by Eden Bradley
“Has it ever occurred to you that part of the issue is that you don’t allow yourself to feel everything the ropes have to give you? That something is holding you back from really feeling what’s happening to you?”
“I … I don’t know.”
“I want you to think about it when you go home, before we see each other again.”
She nodded.
“Are you cold?”
“No, Desmond.”
“Thirsty?”
“No, thank you, Desmond.”
He watched her face. It was too still. Yes, something was going on with this girl. He wanted to know what it was. He wanted to help her move beyond it. The mystery of it intrigued him.
Hell, she intrigued him.
Don’t fool yourself. It’s far more than that.
Fuck. He had to calm down.
“Ava, do you want to see me again?” he asked, more harshly than he meant to. “Yes.”
“I’ll ask you once more when you’ve had a chance to come down.”
“Of course.”
Maybe she’d normalize with the armor of her clothing on. “Let’s get you dressed.”
She let him help her slip back into her white lace panties, her dress. He had her carry her shoes and follow him to the living room, where he made her drink a glass of water, had her curl up in one corner of the sofa, the blanket over her lap. She was really coming out of it now, out of subspace, out of that odd numbness.
“Ava, we’ll talk more after you’ve had a day or two to absorb what’s happened here, talk seriously. Right now, let’s just talk to each other.”
“About what?”
“About anything. Who we are. What we do. Where we come from. Tell me how you met Marina.”
She brushed her blond curls from her face, the motion a bit listless still, her voice soft. “I went to one of her lecture nights at Pinnacle. She was doing a workshop on bondage, and I went up to her after, told her I was looking for someone to work with, someone who knew what they were doing. Really knew. She worked with me several times …”
Ava paused, bit her lip. And watching her make the small dent into that lush, pink flesh made him want to put his fingers there, to feel her lips, to kiss her. His fingers clenched at his sides.
Ava went on. “Then Marina told me about you. She told me you both belong to the club, that it’s how you know each other.”
“Yes. And that’s where I plan to take you, eventually.”
“When I heard her that night, talking about Shibari, the formality of it, I thought maybe she could … but it didn’t work with us; you already know that.”
She stopped, glanced away.
“What is it?” He put a hand on her shoulder, felt her shiver. “Tonight … it didn’t … I didn’t …”
“You went deeper than I expected you to, but you are still holding back. But this was our first time together. We’ll try again, unless you change your mind.”
“I won’t!” She stopped again. “I’m sorry, Desmond. I won’t change my mind, unless you have.”
“No.” He reached out, gave in and touched a finger to her flushed cheek. “In fact, I’m more eager than ever to figure you out.”
She smiled, the first real expression he’d seen on her face since he’d brought her out of the ropes. He leaned in, took her hand in his, stroked her knuckles with his fingertips. Yes, that babyskin. Beautiful.
“Desmond? May I ask you something?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Why do you want to do this with me? Is it simply a challenge? It feels … important for me to understand.”
“Yes, it’s a challenge, which most Doms appreciate. But there is something … special about you. You’re like a puzzle, and I want to find the missing pieces. I don’t mean that in any sort of offensive way. I was intrigued the moment Marina told me about you, and more so after meeting you.”
More so now. So much more.
“Marina … will you tell me about when you met her?”
She was relaxed again as she curled deeper into the sofa cushions. He was glad to see it.
“We’re old friends. We met years ago, nearly ten years. She was so young. Beautiful, as she is now. She was just beginning her exploration of Shibari. I used her as a model for demonstrations and quickly discovered she was a top. She didn’t know it herself until then.”
“Ah, you were lovers.”
Was that a note of disappointment he heard in her voice?
“No, we never were. It would have been a horrendous power struggle. We became friends instead. Although we were less close the years she was with Nathan.”
“Nathan?”
“Her lover. Her submissive. They had a very intense relationship. He died of cancer four years ago. Marina stayed away from the clubs for a good year after that. She came back eventually, but she hasn’t played a man since.”
“How awful.”
“Yes.”
He caught her gaze, found her eyes swimming with tears. She didn’t seem at all self-conscious about it.
Why, if she could cry in front of him, couldn’t she let go within the ropes? It was more than simply feeling vulnerable. After what she’d told him this evening he felt he had some grasp on it, but how to help her break through?
Have to see the girl again.
Oh, yes.
He wrapped his fingers around her hand, squeezed it. “Let’s talk about next time, and what I’ll require you to do in between.”
She nodded her head, shifted on the sofa, her breasts pushing against the corset-like dress. He was still half hard for her. Had been since she’d arrived, except for when he’d bound her, when he’d been as solid as a steel pipe. It didn’t matter what they were talking about. They could talk about the weather.
“I’ll send you a list of books,” he told her, “on Shibari, on Taoism. You’re to get them, read them.” She nodded. “And you are still not to touch yourself, not to bring yourself to orgasm.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“I’ll see you again next week. Complete the questionnaire in the interim. And one last thing, Ava.”
“Yes?”
