Divine Solace

by Joey W. Hill

  "Someone." His expression reminded her of the wistful tune the bard played in her dreams. "I put it there when I didn't belong to anyone, thinking it was a call to the universe. You know, fishing."

  He gave her that oddly distant look he sometimes had, as if he were an otherworldly being, tapped into currents she couldn't sense. "I'm still figuring out if it's been answered."

  "Do you think you belong to someone now?"

  "I belong to Lyda. And to you, because she says I do." He gave the strings a light strum. The music vibrated through her skin.

  "What do you think you deserve, Noah?"

  "Whatever my Master or Mistress tells me I deserve."

  As if he detected the way his answer discomfited her, he lifted a shoulder. "I don't ask too many questions of the universe, Gen. I'm a speck of dust on the eye of an atom in all of it. Whatever happens, happens. Most of the time, what happens are good things." Sliding a knuckle along her cheek, he gave her a look that made her flesh tingle beneath his touch.

  "I can't figure out how you do that." She shook her head. "You fluster me, just like Lyda, but in a different way. It's like she comes at me from above, you come from below, and between the two of you, I turn into goo."

  "Good thing?"

  "Most of the time," she allowed. She wanted to pursue the other topic, but she'd had enough of serious and intense tonight. She wanted to leave that first dream behind. Way behind. "Chloe said she's seen you in full Goth gear. Still have some of the clothes?"

  "Like tight shirt and pants, buckled boots, long coat and the eye liner?"

  "Dog collar, spiky bracelets?"

  "And pewter rings with skulls and bats." He nodded. "Nope, don't have any of that."

  She elbowed him. "Dress up for me sometime?"

  "Whenever you want. Anything you want." He ran a thumb along her lip.

  "I woke up...aroused," she whispered.

  "Wet?" he murmured. His thumb passed over the flush in her cheek. "Want me to do anything about that for you?"

  "Yeah. But Lyda said no." She caught a strand of his hair, the movement causing others to spill forward over her knuckles. She twisted them around her fingers. "Remind me what happens if we do something she says not to do?"

  "It depends. Being disrespectful, a brat topping from the bottom, trying to force a Dom's hand, isn't good for anyone. It's sketchier when your Mistress has set you up, knowing you won't be able to resist getting in trouble. If she thinks we did it to incur punishment in a good way like that, then she'd do something like what she did tonight."

  She sighed. "Under the word irresistible in the dictionary, there's a picture of you. She knows it. Sadistic bitch."

  His expression reflected fondness, as if Gen had used an endearment. In his world, it probably was. "Maybe she intended for me to get into the 'good' kind of trouble when she offered to let me take you home tonight. But now I feel like I owe her something. I need to clear the air with her."

  He nudged her with his elbow. "At least tell me why you woke up hot and bothered."

  "Not a chance. You're as bad as she is."

  He chuckled again. She was gratified to see regret at her refusal, though, his sexual frustration banked with visible effort. His fingers lingered on her mouth, daring a brief brush on the top of her breast before he brought his hands back to himself. "Well, then. How about I play this phallic symbol for you instead?"

  She'd much rather play with his actual phallus. Yet even when she tried to lay it out in her head, she couldn't go there. She'd stepped over some line with Lyda and she felt it, like a knife edge.

  So she made him play her some Air Supply instead. The haunting strains of "Sweet Dreams", Noah's pleasant tenor murmuring the words, were just the thing to put her back to sleep.

  Yeah, right.

  *

  Noah told her Lyda's "Extreme Fit" class was held early in the morning, well before Gen was due for her ten a.m. shift at Tea Leaves. Accordingly, Gen was dressed and ready to go in time to give Noah a cup of coffee when he came into the kitchen with damp hair and a towel wrapped around his waist. He slid an arm around her and pressed a teasing kiss at the corner of her lips. When she gave him the cup, she let her hands wander unimpeded over his back and cup the curves of his terrycloth-covered ass. Giving her a wicked grin, he took his time sliding away. At the doorway, he removed the towel with a flourish and draped it over his shoulder, making her laugh outright as he worked a casual saunter back to the bathroom. When she fired a throw pillow at him, she wished her hallway was an endless treadmill.

