I quickly remember how other girls act who come out of scenes with Jack. He enjoys the hardcore, mind games, and slow torture. The girls prove completely numb, almost incapable of functioning on their own. With knowing the entire 24/7 TPE contract was nothing but a farce, Jack has pushed the line.
Sitting and watching her hands shake, I crack my knuckles as the thought consumes me. “Let’s have a cheeseburger, fries. Pickle on the side please.” I glance at Iris, folding up her menu and staring at her napkin in her lap. “And let’s have a tall stack of pancakes.”
Immediately, Iris blinks up at me. Her eyes haze over in gloomy layers of darkness. They probably have been for months, but consumed by my own grief, I fail to see it.
“Bacon, sausage, or eggs with that?”
“Double order of bacon, please ma’am.”
Iris flicks her eyes up to Betsy, who looks at her long enough to know she has been hurt—likely by a man—but probably not yours truly.
Tapping on the table display, Iris whispers, “Can I have a Salted Caramel Brownie?”
“Sure thing! Ok, gimme a few,” she sasses, walking off to check on the trucker.
I pour us both a cup of coffee and generously splash the creamer in. Opening four packets of sugar, I dump them into Iris’ cup. I swirl the swill together as Iris looks on. I choose to be the despondent one now as I aimlessly watch the truckers driving past outside the window. Pushing the cup closer, I encourage, “Try it.”
“Mhmm…” She takes a long sip. “I haven’t had coffee in so long.”
My rage swells again in my gut, invading like a primitive, carnivorous beast. I want to rip Jack to shreds.
“I am sorry for the words I have said,” I say, gripping my cup like I am about to slam it down or chuck it across the room. I am quite certain Iris doesn’t even hear the apology as she sits drowning in the lush goodness of her cup. Polishing it off, she parks it back down in front of me, and I begin the whole process of making her another cup of the sickly-sweet goo again
“What are you talking about?” she says, watching as I methodically pour, rip, and stir.
“All the fights we have had,” I say, scooting the cup. “I have been a fucker and an asshole, and I am sorry.”
“Shit, it was so long ago.” Lifting her glasses up into her hair, she smiles as I remember this Iris—my Angel. “I’m so over it.”
“I wish Jack wouldn’t have made the offer.”
“Who would you have preferred?”
“Anyone else,” I counter. “He can be dangerous.”
Sitting down her cup, she says, “I had no idea until I got there. Apparently, he has been into me since last Midsummer Masquerade.”
My mind flashes rapidly back to the break up with Kate synonymous with Midsummer Masquerade. I remember the hand before me when slumped onto the floor in a heap of a drooling mess. The green dress, the red hair, and the touch of her skin captivated in one of the worst moments of my life.
“He’s not the only one,” I mumble under my breath as she catches my eye. We are locked—forever in the tug-of-war, the push and pull, the strain and the inevitable fall.
Betsy arrives with a platter of steaming hot food just as Iris is about to break and say something. The spread lays out in front of us as I demand, “Eat.”
She whispers, “What?”
“I don’t care. Just eat.”
“You,” she pauses, hesitating, reluctant to let go of the death grip on her heart.
Cocking a brow, I agree, “Me? Okay. But I’d wait until we got back to the truck.”
“You are always so kind to me,” she snaps, picking up her fork. There you are—come back to me—baby.
“Kind?” I bark back, “Did you seriously just call me kind?”
I don’t want to be kind. I want to be the one Iris wants, needs, and craves. Kind is something people are to soft, cuddly kittens.
Her expression shifts to a smirk, one that exemplifies her misfit self and states gotcha with a wink.
Reluctantly, she picks up her fork, diving into the six-high stack of plate-sized pancakes. After one bite, she deems them edible, setting down her fork and carefully smearing copious amounts of butter and syrup on each layer.
Amused by her continuing food antics, I capsize a French fry in ketchup, fishing it out with my fingers and offering it to Iris. It is a sincere, and yes, kind move. But there is always an unspoken danger in the care and feeding of submissives. Like wild animals, they can go to extremes with food. She could have easily chowed it down or turned it into some sort of sex act or even worse, bitten my finger.
