m trying to be patient and let her talk in her own time but patience was never one of my strong suits.
“What are you thinking? What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“Nothing,” she responds in little more than a monotone. “I’m not thinking anything.”
“Don’t give me that, Calliope Cruise.” I grip her upper arms and turn her on the couch cushions so that she’s facing me. “Don’t you dare slip away from me. Not now.”
She shrugs noncommittally.
Dammit, I won’t let her do this. She’s giving up before my very eyes.
I give her shoulders a little shake. “I’m serious.”
She shrugs again, the barest lift and sag of her shoulders, as lifeless as a doll. “I’m tired. I want to go home.”
She makes a move like she’s going to stand but I don’t let her go. Goddammit, I refuse for this to be the way tonight ends. For her to leave here defeated. Maybe this was all my fault, but I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it.
“Listen, the only way a Dom/sub relationship works is if there’s complete trust between the partners. That was broken tonight.”
As the words come out of my mouth, the solution hits me.
Of course.
“And I can see that I’ve gone about this all wrong. Trying to mentor you from the sidelines was never going to work. How did I expect you to be able to forge that bond with someone else you don’t even know?” What was I thinking? I was forgetting the most basic tenant of the lifestyle. It’s all about trust.
“I don’t know your history, Callie, but from the little I do, I know it’s been shit. You need a sub you can trust completely.”
She immediately starts shaking her head. “No way. No more subs.”
“But there is a way.”
I can see more denials on her lips so I barrel ahead.
“Me. I’ll be your submissive.”
Her head jerks my direction and her eyes go wide. “But, but you’re a…”
I slide my hands down her arms until I’m grasping her hands, palm to palm. “For you, I’ll be whatever I need to be.” I nod, everything becoming clearer the more I talk it out. “I’ve known Doms who’ve transitioned to switch relationships before. They made it work.” I lift my head up. “I can too.”
“But, but…” she sputters. “That’s crazy!”
I settle against the back of the couch, not letting go of her hands. Nothing has ever felt more right. I might have made a shitload of mistakes, but this, finally, feels right.
“I don’t think so at all.” I smile and it’s never felt so natural. “I imagine it’ll be very easy wanting to be at your beck and call. I already want to fulfill your every desire.” I wag my eyebrows at her.
“Have you ever done that before?” She looks as surprised by the question as I am, but then she presses on. “Been someone’s sub?”
I shake my head. “No.”
From the beginning, I trained as a dom. I never wanted to give up control. I always wanted a space where I could exercise it safely.
But for her…
When she tugs at her hands again, I let them go, though not without a reluctant sigh.
“I guess if you’re going to be my Mistress, I better start learning to let you have your way. Even if all I want is to drag you into the back of my town car, push that dress up your thighs, yank down your thong, and eat you out until you’re screaming my name.”
She blinks at me and that gorgeous blush hits her cheeks. It’s a good ten seconds of her just staring at me open-mouthed, eyes flicking around my face like she can’t do anything but take me in.
When she does finally speak, all she manages to get out is, “Um.”
I’ve never grinned wider. Oh yes, this is going to be good. She’s not running. She wants it as much as I do.
Because I do. The idea of being a submissive or switch has never ever appealed to me before. But kneeling at Callie’s feet? Worshipping her?
Yeah, yeah that I’m definitely into.
Callie sits there looking a little stunned but not lifeless anymore. I might even say that she looks hopeful.
She sits up straighter on the couch. “Your proposal sounds…” she trails off before landing on, “intriguing.” She nods like she’s proud of herself for finding the right word. “Maybe we can get together sometime and talk about it more. For tonight, I think it’s time for me to go home and get some rest.” She grabs her bag and stands up, and when she does it, she stands with her head held high.
Jesus but she’s gorgeous and amazing and resilient and— about to leave. I jump to my feet, too.
“I’ll have my town car pick you up Saturday night? Say at six o’clock? We could catch a light dinner and then play.”
Her nostrils flare slightly at my words and I don’t miss the swift inhale of breath. She blinks rapidly a few times and then nods tightly. “That sounds acceptable.”
“Excellent. I’ll get you home now. We should both get as much rest as possible the next couple days.”
Eleven
CALLIE
My chest is tight when the town car pulls into Jackson’s rounded driveway on Saturday evening. I can’t tell if it’s anticipation or anxiety. Probably both. Yesterday I had work and my visit with Charlie to distract me, but today was torture. Having this to look-forward-to-slash-freak-out about all day long? And now it’s here.
My heart pumps a mile a minute when I step out onto the brick walkway and head up to the door. Before I can even press the bell, the door opens and there’s Jackson.
Immediately my mouth goes dry. He’s shirtless, and holy shit, I’ve forgotten how built he is. His barrel chest is a golden expanse of muscles that cut sharply down in a V below his waist. And yep, ab muscles round out the whole sex god vibe he’s got going on. A worn pair of jeans sit low on his hips and my eyes linger on the light dusting of hair that trails from his navel down to—
“You look gorgeous.” His voice comes out strained with lust and I look up, startled. I’m not the only one doing some ogling, apparently. His eyes dart up from my chest guiltily, like he’s embarrassed to have been caught staring.
