Not Vanilla Flavors of Kink Collection

by Roz Lee

  He’s a strange hybrid mix of race that I can’t quite pinpoint, and unlike anyone I’ve ever met. His build is tall and lean rather than overly-muscled, with tanned skin and almost black hair cut short at the back and sides. His nose is bordering on too strong and his mouth is wide, with a definite hint of sardonic in the way it lifts at one corner whenever he listens to me speak. His eyes tilt up slightly at the outer corners, and the green of his irises is so intense it reminds me of the fragrant mint my assistant grows in a little tub on the windowsill of our office kitchenette.

  Roane is not classically handsome at all, and yet there’s something about him that is so compelling, I can’t tear my gaze away when he enters the room. Neither can anyone else, I’ve noticed. It’s as if he’s found a way to bottle whatever makes a man “alpha,” and then sprayed himself liberally with the heady scent. Every cell in my body wakes up the moment he’s in my vicinity, and even when I try not to think about what he does for a living, my mind slips immediately to a place where I imagine those long, strong fingers working diligently to bind me into submission with a series of intricate, unbreakable knots.

  I clear my throat, trying unsuccessfully to break this hypnotic spell he seems to weave. The thought of handing over that much control…complete and utter control…to someone else…and especially to him…

  A shiver traverses my skin and sends a strong signal straight to my clit. I don’t understand the sudden aching throb between my legs. This gig was Connor’s, not mine, and I’m only in the driver seat of this festival because I made him a promise last year before he passed away. The BDSM lifestyle isn’t one I’ve ever been particularly drawn to, and even though my brother seemed to get enormous satisfaction from his role as a sub, it isn’t something I’ve considered for myself.

  If Roane ever tries to tie me up the way he does to that poor woman, I’d probably have a hissy fit. I’m not that sort of woman. He knows it, and so do I.

  Again that betraying pulse of need makes itself felt, as if my body is calling out my mind as a blatant liar. I clench my thighs in an effort to control it, but that only intensifies the sensation and I know there is wetness pooling now in my overheated pussy.

  His eyes are amused as he stares at me, and I wonder if he’s aware of his arousing effect. Probably. His lips twitch, doing that sardonic curl. Definitely then. Bastard.

  I stare back, trying not to be intimidated even though my nipples begin to harden in an unsolicited confirmation of the burgeoning lust staking its claim on my body.

  “No.” His voice is cool but his eyes are still hot with laughter, and my brain shuts down for a moment.

  What are we talking about? “No, what?”

  He’s wearing a black T-shirt, black jeans, and boots. The outfit shows off his lean physique and muscled arms and shoulders, and my heart skips a beat at the thought of those same muscles rippling with effort as he hoists the rope rigging during one of his shows. What would it feel like, to be bound, and then suspended by an expert rigger?

  He raises a brow, then answers with exaggerated patience. “No, there is unlikely to be anyone else available at this short notice.” He pushes off the wall with one shoulder and walks toward me, and once again my breath is temporarily trapped in the base of my lungs. Roane moves with a measured precision that is the opposite of flamboyant, and yet every action is all the more intriguing because of its very restraint. His quiet stillness is so innate that when he moves it seems more profound, more noticeable, than when others do the same.

  It takes effort to concentrate on our conversation, especially when he grips the back of my visitor’s chair with those strong hands, and then leans close, only centimeters away. His fresh, understated aroma wafts across my nostrils in a tantalizing hint of clean masculinity. I can’t tell if he’s wearing aftershave, or if that heady, slightly woodsy scent is just part of who he is. Either way he smells delicious and when I inhale I have to consciously stop myself from letting out a pleasurable groan.

  “What would you suggest, then?” Now I sound ridiculous, like a breathy schoolgirl with a crush on her teacher.

  “I’ll put out a call to my contacts,” he says. “But suspension sessions involve an enormous level of trust and commitment from each of the parties. It can be dangerous if not done correctly, and there’s more chance for things to go wrong if the model and the rigger have no real connection. Other than Nicole, there are very few people I would be willing to put in that position.”

