by Alison Tyler
He tightened his grip and brought his lips to my ear. “You look like you’re about to cry,” he whispered. “But don’t cry yet, Samantha. Let me give you something to cry about first.”
Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god.
“But before I do that, you have to trust me.” A current of desire worked through me. Jack didn’t release his grip. “Can you do that, Samantha? Can you trust me?”
I looked away from his eyes, staring out the window, at Hollywood slowly coming to life now that it was early evening. And then I looked back at the man holding my wrists so tightly, gripping them so that I could not get away.
“Yes,” I said, my voice clear and strong. “Yes, Jack.”
Chapter Eighteen:
Alone
You want to know what he did to me, don’t you? You want to know if he started right there, in the corner of the living room where I could look out, past him, and see the fading rays of gold coloring the hazy sky of the city.
Or maybe he took me into the kitchen, bent me over the countertop, lifted my sweet little dress in the back.
No. Jack wasn’t predictable like that. He made me tell him I trusted him. And then he changed all the rules.
“Take off your clothes.”
The tone of his voice did not allow any hesitation. With fumbling hands, I slid the dress over my head. I let him see that I had on a matching bra and panty set and the stockings he’d admired in the garage under the bar. And those silly, useless high heels.
“All of your clothes.”
I had to bend down to untie the shoes and slip them off. Bra and panties next, then stockings. I was entirely naked, pressed up against that white wall, waiting for Jack’s next move. He only moved very slightly, to slide open the glass door to the balcony.
“Out—”
I looked at him, and I know my eyes were begging.
Tell me. Tell me what you’re going to do. So I can prepare myself. So I can process the possibilities ahead of time.
“Out,” he repeated, more sternly, and I walked through the opening and out onto the small balcony. He didn’t have anything extraneous here. No potted plants. No sports gear. Just a small table and two chairs, where I could imagine that he might drink coffee in the morning, or his whiskey at night.
You think Jack went out there with me. You think he fucked me on the balcony, his test for this evening simply that I would obey him, that I would go outside nude, where people might look up and see me—though from where? Street level was too far down. The nearby buildings were all offices. Would anyone still be working at this hour?
Jack slid the door closed behind me, and when I turned, those wordless thoughts of begging for information now reaching my lips, he was gone. I was out there on his balcony in the dusky lavender light.
And I was all by myself.
I cupped my hands and looked into the condo, thinking that Jack might be on the sofa, watching me, or maybe over at the bar, refilling our drinks. No. There was no Jack. I wondered what he expected me to do. Should I sit down on one of the chairs, put my feet up on the table, act nonchalant, as if I sunbathed nude—in the dark—every night of the week? But Jack would know better. He had my fantasies pegged. He knew that there was very little in my world about which I was nonchalant. Being naked and exposed was not one of those things.
The view from his balcony was mesmerizing. As night began to fall, the lights of Sunset took on their vibrant gleam. L.A.’s constant melody of traffic noise lulled me. I stared down at the cars, wondering where their passengers were headed. To the fancy restaurants or clubs on the strip? Or out to the beach, along the curves of this iconic boulevard?
I wrapped my arms even more tightly around my naked body. How long would he leave me here? I wondered suddenly whether he’d even locked the door. Perhaps he’d simply slid the glass shut behind me, and the test was whether or not I was smart enough to think to slide the door back open.
But somehow I knew. That door was locked. And I also knew that trying to open it and failing would send me over the edge.
I didn’t have a watch. The only way I could tell that time was passing was by the sky. Darker now. Darker by the second. Crispness in the air.
“Oh, god, Jack. How long are you going to leave me out here?”
I was speaking out loud, the sound of my voice shocking to my ears. Would he make me sleep out here? Would he leave me all night? What was he waiting for? Did he want me to show him how strong and brave I was? Or did he expect me to break down, to grovel, to get on my knees on the balcony floor and supplicate myself to him? And what would it matter if I did? He wouldn’t see me. He wasn’t in the room.
Tears started at some point. I was feeling sorry for myself. I’d had an idea of what Jack would do to me, and I’d hoped that his fantasies would match my own. But now he had thrown me off balance. While I had been planning on steeling myself, taking whatever he had to give, showing him my strength, he had been planning on exposing my weaknesses.
Pacing calmed me. From one end of the patio to the other, my arms crossed over my chest as ever, my hair in my eyes, head down. Back and forth, never stopping to look into the room to see if he had come back. Never sitting on the chair or the table. Not bothering to look back at the view. The darkness of the sky was heavy—a weight over me. I kept walking. My feet were cold. My whole body was cold. My lips were cold. The soft breeze in the air touched the tears streaking my cheeks.
But this wasn’t right. He didn’t want me to pace like a caged animal. Not really. Did he? He must have been waiting for me to understand. Waiting for me to get the test. To make sense of it. My mind worked rapidly. Furiously. And yet I was at a loss. What did he want?
And then suddenly, a light came on in the living room. He was sitting on the sofa and he’d turned on the light next to him. The golden glow looked warm and inviting. How long had he been sitting there? Could he see me out of the window? Or did the glow in the room create a mirrored effect, and was he only looking at his own reflection?
