Letting Go (Letting Go Series #1)

by Prussing, S. T.

  I’m wearing a long-sleeve teal shirt with two buttons at the neck and a pair of nice jeans. My hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail. I know I look nice, but nothing overly special. I’ve always been comfortable letting Amanda grab most of the attention.

  It’s just me and her tonight, because our other single friends are all out with their boyfriends. I’m lucky to have Amanda on a Saturday night, because her boyfriend Brandon is out of town.

  Amanda has always been more adventurous than me and has been a good influence in “stretching” me into trying new things. Even so, I haven’t decided if I’m going to confide in her about my craigslist adventure. I’m just going to play it by ear.

  The hostess guides us to a table near the back. We sit across from each other, taking the menus the hostess hands us even though we both know what we’re probably going to order. I glance down at the menu just to make sure there’s been nothing new added. There isn’t, so I’m going to stick with my favorite, chicken marsala.

  I close the menu and look up. Amanda has already put her menu down in front of her. I bet she’s going with her old standby, spinach lasagna.

  The waitress arrives to take our drink order. I ask for a glass of white wine, Amanda orders red. We tell her we’re ready to order our food, too, so she takes out her pad and looks at me first. I go with the chicken marsala, and as I guessed, Amanda chooses the lasagna. The waitress finishes scribbling and scurries away.

  Amanda and I exchange small talk, catching each other up on our week. I don’t mention anything about this morning.

  Our wine arrives pretty quickly and we clink our glasses. Amanda makes a brief toast.

  “To us. May we fucking fly forever.”

  Amanda likes alliteration when she can get away with it. “Fucking” is her favorite adjective—she tosses it around easily. “Fucking fly” is one of her catchphrases for describing the carefree way she likes to live her life. I use “fucking” a lot in my thinking, but I don’t say out loud very often. Amanda says it’s because I’m too buttoned up—if she only knew what I was up to this morning! She’d be shocked, for sure. I still don’t know if I’m going to tell her.

  “Cheers,” I say in response. I told you I’m way more reserved than Amanda.

  We each sip our wine. Mine is very tasty—slightly fruity with a bit of a bite in the aftertaste. This drink is much needed, so I take a second sip before putting my glass down.

  We return to our easy conversation until our food arrives. We still talk a little bit while we eat, but mostly we concentrate on our food. My marsala is delicious. The chicken is so tender it almost melts in my mouth, the mushrooms taste delightful, and the sauce is simply to die for. As usual, I slice a small piece off for Amanda to enjoy, and she gives me a bit of her lasagna. It’s good, but not as good as mine.

  I clean every bite from my plate, soaking up the last of the yummy marsala sauce with a piece of dinner roll. Amanda has done an equally thorough job on her food.

  We make eye contact and smile at each other. There’s nothing like a good meal and good wine with a best friend.

  “There’s something different about you, tonight,” Amanda says. “I can’t put my finger on it, though.”

  “Huh?”

  I’m surprised…and a bit dismayed. The only thing different is the thing with Sir, and that’s barely begun. What could Amanda be seeing? And if I’m giving off signals already, how on earth am I ever going to go further with this, if I decide to?

  “Have you been getting laid?” she asks. “Without telling me?”

  I feel myself beginning to blush. I hope it’s not visible in the dim light. This is my chance to open up and come clean. But I don’t.

  “I wish,” I reply, making a joke out it. “It’s been way too long. Do you think I could borrow Brandon for an hour or two when he gets back? You keep bragging about how good he is.”

  Amanda grins. “That he is.” Her grin widens. “You can borrow him, but only if I get to watch.”

  “Deal,” I say, getting into the game. “You can serve us drinks between rounds, too. If he’s as good as you say he is, I’m sure I’ll want it more than once.”

  “Maybe I’ll even join in,” Amanda says. “Give you a lesson or two on how to make a guy feel really good.”

