Personal Geography

by Tamsen Parker

  “It’s nice to have flexible hours, and I can work from pretty much anywhere there’s an Internet connection. The money’s not great, but what do you expect for being a smart ass who draws stick figures?” He smirks and scarfs down another bite of quinoa salad.

  If I ever meet Cris’s dad, I’ll get down on my knees and thank him for showing his son around the kitchen. Cris has never made me anything less than scrumptious.

  What are you, receiving a telegram from the Mayor of Crazy Town, Burke? You’re never going to meet Cris’s parents.

  I want to tell him not to be so self-deprecating. He’s very clever, and sometimes it’s only the court jester who can get away with pointing out hypocrisy and injustice without being beheaded. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I wanted to tip the scales back. I don’t want you feeling bad about me knowing anything about you. When we first started playing our little game, I would’ve answered a dozen questions to your one. I just wanted to talk to you. You’re fascinating. I knew you weren’t keen on sharing, but I had no idea…

  “Anyway, you can ask me anything you want this weekend, no trade necessary. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Nothing’s off-limits. I’d erase what I found from my brain if I could, but since that’s not an option, this is the next best thing I could come up with. Whatever it takes to make you feel better about this, Kit, it’s yours.”

  Whoa. “Anything?”

  “Anything.”

  “Aren’t you worried about what I could do to you? You said it yourself. I’m not the only one who values my privacy.”

  “No.” He leans back in his chair, fingers threaded across his abdomen. He looks calm, collected. If I’d promised myself to someone like that… That’s moot. It’d never happen. “You’re not going to wreck me. Even though I screwed up and you’ve got a temper on you, you wouldn’t. I get the feeling you know a little too well what that’s like—”

  I freeze, my body preparing for flight. I know exactly what that’s like. Get your too-talented fingers out of my brain, Cris Ardmore.

  “—and you wouldn’t do that to anybody else. No matter how pissed off you were. It’s not your style.”

  If I don’t get some relief, I’m going to suffocate from the tension constricting my lungs. Memories of my parents, of Hunter, are crashing over me, and I have to stop the flood somehow. I’m torn. Half of me wants to run all the way back to the airport, but the other half is desperate for Cris to unwind this godforsaken coil before it gets wound any tighter. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”

  “Okay.”

  But I can’t leave, either, so I dig the contracts out of my bag and thrust them at him with a pen. Even in my scattered state, I’m the model of efficiency.

  Cris signs them after a cursory glance. “Mr. Walter is expecting a copy?”

  “Yes, sir. I was going to send him pictures from my phone.”

  “I’ll do you one better. Come, pet.”

  Sweet relief. Pet. This I can handle. There’s no hesitation when he offers me his hand. I take it on reflex, and it reinforces the possibility that all will someday be right with the world. He guides me toward the door to the studio, and I’m surprised. This isn’t standard operating procedure. Then he veers off toward the door that leads to his room, and I stop in my tracks. Surprised doesn’t cover this.

  “I have a scanner in my office.”

  Oh.

  “And I thought you might like to see my room.”

  Oh. He’d said anything, but I haven’t asked for this. I wouldn’t.

  “Have your other subs been in your room?”

  “A few of them.”

  “To sleep with you?”

  “No. Well, once. For…emotional reasons.”

  I frown, although I’m not sure why. Why should I care if all of Cris’s subs had slept in his room? In his bed?

  “Her sister died unexpectedly,” he clarifies. “She found out in the middle of the night, and she came to me.”

  The picture of a teary, distraught woman being cuddled and consoled by Cris is at once heart-warming—he’d be a port in the storm, a solid lifeboat you could grieve in while the seas raged around you—and heart-rending. To be held safe in his arms while my humanity is most fully on display is something I’ll never get to have, and that ugly, unfamiliar feeling rears its rangy head. Jealousy. Is this what it feels like for everyone? How do people live like this?

  His thick eyebrows crease, measuring my response. “Is this okay?”

