Not Vanilla Flavors of Kink Collection

by Roz Lee

  “Happy birthday, Bailey Rose. I hope you enjoyed the video. I’ve watched it about a million times since you’ve been gone. I hope you aren’t mad I recorded us having sex. I should have told you about the camera a long time ago, but, at first, I was afraid I’d lose you if you knew. Then I found out you liked to watch…and shit.” He rubs both hands over his face. “I was scared, baby. Scared out of my mind to tell you the truth. So here I am.” He spreads his arms wide. “I’m not hiding anything anymore. You say you’re fucked up because you like to watch? Well, I’m as fucked up as you are. Maybe more. I like to watch, too, but I like to watch myself.”

  He paused, ducking his head like he was shy or something. He turned to the camera again. “It’s not me I like to watch so much as the women I fuck. You, in particular. I love to watch your body take mine inside. I love to watch your face when I’m buried up inside you. I like to watch and remember what it feels like to be inside you. I’m not a poet or any shit like that, babe, so I don’t have the words to describe it. All I know is—on your birthday last year? When you finally let me inside you? That was it for me, baby. I felt like I’d come home. Can you see it on my face in the video? I was so wrecked afterward. I went a little bit crazy, I think, wanting to make you happy. I was afraid I wouldn’t ever be enough for you, so I did what I did. You know, that day.

  “I watched videos of you and me for hours before she came over just so I could get it up for her. I’m an idiot.” He laughed, glancing away from the camera nervously. “The thing is, I recorded everything we did in the bedroom and some of the stuff we did in here, too. I’ll destroy it all if you want me to, but I was hoping…. Hell, I don’t know what I was hoping.” His magnificent chest rose and fell as he took in a deep breath and let it out. He seemed to be working himself up to say something. At last, he faced the camera again.

  “I can’t give you any more gifts like the one tonight at The Lone Star. I thought I could do anything if it would make you happy, but I can’t. I know the first one hurt you, but you eventually figured it out. They were all for you, baby. You aren’t coming back to me, I get it. I fucked up then I just kept fucking up until I managed to fuck myself, too.

  “I’m so tired, baby. Tired of wishing I wasn’t who I am. Tired of trying to be someone I’m not. Tired of being miserable. I have to stop lying. I’m a voyeur, baby. But the only woman I want to watch come for the rest of my life is you.

  “Text me and let me know what you want me to do with the videos. I swear to God, there’s only one copy. If you want them, I’ll figure out some way to get them to you without you having to see my sorry face again. If you want me to destroy them, I will. Hell, I’ll even video the bonfire if you want. I love you, Bailey Rose. More than anything in this world.”

  It’s a good thing I’d taken off all my makeup because I blubber like an idiot. I take the disc out of the player and hold it to my belly. Best. Birthday. Present. Ever!

  The sun will come up soon. If I’m going to catch him before he heads to the gym—yes, rodeo champions spend a lot of time in the gym—then I have to get my shit together quick. After another trip to the bathroom, and the fastest shower in history, I put on my favorite jeans, a tank top with the slogan Don’t Mess with Texas on it, and my everyday boots. Tossing the video in my purse, off I go.

  He answers the door, wearing a pair of sweatpants and nothing else. I can tell he wasn’t expecting to see me on his doorstep. At first, he looks surprised then he builds this big wall around himself like he’s afraid of little ol’ me. I get it. I’ve hurt him. He has every right to be defensive. Seems he’s forgotten I know he’s nothing but a big marshmallow inside. I push past him, giving him no choice but to shut the door and follow me into the living room.

  He’s done alright for himself. His house is magnificent and all paid for. I don’t have much to my name, but I’m an only child, and one day the whole goddamn ranch will be mine. The way I see it, I’m going to need a passel of sons to hand it down to. Sons that look just like Travis. If they have half the heart he does, they’ll be good men.

