Not In My Wildest Dreams (Dream Series)

by Isabelle Peterson

  “It’s not easy for people like me. When you’re straight, people accept you. Gay? And with this whole HIV/AIDS thing flying all around… Worse, I like both dicks and chicks. Being pulled by two worlds. My parents won’t talk to me. They’ll accept my fame, but not me. It just hurts so badly and I can’t do a thing about it. And I’ve loved having you as a roommate and the fucking and now—”

  “Whoa! Hold your horses,” I interrupted. I pushed her back, still holding onto her shoulders, and studied her red, blotchy face. She looked different. Scared. Sad. Lost. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s gonna take more than you lookin’ for lady love to get rid of me.”

  “You’re just saying that so you don’t have to pay rent.” She turned from me and went back to her perch on the sofa.

  I went over and knelt before her. “Look, Becca. We have a lot in common.”

  “What… you’re gay too?” she asked sarcastically.

  “Uh, no. But hey, we both have parents that won’t talk to us. We both have the same job that judges us for what we look like, not who we are. And now I learn that we both like women. This is perfect. If I’d known we could have compared chicks on that level we’d have had a whole lot more fun these past few years.”

  She studied my face for a moment. “You really don’t care?”

  “No. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. A friend with benefits. You never demand things from me. You make me feel wanted. I’m the youngest of eight. My whole life was hand-me-downs and leftovers. You and me? Our little family works. I couldn’t be happier than hanging with you. But if you want me out of here…”

  “NO! God. Jackie, if I’d—”

  “Can you please stop calling me that?” I sighed.

  “What? Jackie?”

  “Yeah. I’m not a chick. It’s Jack. Just Jack. Not Jackie. Not Jacks. Not Jack-o-lantern. Not Jackass Jack. Just Jack. Although, maybe now I understand why you call me Jackie…”

  She slapped my shoulder, “Okay. Just Jack. Or would you prefer J?”

  “Oh. My. God. Was that the trippiest scene last night or what?”

  Suddenly, the intercom rang. I answered the phone, and the doorman said that Lisa was here checking on Becca. Against my better judgment, I let her up. Becca and I were talking in a way that we never had. I thought she was my best friend before, but we’d just taken things to a whole new level. And I really wanted to hash through what we’d seen last night without Lisa in the way. But it was nice of Lisa to stop by. Besides, maybe I could get the address of that place from her.

  Becca went to the bathroom to clean up from her cry just as Lisa tapped on the door. I let her in and offered her a cup of coffee.

  “God, yes. Please! How’s Becca? Who knew sex could make someone puke, huh?”

  She followed me into the kitchen where I poured her a cup of coffee. She picked it up and drank it black. Not sure why, but that surprised me. I figured her for a super sweet and milky coffee drinker.

  As we made ourselves comfortable in the living room, Becca came out of the bathroom looking grey, but a little more cheery than before. At least all the snot was cleared off her face.

  “Becca, baby. How are you feeling? Hair of the dog, what should I make you?” Lisa asked turning to the bar table.

  “Oh, God, Leese. No. Couldn’t possibly.” Becca picked up her coffee and curled up on the sofa, pulling a cashmere throw around her.

  “Well, water at the very least.” Lisa ducked into the kitchen and came out with a glass of water and a couple of aspirin.

  Becca took them gratefully and sat back.

  “So, Lisa. Jack, or J, and I were just talking… That place last night. How did you know about it? And clearly you’re a regular,” Becca started in.

  A sly grin spread across Lisa’s face. She studied both our faces.

  “You liked it, huh?” she asked, leaning closer to me. She pushed her tits together making them nearly spill out of her low cut tank top.

  “Hey, I’m a red-blooded guy,” I shrugged. Lisa got up and went to sit next to Becca.

  “I’m going back tonight, wanna…come?” she asked suggestively.

  I saw the look in her eye and that she was hoping we would go as a couple. I didn’t want to go with her, I just wanted to go.