  I’m about to cross a line, but it feels more like attempting to cross the Grand Canyon on a tight rope. I can step across this threshold and become something more (or less?) than a sub to Cris in recompense for him shredding my veil of anonymity. Do I want this? This…intimacy?

  “Yes.”

  He guides me down the hallway like I’m being led to the executioner. Or maybe down the aisle. I’m not sure which prospect is more horrifying. He opens the door to a room that’s larger than my room or the studio, but smaller than the main house and divided in half by wood screens.

  The half closest to me has a low shelf running against one wall with a brace of monitors—TV and computer—and a desk with nothing on it in front of it. Odd.

  “Doesn’t look like that by the end of the day,” he volunteers, “but I like to start fresh.”

  On the other side of his office, there’s a table crowded with high-end tech: a fancy printer, the promised scanner, and some things I don’t recognize. The table’s surrounded by shelves full of the tools of his trade: stacks of paper, pencils, pens, inks, brushes. And books. Always more books. What’s got my attention, though, are the walls. They’re covered with clippings: news stories, maps, photos, comics—a few his, most not. The thoughts and work of a lifetime accumulated on the walls of this room in the middle of paradise.

  He gives me a few minutes to look around before taking my hand and steering me between the screens to where he sleeps. There’s a simple, low, platform bed against one wall, covered with a navy duvet; on either side are stacks of books in place of nightstands. The rest of the room is spare, a dresser the only other furniture and a few doors cracked open to reveal a closet and a bathroom. Utilitarian but comfortable. He’s spent the personal touches elsewhere, and I’m guessing doesn’t spend much time in here aside from sleep.

  I remember he’s still holding my hand when he squeezes. “Ready?”

  It’s a few seconds before I gather myself and slip back into Kit’s skin, which I shouldn’t have shed in the first place. Whether or not we’ve sent the contract to Rey, I’ve still signed it, so a hurried “yes, sir,” it is. This switching is difficult; I’m going to get whiplash. I’m relieved when Cris scans the contract and shoos me off to my room, telling me to be in the studio in twenty minutes.

  *

  He lays a towel on the center of the bed and tells me, “On your back.”

  I settle myself with my hips positioned over the towel and look to him for further instruction.

  Instead of telling me what to do, he circles the bed, hands on his hips as he studies me. It’s a leisurely inspection that makes me want to squirm. I feel my nudity keenly as he takes a few steps backward to keep me in his sights. He didn’t put his shirt back on after he bathed me, and I’ve been lusting after, aching to touch, his perfectly tanned torso. His jeans cling to him in a way that makes me want to rip them off. It wouldn’t be hard, threadbare as they are.

  But I’m not allowed. I’m on display—an object to be looked at, admired. Possibly, hopefully, toyed with.

  “Knees up and feet apart, kitten.”

  I do as I’m told, the soles of my feet sliding over the sheet, which is pulled tight over a surface so firm it barely qualifies as a mattress.

  “Wider.”

  I make another adjustment, and he makes another demand, telling me to open further still and cross my wrists above my head. By the time I’m done, I’m completely exposed and struggling to keep my breath measured.
He hasn’t touched me, but my whole body is alive from his attention, his commands. He’s staring at me from the foot of the bed, his face implacable. After observing me in silence for an incredibly long minute, a minute so long I doubt my ability to keep time, he strolls to my side and lays a hand on the inside of my thigh. The touch sends the urge to buck my hips surging through me.

  He strokes me gently, his fingertips playing over the delicate flesh. When he reaches the juncture of thigh and hip, he digs in slightly, and it’s as if he’s awakened some secret nervous system I’ve never known about. The sensation travels through me, a brief but intense tweak that I’m having difficulty reading as pleasant or unpleasant. I’m nearly recovered from the shock when he slaps the inside of my other thigh.

  “Look at me, pet.”

  My gaze skates up the trail of hair emerging from his jeans, catches on the dull glint of his medal. When I meet his eyes, I’m struck by the intensity there. His look is, for lack of a better word, penetrating. And with my legs spread wide and my vulnerable core on display, it’s all I can think of. Penetration. I want him inside me.