  I try to ignore how fabulous he looks in those low-slung pants, but I’m sure I’m failing miserably. Travis eyes me up and down then heads toward the kitchen, probably to make coffee. He’s not much good in the morning until he has a few cups. He’s got one of those instant things, pop in pod, hit go, and in a few seconds you’ve got coffee. So I wait. He’ll be back.

  “What do you want?” he says. Steam rises from the cup he lifts to his lips.

  I have a few things on my list, but number one is cleaning house. “Where are the other videos?”

  He doesn’t look too surprised I want them. He signals for me to follow him. We trek down the hall to his home theatre. He opens a drawer. A concealed safe lies inside, the kind people use to keep guns in their desk drawer or bedside table. He presses his thumb to the print reader, and the door pops open.

  Stepping back, he waves his arm. “All yours.”

  Dozens of DVDs sit inside. I lift out a handful. They’re all labeled “Bailey Rose” with various dates. I take out another handful, and another—yes, we fucked a lot—and they all have my name on them. “Where are the others?”

  “What others?” His thick brows draw together.

  “The ones of you fucking other women.”

  He runs a hand through his bed-mussed hair. “There aren’t any.”

  I narrow my eyes at him.

  He glares back. “I swear, Bailey Rose. They all knew I was recording them. When we broke up, I let them have them. I’m a dick, but I’m not a bastard.”

  Owning up to being a dick convinces me he’s telling the truth. Relief feels like a cold rain washing through me. If he’d still had any of those, I might have had to open my own safe—the one filled with guns—and end his misery. Instead, I smile at him.

  We haven’t been civil in a long time. It feels good just being in the same room with him without being surrounded by other people.

  “Correction.” I step closer.

  He looks like a wild mustang corralled for the first time—wild-eyed—every muscle tensed, ready to bolt at the first opportunity. He probably thinks I’m going to wring his prized appendage off. He sets his coffee cup on the credenza. I rest my hands on the waistband of his pants, curl my fingers in the soft fabric then jerk them down. His erection springs free. He’s always commando, did I mention that? Just another reason to love the guy. Easy access, all the time.

  “You’re my dick.” I press closer to him. He doesn’t even flinch when I get a stranglehold on his wood. “Is there a camera in here?”

  He nods, glancing around toward the ceiling’s four corners. If they’re there, they’re well concealed. I’m impressed.

  “All the rooms?”

  He nods again. I mentally tick off the rooms we’ve had sex in, coming up with one, perhaps two, we’ve missed. He seems to be getting on the same page with me. He smiles and rocks his hips, pushing his cock through the circle my fingers form.

  “My office.”

  “The laundry room,” I say.

  “The garage.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “The garage, huh?” The idea of all those tools makes me hot. I turn, keeping my hand wrapped around his penis. He kicks his pants off and follows me, like he has any choice. I’m not letting go anytime soon.

  His garage matches the house—big, magnificent, and filled with only the best. I look over the selection. The big truck. It’s the real deal. He has nothing to compensate for. There’s the Lexus he drives when he’s going somewhere with valet parking, and the restored 1966 Mustang.

  “The Mustang,” he says. We think a lot alike. I lead him over to the candy-apple-red hood. “I’ll take it from here, baby.”

  He’s a quick learner. He’s figured out I’ve forgiven him and this is my way of apologizing for making us both miserable for months. Having him inside me again is all the apology I need for him hiding himself from me all this time.

  He di
vests me of my clothes then helps me up on the hood. He spreads my feet so they rest on the chrome bumper, as far apart as possible. I glance at the nearest corner.

  “Motion activated,” he says. “If we stay perfectly still, they’ll cut off.” He steps in between my legs. Nose to nose with me, he sets his hands flat on the hood beside my hips. The head of his cock finds my entrance like it has GPS or something.

  “Fuck me.”

  “You’re fucked up, you know that, Bailey Rose?”

  I wrap my arms around his neck. We’re having a stare off. “Not yet, I’m not.” I can be cute, too.

  He flexes his hips, parking his giant truck in my garage. “Fucked yet?”

