One Hot Fall Term (Yardley College Chronicles Book1)

by Sharon Page

  Would his lips be really soft since they are so full?

  God, what am I thinking? I almost want to kiss him, because he’s done what Ryan used to do. He’s made me see the good in myself. He’s made me believe in myself. And I’m floating in a euphoric haze and I…like him so much for what he’s done for me.

  But I can’t kiss him. I’m with Ryan. If I kiss Jonathon, I’ll never forgive myself.

  His lips move closer and my heart decides it’s a good time to skip a bunch of beats. Is a kiss really wrong? Just one kiss, and then I’ll tell him no more?

  Yes, it is wrong! I’m not going to make some stupid mistake and ruin the best thing I’ve ever had.

  I move back from Jonathon, pressing close to the door. He retreats also.

  “I’m not going to kiss you,” he says. “You’re tired, upset, and you belong to someone else. But you like beating yourself up with words and I want you to stop doing it, Mia. I want you to learn to appreciate your talents, your beauty, and your strength.” Jonathon opens his door and gets out of the car. He walks around to my side. But when he opens my door, I hesitate.

  “I am going to appreciate myself. I shouldn’t have come here. How am I going to learn about confidence and self-appreciation in a BDSM club?”

  “By taking control,” Jonathon answers.

  “Taking control how?” I look over to the building. It looks like a warehouse or industrial building, built with stucco panels and dark, reflective glass. A neon sign is over the door. It reads, Tied.

  “Does taking control mean to agree to be whipped, spanked, and tied up, or whatever it is you like to do?”

  “It can if you want it to. Or you can pick up a whip yourself or a paddle and take on the role of dominatrix.”

  He says these things so casually.

  “I don’t know. Make myself feel better by whipping some submissive guy’s butt?”

  “It’s not about making you feel better at the expense of someone else. The scenes satisfy all participants.”

  I lift a brow. “You sound like a prof. Satisfying all participants? Is that in the brochure?” For some reason, I feel very defensive. I don’t know why. I agreed to this; it’s not like Jonathon is dragging me here.

  “Actually, it’s in the introduction letter that comes with a membership.”

  I have to giggle.

  “We’ll go in, allow you to become acclimatized, get a drink,” Jonathon says.

  “There’s a bar?”

  “Of course. It’s my club. It has a very well-stocked bar.”

  “I can’t drink. You would lose your licence. Anyway, if I did drink, I could end up doing something really stupid. I’m too tired to drink, so I’m not going to have anything tonight.”

  “That sounds good, Mia.”

  “I’m not going to do anything in there. Even spanking someone is a sexual situation. That makes it a betrayal of my relationship with Ryan. I won’t do it.” I bite my thumbnail. “I really shouldn’t be here.”

  “Just observe, Mia. I know you’re curious.”

  “All right. I guess I am curious.”

  “College is a time for exploration.” Jonathon grins wickedly, his eyes a deep green under the parking lot lights. “You can explore safely tonight. Welcome to Tied.”

  ***

  Jonathon raps on the bronze door of the dark building. It’s opened by a man in a suit who gives a small bow and says, “Good evening, Mr. Powell. And madam.”

  The man is young and slender, with bronze skin, a shaved head, and one gold earring.

  “Good evening, Charles,” Jonathon says smoothly as the man comes up behind me and holds out his hands for my coat.

  I suddenly realize I didn’t dress for this kind of a night. I was dressed for working in the wood shop in the morning and writing a physics midterm in the afternoon. I’m wearing old jeans with ragged knees and a grey t-shirt. But I can’t walk around a bondage club wearing my outdoor coat. For a start, this foyer is too well heated. Sighing, I give it up.

  “Would madam care for a costume?” Charles asks, but he directs the question at Jonathon.

  I guess they provide clothing so women don’t have to show up in thigh high boots and corsets. Maybe this way they can come straight from work.

  “No, madam is fine,” I say. I feel out of place, but I think I would feel weirder to be in a submissive’s costume in front of Jonathon.

