by Ann Dunn
Husband Dot Com
(A Lady-Flower Novella)
By Ann Dunn
Copyright 2012 Ann Dunn
Cover Art Copyright 2012 istockphoto.com/ Theresa Tibbitts
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and places either are used fictitiously or are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
Thank you J.G. for putting up with me for all of these years. What would a lady-girl do without an “Irish twin” like you?
Much thanks to John. You truly helped me see the written light—in beautiful black and white.
With love,
Ann
1). Lane
Something about putting on those fishnet stockings made me hot, not just regular Saturday night hot, but holy shit, fire rockets from the pits of the earth, smoking hot! A mysterious and enticing invite came from Lane, a man who I met on a dating website. Gosh, every woman deserves a universal hall pass of hotness at least once in her lifetime. It was my lucky chance to turn up the heat in my life and sizzle. It was as if a firecracker of sexy sparks completely engulfed me. Those sparks were the kind of heat-seeking diamonds that deserved a life of their very own. Mom jeans and a vanilla evening out on the town was simply not enough heat to do the trick. Little did I know of the events that would unfold later that evening, as naughty Cupid would soon be winking down on me from the erotic heavens.
Lane and I met each other for the first time at The Cove in Deerfield Beach. It startled me that Lane’s profile picture did not do that devilishly handsome man justice. Walking up to him, I was kicking myself and wishing that I had run home after work, slid out of my work rags, slipped into on a slinky top and squeezed my zaftig behind in to a tight pair of jeans.
We settled in after our initial greetings and ordered two delicious Rum Runners and sized each other up. A short time after clinking glasses and engaging in an intoxicating conversation, I was lost in the precarious grip of lust. Out of nowhere, Lane surprised me and invited me out the very next evening—just as the red curtains on our date were coming to a close. The chemistry between us was undeniable. The instant I said a resounding yes, an overwhelming tingling sensation deliciously flooded over me. Lane casually mentioned that it might be a good idea for me to wear something sexy and preferably black. That was the only tantalizing hint he gave me about our mysterious second date on the nearby horizon.
My sparkling, brand-new, monster-size crush on Lane caused me smolder with heat. His mere presence made me flash back in time, thrusting me back retro style—right smack dab to a few decades past. Suddenly, I was the geeky girl in class once again who was crushing on the cute guy in the front row. Staring at him, I was enveloped with the sensation of butterflies all over, as I imagined that my Coach bag was magically transformed into a metal "Wonder Woman" lunch box and that my flat-ironed hair had been instantly whisked up into sun-kissed pigtails.
Our goodbye kiss left me wanting more of him—a lot more! Lane had a few years on me, but I did not care one bit, simply because his dashing good looks by far trumped his age. Lane was boiling over with raw sex appeal and he was just the right dose of holistic medicine that I had been searching for.
Lane's racy invitation came just in the nick of time to save my rusty spirit. Being a corporate beauty rep and lugging around spa items to local salons in the heat of the Sunshine State was slowly taking a toll on me. I felt like I would crack if even one more disgruntled spay-tan queen complained that her “tan in a can” was not dark enough to disguise her lumpy cellulite!
To top it off, my suburban neighborhood in Coconut Creek had become stale and was dripping in vanilla. The edges of my very existence were starting to fray at the seams and turn my insides completely numb. The usual single-gal stomping grounds that I once loved had started to lose their prior luster. I needed to get out of the house and kick up my heels with a real man in a terribly bad way. Or maybe what I needed was a strong man to pin my heels back? Either way, the call of the wild was definitely screaming my name loud enough for every wanton star in the galaxy to hear it!
My explosive passion-filled night with Lane will be forever “triple-x” branded into my brain. That particular evening earned a spot in my “hot damn, what the Hell possessed me, I can't believe I did that,” secret mental diary. Only a chosen few of my memories are considered confidential gems. Those coveted jewels are hidden deep beneath the dusty cobwebs of my mind.
