His blues widen. “What the hell did you do, wifey?”
“Apparently, I raped the pillow this morning, and it’s pressing charges…”
“Did you choke the bitch?” he quips as I pull out the deflated, flaccid pillow. “You finally killed a ho in sex. Did you get a Nico patch for that?”
We’re both in hysterics.
“I don’t do stuffing,” I mumble, taking two arms full of fluff to the trash.
“I wouldn’t say that.” He winks, grabbing his dick. “I stuff you just fine.”
“We should go dancing.”
“You are all over the damn map this morning,” he remarks. “We cannot go boogie all night at Juliet, too many prying eyeballs looking to start shit with who we are.”
“We got Austin right there.”
“That’s just what the world needs,” he boasts. “You and me under a disco ball with strobe lights.” He pauses for a minute. “It’d only be better if we were naked.”
“I’ll get you a good table,” I taunt, batting my lashes. “And I’ll swallow pretty when we come home.”
“You’re such a tramp,” he remarks. “You’d swallow pretty now if I asked you to, bitch.”
“Say it to me, lumberjack!” I shrill in my highest-pitched voice.
“I’ll agree to this dumb fangled idea if you do your best panache-y fashionista, and I redneck the fuck out of it.”
I snort. “Jesus Christ, how many people are we trying to kill?”
“All of them!” he informs with a diabolical grin and psycho eyes as his brows rapidly twitch. “We’ll be the hit of the club. The lumberjack and his Guido hussy taking Austin by storm.”
“It’s too bad you don’t have a neckbeard.”
“I have a standard, babe.”
I shake my head and wave my hand to display myself. “It’s not very high.”
With a smoke dangling from his lip, he warns, “I’m spanking your ass red for that one later.”
“Can I scream—oh, Master Bunyon, give me your big log?”
Lighting the cigarette on the stove flame, he points it at me. “Gonna hurt you.”
“You look incredibly gay,” he declares as I emerge from the bedroom. “Where did you get pants that tight? And why do I really like them on you?”
“I’ve had these old things for years.” The black pants with silver zippers and fasteners and shimmering white silk shirt fit my frame like a gay boy’s dream. “It was this or booty shorts.”
“… You own booty shorts?”
“Yes, but they’re packed away in Anna’s attic,” I say. “You have to remember, I was trying to sneak in the clubs at sixteen.”
“Were you looking for a Sugar Daddy?”
“Honey, I was looking for anyone to heal this broken heart of mine,” I say, talking with my hands, which I lotioned. I shaved and am sporting the perfectly trimmed goatee with wet, slick hair.
He grins and shakes his head. “I’m so going to get in a fight tonight. I’m going to have a helluva time watching your sweet ass work it.”
“I’ll grind with the queens and the queer boys and stay away from the grizzlies.”
“You have a course of action for this, which disturbs me greatly,” he says. “No wonder Johnathan Finkle wants to bone you.”
“I am fabulous, darling!”
“You are,” he says with a nod, biting his lip. “Do I look acceptable?”
“You look like you walked right off the lumber mill.”
“Gee, thanks.” He walks over as I grab my wallet and keys. “You’re wearing mascara and liner.”
Glancing up, I ask, “Is this an issue?”
“No, I’m amazed it looks as good as it does,” he says, taking my hand. “Come on if we’re going to do this. Let’s do it right.”
“Where the hell did you learn to do makeup?” I ask, half an hour later, sitting on the bathroom counter.
“Mostly from Ma.”
“But you never wore it?”
“No,” he says, peering down at me like it was the most absurd question ever. His brushes are going a mile a minute with some expert ease. “I didn’t want ever to be feminine. It was not a side I wanted to embrace.”
“But you shop and do makeup?”
He stops and backs up before swooping another wave of his magic bristles over me. “I can also rebuild an engine and fix an ice machine—blindfolded.”
“Damn, boy!” I fan myself. “Trying to turn me on!”
