by Tasha Fawkes
"You need to come with me to the florist the day after tomorrow," she informs me. "You have to help me decide whether we're going to go with roses or tulips."
I glance at her. "Tulips in winter?" I don't meant it to sound condescending, but as usual, Karen takes it that way. She lifts her head from my shoulder, pouting.
"Daniel, don't be that way," she says. "You know as well as I do that we're more than capable of acquiring tulips in wintertime."
She glances at my mother with a slight shake of her head. She fidgets for several moments, and then with a grin, which I suppose is meant to be seductive, she leans upward and whispers into my ear.
"Come with me upstairs, Daniel. I want to show you something."
I glance down at her, starting to shake my head. I’m not interested—
"Please, darling?" she purrs, casting a glance and a wink toward my mother. "It's important."
"Go ahead, Daniel," my mother says, sipping her coffee. "Indulge your fiancée… heaven knows you need to be more gracious with your time."
Before I can reply, Karen grasps my hand and tugs me out of the room and upstairs. She enters my old bedroom, shuts the door, and then pulls her blouse over her head, giggling softly.
"Come on, Daniel, won't this be fun? Fucking here in your old room while your mother sits below, waiting patiently for us to come back down? And on Christmas Day? Now, that's the kind of present I want."
So, I indulge her, without much effort or enthusiasm, but she writhes beneath me, moaning and groaning—
loudly at times—as if to prove to anyone in the household who just might be interested, that we’re doing it in my old bedroom. As if anyone cares. I certainly don't.
Nine
Ashley
I spent an uneventful Christmas Eve day and Christmas Day dividing my time between my dad's house and my mom's, and of course, spent quite a bit of time over the holiday by myself in my apartment. My dad invited me over to spend some time at his place on Christmas Day in the afternoon, which was nice. I briefly saw my younger brother, Andrew, and his girlfriend, Melanie.
It was pleasant, but really nothing to rave over. My dad had put up one of those faux DIY Christmas trees in the corner with a string of lights, a few ornaments, and a few presents under the tree. I bought him a box of various tobaccos. An avid pipe smoker, he’s somewhat of an aficionado, so I figured he would appreciate that. He bought me a sweater. I didn't get anything for Andrew or Melanie, nor did they get anything for me, which was just fine. Since he started dating Melanie, Andrew and I don't talk as often. Understandable really, and I don't mind.
I usually keep so busy with work and fiddling with my writing that the days and weeks often speed by, so much so that weeks sometimes pass before I speak to any family members. But it isn't my manuscript or any work I am currently editing that has my thoughts occupied this Christmas. It’s the memory of Daniel and I in the hotel room.
Every time I think of his gorgeous body, those gifted fingers, and his skill at provoking passion from my body leaves me rather stunned. I’ve never, never felt that way with a guy before. In fact, comparing my other experiences with that I’ve shared with Daniel, I realize that my sex life is incredibly bland and boring. And I wasn't even allowed to touch him!
Without admitting to myself that I’m actually desperate for Daniel's phone call or text message, or an email, as he promised, I try to bide my time. Still, every time I think about what he did to me; the feelings he evoked, the excitement I experienced, and the tingles of pleasure, I get hot and wet. So much so that while showering, I have to relieve myself, leaning into the corner of the shower, the water pounding down onto my breasts, my eyes closed and imagining that it’s Daniel's fingers, his tongue, evoking those feelings and briefly releasing my passion.
After enduring two days where my thoughts are consumed with nothing but Daniel, and at times even forgetting that it’s Christmas and my mind should be elsewhere, I start the day after Christmas with a resolution that I will take care of chores, maybe work on my manuscript a little, and practice patience.
Stewart left text messages several times, and called once on Christmas Eve, then once more on Christmas Day, hinting that we get together. I begged off, claiming that I wanted to spend some alone time with my family. He believed it, and while I felt a little guilty for lying to him, I saw no other polite way to avoid him. The thought of kissing Stewart now, or even sleeping with him left me feeling…
I’m not quite sure how to explain it, even to myself. He has the right equipment, but comparing him to Daniel… I shouldn't do that. Some people are just more experienced. It’s obvious that Daniel is more than experienced in the sex department, but it’s more than that. He’s a Master. A Dom. And I desperately want to be his slave.
