by Vivian Wood
Shit. It had been awhile since he’d been to a meeting. “I’ll be there,” he said. Joon-Ki replied with a smiley face.
The meeting was insufferable. How many times can I listen to the same old stories? When it was his turn, he chose not to share—and tried to avoid the look of disappointment on Joon-Ki’s face.
“So, how’s it going with the girl?” Joon-Ki asked as they broke for coffee and doughnuts. “You still seeing her?”
“Something like that,” Sean said.
“Well. Just remember what I said.”
Take it slow. I should get a medal for how goddamned slow I’ve been taking it. After the meeting, he rushed away and brushed off Joon-Ki’s offer of dinner. “I’ve got, uh, some stuff to take care of.”
“The girl?” Joon-Ki asked, with a raised brow.
“No, no. Work,” he said.
“Oh, okay.”
Joon-Ki didn’t need to know it was his day off. Sean raced home and took the black plastic bag out of the closet. He knew he’d use it, but at the same time he couldn’t stop thinking about taking Harper on a proper date. What the fuck is wrong with me?
But he knew what it was. Breaking into the goodie bag would require genuine trust. A delve into the underbelly of who and what he was. Maybe if it was softened with a real date, he wouldn’t be so ashamed.
Sean opened his laptop and searched for the nicest hotels in Los Angeles. Something small, something with a pool. Something where he’d see her in a bikini. Like a normal fucking guy would want.
He booked the Gable and Lombard penthouse at the Hollywood Roosevelt. The “eat, stay, play” motto of the hotel drew him in. If the 3,200 square foot penthouse was good enough for Clark and Carole, surely it would make do for what he had in mind. Three levels with a rooftop patio, panoramic views of Hollywood and vintage charm was exactly what he needed.
You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, he thought as he entered the card information. That was true. But he did know he had to have Harper, and soon.
“Busy tonight?” he texted her.
“Nope, just finishing up a go-see now.”
“Meet me at the Hollywood Roosevelt. Penthouse suite at 6,” he said.
If she was impressed, her reply didn’t show it. “I’ll be there.”
“Bring something for the pool.”
He arrived early to get the lay of the suite. Sean unpacked his bag and hid the toys in the bedside table, right beside the bible.
This penthouse has seen some shit, he thought as he took it in. It was stunning and classic, but there were small, tell-tale signs of raucous partying. But it hasn’t seen anything like what I’m going to do in it.
A knock came at the door right at six o’clock. Harper was dressed in an almost-transparent black swimsuit coverup with black beading at the neckline. Massive sunglasses rested on her nose and complicated black strappy heeled sandals criss-crossed up her ankles.
“Ready to get wet?” he asked her.
She smiled. “Always.”
Miraculously, they had the pool to themselves. He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she pulled off the cover-up to reveal a skimpy black string bikini beneath. As she lowered herself into the water, he saw the bottoms were a European cut that her ass nearly swallowed.
He was already hard beneath his trunks by the time the water reached his chest. Sean splashed at her playfully. “Hey!” she said. “I just got this blown out.”
“You just blew what?”
“My hair,” she said with a laugh.
“That’s right. It’s your job to always look so goddamned hot.”
She blushed and looked away. “It’s kind of your job, too,” she said. “I’m sure there are more people lining up for a hot tattoo artist to ink them rather than the stereotypical fat biker dude.”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
“What does your family think?” she asked. He faltered at the sudden shift in conversation.
“Of what?”
“Of you being a tattoo artist. Do they support it? Or …”
“I don’t know, and don’t really care,” he said.
“Oh.” She sounded hurt.
“My family … they’re back in D.C. My dad got rich back when it was relatively easy to do so. My older brother kind of followed suit, though I have to admit he made his own way. I guess I’m the black sheep, so to speak.”
“I know how that can be,” she said.
“You do?”
“Kind of,” she said with a sigh. “My mom … she really pushed me into modeling. You know? She always wanted to model, but didn’t have the build for it. She was a pageant queen instead. Then she was an alcoholic. That chased my dad away for good. Sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay, I know I’m an alcoholic,” he said. “I’m trying to manage it, though. My mom, though, no such luck. And my dad is just fucking insane.”