“Look up,” he says, parking his tongue on the side of his upper lip. He does it a lot when he thinks. “Stop puckering.”
“Please tell me you didn’t put coral on me.”
“God, no!” he says, “That would wash out with your skin tone. You get raspberry, baby.”
“I’m going to look so fucking gay.”
“No! Don’t insult my work,” he corrects. “You look good enough to eat. And stop worrying. I got you. Fly free, my baby.”
Beneath loads of makeup, I whisper, “Thank you, Sir.”
“Don’t you dare start crying and ruin my painting,” he warns. “You can cry later when I’m fucking you. You’ll have mascara stains, and that will turn me on.”
“I just never…”
“Stop,” he says. “Is this healing some repressed need in you?”
“Possibly,” I admit. “Actually, we both know it is.”
“Well, you’re prettier than Iris and coming from me, that is saying a lot,” he announces, dropping his brush and biting his lip. “She’d be fucking pissed if she knew she missed this.” He says, grabbing the gel.
“What are you doing?”
“You cannot go slicked for this,” he contends, combing through the mess and ruffling my curls. After washing his hands, he undoes almost all the buttons on my shirt. “Now, I’m going to get in a fight.”
He backs up and takes a bow. “Holy Mother of God…”
With a sinister grin plastered on his face, he flirts, “Hello, Sally… You’re fucking gorgeous, but we need to go now.”
“Are we running late?”
“If we stay here, we won’t make it there.”
Feeling like the belle of the ball, I snicker, “That good for you, huh?”
“One person touches that ass tonight, and I’m going to the lot.”
“Oooh!” I boom. “Protect me, lumberjack!”
He five fingers my wallet. “What are you doing?”
“You don’t need this,” he says. “You’re my doll tonight.”
60
COME to me
The Master
There are a few things I need to mention.
1. We’ve been to gay dance clubs in every imaginable flavor, from pop, synth, industrial, edge, and country to hole-in-the-wall-no-one-mentions-cause the podunk po will throw your ass in the hole.
2. We’ve never looked this…magnificently different. Typically, we go jeans and t-shirts, have a few drinks, and dance a little bit. It’s more of a social intermingling where we can quietly observe.
As you might imagine, with this night in mind, we should burn numbers 1. and 2.
I am playing the role of the glammed-up gay boy to the hilt. I am rocking the face and hair, outfit, and style.
Baby, I got panache.
No y needed.
I own it as Cruz pays for the cover charge, and I bop along to the beat utterly silent. I know they’re checking me out as we take our plastic bands and make our way to the coat check.
“What are we checking?” I mutter amongst the crowd as he starts unbuttoning his red plaid shirt, and I gasp at the black mesh shirt underneath. With my perfectly kissed raspberry lips gaping open, he swivels the ball cap back as my black lashes do a wicked little spider dance. He mischievously grins. “What the hell?”
“I am not letting you go out on that dance floor alone,” he says, latching his fingers to mine. “I am many things. Stupid is not one of them. Come on, Darlin’! Let’s go cut a rug!”
I
hate to admit that the word darlin’ with that ideal blend of Texas drawl and Cajun swamp sends a noticeable, relieving throb in my cock, but hell…I mean, if that is the effect it has on a female submissive, I need to replace Vinny’s fucks with more Darlins’.
Staying behind his left shoulder, we strut into the club and head straight for the bar.
This will be the last straight thing we do tonight.
“What do you want to drink? Cause you can’t shoot whiskey looking like that.”
“Are you saying I need something pretty and froufrou?” I shout and shake to the tempo.
“Yes!” He orders tequila for himself and a double-dosed peach margarita on ice for me as I’m checking everyone out on the arm of the lumberjack-gone-club-kid-biker-boy. I don’t bother to complain about the peach because I understand, he is going to push all my limits tonight.
This is his strange version of an intervention.
He hands the drink to me. “If you get pills, blow, tabs, or anything else from anyone but me, I will take you home, and it will be a year before you see me again.”
Tears threaten his elaborately crafted thin wings as I blink, “I will behave, Sir.”