  Today Noah was headed out to do construction debris removal for a guy who occasionally called him in for that kind of work. Once he was dressed, Gen saw him to the door, watching him stride up to the car of the friend picking him up. As he turned and gave her a nod, she imagined him in that Goth outfit. It took an act of will not to indulge herself in a quick five minute release with her vibrator. Instead she found her purse and keys and headed out to Blood, Sweat and Tears.

  Traffic caused her to run a few minutes late, so the class had already started when she arrived. She told herself she didn't have to be nervous about that, since she wasn't there to participate. Even so, she felt like a kid sliding into class past the bell. She slipped into a corner in the back, where a couple chairs had been left against the wall.

  Despite her attempt to be unobtrusive, Lyda's gaze flicked to her the moment she hit the door. The woman gave her a spare nod, but didn't pause in barking orders.

  "Work it. Even a warm-up requires a hundred percent effort. I better not see anyone dragging their ass this morning, or this is going to be a bitch for all of you. If it's burning, embrace it. If it screams at you, scream back."

  Gen had taken various fitness classes over the years, all of which she considered demanding. Gen approached exercise like annual doctor visits--a necessary evil to be dreaded, but she had enough discipline to keep herself trim and healthy. Compared to this, those classes were toddler aerobics. As they swung from the warm-up into high-cardio, Lyda was relentless. No one was allowed to shirk. If a knee was supposed to be lifted, she damn well expected it to bump against the person's chest. She could gauge a ninety degree angle on a squat with barely a glance. Arm movements were supposed to be one hundred percent controlled, maximum resistance on the punches, stretches, pulls.

  As awe-inspiring as all that was, watching the instructor was what held Gen's attention. Lyda said she liked Gen's soft places, but Gen found she really liked all of Lyda's not-so-soft places. She wore a tight black tank and mid-thigh exercise shorts with her thick-soled exercise shoes. Her red hair was pulled up in a tail. No makeup, her face all the more striking for the lack of embellishment. The smooth muscles in her arms and legs rippled, her ass absolutely erotic art in motion as she strode back and forth, alternating between brusque direction and performing the same exercises as her students, who were giving it one hundred twenty percent. Maybe because they were exercise fanatics like the woman leading them, but maybe just as much because she scared the shit out of them.

  Everything about Lyda should have fed into the "butch" stereotype. She was assertive, bisexual, extremely physical. As commanding as a general. But what struck Gen was how incredibly female Lyda always seemed to her. Maybe part of it was the amazing softness Gen had had the privilege of glimpsing during their intimate encounters. A way she turned her head, a flash in her eye, the curve to her lips. Lyda had no desire to be or act like a man. She was a strong, dominant woman, and Gen realized there was nothing more female than that. Every quality to her, even those usually attributed to men, fit who Lyda was as a woman.

  She expected her attention to wander during the forty-five-minute class. Instead, every movement of Lyda's body, every word from that distracting mouth, the delicate lines of her throat as she turned her head, the clench of her fists as she took them into mixed martial arts and boxing moves as part of the routine, just pulled Gen in deeper. It was like being caught in a dream, like last night, on
ly this wasn't a nightmare.

  Every once in a while Lyda's gaze would touch upon her, but only enough to feed Gen's hunger. Gen had placed her tote next to her and sat in the chair with her hands in her lap, her legs crossed. She couldn't help wondering what would happen if...

  Knowing she was risking deep embarrassment, she adjusted so she was sitting up straight, her back against the chair's straight back. Her feet were now flat on the floor. The lavender T-shirt she wore for Tea Leaves today molded to her curves, a V-neck showing cleavage. Her knit skirt stretched over her hips and stopped at mid-thigh, a comfortable style for casual wear that went well with her rhinestone sandals and showed off her legs. Lyda liked her legs.

  This classroom didn't have mirrors. The only one facing her was Lyda, unless she had them do an unexpected spin. But right now they were on the floor doing pushups, as if genuflecting while she stalked through their ranks. Working up her courage, Gen adjusted so her thighs were parted. Not porno style, but a few significant inches. With her back straight and hands resting on the sides of the chair seat, her breasts were lifted. She was putting herself on display for her Mistress, showing deference.