She laughed. “Maybe everyone’s families are insane.”
“You ready to go back in?” he asked. A family with two little kids, complete with waders strapped to their arms, appeared poolside.
“Yes,” she said in that low voice she adopted when they were alone.
That little word, in just that way …
As soon as they stepped into the suite, both still wet with the scent of chlorine in the air, he couldn’t help but grab her. Her flesh was riddled with goose bumps, her nipples incredibly hard under the wet material. “Get on the bed,” he said.
She obeyed, breathless.
“You have to trust me,” he said. Her eyes got big, but she didn’t move.
“I trust you,” she said. She looked nervous.
“Gomorrah, Eden, inferno,” he said. “Repeat.”
She did so, and didn’t even falter as he removed the rope from the bedside table. With expert ease, he made prusik cuffs behind her back. He removed a slip of black cloth and folded it over her eyes. “You only exist for one reason,” he said as he tightened the knot. “For my pleasure.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Say it,” he said.
“I exist only for your pleasure.”
“Very good,” he said. “On your knees.”
Sean removed a pair of long-handled scissors from the drawer. Harper flinched, just slightly, at the cold, sharp steel against her legs. Sean pulled down his trunks. “Who fucking told you to keep your clothes on?” he asked.
“I … I’m sorry,” she said. “Sir.”
He trailed the scissors up her thigh. A faint red mark remained behind. “Spread your legs,” he said. She did so without hesitation, even with the threatening tip of the steel at her flesh. He knew she couldn’t tell if it was scissors, a knife, or something else.
Quickly, he snipped off the bikini bottoms and pulled them away. Harper let out a small gasp of surprise.
“There’s my pussy,” he said. “That’s how I like to see it.” Carefully, he pressed the cold steel of the scissors against her clit. Her breathing increased, but she didn’t move. She didn’t even try to lean away. Her trust was irrefutable.
Sean put the scissors away. He untied her top to release her breasts. With a sharp pinch at each nipple, she moaned.
“Your tits are great,” he said. “But they could do with a little training.” He removed the steep nipple trainers, cold in his hand, and tightened them into place. She looked amazing, knees parted with hands cinched behind her back. Blindfolded with the steel clamps on her nipples, lengthening and hardening them, he could barely contain himself.
Slow. Take it slow. “Bend down,” he instructed.
“I … how …”
“Put your face on the bed,” he said.
She bent over, her hands bound at the small of her back. Sean took out the paddle and tested the leather side against his palm with a smack.
He teased her ass with the furry side and gave it small slaps. But the sound was muted. Sean switched sides and slapped her pert cheeks with the leather. She cried out. “You like
that, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes,” she purred.
He cut off another section of rope and secured her ankles in a wrap and cinch knot. Sean slid the paddle over her ass again and spanked her twice in succession, smart and fast. Harper groaned with each hit.
Her wetness had started to spread down her open thighs. Fuck, this really does turn her on, he thought. She wasn’t just appeasing him.
“Do you want me to spank you more?” he asked.
“Yes. Yes, please,” she said.
“Why?” he asked as he slid the paddle across her flesh. “Do you think you deserve it?”
“I … I think so. Sir,” she added.
He spanked her sharply. “Perhaps you do,” he said. “But you only get it if you’ll come for me. Are you going to come?” He wriggled the paddle of the handle against her opening and she let out a groan.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m so close.”
He spanked her again. Before she could fully react he slid an inch of the handle into her. “Come now,” he said. On cue, he saw her familiar tremor of orgasm. He pushed the handle father into her and she called out his name.
Sean slid the handle out of her and spanked her twice, lighter than before, to bring on another orgasm. She responded, and he slid the handle against her clit. Harper squirted her third orgasm onto the rich Egyptian cotton sheet. The sight of it made him come in tandem with her. He sprayed across her spread cheeks and he choked back his own groan.
