by Frost, E J
Very, very, very fucking over.
“You obviously weren’t monogamous when you were with her.” She flips back to the first page and rests her fingertips on the black print. I can’t see what’s under her fingers, but it’s probably that number. A number that’s clearly bothering her. “Or you were really, really . . . busy before her.”
That gets a chuckle out of me. “No, we weren’t monogamous.” Mir wasn’t ever monogamous with me, so I wasn’t monogamous with her. It salved what little pride I had left every time she left me to fly back to her husband. “I saw her fairly infrequently. A few days every month or so, when she could get away. Do you need monogamy?”
She shakes her head without meeting my eyes. “Not as long as everyone’s honest. I don’t want any jealousy or weirdness. I’ve done all that.”
I let it slide, because we’re just getting to know each other. But that was a lie, and if she lies to me again, there will be consequences.
“Okay, in the interests of being honest, I’d need your undivided attention for a couple of weeks. I have a business trip planned. I need my bottom with me.”
“How long?” she asks.
Ten days, but if it goes well, I might want her to stick around.
“Say two weeks,” I tell her. “You’d have your own room, your own time. But I’d need you available to me several times a day. There’d be scenes. In public. We wouldn’t have a lot of time to get to know each other first, so I need someone experienced. Your sign says you are.”
And the way she responds to commands speaks volumes.
She swallows again, then nods. “Five years. But, um, one year was mostly online.”
“That’s okay.” I’ve never done much in the online BDSM scene, so her experience there might be useful. “Are you okay with doing scenes in public? It wouldn’t have to be full sex.”
“I’ve been to dungeon parties,” she offers.
“That’s fine, as long as you’re okay with me displaying you in public.”
She nods, but doesn’t look at all certain. I think we need to put that to the test.
“Would you come to the bathroom with me?” I ask.
Now her eyes lift to mine. They’re wide, maybe frightened. “Uh, now?”
“Yeah. I’d like to see you.” And I need to know if she really is okay being naked in front of strangers. Or at least, in front of this stranger.
She presses her lips together, and for a second, I’m afraid she’s going to refuse.
How much I don’t want her to catches me by surprise.
“Trust has to start somewhere,” I say, lowering my voice so it’s deep and soft. I want to soothe, not scare, her. “A good girl would go to the bathroom like her daddy’s told her. Are you a good girl?”
She releases her lips, white teeth scraping across her lower lip. “Yes, sir.”
I really like the way she calls me “sir” without prompting. Although I understand she may want to call me “Daddy” at some point, hearing “sir” right now feels familiar and reassuring. It also reinforces my impression of her training.
She rises, a little unsteadily, and smoothes her hands down her sides. What I took for a white silk dress is a short-sleeved tunic, worn over a straight black skirt that stops above her knees. Conservative.
One of my mother’s expressions comes back to me. Neat as a pin. I’m not sure now neat pins are, but it fits the woman in front of me. Standing in her black ballet flats, she’s maybe five-five. I’ll be able to rest my chin on the top of her head. Small, but I like small. Being able to overwhelm my subs physically is a huge turn-on. I always missed that when I was with Mir.
Maybe I won’t have to miss it anymore.
I rise slowly and let her take in my height, my size. She doesn’t flinch, and her pupils widen.
“Leave your books but bring your handbag,” I tell her. I don’t want anyone robbing her while I’m making her strip in the toilet.
“Yes, sir.” She reaches back behind the table and draws out an oversized, black suede bag. As she reaches for the bag, her skirt stretches over a heart-shaped ass. I’ve always been a leg and ass man. Very, very nice.
“Give me your hand.” I hold out mine. Hers, sliding into it, is ice cold. “Are you scared, baby doll?”
Her breathing quickens in response to the endearment.
“I’m, uh, this just isn’t how I thought today was going to go,” she says.
“What did you think was going to happen when you came here advertizing for a Daddy-Dom?” I ask, leading her through the busy hall, following the signs for the toilets.
