Knocked Up by the Dom

by Penelope Bloom

  As always, the sight of her sitting by the window calls up unwelcome memories. Old memories. Dark memories.

  I put a hand on her back, hating that I can feel her spine through the thin gown she wears.

  “Hey sis,” I say.

  She doesn’t respond, but I’m well past being surprised by that.

  “You need to eat.”

  She shifts, almost imperceptibly, but I notice. She moves away from my hand. It’s as close to a response as I’ll likely get and if I know my sister, the meaning is clear. Don’t lecture me.

  I sigh. “I got an email today,” I say. “It was from an author I sent a rejection letter to. Well, a student, really. You would’ve liked it. She really let me have it.”

  Sarah’s finger twitches on her knee. “Good,” she says. Her voice is soft and damaged. Frail.

  My sister doesn’t talk often anymore, but when I hear her voice it tears at my chest. She used to sing, and when she did people fell silent. Women were moved to tears and men fell in love. She was a caged bird--we both were--when I heard her sing, my heart broke because I knew how deep her pain ran.

  “Hey, I brought you something.”

  She turns her head slightly, the corner of her mouth twitching. almost imperceptibly.

  I lift the pink primrose flower, presenting the small token to her. She reaches an unsteady hand toward me, plucking the flower from me and carefully holding it in her lap, tilting her head as she looks down at it. After a long moment, she raises her hand to tuck the flower behind her ear.

  We sit together in silence, watching the sunset like we used to wish we could when we were kids. Back when I thought neither of us would ever escape. Sometimes I wonder if we ever did.

  It’s only when the sun finally sets behind the treeline that I notice the faint orange glow of a cigarette butt on the road below. It temporarily grows brighter as the man in the car sucks in. I narrow my eyes, leaning closer to the window. There’s an abandoned service road that runs behind Fairfield’s, and the car is parked on it, directly in front of Sarah’s window.

  A few seconds later, the lights inside the cab of the car turn on and I can clearly see two men. One of them mimics pointing a gun at me and firing. Twice.

  44

  Brianne

  When I come home from class, Lacey hops off the bed, face lit with excitement.

  “Should I be scared?” I ask hesitantly, letting my bag drop to the ground.

  “No,” says Lacey. “I mean, not unless you’re afraid of meeting the sexiest man on the planet.”

  “What did you do?” I ask in a dangerous tone, advancing on her.

  “Easy, easy,” she says, backing away and holding her phone up high so I can’t get it. “I just did something for you because I care so much about you. I know you think you don’t need to see this guy in person, but you do. You need to have a heart to heart with him. You need to get him out of your system and move on with your life as a writer. You know?”

  “No,” I say, jumping to snatch the phone from her. “Actually, I don’t. I already emailed him and spoke my mind. I’m much more comfortable speaking about it electronically…” I say, trailing off as I see what’s on her phone. “You messaged him on that creepy BDSM site? Virgin Princess? What the hell?”

  “Bri, come on. You are obviously still a virgin. Don’t take it hard. I hear these BDSM doms really like virgins anyway, so I figured we should broadcast it. But look!” says Lacey. “He messaged back today. He agreed to meet you.”

  “Me?” I ask. “No, no, no. You dug this grave. I’m not jumping in it.”

  Lacey groans, plopping on the bed. “Bri, I need you to do this for me. I’m in a relationship. I can’t just go letting some mysterious billionaire sweep me off my feet. But I sure as hell can send my sexually deprived best friend.”

  “Sexually deprived?” I ask. “I’m not--”

  Lacey gives me a dry look. “I’ve played along for years, but it’s time to put a stop to it. You need to get laid so bad my pussy hurts.”

  I hold up a hand, closing my eyes and wincing. “Can you please not talk about your… pussy. Ugh.”

  She throws up her hands. “This is exactly what I mean! You’re supposed to be a romance writer and you have the same phobia of the male and female anatomy as an elementary schooler. It’s no wonder you never write that sex scene. You’re probably worried Mrs. P. is going to show up and drag you by the ear to the principal’s office.”