  I slump in the chair, disappointment forcing my mind back onto the job as I try to figure out what we can do to salvage this. Oh, Connor. My brother worked so hard, and now I’m right on the cusp of achieving the level of acclaim he craved. If we can just get Roane to cooperate.

  When he shifts, I flinch a little. The question that follows drops into the room and lays there between us like a poisonous snake. “Why don’t you do it, Ava?”

  A bark of laughter escapes and the mesmerizing effect is finally broken. “Nope. Not going to happen, Roane. I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to find someone else.”

  “We have a connection already. I’ve known that ever since you saw my performance in New York.”

  He feels it too? I can’t deny there’s something between us, but to take the leap from being aware of each other sexually, to participating in a public shibari session with one of the world’s most well-respected Dominants…

  I’m already shaking my head but he just looks at me, and I feel like a twelve-year old who’s been caught out in bad behaviour. Suddenly I’m babbling, the bubble of anxiety rising. “I can’t, Roane. There’s no way. You must know I don’t have a submissive bone in my body. I wouldn’t even know how to—”

  “There is no one else. It’s you, or I cancel.” Again, his voice is quiet, but it carries an edge of steel that sends awareness shivering down my spine. He means it. If he cancels, the festival will be ruined, and with it my late brother’s reputation.

  “Look.” I speak in a firm yet calm tone, aiming for reason. “Let’s consider this for a minute. Your show sold out within an hour of tickets going on sale. We have media from seven countries here just to see you. Seven, Roane. It would destroy our reputation if you cancel. Please…”

  I bite my lip to stop the desperate begging before it really gets started. Connor and Dad would have been shaking their heads in disbelief to see me like this. I’m letting them down. I want to burst into tears, but crying is a useless waste of energy. Another of Dad’s famous sayings. Instead, I do what I always do when tears threaten, and mentally give myself a slap. Okay, Ava, get your act together. Stay tough, and get things sorted.

  His head tilts to one side and I can see he’s caught the movement of my teeth attacking my bottom lip. He looks more interested than he should, and I stop biting. Friggin’ anxiety. I hate it.

  “It’s one performance,” he says after a pause. “You could wear a blindfold for much of it, and we can get you a wig if it makes you more comfortable. No one will even know it’s you.” While he talks he releases one hand from the back of the chair and I follow the gesture of those long fingers back and forth. I wish he didn’t sound so reasonable. It makes me feel like I should seriously consider his suggestion.

  I’m hesitating, on the verge of arguing some more, when he adds, “And you’re wrong about one thing, Ava. There’s a part of you that craves submission. You just don’t know it yet, because no one has ever shown you properly how to tap into that part of yourself.”

  Submission. The word sends a prickle across my skin and I shiver again, but not with cold. It’s something unfamiliar at my core that is suddenly fighting hard to get out. It terrifies and excites me, all in the same moment.

  What the hell is this man’s secret? He binds women so tightly with rope that he has to keep checking throughout the show to make sure their fingers and toes don’t drop off from lack of circulation. In the end they can’t move a muscle, and when he hoists them up to show them off as art, people don’t call h
im a sadist. Rather, they call him an artist and flock to see his work.

  On a sensible, rational level none of that appeals to me. I don’t want to have my humanity stripped bare and be reborn simply as an object of art. Completely at someone else’s mercy. I don’t. So, what is it about this dominant male that makes me forget everything sensible, and sets off these strange cravings that are growing so strong they fill my belly with crazed flip-flopping agitation?

  Roane. What would it be like to have your hard cock buried deep inside me while you stare down with those intense green eyes? Would you hold still while I come, or would you thrust so deep in my cunt that I’d have no choice but to explode around your organ? What would it be like to have those fingers caress the slit between my legs until an orgasm takes me to a place where I can forget everything and everyone?

  What would it be like, if you did all that while I was bound and unable to move?

  I can’t believe I’ve descended to this in my imagination, and yet my sex is slippery with cream as my thoughts continue to run wild. I know that if I stand up right now there’ll be a wet patch on my seat. Thank God for these tailored black trousers, and the ability to slide my chair closer to the desk to hide my faithless response.

