Letting Go (Letting Go Series #1)

by Prussing, S. T.

  LETTING GO

  SCOTT PRUSSING

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters or events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously.

  LETTING GO

  Copyright © 2013 by Scott Prussing Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  Scott Prussing Publishing

  1027 Felspar St.

  Suite 2

  San Diego, CA 92109

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any mechanical or electronic means without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. The scanning, uploading and distribution via the Internet or via any other means without the written permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law.

  PROLOGUE

  How on earth did I end up in this position?

  A year ago, I didn’t know such a thing even existed.

  Six months ago, I would have said “Oh, my god! Do people really do that?”

  One month ago, I might have admitted the idea was intriguing and maybe even mildly titillating, but that I could never actually do it. No how. No way. You’d have to be crazy to do anything like that.

  And yet, here I am. I’m not crazy—at least, I don’t think I am.

  So now I’m standing with my feet spread far apart and my arms stretched up over my head, wrists together, wondering how I could have let myself end up like this.

  Why am I standing in this awkward, slightly uncomfortable and very vulnerable position? That’s a perfectly logical question to ask, for sure. It might have something to do with my wrists being bound together by something soft, yet strong—silk ribbons, perhaps? Whatever it is, it’s fastened to what I imagine is a hook in the ceiling. My ankles are tied to a bar of some sort with the same material that binds my wrists. A spreader bar, he called it. The bar prevents me from pulling my legs together even slightly.

  I’m sorry I can’t describe any of this for you in more precise detail, but I’m blindfolded.

  And did I mention that I’m naked?

  CHAPTER 1

  I’ve always considered myself a pretty ordinary woman, leading a pretty ordinary life.

  I have a job that pays the bills, a comfortable if not fancy apartment, a small circle of good friends, and a cat named Scratch. I date occasionally, and even have sex now and then when I find a guy I like enough to go out with more than four or five times. The sex is fun, but ultimately unfulfilling, leaving me with a kind of empty feeling that’s difficult to describe.

  “You have to be in love,” my girlfriends say, for sex to be more than just merely pleasurable, but I don’t know if that’s it. I was in love once. The sex was good, but never great, and I still remember feeling vaguely empty afterwards. Maybe I wasn’t in love enough.

  I think that’s why I love to read. I’ll read almost anything—mystery, suspense, slice of life—but what I really love is romance. Contemporary is good, Historical is better, Paranormal is the best. I’ve fallen in love with any number of fictional characters. So have my girlfriends.

  Books are my true lovers—I’ve taken far more of them to bed than I have men. And I’ve been disappointed less often.

  I read Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight Saga when I was younger and I loved it. A love so strong that forever was barely long enough—what’s not to love about that? A year or so ago I discovered Scott Prussing’s Blue Fire Saga, and I loved that, too. Sweet and innocent, but filled with romance and passion. It’s a great story, beautifully written, with plenty of mystery and suspense.

  Then I picked up Blue Fire Heat, the x-rated companion piece to the Scott’s saga. I absolutely loved reading about the sexual exploits of my favorite Blue Fire characters. Some of the stories were a bit kinky. To my surprise, I enjoyed those stories the most.

  So when Fifty Shades of Grey kept making headlines, I finally decided I had to give it a look.

  I won’t say it was like a light bulb suddenly went on inside my head, because it wasn’t. It was more like a small candle had been lit way off in the distance. But I was determined to follow the glow—to the internet, and eventually, to craigslist.

  I find the “men seeking women” section to be too needy—and too vanilla. So I wander over to “casual encounters.” That’s definitely a fish of a different color—lots of different colors! More colors than I ever knew existed. I read the ads with a mixture of wonder, fascination, disbelief, and occasionally, disgust. Do people really respond to these ads? To say the writing style, spelling and grammar of most of them resembled that of a fifth-grader would be demeaning to the fifth-grader.

  “BJ in my Mercedes”—I guess the fancy car is supposed to make a gal go weak in the knees and gratefully open her mouth.

  “Who wants a lunch time load?”—well, a girl’s gotta eat, right? Not!

  “Hot guy seek hotter slut”—this guy included two pictures in his ad. His definition of “hot” is definitely not the same as mine, with or without his clothes. And since when is every guy “hung” or “well-hung” or even more precisely, “7.5” or “8”? Not in my experience! And when I learn what BBC means, I almost give up on the spot.

  I have to wade through pages of this drek to even find the kind of ads I’m interested in reading. Not replying to, of course—I’d never do that. I’m just reading. For research. And maybe for a bit of harmless fun.

  Thanks to Fifty Shades, I know the keywords that will lead me to the ads I want. I scan down the list of headlines looking for them: dominant, submissive (or dom and sub), D/s, BDSM, slave, bondage, obedience and a few more. Any one of them in the headline is like a flashing light signaling “over here.” I click on every one I find.

  Unfortunately, these ads are no better written than the others, and because of the subject matter, most manage to seem even sleazier. Some seem harmless enough—usually they don’t provide enough information to provoke much of a reaction. “Guy seeks hot sub for nasty, sexciting encounters…send pic and phone number,” is not very exciting nor offensive—and not likely to draw any responses, either. I doubt that the guys who write that sort of ad would even know what to do if a woman did respond.