“I have to work in the South Bay for the next few days, but beginning on Thursday, I will call you every evening, at eight o’clock. Be home, answer the phone.”
“Yes, Desmond.”
She smiled, and he saw how being instructed pleased her. Ah, yes, she was nearly perfect, this girl.
“Are you ready to go home now? Do you feel alright?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m just a little tired.”
He called a cab, chatted with her about Pinnacle while they waited, put her into the taxi when it arrived, paid the driver in advance for the long drive back into San Francisco.
As the car drove off into the night, he stood at the curb, watching the taillights fading into the dark and the fog that had rolled in off the bay, damp and heavy in the air.
He felt off-balance, almost as though he was topping out, something that hadn’t happened to him in a long time. Years. And only after very long, intense play sessions. But it was that same sensation of vague confusion, of mental exhaustion. Rawness.
He ran a hand over his hair. He must not have been sleeping enough lately. Working too hard on that San Jose project with Caleb. Maybe he should just hand that one over to him entirely. Yes, that must be it. Too much work, too little sleep. It was as simple as that.
Then why was he standing out on the street long after the cab carrying Ava back into the city had disappeared in the cold night air, his body humming with unsated need, his mind filled with images of her eyes so prettily filled with tears, her beautiful doll mouth, the scent of her hair?
Watch it. Don’t get involved.
He never did, did he?
He turned and went back inside, slamming the door a little too hard behind him. Slamming his mind shut on Ava Gregory, and everything she was making him think, making him feel.
Yes, just shut her out,
shut your mind down.
Easier said than done.
Fuck.
Chapter Six
THE LAST FEW DAYS had gone by in a blur. Everything but her evening in Desmond’s home on Tuesday night, in his ropes, was vague. She’d felt at a distance from everything, at work, at home. Alone in her apartment, Ava didn’t know what to do with herself. She’d bought the books Desmond had told her to get on her lunch break on Wednesday, had started to read them. But she couldn’t seem to get through more than a few pages at a time before her attention wandered. And always back to Desmond.
She fell asleep at night with his spare, elegant house in her mind, his face, the surprisingly gentle touch of his hands.
Except when he’d been pumping his fingers inside her …
She groaned, got up from the kitchen table, and poured herself a glass of wine. Half a glass; she didn’t want to be out of it when Desmond called.
Seven forty-five.
Her stomach twisted, in lust, in nervous anticipation. She sipped at the heavy cabernet, sipped again, twisted a curling strand of hair around her finger.
Reaching down, she stroked Wicked’s dark head, the cat in his usual seat at the table, before sitting once more, pushing her plate of uneaten dinner away. She had no appetite tonight, not for food.
She’d done exactly as he’d asked: the reading, thinking about why she couldn’t get past the block that kept her from reaching those deeper levels of subspace. She hadn’t come up with any answers—nothing she didn’t know already, anyway. She understood that Michael had a lot to do with why it was hard for her to move beyond a certain level of trust with anyone. But it had been so long. She didn’t understand why she hadn’t been able to put it completely behind her, why the terrible things Michael had drummed into her head were still there, echoing in her mind, even though she knew he was just being awful, echoing that same message she’d gotten her whole life from her mother.
Her mother had always required perfection from herself, and from her daughters, seeing them as some sort of extension of herself. Her sister, Andrea, had always been the perfect photocopy of their mother. The good girl. The one who made everyone happy and did everything right. And Ava had always disappointed. She’d fought the pull between the need to please her mother and the need to be her own person since she was a teenager, even as she strove for the perfection she’d never been able to attain. Why did it still feel like a losing battle? Why couldn’t she stop struggling?
She would never be perfect. Some days, it was harder to accept that than others.
She lifted her glass, sipped again, the silken liquid sliding easily down her throat, warming her.
Don’t want to think about this now.
No, all she wanted to think about was Desmond, that she would talk to him soon. What would he say to her? Would he issue a new command? Ask her if she’d masturbated?
She hadn’t, although it had been difficult as hell. The sexual chemistry with Desmond was intense and was made all the more so by his absolute confidence. His absolute sense of command. She didn’t think she could refuse him anything.
And maybe that was part of what scared her about him, that she knew already she would do anything for him. Even opening that part of herself she’d kept closed off for so long. She’d already started, by confiding in him about her issues with Michael, her mother. She didn’t know herself what lay beneath that. Something uglier, maybe? She realized with sudden clarity that she’d always been afraid to find out. But the truth was that she had no idea how far Desmond could push her, how far she would go for him.
Excruciating. Delicious.
Her body began to heat, and not with the wine. Her sex was going damp just thinking about him. It had been like this since she’d first met him. But it was so much worse now that she’d experienced for herself his clever hands, the brief touch of his mouth.
God …
She glanced at the clock. Seven fifty-five. Five minutes.
Her pulse accelerated, and she swore she could feel it reverberate in her veins, in her chest.
She got up, scraped her plate, took it to the sink, ran the hot water over it.
