by Tasha Fawkes
She pauses and stabs a few leaves of spinach onto her fork and lifts it to her mouth. I watch, not just because I find her nervousness adorable, but I want to see how she feels about being watched. Watching is a big part of our new relationship. This might just seem like a getting-to-know-you lunch as far as she is concerned, but for me, it offers a glimpse into what I might expect from her.
"Where do you want to go from here?"
She chews quickly, swallows, and then looks at me, touching her index finger to the corner of her lip. A self-conscious gesture.
"I went to NYU to study journalism—"
"No, Ashley. I mean, what is it you want out of life?"
I can tell that the abrupt change in topic from her background to asking about her dreams, goals, aspirations of life startled her. So far though, she's responding like a person would during a job interview. I don't want that. I want her to tell me what she thinks, feels, and believes in. How long will it take her to understand that? She recovers quickly. She places her fork on her napkin and looks me straight in the eye.
"I have no idea," she replies, offering a tiny shrug, another indication of her personality. "What everyone wants, I suppose. To earn a living, make enough money to get by, to be happy with my job, to find myself in a solid relationship… what about you?"
I grin. That's what I wanted to see. I respond to her query. "Well, I'm an only child. My dad comes from old money, New York money, and he married a woman half his age, and after several tries, well, there I was. My father died when I was three-years-old, so I never really knew him." I take a sip of my cola and then continue. "My mother is overprotective, almost excessively so. I'm a type A personality, obviously, and I graduated from Yale with an MBA."
Ashley nods, cuts one of her pork medallions into small pieces, stabs at piece with her fork and lifts it to her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Why did you go into publishing?"
Interesting question. I also take a bite of pork, matching my movements to hers without breaking eye contact. She doesn't either. Very good. Very good indeed. "After two years working at my family's company, import-exports, I knew that wasn't exactly what I wanted. I went back to school, got a bachelor's degree in comparative literature, and then I started Pen and Quill."
She laughs softly. "And what did your family have to say about that?
I grin. "My mom freaked. But we compromised. I'm still the CEO of our family business, but I delegate. What I enjoy most is the publishing industry."
She nods, seemingly now at a loss for words. "And you, Ashley. You're gifted as an editor. I appreciate your work. But why do you want to become an author, and why erotica? More specifically, why this niche of erotica?"
I watch as a blush travels all the way from the base of her neck up into her cheeks. Still, she doesn't flinch.
"This is kind of personal, but—"
"Actually, if I have my way, after lunch, we're going to go upstairs and get naked together. How much more personal can you get?" Her blush deepens, the pulse in her neck throbbing. Is she game or will she cut and run? I hope for the former, because the more time I spend with her, the more attracted I am to her. I enjoy sex, and while I appreciate beauty as much as the next guy, I don't place as much importance on looks as I do, well, how to say it politely? Enthusiasm between the sheets? The urge to push the envelope? Many of my partners were okay, in a traditional sense as far as sex is concerned. Of course, I have some like Crystal who indulge like me, and with whom I feel I can be who I want to be. Still, I've never found a partner that I feel… trite as it sounds—complete with. One who can match my appetite, one who is totally in tune with me, my rhythms, my needs, my desire to experience total unity.
I’ve always been good at sex, but after so many years, it just seemed routine. After a while, it just got boring. That's what attracted me to the world of BDSM. But what about Ashley?
"Well, I've never really…" she pauses, takes another bite of pork, chews and swallows, then follows that with a long sip of her cola.
I watch. She clears her throat, darts a glance down at her plate, then up, this time not breaking eye contact. She straightens her shoulders.
"I've had a few boyfriends over the years," she admits. "I lost my virginity when I was seventeen, with a guy I'd been dating for about a year. After that, it didn't seem like such a big deal anymore, as long as the guys were protected."
She pauses, lifts an eyebrow in question, and when I nod in understanding, she continues.
"I've had a handful of flings, but none of them lasted very long… anywhere from a weekend to a couple of weeks."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why just flings? I would expect someone with a solid head on her shoulders to be more demanding, to want a long-term relationship."
She swallows. "Well, none of them turned out to be what I was looking for."
I’m intrigued by another ensuing flush of color darkening her cheeks before she continues.
"I like sex, don't get me wrong, but to be frank, I could live without it."
I grin. "That's because you haven't met the right partner yet."
She almost makes a face. Almost.
"I'm currently in an on-again off-again relationship with Stewart… the guy you met by the elevator, but it's more of a friends-with-benefits thing." She pauses. "At least on my end. He thinks he wants to marry me."
"And you don't?"
She shakes her head. "Stewart's a good guy, but he's just… he's just not the one."
"So, what do you feel is missing? From these relationships?"
Her eyes lock with mine again. "I'm not quite sure how to explain it. Maybe my ideas of sex and passion and excitement are just a childhood fantasy, but I thought it would be, well, more special." She shakes her head. "I'm not making myself clear. It's hard to explain."
"Not really," I say, placing my fork on my plate. Neither of us have eaten much, but I now have a greater understanding of what makes Ashley tick. She’s looking for some excitement, something different, something to ignite a deep sense of thrill that she can't even identify. Passion that she longs for. A deeper connection, not only in a sexual relationship, but between her and her partner. I have no doubt that I’m the man who can do that.