  “That’s just ridiculous,” I say.

  “Okay. Then say fuck. Out loud.”

  I roll my eyes. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.”

  “Say it!” demands Lacey, jabbing me in the boob with her finger.

  “Ow! What is your--”

  “Say it!” she says, raising her finger and threatening to poke me again.

  “Fuck,” I say quietly and deliberately. “Okay? See? I can say it.”

  She laughs. “Oh, Bri. Where have I gone wrong raising you.”

  “Seriously though, I’m not meeting this guy. Do you even realize how weird this all is? You cyberstalked a billionaire and set me up on some BDSM date with him so I can yell at him in person?”

  Lacey shrugs, looking as though she really doesn’t see how crazy this is. “Well, if you don’t want to yell at him, you could just show up and give him what he wants. A willing virgin. God knows you could use the money,” she says, plucking at my ratty clothes.

  “What money?” I ask.

  “Oh, you know. Just the crazy amounts these rich BDSM pervs bid to own you.”

  A tingle runs down my spine at her word choice. I laugh nervously, rubbing the back of my neck. “Remind me how this is any different than prostitution…”

  “Uh, you get the money and you don’t get slapped around by a pimp?”

  I grin. “So that’s the only thing that has kept you off the streets, Lacey? You just wanted to be your own boss?”

  She glares at me. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

  “Can you blame me? Listen to yourself. I mean, come on. What kind of self-respecting woman would agree to this?”

  “Maybe the kind of woman who doesn’t care what people think? Just look at the guy. You want to jump his bones?” she cups a hand over her mouth and says ‘yes’ in a high pitched voice for me. “Then what’s wrong with getting some tuition money for it? Besides, imagine what it could do for your writing. If he really went for it and wanted to use you. You’d have enough material to write ten books!”

  I frown at her, holding up a finger. I hate that I only start seriously considering this when she mentions how much this could help my writing. It feels dirty even thinking it. I couldn’t really use someone like that. Could I? “If I go meet this guy, will you stop pestering me about it?”

  “Probably,” she says.

  “Okay. Maybe I’ll go meet Jackson, but it’s not to have sex. It’s just because my creative writing professors are always telling us if we want to write about the world, we need to experience it. That’s all this is, an experience.” I clear my throat. “That’s all.”

  “A toe-curling, moan-inducing, life-changing experience,” says Lacey, grinning devilishly.

  “No!” I snap. “I’m just going to go, talk to him, and explain how this whole thing was just a giant misunderstanding.”

  “Right,” says Lacey. “Talk. Well, I’ve got some clothes you can borrow and I’ll help you with your makeup and hair. Because you can’t show up looking like this.”

  45

  Jackson

  I wait at Seasons 22, a popular restaurant downtown with a nice view of the water, where we agreed to meet. It’s just past afternoon and only a day after I responded to the dubious message from VirginPrincess88. I sip at the ice water in front of me and watch the entrance, wondering what I’m getting myself into. I haven’t even seen pictures of this woman. Worst case scenario, I waste an hour and move on with my day. Normally, I wouldn’t give up an hour for something like t
his, but this new insatiable hunger I have to dominate has me reordering my priorities. Hard. That, and the possibility that I may have actually found a complete and total virgin, not just to the BDSM scene, but a virgin in the full sense of the word.

  For as long as I’ve been around the scene, I’ve never known someone lucky enough to expose a woman to her first sexual experience and her first BDSM experience simultaneously. The possibility has me completely exhilarated.

  The guilt hasn’t gone away. Not at all. But the need for release has finally reached a tipping point, and I can’t suppress it any longer.

  Every time a new woman walks in, I wonder if it’s her. The first woman through the doors is passably attractive. She has nice calves and a build a little more muscular than I prefer, but she greets a group of women at the other end of the restaurant, waving and taking her seat.

