by Mari Carr
The lack of bouncers also made it one of the few bars I knew I could get into since I couldn’t afford the $120 fake IDs many of my friends had. I’d be twenty-one in three months, and was young for a senior, but until then I was stuck staying home when everyone else I knew was out at a club or bar. I didn’t really mind. I couldn’t afford to party like that anyway.
I could taste my heartbeat on my tongue and I was slightly unsteady on my black high heels. I was glad that my roommates had already left by the time I got dressed. I didn’t want to explain to them where I was going in a black skirt, sheer black blouse that I’d borrowed from one of their closets, and heels. Not that I would have explained, even if they asked. I didn’t want to be told this was dangerous, didn’t want someone freaking out at me and screaming that this was a bad idea. I knew both those things already—and I didn’t care.
I scanned the room again, looking for anyone who could be Master Clay.
Master.
Even thinking the word was enough to have my skin prickling with arousal. A detached part of me had trouble believing that I was here to meet a Dom, a man who I only knew through Tumblr. A man who I hoped and prayed would do things to me and with me that most people would find depraved.
I’d left a note hidden in my desk, explaining where I’d gone. If I disappeared tonight eventually they’d find the note. The fact that I’d needed to leave that note should have been enough to stop me from doing this. To stop me from making what was, on the surface, a terrible decision.
I didn’t see any men sitting alone. I walked through the bar, discreetly checking the tables hidden inside the little tents. All I knew was that Master Clay would be waiting for me. We hadn’t exchanged pictures, which I was glad of. Not that he hadn’t seen pictures of me, at least parts of me. My knees we shaking as I walked.
These were my first steps into a world that I’d been fantasizing about for nearly a year.
Last year I’d picked up a cheesy book my junior year roommate Adriana had. She was a joint bio and anthropology major, with a pre-med emphasis. She was gorgeous and wicked smart, but she’d had terrible taste in books—at least that’s what I’d thought when I’d seen the covers.
I loved to tease her by doing dramatic readings of the blurbs. Adri never minded, and sometimes she’d insist that I’d like them, but I didn’t believe her. One weekend when she was out of town I’d picked up her ereader out of boredom.
It had opened my eyes to a world I’d known existed but hadn’t understood—BDSM and fetish.
Reading about a girl who was seduced and mastered, who was in a defined relationship with a man who was both sexually competent and depraved, had made me hotter than actual sex ever had.
I read everything on Adri’s Kindle, even bought a few books of my own, eating into my limited entertainment budget. When words weren’t enough I’d turned to Tumblr, starting a secret account and collecting images, stories and GIFs that I liked. Six months ago I’d started taking pictures and videos of myself and posting them. I made sure my face was never in them, but still knew it was risky. Within a month I had thousands of followers—men and women asking me about myself, asking if I wanted to be in a real D/s relationship.
When the first person asked, I’d been so scared I’d almost deleted the account. But the university hadn’t come knocking on my door demanding that I leave or threatening to take away my scholarship. After a few weeks of panic I’d started to enjoy myself, flirting with everyone who contacted me but always saying no to their invitations.
Over the summer, when I was at home in Texas, I hadn’t posted anything—my grandparents didn’t have internet and there wasn’t good cell phone service in Northwest Texas. Since coming back to school, I had plenty of time to spend looking at pretty pictures of girls tied up and on their knees, waiting to be used. My class load was light, and even with my internship I had more free time than I was used to. Hours spent immersed in this secret world had broken me down, made it harder to say no when people asked if I was interested in something real.
I made a complete circuit of the bar, returning to the main door. There were no lone people—no sexy man in a suit looking at me with commanding eyes. I twisted the chain strap of my purse in my fingers, fighting back disappointment and tears. Master Clay, a Dom whose posts about what D/s meant had always made my pulse speed up and body heat, had been the only one of the people who contacted me that I’d ever considered responding to. His profile said he was in LA. When I’d decided to try and make my fantasies a reality, Master Clay was the obvious choice.
And it seemed that Master Clay wasn’t here.
Maybe he wasn’t real, or wasn’t who he pretended to be online. He might be a twelve-year-old boy, might be an eighty-year-old man in Missouri. Or maybe he was what he said—a successful, strict Dom in Los Angeles—who didn’t want anything to do with a novice college student.
Stopping by the door, I scanned the room again. It was now ten minutes past the time we were supposed to meet. I doubted he’d be late—he’d made a point of telling me that he expected me to be on time.
Shifting in my uncomfortable strappy heels—borrowed from another roommate, since the only black heels I had were ugly pumps I wore to my internship—I debated what to do. I could wait, since I didn’t know where he lived and he might have gotten stuck in traffic.
Or I could accept that he wasn’t coming, accept that this stupid idea wasn’t going to work out, and go home and lick my wounds.
“Leona.”
I heard my name a second before a hand slid around the back of my neck, thumb and fingers pressing lightly.
I gasped, freezing in place even as my heart started beating so loudly that I was sure he could hear it.
His thumb stroked up and down the side of my neck and goose bumps broke out along my chest.