  “Madam is a guest of mine tonight. An observer, not a participant.”

  Charles bows again and retreats.

  “You are supposed to be better behaved as my companion,” Jonathon says.

  “If I was your submissive, yes. But I’m here as your friend. And I don’t take well to being given orders.” Something snaps in me and makes me really defensive. “I’ve taken enough crap in my life while being a complete docile wimp. I have no intention of doing it anymore.”

  My comment doesn’t bother Jonathon in the least. He just says, “Good.”

  He leads me to the bar, where I rest my elbow on a sinuous curve of black granite. Red lights reflect endlessly on the surface. The bartenders are all male, though the servers who glide through the bar area with its array of comfortable couches and silver tables are young women—women who balance perfectly on six-inch stripper heels and who wear skin-tight black leather dresses.

  “Remember, I can’t have anything to drink,” I tell Jonathon. “I’m so tired I’m on the tipping point of dangerous.”

  His green eyes reflect the red light, making them look dark and devilish. Red suits him, caressing his face, making his jet black hair look like it is on fire. “I have no interest in taking your control away. But you should have something. A diet Coke?”

  That sounds safe enough. So I agree. I reach into my pocket for my wallet, but Jonathon receives the drinks and no money changes hands. Apparently they just put it on his account.

  I sip my coke and finally turn to get a good look at the club. At least, I intend to but a huge distraction bounces in front of me. A girl with stick straight platinum blond hair, and big breasts encased in leather strips comes jiggling up to Jonathon. She wears a collar. Silver ovals hang from metal loops of the collar, and each oval contains a differently colored jewel. She gives him a kiss on his cheek and calls him ‘Master’.

  I am Nick Carraway again, dragged to a New York apartment to meet a woman I don’t wish to, to spend an afternoon in a drunken haze as an observer, because the assumption is that I have nothing better to do. I feel just as awkward and out of place while the blonde gushes over Jonathon.

  “It is so good to see you tonight, Master,” she purrs. “I’ve missed you so very much.”

  Jonathon leans over, murmurs something in her ear. She nods, though her fetching smile has vanished. She leaves us without another word.

  I can’t stay silent. “You were coming here and seeing her while you were dating Lara?”

  “Crystal played my games willingly and with no expectations. Satisfaction here allowed me time to build a relationship.”

  I blink. “One, I cannot believe her name is Crystal. Two, how could you treat both her and Lara so badly? You cannot use a woman to work off your urges while you cultivate a relationship with another woman. This has meaning to Crystal. You’re hurting her.”

  I realize something I did not know until now. In my heart, I’d actually hoped he would eventually see the light and realize he was insane to let Lara get away. I thought—since he didn’t seem to be pursuing another girlfriend, and Lara had not found another guy—there could still be hope for them. Apparently not.

  Jonathon actually looks surprised. “Crystal understands our relationship and has accepted the terms.”

  “If that’s what she said, she’s lying to you. She might not say anything other than ‘Yes Master’, but she has hope. There is no other reason she would do this with you. She hopes one day you will finally fall in love with her.”

  He argues with me for the next five minute until I get fed up.
I cross my arms over my chest, knowing that in this I am right and he’s wrong. Then I realize I have sawdust clinging to my shoulder and I brush it away.

  “I know exactly what is in her heart, Jonathon,” I say. “I’ve done exactly what she’s doing. I told myself it was just about the sex. Told myself I didn’t want anything more. I had lots of good reasons why I didn’t want a relationship. But in truth, deep inside, I wanted to be loved. I just refused to admit it. And by chasing after some guy incapable of loving me, I was hurting myself. What you do to her with a whip is nothing compared to what you are doing to that girl’s heart, soul, and psyche.

  I’ve done it again. Said far too much. Jonathon comes closer to me. He plucks the coke from my hand. So close, he smells of his exotic cologne. His strong fingers tip up my chin, and he softly asks, “Who hurt you, Mia?”

