Vandal

by Carian Cole

  “Hands back,” I growl. She puts her hands back and I clasp her wrists with my hand, holding them tight, my other hand gripping her hip, pulling her towards me to meet every thrust. “You feel so fucking good,” I praise, tilting the angle of her a bit so I can go deeper and press against her more sensitive spots.

  She tightens around me as she simultaneously starts to moan and shudder, her breathing quick and shallow as she comes on my shaft. The delicious tightening and spurt of wetness almost makes me come on the spot when I realize I’m bareback inside her. No wonder it feels so good. Fuck me.

  I pull out and shoot all over her back and hands, jetting across her spine. Leaning back against the couch, I catch my breath for a minute and then pull her up to her feet. “Come with me, doll.”

  She follows me to the bathroom and watches me quietly as I run a bubble bath for her. My throat and heart clench when I realize I just poured Katie’s bubble soap into the tub to bathe a girl I just spanked, fucked, and came on.

  “Um, did you just … without a …” she says while we wait for the tub to fill.

  I test the water temp and turn to face her. Her blue eyes are wide and her skin has paled two shades.

  “I did. But I pulled out. I’m sorry … I got so caught up I just forgot. I never do that, I swear.” I feel like a freakin’ amateur.

  “I got the birth control shot after Nick died, to help reduce the bad cramps I get,” she says, looking at her toes. “But I’m kinda worried about where you’ve been.”

  Well, shit. She doesn’t beat around the bush, now does she?

  “I’m clean.” My voice is defensive.

  She looks at me with narrow eyes, and I really don’t blame her. I picked her up in a cemetery and fucked her seven ways ’til Sunday. Several times. I’m sure I don’t exactly give off an impression of clean and crabless.

  “You think I would do something to hurt you?” I ask her, turning off the water. I can feel the familiar anger building up inside me and I try to quench it down.

  “Well, you did forget.”

  “Yeah, I did, but if I had some kind of fucking disease I wouldn’t be touching you in the first place. I’m not that much of a douche.”

  She eyes me some more, and I run my hands through my hair in frustration. “I swear to you, I’m clean.”

  “Okay,” she finally says. “I believe you.”

  “Good, now get in the tub before the water gets cold.” I help her in and she settles down under the bubbles. I’m assaulted by a flashback of Katie bathing here not too long ago. My heart clenches and the familiar pain in my chest makes itself known. Not now. Please. I grab a clean washcloth from the linen closet and sit on the floor, wishing this bathroom had a big Jacuzzi tub so I could fit in there comfortably with her.

  “Can I ask you something?” she says, idly playing with the bubbles.

  “The answer to that will always be yes.”

  She gives me a cute sideways smile and blows the bubbles towards my face. “This is part of it? Bathing?”

  I nod and slowly glide the washcloth over her body under the water. “Yes, it’s referred to as after-care sometimes. It’s to soothe you, relax muscles that may be sore after using restraints, to clean you, of course, and to show you that I care about you and want you to feel safe and taken care of. And it helps to bring us closer, because it’s intimate.”

  “Have you had other girls like me here?”

  “Actually, no. I’ve never had any girls here. I don’t live here full-time; I only stay here sometimes.”

  I follow her eyes to the pink bottle of bubble bath with the smiling kitten on it. Shit.

  “Then why do you have that? You really don’t look like the type who would be taking pink bubble baths. No offense.”

  I take a deep breath and rub her back with the cloth in slow circles. “It was my daughter’s.”

  I did not want to go down this road. Not now. Maybe not ever. I cannot lie to her about this, though. Not when I’m trying to gain her trust and submission. I can’t have her doubting me about diseases and bubble baths and thinking I am either a pervert or feeding her lies.

  “You have a daughter?” She sits up a little in surprise and turns to face me.

  “She’s gone.” That’s all I can manage to say. I cannot verbalize anything else about it. I haven’t had to say the words before now because everyone I know knew Katie died. To actually say it, to say she is dead with my own mouth, is sickening to me. I never want to hear my voice say those words again.