  It’s fifteen minutes past the agreed time when the door opens. I freeze, glass half-lifted to my mouth, eyes locked on her. She has dirty blonde hair that cascades into curls past her neck. Her build is slight, but the dress she wears highlights the most irresistible hips I’ve ever seen. On her small frame, the wide hips scream of sexuality so powerfully I can hardly believe my eyes. She has a face so pure I know in an instant she really is a virgin. It’s written all over the soft cast of her expression and the gentle set of her eyes. She stands by the hostess stand, clutching her handbag nervously as she looks around the restaurant.

  And she’s young. So young I should call this whole thing off right now. She looks like she might be twenty years old, maybe younger. I’m thirty-five, and the thoughts that go through my mind at the sight of her have me feeling dirty as hell. Right now, I’m in a dangerous state of mind, and the dirtier, the better.

  I stand, motioning for her to come into the dining area. She hesitantly approaches and I pull out her chair, helping her sit before taking my own seat across from her.

  “So,” I say, taking a sip of water. “Virgin Princess eighty-eight. In the flesh.”

  Her lip spasms in a smile that’s gone so quickly I could’ve imagined it. She takes a long drink of water and sets her glass down a little too hard. “That’s me. Yep.” She sucks in a deep breath and her eyes fall to the floor, widening slightly as if she’s on the verge of an anxiety attack. “Virgin Princess eighty-eight,” she mutters under her breath.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She meets my eyes for a fraction of a second and then looks away, swallowing hard and putting delicate fingers to her neck. “I’m, um, just a little thirsty.” She downs another few gulps of water nervously.

  I signal for a waiter and order their best bottle of wine. “It’s a red. You’ll love it.”

  She gives me the same, nervous smile.

  I grin, leaning forward a little. “You know, that smile of yours is absolutely breathtaking. You shouldn’t hide it.”

  A real smile crosses her face this time, but she still looks down, as if unable to meet my eyes. She’s the perfect fucking submissive and she has no idea. Virgin. Naturally submissive. Sexy as hell. Goddamn. I can’t believe a woman like this reached out to me unsolicited. If she was on the bidding scene, a month with her would easily go for six figures, maybe seven.

  “You’re young,” I say carefully. “Forgive me for asking, but, how young, exactly?”

  “Twenty,” she says quietly. “I’ll be twenty one in a couple months.”

  There’s another long pause and she’s clearly uncomfortable, eyes darting self-consciously around the room as she shifts in her seat. She notices me watching her and sighs. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t really--I’m just new to this. Is the waiter going to want my I.D.?”

  “That’s nothing to be ashamed of, Princess,” I say, smirking.

  Her eyes flick up to mine and her cheeks flush the most perfect shade of scarlet at the pet name.

  “It’s simple, really,” I say, thanking the waiter as he uncorks the wine, lets me smell the cork to make sure it’s fresh, and pours us two glasses, leaving the bottle. “You sign over absolute control to me. Your desires, thoughts, and body become mine for the duration of the contract.” I watch her closely as I say the words. I can see her pulse pounding in the shallow of her neck, and it quickens at my words. I sip the wine to hide the smile threatening to play across my lips. “You would be mine. And I would be yours.”

  Why do I feel like I’m luring this sweet, innocent young girl into a trap? And damn, I wish that thought didn’t turn me on so much.

  “So…” she starts slowly. “Hypothetically, what would happen if I signed this contract and then decided to back out?”

  “Then you walk away. No strings. But you don’t get the money.”

  “Right…” she says. I can practically see the thoughts churning in that pretty head of hers. There’s something in her eyes I can’t quite place. A distance, maybe, like she’s not all here.

  “What’s your real name, Princess?” I ask.

  “My name? My name is Claire. She pauses, eyes moving to the far end of the restaurant. “Claire Tarragon,” she says in a tone that almost sounds like it’s a question.

  “You’re sure?” I ask.

  She laughs, making a face like I’m being ridiculous before sipping her wine. She takes too big of a sip and coughs, spilling some on the table cloth.

