The bright green taxi smelled of disinfectant and despair, a mixture that was one of the less offensive ways a cab could smell. It was a lovely clear morning, too, perfect for sightseeing. Another time, Ben might have hunted down a museum or two, explored some historic sites. Appreciated the blend of old and new architecture, the history written on the face of the city. Today, however, his mind was too full of Lindsey—who was probably at the Balls ‘n’ Chain booth even now, possibly strapped to the spanking horse and undergoing some sort of sensual torture at the hands of that “Rick” guy. So here he was, headed down a generic freeway through miles of commercial districts and airport outliers. Over to Tempe, to the closest place he’d been able to find that didn’t absolutely terrify him.
He tried not to think about the store he was headed toward, the address he’d been so leery to give the cab driver. He wondered whether he should have asked to be taken a few blocks away, instead, and walked the rest of the way. Probably the guy knew, though—he’d probably been to the place so many times he could smell those fares a mile away and knew every address within walking distance.
Or possibly Ben was experiencing some guilt and shame-induced paranoia. The cabbie pulled up to Ben’s final destination like it was no big deal, and reassured Ben he’d be there upon his return. With the meter running, naturally.
Ben allotted fifteen minutes to spend inside the store. How long could it take, really? The sign was lurid, an almost explicit pink on white. The place wasn’t subtle, that was for damn sure. But Ben didn’t need subtle, he needed equipment, and the internet had directed him here, so here he was. With a deep breath, he pushed open the door.
Inside was, if possible, even more luridly pink and white than the sign had suggested. But the store was also clean, well-lit, and oddly cheerful. It looked nothing at all like the suspicious-smelling back room at the video store Ben had entered a few times in college. He’d usually gone in with buddies, and they’d spent most of the time there snickering at the titles and trying not to act too turned on by the covers. This brightly colored establishment looked more like one of those high-end beauty supply stores. Only with very different products on the shelves and racks.
Very different.
“Morning,” a voice as cheerful as the decor called out. A woman of indeterminate age bustled past, arms full of boxes. Ben did a double take when he realized they were boxes of butt plugs. Nice ones, too, from the looks of the packaging. “I’ll be with you in a minute, hon.”
She disappeared behind a counter, only the top of her platinum-blond hair peeping up as she stashed the merchandise somewhere out of Ben’s line of sight. He flashed back to his first condom-buying experience, the pleasant pharmacy assistant who’d unlocked the case for him and checked him out. He’d been mortified, but she was kind enough to pretend not to notice. She’d looked a lot like the woman who popped back up from behind the counter now, actually. Very different store, however.
Very different Ben, too.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?”
Old Ben would have stammered out something stupid, like flavored lube, bought the first thing his hand touched, and skedaddled. But Ben reminded himself he wasn’t that guy now. He was Ben the Dominant. He was going to be the kind of person who knew what he wanted and went after it.
“Bondage stuff.” He’d said it a little too loud in the quiet space. The nice saleslady’s eyebrows went up and she looked, for a second, like she was suppressing a smile.
“Right in that corner.” She pointed. “You’ll see the sign.”
He could hardly miss it. Fetish and Bondage, hanging from the ceiling in shocking-pink letters two feet high. Feeling like an idiot, Ben the Dominant strode over to the corner in question and took mental stock of everything he saw.
Choices, choices, far too many choices. None of it was hard-core, that he could see, but he didn’t think that was necessarily a bad thing. He was freaked out enough at the fur handcuffs—he wasn’t sure he could’ve handled metal collars and cock gags.
Just then he spotted the cock gag, of course, right next to the fishhook one, alongside the numerous species of ball gags. He decided the answer should be none of the above, and selected a sturdy-looking bit gag instead. The image swept over him of Lindsey opening for it, biting into it as she writhed in agony or ecstasy...lightheaded, Ben struggled for a moment to regain his focus. Bondage. He needed to improve upon the Gandalf staff and his interview tie.