I hesitated, then walked toward the glass. And then went on my knees, and from my knees to my belly. Head down. Not looking at him. Not even guessing anymore how long he’d leave me out here. But letting him know—I hoped—that I would stay without screaming, without pounding on the door, without making a scene. I would stay as long as he required.
Trust me.
That’s all he’d asked for.
Trust me.
And I did.
When the door slid open, I stayed prone, head down, until I felt Jack’s hand on the top of my head. He stroked my hair. He pet me softly, gently. “Good girl,” he murmured, his voice just reaching my ears. “Good girl.”
And then he pulled me to standing and wrapped me in his arms, and I could feel the softness of his shirt, the rough fabric of his slacks, the way his cool silver belt buckle pressed against me. The shudders working through my body came for a different reason now. Relief flooded me, and I would have wet his shirt with my tears if he hadn’t spun me around so that I was looking back out onto Sunset once more.
“This isn’t punishment,” he said, as I heard his buckle undo. “This is a reward, kid. For good behavior.” My back tensed, muscles alive and ready. I could understand this sort of action. I could comprehend this type of talk. “I’m going to whip you until you’re really crying. Don’t try to fake me out with false sobs, because I won’t even hear them. I’m going to whip you”—oh god, those words—“until you’re crying, and then I’m going to fuck you.” His hand wrapped the coils of my hair, pulling tight so that my head went back and my chin was forced up. “This isn’t punishment,” he repeated, and I could tell that he understood what his words were doing to me. He knew that the words were almost as important as the action. “This is a reward. I’m giving you this because you crave it. You need it. Fucking you without the pain would be punishment for you. It would be like almost letting you come but never bringing you to climax. It would be like leaving you teetering, brea
thless, begging for more. Am I right?” “Yes, Jack.” His hand was painful in my hair. “Then say it. I want to hear you say it.”
A deep, shaking breath. “This isn’t punishment.”
“What isn’t?”
Eyes shut tight now. “The fact that you’re going to use your belt on me …”
“I’m going to whip you.”
Oh, Jesus, please.
“You’re going to whip me,” I repeated obediently. “But that’s not punishment. It’s a reward.”
“Why?”
“Because I need it.” I choked on the statement, so difficult to admit, so hard to confess.
Jack brought his mouth to my cheek then, kissed me fiercely, and when he spoke, his words were so soft I could barely hear them. “Don’t worry so much, Sam. I need it, too.”
Chapter Nineteen:
Need
I think about that word all the time.
Need.
“I need this, too,” Jack told me. And everything changed. By taking care of me, he was taking care of himself. I don’t think I’d ever tried to envision the situation from a Dom’s point of view before. I was so fucking grateful whenever I found a man who could fulfill my own dark cravings that I forgot the other half of the equation: The fact that I was fulfilling his as well. Nate tried to explain that to me—two sides of the same coin. But to Nate, our relationship ultimately had to be a game. He was helping me get over Byron—not the loss of Byron, but the death of the relationship. And then he was helping me write my book.
With Jack, everything was different. Somehow his words gave me power. He let me know that as much as I wanted him to take off his leather belt and make me cry, he desired that as well. My mind tried to put everything in order, but then we were starting, and all of those thoughts disappeared.
Who gives a fuck about need when a man tells you to bend over and grip your ankles? Who gives a fuck about anything, except paying careful attention and doing what he says?
I hadn’t stopped shaking since he first locked me out on the balcony. But now those vibrations were electric, my whole body trembling. Jack set one hand on my naked ass, then stroked my cherry tattoo with a light fingertip, and I could imagine that he must be smiling. He was taking his time. He was stretching this out.
Am I the only sub who has second thoughts in those final moments?
Do I really want this?
No, I can live without this sort of power play.
I can get off with my fingers and a fantasy.
I can exist with a book of porn and a vibrator.
But I can’t.
Byron showed me what I couldn’t take. I was suicidal by the end of our three years together. How crazy that all he had to do was this. Strip me down. Take charge. Make me cry. Make me beg.
But still—in those last tremulous moments before the belt strikes, I have doubts.
Jack drove all those doubts away. “It’s going to hurt,” he said, “you know that.”
“Yes, Sir.” Spoken to the floor of the balcony.
“I already striped you pretty good in the garage. And that whipping is going to seem like nothing compared to this. You understand that, don’t you, girl?”
“Yes, Sir,” my words catching in my throat, my voice hoarse.
“Say it, Sam.”
I comprehended this part of the process now. He liked me to speak the things that were hardest for me to accept about myself.
“I understand.”
“What do you understand?”
Just whip me, I wanted to beg. Don’t put me through this. This is hell. Don’t make me parrot those sentences. Don’t do it, Jack—
“You’re going to make it hurt. Sir.”
“Why?”
I actually started to turn around, to let go of my ankles and face him. I don’t know what I was thinking. That I might grab him around the knees and beg him? That I could somehow force him to do what I wanted instead of what he wanted? Who knows? I didn’t even make it to a standing position. Jack was in motion instantly, gripping my hair once more and forcing my head back down.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said. “Hold onto those ankles and get back into position.”