Normally it always turns me off when guys can’t stop staring at my rack, but on this occasion, Jackson gets a pass. After all, I picked this dress with the super low corset top for a reason. It laces in the front and I went ahead and laced it tight for full effect, meaning my double Ds are spilling so far out of the top, the top edges of my nipples are just barely covered. Thank God Shannon had an early date with Sunil so she didn’t see me getting ready.
I made a stop at Miss Monroe’s Adult Toy Expo early this afternoon and bought the dress and stiletto boots. I opted not to go for the obviously latex dress and instead picked out a dark maroon velvet number with a bustier bodice and a small bustle in the back. It looks a little more like
a burlesque number than a strict dominatrix getup, but somehow it felt right. It all cost a pretty penny, but I figured looking the part would give me the confidence to truly inhabit the role.
The thought of anyone other than Jackson seeing me wear it was crazy embarrassing, but the chauffeur was extremely professional and kept his eyes averted the entire time, even when he held the door open for me. I had to fight back a smile at the thought that he’d make for a good submissive.
Jackson swallows hard and from how intensely he’s looking into my eyes, I’m guessing it’s taking all his willpower not to glance back down at my chest. This brings a feline smile to my lips. I have no idea how tonight will go.
Since today was Saturday, I spent a lot of it reading up on being a Domme, watching instructional videos online, basically anything and everything I could get my hands on. Despite the disaster of last night, before everything went to shit, there were some good moments. Even just having Daniel constrained and at my mercy felt amazing. But I’m not going to be caught unaware again, that’s for damn sure.
I arch an eyebrow at Jackson. “Are you just going to stand there or are you going to let your Mistress in?”
Jackson’s eyes widen and he swings the door open. “Of course. Christ, of course, come in.”
I smile as I step over the threshold. Jackson Vale, flustered? Oh, tonight is going to be fun.
My stiletto heels make a clack clack noise on the expensive tile of his entryway. Jackson’s eyes have dropped, but not in deference. He’s staring at my thigh-high boots.
I lift my chin and it creates the effect of looking down my nose at Jackson, in spite of the fact that he’s taller than me—even though he’s barefoot and I’m wearing four-inch heels. Speaking of, my gaze lands on his feet. What is it about a guy’s bare feet that is so sexy? Well, not any guy’s. My ex, David, had nasty feet. He never trimmed his nails and they smelled so bad when he took off his socks, it was like a family of rodents had died in the walls. So yeah, I either had him wash his feet when he got home or keep his socks on at all times. Which is, you know, less than sexy when doing the deed.
But Jackson’s feet are sculpted and manly with neatly trimmed nails and, insofar as I can tell from standing right beside him, no problematic odors. The whole package, him shirtless and with bare feet just makes him look… approachable and vulnerable in a way that I’ve never seen him before. Usually he’s in power suits, in perfect control of everything around him.
But tonight he’s handing those reins over to me. A sudden rush of giddiness flushes my skin.
He seems to notice and his dark blue eyes dilate. “Dinner is ready and waiting for us.” His words seem to contradict the way he’s looking at me. He looks like what he really wants to say is fuck dinner, grab me, shove me up against the nearest wall, and completely ravish me.
But he restrains himself. He’s keeping it all leashed inside. I tilt my head sideways at him. Will he actually be able to do this? Submit to me? My fingers squeeze reflexively into my palms. Shit. My hands are sweaty. But fuck it. No overthinking it. Stay in the moment. That was the advice from the Dommes in one of the videos I watched and I’m thinking she knew her shit.
“Dinner sounds nice,” I say.
Jackson nods his head. “This way.” He turns sharply as if fighting some internal battle with himself.
I follow slowly behind him. It’s not reluctance that stays my steps. More curiosity. And again, anticipation. I bite my lip. Just how far can I push him? The question sends a somersault through my tummy. Not of fear, but a thrill. He’s offered himself up on a platter and God, I want to bring him to his knees, in all senses of the word.
He leads me to a dining room full of windows and a skylight so that the room is doused with natural light. One window boasts a view of a tree-lined lot and the other, an inner garden courtyard. An antique mahogany table and otherwise simple furnishings make the room elegant without being ostentatious.
Jackson surrounds himself with beauty. I don’t know why the realization startles me. I’ve known since I first met him that he has an appreciation for the finer things. But watching him move around in his home reveals a new layer to him.
Oh yes, I’m going to bring this man to his knees all right. And I’m going to start by doing so literally. He moves to take a seat beside the head of the table, where he gestures for me to sit.