I can see the training in her though in these simplest of actions. In some regards, we are equal, but she is nothing more than docile and humbled by the notions of my aftercare.
And that is exactly what this is—the aftercare of a six-month session. Bringing my sub to the table, I serve as a bandage to hold her together. It isn’t what I exactly want, but I am certainly not going to eschew it either.
Between her bites of pancakes, I continue feeding her my fries. “You are starving.”
I hope to not go there as it seems like such a slippery slope. Clearly, she has been fed. The new curves in her thighs show that, but I can’t begin to fathom a guess as to what Jack has been serving. Serene always fed lots of protein, but I am her stallion.
The fact I haven’t been around for a month plays heavily into my mind. I feel guilty, which leaves us distant and retained at the border of friendship. To cross into the land of Dominance now will only result in a hostage situation.
She continues diving into the swirl of syrup and butter sea as I finish most of the burger. I want to ask a million questions, but in all honesty—I probably know the answers. I just need to hear her say it. But she isn’t talking, only moaning in the ecstasy of the glory of pancakes every now and again.
Watching her eat, I make her another coffee and scoot it closer. I toss so many ropes, wanting Iris to hook onto one, so I can reel her back to me.
“Done.” She nods, staring longingly at the brownie.
Betsy brings the check and I hand her three twenties. “Keep the change.”
“If you need anything else, holler, hon.”
Happily, Betsy strolls away as we continue to wait it out in silence. I start to pour another cup of coffee and she lifts her hand—no. The trucker makes his way back out to his rig and leaves, well on his way. And we are left alone in the diner with Betsy, who is also serving as cashier for the gas station and the cook in the back.
“You know what I really need,” she whispers as a spark of hope shimmers between us. “To shave my legs,” she says with a smile.
“I can fix that!” I reply, grinning. Uncertain of where this would lead, I am more than willing to follow her if that is what it takes to bring her back to me. Or maybe I should push the lead. “Stay here.”
IRIS
Picking at the divine brownie, I lean back against the window, tossing my legs up onto the bench seat of the booth. I watch as Sal strides determined through the aisles, searching for items and charming Miss Betsy.
He is beautifully animated as he speaks, his charming words linger like a magic spell. As I sit alone with nothing but Sal in my view I begin to wonder if there has ever been any other choice than being with him.
He is the one.
I just know he will be here, to catch, hold, and comfort me. There is never a time when I imagine Sal won’t be my end. He is the handsome mischievous devil, the guardian savior, and my staunch warrior never letting me fall.
Suddenly, I remember so fondly why I have such a crush on him. And yet, I can’t just let myself fall for him. A double-edged, razor sharp sword I wield.
Picking out a few items in the store, he continues talking to Betsy before pulling his black leather wallet out of the back of his slacks and swiping his card for the items. He stays for some time, and then hands her what appears to be three hundred dollar bills as she hands him a key.
Brushing past the table, Sal steals a kiss from my cheek as he heads off to the bathroom, not saying a word.
Coming to my table, Betsy gathers up the plates and rambles, “Your hubs is a keeper. Lucky lady you are!”
I think about correcting her, but instead offer a sweet smile as my imagination conjures what he is up to.
“You two have fun! Tell him to bring back the key when you are done.” She winks, suggesting something illicit is about to occur between my husband and I.
Returning with a duplicitous grin, Sal suggests, “My lady, come.” He offers his hand to me as I follow closely through the narrow hallway marked with a giant arrow and the word showers.
Unlocking the last door on the left, he reveals the concrete floor covered in rose petals and four candles lit around the room. It is a small, but decently kept bathroom with sink, toilet, and shower stall.
“Lucas Salvatore Raniero, what have you done? You have that poor woman thinking we are about to get it on!”
“Ya, well, you ask and I do my damndest.”