  “I met your brother several times.”

  Well. Didn’t see that one coming. “I didn’t know that.”

  “I considered him a friend. I know your family history, Ava. Your dad’s gone now. He’s two thousand miles away in Perth, and he’s not coming back to Melbourne. He wouldn’t dare show his face here again. He’s finally out of your life for good. You don’t have to be strong and tough every waking moment in an effort to try and stand up to him. For yourself, or for Connor. Not anymore.”

  My hand is at my mouth and I can’t think straight. “How—”

  “He was a bully, Ava. I’m a Dominant, one of the best, and when you submit to me there will be an enormous difference in your experience.”

  I open and close my mouth, wanting to applaud him for his persuasive skills, but my heart is pounding so fast I’m afraid I’ll have a heart attack. I’m losing control over the crazy thing deep inside. Is it panic? Maybe. Whatever it is, it’s hammering for release.

  Yes. Do it. Try it. Just the once. You know you need what he’s offering.

  “For a few hours on Saturday night, you will hand over responsibility to another person. To me. And what you will experience, Ava, is complete and cathartic release. I promise you won’t regret your decision.”

  I swallow, trying to force the lump of panic back down. Sure. I’ll be completely safe, in front of a massive crowd, with the world’s media watching on to make sure I don’t get hurt…

  “We will have a practice run on Friday. Just you and me at my apartment here in Melbourne. No audience. After that, if you say no, I’ll honor your wish. Would that make you feel better?”

  “Maybe.” Just you and me, and a slithery rope? In your apartment? Hell no, that will not make me feel any better!

  The crazy thing lurches. It feels like a serious attack of the butterflies. Heck, forget butterflies. This feels more like a stampede of wild animals. My vagina clenches and my clit is so swollen it aches. I’m having trouble sitting still. Again I clamp my thighs, but that only heightens the effect as my labia lips glide against one another, flesh on creamy flesh.

  So much wetness there between my legs. How long has it been since I’ve felt any kind of sexual desire whatsoever? Too long. But here, in front of Roane, with the offer to visit his apartment for a private one-on-one shibari session? The urge to slip my hand between my legs and start masturbating is almost overwhelming.

  I unclench my fingers and flex them experimentally on the desktop, stunned to discover the tremor has subsided. I cannot believe what I’m about to say next, and yet my body is already celebrating the words with another involuntary clench of vaginal muscle. “I’ll…consider it.”

  Roane grins, showing a flash of neat white teeth, and the action reminds me of a tiger who has just spotted its prey. Danger. “Yes, Ava, by all means. Consider it.”

  2

  Don’t we need a safe word?

  I don’t think I can do this. In fact, I’m positive I can’t.

  I chose to wear my old flannel robe because it is thick and comforting, but standing here in the middle of his Melbourne studio apartment, looking up at a convoluted rope pulley suspension system, is about as far from comfortable as I can imagine. There’s a lone seat that looks somewhat like a park bench, situated in the middle of a large square-shaped room, and I wonder if I’m supposed to sit there. Or just stand up? Or…

  What the heck am I supposed to do? If he doesn’t get here soon I’m going to pass out from hyper-ventilating.

  When I finally agreed to give this a try, I knew he would expect me to be naked, but the reality of that is so much harder to deal with than an abstract concept. Naked? Sure. During my shower this morning I shaved everything to within an inch of its life, moisturized all over, and squirted perfume in unfamiliar places. All the while this strange mix of fear and excitement fought a war within my system.

  Except…now that I’m standing here with my clothing stacked in a neat pile in his bathroom next door, fear seems to be winning out. This robe isn’t nearly thick enough to keep me modest, especially when I’m completely naked underneath it, and alone with him in his home.

  I rub my sweaty hands on the robe, trying to focus on what’s around me. Concentrate, damn it. There’s no need to be this scared. You’re tough.