But I shake my head at him. I snap my fingers loudly and point at the floor by my feet. I stare him down and continue pointing at my feet. The message couldn’t be more clear. There’s a spark of rebellion in his eyes. It’s as if I can hear his thoughts: This is my house. I’m not going to be reduced to sitting on the floor like a lapdog in my own house.
But he doesn’t voice any of that out loud. Other than a tick in his jaw, he gives nothing else away. Instead, he comes over to stand by my chair and bows his head. Then he gracefully drops to his knees before settling back on his haunches, head still bowed.
The thrill I felt earlier races even more forcefully up and down my spine. Oh God, I knew this would be a rush, but I didn’t anticipate feeling this much. And so quickly. We’ve barely started. All he’s done is sit at my feet and God… I shift in my seat and feel the beginning signs of moisture between my legs.
I can’t help from reaching out a hand and stroking it through his hair. It’s soft and springy to the touch. There is no gunk or product in it. Like everything else about him today, it’s all natural.
Jackson’s stripped himself down. For me. All for me. He leans into my touch, going so far as to lay his cheek on my knee. My heart rate speeds up again as I continue running my hands through his hair, caressing down to massage his scalp. I don’t stop even when a low groan comes from his throat.
I’m only jerked away from our intense little revelry when I hear a polite cough and then look up to see that a middle-aged woman with a tray of two steaming bowls of soup has entered the room. She’s petite with mostly gray hair even though she doesn’t seem to be older than her late forties.
“Excuse me.” She hurries into the room, puts the tray on the table, and then arranges the soup on the table where two places have been set. Like the chauffeur, she doesn’t look directly at us. I feel a little Downton Abbey with them serving us like this but at the same time, in this moment it’s not like I want a lot of attention from outsiders.
Jackson doesn’t seem fazed by her even though he’s on his knees at my feet, so I decide not to be either. I can make friends at a more appropriate time. You know, when I’m not wearing a barely-there corset dress with my lover on the floor like an animal begging for scraps.
The thought makes me want to laugh but I only permit myself a smile. Jackson’s doing very good and keeping his eyes to the floor, so he doesn’t see. I lean over and place a kiss on the top of his head. “Go get your soup and bring it here.”
He moves swiftly to do as I ask.
He sets his bowl beside mine and I see his eyes dart toward his chair. Like he wonders if he should bring it as well. I snap and point to the floor at my feet again. I’ll make this very clear for him. His shoulders tense briefly like he wants to argue but he masters himself just in time and sinks back to his knees.
“Do you have something to say about this arrangement, slave?”
The tense of muscles at the back of his neck is the only response for a long moment. “No, Mistress,” comes his eventual response.
I stare down at the top of his head, a ridiculous smile of gratification taking over my face. Every moment of this is going to be a fight against his natural inclination. Why does that fact exhilarate me? I don’t know but I’m too into the moment to think about it right now.
I dip the large, round soup spoon into the thick potato soup and then lift it to his lips.
“Sip,” I order, my other hand going underneath his chin in case any spills. He immediately obeys, his wide mouth opening and taking in the entire spoonful. His gaze meets mine as he slowly releases the clean spoon with a sens
uous pop.
I can’t help staring at his lips, the way his top one is ever so slightly fuller than the bottom. He smirks after a second and my brows narrow. Oh, the big bastard thinks he can gain even the slightest bit of power back over me? I’ve learned my lesson about being topped from the bottom.
With the same spoon I used to feed him, I get another spoonful of soup and feed it to myself. I close my eyes and moan in enjoyment at the smooth buttery flavor of the soup as it slides down my throat. I turn the spoon over and lick it clean, opening my eyes so I’m watching Jackson all the while my tongue plays suggestively over the metal implement.
His pupils dilate and he shifts on his knees like he’s trying to adjust himself. Well now. That’s better. I’m the only one with power here. I give the spoon one last lick and then give him another spoonful. He takes his time doing his own tongue acrobatics with the spoon, his eyes continuing to smolder. Holy shit, who knew that some soup and a fucking spoon could be such hot foreplay?
I’m not even sure who’s winning the battle for dominance at this point. All I know is that I’m turned on as fuck and I don’t want it to end. We continue back and forth, me feeding him a spoonful and then myself until his bowl is finished and we’re halfway through mine. Then the cook/serving woman comes in with the entrée.
Again I see Jackson shift uncomfortably on his knees. The woman doesn’t look overtly in our direction but I don’t miss the way her eyebrows go up before she schools her expression when she notices where Jackson is still seated. She obviously sees us out of her periphery. The idea only makes me smile wider and I make sure to feed Jackson another spoonful before she leaves the room. Jackson takes it but scowls at me. I smile beatifically back.
“Something to say?” I arch an eyebrow at him.
He averts his eyes back to the floor and shakes his head. I look over the main course. Shrimp pasta with a light cream sauce. Yummy. When I reach over the table to Jackson’s setting, my breasts all but smother Jackson’s face. He inhales sharply but doesn’t say anything. My panties moisten even more at his obvious reaction to me.