  There it is—another chance for me to tell Amanda about my morning. Once again, I don’t. I realize I’m not ready to share my secret. Not yet. For now, my possible interest in traveling down the path Sir has introduced me to is going to remain private.

  CHAPTER 9

  I wake up entirely too early for a Sunday morning, groggy with sleep. I try to go back to sleep, but my brain seems to be much more awake than my body. And guess what it’s thinking about? Sir, of course.

  After ten or fifteen minutes of restless tossing and turning, I give up and climb out of bed. I’ve got two hours to decide whether to call him. Plenty of time.

  I throw on a sweat suit and shuffle into the kitchen, where I begin chopping up some ham, peppers, tomatoes and mushrooms for the omelet I denied myself yesterday. Once my ingredients of choice are ready, I break three eggs—discarding one of the yolks—and whip it all together, then pour it into a preheated frying pan. While it’s beginning to cook, I drop a slice of bread into the toaster and pour myself a glass of orange juice. I wish I had some champagne on hand—a mimosa or two might help me through what lies ahead.

  Breakfast is delicious, and I savor it like a convict enjoying his last meal. That image alone should give me a clue about what I’m considering doing. Add that to the fact that I couldn’t bring myself to tell my best friend anything about it, and I should have a pretty good idea that this is a road I don’t really want to be going down.

  So why am I looking at the clock to see how much time I have left before I’m supposed to call?

  After washing the frying pan and putting my dishes into the dishwasher, I head for the computer to check my email. As usual this early in the day, it’s almost all spam, but it’s good to clear it all out before it piles up too much. I wasn’t expecting anything from Sir, but I still find myself a bit disappointed to see there’s nothing from him.

  Glancing at the time at the bottom of my monitor, I’m glad to see I have time for a quick shower before I have to make my decision.

  Freshly fed and showered and back in my sweats, I stretch out atop my bed. I’ve got five minutes—five minutes to decide whether to “boldly go” or to retreat back into the safety of my shell. Each choice has its plusses and minuses. I break the logjam in my head with a compromise—calling him doesn’t mean I’m committing to anything. I would still just be exploring my options. That sounds safe enough for now.

  I pick up my cell and punch in his number before I can change my mind. I’m certain he’ll appreciate my punctuality.

  Sir answers on the second ring. “Hello, Jennifer. Right on time. Good girl.”

  And just like that, the tingling between my legs begins anew. He’s used dual treats already—my name and “good girl.” I’m certain it was no accident. At any rate, I was right about him appreciating my punctuality—it feels good to be a little bit inside of his head.

  “Thank you, Sir,” I reply automatically.

  “Did you spend at least a few minutes thinking about yesterday morning?” he asks.

  He’s playing with me of course. He knows I spent way more than a few minutes. And he knows that I know he knows.

  “I did manage to find a few spare minutes,” I reply. “May I ask you some questions?”

  “Yes, you may. I told you that you would probably have a few. Ask away.”

  I want to make certain I’m not crossing any boundaries, so I clarify my request.

  “Questions about you, I mean.”

  “Like I said, ask away.”

  I decide to start simple. Besides, it would be nice to have some kind of picture of him in my mind.

  “How tall are you?”

  “A shade over six feet.”


  Tall is good, since I’m taller than average for a woman..

  “Body type?”

  “Fit. I weigh somewhere around one hundred and ninety.”

  Typical guy—only has an estimate of his weight, but willing to share it freely. Most women know their weight to the ounce, though we usually would rather die than divulge the number.

  “Hair and eye color?”

  “Light brown, cut short, and green. A very nice green, I’ve been told.”

  Mmmm…I love green eyes. A picture of him is beginning to emerge. I’m sure it’s not exact, but maybe it’s at least in the ballpark.

  “Are you good looking?”

  “That’s a very subjective question, Jennifer. How about if I answer you this way: while you won’t find my picture in a men’s underwear catalogue, I don’t think you’ll be at all disappointed.”

