Forced to Yield

by Tasha Fawkes

  Finally, he stills. I don't move, my own body humming with electrical, stimulating sensations. Still buried deep inside me, he wraps his left arm around my chest and lifts me upward while his right hand reaches around my hip and gropes my mound. Held captive in his embrace, my back pressed tightly against his chest, his thumb and fingers work at my slit until my hips begin to rock of their own accord. He stops fiddling with my nub and grabs my right hand, encases it in his, and then lowers it once again to my pussy. Together, my hand encased in his, he brings me to the fullness of my pleasure. I climax, my body held firmly against his, his dick still deep inside me. I barely manage to prevent the moan of pleasure that escapes, although I do throw my head back against his chest. I feel his harsh breath against my ear as the waves of ecstasy sweeps over me, so much so that my knees nearly buckle. I don't have to worry. He holds me up.

  Panting, my body feeling boneless, I sag against him. My ears ring and my head stops spinning and gradually clears. My eyes focus on the clutter of paperwork on his desk. He kneels behind me and unbuckles the leg spreader. I don’t move.

  He points over my shoulder toward the small bathroom door. "Go get yourself cleaned up."

  Seventeen

  Daniel

  I watch Ashley walk toward my office door, where she stoops down to pick up her clothing before stepping into my private bathroom. Her back to me, I admire her shapely figure. I love the way her narrow waist flairs slightly into gorgeous, well-shaped hips. Her ass is firm and tight. I could probably stick a quarter between her ass and the top of her thigh and it would stay there. Athletic, although I don't think she’s engaged in any sports. Maybe she had an active childhood. I don't know. Maybe—

  I don't allow my mind to wander, but force it back to the present. I feel satiated. I feel more relaxed than I have in a long time. Even my interludes with Crystal often left me feeling dissatisfied, or actually un-satiated; as if something was never quite finished, not sexually, but emotionally, or maybe even mentally.

  I shake my head as I reach for the box of Kleenex in my top desk drawer and remove the condom, bundling it up inside the Kleenex, and then another, before wadding it all up and throwing it in the trash can. I tuck myself back in my pants, zip up, and adjust. I hear the water trickling in the sink in the bathroom.

  I glance up at the clock on the wall. She's been in my office less than ten minutes. No one will wonder about that. Still, I don't want her to linger. Not because I don't want to spend more time with her, because God knows, I do. But not here. Not in my office.

  Maybe later tonight, or tomorrow—

  My cell phone rings. I move to my desk and reach for my iPhone and turn it over. The light blue background of the screen distracts me from the bathroom door, behind which Ashley is probably— I glance down at the screen, scowling when I see the caller ID.

  Karen. My sense of relaxation, that elusive sense of calm that enveloped me during those few blissful moments with Ashley are doused as effectively as a bucket of cold water thrown over my head. Poof. Gone. Immediate tension, annoyance, and dissatisfaction surge upward. I sigh and answer the call.

  "Hello, Karen." What will she complain about today? Probably that I didn’t show up for the cake tasting appointment yesterday or maybe because I didn’t make a final decision on the floral arrangements? I don't have time for this. I told her—

  "Hi, Daniel. What are you doing?"

  For a second, I consider telling her the truth. "I'm working."

  "What are you working on?"

  What the hell? For a brief second I think she might be suspicious, that her bat radar has picked up on something in my voice. Or perhaps she has a hidden camera in my office or something. I shake my head, feeling stupid. "A manuscript," I answer. "What do you need? I'm busy."

  She makes some pouting sounds, then chuckles softly. Before Ashley, and in the early days of our faux relationship, that throaty chuckle was enticing. Sexually charged. Now it just grates on my nerves.

  She gets to the point. "Fine. I know that you gave me charge over all the decisions regarding the wedding, but honestly, Daniel, I don't feel comfortable doing all of this by myself. You are going to be part of this marriage, after all. Do you think you could work up some enthusiasm and take on a couple of the tasks yourself?"