The shower is already running with steaming hot water, set up complete with shampoo, conditioner, soap, and a razor. He also bought a towel, a travel-sized toothbrush and toothpaste, as well as a brush for my hair. The clean sweatshirt waits on the chair along with a pair of collegiate boxers.
Glancing at the clothes, I say, “Just like when I broke my leg.”
He grins. His kindness is infallible as I continue to take in at what he has done. Walking to the sink, I gaze in the mirror, appearing nothing like the girl from six months ago, much less a year ago when I first met Sal.
At least forty pounds heavier on my tiny 5’2” frame, I am all boobs and ass now. Pulling my hair down, I scoff at the hair more akin to a poodle than a sexy succubus. I toss my glasses and rub my face. Sal stares in the mirror, his face showing no harsh judgment or overt criticisms. He takes me in, and I sense his good intentions and softly smile.
“You are beautiful, Iris.”
Snickering, I spin around, pummeling into his arms. “You cannot mean that,” I argue. “Look at me. You could have your choice of anyone anywhere, and yet you are here.”
“The reason I am here is for me. It’s totally 110% selfish. You make me feel good about being who I am,” Sal confesses, clasping his hands around mine. “Even when you question me, I am okay in your eyes. And that makes everything in the world fucking perfect.”
His words cut through the air, thick with steam, abundant with the rigidity of our roles. There is no getting around it as we are each so buried within the framework of bondage, domination, sadism, and masochism, tying our Dominant and submissive hearts together.
This is normal.
Anything other than the comfort of trusting another with the full responsibility of ourselves feels abstract and off.
I stand and see Sal as an unforgettable boyfriend and my best friend. Running my hand through his mess of curls, I step closer. His fingers caress my cheek, soft as cotton and cool as a blustery day.
“You should get in the shower,” Sal breathes, knowing as I do that if one of us doesn’t move—we will stand here for all eternity.
“I can’t…” I interject as he puts his finger on my mouth. Pulling it away, I defy, “I can’t do this in front of you. Look at me and look at you.”
He titters, “Do you want me to get naked, too?”
“No!” I cower. I am not looking to break even nor do I want to up the ante. “I don’t want to see you naked! I don’t want you to see me naked!”
Stepping back, he rips off his shirt and declares boldly, “You don’t want to see me naked? That may be the first time anyone has ever said that to me.”
His intentional flirtations warm my cheeks and bring his heat flustering up through my core. I think I might pass out then and there, and then he turns around and sits with one leg propped off to the side on the brace of the chair. His eyes steam green like the sea as his skin glistens and his hair dampens from the humidity. His silver cross sparkles in the sensual clouds of mist from the shower. I wonder if he is as aroused as I.
“I wish I understood.”
Lighting a smoke, he says, “What?”
Taking a deep breath, I pull my sweatshirt off, dropping my shield and revealing my battered body.
“… What the fuck happened?”
“Bachelor party,” I whisper, full of a shame. I avoid the whole truth because that is a sword I do not wish to carry. I only agreed to the party because of Mierne. When Jack informed me she would be present, I jumped at the chance to hurt her even if that meant putting my own self in danger, but I never imagined it would go so bad.
Because I am that fucked up.
Standing in front of Sal though, I am mortified as his eyes scrutinize over me. The bruises and welts, the cuts and swelling, all speak of a session gone very wrong—so much harsher than my initiation.
He says nothing as he steps closer. His fingers trickle over my shoulders as he moves to the back of my body and removes my tank top slow, noticing the magnitude of the bruises and the new color on my back mural.
“I wish I understood the whole arousal business with men,” I distract our perilous route to the end. There is no point in the discussion of my dreadful night in the Cardinal-S playroom. “I just don’t get it.”
His lips drag off the smoke with an extended sexy exhale as he cocks a brow. “Ask me.”
He offers a drag. “Only if you got some more fun smoke…”
“I actually do if you want to chill with me. But you’re avoiding me. Ask me—anything. Stop evading.”
Wiggling out of my pants, I kick them away as he stares at my new tattoo—a snake, curling up my left leg.