She turns a spectacular beet shade. “The last two times I tried face-to-face were wash-outs. Speed-dating is not my forte.”
Kinky speed dating. I chuckle at the thought. “I haven’t tried it.”
“Well, there’s a session in two hours, if you want to.”
I saw it on the expo agenda, and wasn’t tempted. “Let’s see how it goes in the bathroom.”
The color washes out of her face and she stumbles a step. “Is this, um, an audition?”
Whoops. That was not the right thing to say.
“No, baby doll. There’s no need to be nervous about it.”
“Okay,” she says, but, clearly, she is. Some performance anxiety there.
I cast around for something to set her at ease. “Tell me about the dungeon parties you’ve been to. Did you do scenes?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of scene?”
“Impact play. Mostly spanking, some flogging, some caning.”
Good. We could get by just on impact scenes if she can’t handle more than that. “Did you have sex?”
“No. It wasn’t that kind of relationship. He just topped me.”
“Really? Huh.” I know some tops don’t have sex with their bottoms. Topping for me is sexual, very sexual. I hope it is for her, too, or we’re going to have a problem. “You were okay with that?”
“At first. In the long run, it became really confusing and frustrating. I don’t think I’d want to do it again.”
Thank God for that.
I reach the door marked for the toilets and lead her through. Down a short hallway, there are ladies’ and men’s’ rooms separated by a handicapped door. With a glance around, I lead her into the handicapped bathroom. It’s a single cubicle, light glaring off the stark white tiling, but it’s private and there’s much more space than we’d have in a toilet stall.
I close the door and lock it so no one walks in on us. Her indrawn breath tells me I’ve made another mistake, and when I turn around, I find her standing on the far side of the bathroom, near the sink, twisting the strap of her handbag between white-knuckled fists.
She feels trapped.
I tuck my hands into the pockets of my jeans and shuffle a step away from the door. Her eyes track the clear exit route.
I lean back against the tiled wall to make myself even less threatening and wait for her hands on the strap of her bag to relax, which they do after a few seconds.
“Before we do anything else, I think we need to establish two things.”
She smiles hesitantly. “What things?”
“Have you always had a safe word in the past?”
She nods.
“I think we should have one, starting now. How does ‘airplane’ work for you?”
Her smile widens, showing the tips of pearly teeth. “That would be great.”
“Second thing is your name. We’ve established Victoria Cage isn’t your real name, and that you don’t want to say your real name in the middle of the expo, which makes plenty of sense, but I need something to call you.”
“Oh.” Her grin turns sheepish. “My name’s Kathryn.”
I watch her for a moment. She’s avoiding my eyes again, and there’s a gloss of sweat along her throat. I don’t think her name is Kathryn, but I have plenty of time to test that theory later. She might have good reasons for not telling me. If she doesn’t, that’s li
e number two and I’m going to spank the shit out of her.
I shift against the wall, getting comfortable. “Daddy wouldn’t call his little girl Kathryn, would he? He’d call her Kathy.” A slight shake of her head. Not Kathy. I thought she’d like the Wuthering Heights reference as an author, but maybe I should be appealing to her baby girl side. “Or Kitty.”
She nods.
Better. The nickname feels natural. I’m settling into my groove, finding the things that set her at ease. “My name’s James Logan, but I go by Logan.”
She nods again and I realize she’s probably seen my name on the medical records I gave her, but the reminder doesn’t hurt. It’s all about building rapport.
“I think we should establish one more thing,” I say. “Just this time, no touching. You can look at whatever you want, but hands off.”
“Oh, um, okay. Do you . . . will you, um . . .”
I like how tongue-tied I make her. How she turns fiery red when she’s uncertain. Some of my other subs have been blushers: natural blondes and redheads color up with little provocation. Kitty’s dark-haired, but her skin’s very pale and she blushes beautifully. I can’t wait to find out if her skin marks as easily.
“Will I take my clothes off, too?” I supply for her. “Yes. I’d never ask you to do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Oh.” Her smile returns. “Okay.”
