I carefully navigate my way down the roughhewn wooden steps. They’re full of splinters, carpet tacks, and nails. In my shoes, I’ll jog them, but I learned about how bad they are in bare feet the hard way.
I almost fell from the inch-long splinter and stepping on the nail with the back of my heel. I had just had my third hand surgery back in 2016. Why I wanted to come out here was beyond everyone’s comprehension. I wasn’t even sure I understood it, but we did the surgery at the university and Deacon brought me home. I had my fair share of visitors, but eventually they all left. It led to a whiskey-binger and sutures in my heel.
I nibble at my dinner. I haven’t been hungry in months which is why my kitchen counters here and in Boston are lined with every flavor of protein powder imaginable. I like to mix the mint and chocolate a lot, but I didn’t feel like stopping for almond milk tonight. This part of the world is where everyone knows everyone and I’d have to play social.
“Oh! Hi Sal! I didn’t know you were in town!”
And I’d have to be nice. I don’t feel much like being nice. I trash the rest of dinner, down a beer, and strap the wrist guard on. I must protect the assets. I take my handiwork from the table and step outside and snap on the lights. I get a semi from the sound of them powering up. I run my hand over the pierced beast.
Soon.
Not yet, you slut.
The bright beacons shine over my place like it’s a fall Friday night in Texas. Standing between the carport and the house, I see the one thing I know will bring me comfort—five hay bales in a semi-circle.
I had them delivered a few months back and the man asked what kind of stock I was feeding. I was tempted to say human. I didn’t, but I thought it.
The monster of a tractor makes quick work of scattering the bales after about six months. I don’t like the smell of decay in anything, so I bring in fresh and cover the land with the old.
Yes, I have a tractor but no animals or ag. I’m a peculiar son-of-a-bitch. I bought the swankiest ATV they had, too. That guy asked me if I was going hunting.
Nosey fucking humans, I swear.
I told him I liked to prowl about with my blades. He looked at me like I was a fucking serial killer. Nicky was with me at the time and took particular amusement out of our conversation. The guy quit the very next day, probably to go sell used cars.
In the frigid temperatures, I drop my pants and lower to my knees. I say a quiet prayer, make the sign of the cross, and mumble, “More than words, baby...”
With a flick of my wrist, the cords and bottle caps thrash over sides of my back. I’m careful to stay away from the lotus. It is precious and sacred.
The pictures from the emails haunt my thoughts.
I close my eyes, welcoming the rush of pain and blood to remind me I am alive.
The woman doesn’t look like the Iris I remember.
I am still standing.
She is beautiful, so perfect, so delicate.
The wind is bitter, but I follow through for twelve more strikes of the hideous bitch I made.
Flashes of the dozen images of the woman I love sting my heart as I realize what all we gave up.
Tears well in my eyes and I focus on inflicting the wound, gouging out the feeling.
I breathe her into my soul; I seize her in my surrender.
By the time I’m done, I’m sweating and freezing.
I see her walking away and I want to tell her to stop, but the words won’t come.
I’m lacerated like I danced with barb wire, but I’m alive.
I’m strangled by my love.
“If you go through with the wedding, you throw away years of our patience. We made promises we cannot ignore. I hurt you; you hurt me. We are in the hands of fate now. We submitted ourselves to the beast, but I beg of you now—take back the leash, Sal…take it…claim it…make it yours…and be the badass mofo I know you are. Don’t do this to us. I’m more than just a chrysanthemum.”
I’m alone, but I’m alive.
I toss my pants around my neck and head inside. I lock up the door, set the alarm, and wait for the adrenaline rush to pass. That is when the real pain comes, when the body stops thinking it’s under attack. Only then will I know how bad I actually was. Some weekends are worse than others, but I don’t regret any of them. I’ll spend the next three days on my belly, watching sports, reading, and hurting, crying like an infant and howling like a madman all to remind me of Japan.