A set of thigh and wrist cuffs caught his eye. Some versatile nylon tethers. Ideas started to crystallize, and the stack of products at Ben’s feet grew. An ingenious set of straps that ran under a mattress to provide attachment points. A blindfold. A real spreader bar with a set of neoprene ankle cuffs, just in case. A smooth, flat leather paddle the approximate size of a ping-pong paddle. A black collar with a chain leash. And, despite Ivan and Cami’s warnings about lesser-quality whips, a black riding crop.
“You look like you could use a basket.” The smiling cashier held out a handled plastic basket just like the ones in grocery stores, and Ben gratefully dumped his loot into it.
“I think I’m ready to check out, actually.”
At the counter, his mind circled back to the boxes the clerk had been carrying, now secured somewhere out of sight, but presumably still for sale. But the cab was waiting, the clock was ticking, and he didn’t have any more time to stand around the store looking for stuff and feeling overwhelmed. He needed to make other stops on the way back to the hotel, acquire other vital components to bring his plan to fruition. Time to man up and take the shortcut.
“I’ll also take one of those stainless steel butt plugs you were stocking earlier. And a big bottle of water-based lube.” Words he never thought he’d hear himself saying.
The lady who was old enough to be his mother and reminded him of the kindly pharmacy clerk just smiled and whipped out an array of plugs, each shinier and more intriguing than the last. “You gonna need any condoms with all that, hon?”
* * *
The spanking bench was more comfortable than it had any right to be. Lindsey pressed her cheek against the cool vinyl, concentrating on the swish of air over the back of her thighs. A bizarre way to become aroused, she mused, having hundreds of strangers’ eyes fondling one’s butt. But there it was, undeniable arousal. And there she was, as contradictorily happy in her embarrassed response as a proverbial pig in mud.
“Oh, she found it. Nice work, Sadie!”
Mitch’s “Rick” voice was louder and more abrasive than his regular one, and edging on the obnoxious. It grounded her, though, helping her track where he was behind her. She wasn’t sure what Samantha had found for him, and for a mad, wonderful moment she let herself fall into the fantasy that it was a paddle or a flogger. The next sensation she felt on her exposed thighs and the barely covered curve of her ass would be the sharp, biting pleasure of—
“Eek! That tickles!”
“It’s supposed to. It’s sensual torture!” Mitch rounded the bench and waggled a long white plume in front of her face, brushing the end of her nose with it. “Since The Master would probably not care to have me paddling you, I needed some sort of implement of destruction to wield against you.”
“Destruction? With a feather?” She dimly recalled something about tickling as a torture method in the history of some country or other. But her brain kept circling back to the Monty Python version of the Spanish Inquisition. “Is this the Comfy Chair?”
Sadie giggle-snorted, just out of view. “Poke her with...the Soft Cushions!”
Mitch prowled back around the spanking bench and assaulted Lindsey’s feet with the feather.
“Have at you, Sub Red!”
“Oh, no, sir! Not the feather! Anything but the plume of doom!”
Lindsey would never reveal her secret, that the soles of her feet weren’t all that ticklish. She put on a show, wriggling and mock-shrieking with laughter, until Mitch caught on and muttered something abo
ut needing to alter his approach. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the crowd turning, getting into the performance, a few spectators lingering by the rope. She hadn’t had such a rush since the last time she’d done a community theater show.
A brush of silky plumage over one calf, and then the feather swirled around the back of her knee, causing a sudden minor meltdown of her control.
“Oooohhh...”
“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.”
Every nerve ending from her ankles to her hips lit up as Mitch dandled the feather along from one knee to the other. Lindsey found herself pulling against the restraints, trying to tug away from the stimulation. It felt far too good to be happening in front of all these people. Then Mitch changed tactics again, slowly trailing the plume up the back of her thigh from knee to ass.
“She’s turning the cutest shade of pink. It totally clashes with her hair.”
