Unrestrained

by Joey W. Hill

  They moved on to the bathrooms. He tested the strength of the shower rod and filled up the Jacuzzi tub the few inches necessary to run the jets. Reaching down, he ran his fingers over them, checking the water pressure and how easy it was to adjust the direction of the stream. In turn, she saw herself on her back in the tub, her knees pulled up over the side, her arms tied to the safety bar on the wall as he held her spread legs centered in front of a jet until she came, screaming from the inexorable water pressure.

  "How many of these tubs do you have? Are they the same model?"

  "Three." Her throat was dry. "Yes."

  When they reached the second level, she showed him the guest bedrooms as well as the upstairs library she used as her home office for days when she worked here, on either Summers Industries' matters or fund-raising efforts. He studied the neat arrangement of her desk, her closed laptop. In the guest bedroom, he ran his fingers over the sturdy wood posts of the canopy bed. Another guest bed had a wrought iron head-and footboard. He spent extra time with that one, lifting the mattress and box spring to see horizontal supports beneath. Without the bedding, the thing looked like a medieval instrument of torture. Her heart thumped a little faster, thinking of the more extreme things she'd seen done at the club with racks.

  There was only one more room on this hallway, but when he moved toward it, she spoke for the first time. He'd told her to speak when there was something he needed to know, after all.

  "Not that room," she said. "It's our bedroom. I mean, my bedroom."

  He paused. "I'd like to see what your private space looks like. It tells me important things about you."

  "I . . . Not this visit. All right?"

  He gave her a close look, but he nodded, moving past her and back toward the stairs. When they reached them, he moved down the steps first. She thought about putting her hand on his shoulder, using that broad expanse to steady her descent.

  She'd offered to pay him to avoid this, this confusing mix of the emotional with . . . what she was seeking. Okay, what she sought was emotional, but it was supposed to have limited boundaries. It had to, right? This felt . . . out of control. Things were getting mixed-up again.

  She sank down on the top step, staring at him. Though he was several steps below her, he stopped immediately, proving how aware he was of her. He turned, one foot braced above the other, his hand on the rail. "You move like you have two real feet," she said. "I wouldn't have even known."

  "Yeah." Coming back up the steps, he sat next to her, the stair wide enough to accommodate them both, though their hips were brushing. He bent his leg to put his hands on the toe and heel of his boot. The prosthesis was a tight fit down in the boot, because it took him a moment to work it off. When he did, her eyes widened.

  "Oh. I guess I expected it to look . . ."

  "Like a foot? Yeah, some do. I think at some point they realized it was far more important to make it work like a foot than to look like one. You saw that guy that ran in the Olympics with the blades? The guy who designed those based them on a cheetah's back legs."

  She studied the prosthesis, momentarily distracted from her agitation. A pair of rectangular metal plates formed the "foot," the upper one curving up to form an "ankle" with a coil between the plates for shock absorption and to provide different adjustments that would allow it to articulate like a foot and ankle.

  "There's computer programming in it, to help with different terrain and propulsion. You can adjust the ankle height for different shoes, so I can wear my boots. I was really lucky. Even with my benefits, I couldn't have afforded something like this, but I got into a special prototype study. Having the ability to flex the ankle piece gives me more options on everything, even something as simple as wearing boots. When you're wearing a prosthesis that can't flex, you can't really wear a shoe or boot that goes above the ankle."

  "It's remarkable." She reached out toward it, then hesitated. "I'm sorry. I don't want to be rude."

  "You have my permission to touch, Athena. At least my Lee Majors leg."

  That attractive crinkle at the corners of his eyes almost made her smile. Sitting here on the steps like a pair of kids, things were easier. She touched the metal, followed it up above the ankle, where it attached to a rod.

  "That goes up to the socket, where my knee rests."

  "Does it hurt?"

  "Only if the socket is fitted wrong or I do the wrong things. You also have to change out the stump socks at different times, use different thicknesses, because your leg changes shape throughout the day." He shrugged. "Like anything else, once you figure out how to maintain the equipment, it becomes routine. I shower only at night, because if I do it in the morning, my socket doesn't fit right."

