Taken by the Dom

by Cassandra Dee

  Legs spread, on the couch, devoured by six pairs of hungry male eyes.

  Oh my god.

  What’s going on?

  How can this be happening?

  Smith is probably in his forties, for fuck’s sake. He could be my dad.

  Well, maybe I can call him Daddy then …

  Maybe I can call all of them Daddy, come to think of it. They’re all at least a decade older than me.

  The scene runs through my brain on repeat, again and again. Oh my god. It really happened. I totally just did a show for those men. I bent over and showed my asshole. I rubbed myself to climax. I let them see between my legs while I answered Smith’s questions. And I liked it. The truth is that I loved it.

  Because I have a secret. Sure, I’ve been addicted to my vibrator since sophomore year of high school. I’ve seen my fair share of porn, read all the red-hot romances with a hand between my legs.

  But real boyfriends? Nada. Zip. Zilch. I’ve never been touched down there, and in fact, even the thought makes me self-conscious. Because I’m a big girl, with protective walls guarding my heart. Maybe guys won’t like me. Maybe they’ll be grossed out when they realizes how much flesh there is.

  But the Morgans make me feel the opposite. They make me burst with confidence and positivity, like my curves are a turn-on.

  So we all have our secrets.

  Yes, this crazy little slut who’s made out with six brothers is a virgin.

  A true-to-life, real deal virgin.

  Hymen intact.

  Everything up there in one piece.

  But I don’t want to be. I liked the show I put on. I liked displaying my assets, making them groan and moan and spurt in their jeans. I loved having their hands and mouths on me. The feel of Matt’s talented tongue in my pussy was heavenly, Smith’s fingers brushing my sweet spot, the twins devouring my breasts. I want more, more and more. I want them inside me, on top of me. I want them in my mouth and in my …

  My stomach growls unexpectedly then, almost making me giggle at this inopportune time.

  Trust my gut to remind me of the important things in life.

  Because when was the last time I ate? I’ve been so caught up with everything lately, that even eating’s gone by the wayside. And believe me, that doesn’t happen, not to Macy Jones.

  Sighing, I dig up some clothes, a pair of jeans and a deep-V-neck sweater before wandering downstairs. My parents are gone as usual, so I throw myself into cooking. It clears my head when I’m busy at the stove. I don’t know, the creative process helps me feel more centered somehow. It works for me, always has.

  And food can be sexy. It’s just that people have all these hang-ups these days, what with veganism, fruitarians, low salt, low calorie, low everything. They don’t let themselves savor and enjoy flavors anymore, the incredible feel of something melting on your tongue. Instead, folks are caught up in counting calories and figuring out fat and sodium content to the tenth of a milligram.

  Me? Sometimes I just close my eyes and let the food barely touch the tip of my tongue. Sometimes I just let a morsel sit in my mouth, savoring the taste and texture. It’s a sensual thing, arousing almost.

  I guess you could say that food has been my boyfriend this year.

  Well, at least he’s been nice to me.

  College, however?

  Not so much.

  If I’m being honest, I really hate the college experience. I hate my roommate, for one. Tara is ultra-feminist, and that’s fine, I respect folks who have strong beliefs. But I don’t agree with a lot of what she says. I mean, it’s okay to like domestic stuff. I’m not less of a person if I want to make dinner at night. I’m not dumb or insignificant for taking pleasure in small things like fancy silverware and pretty placemats. Right?

  So, ugh. There are so many things about college that just don’t fit. My roommate. The other girls who party hard and never sleep. Plus, the career aspect of it all. We’re supposed to be pre-professional, getting ready for big careers in finance or banking or law. But I don’t want to be a tax expert or run someone’s lawsuit. I don’t want to go to graduate school, period.

  And unfortunately, my parents won’t listen. Jim was an accountant, Marsha a commercial real estate agent. Of course, they’re retired now, but while they were working, they both made good money and lived normal, boring lives.