He made a noise low in his throat, then murmured, “Lovely.”
Fingers slid away from my body and the man who’d touched me came around to face me. For the second time I gasped.
A handsome, trim man in a black suit stood in front of me. He was a few inches taller than my five-foot-five, but I was wearing heels, making him easily five foot ten. He was middle-aged, at least forty-five, with brown hair worn a little long. There was a five-o’clock shadow along his jaw and his heavy brows didn’t detract from his piercing blue eyes.
All the things I’d planned to say were forgotten. He was exactly what I’d imagined he’d be—and having him standing in front of me was terrifying.
His lips twitched and he held out his hand. “Leona Thies? You can call me Clay for now.”
I stuck my hand out. The instant my fingers touched him my nerve endings sparked to life. I stared at the lamp over his shoulder. “It’s nice to meet you, Clay.”
“Shall we have a seat?”
I followed him to one of the tables hidden in a tent. He motioned for me to precede him, then held up his hand. As I sat on the U-shaped bench and tucked my purse among the brightly colored pillows, a waitress appeared.
“A Kettle One martini, very cold, slightly wet, and a Glenlivet 25.”
The waitress, a middle-aged woman with hard eyes and her blonde hair in a bun, looked at me. I tensed, sure she was about to ask me for my ID. Clay touched her arm and said, “Thank you.”
The waitress’s gaze snapped to him. She nodded and disappeared.
Clay ducked into the tent and took a seat opposite me. A low round table separated us, but its lack of height meant there was nothing for me to hide behind. I pressed my palms flat on my bare knees. Clay crossed his legs and stretched one arm along the back of the seat. He studied me—I could feel him looking at me.
“You surprise me, Leona.”
I licked my lips. “Surprise?”
“How old are you?”
I bit down on the urge to lie. “I’m twenty.”
“And are you really a college student?”
“Yes.”
“At UCLA?”
; I nodded. I’d told him I was in school, but not where. Considering the part of town we were in it was the most logical option.
Clay let out a small laugh.
My stomach clenched and I felt sick. He was laughing at me. Grabbing the strap of my purse, I started to slide out of the booth.
“Stop.”
The word vibrated the air, making my skin prick the same way his touch had.
I closed my eyes and took a breath, gathering myself. Meeting him had thrown me off, but I wasn’t going to sit here while he laughed at me.
I plastered a smile on my face and turned to him. “It was nice to meet you. I’m sorry, I can’t stay.”
Clay leaned over and grabbed my elbow. He wasn’t hurting me, but I knew that if I wanted to get away I’d have to fight his grip.
“Leona, return to your seat. We’ll talk and then you can leave.”
I met his gaze, saw the surprise on his face when I did so.
“I will not be laughed at.”
He nodded once but didn’t let go. “Of course. Let me explain my amusement. I assure you, I wasn’t laughing at you.”
I stayed on the edge of bench, close to the exit, but relaxed. Clay let go of me and sat back.
There was a pause when the waitress brought our drinks. I looked at the martini. I’d never had one before. Clay picked up his glass of what looked like whiskey and raised it in a toast. I did the same, carefully lifting the triangular glass.
“To pleasure.” Clay tapped his glass to mine and took a sip.
I did the same, glad I’d taken only a small sip when the vodka hit my tongue.
“It is very rare that a woman who claims to be a lovely young college student truly is. I came here expecting something, someone else. The fact that you are truly who you said you were surprised me. My laugh was one of delight, not derision.”
I bit my lip and slid back to where I’d been sitting. Picking up my glass, I took another sip.
He smiled. “I’m guessing a martini isn’t your normal drink.”
“No. This is the first time I’ve had one.”
“The first time you’ve had a drink?”
“No. A martini. I drink. Vodka and Diet Coke, mostly.” Looking at my fancy glass, I closed my mouth. I didn’t want to appear unsophisticated, and I bet Clay didn’t drink vodka diets.
Clay nodded. His gaze roamed over me. “You really are lovely.”
Smoothing my hands on my thighs, I hoped I wasn’t blushing. I wasn’t pretty in a conventional way. I had thick, dark-brown hair and brown eyes—an inheritance from my mother, a Mexican migrant worker who’d come to work on my grandparents’ farm. My skin was pale, more like my blond father’s. My hair was so thick that it was hard to deal with, so I kept it shoulder-length in an A-line bob, longer in the front than the back, with long bangs.
“Thank you,” I whispered. Taking a drink, I started to relax. “You weren’t what I expected either.”
“Oh? And what did you expect?”
“I tried not to expect anything. But I hoped you’d be…exactly what you are.”
“And what do you think I am?”
“Well you’re not a twelve-year-old boy with a dirty imagination.”
Clay laughed. “I may not be twelve, but I assure you, I have a dirty imagination.”
This time I was blushing—I could feel the heat in my cheeks.
“Are you ready to discuss why we’re here?”
I dropped my gaze to the low table, then nodded.
“Answer verbally, please.”
“Yes.”