Heavy doses of guilty sexual pleasures surrounded me like delicious bubbles in a crystal champagne glass. My enchanting evening with Lane had recharged my low energy batteries and brightened my slightly dimming inner spark. The incandescent night in question was exceptionally dazzling. That magnificent evening will lavishly linger in the memory banks of my vagina forever.
In a flash, Lane rescued my dormant girl-thunder from the boring grip of an endless string of mashed potato and gravy internet dates. I had been through a total man-circus of disappointing first dates from an online matchmaking site. Months had blown by since I was even grazed with an icky good night kiss from some random generic suitor. Lane was the breath of sweet pheromone air that I was secretly yearning for. Falling asleep the night before our date was impossible. The thought of Lane’s fingers pressing into my pale bare skin kept me awake tying knots in my sheets all night long.
The evening in question started out with me racing over to Lane’s like I was in the outside lane of the Daytona 500—with fire nipping at my wheels. I was buzzing with a nervous sense of sexual anticipation about the evening awaiting me. Coming to fruition and tingling all around me was my delectable chance to be not so innocent with him. I wanted so badly to be outrageously sinful with him. I could hardly stand myself and my wicked thoughts for one more second. The realization of being alone after dark with Lane was making my lace panties wet as I furiously turned into his hidden tropical enclave.
I walked up to the front door of Lane's beachfront hideaway wearing a leather mini skirt and a tight, low cut top that my overly augmented boobs were oozing out of. My porn-star inspired eye makeup was heavy, dark and smoky. A vibrantly juicy and just bitten, cherry red color was shimmering on my pouty lips. It took me a pretty big chunk of time to perfectly engineer my come-and-get-me, rocker look. I teased my long blond hair to the outer limits of infinity with a steel bucket of glitter hairspray. For a thirty-something girl, that outfit made me imagine, if only for a second, that I was in my early twenties once again. I had a freshly baked cupcake with a strawberry frosting glow about me.
It was my first time ever wearing fishnet stockings. I think sliding them on was the trickiest part, but as soon as they were on—it was magic. I morphed from being an average gal, straight into a pure sex goddess. Instantly, the risqué stockings made me sexier than a French courtesan surrounded by adoring, high powered Renaissance men. I felt elegant in a very trashy and yet exquisite way. I must confess that it made my insides jump for joy to look like a two-bit tart! Earlier in the evening, as I ran out of my front door, I must have accidentally knocked off my gold halo and crushed it with my spiked heels. Right then and there, I discovered that being dirty was my delicious new wonderful.
Lane’s stunned look was all over his face as soon as he opened the door. He pushed his hair away from his brow and gently bit his lower lip. I knew at that moment that I had his non-verbal seal of approval. I don't think that he could have imagined me squeezing in
to such an overtly sexual get up. I had worn such a tame outfit on our first date. Lane's “nice girl” perception of me was banished forever—wiped away the second he sized me up. Lane gave me a lusty gaze and said, "Lexie, you look bewitchingly beautiful!" Lane's words tickled my ear lobes and gave me a license to unleash my very sequestered raunchy side!
From the moment I slipped into the body-hugging seats of Lane's racy car, I began to purr. It was captivating and I wanted to relish every second of it. My heart was soaring. I was on the verge of bursting into a million tiny elated pieces. I intensely wanted time to stand still. Lingering in the moment for as long as I could, gave me a chance to completely immerse myself in Lane's masculine energy.
Inside the car, I felt as if I was encapsulated by a vigorous, Bond style, sex contraption. The engine hissed as Lane put the pedal to the metal. The menacing muscle car was oozing pure sex as it growled down the street. Lane mesmerized me, as I glanced over at him in the driver’s seat. He was super handsome with long dark-blond surfer hair. He embodied a cool boyish demeanor for a forty-one-year-old man. Lane was six foot three and built for pleasure. He was a bit on the lanky side—in an athletic kind of way. His low-rise pants were giving me a glimpse of his treasure trail and my drool factor was on high. That look totally worked for me, because I have always had a thing for the tall, skinny ones. He looked hot in his tight leather pants and slightly unbuttoned white shirt. His beach-waves were tossed to the side with a severe part, and one green eye was slightly covered by his sun-kissed mane. He had an edgy look that most guys are simply not hot enough to pull off. Peeking over at him gave me mountain-sized goose bumps in all of my girl hot spots.