  CHAPTER 13

  October 1982

  B, L and I became club regulars, and soberly after that first visit. For the first couple of weeks we just watched, taking it all in, absorbing the rules, and getting to know who was who. There were all kinds there. Most were committed partners, some were swingers, others were flings. Lisa was all over the place. She had some Masters she’d go back to time and again for a load of debasement. She allowed herself to be collared and lead around on a leash while she crawled on her hands and knees. Sometimes she was a full-on dominatrix and giving no mercy to the men she was whipping. She was what was referred to as a Switch, sometimes a Domme, sometimes a submissive.

  Becca took cues from Lisa. She enjoyed being controlled, but seemed most comfortable as a Domme. She liked being the one in charge. It suited her. Typically on modeling jobs, she behaved as if she was the one in control, but it was mostly a ruse and she knew it. She wasn’t in charge, but they tried to make her feel that way. At the club, when she was with the women, she was absolutely in charge. It was a beautiful thing to watch. Especially the way she threw a whip.

  She’d met this one submissive in the club, a cute little redhead called R. She was adorable, but never gave me the time of day. In the club, the two were considered an unbreakable item, but only at the club. When I asked Becca about her relationship with R, she said, “Just at the club. I’m not getting my heart broken again.”

  I was a ‘once-and-done’ kind of guy, in the club and out. Out of the club, I’d been getting it on with groupies that followed us models around. They were using me, hoping they’d be photographed and discovered. They were using me, and I was using them. I’d fuck chicks from the club, we’d have fun then go our separate ways. Occasionally, one would ask for my number, or give me hers. I never called them, and I never gave out my number. Interestingly, it didn’t really bother but a couple of them. There were a few models I connected with, and we’d see each other for a month or so, but their egos got in the way, and after a couple fucks with them, they weren’t worth the effort. They were always too concerned with how they looked, or they were out of their minds from blow, or drunk, or strung out from too many laxatives.

  After a few months, Becca and I started attending classes, seminars and workshops at the club. We learned about floggers, crops and whips. Bondage techniques. Punishment versus play. Subspace and aftercare. It was as if my eyes had been opened to something that finally made sense. In this world there was order. No exceptions. You followed rules and suffered the consequences if you stepped out of line. There was play time, but that was also governed by a set of rules. In the world of modeling, if you didn’t perform, you might lose that gig, but someone else was asking for you. When dating as a model, the girls always came back even if you didn’t want them to. Back in Colorado, if I stepped out of line, I was either publicly humiliated like what Jenny had done to me by labeling me to everyone we knew, or were like my parents who just ignored me and wrote me off.

  We learned a lot of crazy shit with Master N as our mentor. Mental and physical play. Light stuff like bondage and blindfolds, and more intense shit like using canes and whips. The first time I had a whip training class I remember being both excited and scared. After watching the Domme crack the long strand of leather at the guy from that first night, it was the one aspect of the club that stuck with me. The first time I threw the six-foot kangaroo hide bullwhip, the tail came back and snapped me in the face. Fuck! Not only did it hurt like a bitch, but I had a photo shoot in three days.

  “It’s more than slinging a whip, J. You need to own it. Right now, you own shit. It’s very easy, you need to stop overworking it,” Master N said. And for the next few weeks we worked on my tec
hnique until my arms ached and I had quite a collection of cuts from mis-throws. Eventually I was able to throw with impressive accuracy. I wasn’t as good as Becca. She was a natural.

  Watching B handle the whip was a thing of beauty. She quickly worked her way up to a nine-foot whip. But it wasn’t just her skill. She was transformed when she took control. It was the way she wanted to appear on the sets of photo shoots.

  When Master N felt I was ready to finally start using the skills I’d been learning in the workshops in the club, he introduced me to A. She was perfect. I’d seen her around the club many times. We’d shared glances, but never time.