  And that’s fine for them. After all, who am I to judge? I reaped the rewards, living a comfortable middle-class lifestyle as a result. But I don’t know. It’s not me. I don’t want to spend my life in a beige cubicle, boxed into a ten by ten square. I don’t want to have my vision deteriorate staring at a computer screen all day. I don’t want to be my parents, who spent decades as dutiful corporate drones.

  But what do I want?

  I want to cook and eat amazing food.

  I want to get my hands dirty, burying myself in tastes and textures from all over the world.

  I want to make something of my life that has nothing to do with books and computers.

  So it’s confusing. Life is confusing. But here in the kitchen? This is where I feel happiest, most content. I’m just not good with equations and problem solving and making presentations. Heck, I can barely get a sentence together most days, particularly when I’m nervous or overwhelmed. My forte is making flavors work together, the smell and touch and taste guiding me.

  Sigh. So what do I do about this college thing? My first year was rough for sure. I made a few friends, but overall, it was just overwhelming. I spent a lot of time in my dorm room, writing recipes and thinking about this cookbook. That was my first goal after coming home, to get right back into the kitchen, test my recipes, and get the book together. I plan to self-publish it and once I do, maybe my parents will listen and let me switch to culinary school. After all, if they’re spending loads of money, it should be for something that makes sense.

  If only it were that easy.

  If only Jim and Marsha would listen.

  I have to try and make them listen.

  Bustling around the kitchen, a slight hum comes from my lips, and I dance around making homemade mozzarella and flatbread dough. Making things from scratch is big for me. It takes longer but I can control the flavors so that the dough is infused with just the right amount of parmesan, basil, and garlic. My mouth waters just thinking about how good it’s going to be.

  I’m putting together a simple Italian flatbread. Margherita, restaurants would call it, with a tangy-yet-sweet sauce and globs of runny, milky cheese. Big pieces of basil make it even more aromatic and scrumptious, but it’s this special dough that will propel it into the world of culinary orgasms.

  It turns me on, just thinking about it. I wish the boys were here to enjoy the food. Just seeing them shovel my food into their mouths the other night was more satisfying than almost anything I’ve ever experienced before. To be able to cook for people who genuinely enjoy my food is its own reward. To pair that with, well, all the things that came next … that’s my dream life.

  I’m just not like other people, I guess. The girls I know at college are into extracurriculars, community service, all topped with getting straight A’s to boot. But there’s a cost, for sure. Because on weekends, they drink a lot, getting completely wasted and shitfaced. Then they sleep with guys right and left, sometimes two or three per weekend. Sadly, the memory’s not even there the next morning. That’s right, between the black outs and hangovers, no one remembers anything.

  It’s really sad, in my opinion.

  Who would want that?

  After my experiences with the Morgans, I definitely want to remember everything.

  So yeah, that life doesn’t appeal. I’ve never been with a man, of course, but learning about sex will be much like cooking, for me. It will be experiential, full of noise and touch and taste. So far, these sessions with the Morgan boys have been just what I needed, though I’m certain most of the people I know would be horrified if they knew.

  Just as my beautifu
l flatbread goes into the oven, my parents’ car pulls into the driveway. A few minutes later, my mom bustles in, chattering like a chipmunk about how good Liz Anson’s dye-job looked today.

  “Real natural, don’t you think?” she asks. Then she sees me, “Oh, hello, dear.”

  “Hi,” I say. “I’m just finishing up a flatbread. Are you hungry?”

  Mom flits around the kitchen, dropping her purse on the counter and hanging her keys on the hook by the door. My father grabs the newspaper and heads into the living room, ignoring me.

  “We ate at the club, honey,” she says apologetically. “I know you love to cook, baby, but there’s no need. It’s more important to get yourself through school to get a good job. Cooking takes so much time. It’s messy and a hassle, too. Why don’t you just eat out?”

  The words stab me in the heart. How can she denigrate what I love?

  “Yes, I’m well aware that you’d prefer I didn’t cook,” I say. “It’s my thing, though. In fact, I…”

  “Don’t start this again,” Marsha warns in a low tone. “I’m not going to have my daughter slaving away in some hot kitchen somewhere, slopping out food like some lower-class servant.”

