“But, sir, did Melina have a safeword?”
“She certainly did. Didn’t you see those two thumbs up she gave Michael?” I ask, surprised at her questions.
“So that’s what those were about! I thought she was just telling him she liked what he was doing.”
“He asked, and she was letting him know it was all right. She couldn’t talk because she had a co … something in her mouth.”
“Yep. She did,” she says and her cheeks pink ever so slightly. “Okay. Makes sense to me now. Thank you for answering my questions, sir,” she says and turns to walk away.
“Cirilla?” I call after her, and she stops and spins to face me.
“Yes, sir?”
“If at any time you’re uncomfortable and decide it’s not for you, you have the option to just get up and leave. No one will think less of you. It’s not for everyone.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” she says again and disappears into her bedroom.
Holy shit. I’m ever so glad I got out of this orientation. And I can’t wait to talk to Dave afterward.
* * *
Sunshine coming in through the space between the drapery panels wakes me. I must’ve been in a deep sleep when she came in because I didn’t hear a sound. It’s about ten minutes before my alarm clock will go off, so I just shut it off and get up.
The coffee pot is full and I’ve finished my cereal and milk by the time she appears, fully dressed and ready for the day. “Well, good morning,” I say with a smile. “I see you survived it.”
“Yes, sir.” That’s all she says as she retrieves a cup of coffee and sits down at the table.
It takes everything I have to keep from peppering her with questions. So, how did it go last night? Get the shit scared out of you? Think maybe you bit off more than you can chew? Did Dave explain fetwear to you? And what are you going to do when you can’t wear those things that are very nearly body bags to the club? I just sit there and watch her, but there’s no hint of what went on or how she feels about it. Yeah, I know. It’s none of my business, but damn, I’m nosy.
There were two muffins on the countertop, left over from earlier in the week, and she eats those before standing. “I should get to work. Are you ready, sir?”
“No. I’m going to take a shower and get dressed. Can you handle it until I get done?”
She nods as she’s walking away. “Yes, sir. Not a problem.” In seconds, she’s vanished into the office.
It’s almost eight, and Dave made the mistake of telling me the baby gets them up at six every morning. And I don’t care if they went back to sleep―I have to know what went on last night. The phone only rings twice before he says, “I know what you want, and that’s not appropriate.”
“What? I didn’t say anything!”
“Waited as long as you could stand, didn’t you?” he asks. God, he knows me too well.
“Um, yeah. I did. So tell me―”
He sighs on the other end of the phone. “If you wanted that information, you should’ve done the orientation.”
“But Dave …” I almost whine.
“I’m just bustin’ your balls. I was planning to call you anyway.” At that moment, I want to choke him. “Really, there’s not much to tell. She was attentive and mindful.”
“Questions? Did she ask questions?”
“No. Maybe one. She’s not very talkative.”
“I know. That scares me a little.”
“Me too. But I think she’ll be fine when she gets a little experience under her belt.”
It’s standard procedure for the presenter of the orientation to interview each membership candidate privately and ask them questions, and I know he did. “Did she answer the questions okay in the interview?”
“Yes. I told her that sexuality is very open in the club, and I wanted to know how many partners she’d had. She told me she wasn’t comfortable quoting a number, so I started asking. You know, like was it above three, or higher than ten, like that. And she kept saying no until I said, ‘More than twenty?’ And she said, ‘Yeah. More than twenty.’ So I think she’s a live one.”
“Can’t tell that from her clothes,” I say with a snort.
“Hell yeah, that’s right. I went over the requirements for fetwear, and she seemed to understand. At least if she doesn’t want to dress out, she didn’t verbalize that.” Not a no, but not a yes. I’m good with it. “Of course, she’s gone through orientation. That doesn’t mean she’ll ever darken the doors of the club as a participant.”
“True. I doubt she will. I’ll be surprised if she does,” I say. And I mean that. I also doubt any of us will ever see her in fetwear. Any other woman, maybe. Cirilla?
No. Not a chance.