  "I don't know anything about planning for a wedding," I say, my gaze flicking toward the bathroom door as it opens and Ashley steps out. She’s all put together again, although her cheeks are still flushed. I gesture for her to sit in the chair in front of my desk. At least for a minute or two until some of that color leaves her cheeks. She might as well be wearing a flashing sign that says 'I just got fucked by my boss'. I grin at her. Her cheeks blossom with color.

  "It's not like you have to plan anything, Daniel. But do you think you can squeeze enough time into your day to make some calls to a couple of country clubs in the next day or two? I've got the church taken care of, but I'm not sure where I want to have the reception. I'm overloaded with the florist, the baker, the wedding planner, choosing the décor—"

  I sigh. "All right, I'll try to make a couple of calls. But seriously, can't you ask my mother to help? She knows more about this stuff than I do."

  "She's already busy with the caterer, the menu, and working on place settings."

  I tamp down my annoyance, wondering for the hundredth time why I allowed myself to agree to this. "All right, I'll take care of it. I have to go now."

  "I'll see you later this evening. We're having dinner with your mother, remember?"

  "I remember, Karen. Goodbye."

  I disconnect the call and toss the phone onto my desk blotter. Ashley look at me. "My fiancée," I explain. "Wedding planning stuff."

  "You're engaged?"

  I nod. She shifts in her chair, her back straighter and her expression blank. She has to know sooner or later, if she doesn't already. I don't go around talking about Karen or anybody else in my social circle, but I know how gossip moves through the grapevine, and in the publishing house.

  "Congratulations," she says. "When's the big day?"

  "Thank you," I say softly, sitting behind my desk. "And it's coming up."

  She doesn't say anything more but glances down at her fingers, crossed in her lap. The color has eased out of her cheeks. I glance around my desk, grab a printed reader's proof for a manuscript sitting on the corner, and hand it to her.

  She takes it, her brows slightly furrowed.

  "I called you into my office to go over a manuscript. It will look a little odd if you don't leave my office with said manuscript, don't you think?"

  With a nod, she takes the manuscript, then looks at me. I can tell by her questioning gaze that she isn't sure if we’re still in that Dom/sub roll. We aren't.

  "Are you all right?" I ask, indicating that our roles are over.

  "I am," she says, glancing down at the manuscript. "Well, I guess I'd better get back to my desk before anybody starts wondering…"

  I nod but don't say anything. She rises and walks to the door. I know women. I’ve spent enough of my time around them; different personalities, different attitudes, but one thing is a universal to all of them. Even my mother. It isn't so much as a look or a facial expression as it is about their posture, even subconsciously. As if intentionally and emotionally distancing themselves from something they don't want to accept. It's as if a wall descends around them. While Ashley's face doesn’t betrayed any emotion, I’ve seen something in her demeanor change.

  I frown as she quietly leaves my office, shutting the door softly behind her. Surely, she understands the boundaries of our relationship, doesn't she? Especially since she experienced my playroom. I made the boundaries clear to her, didn’t I?

  If she didn't understand them, then and now, it isn't my fault. Still, I want to… what? What am I going to do? I’m engaged to Karen Queen, and that isn't going to change anytime soon. Ashley and I can still see each other; that won't change. I don't feel guilty about that, not o
ne iota. Karen and I don't love one another. That too, is plainly understood. Our marriage is simply one of convenience.

  Still—

  My phone rings again, and I glance down at it then roll my eyes as I answered, "Hello, Mother."

  "Daniel." Her voice sounds like it’s far away.

  "Where are you?"

  "On my way down to see the caterer," she says.

  Did Karen call my mother to complain, to tell her I’m not invested enough in the wedding planning? "What's up?"

  "I know you're busy with your publishing business and everything, Daniel, but really, you could at least pretend you're interested."

  I barely hold back a sigh. "Mom, I've done everything she's asked. Yes, I missed the cake tasting appointment last night, but to be brutally honest, I don't care what kind of cake we have. I don't care about the frosting, or the decorations, or what kind of flowers are picked out. Why does this have to be so complicated?"