My tears were hitting the floor steadily now. When did I get so weak? I’d always prided myself on my ability not to cry. Since grade school, when we played rough-and-tumble football. Sometimes boys would cry. But not me.
“Now!”
Jack’s icy voice froze me inside. I held my ankles, palms already slippery against my naked skin. And I tried my best to behave.
“Why?” he hissed. “Don’t make me ask again. I don’t like to repeat myself.” It sounded like he was biting off each word and spitting it out at me.
Nate had tried to get me to tell him why. Even Byron, when I’d told him to spank me with his brush, when I’d begged him to put me over his lap, even he had asked later that evening, Why? Why would you want me to do that to you?
Need.
“Because I need it.”
“That’s right,” Jack said immediately, letting me know I’d given him the correct answer. “Take that fact into yourself and hold onto it. Embrace it. You need this.” He emphasized each word carefully. “I am giving you what you need. You need me to stripe your ass for you with my belt. You need me to make it hurt. Without that, you don’t have anything. You’re a ball of longing. A mess of cravings. Without that pain, you’re nothing at all.”
It was as if he could see those last flickers of doubt in my head and he was intent on quashing each one. He knew. Jack knew. I could make up fairy tales for myself in the seconds before the leather struck, but as soon as he began to punish me, all those fantasies of being normal would disappear. Good-girl sex, the type I always imagine other people to be having in their dark bedrooms every night, with minty breath and cooing dove talk, that sort of sex isn’t meant for me.
Yet he waited. Waited until my muscles were screaming, my whole body shaking uncontrollably. How insane that the waiting is always worse than the pain. At least, you think it is. Then finally he began. The flat leather of the belt slapped against my ass, first lightly, then with more power. I held my ankles. I stayed still. He worked rhythmically, left side, right side, occasionally catching me with the thin edge of the belt, leaving welts like those from a crop or a cane. He didn’t speak for the first part. He focused on whipping me. My glossy black hair fell forward to the ground. My whole body was intent on not letting go. On not disobeying him. And then I remembered his promise.
I could cry. I could sob. But he wasn’t going to stop until he knew I was finished. And fear set in.
How much could I take? I didn’t know.
Jack knew. Jack slammed that belt against my skin until I was on fire. Then he doubled the belt and got closer to me, one hand on my lower back, forcing me to arch my ass higher for him. When he prepared to slap the belt between my legs, I lost it. My hands slipped off my ankles, and I placed my palms on the floor instead. Jack didn’t say a word—he simply gripped me in his arms, brought me over to the table, and spread me out on the cold glass top.
The belt flew in his hands now. Over and over, a melody of pain blooming each time it landed.
“Now spread your legs.”
I did as he said.
“Wider.”
Jack leaned over me, and I could feel his cock straining against the fabric of his slacks and the heat from his body, although he wasn’t out of breath in the least.
“You know what’s coming next, don’t you baby?”
“Yes, Sir.” Instantaneous response.
“Say it.”
I couldn’t. It felt like a metal ball was rolling around in the pit of my stomach. Back and forth. Weighing me down. Words are simple. Words are my friends. I can write for hours without a break, without looking up. And yet I couldn’t give Jack the answer he wanted.
He moved aside and bent down next to me, face to face with me. He stroked my hair out of my eyes. “Come on, kid.
I’m not mad. Not yet. Don’t make me angry. I know this is our first time together, first time for real. But you have to obey me. You have to answer me when I ask you a question.”
I had my head to the side and I shut my eyes tight. “You’re going to use the belt between my legs.”
The whistle of Jack’s breath between his teeth made me know I’d failed.
I’m lying.
I knew I’d failed when I spoke the words. Knew I was going to fail when I closed my eyes. He wanted me to meet his gaze and say that he was going to whip my pussy. To punish me there, on that most tender skin. To hurt me there. He wanted me to verbalize both my darkest desire and my biggest fear.
He almost laughed. I could hear the disbelief as he said, “Oh, baby. Oh, Sam. I thought you understood me better than that.”
And I was in his arms, being carried back into the penthouse, into rooms I hadn’t yet seen. Down a long hallway to his bedroom. White walls. White rug. Candles on the armoire. Incandescent light gleaming on the silver cuffs that lay on the bed.
“I was hoping to do this differently,” he said as he started to bind me into place. “Punish you out there, and then fuck you. A reward, like I told you. But you have to meet me halfway, don’t you think? You have to do your share.” He spoke sadly, because I’d let him down. Because I knew precisely what he’d wanted, and I hadn’t risen to the challenge.
With Nate, our games had always ended at the first light of dawn. With Connor, the power play had been because of the drama. The hiding. The cheating. The lying. With Jack, things were different. The cuffs were tight on my wrists, the bindings firm on my ankles. With Jack, there was no going slow. Going back. Going home. This was no game.
“It’s my fault,” he said, his blue eyes shining. “I thought we were starting from a different place.” He licked his lower lip as he looked at me. “I’m not often wrong.”