  Tabi looks both shocked and upset, her eyes softening and watery. She grabs at my hand under the water. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Is that why you were there? When we met?”

  I nod and slip my fingers between hers. I always want to be touching her in some way, maybe because I’m afraid she’s going to just disappear.

  “How old was she?”

  No. I can’t say it. I shake my head.

  “Recently?” she coaxes.

  “This year.”

  She stares at the bottle of bubble bath, unblinking, and shivers.

  “Help me out?” she asks, rising from the tub.

  I wrap her up in a big towel, but the mood has completely changed. “Are you all right?” she asks. “Maybe you should put on some pants and we can talk?”

  I have no idea what one thing has to do with the other, but I go to the living room to put my shorts back on and flop on the couch on my back, staring up at the ceiling. Fuck. One good day. That’s all I want. One day without pain eating through my heart. That’s what I want for her too. Why is that so fucking hard?

  She sits on the couch next to me, trying to read my face, with the towel still wrapped around her thin frame.

  “Can I get you anything?” she asks. “You don’t look too good right now. You’ve gone pale.”

  I bark out a short, sarcastic laugh. “A lot of alcohol would be great. Can you lift the ban?”

  “Absolutely not.” She lays her hand on my chest, over my heart, and traces my ink. “Do you want to talk about her?”

  I throw my arm over my face to cover my eyes. “No. Never.”

  Tabitha

  After he told me about his daughter last night, he succumbed to what appeared to be an emotional stress migraine and shut down. At least, that’s what I call them when I get them, and I get them a lot. It’s kinda like a brain overload. His grief has also dragged him into a very dark place, and for some reason I just didn’t expect that in him, or for it to affect him so deeply. I felt such an intense need to console him but I was at a loss as to how. I know from experience that you really can’t console a person in grief. Words are useless space fillers. He is so incredibly closed up, and I have no clue how to get in other than to give him what he seems to want so badly; my submission.

  I sat with him on the couch for hours with Sterling in my lap, unable to sleep myself but comforted by both of them sleeping near. I quietly left not long after midnight and slept alone in his bed.

  He’s not on the couch this morning, though, or anywhere in the house from what I can see, and for a moment I panic, thinking he left me here. But then I see him outside, sitting on the dock, playing a guitar. I slide the glass doors open and walk across the woodsy yard. The music he’s playing is beautiful and haunting, the kind of sound that goes straight through you and awakens your emotions and gives you chills. It’s the kind of music that I would play on repeat over and over and over again until it was impossible to unhear it.

  My heart skips a beat as my eyes rove over him from behind. He’s shirtless, his wide, muscled shoulders flexing as he plays the strings, his long black hair hanging down to the middle of his spine, covering the tattoos that adorn his entire back. His head is tilted down slightly as he plays. I sit next to him and just watch him, his fingers gliding effortlessly over the strings, the song drifting over the lake. He is such an enigma, this rock-hard man with the bad attitude creating this ethereal, soul-touching sound.

  When he fini
shes the song, he opens his eyes very slowly and meets mine.

  “That was incredible,” I say in awe. “I didn’t know you played the guitar.”

  He puts the instrument off to the side. “That’s an acoustic bass.” He gives me a crooked cocky grin.

  “Well, I know nothing about musical instruments, but whatever it is, I seriously have no words for how beautiful that was. It was just … wow. Seriously.”

  “Thanks. Music is a big part of my life. If you want to hear beautiful, you should hear Lukas play the violin.”

  “The violin? Really? I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone play the violin in person.”

  “He fuckin’ rocks it. He can play metal songs on it too. It’s pretty wild.”

  “I hope I get to hear him play someday. Maybe you could play some more for me?”

  He cracks his neck to the side with an audible pop. “Yeah. Maybe later.”

  “Do you feel better? Your headache, I mean.”

  “I do. How do you feel? Are you sore?”

  “Sore?” I’m not sure what he’s asking me.