  Who didn’t hurt me out of the guys in my past? Ryan hasn’t hurt me, which is why I know I would be insane to let him go. In fact, the only person I should have this conversation with is Ryan. And I can’t do that because I don’t want him to ever know the truth. I certainly won’t reveal it to Jonathon. How could I bare my soul to him when I won’t do it for the guy I love?

  “Are you going to give me the tour?” I ask.

  Chapter Seven

  In his club, Jonathon leads me to a room filled with iron cages. Each one is suspended from the ceiling, all are at different heights, and free-standing ornate iron steps lead up to them. It makes me think of movies I’ve seen of 1960s go-go clubs. One of the cages holds a woman. The rest are empty.

  Below the caged woman stands a man in an elegant suit of charcoal grey. This guy is stunning in a suit, possessing broad shoulders, narrow hips, long legs. Grey touches the sides of the man’s black hair, his nose is a blade, his cheekbones are as sharp and defined as cliffs. I swear, this guy is probably sexier in a suit than most men naked (except Ryan, of course—and probably Jonathon) because the anticipation of what that body must look like underneath…it’s like a drug.

  I don’t know his name, but a good nickname for him would be ‘The Gentleman’.

  The Gentleman snaps his fingers. A young man dressed like Charles unhooks a chain from a hook on the wall. The cages are suspended on pulleys, and this one is lowered until it touches the ground in front of the Gentleman.

  Sure I have fantasies about being tied up. I know that many women do. With me, I’ve always been scared they come from a deep, dark place in my psyche, a place that was corrupted by my past, because I’m sure I shouldn’t want to lose control. I’ve always loved the idea of having my hands bound, my legs tied together, and a man with a huge cock taking me from behind. A man I desire, of course. Like Ryan. When I started dating Ryan, who was such a true gentleman he didn’t push for sex, I fantasized about him tying me up. Playfully of course.

  I don’t know if I could do it in real life. Even with Ryan. And I’d be too scared to let anyone glimpse into my private fantasies. I don’t want anyone to know that’s what I think about.

  The girl in the cage wears a deep purple satin corset, sky-high purple heels, black stay-up fishnets. She’s plump, so her thighs bulge generously over the tops of her stockings, and her breasts mound over the top of the corset. Vibrant red curls spill down her back, and her lips are the same dark red and very glossy. She’s voluptuous and gorgeous. So beautiful, I’m awestruck and a little…aroused looking at her. I’ve never experimented with other women, but I would be more than willing to try with her.

  Of course, I would only do that if Ryan were watching. If it was something we were sharing.

  Jonathon stands behind me. He doesn’t touch me, but I’m so aware of him I feel as if his nearness is a caress.

  “For the record,” he says softly, “I was faithful to Lara. I had not seen Crystal since before I began dating Lara.”

  “Why didn’t you say that before?” It occurs to me to wonder when Jonathon and Lara met, since this is her first year.

  Jonathon’s warm breath washes over my earlobe, making me shiver with awareness. “You’re very sexy when you’re indignant.”

  I try to think of a retort then I look at the scene in the cage and my tongue gets tangled.

  The Gentleman is pacing around the cage. Now I see he holds a whip, and he flicks his arm in slow motions, making the lash move in a sinuous curve and slap the floor.

  The girl doesn’t look afraid. She runs her tongue over her lips, anticipating.

  “I don’t think I can watch this,” I whisper to Jonathon. “I mean—I guess I’m curious to see if it hurts and how she bears the pain, but this is also private and intimate, and I can’t believe they don’t want to be alone for this.”

  “Club members who use this room are used to being watched. The audience is part of the scene for them.”

  “For him,” I mutter.

  “Also for her. He can only do this if she agrees. Most BDSM clubs operate under the same rule. Activities are safe, sane, and consensual.”

  I suppose that is true. In the club setting, she cannot be forced to do anything she is not willing to do. “Won’t it hurt?”

  “For some, that’s what they come here to find.”

  “What about you? Is pain something you want?” I don’t know why I’m asking. Why does that matter to me? I’m curious, but it’s not something I need to know, since I’ll never be dating Jonathon.