  “God, yes.” We stay still, locked together in the most intimate way possible until I’m sure the cameras have given up on us. Then he begins to move. Slow, like he has fifty years or so to get me off. This video will be sizzling hot.

  He stares right at me, and eventually, I come. I’m not hiding anything, and neither is he.

  “Lookin’ good, Bailey Rose.” He empties himself inside me. Let’s hope that’s little Travis Jr. swimming in there.

  ∞∞∞

  Not Vanilla

  Bondage

  by

  Roz Lee & Jennifer Lynne

  HUNG UP

  A Not Vanilla (Bondage) novelette

  by

  Roz Lee

  Out of the Chute

  “Seriously?” I, once again, consult the handwritten directions scribbled on a bar napkin. I’m beginning to feel like a rat in a maze, twisting and turning through the new mini-warehouse development wedged in between two of Ft. Worth’s busiest freeways. “If this is some kind of a joke, Colton Barnes, I’m going to strangle you with one of your own bull ropes.”

  Every building, every doorway, is identical to the next one. Following the cryptic directions—third right, second left, fourth driveway on the right—I scan the cookie-cutter doors. Find the one with a neon Open sign—turned off at this hour of the morning for obvious reasons. Not much need for a BDSM club to be open at ten in the morning. Not that I would know anything about such things. Never been to one before. When this photo shoot is over, I doubt I’ll ever set foot in this place again.

  I pull into a parking space and cut the engine. My old Mazda heaves like it’s giving up the ghost, and maybe it is. Every time it starts is a surprise. If I had means to replace the heap, I’d welcome its death. I send up a silent prayer for one more miracle, so I can get to the bank to deposit the check I’ve been promised for doing this favor for Colton. The money won’t solve all my problems, but if I parcel it out, I should be able to afford to put my rig on life support. I dread the day Jed down at Finch’s Gas & Garage finally utters the words, “Say your good-byes, Beth. There’s nothing more we can do for her.”

  I make a mental note to stop and pick up a bus schedule on my way home. The money I’m going to earn this week will pay my rent and buy groceries for a few months, but not much more. My car isn’t the only thing on life support. I’ve been doing CPR on my once lucrative dance/cheerleading studio for the last several months. I started out with a group of young dancers a few years ago and took them as far as they could go. Most have moved on to college teams, I’m proud to say. But even though the front window is lined with trophies from various competitions, I haven’t been able to attract enough clients to replace the ones who have left.

  My fault. I’m a better dancer than I am a business person. Which brings me to my present predicament.

  I haven’t told anyone about my financial difficulties—not my family or my friends. They’d all want to help, but I need to work this out on my own. If I don’t learn the ropes, I’ll always be looking for someone to come to my rescue, and I don’t want to be that person. That’s why I agreed to Colton’s business proposal, and the fact I’ve had the hots for the man since the day my body flooded with estrogen when I was thirteen.

  At sixteen, Colton Barnes had already made a name for himself on the football field, the baseball field, the debate team, the academic decathlon team, and the junior rodeo circuit. He walked the halls of Jeff Davis High School as if he owned them—and, hell, he did. Every guy wanted to be him, every girl wanted to do him, and every teacher wanted to clone him. Eventually, he chose rodeo over the colleges offering him both academic and athletic scholarships. He was/is too good to be true.

  Sometimes I wonder if he regrets the path he chose. He made a fortune on the Professional Bull Rider’s circuit, but the sport took as much as it gave. Forced to retire after a particularly nasty animal stomped on his right leg, smashing the bones to bits, he returned to Ft. Worth with a noticeable limp, and started a business making custom bull ropes. He mostly keeps to himself these days, occasionally showing up at The Lone Star to have a drink with his buddies from high school. That’s where he found me.