“Gomorrah,” she moaned into the bed. But he dropped the paddle and spread his come across her skin.
“Later,” he promised.
He untied her ankles and released her wrists. Gently, he pulled her into a seated position on the bed and loosened the nipple clamps. Finally, Sean untied the blindfold and kissed her from behind. He worked his way from her neck to her eager lips.
“Wait here,” he said. He pulled up the trunks as he stood. On the chaise lounge, he dug through the leather duffel bag for a cloth soft as chamois. Inch by inch, he dried her skin before he wrapped her in a bathrobe.
It didn’t work. Not unless there was every bit of indulgence as there was punishment. The bathrobe was his own, though he’d never worn it. Imported from Belgium, he’d never thought he’d been worthy of its softness. But Harper was.
She fell asleep in his arms as he spooned her from behind. When her breathing steadied, he leaned up to gaze at her. Sean brushed a lock of hair away from her eyes. She was perfect.
It was strange to feel close to someone after all these years. The self-doubt, the recriminations, the distress over Ashton, it was all gone in that moment.
17
Harper
She rolled over in her bed and for once didn’t care about the loud clangs that came from the kitchen. Harper was untouchable. In the days since her multiple orgasms, she felt like she could take on anything. The bruises and small welts that lingered were like armor. She delighted in seeing the marks from Sean’s hands and paddle on her ass when she showered in the mornings.
But it wasn’t just the discipline he doled out. It was equally the tenderness and caring he showed afterwards. When he wrapped her up in the plush robes or cradled her close after their sessions, it was like he healed more than the controlled pain he’d just inflicted. It went deeper than that, to her core—straight to her marrow.
She pulled herself out of bed to prep for a long day of casting calls. As Harper pulled off the oversized shirt she slept in, she nearly gasped at the marks across her body. No skin was ever broken, Sean was sure of that, but it would take a few days for these bruises to heal. She gauged her body from every angle. Fuck it. If the designers can’t deal with it, who needs them?
Harper ran the shower as hot as she could stand and stood below the soothing water. She couldn’t get over the feeling of how freeing it was to give everything up. She’d done a little research after the night at the sex club, and some of what she’d read from experience subs and doms stuck with her. “The submissive has all the control,” one dom had written in a forum. “Although it rarely looks that way to outsiders.”
She sighed as she ran the bar of soap across her body. Ever since she and Sean had started … whatever it was they were doing, everything that weighed on her had lifted. All the past trauma, the emotional and physical tolls her body took on a daily basis, it had started to slough away.
However, it was temporary. Only during her time with Sean, the buildup to it and the afterglow that she clung to, that was when she was truly free.
Harper stepped out of the shower and wrapped a fluffy towel around her head. I need more, she thought as the gazed into the mirror. At the same time, worry chewed away at her. Will it be like this every time? What if it starts to fade?
It certainly hadn’t yet, but for the first time in her life she’d found something that felt right. When she was with Sean, she forgot about comparing her body to all the women around her. She didn’t obsess over whether or not she thought she felt her thighs kiss or if the side of her breasts spilled out the arm holes of her dresses. She could just be. With Sean in control, as he loved and worshipped her entire being, she could just be.
Harper was on autopilot as she dressed for the casting calls. Boring, neutral underwear that would go with anything a designer could throw at her, and which left minimal lines. Loose-fitting clothes that were easy to pull off and on. She looked to her silent phone. Sean had told her he’d be busy for a few days, but did that mean they couldn’t connect?
“Good morning,” she texted. “Busy?” She ran the wide-toothed comb through her damp hair and wiped the Aczone across her face. Yet another ridiculous side-effect of purging. The crap skin that was kept in line solely from prescription creams.
“Yep, sweetheart,” he replied.
She stared at the phone. Part of her was satiated just from that hint of his presence. Another part of her desperately craved more. “Text me later?” she asked.
“Okay.”