“That is sexy as fuck,” he mumbles, scanning over my flesh and propping against the wall with a bad boy simmer. With a shocked expression, he murmurs, “They got you good, didn’t they?”
“Yeah,” I say, avoiding the conflict and pointing my toe as I show off the ink. “Thank you. So, like how aroused do you get?”
With a dangerous glint in his eye, he snickers, “…When I am watching you undress?”
“You are trouble and a cunt tease, Raniero,” I deadpan, refraining from releasing my smirk. “No, seeing my bruises…”
Leaning back, he stretches, thinking about the question as I pull off my socks, revealing relatively fresh red marks on each ankle.
“Depends on a lot of things. If I am inflicting the pain, I am almost always hard as a fucking rock. Right now, I am pissed off. I didn’t put those marks on you.”
“What if you would have been there?”
“They will never invite me for a group scene because they know I don’t play that way,” he elaborates, dropping the smoke and stepping closer. “If you want to play doubles and you want intimacy, I am only going to play with one….”
“Master Dom?” I interject, filling in the blank. “So, no gang bang sessions?”
“Not with you and them together,” he says, shaking his head. “If you were another sub, sure.”
Not understanding the comparison and feeling a tad rejected, I ponder, “What’s the difference?”
“I am in love with you.”
Pulling off my bra, I watch as it falls to the floor, and I quickly cover my breasts. He doesn’t need to see. He forcefully grips my wrists and separates my arms from my flesh.
“God motherfucking dammit!” he growls angrily, staring at the new southern cross nipple piercings. They spike through my nipples both horizontally and vertically. “Who the fuck put them back in?”
“Jack…”
“…Jack fucking did this?”
“Jack did all of it. He led the night, and everything they say about him is true. Every single thing, Sal,” I cry as he wraps his arms around me. “He’s fucking insane… He let them have at me, Sal. He fed my body to his carrion.”
“I need you to tell me who all was there,” he pleads, breathing erratic and heavy. “You cannot go
back there.”
“Sugargrove is my home,” I argue, hastening any attempts to convince me otherwise.
“You have to go…” he rebukes, running his fingers through his hair and lighting another smoke. “Until I can figure this all out. I know Jack is crazy, but this…”
His words escape as I flutter my lashes and pivot, revealing my plump derriere. His head tilts as he takes in the sight of me. All I know is I am in the presence of an Italian God. He is a King amongst men, a divine and holy being revered by women, and everything to me.
“And how aroused are you now, killer?” I whisper against his lips as my hand cups his very pronounced erection.
“Right now,” he snarls with his eyes gazing half-mast at me. He is high on the wounds of my flesh, and maybe that makes him a sick fuck.
But what does it say about me that I enjoy taunting Sal with these marks from another?
“I have a raging beast because I want those to be mine.” The corner of his lip rises suggestively as he backs away. “Come here.”
I don’t listen, pivoting and pulling off my panties in front of him. Bending over giving a full view of my ass and damp sex, I tease his darkness, coaxing his devil to dance with my sinful angel.
I speculate his cock must be throbbing in his fine tailored pants as he threatens with a thunderous howl, “Come! Here! Now!”
I fall into position—on all fours as he sits in the shadows of the corner. I turn my curvaceous body and titillatingly crawl as my hair skims the ground and my breasts sway with every movement.
“You have me sputtering, Iris,” he evokes with a deep, sensual craving like lightning rolling across the sky. He seeks the darkness, feeding on the hopeless.
Sal is the monster.
And I—his fucked-up marionette.
“You know I didn’t bring you here to do this,” he alleges as I stop mere inches away. I know his rebel cock slathers the tip as his rogue mind plots the map of me. Flowing gracefully on my haunches, I arch my back, elevating my bosom for his critical inspection. I allow his aerial navigation and the harsh scowling glares over his well-used toy. My breasts ache full and heavy, stinging and alive from the misuse of other’s play. Sal creeps with pressure as his fires erupt and he roars, “Stand up.”
Salt Kissed Love (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 1) Page 49