  I go there every week to drink and laugh with my girlfriends. The group ranges from a few to a dozen, depending on work schedules. We’re all single, except April who’s engaged and Bailey Rose who has a semi-permanent thing going with Travis. Conversation usually revolves around our dates, or lack thereof. Everyone there knows I dance, so it’s not unusual for one of the regulars at the club to drag me down to the dance floor to teach some greenhorn the basic steps. I was headed back to my table after teaching some sorority girl how to two-step when Colton stepped into my path.

  At thirty, he is even more handsome than he’d been as a teenager. Age and experience have added character to his features, something I hadn’t been aware of until the moment I crashed into his broad chest.

  He apologized profusely, but hell, if I’d had two nickels to rub together, I would have paid him to let me bounce off his chest. He offered to buy me a drink, and, finding the manners bred into me as a Southern woman, I let him. I lost track of how many drinks I consumed at his expense, but when I woke up the next morning with a herd of longhorns stampeding through my skull, I vaguely remembered agreeing to pose for him. I’d found the napkin with directions on it stuffed inside my bra.

  “You’re a class act, Bethany.” I check my teeth in the rearview mirror for remnants of the sausage biscuit I ate for breakfast then grab my makeup case from the passenger seat. The summer heat is already building at this hour, so I’ve opted to do my final prep on site rather than have the makeup slide off my face on the way over. My next car is going to have a working air conditioner, even if I have to sell my soul to afford it.

  Colton meets me in the small lobby area. I’m nearly struck dumb by the perfection of the man, but the cane he leans heavily on is enough to remind me he’s mortal. I’ve never seen him use a cane, and I say so.

  “Just giving my leg a rest while I can. I need both hands to rig, so I’ll be putting weight on it a lot for the next few days.” I nod even though I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about. I don’t remember much about our conversation at The Lone Star. The important phrases—model for some photographs, and I’ll pay you—were the ones stuck in my brain. With his free arm, he waves me through to the next room.

  Industrial lights illuminate the cavernous space. Low walls meant to delineate, not provide privacy, jut out from walls covered with implements and apparatus, leaving the center section wide open. A woman of around forty, barefoot and dressed in a peasant blouse and flowing skirt—the photographer, I assume—works to adjust a light stand. A grey backdrop hangs from the ceiling, continuing across the floor.

  “Wanda,” Colton calls out. “Our model is here.”

  “Bring her over. I need to check the lighting then she can get ready.”

  I’ve worked with photographers before. They are a focused lot, pardon the pun, so her directness doesn’t bother me. Following Colton over, I take my place on the mark taped to the backdrop.

  “No, no. On your knees…?”

  “Beth,” I automatically supply while my brain processes her instructions.

  “Kneel, Beth.” Colton’s deep voice startles me
from behind. “The first shot is a simple wrist restraint.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I drop to my knees and look up at the camera situated on a tripod.

  A large hand strokes my hair, which I’ve left down, not sure of the exact look the photographer would prefer. “Chin down, darlin’. There will be plenty of shots showing off your beautiful face, but this isn’t one of them.” Dipping my chin, a faint memory from the night at the honky-tonk flashes in my mind. “Good girl.”

  Colton combs his fingers through my hair like I’ve seen people do with a horse’s mane. It might have been comforting, except it’s Colton freakin’ Barnes doing it, and the memories of the conversation that led me to be here come back in a rush. I wrap my arms around my middle in an effort to stem the tremors of fear racing through me.

  “I told you it was too cold in here.”

  “I’ll adjust the temperature,” Wanda says. “Can’t have her pebbling up all over.” Her words trail off as she goes in search of the thermostat.

  “Colton?”

  “You don’t remember, do you?” I imagine him stroking a frightened mare, soothing her with his touch and his honeyed voice. “You can do this. I know you can.”

  I answer with another shiver. I’ve agreed to pose nude, bound with ropes intricately tied by the competent hands raking my hair back from my temples.

  “Wanda has photographed hundreds of nudes. She’s the best at this sort of thing. And I’m the best at what I do. You have a beautiful body which will be even more beautiful rigged and suspended.”