  "So no morning showers together."

  "Unless we're planning to go back to bed for the day." His gaze heated on her, and the uncertain feeling returned. She clasped her hands together as he replaced the boot, pulled down the cuff of his jeans. When he straightened, he put his hand on the banister, his other resting loosely on his knee. "Are you reconsidering, Athena?"

  She shook her head, then nodded. Then shook it again. Laughed at herself.

  "If it was just about sex, it would be easy," he said quietly. "Where you've been, your marriage, you can't do dating or casual anymore. Right?"

  She nodded, swamped by a sudden sick feeling. She'd been too craven; he was about to call it off. But then he curled his hand over hers on her knees. "Everything you've told me today, everything I've seen, tells me you're what I call a power sub. You crave submission, but it takes a hell of a firm and steady hand to bring you to that level of trust, because in order to please everyone, you've had to stay in control of every freaking detail. That's why I asked you about relinquishing control. To make it work, Athena, you're going to have to learn how to do that. And as you do, no matter what limits you and I set, a lot of emotional stuff is going to unfold."

  A hell of a firm and steady hand. Those mesmerizing blue-green eyes projected a thrilling danger quality when he said that. She couldn't decide if she wanted to run toward or away from it. She looked at her hands, twisted back into a knot beneath his, and sighed. "I'm sorry, Dale. I've been a Domme for so long, but here I am, one moment acting like a newbie sub, so high on the idea of a Master that I don't care about contracts or limits. The next moment, you see my closed bedroom door and I want to make you leave, pretend I never did this."

  He shrugged, unoffended. "As far as experience, you are a newbie sub, which is why you were smart, choosing to work with an experienced Dom."

  "I didn't really choose at all. I just saw you and knew . . . felt, that was what I wanted. In that moment."

  "An intuitive choice is still a choice. Sometimes better than a conscious one, especially for this." He leaned against her shoulder, nudging her. "I'll keep you safe, Athena. I can help you manage those initial feelings. You just have to trust me, girl."

  She turned her gaze up toward his attentive face then. Reaching out, she caressed his jaw, her fingertips touching his hair, the shape of his ear, the pulse in his throat. Those few sensations alone overwhelmed her. He watched her, not stopping her, but not encouraging, either. She withdrew her hand.

  "I'm sorry. I . . . wanted to touch you."

  "Then you should ask me properly, Athena."

  Despite giving her the structure, the boundary, he had heat in those blue-green eyes, reminding her of his arousal in the gazebo. He would remain in absolute control, but he wanted her. He wasn't detached at all. It was a heady awareness. Those "rash feelings" would help her move forward where she wanted to go, no matter how that path frightened her. But he'd told her he'd keep her safe.

  A proper request came with a proper address, but he hadn't given her specific direction on that. Perhaps he was waiting to see what would come most naturally to her.

  "Please . . . may I touch you . . . sir?"

  "No. But I'm going to touch you."

  Closing his hands on her upper arms, he press
ed her back against the stairs, shifting so his knee pressed into the stretch fabric of the skirt, pinning her there. He loomed over her in the dim light of the stairwell, broad shoulders filling her gaze, his scent around her. When he leaned down, her helpless fingers curled against his sides, digging into his shirt.

  "No touching me, Athena. Let go."

  She opened her fingers, so aware of how close he was to her. At first she thought he was going to kiss her, and she froze, but he moved lower, and that feeling eased. His chest slid against her breasts, then his mouth was on the pulse pounding heavily in her neck. The first contact of his lips made her shudder like a climax, intensified by his requirement that she simply lie there, held down by his strength, hands open and empty at his command. He traced that pulse with his tongue, making her whole body strain toward his without movement. When his hip bone pressed against her mound, she moaned.

  He raised his head, his eyes holding hers. "You're not sure about kissing yet. You tensed."

  "I--"

  "I wasn't asking a question, Athena."

  He bent again, moved to her jaw. Her skin was on fire, flame racing across her breasts, her thighs. "How do you masturbate, Athena? With a vibrator? Your hand?"