  “I’m going to get some cuffs. I’m only going to make one trip. Am I going to need two…” He grips my wrists in a single hand, squeezes, and my back arches in response. “Or four?”

  He coasts his palms over my skin, barely grazing the outer curves of my breasts with his thumbs. His tactile tour continues over my stomach and down my legs until he reaches my ankles, squeezing. His thumbs dig into a hollow in the joints, and there it is again. That brief, extreme sensation. Fuck. If he’s going to keep doing that?

  “Four, please, sir.”

  The corner of his mouth tugs up. He thinks he’s so clever, but my fondness for restraints isn’t exactly a state secret. I admire the easy way he walks, his languid gait as he retrieves the cuffs and a few other things I can’t quite crane my neck far enough to see. When he comes back, he lays out his trove on the small table that abuts the bed.

  A few more towels, the promised cuffs, and a bottle of lube. Oh. There are a couple of possibilities given this array. Anal is my first thought, but the tenor of our session is different from your run-of-the-mill ass-fuck. Which leads me to wonder if he’s going to take advantage of one of the few things left in our contract he hasn’t availed himself of yet.

  Cris doesn’t speak as he fastens the cuffs around my wrists and affixes them to an attachment point at the head of the bed with some mouth-wateringly heavy chain. Doesn’t say a word as he applies their twins to my ankles and secures them with more chain. If it didn’t make my blood bolt for my pelvis, I’d laugh. The idea that he’d need to take such measures to hold down a little thing like me is preposterous, but god, I love how they look. And maybe, just maybe… If he thinks I’m that strong, maybe I am.

  Nothing has changed, the usual fail-safes are still in place. Should anything happen, Cris could have me out of my bondage in less than a minute. But those thick links overwhelm the rational thoughts and tell me I’m his, he can do with me as he pleases, and there’s not a thing I can do about it. His face is wolfish as he inspects his handiwork, theatrically tugging at the bonds as if to make sure they’re true, slapping the inside of my other thigh when I just can’t contain another moan.

  He sits down next to me, absently rubbing his hand along my inner thigh, close, so close, to where I really want to be touched, but then he retreats, leaving me aching. “You’re in luck today, pet. I’m not going to ask you to be quiet for this. In fact, you’re going to talk to me through the whole thing. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As he leans down, he grips my leg so hard I squeal and raise my chin in surrender, baring my throat. He grazes his sandpaper scruff along my jaw before nipping at my ear. “You’re going to talk to me. If I ask you a question, you will answer. You’re going to be a good, compliant girl for me, and if you’re not, the consequences will be severe. Are we understood?”

  My breath gets short as my core gets tight and heavy. “Yes, sir.”

  He fists a hand in my hair and pins my head to the mattress, pressing a kiss to my mouth. Hot and demanding, his tongue works inside me. My mouth is full of the feel, the taste, the movement of him, in sharp contrast to the rest of me. The word echoes through the emptying chamber of my mind: penetration.

  It only takes a minute until I’m writhing under his ministrations, careful to keep my approximate position. I take his threat of punishment very seriously, a double-edged sword of his declaration that he doesn’t play games. Truthfully, I like the consistency, the steadfastness, but would it kill him to “forget” once in a while?

  He palms one of my breasts and squeezes hard before closing his fingers around a nipple, rolling and tweaking until I’m moaning into his mouth. His fingers twisted in my hair hold me fast, even though my lips want to catch up with his when he leans back.

  “That’s better.”

  He disentangles himself and climbs onto the bed, settling between my widely parted thighs and staring at me long enough that I wrap my fingers around the chains pinning me to the bed. I’m relieved when he moves in closer, and places a hand on my mound, presses, and slips a finger inside me. Yes.

  The satisfaction lasts a split-second before I want more. He teases me for a minute before obliging, slipping another finger inside of me. The rhythm of the slick movement is hypnotic, and I arch to meet him. On his next foray, he eases three fingers inside, and I inhale sharply. It doesn’t hurt, not at all, but my urge has been sated. He presses down, circles his fingers, stretching me, and my suspicions are confirmed. I wanted penetration, and I’m going to get it.