  I was in a private room. Master N accompanied me, as was protocol for a novice using tools for the first time. I looked around the modest space that was illuminated with a soft, warm lighting. The walls were painted a warm brown, and along the far wall was a bureau that housed all sorts of implements. Blindfolds. Restraints ranging from cuffs, both metal and leather, to cuffs on spreaders. Crops. Coiled whips. New packages with items like ball gags, nipple clamps, dildos of all sizes, and anal beads and plugs. There was a large bed with crisp white sheets.

  A, a petite brunette with her hair pulled back in a severe pony tail that hung neatly down her back to her waist, walked into the room completely naked. After she closed the door, she clasped her hands behind her back and knelt before me, her proud breasts pushed forward. She knew her place. Master N watched silently as I shrugged my shirt off and handed it to A.

  “Hang up my shirt, please, and return.”

  Without haste, the girl leapt up and collected my shirt. She hung it with care on the wall, then returned to her kneeling position in front of me. I stood stunned.

  “Are you here for punishment or play?” I asked.

  “Play, Sir,” she replied, a smile spreading across her face as she kept her eyes downcast. I watched her chest heave as her excitement grew. I had my own growing response.

  “Devices?”

  Her breath increased. “Flogger, and then crop please, Sir.” Her voice wavered with excitement.

  “How many?”

  She bit her lip and eyed me carefully. “Four,” her voice rang confidently.

  “Standing or horse?” I offered, my own voice growing strained with anticipation.

  “I prefer to stand please, Sir.”

  I commanded her to stand and place her hands on the wall. She did so obediently, while wagging her perfect derrière as she moved to the wall. I took the flogger from the collection in the room and proceeded to warm her skin. Exercising the care and technique I’d learned from Master N and under his watchful eye, I covered her backside from her shoulder blades down her back to the backs of her thighs, careful to avoid her lower back and kidney area so I wouldn’t cause any life threatening damage. The pinking of her skin combined with her gentle mews drove me insane. After forty or so strokes she was quietly humming, an indication that she was in subspace.

  I returned the flogger and picked up the crop. I smacked it into the palm of my hand, the sting centering my own growing need. When she heard the sound, she moaned.

  “Are you ready for your first strike?” I asked.

  “Sir, I am,” she breathed.

  “Count.” Slowly she nodded and I saw her fingers flex on the wall as she readied herself.

  I brought the crop onto her right cheek. She clenched her ass and gripped the wall. “One,” she sighed. I watched as a pink stripe rose to the surface of her butt cheek. I checked her face. She looked perfect. She looked like she was in heaven.

  Three more pops and her count was over. I dropped the cane and pulled her into my lap. Sensing the tool play was over, Master N stepped out quietly. She was still writhing.

  “You did great, A.”

  “Thank you, Sir. Your technique is well trained, Sir.” She sighed, her head dropping onto my chest.

  I ran my hand up over her thighs and waist. She jutted her hips into me sending me a message that she wanted play to change to sex. I brought my hand up between her thighs and found that she was soaking wet. Slipping in a finger, then two, and finally three, I swiftly pumped her to an orgasm. It intrigued me that I’d more or less hurt her, yet she was incredibly turned on by it. Yes, we had an understanding and rules. Takes all kinds I guess. I knew that the power and being in control turned me on in indescribable ways.

  After she came down from my fingering her, she slid off of my lap and bent over me, pulling my dick out of my Adidas pants. She took me in her mouth and in one swift motion, the head of my cock was down her throat, and my pubes were pushed up against her face. What a sight! She expertly went at me teasing and sucking. She knew what she was doing. I loved this club. Top quality. She had a grip constricting me at the top of my balls, like that guy who had the strap around his cock. I felt myself grow to an unimaginable hardness. I was like fucking steel. It burned, yet was incredible.

  I was at my end, gripping the back of her head, and pounding my hips into her face. I was growling like a caged animal. She released her grip on my sac and I exploded with the force of a volcano. The way A had controlled that orgasm rocked my world.

  CHAPTER 14

  The first time I was under the control of a Master, I was hooked. I had felt the bite of the whip as a part of training, not to mention the dozens of shitty throws that had the business end of the whip come back at me.