  I shake my head, exasperated. It’s not lower class to cook. It’s a skill, just like any other, and underappreciated at that.

  So I turn to face her, hands on my hips.

  “Mom,” come my serious words. “I’m not going to be ladling globs of mac and cheese at the Country Buffet, wearing a hair net and smoking cigarettes between shifts. I’m talking about becoming a chef, creating recipes, working in a high-class restaurant. Possibly writing cookbooks or even having a show on TV. You think that the Pioneer Woman is low-class? She probably has more money than God.”

  I was talking about my favorite home ec goddess, Ree Drummond, who has her own show on the Food Channel. I worship Ree, curvy and domestic with that flaming red hair, making her home a safe space for her husband and four kids. That’s what I wanted to be, but my parents aren’t having any of it.

  “We’ve talked about this, young lady,” Marsha says, frowning deeply. “Stop it right now.”

  And I sigh again. As usual, we’d reached an impasse. My dreams are just too different from what my parents want for me. My mother was a commercial real estate agent before she retired, picture perfect with a slick, dark-brown bob and acrylics on her fingertips. She thinks in blue and white – as in blue-collar and white-collar. And she wants me squarely in the white-collar realm. Food service of any kind, in her mind, is blue-collar. Not good enough for her daughter.

  Plus, Marsha’s not the kind of mother who asks if I have a boyfriend every five seconds, which is nice, sort-of. But she desperately wants me to get ahead, and having a boyfriend would do the opposite, taking up precious time when I could be bettering myself.

  As if to demonstrate, the woman pulls a Perrier out of the fridge and touches on one of her favorite subjects.

  “Did you look into rushing?” she asks, referring to sorority pledge week. “Most girls rush their freshman year but I’m sure sophomore year is fine, too. I want you to get the most of the college experience.”

  It’s more like she wants me to meet all the right boys and girls whose rich parents were in the Greek system as well. It’s totally not my thing, getting dolled up in thousand dollar frocks and painting my face full of make-up, while making fake chitchat with social-climbing ladies.

  “Um, no,” I mutter, peering into the oven.

  But Marsha can’t be deterred.

  “Well, you’re almost a shoo-in for Phi Beta Gamma, since you’re legacy,” she says, referring to the sorority she was in, and my aunt and grandma too. “It should be a formality, nothing more.”

  I sigh again. When will Marsha get it? Not too soon, evidently.

  “Mom,” I say, exasperated, “I do not want to join a sorority. I don’t even want to go back to college.”

  Marsha sucks in a shocked breath then.

  “Macy Lynn Jones, that is not an option.”

  My head shakes miserably.

  “Why isn’t it an option? You know I want to go to culinary school. Why can’t I just go and become a chef and stop wasting money on a degree I don’t even want?”

  But Marsha is horrified.

  “You don’t even know how lucky you are, young lady,” she snaps, eyes narrow and boring holes into my frame. “So many kids struggle to pay for college and here we are, paying your way. Yet you don’t even appreciate it one bit.”

  “I do appreciate it,” I cut in meekly. “It’s just that ….”

  Marsha twists her head curtly.

  “So stop acting like a spoiled brat. And stop with this incessant cooking. This is beneath you, Macy.”

  The timer goes off on the oven, punctuating her comment. Ignoring her, I pull the gorgeous flatbread out. It looks like it belongs on the cover of a magazine and smells like a miracle. My stomach growls loudly.

  But Mom doesn’t care. She stomps to the living room, Perrier in hand and confronts my dad.

  “Jim, your daughter is at it again, talking about cooking this and cooking that. Will you tell her that no child of ours is going to work in food service? I swear, what will make her appreciate us? Talk some sense into Macy, will you?”

  But my fingers move quickly, and I slice some flatbread, putting it onto a plate. Fortunately, my dad ignores me as I pass, heading up the stairs and into my room. Funny the difference a few days make. They were so happy to see me when I got back that they threw a party. Now they can barely look at me. My grades were bad this semester, so that probably didn’t help. And now I’m – gasp – cooking . Whatever will they do with this daughter who’s such a disappointment?

