Chapter 1 – Bianca
February 13
Have you ever had one of those ideas that sounded great in your head — perfect and well thought out, just the thing to give you what you were craving — only to discover your great idea gives you the exact opposite of everything you desired.
Well, I’m currently having one of those moments.
When I thought this afternoon, Hey, I know! To get away from Valentine’s Day and all of its commercialized reminders of how nonexistent my love life is, I’ll go to the ski resort in Aspen! I’ll take a solo trip and enjoy being single! Enjoy not having to see one xoxo, or one pandered holiday-themed anything, in a mountain of snow, it sounded ideal. Like the kind of vacation that would put me far, far away from feeling any lack in my life. And all because of one stupid day.
But, nope. Here I am sitting in the bar, nursing a pink-sugar martini (no, they didn’t just bring it out for the holiday — I drink them regularly) right in the middle of Love Central. Match-Made-In-Heaven Mecca. Even in the dark, neon-edged embrace of the bar, all I can see are couples.
People in love with life and in love with each other, having found the one to spend the rest of their lives with. And love is everywhere my eyes fall. In every combination, like this bar doesn’t just mix drinks in the perfect combination, but they have heart ice cubes, and straws decorated with sickening heart sparkles, too.
I see guys in love with girls; girls in love with other girls, guys in love with other guys. I even see the rarest animal of them all: two men in a loving relationship with one girl. A threesome of the heart, it seems. And not just in the sheets. Not just for the kink.
So sweet, I think, watching them share a plate of olives, meats, and cheeses, but that just makes me realize how much more alone I am. I sigh, halfheartedly. Here those guys can get two Mr. or Mrs. Rights, and I can’t even land one man who can handle what I have to give him.
I take a sip of my cocktail and savor the light pink liquid between my lips, enjoying the bitterness of vodka mixed in with the sugar sweetness of strawberry flavored cream.
Feeling depressed and hating everything about love, I take another sip of my drink. This one’s larger, but I still savor it. Roll it around my tongue before swallowing.
“Great idea, Bianca,” I whisper to myself, staring down into the milky, soft ice, “go to the bar of one of the most sought-after romance destinations in the state to get away from romance!” I mock myself, resting my chin in my hand. “My mother was right. Getting older doesn’t make you smarter. Using your brain does.”
I take another sip of my drink. One that takes me nearer to finishing. Something I regret doing in the next moment, however. A cocky face stares at me through the foggy bottom. My mother was right about that too, I think, already not liking the curve of his lips or eyes, even with the glass distorting them. You don’t find the answers to your problems at the bottom of the glass. You just find more problems.
I lower the glass from my lips and stare at my visitor. A short, bulky guy. Muscular, but soft too. Particularly around his stomach region. I glance at it before meeting his face. A face that’s way too self-assured to be coming anywhere near me. His eyes and mouth are too shiny. Greasy almost, as if he’s eaten too much of the bar’s finger food. Either that or he has a thing for Chapstick. I look at him, sweeping my long, naturally curly hair out of my face. As I do, my bracelets tinkle gently.
“Hi.” My greeting is as fuck-off as I can make it. “Can I help you?”
The guy sits right down next to me as if he owns the place. “No,” he says, sweeping his hair back like he’s the man I’ve been waiting for my entire life, “but maybe I could help you out.” He looks me up and down, taking special care to commit my cup size and cleavage to memory. I’m staring at him staring, and he wisely brings his eyes back to my face.
"I wasn't aware I needed any help."
"Sure you do," he says, licking his lips." I can help you out of that dress, and in to some wild games in my hotel room.” He smiles, whistling at my curves like I’ve never seen them before. “Man, with a body like that, I’m sure you’d be hours of fun, wouldn’t you, girl?”
He dives right into whatever fantasies he’s got, listing a few for me. “Oooh, I could fill my tub with all the silver dollars I brought with me, and you could bathe in it, while I give you a nice clit-fuck with the rim of one.” A pause. Then, “And then I could decorate those firm, tanned tits of yours with some wax. A little leather.” He licks his lips again, actually trying to check out my ass from the side of my seat. “And I could whip that big, curvy ass until it’s red,” he whispers, obviously thinking his idea of a good time is universal, “mark it up really nicely, so you have something else to show off besides your tan.”