Lindsey could just see Samantha, who hovered near the end of the line for the comic artist’s signature handing out the promotional item for the day. Miniature flogger keychains, black and red leather, completely adorable. Lindsey had already secured one for herself and one for Cami. They were going fast, much faster than the previous day’s promotional postcards.
Remembering she was supposed to be in character, Lindsey stuck her tongue out at “Sadie.” In the comic, the two characters had a friendly banter thing going on. Sub Red was often bratty to other characters, though never to The Master who owned her. “Jealous much, Sadie?”
“Nope. You’re just warming up the bench and helping Rick loosen his arm for later when the real show starts. We all know whose ass the people really wanna see.”
Sadie was bratty to all the other characters.
“I don’t hear any complaints.” Within the limitations of the snug restraints, Lindsey waggled her ass. The crowd broke into laughter as “Rick” began a brutal whipping...with the feather.
Getting into it, Lindsey faux-moaned with every fluffy stroke, behaving as though Mitch really were flogging her. As though Ben really were flogging her. Or even tickling her with the feather, which Mitch proceeded to do when an accidental blow with the plume revealed a sensitive spot on her left flank. Lindsey squealed in earnest, giggling and pleading, unable to pull away from the secure cuffs. The restraints made everything keener, her lack of control a savory spice to even pedestrian sensations.
She’d expected it to be fun, this gig at the booth. A little embarrassing, maybe, and a source of many great stories later on. But the strength of her own reaction to being bound and teased astonished her, left her breathless even after the tickling stopped. It wasn’t just the mechanics of the thing, the technical details of what Mitch was doing and her physiological response. Her body didn’t respond to Mitch the way it did to Ben, and she couldn’t imagine losing herself in the scene as she had the previous night. But she was still floored by the psychology of it, the sense of rightness, the way her mind and body sank into the situation like a warm bath. Ah, at last. This is how it should have been all along.
She realized she had been missing this, needing it, without ever knowing it. And now the idea of going back—of doing without this sensation—terrified her. She could never go back to plain vanilla again.
But what if Ben was just playing along because he thought it was what she wanted? He’d never been kinky before. He seemed into it now, but he’d been tolerant of the comic at first too. Until he suddenly hadn’t been, and turned it into a topic of shame for her. Sometimes Lindsey was frustrated because Ben didn’t seem willing to go after the things he wanted in life, but other times she wondered if he just didn’t know what he wanted. Not until after the fact, when it was already too late. He’d left academia for the money in IT, only to discover his happiness had stayed behind in the history books and classrooms. He’d hooked up with Lindsey and seemed to enjoy her quirks, until one day he’d realized he saw her as too quirky, too different, for him to build a life with. Not that he’d said it out loud, just implied it those last few unpleasant weeks they were together. You’re dyeing your hair again? You want to get what pierced, now? What do you see in that comic, anyway?
“You still with me, Red?”
“Yeah,” she assured Mitch. He’d come around to the face side and leaned over so she could look him in the eye. It was a little freaky to do that, given the leather hood he wore. She tended to forget it was there when she wasn’t looking at him, so it startled her anew every time she saw it. “I’m good. Mind just wandered for a minute.”
“You were a little spacey. That’s a good thing, cupcake. Let’s see if we can get you to your happy place.”
“Using only the plume of doom? You think you’re really that talented?” She knew he wasn’t talking about an actual orgasm, but she was still shocked at how close she’d felt to that point more than once that morning. And she thought Mitch might well be that talented, despite her bravado.
“Oh, you have no idea, little girl.” Mitch stood and ran his thumb and forefinger along the feather’s spine, brushing the fluffy strands in a wave from base to tip. “Challenge accepted, Red. Game on.”
Chapter Seven
“Topping from the bottom,” Ivan repeated, supplying the term Ben had struggled to recall the previous night.
“Yeah. That’s what it was. I knew there was a thing.”