"Well here it is, Ashley, in plain English. Take me up on my offer and I'll show you what you're missing. But first, we need to make sure that we're sexually compatible and that you'll be comfortable with this world." I wipe my mouth with my cloth napkin and offer a small shrug. "If you want to write erotica, about bondage, about domination, you have to understand what it's all about. You can't just read about it. You have to live it. You have to feel it. You have to experience it."
I reach into my pocket, extract my wallet, and place several bills on the pristine white tablecloth. I stand and hold out my hand. She looks up at me and for a few seconds, and I think she might change her mind, but to my pleasure, she lifts her hand and places it in mine.
"All right then." I smile. "Let's go."
Seven
Ashley
I’m freaking. What's the matter with you? What do you think you're doing? This is going to ruin everything!
I’ve always admired Daniel, it isn't that. He gets my engines revving. I’ve been fantasizing about him for a long, long time. But this could end badly. Fantasies were just that. I don't really know anything about the kind of man he is. At work, yes, sort of. Out of work? No clue. He could be an arrogant bastard. He could be lame in bed. He could be twisted, as in the I'm-going-to-cause-you-pain kind of twisted. I’m looking for something exciting in the bedroom, but I don't necessarily want pain. A pinch here, a slap on the ass there is okay, but nothing truly painful. I want to enjoy the sex too, not just endure it.
I've also heard the rumors. Office gossip. He’s often seen about town with a different woman on his arm every night. How in the world am I going to compete with them? The women he goes out with—again gossip—are the hoity-toity type. Socially aware,
known in their circles, attached to boardrooms or high-power positions. Does he do… does he have regular sex with them or are they all into the bondage scene? I scoff. What difference does it make?
I‘m here now. Me. I’m going to dip my toe into the waters and see what happens. He promises nothing, except that I will still have my job and he'll still publish my book. If things don't work out like I expect, things will just go back to the way they've been.
Won’t they?
I know nothing about the world of bondage. Sure, I’ve read about some of it, but reading and doing are two different things. I imagine myself handcuffed to a bedframe with pink, fuzzy, padded handcuffs, and him having his way with me.
No doubt about it, that image gets me hot. Just the thought of it has my nipples tingling and hardening and my pussy clenching with anticipation. At the same time, I know that I’m no match in sexual prowess nor as experienced as Daniel. I know that he can please me, but what if I don't please him? Can I please a man like him? Self-doubt creeps in. I'll be mortified if I don't.
No, I’m making a mistake. I’m leaving myself open to ridicule, to—
"Don't be nervous," he says as he guides me out of the restaurant and down the short hallway toward the elevators. He planned it this way. A light lunch in the restaurant of the Westin Hotel. A room already reserved upstairs for our rendezvous. I can't help my vivid imagination from running amok. I fantasize him emerging from the bathroom wearing a pair of leather chaps, holding a short whip or something. God, how cliché is that? No, no he wouldn't do that, he isn't the type.
Is he?
Anything I know about bondage I’ve read about in other books, other romance novels. At the moment, more than any other time in my life, I feel like a fraud. Embarrassed, I stand next to him in the elevator, the scent of his cologne or aftershave, whatever it is, wafting toward me. He smells good. He always does. He holds my hand; warm, strong, offering a sense of security and comfort.
I might as well just fess up. I look up at him, watching as he watches the numbers of the floors we pass light up in fluorescent green. "Daniel, I should tell you..." He glances away from the numbers and looks down at me, giving me his full attention. "I'm probably not as experienced as… no, that isn't right." I shake my head, along with an eye roll. "I'm not as experienced as some of the other women you've been with, so—"
"Relax, Ashley," he says. "That's what this is all about, isn't it? You want to learn?"
I nod.
"I'll be your teacher. I'll show you. But first, we just need to become acquainted with one another in a more carnal sense. You just need to trust me, all right?"
I nod and say nothing more as the elevator continues to rise until it finally stops on the top floor. A penthouse suite? The elevator doors ding open and, still holding my hand, he guides me out into the carpeted hallway. I walk beside him toward a door a short distance down the hall. I swallow, then laugh at myself. Why the dread? You're not being led to the gallows!
He pulls a key card from his inner jacket pocket. My heart pounds. I hope my hand isn't clammy. I stare down at our joined hands; his large, firm, and browned by at least part of his life lived outdoors, mine smaller and pale.
The green lights of the electronic door lock flash, and he pushes down on the handle and opens the door. He let’s go of my hand and braces it against the door over my head, gesturing for me to enter in front of him. Despite my nervousness, despite my urge to suddenly turn and run, I do, and then pause in the small foyer, forcing myself to be brave. I want this, don't I? I’ve admired Daniel from afar for so long, and now here I am, about to have sex with him in a penthouse suite of one of the nicest hotels in the city.
"Make yourself comfortable," he says.