I blink and sigh with disinterest and fold my hands together. “That would be a no.”
Greaser Boy looks offended at my complete lack of interest. Not offended enough, unfortunately. My rebuff of him only seems to peak his interest, get him clambering into more of my personal space.
“So you're picky, huh, girl?” He puts his hand on my shoulder, adding, “Well I’ll teach you not to be so picky. After a night with me, you’ll be lapping up everything and anything I serve you.”
I pull his hand off me.
As I expect, this immediately makes Greaser Boy’s brow furrow. His eyes to light up, but not with interest. He’s just realized I don’t find him charming, and he doesn’t like it. But I don’t care.
Men like him have zero concept of what else a woman might want besides being overwhelmed by their sweaty, cock-obsessed ideas of dominance.
“First of all,” I say, putting on my I’m-old-enough-to-be-your-mother voice, “I’m not a girl.”
Predictably, Greaser Boy scowls at my condescending tone.
“I stopped being one of those over 30 years ago, boy.” I roll my empty glass around on the surface, making the ice fill the silence. “And I have no interest in whatever you think I will be lapping up. I have no interest in spending another minute with you.” Carefully, I comb a ringlet behind my ears. “What makes you think I’d want to spend an entire night with you?”
With every word I utter, Greaser Boy gets angrier and more agitated. More and more insulted though it’s not my fault. He’s the idiot who dropped in on the time I was very obviously trying to spend alone.
“And you say you’ll serve me.” My voice jabs at him but at the same time it caresses. “I don’t think you know anything about service.” I gaze down at his gut poignantly. “At least, not when it comes to serving anyone outside of yourself.”
“You bitch,” Greaser Boy snarls, leaping out of the seat he took without asking, “that’s why you don’t have anybody! Nobody wants a stuck-up cunt like you.” He goes to put his hands on me. “I’ll teach you to talk to me that way.”
But before I even have to think about nunchucking him with my leopard-spotted purse sitting next to me, the bartender intervenes. He’s a young guy. Probably no older than 21, but he’s got a presence about him. Strong and intimidating, despite his young and fun-loving appearance.
“Back off, dude. The lady said she wasn’t interested.” He tosses down the rag he’s been using to wipe up spills and points a finger at my unwanted admirer. “Get outta here right now, or I’m getting security in here to throw you out.”
For a moment, Greaser Boy looks like he’ll take my bartender guardian angel for a trip across the bar top, but then he seems to think better of it. He stocks off, but not before cursing me out. Muttering some sad and pathetic story about how his ex must be fucking this up for him too, considering she'd fucked everything and everyone else already.
As Greaser Boy stalks off for the bar’s exit, the bartender adds, “And I don’t want to see you hanging around here anymore tonight.” He pauses, raising his voice. “If I do, the next thing you’ll see is the inside of a cop car.”
Greaser Boy just flips him off and pushes his way through the tinted fro
nt door. Around me, the bar has gone quiet thanks to the altercation. But now that the disturbance has passed, everyone settles back down. Back into each other’s ooey-gooey gazes.
“Thank you,” I say when my trouble is gone and hopefully not to be seen again. “I didn’t think he would be dumb enough to take it that far.” I smile, watching the bartender’s hands move smoothly, knowledgeably over the dark oak wood surface. He’s picked up his rag again and wipes down the spaces on either side of me.
The bartender meets my eyes. They’re caring and kind. Angelic, practically. “I’d say he had more alcohol than brain cells in him tonight,” he says. “Hopefully a few more die off, and he stays in his room.”
I laugh, grabbing my purse. “Let’s hope so, huh? Thanks for the backup anyway,” I add, slinging my purse over my shoulder. “Hope the rest of the night is a lot calmer for you.”