Ben was only listening with half of his brain at most. His real focus was on the booth in front of them, and the sight of Lindsey’s taut ass displayed to perfection across the spanking horse. Black straps framed her shape, revealing just enough to torture anybody watching with the knowledge of what she’d look like without those straps. Her husky giggles rose from the other side of the apparatus, unseen from his current angle, but still potent enough to hit him in the nuts.
“Rick” wasn’t spanking, paddling or flogging her, though it was small comfort to Ben. Instead he was teasing her with a long white plume, tickling her inner thighs and pretending to lash her with it. They tried to keep things light at the booth, the Balls ‘n’ Chain crew had explained, because any heavier BDSM play ran the risk of putting the crowd off. Or, as had happened at one of their earliest appearances, getting them banned from the convention premises entirely.
Samantha sauntered over on her improbably high red peep-toes, a slutty blonde Betty Boop. “Ben, nice to see you again. And who have we here?”
“This is Ivan. Ivan, Samantha.”
Ben watched as Ivan did that thing again, projected that vibe at Samantha as he extended his hand to shake hers. He looked like he was sizing her up, right down to the subatomic level, and “Sadie” responded accordingly by going all soft and shy and coy.
“My, my. We could just hang a Dominant sign on you and call it a day, couldn’t we?”
“While it would be accurate, I doubt it would be necessary,” Ivan said solemnly, returning his regard to Lindsey on the horse.
“You got that right, sir. So, Ben, what do you think? I gather you and our new Red continued your conversation last night after the shindig.”
“Did Lindsey tell you?” Ben wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He hadn’t even told Ed and Lin, had taken pains to be back in their room pretending to sleep by the time the guys returned. Ivan knew, he figured, but Ivan didn’t really count. Ben didn’t know if they were back together, if Lindsey wanted to be back together, or if this was a convention hookup. He didn’t know what he wanted, except more of what they’d been doing last night. All he could think about, really, was wanting more and more and more of that. And more and more of Lindsey in general. He’d missed her so much, and hadn’t even realized it until spending so much time with her again had jogged his brain awake.
Of course his shopping expedition had jogged some things awake, too. He was full of ideas, after that round of fresh inspiration, and had to caution himself to remember the plan and stick to it.
“She didn’t have to tell me. Somebody had to have left those pretty marks on her ass, u
nless she did it herself, which seems unlikely. The costume doesn’t quite hide them when she’s bent over and you’re looking from up close. And also that nice set of fingertip bruises next to...is that an octopus or some kind of dragon on her hip?”
“Cthulhu,” he corrected. Had he gripped her that hard? Probably so, at some point, and Lindsey’s skin marked up if you looked at her crosswise. She always showed it for a day or so after they made love, faint bruises and stubble burn lingering as reminders. That had always kind of gratified him, another impulse he’d felt guilty about and stifled, but it hadn’t occurred to him that it was as good as a brand to other people who knew what to look for. Maybe that was why the guy playing Rick was soft-peddling, sticking to a feather instead of a flogger. He was hedging his bets in case the marks meant Ben had staked a claim.
“‘Iä! Iä! Cthulhu fhtagn!’” Ivan recited quickly and softly, like he couldn’t help himself.
“Word, man,” Ben agreed.
“What now?” Samantha looked at them both like they were nuts.
“Uh...rejoice that Cthulhu sleeps. You’re not a Lovecraft fan, I take it?” Ben wondered how often that happened in the real world in a crowd this size, that the person who didn’t have a clue about Cthulhu was probably in the minority.
“This is a nerd culture thing?”
“Not exactly. Kind of. I guess. Wait, that’s a paddle. He’s getting a paddle!” A pressing rage, possessive incoherence, threatened to swamp Ben’s vision. Not his Lindsey’s ass, not some buttmunch in a leather freak mask. He’d marked that ass as his own, goddammit!
“Relax, sweetie.” Sadie patted Ben’s arm. “I’m up. It’s her lunch break, that’s why you’re here, remember?”
The Seduction Hypothesis Page 7