  Other ads, though, take the sex ad thing to a whole different level. It’s one thing to invite a girl over for a lunch time blowjob, but when you start telling her you’re “gonna make her choke on your thick tool and hot spuge while she’s on her knees with her hands tied behind her back,” and that she’s going to “beg you for more,” it starts to sound more than a little crass. Or maybe that’s just me.

  I plow through at least a dozen ads like that before I finally give up. No way I could ever respond to one of these.

  So why is my left hand rubbing lightly between my legs?

  CHAPTER 2

  Thoroughly chastened and a bit disgusted by my craigslist adventure, I vowed to put all that dom/sub stuff behind me. I mean, sometimes fantasy is supposed to remain just that, right?—a fantasy.

  So why am I sitting here at my computer the very next night, staring once again at the craigslist menu? I could tell myself I’m here to check out the “books for sale” section, but my cursor is hovering over “casual encounters” again. I shake my head and sigh, then click my mouse. Up pop the ads.

  Promising myself to be more discriminating this time, I begin to scan the headlines. I’m not going to open any ads that have misspellings in the headline, or that don’t show at least a modicum of creativity. Those two criteria are going to whittle down the number of possibilities dramatically. “Hung Dom seeks sub slut” is not going to cut it today—not that a hung dom would be a bad thing, of course. I remember my mom telling me, “it’s not
the size of the gun, it’s the hand on the trigger.” No, wait, that wasn’t my mom—it was an old boyfriend who said that to me. He needed to believe it, since his gun was about the size of my index finger. His hand wasn’t very good on the trigger, either, so our time together didn’t last long.

  Lost in my fond musings of the past, I almost miss it. “Fifty-one shades of grey. Experienced guide seeks curious explorer.”

  That’s me—a curious explorer. I definitely need an experienced guide, and the fifty-one shades part is moderately clever, a clear signal of what the ad is about while also hinting there are things above and beyond the book. Pulse quickening, I open the ad.

  The first part captures me immediately.

  “Come to the edge,” he told me.

  “It’s too high,” I say.

  “Come to the edge.”

  “I might fall.”

  “Come to the edge.”

  I came. He pushed. I flew!

  My heart is beating fast now and I’m feeling warm between my legs. I want to fly!

  I read the little story again. I love it—her fear and uncertainty, his gentle insistence. Even better, there are no typos in his ad so far, and the punctuation is all correct. Big points for him.

  I read on.

  Do you love to please and love to obey? Then continue reading. If you are ready for what could be the most sensual relationship of your life, keep going.

  I’ve always loved to please. I’m not sure about the obeying part, but it sounds like it could be freeing. I’m certainly ready for the most sensual relationship of my life—who wouldn’t be? I’m definitely going to keep reading, for sure!

  This is not something new for me. I have been in several wonderful D/s relationships over the years. So if a safe, experienced guide is what you are seeking, I am here.

  I don’t know if I’m really seeking a guide, but if I do, safe and experienced are a must. I find myself liking his somewhat formal tone, too.

  How does this sound to you? You walk in the door and immediately drop to your knees, placing your forehead to the floor. "How may I please you, Master?" you ask. I walk behind you and entwine my fingers in your hair, lifting your head from the carpet. I run a finger tenderly down your cheek. You begin to quiver and your juices begin to flow. You know the journey is about to begin.

  Holy shit! My fingers are drumming nervously on my desk and my “juices” are definitely beginning to flow. I’m not sure I like the effect this guy’s ad is having on me. It’s like his words are reaching deep inside me and tugging at my soul.

  I get up from my chair and walk out of the bedroom, away from my computer. I pace my living room, drawing slow deep breaths, trying to calm myself. This has gone far enough. I’m not ready for anything more. The phrase “Pandora’s Box” comes to mind.

  I return to my desk, ready to exit craigslist—for good, I hope. Some boxes are better left unopened. I grab the mouse, but my eyes return to the words on the screen.

  I'm not into anything hardcore—nothing sick or twisted, nothing sadistic. I enjoy blindfolding, some bondage, obedience, sexual service, teasing, orgasm control, spanking, more.

  Nothing sick or twisted or sadistic is a relief—but could I ever trust a guy like this enough to believe what he says? I don’t see how. That word “more” at the end is kind of scary, too.

  I don't smoke or do drugs and I’m looking for an ongoing relationship. You should be the same.

  Smoke free and drug free are good. And an ongoing relationship is much better than a one-nighter, for sure.

  Whoa, I tell myself. I’m starting to think like I’m actually going to respond to this guy and meet him, which is totally ridiculous. Who cares what kind of relationship he’s looking for, or if he smokes or does drugs? He’s just some anonymous guy who wrote a compelling ad, that’s all. He’s a good writer—so what? Besides, he’s obviously looking for someone who knows what they’re doing with this stuff.

  So why am I still reading? And why are my panties soaking wet now?

  You can be experienced or merely curious. Curious is better, though.