  He bends his knee up and leans his arm on it. “Yeah. I rammed you pretty hard last night.”

  My pussy immediately quivers at his words. Sweet Jesus. Who asks questions like that?

  “Um, a little bit, but it’s all right.”

  He stares at me intently and chews on a toothpick he’s got hanging out of his mouth. “I’m not good at slow and easy.”

  “Maybe you just need to practice.” The words come out before I consider that he’ll take that as a challenge.

  An evil but sexy smile spreads across his lips and I know that’s exactly what he’s thinking.

  “Soon your gifts will be here, and I’ll have a lot in store for you.”

  “More ramming, I assume?”

  He throws his head back and laughs. “You’re such a little smart-ass, ya know that? I’m starting to like it. And yeah, there will be some ramming, but a lot more than that.”

  I’m not sure if I should be worried about this or not. I’m definitely intrigued.

  “I’ll have some rules,” he says.

  “Such as?”

  “For starters, you should kiss me good morning every day and thank me.”

  “Thank you for what?”

  “Ramming you the night before,” he half teases, quirking one eyebrow up.

  I can’t not giggle at him. I’m starting to like our little sarcastic talks and the way he makes me laugh even when it’s the last thing I want to do.

  “I see,” I say. “Should I start now?”

  He leans into my neck. “You want to kiss me, don’t you?” he whispers in my ear, his breath hot against me.

  I turn my face towards his. “I do,” I whisper back, my heart beating faster. The way he makes me feel when he is near me is indescribable and beyond the usual butterflies I have felt in the past when I met someone new and exciting. I feel as if I have known him so much longer than just two days, as if there is some kind of timeless connection between us.

  He touches my cheek and runs his thumb across my bottom lip. “Kiss me then. Make me feel like you mean it.”

  Swallowing nervously, I tilt my head and kiss his lips. I don’t want it to mean anything, but it’s starting to. I just don’t know exactly what that meaning is yet.

  “What are you doing to me?” I ask him softly, looking into his dark eyes, our noses touching.

  His hand tightens at the back of my neck. “Everything.”

  I’m tumbling fast and hard into the web he’s weaving, clinging to the hope that he really is bringing me out of my depression, making me want to feel and live again. What’s scaring me is he’s making me want him so much. My lips meet his again and I kiss him the only way I can right now—soft, questioning, searching. His breathing grows heavier and he wraps an arm around me, holding me against him. I move my lips down to kiss and gently suck his neck and he groans, his hand sliding down to squeeze my ass. Kissing my way back up to his lips, I pause and peek up into his hooded eyes.

  “Fuck, darlin’. You’re killing me.” He sighs.

  I touch his stubbled cheek and kiss him again. “How so?”

  “Your touch is so soft. No one’s ever kissed me like that.”

  “Oh.” My voice drops with disappointment. I guess he’s used to something better, something sexier.

  “Hey,” he says. “That’s a compliment. Don’t get down.”

  I shake my head a little. “I’m just not good at this.”

  “Cut it out. You don’t want to start the day with a spanking, do you?”

  I giggle. “No.”

  “Then don’t stop kissing me.”

  We spend the entire morning on the dock, kissing and stopping for him to play some songs for me, then kissing again. Once I started kissing him, I felt as if I couldn’t stop, as if he were my anchor to keep me from drifting back to Nick’s memories, the depression, and the suicidal thoughts. Maybe if I hang on to him long enough, I really will be okay.

  “I’m gonna go for a ride,” he says abruptly, grabbing his bass and standing up. “I won’t be gone too long.”

  “Okay …” I’m taken aback that he wants to leave and wonder if I did something wrong. I follow him into the house. “I could go with you?” I suggest, standing in the doorway of the second bedroom, watching him put his bass in its carry case and then into the closet.

  “I kinda want to be alone.”

  Ouch.

  “Oh.”

  “Can you cook?”

  “Cook?” I repeat.

  He winds a hair-tie around his hair that he’s pulled into a ponytail. “Yeah, as in dinner?”