“You better.”
“Slam that, and I’ll get you another.”
I do it.
Sugary. Sweet. Godawful. Peach. Margarita.
This is punishment.
He orders another round and asks, “How many times has Serene whipped you?”
“Too many…”
“It stops. Tonight. You belong to me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he says, running the tip of his finger over my cross and bare chest. “But she is part of your problem.”
I furrow my sculpted brows. “... Serene?”
“Yes,” he nods, grabbing the drinks. “And if we’re staying together, you need to stop enduring hay bales and Sares because all she is doing is provoking the memories of dead daughters.”
I blink several times, trying not to cry. “I’m so sorry… I didn’t know you felt that way.”
“I didn’t know I did until I went to the snow.” He winks. “And I do mean the mountains.”
“I’m sorry about that too.”
“Stop apologizing,” he says. “And... Salvatore…” His saying my full name catches me off guard as the breathless tone of his voice sends a shiver through me. “I can’t keep doing this with you.”
He brought me here to break up with me.
Holy fuck.
I look away, attempting to hold my shit together, but all I want to do is run—far away and fast. His finger careens beneath my chin, and he looks at me. “You may control many things, but it’s time to stop pretending you’ve got this because you don’t. You may run the business, but I want to run you. Let me take care of you, Darlin’.”
Saying nothing, I gulp back the second one.
And we dance.
Grinding. Sweating. Pumping.
His hair is soaked when he finally grabs my ass and pulls me closer for a kiss. The rapid lashes of his tongue send waves of pleasure through me as he stops, pulls back, and whispers on my lip, “Shit, we have an audience…”
His blue eyes are focused as I turn into him and peer over my shoulder at X and Oscar Sato at a good first-tier table. X is in his classic biker attire, slightly spiffed up with more leather, and Oscar Sato, jiving to the beat, appears to have just walked off the damn Paris runway in a well-fitting gray suit with no shirt. Cruz nods.
“Oh, shit,” I murmur from the safety of his arms.
“We have to say hello.”
“We can,” I mutter in his ear. “But…” I put his hand on my very erect cock.
“You ain’t the only one, baby.”
Never was it in my grand plans for a ranked member of Reckless Rebellion and an esteemed member of The Commission to catch us in the act of letting go. Because as much as I was free-flying, so was Deacon. His fingers lace through mine as we walk over to them.
“Hey,” Cruz says, hugging X and patting Sato’s shoulder. “How are y’all doing?”
“We’re good,” he says. “Just came up here to liven things up.”
I say nothing because…I am in fifteen pounds of makeup, looking like a damn drenched-in-doll diva. “Can I take this hot little number for a spin?” Oscar politely asks Cruz, who glances with a grin to me.
Okay…whoa…
This shit happens all the time at Juliet in our BDSM world. Masters spot a good sub, and cut-ins happen. It is common. I’ve even done it. But to be in an environment like this—No, I have never done this. I have been with four guys—separate not together. Grins.
Four. Not four hundred. And most of the last ten years have been devoted to two: Deacon Cruz and Dom Gennaro. I have a hard time counting Dom as a lover because although we have engaged in those acts, we are not based there. They occur post-scene, a side effect of our S&M relationship.
Deacon is different because he’ll pursue sex with me without those BDSM elements, and I welcome his pursuit. He wants to fill the vacancy of Dom’s spot. He wants to be my Master. And if anyone can keep my ass closer to the tracks, it is him.
I flick a gaze between Cruz and Sato, only to land on X. I assumed X was the top in the pairing, but I very clearly assumed wrong. The thing is we never honestly know unless we’re informed. Relationships blur in public versus private settings. And that was the lesson for tonight.
Our sexuality was like a glob of clay. We started the shape with an admission of the elephant living in our heads—Oh, I like boys...and Hmm, I like girls too. When that was revealed, then we chiseled to refine ourselves. Now, we’re making those final sweeps of the blade to pinpoint what makes our desires tick.