  Defeated, I look around my childhood bedroom. I’m a simple girl. I really am. I like to read and I like to cook. I’d be so happy just doing those things. Well, and maybe some other things, now that I’ve been introduced to the Morgans.

  Because they’re a part of my plan.

  I’m not as dumb as people think.

  I’m not clueless.

  Because I want a baby.

  A real one, cuddly and cute.

  It won’t be easy because how many teen girls want babies? In fact, it’ll be damn hard because an infant is a handful and then some.

  But I know what I want.

  It’s just that what the world wants for me is different.

  Starting with my parents. Holy hell, my mom would blow a gasket if I suggested having a baby at eighteen. But honestly, I’ve always loved the idea of holding a child to my breast, suckling milk. I can imagine the smell of the child, the feel of its tiny hands wrapped around my fingers. It makes my belly ache with longing.

  And what about college? That’d probably be done for, at least. Who can juggle feedings around the clock with studying, exams, and term papers? Not me, that’s for sure.

  So conventional wisdom is I stay in school, graduate, get a fast-track career and land in the CEO seat after twenty years of slogging away.

  Too bad that’s not what I want at all.

  Not even close.

  But one wrinkle. You have to have a man to have a baby. Sure, there’s artificial insemination, but no sperm bank will take me seriously. Eighteen year old naif? Teen with no money, no prospects, no job? Please, I’d have a better chance of landing on the moon.

  So yeah, I need to do it the regular way. And for that, it means a boyfriend who enjoys home and hearth as much as I do, who wants a woman to mother his child, to make his meals, to keep his house. I want those things almost more than going off to culinary school. I’d love to create food, but I can do that for my own family. I can share my recipes with the world in written form. My dream is to figure out how to mix these wants into something real.

  My parents love me, I know they do, but their dreams aren’t mine. I don’t want to be a disappointment to them, but I also know I can’t follow this path they’ve set out for me. But if I do what I want – if I get preg
nant and choose to be a homemaker – they’ll probably never speak to me again.

  So what to do?

  There are no good choices.

  All possible outcomes seem bad.

  After all, I had a high school friend, Eliza, who got pregnant when she was sixteen. She was actually pretty excited about it and her boyfriend asked her to marry him. I thought it was really sweet, but my mom called Eliza a slut and a know-nothing, talking for weeks about how hard-working people’s tax dollars would be wasted on welfare for this little teenage whore and her spawn.

  Clearly, I wasn’t allowed to hang out with Eliza anymore after that. But it’s not wrong to have sex with someone you love, right? It’s not wrong to have a baby, even if you’re young? But tell that to Marsha. She went on a tirade about how women should keep their legs closed until they finish college and get started on their careers. She’s very big on women having their own income and legacy. I get that, but I also don’t think that’s for me.

  God, Marsha is so weird. At this point, I even wonder if my dad ever gets laid. Not that I need that image in my head. It just seems to me my mom has very specific ideas about sex and they probably aren’t that creative or fun.

  I mean, making a baby could be a fun process…

  With the Morgans especially ...

  Those tall, dark-haired, muscular men are all I can think about lately. I’m in a constant state of arousal, it seems, thanks to them.

  Who would have guessed that alphas like that – successful, gorgeous, smart – would be into a curvy girl like me? But they are. I know they are by the way their dicks harden when they turn my way, and by the way they look at me like hungry animals ready to pounce on their prey. They like my sinuous S-shape, my full breasts, round belly, and wide ass. They like the way I look, but even more, they like how my body’s so receptive.

  Because it’s like I’m a doll, doing whatever they say, opening myself, touching wherever for their pleasure. I’ve been around plenty of pretty boys, even some that seemed kind of interested in me. But never has my curvy form been such a magnet.

  Call me a slut, but it feels good. And I’m ready for more. I’ve already gone so far with them, further than I’ve ever gone before, allowing them to lave at my breasts and lick at my pussy. I let them see between my ass cheeks, practically inviting them to fill that darkest of places.