  Well, I certainly didn’t expect an answer like that. I guess he’s probably okay looking, at least. I hope so, anyhow.

  “How old are you?” I ask.

  “I’m exactly ten years older than you, Jennifer.”

  I’m glad he’s older than me. I still haven’t decided where this is going, but there’s no way I could do it with someone younger than me, or even my age, probably. Older is definitely good here. Older means wiser, and more mature.

  “What kind of work do you do?”

  He hesitates for just a moment. “I think I’ll keep that to myself for now. Continue.”

  Hmmm…not a big deal, but I wonder why he won’t tell me. Maybe he’s too identifiable in his field, or has a career, like politics, that could be harmed if this particular proclivity came out. Oh god, I hope he’s not in politics. That would be much too scummy. I don’t think I could do something like this with someone who was a politician.

  “Did you go to college?”

  “Yes, and grad school, too. I have a Master’s Degree, no pun intended.”

  I smile. “In what?”

  “Psychology.”

  “Ahhhh, that explains it?”

  “Explains what, Jennifer?”

  Why you’ve been living inside my head, I think to myself. I don’t want to say that, though, so instead I say, “Why you seem to be so good at knowing what I’m thinking and what I’m feeling.”

  “Have I been good at that, Jennifer?” There’s a teasing tone to his voice now.

  “You know that you have.”

  He chuckles. “Perhaps I have. But it’s not from anything I learned in school, believe me. I’m not a therapist or a counselor of any sort, if that’s what you were thinking.”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “Well, cross it out of your mind. I’m nothing close to that. But I’ve always been good at listening to what people say, and to what they don’t say. And I’ve been doing this for some years now, so I guess I’ve sharpened my skills in this arena.”

  I take a moment to decide what to ask next. Sir doesn’t seem to mind the pause. I realize I haven’t asked him what might be the most important question of all. I hope he won’t be offended.

  “Are you single?”

  “Yes, Jennifer, I am. I would not be doing this if I was married. I’m monogamous by nature.”

  My heart beats a little faster. I’m glad to hear him say that—just in case.

  “So you don’t have any subs now? Or slaves, or whatever you call them?

  “No, Jennifer, I do not. Hence my ad.”

  Some butterflies must have taken up residence in my stomach, because his response makes them begin to swirl inside me. I didn’t expect to be so glad to hear he doesn’t have anyone right now. I hope he’s telling the truth, but I’m struck by the realization that I have no way to know. After all, he could be a major league player. He certainly seems good enough at this to have a flock of women at his disposal.

  I shake the thought from my mind. I have more questions I want to ask while he’s in such a revealing mood.

  “Do you smoke?”

  “No, I abhor cigarettes. I don’t do drugs, either, but I do enjoy a drink now and then.”

  “I’m glad to hear that—I’m the same way.” I want to go back to building my picture of him. “Do you have any facial hair?”

  “No, I don’t. What about you?”

  I can’t tell from his tone whether he’s serious or not, but then I hear a soft chuckle through the phone. I’m glad he has a sense of humor. It makes this whole thing a little less frightening.

  “I have a bushy black mustache,” I say, returning his jest. “I hope you like hairy women.”

  He laughs. “Not generally,” he says. “But a razor will deal with that, if necessary.”

  Uh, oh. I may have stumbled into a scary area. I can’t tell if he’s still joking or not. I’m trimmed quite neatly—but will he want me shaved down there? I don’t think I’ll open that door by asking at this point. Better to let sleeping dogs lie!

  I’m feeling a bit nervous now, so I get up and start walking around my apartment while I retreat to safer conversational ground.

  “What part of town do you live in?”

  He tells me without hesitation. He lives about five miles from me—close enough to be nice and convenient, but not so close that we’d be likely to run into each other at the grocery store if this whole thing goes awry. And I could very easily see something like this going awry.

  I go back to what he looks like.

  “Do you have any tattoos?”