“I’ll go first.” Although being naked is one my favorite things, getting naked isn’t. There’s no graceful way to take off shoes and socks. I decide to strip in stages, which Kitty will probably appreciate, too. I shrug out of my denim shirt and tug off the black tee beneath, then stand at rest with my hands tucked into my back pockets so she can look at me.
Those big hazel eyes lick over me like a caress, skittering up to meet my eyes, then sliding back down my throat to roam my chest. Why in the ever-loving fuck did I decide that we’re not going to touch each other this time? I want to feel her warm palm stroke my abs the way her eyes are doing.
“You’re, um—”
“Big,” I say, rather than risk her saying something like “scary,” because that’s not the way I want her thinking about me right now. “Six-two, hundred and ninety pounds. You ever been with a guy as big as me?”
She shakes her head.
“My size scare you?”
“If I say ‘yes,’ is the audition over?”
That’s a “yes.” I need to keep setting her at ease until we have some trust built. Once she trusts me, she won’t see my size as a disadvantage.
“No, baby doll.” I wink at her. Disarming. “I haven’t seen yours yet.”
She gives me back a shy smile. “No tattoos?”
I have two, one which she won’t be able to see until I take off my pants. I turn so she can see the motto I have inked across my traps: “Death Before Dishonor.”
I hear her shuffle forward a step. When I glance over my shoulder, I see she’s got her hand raised as though she’ll touch my tat.
Oh, yes, baby doll. Break my rule and give me an excuse to discipline you.
She clears her throat and takes a step back. “Is that the services?”
“Uh-huh, Navy. Do you have any ink?”
“No.”
I consider for a moment and decide that’s okay. I like tattoos on women. I even talked Mir into getting one. But something feels right about having a baby girl be unmarked. Besides, if the rest of her is covered in the same creamy, freckled skin as her face, throat and arms, there will be plenty to enjoy, even without any ink.
I turn back around and look down at her. She’s drawn close while she’s been looking at me, and is just a step away. She can’t really be intimidated by my size if she’s willing to get so close. “Okay, I showed you mine,” I say.
Her hands flutter up and down between her breasts as though she’s undoing buttons, although there aren’t any on her tunic. “I, um, do you want me to—”
I need to make this easy for her. She’s trained, well-trained, even. If I give her commands, that should help her relax.
“Turn around and face the mirror. Take your top off over your head, fold it and lay it on your bag. Then take your bra off, put your hands over your breasts, turn around and face me.”
She closes her eyes and I watch her for any sign that might have been too much. When she opens her eyes, her pupils are huge.
“Good girl,” I murmur as she turns around to face the mirror over the sink.
She plucks at her top, finally gathering it under her breasts and then lifting it off over her head. Her hair slithers free, sliding over her skin like sepia ink, the tassel of her plait swishing to the middle of her back. I can’t wait to run my hands through it. Beneath the tunic she’s wearing more white silk: a demi-cup bra, edged with white lace and embroidered with tiny pink hearts. Cute. She’s blushing so hard the tops of her breasts are mottled, but when she’s not so pink, her skin will be gorgeous: creamy, smooth and dotted with red-brown freckles. Just what I was hoping for. She’ll mark up like a wet dream.
She meets my eyes in the mirror, and blushes to her hairline.
I give her a nod to keep her going.
Biting her lip, she starts removing her bra: unhooking it behind her back with that strange, double-jointed movement women somehow manage without dislocating an elbow. She slides the straps down her arms. I don’t angle to see her bare breasts as she takes off the bra. I keep my eyes on hers in the mirror. She breaks eye contact to fold her bra and place it on top of her tunic and bag, sitting in the sink. Then her eyes rise to mine again. She cups her hands over her breasts and turns to face me.
“Show me what you have for me,” I say, very gently.
She lets her hands fall to her sides, revealing little breasts so slight the overhead lights barely cast any shadow beneath them. Her pink nipples are furled tight. Goosebumps bead her freckled skin.