  "These things are important to women," she says, her tone voicing disapproval. "Now I certainly don't expect you to do everything, but to be honest, I think you're being rather rude. I'm trying to help out, but I think you need to do a few things, too."

  "She just called, by the way, which I'm sure you know, and I told her I would take care of some phone calls to find a venue for the reception. What else do you need me to do?"

  "Shrimp, chicken, or sirloin?"

  I space. "What?"

  "For the wedding guests. Choose one. Shrimp, chicken, or sirloin?"

  I blink. "Why do we have to choose one? Why can't we offer all three? You and I have both been to enough awards and dinners. Why not offer our guests a choice?"

  Nothing for several seconds. Did I lose the call? Then I hear her soft laughter.

  "There are times, Daniel, when you surprise me. Thank you."

  The call disconnects. I lower the phone and stare at it a second. When is this madness going to end? Then, with a sense of frustration, I realize that it probably never will. This is my destiny? To put up or shut up? I sit back in my chair, staring at the manuscripts on my desk, wishing that I could just dive into them, but one image keeps appearing in my mind. One face. It isn't Karen's.

  Eighteen

  Ashley

  Fiancée. Fiancée. Fiancée… the word reverberates through my brain. With my body still tingling from the sex we just had in his office, I sit down at my desk, placing the manuscript down next to my keyboard, fidgeting with its edges.

  "Everything okay?"

  I glance up, startled by Tory's question. Her desk only a few feet from mine, I nod. "Why?"

  "You look pale."

  "I do?" I don't feel pale. I feel like I’m burning alive from the inside out. My unquenched desire has disappeared. It doesn't matter… it doesn't matter! I keep telling myself that, but deep in my gut and in the logical part of my brain, I realize that his words struck a chord, but I shake it off. It's not like we’re in a legitimate relationship. It's not like we’re officially dating or anything like that. What we do, we do in secret, and I want to keep it that way. What business is it of mine that he has a fiancée?

  "Is there something wrong with that manuscript? Does he want you to revise it?"

  I glance at Tory, trying to track our sort-of conversation. "Just a couple of things to check over. No worries," I say.

  I try to focus my attention back to my computer screen, effectively shutting down any further questions. Nevertheless, I feel Tory's eyes on me. I can tell when she wants more information. After all, I've known her for about as long as I've known Stewart. As his cousin, Tory is the one who introduced us. While our relationship is sort of friendly at work, it isn't like she’s my confidant or anything. I don't have any confidantes. No besties, no BFFs, no joined-at-the-hip friends for me. No sir. I’m too busy… too busy focusing on my career aspirations. But man, at this moment, I wish I did have someone to confide in.

  Despite my foray into the bondage world, I have to admit to myself that my attitudes, to some degree at least, are traditional. Daniel is engaged. Does his fiancée know about his… his hobby? His underground lifestyle? His many partners and the subs, including me? Maybe she does and maybe she doesn't. It’s none of my business. It’s theirs. And if she doesn't know, maybe she’s better off that way.

  Still, I can't help the train of thoughts twisting my insides. What does that make me? And what does it say about Daniel? Then again, is that any of my business either? I shake my head and try to distance myself from thoughts of morality, ethics, and relationships. I stare at the computer screen in front of me, but a myriad of questions keep flipping through my brain, over and over again. The more I think about it, the more I realize I’m in a dead-end situation. Much as I like Daniel, as much as I want to spend more time with him, and even despite my growing feelings for him, I realize that nothing will come of our relationship.

  An overwhelming feeling of sadness comes over me. Before I start to wallow in a pool of self-pity, I mentally slap myself. What's wrong with you? I’m not a character in my own manuscript. I’m not a character in any of the romance novels I’ve edited. For crying out loud, this is real life. It’s one thing to have goals and aspirations, another to fool yourself to the point where you believe that fantasy can become reality. Maybe for some people it does, but not for me, not Ashley Shiels.