  When Lyda noticed, there was no mistaking it. The woman's gaze stopped full on her for a bated breath. Those silver eyes slid over her face, the cheeks Gen knew were flushed, down over her breasts, then to that shadowy place between her knees. Lyda pivoted, barked out a new set of combinations.

  It thrilled her, Lyda's cursory acknowledgment of what Gen owed her as Mistress. But then Lyda aimed another look at Gen, lifted her hand, and brought her index and forefingers together, a clear direction to Gen to close her legs.

  Swallowing, she did so. When the class launched into a combination that had them turning toward the back, she tried to assume Lyda had done it to protect Gen's modesty, but Gen knew it was more than that. The tightened jaw, the neutral flicker in the eyes, told her one gesture wasn't going to mend whatever she'd done last night. She wanted to fix it, to win back Lyda's approval...

  The thought speared her with dismay, brought her up short. She'd wanted her mother's approval for so many things. Ironically, because her mother's expectations for Gen had been so low, she'd had no appreciation for the things that Gen accomplished, the things that mattered to Gen. If she was treating Lyda like some emotional maternal surrogate...

  Sure, this had a sexual component to it, but the quagmire of the past could have a lot of different lures. Watching Lyda's unyielding expression, an unwelcome twinge of resentment disrupted Gen's arousal. As the class progressed, uncertainty jumped in as well. She wasn't going to do this to herself. She should leave.

  When you most want to avoid her, that's when going to see her helps.

  "That's it. Walk it off and get your butts to work. The lazy-assed rest of the population needs your hard-earned tax dollars."

  At the good-natured retorts, Lyda grinned, the first time she'd showed warmth. She high-fived several fellow exercise nazis. As they dispersed, her gaze shifted to Gen. The smile disappeared. Tilting her head toward the door on the opposite side of the room, she moved toward it, disappearing from sight without waiting on her.

  When Gen trailed after her, she found the door led into a private changing area for the instructors. Locker doors slammed on the other side of the wall, voices murmuring. The connecting door probably led to the public locker room.

  "You look like you didn't sleep well," Lyda said. She'd stripped off the T-shirt and sports bra and was bending over a sink as she soaked a washcloth, applied soap to it to wash her upper body. Gen stared at the curve of her back, the bumps of her spine. She knew what women looked like under their clothes. It shouldn't be this fascinating. But this woman...it was. And Lyda wasn't even trying to be provocative.

  "I'm sorry about last night. At the end. I'm not sure what I did wrong, but I know I did something. I didn't mean to piss you off."

  When Lyda didn't immediately respond, uneasiness filled Gen. Straightening, Lyda met her gaze in the mirror over the sink. As she toweled herself off, her breasts moved with the vigorous motion. Lyda cleaned herself efficiently, every gesture packed with dense energy. Her nipples were dark and tight, the pale curves of her breasts probably damp and cool from the water.

  "If you want to be Noah's Domme on a regular basis, he would be open to that transition. Especially if I order it."

  She snapped her attention back to Lyda's face. "What?"

  Lyda gave her a patient look. "All you have to do is ask, Gen. It's not in his best interest, long term, because you're not a Mistress. You're mostly a soft core sub, one who enjoys being an occasional top under supervision. We could plan some club sessions to keep it interesting for you both. You could send him back to me when you're done with it."

  "'It' meaning him, or...?"

  "Playing Domme." Lyda sounded so damn matter-of-fact about it.

  "Do you categorize everyone, like one of your plants? Figure out the soil, fertilizer and sunlight I need, plant me where you know I'll flourish? Is that what you're doing with him? Finding the place to plant him?"

  Setting the towel aside, Lyda turned and propped her hips on the sink. As she unclipped her hair and ran her fingers through it, she demonstrated no self-consciousness about her partial nudity. "Did you come to apologize or start a fight?" She lifted a brow. "Nice submissive posture out there, by the way."

  "What do you want, Lyda?" Gen struggled to keep it even, rational. "I feel like you want something from me and I can't figure it out..."

  "Nothing to figure out, Gen," Lyda said shortly. "When I want something from you, I tell you. You don't have to read my mind. I'm not some Oprah-watching, whiny excuse for a female beating myself up for my past mistakes and looking to blame them on someone else. I own what I have or haven't done with my life."

  Anger surged at the direct hit. Gen took a step forward. "You don't treat me like I'm your equal. I don't like it."