I try to distract myself yet again, gathering up a load of laundry and taking it downstairs to the laundry room. While waiting for the laundry to finish, I run the vacuum, do a little bit of dusting, and then open my refrigerator, thinking it’s about time for a good clean out. I stare at the leftovers, the takeout containers, and the quart of milk already turning an odd tinge of yellow, and wrinkle my nose. I close the refrigerator door. Glancing at the clock, I see it’s time to transfer the clothes to the dryer.
I head downstairs to do just that. Halfway down the stairwell, the phone in my pocket vibrates. I pull it out, my heart leaping with excitement, but dulling when I don't recognize the number. Not Daniel. I’ve been getting barraged by telemarketers lately, and at that instant, annoyed that Daniel is keeping me waiting, a relatively rare but ferocious streak of misguided revenge burgeons. While I usually ignore any call I don't recognize, I decide to answer this one. I'll remain silent, which often serves to annoy the hell out of the telemarketer after they go through their spiel.
I answer this call, ready to give the silent treatment, prepared for the instant rapid-fire promotion on the other end. I get nothing. Silence. I frown, glance down at the screen, and see that the call is still connected. Finally, a male voice speaks.
"Hello? Ashley?"
Oh my God, it’s Daniel. I cringe. "Hi, Daniel," I say innocently, as if nothing happened. "How are you?"
There’s a brief moment of hesitation before he speaks. "Can you meet me at the hotel today?"
I pause, halfway down the steps, my heart leaping with excitement, anticipation, and a surge of desire. "Sure, I'd love to. When?"
"Now."
I freeze. I took a shower this morning but didn’t shave. Crap. I have laundry to deal with, and then changing clothes… all of which will take about an hour. I don't want to keep him waiting. Still…
"Have you changed your mind?"
I hear the change in his tone. Quiet. Firm. His "boss" voice.
"No, no I haven't," I say. "I just have to change real quick, but I can be there in about… twenty minutes?" I cringe again. What am I thinking?
"I'll meet you in the bar downstairs."
The call disconnects. I stare down at the screen, cursing myself, and then bolt down the stairs and into the laundry room. The wash cycle is complete, but I don't have time to wait for the clothes to dry. Yanking the damp clothes out of the washing machine, I smash them into the laundry basket, turn around, and race back upstairs. No help for that. I’ll just have to wash them again later.
I quickly disrobe and rush into the bathroom, grabbing my can of raspberry-scented shaving cream from the edge of the bathtub. I quickly shave my legs, trim up my pussy hair, and quickly swipe the blade under my arms. I complete my ablutions in about three minutes. Dashing back into the bedroom, I open my closet door, nibbling on a fingernail as I try to decide what to wear. I finally groan, realizing it doesn't matter what I wear. Chances are I’m not going to be wearing those clothes very long anyway.
My breasts tingling with excitement, and my pussy offering throbs of anticipation, I quickly throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. No bra, no panties. Simple. This is me.
In less than t
en minutes I’m out of the apartment, my heart pounding. Downstairs I push open the door of the lobby and step outside onto the sidewalk, wincing at the bitterly cold air that threatens to suck the air out of my chest. Thank goodness it isn't very busy. Being the day after Christmas with most businesses still closed for the holidays, I manage to hail a taxi in under a minute. I climb in, give the driver the address of the hotel and sit back, hands clasped in my lap to still my trembling.
By the time I enter the bar located on the west side of the hotel lobby of the Westin, I’m ready for just about anything. I think. I can't deny my nervous apprehension, coupled with expectation. It’s kind of like opening a very special present on your birthday; not exactly sure what you’re going to get but knowing that it’s going to be good.