  “No, Jennifer, I do not. No piercings, either.”

  I’m glad to hear that. A pierced ear would be okay, but anything else might be too scary for me. If he was pierced in any of those more personal places, he could have similar plans for me. I definitely don’t see that in my future.

  “Is there any chance you would send me a picture of you, Sir?”

  He pauses, considering my request, I think. I hope I haven’t overstepped my bounds.

  “I could do that, Jennifer, but it might ruin things.”

  Huh? Ruin things? What does that mean? Maybe he’s not as good-looking as I was imagining. Is he worried I won’t like the way he looks?

  “Don’t worry,” he continues. “I’m not concerned about your reaction to my appearance. I told you that you won’t have any problem with my looks.”

  There he is, back inside my head again. If he’s going to live there, I should start charging him rent.

  “What, then?” I ask, confused now.

  “Remember our little game yesterday?”

  Of course I remember. How could I forget? Maybe it’s a trick question.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Remember that when you entered my home in my scenario, I remained hidden behind the door? And then I blindfolded you? You never saw my face the entire time. Tell me, did that add to your excitement?”

  I think back to yesterday. I’m pretty sure it did—increasing the air of dangerous mystery. My excitement is increasing right now just thinking about it. I sit down on my couch.

  “Yeah, I think it did.”

  “Well, you have your answer then. If I send you my picture, that aspect of our play will be lost forever. You don’t want that, do you?”

  Wow, how do I answer that? Imagining it is exciting, but could I ever really even think of doing something like this with someone I’ve never seen? I don’t see how. That’s just not me.

  “You’re wondering if you could ever do something like that, aren’t you, Jennifer,” Sir asks, reading my thoughts once more.

  “Yes. To be completely honest, I don’t see how I could do it.”

  “Complete honesty is the only thing I demand from you at this point, Jennifer, so thank you for that. Let’s not worry about the picture right now. I can always send you one later, if we decide it’s necessary for you to continue down this path. This way, we retain the possibility of mystery, just in case. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds okay,” I admit, happy that’s he’s asking my opinion and giving me a c
hoice. I wonder how long that will last. “Okay for now, anyhow,” I add.

  “You told me you’re completely new to this, right?”

  “Yes. I’ve never done anything even remotely like this.”

  “No boyfriend has ever tied your hands, just for fun, or blindfolded you?”

  I wish. Maybe if one had, my sex life wouldn’t have been quite so unsatisfying.

  “No, never. There haven’t been all that many guys, and it’s always been very vanilla.”

  “Did you enjoy the sex?”

  “Sometimes…but never all that much.”

  “Then perhaps it’s time to try something new.”

  “Maybe,” I agree. “But if I do, the question is what to try.”

  “I think we both know the answer to that, Jennifer. There were all kinds of ads you could have responded to, yet you chose mine. Unless, of course, you replied to lots of them, but I don’t think you would do that.”

  “You’re right. I only answered one—yours. And even that wasn’t easy for me.”

  “I’m very glad you did answer mine, Jennifer. And I think you’re glad, too—despite your reservations.”

  He nailed that right on the head. I am very glad I answered his ad, but I definitely have reservations.

  “Yes, I’m glad,” I reply, “but as you said, with reservations. Big reservations.”

  Somehow, I’m pretty sure he’s smiling at my reply.

  “Perfectly understandable,” he says. “My job now is to help you feel a bit more comfortable.”

  I raise my eyebrows. That’s going to be some trick. I wonder how he plans on doing it.

  CHAPTER 10

  As our conversation has become more personal and more intense, my mouth has been growing dry. I could simply go to the kitchen for some water or juice, but I decide to ask Sir’s permission first.

  “May I get myself a drink please, Sir? My mouth is getting pretty dry.”

  “Of course, Jennifer. It’s nice of you to ask.” I can hear in his voice that he’s pleased, which makes me smile. “Take your time,” he adds. “I’m not going anywhere.”