  Wide polished floorboards line the room, beneath a thick, burgundy-colored rug in the center. One wall is completely mirrored from floor to ceiling, while the others are draped with a black velvety-looking fabric that creates a cozy, almost closed-in effect. The rigging system built into the ceiling houses a series of down lights as well as a bunch of cables and heck knows what else. The result is like a cross between a dance studio and a decadent bedroom—only there’s no bed, just that unusual bench seat with a black wrought-iron back, and along one of the fabric-draped walls there’s a heavy wooden sideboard with a series of cupboards.

  One thing I do like in this room is the lighting. For some reason I expected glaring white theatre lights, but it is actually golden and not at all stark. When I catch a glimpse of my anxious face in the mirror, I can see the warmth of that light softening my reflection and giving my brown hair interesting chestnut highlights.

  “Ava.” His voice is a caress and a command, all contained in that one word. I automatically pull the robe tighter around me as I turn toward him. He’s standing in the doorway, but already his presence seems to fill the room. He’s dominant in the truest sense of the word. When he’s around, no one else matters. But I’m dominant too. Aren’t I?

  I raise my chin and give him a look. The one that makes everyone in the office sit up and take notice when I speak. I add in a small smile, trying to soften the effect a little, but still wanting to remind him that he doesn’t own me—I’m only here under sufferance.

  “I have no idea how this is going to work, Roane. I won’t hand over control. It’s not in me to do that.” The crazy thing tucked away inside starts laughing.

  Liar, liar. Just you wait and see.

  One eyebrow lifts as he studies me, and when he doesn’t smile back mine slowly disappears. “Remove your robe.” Hmm. Foreplay, anyone? Making internal jokes to stave off the panic doesn’t seem to be working. My chest heaves as I suck in a deep breath and let it out slowly, debating whether or not to argue. But what would be the point? I’m the one that agreed to this, and I’m here to do a job.

  Baring myself to him physically is hard, but it’s doable. I might be rusty in the sexual stakes, but I’m not a complete novice. What is hidden deep down inside is what scares me more, but as long as I stay in control of my emotions I’ll be fine. Okay. I can do this.

  I do as he commands, my hands fumbling, making what I’m sure is a ridiculous spectacle as I finally untie the belt an
d let the robe drop to the floor. I step over the messy puddle of flannel pooling around my feet and wait for what comes next.

  What does he think? Is he regretting this already? I’m not thin, and I’m not that young anymore, either. I turned thirty-five just over a month ago, and I’ve been too busy lately to look after myself properly. I’ve been eating a lot of take-out and it probably shows on my waist and hips.

  In that instant I realize that I want him to like me; to desire me in the same way my body seems to crave his. The urge to weep comes over me, but I refuse to give in to it. As he moves further into the room and circles me, I find myself wishing that I were the type of woman who might truly attract a man like Roane.

  I imagine someone beautiful. Perhaps a pale blonde like Nicole to counter his darkness, with a slender, youthful frame and a come-hither flirtiness in her gaze. He would love that. My plain brown hair, freckled nose, and larger-than-average build must be a huge let-down.

  Finally I can’t stand the silence. “Look, I’m probably not…” He continues to circle, studying me as if I’m a creature at the zoo. It’s like he’s trying to memorize every dip and curve of my body, drinking in the sight of me with those intense green eyes, and I swallow hard and try again. “I’m probably not quite what you’re used to. Nicole was stunning, I know. I only met her the once, but—”

  “Quiet.” The word slices across my nervous babble. He brings his hand up to his chin, rubbing it a couple of times and frowning in seeming concentration. “Your curves are just right for what I have in mind.” Suddenly the frown is gone and he nods decisively. “Yes. I see it. The patterns are becoming clear.” He leans close and touches my collarbone, running his finger lightly along the contoured ridge and stopping at the dip in my throat. “This is going to work out just fine.”

  His finger flutters down toward the curve of my breast but it is gone before it reaches the nipple. I don’t know why, but it is as if I can still feel his hand on me, warm and firm, continuing its run over the swell of my flesh. A line of goose bumps forms in the wake of an imaginary touch rimming my nipple, and I let out a tiny hiss. How can you make me feel such things when you didn’t even touch me there?