I carefully climb the steps and stop off at the guest room. I hang the whip on the ninth hook lining the walls.
Seven now wait; one is blocked off with thick, black tape.
The room is a shrine for my vendettas to be paid for the savagery that occurred years ago in a dungeon. I note the red droplets dripping on the old wooden floors, where the layers of blood are caked from the past three years, and I depart for the Master bedroom. I leave the bedroom light off but turn the bathroom light on.
With my back to the mirror, I peer over my shoulder and examine the damage. It’s not that bad. A lot of blood but nothing to call Tulip about. Mistress June Tulip, a former surgical nurse, lives north of Scottsbluff and did the stitches in my heel during my hand recovery. And yes, June Lovey Tulip is her real name. I’ve seen the birth certificate.
I happen to know her for reasons other than my masochistic streak, namely she loves Juliet and recognized my ass in a local bar one night. We played a round of pool. Great broad. And she is a broad. Keeps four house slaves—two young men and two young women—and rotates them after eleven months of training. She takes a month vacation, skimming over her applicants and repeating the process. She has lived this way for over thirty years.
She knows my issue because one night I went too far. I thanked her by putting on my best submissive for the next two days. In good subservience, one learns to be a better Dominant. And vice versa. She was keenly aware I was trained well beyond her normally acquired subs.
While she nursed my accidents, I advised where she could advertise across the country to acquire a far better selection. This was two plus years ago and she was who I sent the text to. I always do. Every single time I come to The Mean, I text June.
Mistress June will provide if necessary, out of respect, love, and adoration. And on my way out of town, I will stop and visit with her for several hours. She’ll make me lunch or we’ll go out to the favorite diner amongst the locals. Don’t ask if I’m screwing the dreamy broad. I am, and she happens to see me naked more often than clothed.
At one point, I would have given my soul to the devil for a chance to be her one house slave. She’s fifty-four, auburn haired, blue-eyed, and petite with sweeping hourglass curves.
To say I humor her is an understatement, but I am not—unfortunately—her grand love affair of a sub. Hell, even I don’t really want that anymore, I just think I do—falling into old habits. There was a time I would’ve given my right arm for a woman like June. She was some mystical mesh up of all the older women I loved at one point—Serene, Mierne, Trudy, Ella, even parts of Kate. We were two Masters, swapping secrets and sharing fluids. She is the lover, mother, friend, and guidance counselor I needed. Without June and Nebraska, I wouldn’t be staring down the barrel of three, long, absent Iris years.
Lady June numbs the pain.
She will be in attendance for my wedding because I’ve purchased her a plane ticket and reserved her one of the rooms in the block at the hotel. She’d be a wonderful going away present during my bachelor party…excuse me, I didn’t say that.
Yes, I did.
I did and I meant every word.
Maybe Emily should catch me fucking the woman more than twice her age.
Honestly, I don’t think infidelity would matter. Emily is hung up on childhood notions of my providing and caring for her; I am the one man she trusts and I can do no wrong. I’m an innocent angel with sparkling stars in my eyes.
Wrapping a towel around my waist, I drape a damp one over my back and hear my phone go
ing off again. In the darkened room, I twist the phone out of the back pocket of my jeans. The eight messages from Dandelion are clear enough to send my processor into an epic meltdown.
“I need to talk to you, Sir.”
“It’s important, Salvatore.”
“Master, please call me.”
“I love you, Lucy.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I close my eyes. The adrenaline is wearing thin. My heartbeat quickens. My voice gurgles from deep within my chest. I have no words. No trace amount of chemical left for which I can drown the emotion and capsize the present.
I am here, real, and accountable as we wait for two verdicts—one from Lotus and the other from The Commission.
My body trembles, rumbling with a fear due to the unknown. It is out of control. Pain seeps through the flesh, past the layers of dermis to muscle and bone and soul as tears puddle on the shaking screen. I stare at the final three messages. I, Lucas Salvatore Raniero, am now fully responsible for—Iris Amarie Nakamura.