As I walk into the bar, I see Daniel sitting at the bar. It looks like he’s nursing scotch. He isn't smiling. My heart skips a beat. Did I keep him waiting too long? Did he change his mind?
He turns and looks at me for several moments, gazing from my hair, which I pulled into a ponytail, to my sweatshirt, down to my jeans, and then my tennis shoes, sans socks. I stare back, waiting for him to laugh, to tell me to get lost, something, but after several moments, he merely grins. I allow myself a mental sigh of relief.
"You want a drink?”
He probably thinks I need to calm my nerves, but I don't need liquid courage. I need, want, to experience what he has to offer. I’m ready to open the door and experience the world that I’ve only read about. Do I need a drink for that?
"No thank you, I'm good."
He grins and downs the rest of his drink. "You ready?" He glances down at a small gym bag at the base of his stool.
I follow his gaze, briefly wondering what he has in there. In a matter of moments, I’ll probably find out. In spite of my anxiety, I’m also more than turned on. This kind of attention, not to mention his charisma and his good looks, and the memory of his hard body, has my heart trip-hammering. I’ve only experienced a minute portion of his sexual prowess, I’m sure.
"Well?"
"I'm ready," I nod.
He abruptly places his glass on the bar, reaches into his shirt pocket and removed a twenty-dollar bill and places it on the bar. Without a word, he leaves the stool, reaches down to pick up the gym bag, and with his other, grasps my hand.
We walk out of the bar and into the lobby, heading for the bank of elevators. Once inside, the door dings shut and the car begins its upward journey. I imagine we’re heading to the penthouse suite, where we enjoyed our previous liaison. What if—
"Today, we're going to focus on one of the scenes in your book. It has a few inaccuracies."
I glance up at him. "It does? Where?"
"The foundation of a beneficial relationship between a Dom and a sub is not just about control of the submissive," he begins.
His eyes lock on to mine, and I feel trapped there. Not literally, but inside, I feel like I’m melting. Those eyes of his are so damn captivating, I want to stare at them all day.
"It's also about control of the Dom. Respect goes both ways in this kind of a relationship. It's not about fear, nor fear of punishment. Punishment should never be done in anger."
I think back to the multiple scenes riddling my book, but can't remember where I made such a mistake.
"Just remember, Ashley. Punishment doesn't equate to pain."
I don't know exactly what he’s implying, nor the specific incident in my book to which he refers, but I’m grasping one concept. I want to learn. I want to learn from him. No matter what, I’m willing to try just about anything. I want to please him, not just sexually, but as his sub. As his partner, as his lover…
Ten
Ashley
As he takes me up to the hotel room, I can't stop my brain from going into overdrive. What if I discover I don't like it? Daniel promised that nothing would change, but it will. Everything will. How could it not?
If, after my first foray into this world, I decide I don't like it after all, what then? He will look at me differently. I will look at him differently. By the time I actually step into the hotel room, I’m close to freaking. Why am I flip-flopping all of a sudden? Why am I doubting myself? Why am I doubting Daniel?
And then he smiles at me. That's all it takes. A simple, encouraging smile. He points to a box. Not a large box, not one of those big, square moving boxes, but bigger than a box that stored file folders like you can get at your local office supply store. This box looks like the boxes we use to store a lot of the manuscripts that arrive at Pen & Quill that end up in the maybe slush pile. We hang onto them for awhile before either sending them back to the authors for more work or taking them down to the basement incinerator. And yes, the building is that old. It has an incinerator.
The box is set on the floor catty corner between the edge of the coffee table and the end of the sofa. What is inside that box? I know. It’s a box of secrets, of sex. Can I deal with what’s inside? I don't have any sexual hang-ups, but it’s not like I often venture beyond the realm of what I call ordinary sex. Stewart isn’t particularly imaginative nor have any of our sexual encounters gone beyond the norm. And by that, I mean, although not cruelly, the wham, bam, thank you ma'am, kind of sex. A few minutes of foreplay and then typically the traditional missionary position, and once or twice, oral, but still, very straightforward, very ordinary, almost… almost clinical in nature. I feel the heat of a flush warm my cheeks. What—
"Go ahead, open it," he says.