She loved these dishes; they were vintage Depression ware. Green Princess. Rather precious, but she adored them, the clear green like sea glass, the ornate pattern etched into the surface. She’d collected an entire set over the years, searching out flea markets, estate sales.
She dried the dish carefully with a soft terry cloth, turned, and pulled the cabinet open.
The telephone rang, like a shot through her nerves. She dropped the plate, the glass shattering on the old black-and-white tile floor.
Startled, Wicked darted from the room. “Shit!”
She looked at the shards of glass scattered over the floor, at her cell phone sitting next to her wine on the table.
Desmond.
Running a hand through her hair, she took a breath and picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Ava.”
“Desmond?”
“Were you expecting someone else?”
“What? No. Of course not. No.”
“Are you alright, Ava?”
No, she wasn’t alright. Her heart was hammering away in her chest, as though it were trying to pound its way through, to escape the confines of her body.
“Yes. I’m fine, thank you.” She paused, stepped carefully over the broken glass with her bare feet, moved into the living room. “How has your week been?”
“Long. I don’t like working away from home, but it was too long a drive to come home each night, so I stayed over. Terrible hotel. Tell me what you’ve been doing. Have you been reading?”
“Yes, Desmond.”
“And?”
That utterly commanding tone, which scared her a little and excited her just as much. She loved it.
“I found The Tao of Pooh the easiest to understand. I’m afraid I’m not very sophisticated when it comes to spiritual study.”
“No, that’s fine. That’s why I gave you that title to read. It’s a very approachable introduction to the Tao. I thought you might find it the most relatable.”
“I did.”
“Tell me what you’ve learned, what you’ve discovered.”
She had to stop and think how to articulate the series of small epiphanies her reading had brought her.
“It’s as though … there are things which should seem perfectly obvious, like not bothering to struggle against the inevitable, as you said. It seems so logical once it’s pointed out. But I know that I do this. Not only in my resistance with the ropes but in my everyday life. It really made me think … that I have to decide what’s really important. To choose my battles. And why I should never choose to battle with myself.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I hoped you would get from it.”
“And yet I find myself continuing to do it, to struggle against myself, my own needs. My desires. Because of latent guilt, I suppose. Out of … fear. For whatever reasons. Which makes it frustrating.”
“The Tao talks about those things we should aspire to. None of us are perfect. None of us get that idea on a deep level all the time. It’s not possible. We’re human.”
“Even you?”
He was quiet a moment. Had she really said that to him?
“I’m sorry,” she told him. “I didn’t mean …”
“No, it’s fine. I suppose I should seem superhuman to you. That’s part of the lovely mind-fuck, that a dominant is godlike.” He laughed then, and she relaxed a bit. “Don’t apologize. I love your honesty with me. Tell me what else you’ve done since I saw you.”
“I’ve … followed all your instructions.”
“I meant what else has happened in your life, aside from the things we do together.”
“Oh. Well. I took Monday off, so I’ve been working late the last few nights.”
“Tell me about your work, Ava. Mortgage banking, right? What is it like for you?”
“It’s the
most boring job in the world, but it pays fairly well, and it’s the sort of thing my family wants me to do. But I’m a contract worker; they hate that.”
“Ah, you don’t like commitment,” he said, humor in his voice.
“Maybe. I hadn’t thought about it that way. But yes, you’re right. I don’t like to be too tied down.”
“Except that you do.”
She laughed. “Yes.”
“Tell me about your family, about growing up.”
“Really? This is what you want to hear about?”
“Yes. It’s exactly what I want to know.”
She could hardly believe he was talking to her like this, this normal conversation. Except that it wasn’t quite normal, really. She had the sense that he was looking deeper. And she was ignoring the warmth seeping into her system, a heat that had little to do with sex. Except that everything about Desmond had to do with sex.
She twisted a strand of hair around her fingers, pacing her small living room as she spoke.
“Alright. Well, my family is pretty average, I guess. I grew up in Seattle. Just outside of it, actually, on Mercer Island.”
“I’ve been there; it’s beautiful. Sausalito reminds me of that area, in some ways. The trees everywhere, all that green. The damp weather.”
“It’s true what people say about Seattle, it really is gray most of the time. It made my childhood seem … lonely. Or maybe that was just because of my family.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“They’re very conservative in their thinking. My parents, my sister, Andrea. My mother has this idea that she’s a hard-core feminist, and my sister is a carbon copy of her. Andrea lives her life exactly as my parents want her to, want me to, except I never did, even as a kid. She’s two years younger than I am, only twenty-seven, but she’s done it all already. She went to college, got started in real estate, moved up in the company. Got married. Had a baby a few months ago and went right back to work as though nothing had happened. I don’t know how she does it. I don’t know how anyone can be happy like that.”
“So, you’re a rebel. The family black sheep.”
“God, if they only knew …”
He laughed, making her relax, allowing her to let some of the tension go she hadn’t realized she was holding in her shoulders. She moved to the sofa and sat, pulling a pillow onto her lap.