  "Every choice is yours, Gen." Lyda shrugged. "You don't like being around me, take your ass elsewhere."

  "Would you care either way?" Like last night, the moment Lyda had called subdrop, Gen was flooded with too many things defying definition. Her usual penchant for safety, for simplicity, reasserted itself in her consciousness. Hey, remember me? I keep you from fucking up. But Lyda overrode that voice.

  "Did hearing your husband declare undying love for you change the fact he wiped his shit on you like you were a doormat?" Lyda asked, eyes hard. "I can spout words for you, Gen, but if you can't feel the difference between us and that, then walk away. You're too damaged for this."

  Just like that. Categorized, boxed and shipped. A red haze clouded her vision, burned her throat, choked her.

  She'd slapped Amos once. The derision on his face had paralyzed her, concrete proof that whatever she'd imagined was love had never been that. It had spawned a rage so fierce, she'd picked an iron skillet off the stove and swung. She'd missed his head by a hairsbreadth. The derision had vanished and he'd scampered away like a guinea pig. If she'd connected, she could have killed him. The rage had scared her, but from then onward, she'd understood the term "crime of passion".

  The thought flashed through her mind now, because she realized she'd closed the distance between them and actually lifted her hand. The hard quiver that went through her stirred emotions she was afraid to incite with further motion. Speak, scream. Say something before you do something horrible.

  "It's not damaged. I'm confused," Gen snarled. "Give me room to breathe, to figure it out. Or give me something straight out without making it a game, damn you."

  Lyda straightened off the sink. The graceful movement brought her toe-to-toe with Gen. Lyda lifted her own hand, manacled Gen's wrist with it. Holding Gen's gaze, she turned her face into Gen's palm, rubbed her temple to it, then pressed her lips to Gen's lifeline. All without breaking eye contact. Something trembled deep inside Gen, something even more wrenching. "Lyda..."

  The woman shook her head. She lowered Gen's hand
. As she did, she closed the space between their bodies. She bent Gen's arm behind her back so she was fully against Lyda's body, her breasts against hers, Lyda's foot between hers, her thigh insinuating itself between Gen's legs.

  Lyda brushed her mouth with her own, a teasing stroke, then another. Gen channeled tension into hunger. She clashed against Lyda's mouth, kissing her hard, her tongue finding the other woman's, dancing with it, tasting, stroking. She bit Lyda's lip and held on, not breaking skin, but trying to convey...something. Lyda let go of her wrist and circled her waist instead, pressing her leg up fully between Gen's legs, cradling one buttock in her hand, digging her nails into Gen's ass as Gen rubbed her pussy against the toned muscle there. With Lyda's arm around her waist, the only place Gen had to put her own was around Lyda's shoulders. She curled her fingers against bare skin, the pulse in her neck, her collarbone.

  Lyda took over the kiss, demanding even more from Gen. When the Mistress finally broke it, seizing Gen's hair to pull her back, Gen had her full weight against her leg and Lyda was leaning back against the sink, holding them both there.

  "How do you feel, right now, Gen?" It was a harsh demand, Lyda's eyes like flint.

  "I'm... I can't think."

  "I didn't fucking ask for your head. How do you feel?"

  "Right. Exactly right." Gen stared into the woman's face, shocked by the truth of it.

  "Yes. This isn't about equality, Gen. It's about what each of us needs, and whether we can provide that for one another. I'm not taking over your checkbook, making you clean my house or ordering you to kiss the bottom of my foot, but there is a vital part of you that needs my control."

  Gen pushed away, trying to order her whirling thoughts. "How do I know it's not like the doormat thing? What's the difference? And please don't say I should know."

  "But you do." Lyda eyed her. "It's something Marguerite has always seen in you, and why the two of you get along so well, right? It's a different form of what you feel with me, only with her it's more purely service-oriented."

  It wasn't the first time Lyda had implied it, but this time Gen saw it clearly enough it came with another minor shock wave.

  "Equality is a political idea, Gen," Lyda said. "It has nothing to do with how people care about one another, or what they each need. There is no equality between parent and child, but when it's what it should be, there's no stronger love in the world, right? In times when there was zero equality between men and women, we still have love stories handed down that have become the stuff of legend."