I say nothing to her about orientation for the rest of the day. It’s Friday. I figure I’ll find out soon enough if she’s serious about her membership, or if it was something she thought would be a good idea that turned out to be nothing like she thought it would be. At three o’clock she says, “Would you mind if I go out while you’re napping? I’ll take the business phone with me so I can answer it, but I’ve got some things I really need from places that will be closed later.”
“Sure. No problem. If you don’t get back before I leave, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” she says in answer, but there’s something in her voice that I can’t describe, almost like a defiance of some kind. Weird.
Napping, my ass. She’s been gone for about twenty minutes when I decide to do a little poking around. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. The woman is a mystery, and the only way to unravel a mystery is to do some sleuthing. And I am paying for the apartment, after all. I mean, who knows? She could be a drug dealer. What would happen if they busted her while she was in my apartment? I’d get in a lot of trouble, that’s what. Better safe than sorry.
I tiptoe into her room, then realize how stupid that is. She’s not there, for god’s sake. After all, if she were to walk in and find me in there, what could she do? Move out? That’s not going to happen. My first course of action is to open her closet.
Oh, lord. Some of these things are little more than burlap bags with arm holes. One dress is a brown, baggy thing that has an elastic waist and a wide, ugly belt with it. I swear, there are two more just like it, only in other colors―a navy one and a green one. There are a few pairs of slacks, but they look like something that came from one of those catalogs requested by people at the retirement center. A few sweaters are in there too, and they’re big and shapeless. One looks more like a poncho. God, it’s ugly, all striped in shades of brown, avocado green, gold, and orange, like something that fell off a truck from the sixties.
She only has about five pairs of shoes, and they’re all pretty much orthopedic issue. One pair of shoes is what I’d call athletic, but they’re clunky athletic. They’d be great for wearing to physical therapy, but that’s about it. I even check the drawers under the bench, but there are no shoes in there at all. Oh, and slippers. She’s got some of those big fuzzy ones that were popular in the seventies. Where the hell does she find this stuff? They actually still make it all?
I move on to the chest, but it’s mostly empty except for about four flannel nightgowns like the one she came to the bedroom door in that day. They’re cute enough, but certainly not what I’d think a woman her age would want to wear to bed. I mean, I’ve seen them in the stores, those knit pajama sets with cute little prints on them. I can’t understand why she doesn’t have something like that. Should I buy her some as a gift? No. That would be too personal.
The next piece of furniture is the dresser, and that’s where things start to get a little weird. As expected, the top drawer has some white granny panties and plain white cotton bras in it. That’s no surprise. The next drawer is less than half full of socks, mostly white but a few black pair. I expected that too. Oh, and did I mention three pairs of those socks with the grippy dots on the bottom? I thought they only gave those away in ho
spitals. Another drawer has a weird chaotic mess of scarves in it, all dark, muted colors. But when I open the one at the bottom, I almost fall out.
Lingerie. We’re not talking garden variety, got-it-at-the-big-box-store lingerie. No, we’re talking very, very expensive lingerie. Lots of lace, lots of satin, but not a lot of coverage. Thongs, demi-bras, balconettes, shelf bras, bikinis―everything you can think of. They’re all there in red, black, navy, various shades of purple, hot pink, baby pink, powder blue, turquoise. No white. Not even cream. I really don’t know what to think, but I have to believe that this is what she’s wearing under those baggy clothes. What the hell? This doesn’t make sense. I mean, there’s easily hundreds of dollars’ worth of lingerie in this drawer. Why would she bother with this stuff if she’s going to wear those sacks over it? I’m stunned.
When I manage to pick my jaw up off the floor and close the drawer, I check the nightstand. Sure enough, a vibrator, not an especially big one, but an expensive one. That’s interesting. There’s also a journal in there, and I want desperately to check it out, but I don’t dare. I learned a long time ago that if I’m snooping too deep, sometimes I find things I really don’t want to know about. I’m afraid that might be one of them.