Lane drove fast as we sped shamelessly down Federal Highway. The street lights looked like tiny specks of gold as they flashed by us. The seductive car flew across the gray asphalt. We were on an exhilarating magic-carpet ride. My long, wild tresses were lightly whipping the sides of my face. The tropical night air was blowing briskly through the windows and embracing my entire body. The entire time I kept thinking that I was the luckiest girl in Broward County, or maybe even the stratosphere—if only for one night.
I was apprehensive walking up to the nightclub as if I were on borrowed time. I was having a mental storm of mixed emotions as we approached the cloak-and-dagger entrance. I had no idea what to expect on the other side of my temporary reality. Lane firmly held my hand and led me inside the ominous-looking hideaway. Lane said, “Walk this way lovely lady” with a devilish grin. He was definitely my knight in shiny-hotness. I wanted to pinch myself just to make sure the night was really happening.
The lights were dim as we passed through the entrance. I felt the cold, heavy air hit my exposed chest. I loved the fact that Lane was so “take-control” with me right out of the gate. I did get a slight charge out of him being such a modern-day caveman. Okay, I got a massive charge out of it! There is an essence that follows a self-assured man around that makes my bumblebee soar with excitement.
It felt as though my stilettos were not even touching the ground as we walked inside the smoke filled palace. I felt safe with Lane next to my side. Deep inside, I knew that no one in their right mind would mess with me as long as Lane was clutching my paw. The club was mesmerizing. The scent of burning wax was dripping from a sea of candles that put me into a tantalizing trance. I could not believe my eyes the second I realized what the heck was going on inside of those darkened doors. Much to my delight—I was on the verge of becoming abruptly schooled on the dark side of passion at the fetish party. My lip-gloss-infested-hook was dangling out there in a grey abyss of uncharted lust.
One of the first things we witnessed were tall prison-style cages on both sides of the dance floor. Inside one of the cages was a lone, completely naked man who had his family heirlooms wrapped tightly in thick rope. The strangers walked past him and he threw a rope down at their feet, begging with sheer desperation for them to tug at it. I did recall thinking about how bad it must have hurt the tortured fellow, not to mention make his man-nuggets sag like a bag of rocks! That demented man got off on pain in a tremendous way. From the looks of the place, so did every other fetish-loving soul under that roof.
Oh my, I was not in the sedate suburbs anymore! There were no turquoise sequin pumps, or designer dogs walking down any make believe yellow brick roads that crazy evening. I had officially stepped into an uninhibited late-night wonderland. The joint was bursting with people who thrived on the darker side of carnal pain. There was something very twisted and yet liberating knowing that I could be as wild as I wished and not raise a single eyebrow. I felt a freedom that was new and scary to me. It was a total sexual free-for-all. Anything and everything was on the ingredient list in the gothic crock pot of passion.
Hot looking men walked around naked with their man parts wrapped only in black tape. Being a penis snob, I quickly realized what a lucky girl I was to be kicking up leaves in the phallic hothouse of flesh. I hit the jackpot and walked right into the hard-body lottery. The place was filled with more than sugarcoated and brilliantly glistening eye candy. The random men had tanned golden bodies and rock-hard abs. What amazed me was the multitude of designs that a roll of black electrical tape could create on a nude human body. It was apparent that the fetish aficionado's had great imaginations. They also displayed a sheer willingness to rip out every lonely pubic hair for the sake of a good time. It became acutely obvious that pain was the ultimate pleasure switch with those folks.