His one-word responses continued throughout the day. Harper had planned her go-sees so she could walk to the majority of them. She was always up early, often when it was still dark. The body’s instinct to seek out food while in starvation mode was stronger than anything else, including sleep. However, she was also naturally a morning person, and that gave her an advantage. Harper was fresh, upbeat, and didn’t have to walk in the mid-day heat from call to call. She’d learned early on that it wasn’t worth the outrageous parking fees to drive all over town.
Her high from being with Sean began to wane after the fourth designer gave her a pitiful up-down. It bordered on disgust. “Your agent suggested you were a good fit for this line?” the no-name designer asked her.
She scrambled for something to say. “I thought you were looking for—”
“Fresh, honey. We’re looking for fresh.”
Jesus Christ, why don’t you just tell me I’m too old? she thought as she slipped on her flats and shoved the closed-toed beige heels into her bag.
“Wyd?” she texted Sean as she walked to her next call. In the ten-minute walk, he didn’t reply.
Fuck. I know I’m not that important to him, but still …
After the last designer of the day waved her away with a promise to “be in touch,” she headed to the gym. As one of the few members who qualified for her own locker, she was never tempted by the excuse of not having her Brooks shoes or workout gear readily available. In a small act of rebellion, Harper left her phone in the locker. After her self-inflicted punishment, at least she’d have something to look forward to.
Harper set the elliptical for 60 minutes. Once that finish line was in sight, she upped it to 120. Nothing was a better high than seeing the towering numbers that two hours on the machine could provide. Well, almost nothing.
She dismounted, wiped down the machine, and nearly ran back to the locker. Still nothing. Her phone was completely silent.
Fuck. She changed quickly and started to jog back to the house i
n the flats that pinched her feet. At the corner store, she veered inside and grabbed the bag of Cheetos and a box of Apple Jacks. She wanted the Fruit Loops, but it might be too difficult to tell when the colors transitioned from rainbow to just orange.
“Love them Cheetos, huh?” the clerk asked.
“Uh, yeah.” Great, now she’d have to start going somewhere else.
Harper waved to Molly and Helena who sat on the porch smoking, but made a beeline for the kitchen. Armed with a bowl, the last of the milk and a spoon, she locked herself in the bedroom. Harper tasted nothing, not the tang of the Cheetos or the sickly sweetness of the cereal as she downed the entire box.
Immediately after she finished, she battened down in the bathroom and maneuvered her finger to just the right spot in her throat. Her body responded like it always did, and her eyes watered as her teeth opened up the wounds on her knuckles.
It wasn’t even dark yet, but she exhaustion and stress of the day put her into a sleepy stupor. And there was still no reply from Sean.
Harper’s dreams were often a bad mash-up of childhood memories. Suddenly she was twelve again and her mom measured her waist. “Twenty-two,” her mom said. “That would be alright, if you weren’t still twelve years old. Here, see this?” her mom asked. She pinched, hard, some of the flesh from Harper’s waist. “Have you heard the phrase ‘pinch an inch’? If you can pinch an inch of flesh or more from any part of your body, that’s fat and it needs to go.”
She was thirteen and hovered in the kitchen while her mom carefully weighed chicken breasts on a food scale. “Remember, you can’t trust what nutrition labels say,” her mom said as she handled the slimy meat. “One hundred grams of chicken breast is 165 calories. Always get white meat, always.”
Harper was fourteen and hunkered over a BMI chart she’d found online. She was at 18.2, but 18.1 was considered underweight. If I can get below 18.1, I’ll be thin enough. She ate nothing else the rest of the day, drank not a drop of water, and in the morning she’d lost two pounds and was officially, doctor-approved “underweight.”
She was fifteen and in a fitting room where her mom had squeezed in and splayed across the stool. They were selecting Harper’s first go-see outfit that would be bought just for the occasion. Her mom cocked her head. “They say the camera adds ten pounds,” her mom said with a sigh. “Try the black. Fucking cameras. But you know what the real killer is? Men.” Harper had paused, curious if her mom would say anything more about her dad—a man she only knew from photos. But her mom just reached out and tutted as she squeezed Harper’s growing hips.