“We’ve already crossed the first hurdle—there’s no deception we need to overcome. What I want to know is why you—a lovely young woman who could be dating a man your age, who could be focusing on finding a relationship that will lead to marriage—is interested in submitting.”
Of all the questions he could have asked, that was the one I didn’t know the answer to. I’d asked myself a million times. Maybe it was because the relationships I’d had up until now hadn’t really been relationships. They’d been strange, confusing mixes of sex and friendship, or just sex. Maybe it was because of my parents’ relationship. What had happened to them terrified me.
There was nothing I could do but be honest. “I don’t know.”
Clay nodded. “How did you learn about BDSM?”
I told him about the books my roommate had, how that had led me to looking around online. How browsing Tumblr had turned into posting photos of myself.
When I was done Clay nodded. “You had a gentle introduction. Few people ease into it the way you did. I think, from following you, that I have a fairly good idea of what excites you.”
I licked my lips and pressed my legs together. Thinking about the man sitting across from me scrolling through pictures of me sitting on my bed topless or bending over the bed wearing nothing but panties, excited me.
“Leona, I’d like you to come sit here.” He motioned to the bench near him.
I slid around until I was sitting against the back wall at a right angle to where he was.
“I want you to look around. Notice that you’re in shadow and could only be seen by someone who ducked down to look at us.”
I nodded in agreement.
“I want you to remove your shirt. You may leave you bra on.”
I froze, gaze meeting his.
“Are you scared or aroused?”
“Both,” I whispered.
“I want you to know that I absolutely respect your reputation and would never put you in a situation where someone might see you. I have no interest in public displays.”
“The waitress.”
“If I hear her coming I will move down and intercept her. Do you accept that my doing so will protect your privacy?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then you will remove your shirt. And this is the last time you will question this order.”
This was the tipping point. He’d given me an order. I could obey or I could leave.
I untucked the shirt from the skirt and pulled it up and off.
I was wearing a simple cotton black bra. For a second my arousal was muted by embarrassment at my lackluster lingerie.
Clay stared at my breasts, not hiding where he was looking. He touched the thick strap. “You should be wearing lace.”
My fingers curled into fists on the bench. I bit my tongue, told myself to be quiet, but a lifetime of being poor had made me defensive.
“My clothes are all functional. Even if you order me to show up wearing lace, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I…I can’t afford it. I’m on a scholarship, and my internship barely covers my bus pass.”
Fingers traced my collarbone, sliding up my neck to lift my chin. My gaze met his.
“Then I will not order you to do so without first outfitting you with lace and silk. Normally I do not purchase items for new partners, as it can muddy what will already be murky waters, but for you, Leona, I will make an exception.”
He smiled slightly and I relaxed.
His fingers dropped back to my chest, trailing over the edge of my bra. My nipples tightened into points, and I was glad of the thick material that hid my reaction. From the way he was looking at me I had a feeling he knew, even if he couldn’t see.
“Have you ever been tied up for sex?”
“No.” My voice trembled.
“Have you even been spanked for pleasure?”
“No.”
“A virgin.”
“I’ve had sex.”
He raised a brow. “There’s sex…and then there’s sex.” His fingers dipped inside my bra to stroke my nipple. I gripped the seat as pleasure shot through me. My head fell back and my eyes closed.
“Stand and unzip your skirt.”
Without thinking I did as he asked. I swayed on my feet as I fumbled with the zip at the back of the skirt. I let it fall around my ankles, revealing my black cotton thong.
He laid his
hand flat on my belly, his thumb sliding just under the top of my underwear. Without thinking I spread my legs, wanting his hand between them on my aching pussy. My skirt, still around my ankles, stopped me.
One finger traced my thong from front to back, skimming over my pussy. I shuddered, and for one blissful, terrifying instant I thought I’d come from that alone.
“Get dressed and sit down.”
My gaze snapped to him. I opened my mouth to protest, but the look on his face warned me not to.
I zipped my skirt and put my top back on. Only when I was sitting did I realize that I hadn’t cared where we were, who might have seen. Nothing had mattered but that pleasure he’d let me taste.
Clay handed me my glass. My fingers were shaking so much that I spilled a little. He steadied my hand, guiding the glass to my mouth. I looked at him over the rim.
“Leona, you said you don’t have class on Tuesday and Thursday?”
“Just my internship, from eleven to five.”
“I would like you to join me at my home on Wednesday night.”
“To…talk?”
“No. To play. Though I should warn you that I do not consider BDSM a game. I consider a well-crafted session to be akin to art.” He took folded papers from inside his jacket. “Fill this out and bring it with you. It’s a checklist. Since you are a novice it will not carry the same weight with me that it would if you were an experienced submissive. But be sure to read and sign the last page.”
I took the papers and pressed them against my lap. “Don’t you fill one out too?”
He finished his drink. “If we were negotiating a scene, then I would. This is not a negotiation, it is an invitation. Do you understand the idea of risk-aware play?”
“No.”
“Some people advocate for a warning system known as ‘safe, sane and consensual.’ I consider that naïve. There is risk in BDSM play, both physical and emotional. If you’re my submissive you must accept that risk.”