I am such a comfort creature that I was totally out of my element. Some of the sexual get-ups were slightly perplexing to a fetish newbie like me. I will go out of my way for sex in a warm bed, or in a pinch, the soft leather seats in the back of a car, but this outrageous scene was intriguing in a strangely foreign way. Women were prancing around topless with black x-shaped tape across their nipples. There was a never-ending ocean of minuscule dark leather thongs, and the bonus was that they were worn by both men and women. Those were the most teeny tiny midnight bikinis that I had ever witnessed. I was quite possibly a tad over-dressed. Shoot, I could have danced on the jagged edge of recklessness and dressed up like a total hussy for my fetish initiation if I had a hankering to do so.
I was blissfully oblivious to how the night would unfold prior to stepping inside of the daunting domain. That was a world that I had no idea existed prior to meeting Lane. I always knew of the S&M section of the "sin" store, but this night was way beyond my realm of sexual awareness. I had always considered myself free spirited and flirty, but it was overwhelmingly apparent that in the atmosphere of obedience, I simply didn’t know what I didn’t know.
Buff-bodied men wore black leather thongs or nothing at all. They were carrying whips and dangerous-looking gear, as if to say, “Inflict pain on me right now—bitch!” The fetish party was the “grand ball” of sex and deviant behavior. I wanted to taste every one of the partygoers as if they were dew drops of delicious kink-flavored candies. My reality was cracked open to a new and somewhat painful world that only existed for the few privileged guests who received the top-secret invites.
For some demented reason, I do recall thinking that the dark party was the perfect place to show up and learn a crash course in becoming a professional dominatrix. It did cross my mind that maybe it’s possible to have a bright future in the art of pain if you have a natural way with a whip. At least the tortured men do all the work. There is nothing wrong with being the number one gal who cracks the whip and calls the shots. My man slave could clean my entire house wearing a spiked dog collar, and all I would need to do is shove my metal heel in his back to jump-start his man-engine. So, maybe I’d need to spank him, or even call him a few derogatory names. No biggie! Not a bad way to clean my house and vent a little frustration at the same time. What a stimulating way to kill a couple of hours. The bonus is that as the boss lady, I can keep my black rubber pants on the entire time. Sounds like a good enough deal to me. Could it be that those dark divas are really onto something my tame
behind is utterly oblivious to?
A few fetish followers had on leather pants with cutout behinds. The exposed butt-cheek-pants left many a bare behind walking around adorning red whip marks and welts. I must say that the scary face masks were a bit dissuading at first sight—nothing I couldn’t handle. I found it to be a bit frightening in a ghoulish “boo”, who's in my closet sort of sensation? I would have much preferred a do-me right now, you dangerous stranger, or “oops,” my bra accidentally fell off—kind of feeling.
Being the new kid on the block, I found myself titillated and intimidated at the same time. I experienced a beguiling blend of wonderment and mixed emotions inside that shadowy den. It took a few laps around the nightclub to become acclimated to my new primal surroundings. I was a fetish virgin, coveted fresh meat in the underground playground’s sandbox.
The darkly clad club patrons found extreme pleasure in their brand of personal pain. It was quite a juicy experience to watch the live danger-swapping connoisseurs in action. Very much like finding the perfect bottle of champagne, it took exactly the right amount of hurt to “pop” the quintessential cork. The entire time I kept thinking, I can't believe that I am on a second date with Lane and we are here of all the freaky places. In my wildest of dreams I could have never conjured up the wicked scene that we were playing around in.
Submissive players were everywhere and they had their fetish game down to a science. The fetish fans were very serious about their metal chains and handcuffs. The corporal punishment theme did not really make my girl-turtle stand at attention and salute. Oh, what the heck, I did have the slightest bit of a tingle. Soreness swapping was really never anything I aspired to in the sexual arena. That was definitely a situation of different strokes for different folks. But, I did enjoy seeing how the torment enthusiasts spanked their pain loving asses. Don’t get me wrong, I am, and always will be a purely hedonistic pleasure seeker.