The box isn't taped, but the four flaps of its lid are folded in on themselves. One by one I pull the flaps open and then peer down into the box. My immediate impression? I don't see any handcuffs, and I realize that my conception and impression of bondage hovers on the naïve side. I cringe inwardly, realizing that in one of my scenes in my manuscript, I had the woman handcuffed to a bed frame with metal handcuffs. Maybe that's what Daniel was talking about when he said he found some mistakes in my book.
I glance up at him, and he nods with encouragement. I begin to finger some of the items. I’m not surprised to find different gadgets of all sizes and textures. There are different types of rope, straps, and, much to my dismay, small link lengths of chain. I try to still my racing heart as I touch the items, but I don't remove them from the box.
"What are you thinking, Ashley?"
"I… I'm not sure," I admit. My fingers slide along the surface of a leather collar. It looks exactly like a dog collar.
"It's custom-made. Those metal rings are where rope can be secured or even attach a chain to it."
He speaks matter-of-factly. He speaks from experience. He does know this world. It isn't just talk. I don't want to look at him, don't want him to see my nervousness. Nevertheless, his voice compels me to.
"Most people use ropes, or rope-like devices, for their bondage encounters. That doesn't always mean a literal rope, like you had in another scene in your book. It can be anything such as a scarf, a belt, or even a necktie. Bondage is designed to restrict movement, actually. It's not meant nor intended to be a form of torture."
I don't have any torture scenes in my manuscript, so why would he say that? Then I remember. Another scene does have—
"It's not about rape, or even one-sided sex."
He sits down on the couch next to me, so close that his arm brushes against mine. I feel the heat of his body and inhale the scent of his cologne.
"Regardless of the tool of bondage, it's important to be very careful. It doesn't take much to cause rope burns or to cut off someone's circulation."
I glance at him, eyes wide. "I used rope in one of my scenes."
"Yes, you did," he nods. "And it was thick and rough. You described the kind of rope that they use in old Westerns to hang people or rope cattle with, didn't you?"
I feel like an idiot, but nod.
"If rope is used, it's most commonly a nautical type of rope made of nylon. Nautical rope. You know what I'm referring to? The white, soft, pliable ropes
of different thicknesses?"
Again, I nod, absorbing his lesson.
"That type of rope is softer. When used in a bondage scene, nautical rope with a thicker diameter, not like the kind of rope you described, is preferred."
He pauses, looks down at the box, and then reaches into it. He extracts a two-foot length of white, nylon nautical rope, nearly an inch thick. He extends it toward me.
"Feel it. Run your fingers along the surface."
I swallow, but obey. I wrap my palm around the rope. It’s sturdy, pliable, yet soft to the touch.
"Close your eyes. Imagine me tying you up with this. You're bound to something with this kind of rope. What would it feel like?"
My pussy clenches as I imagine it.
"You can use this type of binding in any number of ways. You can tie someone's hands to the bedpost, like you did in your book, or you can be a little more creative."
I look at him. Creative? He stares back at me, a slight smile curving the corner of his lips. My nipples harden. Is he going to use this rope on me? Today? In a few minutes? As if reading my thoughts, he shakes his head.
"Rope is not used when a Dom and a sub are getting to know one another. The use of rope implies complete trust. Complete comfort with one another."
He takes the rope from my hands, his gaze not breaking mine.
"Always remember, Ashley, that allowing yourself to be bound is an act of complete submission. Whether with me or someone else, when you allow yourself to be bound, you're trusting the Dom."
He frowns and tosses the rope back into the box. "What is it?" Did I say something, imply something with a look? He looks at me, and for a moment I don't think he’s going to answer.
"I knew a couple, not that long ago. She was accidentally killed by her Dom—"
I can't help the gasp that escapes my throat. I stare in dismay.