She glances down at herself, then back up at me.
“Beautiful, baby doll. How’re you doing? Can you show me more?”
She nods, holding my eyes.
I unbuckle my belt, unbutton my jeans, hook my thumbs in the waistbands of jeans and boxers, and push them down to my ankles. I decide not to try to take off my shoes and socks. There’s nothing particularly sexy about my ankles and feet anyway. My balls are sticking to my thighs, so I give them a tweak, then rock back on my heels and let her look at me.
She swallows, satin throat working. “Can I, um—?”
“Take a closer look? Sure. But you’ll need to be on your knees. Put some tissue down so you’re not touching the floor.” The tile looks clean enough. But you never know what’s on the floor of a convention center toilet.
She quickly unwinds some toilet paper from the holder, places it on the tiles at my feet and kneels. She really is well-trained. Kneeling can be uncomfortable if you don’t know how to do it, but she goes down onto her knees like she’s never known any other position. Kneeling, she’s close enough that I can feel her breath on my thighs, stirring the small hairs there.
Touch me, baby doll, touch me. Show me you can’t keep your hands off me, and I’ll spank you just as much as you want.
She raises her hands and my breath catches. Is she going to give in and touch me? Just when I think she’s going to, she reaches behind me and braces her palms against the title. She leans in and examines me from a hair’s breadth away.
I let her look her fill, enjoying her soft breaths as they patter across my thighs. “See anything you like?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “How big do you get—?”
“Erect? Want me to show you?”
“Yes, please, sir.”
“You have to stay right there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good girl.” I reach down to grab my dick, then slow my movements. I don’t want to startle her when she’s inches away, and it can’t hurt to make this seductive. I rub my palm down my groin, up and down my thigh, before thumbing my base and cupping my balls
. She watches each movement, bare breasts shivering with her shaky breaths.
Under that scorching gaze, I take my shaft in hand and begin stroking. It only takes a couple of strokes to get me hard with her watching. Once I’m standing at attention, I stop stroking, cup my base in my hand and let her stare.
I should flag now that I’m not stimulating myself, but I don’t. I get harder. Her nearness and obvious excitement crank me up. The temptation to reach out and cup her sleek head, draw it to me, is almost irresistible. If she’d glance up, look at me, instead of gobbling my cock with her eyes, I’d give in. Break my own rule. Instead, she just kneels in front of me, riveted. Her warm breath trembles across the skin of my corona as she exhales.
I hear her take a deeper breath.
“What do I smell like, baby doll?” I whisper to her.
“Peanuts.” Her hazel eyes dart up to mine. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
I grin down at her. “You don’t have to sugar-coat anything with me. If I smell like peanuts down there, that’s what I smell like. You allergic?”
“To peanuts?” She gives a soft laugh that gusts warm, then cool, over my glans. I swallow a groan, and start stroking again. “No, I like peanuts.”
“Good. Do that again.” I pull back my foreskin with my thumb and forefinger. “Breathe on me.”
“Yes, sir.” She blows out a breath across the taut skin of my head and this time I can’t muffle the groan. It’s loud in the small space, and the next one’s louder when she blows another breath across me, not just warm now but moist. The way the first touch of her lips would feel.
“You know how much I want to be in your mouth right now?” I growl at her.
“Yes, sir.” She lifts her chin and opens her rosebud mouth.
I squeeze my eyes shut in frustration. I want it. I can imagine the steamy slickness of her mouth closing on me—how good it will feel—but I don’t want to rush this. I don’t want to break my own rule. That’s the mark of a weak top. I’m not a weak top. I can control myself, and be patient.
When I open my eyes, she’s still kneeling between my feet, her eyes rolled up to me, lips open.
“No, baby doll. Not this time.” I reach out and hold my palm just above her cheek, so she can feel the warmth of my skin the way I can feel the heat of her breaths, but still not touching. “Watch. Breathe on me. Then I want to see you.”