  “Yes. I think I can manage that.”

  He ruffles my hair like I’m a little dog or a small child. “Good. I’ll be back in about two hours. I’d like it if you have dinner ready when I get back. That’s something I’d like to happen a lot, actually, as part of our arrangement, so if you need any cookbooks or groceries, let me know and I’ll get what you need.”

  “Okay. Can you get me a charger for my cell phone?”

  “Sure. Anything you need, just let me know.” He takes a few more steps towards the door that leads to the garage and then turns back. “Part of this is me giving you things to do so you don’t fall into a rut. You understand that, right? I’m not just trying to be a dick.”

  “Yes. I understand that.”

  “And I’m glad you’re interested enough to do some research on a D/s relationship. That means a lot to me. I know we haven’t really talked much about all of it, and that’s my fault. I just want you to be careful about what you read online. Like I said, people have their own reasons for getting involved in this kind of relationship, and I don’t judge what they do if it’s something I’m not into, but a lot of what you see and read could be …” He looks up, as if he’s searching for the right words “… scary for you, for lack of a better word. I don’t want you to get freaked out thinking I’m going to hang you from the rafters for days, or share you with other men.”

  My stomach lurches. “Wait, what?”

  “No, I’m not into that. Relax. I’m more into the submission, worship, restraints, spanking, emotional bonding and boundaries, power, orgasm control, trust … just to quickly rattle off some of it.” He closes the distance between us and puts his hand on the side of my neck, under my hair. The warmth of his fingers feels comforting to me, and eases my fears. “I want us to explore it all together and find what works for us. If you read about something that you want to try, tell me. Or, if you read about something that is a definite no fucking way for you, make a list of those too. How’s that?”

  Nodding, I try to dredge up my voice. “Yes … that would be good I think.”

  He gives my neck a gentle squeeze. “I guess I wanted to make sure you were going to stick around for a while before we really talked about everything, which is ass-backwards, right?”

  Letting out a little laugh, I agree. “Yes,
but I understand. This whole situation has been a little unconventional.”

  “Do you regret coming here?” A shadow of worry shrouds his face, and it’s becoming increasingly obvious that whatever this is between us is important to him. But why? Surely he has no shortage of women, with his looks and sexual talents. What the hell is he after?

  I don’t answer right away because I want him to sweat it out a little. “No, not yet,” I finally say.

  “Well here’s a warning, baby. My goal is to make sure you never regret it. So if you’re gonna run, you better run now.” He pulls me to him, forcing me to stand on my tiptoes to kiss him, then he lets me go and walks away.

  “Don’t forget dinner and don’t go through my things,” he reminds me. “And feed the furry, sightless one.”

  I’m still standing in the hallway when his motorcycle starts and then roars off out of the driveway, the sound fading as he drives further down the mountain road.

  My first impulse is to go to sleep until he comes back, and then a little light bulb goes off in my brain. That’s what I’ve been doing for months: sleeping my life away. Waiting for Nick to come back when he never will. Waiting for my own life to just end. Wishing hateful thoughts on the person who caused the accident. But first I wander around the house. I’ve been in such a fog that I haven’t noticed how gorgeous and unique this place is. It’s small, but modern, with an open-concept layout, vaulted ceilings with exposed raw wooden beams like I saw in the bedroom, skylights, and floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, dining room and master bedroom. Everything is clean and in its place, hinting at his control-freak nature. Native American decor fills almost every room with wolf statues, Indian pottery, dream catchers, wall paintings, and the focal point of the living room—a huge colorful headdress mounted above the fireplace. I’m sure it’s authentic, and I wonder where he got it and if it’s a family heirloom. A huge tapestry hangs from the wall in the foyer with an image of an Indian family on it, real feathers hanging from the corners of the frame. The wraparound couch and accent chair are deep chocolate brown suede with cream throw pillows. A white, thick faux-fur blanket is folded along the back of the couch. I wish I had noticed that when I was napping the other day because it looks extremely cozy.