I know it will be for me, I think, letting my mind wander to the safety and solitude of my room. Got nothing and no one going on. As this thought crosses my mind, I’m not sure if the solitude is everything I want it to be. As exciting as I want it to feel. Well, I’ll just have to make it exciting, I guess. In my head, I begin to put together a small plan for the rest of my night. Not much compared to what all these other lovebirds probably have planned for tonight and tomorrow, but it’s also worlds away from the offer Greaser Boy thought I couldn’t refuse.
The bartender catches my attention again. This time with his feather-soft voice. “Would you like me to find someone to walk you back up to your room?”
“No, thank you.” I kick my foot back, showing him the business end of a stiletto. “I think I’ve got it covered, young man.”
The bartender blushes deeply under this. “Okay. Whatever you say, ma’am,” he murmurs, and proceeds to get busy with polishing his glasses. Organizing his booze. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”
“I will,” I say, and make my way out of the bar and up to my room. On the way, I solidify my plan. Room service for sure. A shower next. And then some me time. Definitely.
***
Back in my room, I quickly find the room service menu and find something on it that seems worth the money and worth eating alone. Bacon mac & cheese—a go-to comfort food for me, also a convenient sponge for the alcohol in my system.
I order it, along with a piece of chocolate cake. Since I don’t have a sweetheart, might as well have something sweet instead. A lot less trouble anyway.
Now that my order is placed, I head to the cavernous bathroom to take a shower. A long, hot one. According to the person at the front desk, my room service will take at least 25 minutes to finish and deliver. More than enough time to get the scuzzy from that guy off me. Ugh! I hate the image of him forcing its way into my brain. His smell. His cheap cologne and his even cheaper suit.
As I slip out of my clothes and get the water warming for my shower, I think about the bartender. How he was so service minded, no matter if he were serving me a drink or offering me protection. If only a guy like him could be comfortable with the kind of woman I am and the kinds of things I need.
Steam fills the bathroom as the water warms, but I barely pay attention because I’m lost in my thoughts. I’m the kind of woman I don’t think most men want. I want to be worshiped. Adored. As a goddess — a woman in charge of her domain — not a princess who needs rescuing. I sigh. Most men don’t want what I want. Some pretend they do in the hope I'll fuck them — I never do — but they always end up showing their true colors in the end.
Stepping into the shower, now that the steam is thick and luxurious, I picture what I want and don’t think I can have: a man who’s willing to be dominated completely by me.
I imagine my Mr. Submissive as muscled, but not beefy. Manly, but not rugged. Briefly, I imagine Mr. Submissive’s face is something like the bartender’s. Angelic. Innocent. Soft. Sweet. I’m intrigued by that idea, but as I imagine the cute bartender on his knees servicing me — taking orders from me — he’s too soft. Too pliable.
No, I think washing the warm water down my hair, back, and breasts. The cold, like my memories of Greaser Boy, melt off me and down the drain. Not like the bartender. I return my mind to the image of having my good boy kneeling before me. My ultimate devotee. He still has a boyish appearance and demeanor to him, but where the bartender turned to putty under my hand, this man has a bit of feistiness to him. Some punkish habits and attitudes I have to curb. Mold to fit my needs.
I need more of a bad boy for my good boy, I decide, soaping up my hands and preparing to bring them down to my breasts and pussy. Some guy with a little fight in him. Something that will take some work to bring to heel.
Thinking these things, a matching image follows of the man under my control giving me a little attitude. Being a brat even in restraints. Even from his place in the corner where I put him for a timeout. He’s been put there for not following orders exactly. But even as he gives me attitude, he knows he’s in trouble. He knows he deserves what I’m about to give him, which is a paddling with a black, studded paddle. “If you want to be a good boy again,” I imagine saying to him as I saunter over to his exposed ass, “you’ll have to take your punishment first.”
I imagine my sub trembling with excitement and fear. Not in reality, but as part of an act we do when he steps out of line. “I do want to be a good boy,” he says, and that’s when my clit swells under my fingers. Twitching against the strokes I’ve delivered. In my head, I imagine my boy scowling, even with the paddle in my hand.