  My hands settle on my keyboard. I remind myself of my own goals, which is to become a published author. Daniel promised that he would publish my manuscript, but where do I go from there? Would I have had the same opportunity to get published if I didn't work here at Pen & Quill? Was he patronizing me, promising to publish my manuscript if… no, don't go there. I think I know Daniel well enough to know that if he thought my manuscript was crap, he would've told me that. Honestly, like any good editor should. Maybe not in those words, but he told me it was good and it just needed a little polishing.

  My mind is spinning. I sense Tory occasionally glancing at me, and I finally turn to her with a frown. "What is it? Why do you keep staring at me?"

  She says nothing, but merely glances at my computer screen and then back at me. I look at the computer screen and realize I haven’t edited one line since I sat down. I come up with an excuse. "Okay, so the manuscript needs a little more work than I implied."

  "He's not mad, is he?" She glances down the hall to Daniel's office and lowers her voice. "He can be a prick sometimes, can't he?"

  An unreasonable surge of annoyance floods through me, but I quickly tamp it down and offer a lame shrug in reply before again staring at my monitor. Really focused. But I still can't concentrate. Giving up on the computer, I move my keyboard aside and place the proof of the manuscript in front of me and start idly leafing through it. I don't have to do anything with it, it’s just a prop, but I pretend to read through it, if just to keep Tory off my case.

  Fiancée. Fiancée. Fiancée. A hollow, achy feeling develops in the pit of my stomach. Why do I care? Besides, I have Stewart, don't I? I grimace but then realize that I have to be sensible. Rational. I pull my desk drawer open, pull out my purse and set it on my lap as I dig inside for my phone. Before I can second-guess myself, I text Stewart and ask if he wants to come over tonight.

  "Are you sure you're okay?"

  I glance at Tory and sigh. "Everything is fine, Tory. I promise."

  She finally seems to accept my response and returns to her work. I glance at her occasionally, but she’s now fully involved in editing the manuscript on her computer screen. I lied. Everything is not fine. Of course, I wish things had gone differently… I realize where my thoughts were headed. This has to end. Much as I don't want it to, I also don't want to be anyone's mistress, either by implication or the true meaning of the word. Daniel is engaged. That makes everything different.

  For the next hour or so I try my best to do the job I’m paid to do, but every few minutes, I find myself glancing down the hallway toward Daniel's office. My emotions range from disappointment to irritation. Why didn
’t he tell me that he’s engaged? Why?

  And despite my fantasizing about him for so long, do I really want to be with a man who would cheat so willingly with me and possibly other women? No, no possibly about it. That playroom in his basement is not brand-spanking new, no pun intended. How many subs does he have? How often does he bring them to his secret basement?

  I mentally slap myself again. What does it matter? Why should I care? Why did I think that something would come out of our… whatever we’re doing? Playtime. That's all it is to Daniel. Getting his rocks off. Playing around. Fucking.

  And me? Honestly, what did I expect? It’s obvious to me now that Daniel isn't, and never will be, a one-woman man. For all I know, his fiancée has been down in that playroom as well, and maybe he's had a ménage a trois going on down there, or even orgies. What the hell do I know?

  I sigh again, staring at the hallway. When he comes out, I’ll give him a look, maybe gesture with my chin for him to meet me out in the hallway outside the office. Or maybe I can manage to time it so that we end up in the elevator alone at the same time. I need to tell him that this is over.

  Over before it really even got started. How depressing. The story of my life, isn't it?

  I sigh. It was a good experience, and I learned a lot even in a few short sessions. I enjoyed it, no matter how things ended. But it’s time to end it. Time to move on.

  I don't want to. I want Daniel.

  Nineteen

  Ashley

  I glance around my apartment, making sure I picked up all the laundry, emptied the trash, and the kitchen sink is clean. Stewart will be here any minute. I cheated and stopped off on the way home from work to pick up Chinese takeout, which is now warming up in a skillet and a pot on my stovetop, the containers in the trash.