  He slicks my own wetness over my entrance and patiently applies pressure until I relax enough to close my eyes. With his fingers deep inside me, he leans over and uses his free hand to smooth my mussed hair away from my face.

  I open my eyes to his, and he kisses me softly before trailing the tip of his craggy nose alongside mine. “There’s my good girl. You’re going to let me in, aren’t you?”

  If he’d poked and prodded at me earlier for information instead of giving everything, asking for nothing, I don’t think I’d be able to give in. I’d shy away, shut it down. But he didn’t, and what he’s asking for now—reaching deep into my body instead of my head—that I can give, I want to give. When I breathe, “Yes, sir,” his triumphant smile makes it all worthwhile.

  He kisses me again before sitting back on his heels and grabbing the bottle. The distinctive snick of the cap as he opens it sends a breath hard and fast through my nose, and I tense as he drips the liquid over his fingers, around my opening. It’s not quite cold and warms quickly from the contact with our skin, the friction of his movements.

  “You’ve done this before?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Recently?”

  “No, sir.”

  Fisting isn’t really a first date kind of thing, and though it’s been in contracts of mine before, no one’s made use of that particular stipulation. The last person whose hand was inside me was Hunter.

  “You enjoy it?”

  “I have, sir.”

  You’d have to be awfully familiar with the line of Cris’s jaw to catch the momentary flinch, but I do. He’s learned to translate my lawyer-speak, and he’s read my answer correctly: I have, but I haven’t always. It wasn’t necessarily about my physical enjoyment so much as the expression of dominance, ownership, which I liked in and of itself. I belonged to Hunter so fully I’d accept this incursion into my body, regardless of whether it resulted in pleasure. But it could, oh, it could, and I get the feeling that both of those things are equally important to Cris.

  Yes, he wants me to submit to him, and it gets him off when I do. The anticipation of invading me this way had him rubbing hard against my thigh moments earlier. But I think the idea of crushing all my defenses, including making me give in to pleasure, gives him bone-deep satisfaction.

  “You’re going to.”

  “Yes, s
ir.”

  That’s when he spreads his fingers slowly, with gentle but insistent pressure, before tucking them together and adding his fourth finger. There’s a stretch as my body adjusts, but it’s not unpleasant, not with his deliberate handling. He adds more lube—though I’m already slick—and works at my flesh until his fingers glide easily, pressing and touching my interior walls.

  Though I’m tempted to close my eyes and drop my head back, I love the look of concentration on his face. To have that much attention focused on me is both heady and disconcerting. It feels almost like devotion, and I have to weed the word from my head before it takes root. Devotion is the kind of thing reserved for partners. Partners who L-word each other. Not…whatever we are.

  Cris turns his hand palm up and folds his thumb in, adding more of the viscous fluid. His eyes meet mine, and something like gravity draws me in until I don’t think I’d notice if the roof blew away. He studies my face, my fingers threaded through the links above my head, my chest rising and falling with consciously even breaths.

  “Okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  There’s a blink, a brief fan of his dark lashes over his cheeks, and then he’s moving inside me again. Though he told me I’d be talking to him, he’s the one keeping up a near-constant stream of chatter. Praise and reassurance in a voice that’s ventured into sweet but backed by a conviction that allows me to believe him. It’s all accompanied by more pressure, more spreading. But he’s patient, just so fucking patient with me, not moving too fast or forcing anything I’m not ready for.

  And the one time he did, he apologized and gave me more than I’d ever ask for in return. I’m comfortable with him, I trust him, and my body follows my brain, allowing him in, surrendering to his coaxing. His wrist rotates again and—

  “Oh.”

  A tug at the corner of his mouth tells me he heard me, a repeat of the same motion tells me he liked it. He’s hitting something inside that nearly topples me into ecstasy, but despite the slackening of the rules about noise, he hasn’t let up on the requirements for waiting for permission to come.