  It had been a nightmare of a week with a location shoot that was a disaster. Bad weather conditions, long hours, crappy food, a godawful room that I had to share with this other guy, Rick, who was a total slob, and there was this Amanda, this model who’d been trying to get me into bed for a while. We fucked, but as I predicted, she was like a dead fish in bed. She got more than a little scared when I slipped in to Dom mode with her and I was probably a little more harsh than I should have been, but she won’t be barking up this tree again. Good enough. I didn’t do repeats. Love ‘Em and Leave ‘Em as the Kiss song went.

  I was sitting at the bar considering quitting the modeling scene all together, when a gorgeous, buxom blonde with fierce green eyes approached me. I recognized her as the woman who was whipping the man my first visit to the club. She introduced herself as Mistress C, ordered a Macallan, and asked if I’d been a good boy or bad boy that week. It was a tired pick up line in this place, but instantly, the way I’d treated Amanda came to mind.

  “You seem upset,” she pushed when I didn’t answer.

  “Tough week at work, you could say.” I threw back the rest of my Jack Daniels on the rocks and prayed that the burn would erase the feelings.

  “Can I get you another?” she asked.

  I nodded. The bartender pulled down the bottle of Jack. Mistress C stopped him and tapped the glass in front of her. The bartender put the Jack back and grabbled the bottle of Macallan and a fresh glass, no ice, and slid it in front of me.

  “For what was done to you, or for what you did?” she asked raising a brow, taking a sip of the drink in front of her. I watched as she savored the brown liquid. I took a sip of the same and appreciated the smoother quality.

  “Does it matter?” I asked turning to her.

  “Sure. I can help you work it out, but you have to know what side you’re on.”

  I thought about that for a moment. You could say it was both.

  As far as what was done to me, well, it was all the demands that are put on you as a model. Where to be, what time to be there, how to stand, how to look, hours of being primped—which I hated beyond belief, then the standing around while the ‘real talent’—the girl—was prepped, and not to mention how much Amanda liked to brag about her paycheck. I was never considered smart in school. Getting a C+ was a big deal for me. But no calculators were needed to figure out that she was getting paid fifty thousand dollars more than I was getting.

  As far as what I’d done, it was the way I’d treated said model. She said she was consenting. I didn’t mark her or anything, but I got a wicked thrill out of controlling her. Blindfol
ding her. Tying her to the bed. Withholding her orgasms from her. Making her swallow. The next day she avoided me, which was actually the result I wanted, but she looked more scared than upset. I could have apologized, but what was the point.

  “And how does being at the end of your whip help me?”

  “If you’re being lashed for something you’ve done, giving in to the control of someone else can be freeing. If it’s for something done to you, it can release the anger you’re probably harboring. For men, especially powerful men like you, it’s quite liberating.”

  I considered what she’d said. Maybe there was something to her theory.

  I eyed her suspiciously. “Let’s go, then.”

  “So, are you receiving a punishment for what you did? Or are you taking a lashing to release the stress?”

  “Does it matter?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at her.

  “No. Not to me.”

  “Are we gonna do this or what?” I asked, growing impatient.

  She swallowed more of her Scotch then stood.

  “First time. Horse,” she said, pointing to the black, leather clad horse in the center of the room.

  “The center of the room? Hell no. This is bull shit.” I yanked out my wallet and threw a twenty dollar bill on the bar and started to walk away.

  “Fine. Let it fester,” her cold voice sang from behind me.

  I stopped and felt the words echo in my brain. I knew she was right. It would fester. It would grow. I would try and numb the ache with Coors, Jack and Stoli. I knew that the numb from the booze would only last the night. Maybe Becca and I would try and fuck it out. This had been the cycle. For years. When I felt out of control, or had taken too much control, I felt like shit. I drank like mad. Days would pass until I felt better. Then, as soon as I was on set, or having my way with a chick, the feeling would come back.