Heavy curtains are pulled back from an expansive and gorgeous view of the city through a floor-to-ceiling window. A filmy white curtain pulled halfway across the massive window allows a sense of privacy and bathes the room in a comforting glow. I pause, taking it all in; the plush carpet, freshly vacuumed, the sunken living room, resplendently furnished with not one, but two beige leather sofas, two arm chairs at opposite ends of a maple coffee table, and beyond that, the wet bar in the corner between the edge of the window and a hallway that certainly leads to the—
"Would you like a drink?"
A buzz might be nice, consider it, but then change my mind. Good or bad, I want to remember every second of what is about to happen. I don't want my thoughts dulled with booze. "No thank you." I step toward the windows, staring at the buildings that fill the horizon until, in the distance, I find the interstate, cars streaming along like a slithering snake, and beyond that, a brief glimpse of the harbor.
I hear movement behind me, then feel his hands on my shoulders. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" I feel the need to fill the silence. I briefly close my eyes and tell myself to relax.
"It is," he agrees.
He turns me so that I face him. My breasts press against his chest, standing so close that my chin brushes against his shirt as I tilt my head to look up at him. I’m a tall girl, and Daniel, standing at six-feet-two, is only about six inches taller than me. Our eyes lock and I find it difficult to look away. Those light greenish-blue eyes of his, the way they look at mine, have me frozen like a deer in the headlights.
He glances down at my mouth, and my nipples harden. I barely squelch the gasp that rises in my throat. Such heat, such promise… a small smile plays about his lips.
"You're nervous."
He sees it, so I can't lie. I nod. He lifts a hand and cups it around my jaw, his thumb tracing the skin of my cheek under my eye. His index finger traces the line of my nose, and then along the bottom of my lip. I barely hold back a shiver. How long have I wanted this? How many times have I been in bed with Stewart, wishing that the man rocking his hips above me was Daniel? I’m excited, anxious, and filled with trepidation all at the same time. What if I don't please him? What if—
He takes my hand and leads me down a short hallway, pausing only long enough to allow me to enter the bedroom before him. If I wasn’t so nervous, I would’ve been more dismayed by the opulence. A massive, king-sized bed with a plump maroon comforter, white pillowcases stark in contrast. At least eight pillows, plump and carefully arranged at the head of the bed. On either side of that bed stands two small end tables, maple like the coffee table in the living area, with Tiffany lamps. As with the main room, a glass, floor-to-ceiling window looks out onto the city, but as with the living room, a filmy white curtain is completely drawn over the glass, offering more privacy.
On the wall to the left stands a bank of rolling glass closet doors. The bed and end tables take up the other wall, and opposite that stands a dresser, a built-in niche with shelves and a huge flat-screen TV, and beside that, through a half-open door, is the bathroom.
Now's your chance to change your mind… The idea reverberates around my head. This is crazy. Risky. Yes, I've crushed on Daniel ever since I first started at the Pen and Quill. Yes, I always wanted something more in my sex life, although I couldn't quite identify what that implied. It was only after I started editing some of the novels submitted for publication that I learned about the world of bondage. Only then did I realize there was so much more. Only then did I discover that Daniel obviously knew a great deal about that world based on his comments on my edits before we went to press.
My heart pounds. I can't help feeling nervous. What if my body doesn't appeal to him? What if I don't please him? What if—
He grasps my hand again and guides me toward the bed. He sits down, gently tugging me down as well. I sit next to him, focused on our intertwined fingers.
"This is just us getting to know each other, Ashley. No pressure, okay?"
I’m glad we’re just going to have normal sex first, which might help me feel more comfortable around him. I shouldn't expect myself to be an expert in this. He shouldn't either. I also have to think of him as just a man, a handsome, desirable man. Not my boss. I can't think
about having sex with my boss. That is just too… complicated. I also can't start freaking out about a world that I only read about, one that I barely have a grasp on, one that I barely understand, and expect myself to know—
"First, a few rules."
His comment startles me from my thoughts. "Rules?"
He nods. "The world of dominance and submission is not a free-for-all, Ashley. It's not about inflicting pain. It's not about making you do something you don't want to do." He pauses. "Of course, in this relationship, I am the Master or the Dom. You, likewise, will be the sub, sometimes called the slave."
I knew that much.
"But in order for us to be completely successful in this Dom/sub relationship, we also have to be able—and willing—to communicate. To feel free and safe, expressing our feelings and our desires." He pauses again. "Do you understand?"
I nod. Already I’m learning something new. This type of relationship is supposed to be satisfying for both partners, not just a person taking on the Master role and having his or her way with the other participant. He’s also suggesting that we have to be compatible; that we have to have an affinity for one another.
"In order to be successful and create a full and satisfying relationship for both of us, we both have to have goals, and our goals should be one and the same."
"All right," I say. "So, what is your goal?"
"That both of us gain pleasure from the experience."
I nod. "I want that, too." I mean it, but I’m also slightly afraid. In some of the books I've read, the interactions seemed relatively one-sided, sometimes venturing into cruelty and dissatisfaction. With Daniel, I want to—
"Mutual enjoyment of both partners in the Dom/sub relationship is the goal. Neither has all the power, and neither gives up complete control. Remember that." He stands and removes his jacket, placing it carefully over the back of a chair near the end table.