The only other thing in the drawer is a ring. It doesn’t look like much, but it’s pretty. It’s a simple metal band with some kind of scroll engraving on its face. Then I think to look inside it. Three letters: SJP. The ring is about the right size for her fingers, so I have to believe this SJP is her. Or are those fake initials and Cirilla Gates is her real name? I don’t dare ask, so I just slide the drawer back in and chastise myself for being so damn intrusive.
I don’t see her again all afternoon, and I leave for the club about six thirty without her ever having made it back to the apartment. After taking an inventory of the liquor, I ask a regular named Randall to watch the bar while I go to the back and get some stuff. The plastic tote is sitting on the floor of the storeroom, so I put a bottle of vermouth, one of vodka, and one of brandy into it, along with two rolls of paper towel, a spray bottle of kitchen disinfectant that we use on the bar top, and a package of swizzle sticks.
But when I return to the bar, Randall and a couple of the other Dominants are sitting there, chuckling and talking. “What’s going on?”
“The new crop of submissives has started showing up. At least five of them just in the time you’ve been in the back,” he says.
“Yeah, and they’re green as grass,” Kevin says.
“Yeah? But do they look like submissives you’d want to play with?” I ask.
A guy named Daniel shrugs. “Yeah. Most of them. Except for this one. She dresses like she’s about eighty years old. I can’t imagine what she’s going to look like when she steps out of that locker room,” he says with a snicker, and the other guys join in.
Oh, no. Cirilla. That’s got to be who they’re talking about, and my stomach drops. She’s doomed for failure. I bet she bought flannel pajamas to wear in here. Ten thousand scenarios spin in my head, none of them good.
One by one, the new submissives come out, and you can tell who they are by the way they’re walking and looking around, all timid with their eyes darting here and there like they’re trying to stay below a line of sniper fire. I’m watching one, a woman who looks to be in her late twenties, about five feet and three inches tall, and I bet she’s two hundred and twenty-five pounds, when I hear one of the guys says, “Holy hell. Get a load of this.” I swallow hard, afraid to look, and turn.
A woman strolls out of the locker room standing straight and tall. She’s not heavy but, boy oh boy, does she have some curves. Dangerous curves. The kind you need a fucking seatbelt for. Her hair is long and shiny, and she’s wearing this gorgeous see-through number that shows off her perfect nipples and the tiny strip of hair on her mound. Garter belt, stockings, platform stilettos, and she looks delicious in that color, a deep coral. Every head turns as she stops in the center of the room, hands on her hips, and gazes around until our eyes lock.
Oh, fuck me in the ass with a broom handle like the prison bitch that I am, it’s Cirilla. My heart starts to hammer and I feel like I can’t breathe, like the walls are getting closer and closer and if I stick my arms out, they’ll bow against the pressure. As I watch, she walks straight toward the bar, one foot in front of the other in catwalk model fashion, and I can feel a cold sweat break out on my back. What the hell am I going to do when she reaches me? Shit. Shit, shit, shit, I did not prepare for this moment. I’m still standing there, unable to move, when she says, “Hello, sir. Do you have a lemon-lime soda back there?”
“Yes. I do.” I’m speaking very slowly because I know if I don’t, I’ll start to stutter, and I can’t have that.
“Thank you, sir,” she says as I pour it and hand her the glass, reaching out as far as I can without stepping forward, offering it to her like she’s got ebola and I’m afraid to get too close. “Is this about the size of the regular Friday night crowd?” she asks.
“Uh-huhhhhh,” I wheeze out, trying hard to keep from locking my eyes on her tits. Her nipples are staring at me, so it’s almost impossible not to stare back.
“Hmmm. Okay. Well, thank you, sir. I think I’m going to go mingle.” When she turns to walk away, I watch what I believe must be the most perfect ass I’ve ever seen sway with those long, measured steps, and I want to die. Right there. Keel over. Immediately.
“Son of a bitch, I’m going to try to negotiate a scene with her. I sure hope she says yes,” Kevin says.
“Not before I have a chance,” Randall says and rises.
Daniel’s already on the move. “You’ll have to beat me to her.”