I'm stroking the wet, hot body of my clit now. “I am a good boy, but your rules are too strict,” my sub will say with a pout.
My breathing hitches in real life under a shot of intense tenderness, but in my head, I’m preparing to bring the paddle down on his ass. Which I do in short order, enjoying the groan he gives me. The jiggle in his cheeks even though the strike I gave him isn’t hard. Just purposeful. I give him another, then another. A few on each cheek. “Too strict, huh?” I imagine saying to him, “well, all your other mistresses have failed you, I’m sorry to say.” I imagine my naughty-boy and I making eye contact. I imagine the look on his face is somewhere between concern and intrigue. “They’ve taught you you can act like a ruffian and a brat, but I’m here to teach you some manners.”
With this, I imagine returning the paddle to his ass. I settle into a gentle, but intense rhythm. Enough to mark him with impressions from the studded surface. He’s gotten hard under my punishment. Straight, tall and shiny. On the other side of my fantasy, my toes curl. My breathing becomes quicker though shallow.
“I’m sorry, Mistress!” In my head, I can see the beautiful pink his ass has become under my attentions. Under the delicious sting of the paddle.
Like his ass, his face is flushed with excitement. With the massive erection he still has, and that I haven’t allowed him to touch. “I’m sorry!” He says as I imagine bringing the paddle back down for one more swat. “I’m sorry!”
My submissive’s moans become my own as I grip the handlebars in the shower. The one typically over the soap holder. I increase my stroking, loving the feel of my milky pussy juice slide around on my fingers, even in the middle of my hot waterfall.
“Are you going to be a good boy from now on?” I imagine asking him, as I get him away from the wall, and away from his punishment corner. His butt is warm from my loving, committed attention.
My submissive nods. “Your best boy,” he murmurs. As he speaks, his dick bobs.
Inside and outside of my fantasy, the sight drives me wild. Makes me want to release him, but I can’t. Not until he’s finished with me.
“Good,” I imagine saying, as I bring him gently but resolutely to his knees. I guide his face and mouth to my thick, natural muff. The silky petals underneath, hungering for the mouth and lips of a good boy. A man with manners, and proper respect for me. “If you do a good job serving me. If you follow my directions to the letter, I’ll let you come.”
With that, I
slump over in the shower. Bend toward the climbing circles of pleasure. I grab the soap from where I remember setting it and rub it over my fingers. I then rub those fingers over myself again, imagining my fingertips have turned into my boy-toy’s diligent, obedient tongue.
As he tastes me deeply, I imagine I hear him say “Thank you, Mistress. Thank you for showing me the error of my ways.” Around these words, he licks and sucks my clit. My folds. With the kind of abandon only a man who truly appreciates my goddess qualities would. “For you, I will be the best boy in the world.”
Under his words, a second stream of water splashes onto the shower floor. In one single moment of pleasure, I’ve ejaculated. Shot my cum into the already-flowing water, like a liquid-clear bullet from a pistol.
I shudder under the release, feeling both weakened and invigorated by the waves of pleasure still coursing through me. I’m shaking under it, like I’ve put my hand in an electric socket.
I pull away slowly, enjoying the beads of fluid clinging to me. They cling desperately there, even in hot water. As I straighten my posture, and get back to getting clean, I bid goodbye to my fantasy. I hold onto bits of it though, giving my subby a backwards baseball cap. A few gold or silver chains on his baby-soft chest.
“God,” I whisper, letting him linger with me in the steam, “if only a guy like you actually existed.”
Chapter 2 – Jordan
After a busy day at my dispensaries, and some private deliveries of herbs and edibles (Valentine’s Day week is one of my busiest periods outside of Christmas), I finally make it to Aspen.
To escape the swirling snow, I push in through the main doors of the lodge and I immediately see my friend Alex, his brother Paul, and their respective girlfriends Jane and Mariah.
Girlfriends they met at The Exchange Club during Christmas. I raise a hand in greeting.
Alex saunters over and gives his customary, “‘Sup, Jordan?”
“I’m freezing, that’s what’s up.”
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