  "V-vibrator."

  "Efficient, just like you. Until I come back for our first proper session, you won't be using it. If you wish to have an orgasm that I haven't ordered, you'll use your hand. Your nondominant one." He lifted her left hand, telling her he'd noticed she was right-handed. "If you can't bring yourself to a climax with it within five minutes, you have to stop, and you can't try again for twenty-four hours. You understand?"

  "Yes sir."

  "All right." He rose, bringing her back to a sitting position, then he lifted her to her feet, holding on to her wrists until she steadied. He was two steps lower than she was, so they were at eye level. "You have stationery? The pretty, girly kind?"

  She nodded.

  "Between now and our next session, you'll write out what you think your hard and soft limits are. No erasing, no crumpling, no marking out. If you change your mind, write it all out. If you say "No paddling" but then you think you might want to try that, add "well, maybe some." Pure stream of consciousness, no editing. No rereading. I'll go over it before I start."

  "How will you know to plan that session . . . without that?"

  "That's my area to figure out. Relinquish control, Athena. That's your area."

  As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he turned to look up at her. She was standing on the same step, clutching the banister. "I'll let myself out," he said. "Lunch was good. Is sex part of our agreement?"

  The man really needed to learn about segues. She blinked. "I don't know. I thought . . . maybe it's not the right thing for our initial sessions, because . . ." Well, he'd said it. She had no desire to date, no ability to . . . be casual. Sex was for intimacy, to express emotion. Not just to have a climax. "I didn't know if our first sessions are supposed to get that personal."

  "Hmm." Those eyes seemed capable of tunneling under her heart, uncovering all the aching uncertainty putting pressure on her chest. "Slide your skirt up to your waist and sit down."

  If he'd only told her to sit down, she could surmise it was because he'd noticed her knees were suddenly not so steady. She managed the skirt part, and because of the skirt's snug fit, pulling it up to her waist left her naked from the waist down, the fabric gathered in her hand. At least the stairwell was shadowed.

  "Lean back, put your elbows on the stair and plant your feet third step below where you're sitting. Spread your knees as wide as they'll go. Drop your head back and arch your back."

  By complying with his commands, she could no longer see him, but she felt the vibration when he moved back up the stairs. She heard the sound of his measured breathing, sensed him standing in touching distance of her spread knees. He would be staring at her bare pussy, at everything she'd exposed. With her back arched and without the bra, the thin silk of her blouse would delineate her nipples like the cherries on top of ice cream scoops for a sundae. Hard, firm cherries.

  She imagined having a collar on her throat, a taut tether holding her head in this drawn-back position. A human pet, helpless to whatever her Master wished to do to her. The shocking idea intensified the coil of need in her belly, the arousal between her thighs.

  "Beautiful. Your pussy's wet. I can see how slick it is from here."

  She closed her eyes, swallowed, aching for one touch, the pad of his finger sliding over her labia, collecting that honey for a taste. He didn't touch her, however.

  "Yeah, you're feeling it good, aren't you?"

  She nodded, a quick jerk, not able to articulate it. But he wasn't requiring that. Just that she feel and listen.

  "Stay that way for the next five minutes. Then put your fingers inside yourself, bring them to your mouth and taste yourself. You think about how I'll taste you, the next time we see one another." He paused. "I want to fuck you, Athena. If I took you right now, I'm worked up enough I'd leave you sore as hell for the next couple days. So you think long and hard about that sex question. I'll be in touch."

  He left her then. Descended the stairs and left her throbbing. She clung to the sound of him moving through the lower level, crossing into the kitchen, the door opening and closing. Never in her life had she not walked a guest to the door, but he'd put her on the stairs like this, her legs spread and shaking, her pussy wet and nipples hard. She wasn't sure she could get up.

  It was way more than five minutes before she could.

  FIVE

  Friday, first session. She'd stayed away from the club this week. Not unusual for her, given that she'd only been going about once a month, and had gone hardly at all in the first year after Roy's passing. But she wondered if Dale was there. Was he having sessions with Willow or other subs? How did she feel about that?