  Well, scratch the notion that he wants someone experienced. He prefers someone curious—someone like me.

  This type of relationship is not easy to find, when it happens, it can be amazing.

  Hmmmm… a girl would be a fool to say no to “amazing,” wouldn’t she?

  If you are ready to take the next step, tell me a bit about yourself and your desires. No one line replies. If you can't take the time to write at least a paragraph or two, then you are not truly interested. Put "Pleasing" in your subject line so I know you can follow directions.

  Am I ready? That’s a big, resounding “no,” thank you very much. But if I was ready, I’d put “Pleasing” in the subject line, for sure, because I’m very good at following directions. Instead, I click the X in the upper right hand corner and the ad disappears, taking craigslist with it. I let out a big sigh. Whether it’s a sigh of relief or resignation—or something else, even—I’m not entirely sure.

  An hour later, I’m back at my computer. I tried reading for distraction but had difficulty concentrating. I switched to the television since that’s so much more mindless, but my thoughts kept straying back to that damn ad.

  So here I am. I clear my email and then play on facebook for a while, but now I’m all caught up with everyone and everything. It’s either shut down my computer for the night or return to craigslist. Maybe if I’m lucky, his ad will be gone—taken down because he’s already found the naughty girl of his dreams. I guess, I should check, right? Just out of curiosity, to see if he’s found happiness? Even if the ad is still there, I don’t have to open it. And I most certainly don’t have to respond to it.

  See? No problem. I have all kinds of choices. Nothing to worry about.

  I go to my list of favorite places and open craigslist.

  The ad will be easy to find. Any ads I opened earlier will be highlighted purple, making them easy to spot. Since his was the last one I looked at, it will be the first purple one I’ll come across.

  I scroll down the first page, one hundred ads in all. No purple, just lines of light blue letters. Maybe I’m in luck and he’s pulled his ad. Or maybe there are just so many horny guys on craigslist that an hour is enough to push his ad to the second page or even further back. If I had to bet, I’d bet on horny guys over him having pulled his ad.

  I click on the 2 at the bottom and am taken to the second page. Once again, I scroll down. This time, I see it, near the bottom. My relief at finding it still here is palpable.

  I stare at the darkened headline for a few moments. I begin to feel the familiar heat growing between my legs. As my best friend Amanda would say, it’s time to crap or get off the pot. I open the ad.

  “Come to the edge,” are the first words I see. Part of me wants to, desperately, but another part of me is shouting “no way.”

  “It’s too high.” Yes, it’s definitely too high—way, way too high. “I might fall.” That’s right, I could fall—and break something inside me. The danger is real, in more ways than one.

  He pushed. I flew!

  I want to fly! I really do. But flying can be even more dangerous than standing near the edge. What’s a girl supposed to do?

  I know what a smart, sensible girl would do. She would leave the fire alone. Playing with fire can get you burned. But then a line from an old song pops into my head…something about good girls going to heaven but bad girls getting to go everywhere. Going everywhere sounds fun.

  I can’t decide.

  I get up from my chair and grab a quarter from my dresser. Since I can’t make a decision, I’ll leave it up to fate. Heads I respond, tails I don’t. What could be fairer, right?

  Using my thumb, I flip the coin into the air and watch it bounce on my bed. Tails. I’m safe. I don’t have to respond. Phew.

  Two out of three, a voice whispers inside my head. Before I know it, I’m flipping the coin again. It’
s heads this time.

  This is ridiculous. I’m a smart, attractive, moderately successful woman. I certainly don’t need a stupid coin to tell me what to do. I leave the quarter atop the bed and sit back down at my desk. The ad is still there, taunting me, tempting me. The fingers of my left hand drum lightly on the desktop. I look down. My right hand is rubbing myself again. I yank my hand away from my pants and grab the mouse. This has got to stop. I need to close this ad now.

  Instead, I click on “reply.”

  A blank email opens up. The white space is less tempting than the ad, but in some ways feels even more dangerous. I hesitate for a moment, then type “Pleasing” in the subject line. I told you I’m good at following directions. But what now?

  I stare at the screen, fumbling with my thoughts. I type “Hi,” but after that, I’m coming up blank.

  I try several opening lines, but discard them all.

  “I liked your ad”…boring!

  “Your ad spoke to me,”…cheesy!

  “What’s a nice girl like me doing answering an ad like yours?”…Oh, god, that’s the worst one yet!

  I decide on simplicity…and honesty. “I’m very curious,” I write. “I’m also terribly nervous and wonderfully excited. I trust you’ll understand.”

  I proceed to tell him everything I’ve been thinking and feeling since I discovered his ad. I give him my age and my height, and then briefly describe myself in very general terms—fit and reasonably attractive, with long brown hair and green eyes. I finish by saying I’m completely new to all this and that I hope to hear back from him.

  I don’t reread any of it. I know if I do, I’ll agonize over every sentence, every word, probably. I take a deep breath and click “send.”

  As soon as I do, I want to take it back. But there’s no “unsend” button for email. For better or worse, my reply is out there in the electronic ether, wending its way to his mailbox.