“The Chairman wants to align The Unholy and Lotus.”
“Go do your thing, baby.”
“One day is now, Trotter.”
Blows the dandelion with a kiss and winks.
You didn’t think I would let you get away, did you? For a good time, call me.
Trust the power of a good bitch because a bad girl is the only girl.
Thank you for the helluva good time. I love you. xo SR
79
Fucking in Flight
TRUDY DIAZ
Never underestimate the underdog.
Sitting in the cabaret bar at Juliet, I order a martini. The crowd is a lively bunch for a weekend between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Everyone is excited about the upcoming Red & Green Ball. “Here you are, Trudy.”
“Thanks, Charlotte,” I say, taking a sip and rubbing my lips together as a hot number walks through the door. I note the commotion surrounding the young man.
“You’re welcome,” she replies, wiping down the counter. Her eyes dart to the door. “Busy tonight.”
With a dreamy lust in my eyes at the sight of the young man, I whisper, “Who’s that?”
“That’s Dragon, he’s starting Dom training in January.”
Scrutinizing over the young man, I bite my lip and push back the naughty thoughts surfacing in my mind. “How old is he?”
“Eighteen.”
Lifting my brows, I snicker, “Well, he’s barely legal.” With a wink, I swipe my drink from the bar, heading to a table near the garden.
Despite my best efforts, I cannot look away from the eye candy—his generous frame, dark hair, and scintillating azure eyes that ease right to my core. He’s drop dead gorgeous and everyone seems to know him. Ordering a beer and a shot from the bar, he overtly smiles in my direction. I lift my glass. It isn’t long before another martini arrives at my table.
“What the hell are you doing, grinning at me like that?” I mumble under my breath as I take to minding my own business. Both of my sons—Deacon and Sal—are texting (bickering) with one another in our three-way chat as I settle in for an enjoyable, relaxing night.
Deacon: “Just finishing up some stuff at the office.”
Sal: “I need to rethink everything we’re about to do.”
Deacon: “I think you need to go out to the cornfields and clear your head.”
Sal: “I already did that, but it’s kind of hard to clear anything when she sent all these fucking pictures, and I know she is over there with Cris. Half of the deal is done.”
Deacon: “Congratulations! And Cris won’t try anything. He’s too much of a Sal fan. You’re going to have to trust.”
Sal: “Funny how easy you make that sound.”
Deacon: “He is on our side until the end. Now we just got to get Italy.”
Sal: “You, me, and Italy, baby…until the end.”
Deacon: “LMAO! You weren’t saying that at the time.”
Sal: “I just don’t understand how you can be so certain of things you don’t know…”
Deacon: “Because I do know. You got this, Nero.”
I interject: “Because I am.” My long black nails tap the side of the phone case as I think of what else—how much—to say. “Delarte Cristos is a man looking to settle down, but it won’t be with Iris or anyone else you two clowns may think because he has great interest in one.”
Simultaneously, they both type: “Who?”
“Me!”
Silence.
One way to drop the mic.
I’ve been quietly—periodically—dating Delarte for the last two years. We’ve kept our relationship a secret and open, free to date others, until recently he suggested a commitment. Like a will-you-go-steady-with-me kind of thing for our over the middle-aged selves.
He’s younger, enough to earn me a cougar badge I’d wear proudly. Thing is I’m not sure I’m worth his lavish excess or life of luxury. He’s a damn billionaire and I’m Trudy Diaz, former old lady in an outlaw club.
I came here to Juliet tonight to forget about the diamond bracelet he gave me before leaving for Hong Kong. I came here to forget about what is on the line. I came here not wanting to think about the fact that the man I’ve been happily screwing for two years is at the bottom of The Unholy’s kill list. They’ll use him until they are through making their deals and… yeah. I don’t want to think about making love on his yacht or slipping into a state of love with a man marked for death.
Not tonight.