  “I’m mainly into bondage,” he says casually. “I do enjoy some spanking. And when I do whipping, I make it very erotic. I start slowly and build my partner’s tolerance. And if my partner enjoys it to be light and gentle, that is what I do.”

  “What about when you want more?”

  His smile sparkles. “The sub is the one in control, Mia.”

  That is a strange thought, but I can see, if this is really consensual, how that would be true. But I’m just not sure…

  “There are sooo many different degrees of consensual,” I say. “You can be willing to do something, but you keep wishing the earth would crack open and swallow everything up so you didn’t have to go through with it.”

  When I twist my head to explain this to him, all I can see is his broad shoulder in his dark green shirt. He rests his hand gently on my waist. I should object, but it seems more of a reassuring touch so I don’t move his hand.

  “You’ve been hurt badly, Mia. People come here because they want to fulfill needs without the risk of being hurt.”

  I suppose that makes sense. I notice Jonathon doesn’t ask questions and doesn’t push me to explain myself. I like that.

  The Gentleman opens the door to the cage and holds out his hand. His sub takes his hand and he helps her step out. Her bottom is pale and bare, her breasts almost overflowing the corset. She is lovely.

  The Gentleman gives a low command. I don’t hear it, but the redhead turns toward the cage. While I’ve never worn clothes like that—how could I afford that corset?—the woman looks a little like me. The way I might look in five years.

  “Bend over,” her partner instructs, this time loudly.

  There is no ‘please’, of course. That’s supposed to be the fun of this, I guess. His dominance, her obedience—they are getting to play their fantasy roles.

  She does bend over, pressing her plump bottom against the bars of the cage. There’s a long pause and the guy in the suit gives two discreet tugs—one of his tie, the other of his trousers. Her ass is lush and heart-shaped. She has very pale skin, but it’s a smooth and lovely as cream.

  Is Jonathon right and she really does have some control in this? I know how easy it is to think you know what you are getting into, to think you have power, when you have nothing at all.

  I tense waiting for the first strike. But whipping is not this guy’s intention. He lets the handle of the whip drop to the floor, which is covered in black rubber tiles. Instead, he slaps her ass. He does it open-handed, not too hard, but the sharp sound reverberates in the large room. A dark pink handprint marks her, but it fades as
he leaves her and crosses the room.

  “That fades. But maybe other things don’t,” I mutter.

  Jonathon’s hand stays at my side. He isn’t trying to grope me. I’m breathing awfully hard.

  “There’s no emotional scarring if she is willing,” he says. “He will follow and obey her rules—the limits she has established.”

  I do see the different between abuse and this club, where limits are respected. I try to twist my thinking around. What would I do if I could live one of my fantasies? What if I could do my wildest imaginings with Ryan, without worrying what my fantasies really say about me?

  The attendant has returned, carrying a silver case that looks like a James Bond attaché case. The kind that should be handcuffed to a courier. He sets it on a table. The Gentleman opens it. I can’t see the contents, but I can see a spurt of raw lust come to his face, breaking through his expressionless hauteur.

  He lifts something out—it’s a dildo of black rubber, long and curved.

  I really should go. I’ve never seen other people have sex in live action. I may have a past, but there’s a lot of stuff I haven’t done. And voyeurism is definitely one of those things. I know my cheeks are on fire. College may be a time for exploration, but I’m starting to chicken out.

  Yet my feet stay rooted to the spot. I discover what his obedient slave was waiting for. She presses her cheek to the cage, which allows her to put her hands behind her back, planting them on her butt cheeks.

  She looks incredibly erotic. She spreads her ass cheeks for the Gentleman, who coolly approaches her and gently presses the dildo to her anus—

  Guilt hits me, even though my heart rate must be pounding faster than a drum solo. I ache between my legs. It’s a physical hurt, so intense I can barely walk away. I’m breathing fast. I want sex. Really want it.

  I shouldn’t be watching and not just because it’s their private moment.

  “Okay,” I get the idea,” I say to Jonathon. “I should go.”