  I stand quickly to help her clean it. I dab at the spill, eyes wandering to her lap where a small speck of wine is staining her dress.

  “Oh,” she says, following my eyes. “I can get it--”

  “It’s no trouble,” I say, casually resting one hand on the smooth, exposed skin of her knee while I press a clean spot on the napkin to the stain. “I heard ice helps get stains out,” I say, grabbing a cube from her glass and lifting the napkin to hold the ice to the spot.

  When I look up again at her, I notice she’s stiff as a board, eyes slightly wide and lips parted. I chuckle, leaning a little closer and lowering my voice. “It’s also good for sharpening the senses. The warmth of a tongue, for example, can be shocking if it follows the path of an ice cube.”

  She takes in a quick breath, chest rising and falling quickly, pulse pounding in the major vein of her neck. She’s completely enthralled. Trapped. Completely mine already. It’s almost too easy.

  “Sorry to waste your time,” she says quickly, pushing away from me and standing. “I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have come here. This was a mistake.”

  I watch her leave hastily, heels thumping into the carpet as she rushes out the door.

  I smirk, still standing as I drain the last of my glass of wine, savoring the bitterness. Maybe I’ve lost my touch while I’ve been off the market this past year, I think ruefully. Maybe I came on too strong and too fast. It has been a long time since I’ve had a virgin, and it’s easy to forget how even the most innocent of touches can be frightening when it’s all new. Either way, I can’t think back to a woman who walked away from me. No one walks away from me. But she did. Claire Tarragon, I think, smirking as I look to where her eyes went when I asked her name. There’s a decorative spice rack behind our table full of oversized containers of spice. Oregano, basil, thyme, and tarragon.

  I chuckle out loud, drawing a few curious looks. All I have is an online profile, a face, and a body to identify her. In a city this size, the chances I’ll ever see her again are almost nonexistent. Then again, what’s the point of having all this money if I can’t pull some strings from time to time.

  The smell of saltwater is heavy in my nose. I look out over the railing of my yacht, squinting against the setting sun while a heavy beat thumps through the open air, pounding in my chest and ears. The party is technically a business event. You wouldn’t guess it from the half-naked women and drunken CEOs stumbling around the deck. I grimace.

  Maybe ten years ago I would’ve enjoyed myself. When I was younger, dumber, and still thought there was nothing to life but money and women. I was running so hard and fast from my past that I couldn’t afford to
slow down or look back. If I did, I knew I could end up like Sarah, and I can’t afford to retreat from reality. Who would look after Sarah if I did? That thought is enough of a reason to keep it together.

  “I knew I’d find you brooding,” says a familiar voice.

  Hunter takes a spot beside me on the railing, looking out over the water with me.

  “Creature of habit, I guess,” I say.

  “You are that,” agrees Hunter. “You look moodier than usual. What’s up?”

  I briefly try to decide if I want to tell Hunter about the man with the gun in the lobby and the paranoia I’ve felt since. In the end, he always manages to guess what I’m thinking anyway, so I take a few minutes filling him in.

  His face darkens as I talk and he shakes his head, looking out over the water. “Shit, man,” he says when I’ve finished. “I started hearing rumors a few days ago. I didn’t think there was anything to it, but after what you told me… Shit.”

  “Mind spitting it out?” I ask irritably. If he knows something about what’s going on, he had better tell me.

  “You remember when we were in the Dominican Republic a few months back? October I think?”

  I shrug. “Vaguely. Yeah.”

  “Do you remember the night we went to El Loco and got hammered? You had just closed some big deal and we were celebrating.”

  I quickly search my memory and come up blank. “No,” I say.

  “Well, I remember enough to know that you were giving drunken investment advice to some powerful Dominican businessmen we were hanging out with. You told them to ‘put it all on oil’ or some shit.”

  “Okay,” I say slowly, starting to piece together the problem.

  “Turns out they were dumb enough to take your advice. The guys were basically just mafioso with dirty money and they knew nothing about investing. They thought you were giving them insider information and they bet tens of millions on your advice.”