Cruz accepted his gay streak long before I could, and it, for that reason, Iris will call him out his stereotypical behavior before mine because he is more comfortable with it. He knew who he was, and vehemently fought for his sexual freedom.
Meanwhile, Cesario and my uncles did everything in their power to repress and beat it out of me, short of conversion therapy. My street thug emerged because I had to learn to fight against my father, but I was the sweet Raniero boy and the charming, gentle soul to my Nonna and her friends. But to my father and uncles, I was the pretty boy, sissy boy, faggot. If he could find a way to be cruel, he was. “Man up! Be a man!”
I am a man you motherfucker.
He annihilated my sexuality and gender identity, and I rebelled by loving everyone. I couldn’t save myself, but maybe I could rumble with the abused punk biker and dance with the new chunky chick with those blue-violet almond eyes. They weren’t the only ones, just the most remarkable. I spread joy everywhere. Like a cum shot of confetti and happiness, and all the while, the past was eating my insides.
I was a shell.
Cruz throwing his doll into the fray, flooded a new vitality into me. He took me back to a time when I was searching for something real. I could see it, but I couldn’t reach it.
I was too broken to figure it out, so he fixed it.
And he wants me.
“Let me take care of you, Darlin’.”
I’ve been leading the show with Deacon, but the truth is we aren’t getting anywhere. We’re running in circles because I won’t let him have the ultimate lead. He wants to push me further, but he stops short out of respect for my Dominant, and it cheats our dynamic out of something that could be so good.
He welcomes my masochist addictions, and I’m half-tempted to set out the welcome mat for his sadist. It won’t diminish my Dominance. If anything, it may bring me closer to whole. It is not a step-down, but an offering from one gifted Dominant male to another—I know you’re broken, but I can take care of you better than you can. Try me.
“… Darlin’?”
“Yes!” I boom, taking Oscar Sato’s hand. His hands are soft and slender, but his lead is noticeable. He’s a good four inches taller than me. I’m almost certain we could ballroom dance to
gether and make it look good.
His Italian accent is thick as he whispers, “You look incredible!”
“Thank you. I’m not exactly sure what the hell I’m doing.”
“Your secrets are safe with me,” he reassures, twirling me out. I feel safe with him. “I’m delighted you were here.”
“Why is that?”
A slower song comes on, and despite a brief flinch from me, he pulls me closer. With our bodies locked together, I find a strange new high with Cruz staring lustfully while Sato’s obvious arousal is pressed against me. “You want to go in on some cheap warehouses with me?”
Despite the gloss on my lips, I don’t miss a beat. “Where at?”
“There are sixteen of them all over the world,” he informs with a smile. “I won’t do them alone, but I’ll do them with you.”
“Yeah, call me Monday.”
The song ends, and he kisses me—not a tongue lashing, but not a peck either. More of a—if you are ever single and I am too; let’s hook up. He returns to X, leaving me alone. I keep dancing, staring at Cruz, and his wicked smirk. I’m so focused on him that I don’t pay any attention to the hands, slipping around my hips and spinning me.
Beneath heavy lashes, I glance up. “Mass…”
“Take the offer.”
“You should not be here,” I say, trying to wedge from his grasp. “Or seeing me, like this.”
“Boss,” he pleads, pulling me closer as I peer over to Cruz. His knowing grin is unmistakable. “Take the offer.”
“You called Cruz.”
“I did, and we connected over a snowy backdrop with hot chocolates,” he mutters as I spin and skim to see Cruz and X shoulder-to-shoulder and talking. My immediate thought is—Cruz and Mass hooked up. Cruz won’t stop moving, smiling, and having fun. “Say, yes, you sexy bitch.”
I almost blush. “You are aware who I am in a dungeon is far different,” I argue as he lays one hell of a lip lock on me. “I don’t typically wear lashes.” We laugh.
“I know this isn’t your usual attire,” he teases. “But we all have to release at some point. Six months. Europe. You and me.”
Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4) Page 50