With all the stress from the boys’ conversation, I start in on the second drink, but when I go to light my cigarette, Mr-I’m-Undressing-You-With-My-Eyes sits down across from me and flicks his flame.
“You’re Dragon.”
“Drago, but yes—everyone calls me Dragon,” he says with the slightest hint of an accent and smiling with an innocence as his fire ignites between us. “And who are you?”
“I’m Trudy Diaz,” I say, leaning forward and inhaling on the smoke. Flattered by his attentions, I announce, “And you are way too young.”
“Ohhhh!” His lips purse in a feigned knock out. “Shot down before I even had a chance!”
“I am sixty-one, Sugar.”
Grabbing a handful of peanuts out of the bowl, Dragon grins beneath the layer of a devastatingly sexy scruff and flirts, “… And this matters?”
I repeatedly flutter my lashes wondering where in the hell he came from. Shocked and blushing, I say nothing.
He cracks the nuts as my phone lights up with text after text from my boys. Extending his large, smooth hands across the table, he urges, “Dance with me.”
He doesn’t ask; he tells.
And we do—slow and fast—taking center stage on the dance floor. He's quite the gentleman for such a young one. Someone raised him right, which is clearly evident by his being accepted into the Dom program. My only question is—who took care of the submissive training?
I’m laughing and clutching his inked, toned guns as he escorts me to my car later in the evening. “I had a wonderful night.”
“So, did I, Miss Trudy…”
I give him an awkward kiss on the cheek and drive off with a smile plastered to my face. I’m stopped at the red light in Sugargrove town square when I notice the one beam of a motorcycle headlight tailing me. I adjust my rearview mirror. “You little shit…”
On the way home, I floor it like I stole it, all the way to Little Bee. I press the remote gate button and pull through as he follows me. I park the car, slam the door, and hiss, “You have a lot of nerve, Dragon!” My eyes slink over his body straddled on the motorcycle. “Nice bike though…”
“Get on,” he lures, offering his hand. “I’ll give you a ride.”
In the middle of the night, we prowl through the backroads until he finally opens her up on the freeway. With my hair whipping in the wind, we’re flying. I wrap my body tight around the warmth of his and question my sanity. His bravado sends a chill through my spine, but the sheer strength from
his back heats against my chest and between my legs.
We’re only gone about a half hour when he pulls up to my gate. “6591,” I whisper in his ear, giving him the code. He punches the numbers in and stops next to the house. I uncurl myself from his body despite wanting to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for the time.”
I get off, thinking he will leave, but he kills the engine and stalks closer before pressing his lips to mine like he wants to be my thief in the night. “I wasn’t done with you.”
Oh, really?
“So…” I drawl out, biting my lip as I debate inviting him in. “Come inside,” I offer, leading the way to my house. “We’ll have a drink.”
He grins with a striking smile, and I know I’m in real trouble. He’s as good looking as my boys and the fact I’m on his radar sends a hot tingle through me. “Does the drink involve the droplets between your thighs?” He nuzzles my neck as I unlock the door. “Pretty please… Ma’am.”
“It’s more than a few droplets, sugar.”
Dragon is on me in less than ten-seconds. My clothes fall off faster than a summer heat wave as I collapse to the sofa and he sinks his beautifully hard—did I mention very vivacious, young cock?—inside of me.
“Hell, where have you been?” I moan out, closing my eyes and tucking my hands on his ass beneath the waistband of his jeans. “Take these off. You’re going to be awhile.”
He grins and stands up as I stare at his wet, shimmering cock. Unbuttoning his shirt, he says, “I was born in Europe, but lived in New York from the time I was six.” The jeans come off and I drool like a horny sixteen-year-old with a crush. “And I love older, beautiful women.”
Entranced by his magnificence, I giggle, not caring and letting Dragon savagely take my body to a place of bliss until dawn. We make love like primal animals needing one another, which typically equates to fucking, but he’s considerate and caring with every thrust and orgasm he brings.
Every Minute I Love You (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 3) Page 65