  Did she have any right to feel anything about it? No matter what Dale had said, or her own conflicted feelings, she had initiated this like a session appointment, not a date. If she were being brutal with herself, their interludes might end up being little different from a therapy session. She wouldn't wonder who else's brain her psychiatrist was examining when he wasn't with her, right?

  She absolutely refused to revert to a high school girl's naivete, thinking a boy liked her when she was just his lab partner. Dale was a great fantasy. He was sexy, charismatic, fascinating. He was also insightful, kind, had a good sense of humor, and a missing leg that seemed no more impediment to him than a birthmark.

  He was coming to her house for a session that he would be orchestrating, based on the notes she'd made. He'd given her no other instructions than that. Or so she thought, until the delivery van pulled up to her house on Friday morning.

  She saw it from her office window. It was a private courier service. That wasn't unusual, though she typically knew when to expect a package. Lynn came out to accept it, and then brought it up to Athena, her face wreathed in a smile.

  "It's from Mr. Rousseau."

  It was obvious Lynn already liked him, but what woman in her right mind wouldn't? Picking up her letter opener, Athena slit the tape, noting the box was marked "fragile" and "keep cool." Inside, it was lined with a disposable cooler. As she opened it, Lynn sidled up to her elbow. Belatedly, Athena realized she should have opened it in private, since Dale could have sent her something she might not want to share with her household staff. Fortunately, her lack of foresight didn't result in embarrassment.

  She lifted out the basket. It was an arrangement of yellow carnations on a bed of mint leaves. The carnations had been shaped in two mounded clusters, and black pipe cleaner and buttons for stripes and antennae turned them into bumblebees. White daisies with cheerful yellow centers were planted around them.

  She remembered him in the potting shed, the variety of planting tools, the private courier. This wasn't an order from a florist. He'd done this.

  "Isn't that a delightful, clever thing?" Her housekeepe
r's crisp British accent mirrored her own feelings on the matter. "Oh, don't forget your card." Lynn pulled it out, laid it next to the basket. "Do you want me to take the box out of the way? You'll want to keep the basket here so you can enjoy looking at it."

  Athena nodded. She laid her fingers on the card, stroking the mint leaves with her other hand. As the woman moved to the door, Athena cleared her throat. "Lynn? What did you think of him?"

  It was a ridiculous question of course, given that Lynn had met him for only a few minutes. It also made Athena appear too vulnerable to her staff, but as she'd told Dale, Lynn was quite more than that.

  The woman turned, gave her a look. "I think he's the type of man that makes a woman's heart beat faster and her cheeks flush when he looks at her. You deserve that, even if you only want it for a little while." Lynn hesitated, her blue eyes kind in her lined face. "Sometimes that kind of man can get a woman's heart started again, if you understand my meaning. All right, then?"

  "Yes." Athena squared her shoulders. "Thank you, Lynn."

  She opened the envelope. It contained a blue note card, with a header stamp showing a pair of dogs and EJDS, Inc. She puzzled over it, then her expression cleared. Eddie's Junkyard and Dog Shelter. Was it a true nonprofit? Was there an Eddie? She'd heard more dogs barking elsewhere on the property, suggesting there was a main kennel area, so the "few" Dale had taken out for play and training weren't the whole population. She didn't know many people who could handle that many dogs at one time, but they'd been riveted on Dale like he was the pack leader. Who did the fund-raising?

  Picking up her reading glasses, she smiled a little, seeing that his handwriting was a sprawling scrawl. Her gaze strayed to the carnation bees again, then went back to the note.

  I'll arrive at eight. Meet me at the door wearing a robe, something thin and silky. Nothing under it. I'll be coming from the rec center so I'll be hungry. Make me a good sandwich and have beer. See you then.

  Well, a poet he wasn't. But poetry wasn't what she wanted. She could hear the command behind every word. There was nothing casual in this note. All the times in their life together she'd done things for Roy, poured him a drink, made him a sandwich, he'd always asked, never told her to do it.