I watch the three of them jostle each other and almost break into a fight as they speed walk across the room toward her, but they’re too late. Two other Dominants have already spotted her, and they’re talking her up. She’s chatting with them, smiling, batting those dark lashes, and I feel this overwhelming sense of dread, of something about to happen that’s going to rip me in two, and I’m powerless to do a damn thing about it. Worse yet, my dick seems to have a mind of its own, and it’s standing up to point straight at her.
I’m doomed. No doubt about it.
But the next moment is worse as I watch her retire to one of the sofas with the two Dominants. No. This cannot be happening. She’s trying to weed out one of them, I’m sure. And when all three of them stand and move toward a performance area, I know I’m wrong.
An overwhelming wrecking ball of panic hits me square in the chest and it’s work to keep from heaving in air. I can’t watch this. I don’t think I can even be in the same room while it’s going on. I don’t know what they’ve negotiated, and I don’t care. This, this, no. I can’t. A voice calls my name and I turn to look into eyes I’ve known since they were a child’s eyes. “Brian? You okay?”
“No. No, I’m not.” I’m feeling dizzy and a little weak, trying hard to stay upright, and Clint moves in behind the bar beside me. Trish is standing there in front of me, concern on her face, staring at me, trying to read me and failing. “I just, I can’t …”
“What’s wrong? You look horrible. Did you eat something bad?” he asks. “Look, I’ll stay here if you want to step out the door and―”
“But the two of you came to scene, and I don’t want to―”
“Doesn’t matter. Go on. Vännen, will you please go with him? I don’t like the way he looks,” Clint says, using his wife’s submissive name, and she rounds the bar to stand on my other side.
“Yes, Sir. Of course. Come on, Brian. Let’s get some fresh air,” she says, clutching my arm.
“But I can’t leave the bar, and I can’t …” Now I’m mumbling and rambling, and I don’t know what to do about it.
“Come on. Let’s go.” I let her lead me to the door. The minute it opens and the early spring air hits me in the face, I gulp down a huge breath almost like a fish gulping in water. “That’s it. Breathe deeply. It�
�s okay. Do you need to throw up?”
“No, no. I feel better now.” After I’ve wobbled for a few seconds, I sit down hard on the concrete stoop outside the door, and Trish sits down beside me.
“Brian, what’s going on? Are you sick? Do you need to go to the emergency room? Because I can take you if―”
“No. I’m fine. Really. Go back inside if you want. I’ll be okay.”
“No.” Her arm wraps around my shoulders―as well as it can, given she’s so much smaller than me―and she leans her head against my shoulder. “I’m staying here with you until I know you’re okay. I just wish you would tell me what’s wrong.”
I can’t. I don’t know how to explain it. Cirilla is my employee. She’s not my property. I shouldn’t care what she’s doing. It’s really none of my business.
But I do anyway. I care what she’s doing, and who she’s doing it with. Matter of fact, who she’s doing it with is killing me right now. There’s no reason for me to keep pretending that I don’t know what’s going on in my head. I know full well what it is. Admitting it to someone else is something I’m not ready to do yet. But admitting it to myself? I might as well.
I want to be the Dominant in that performance area with her. I want to be the one touching her, applying discipline to her, watching her struggle, wince, and listening to her whine or shriek. I want to be the one to watch her come apart at my touch, to stroke her clit and listen to her howl, watch her shake, listen to her plead for me to stop. I want to be the one to fill her and stroke into her, to hear her beg me to fuck her. Me. I want it to be me.
Oh, god, I’m so fucked. I’m so royally and totally fucked in the ass in this moment, the one in which I admit to myself that I want her and I don’t want anybody else to have her. What the hell have I done? And the big question is, what the hell do I do?
We sit there for a good thirty minutes before I say, “I should go back inside.”
“You sure?” I nod. “Well, okay. Let me help you up.” Trish takes my elbow and helps me stand. “Dizzy? Woozy? Okay?”
Completely Mine: Bliss Series, Book Four Page 8
