by Madison Faye
It wasn’t until my teen years that I discovered my love of romance. What began by dipping my toes into the historical greats affectionately termed ‘bodice rippers’ took on a different tone when I was a senior in high school. I discovered the world of erotic romance. I’d always been taught that literature was a gateway for the imagination so I never dreamed that some people would frown on the romance genre as lower quality literature. After all, with a history of such utter trash like Wuthering Heights and The Old Man and the Sea being named classics, what’s wrong with Fifty Shades of Grey?
I sputter on my beer. Some of my colleagues would take issue with what she calls trash. I read on.
The writing was atrocious, but that wasn’t why I read it. Fifty Shades opened up my eyes to a world I never imagined existed: the dark, sensual world of dominance and submission.
I swallow another gulp of beer.
So how does literature influence my imagination? As a child it fueled my dreams. As an adult, it does the same. I long for a stern dominant to take me in hand, and my own literary pursuits now include reams of books dedicated to the erotic pull of dominance and submission in romance. I write fantasies with vivid detail, allowing my imagination to see no limits. In my mind, I am that woman collared by a man who loves her. I am that woman who surrenders to a powerful dominant strong enough to discipline me, to mold me, to help me reach my full potential by freeing my mind and heart from the worries of the world. My imagination revels in the fantasy of giving utter control to the one dominant who treasures me.
I want to be tied up and spanked, pushed to my knees and made to submit. I want to hurt, in all the good ways. And more still, I want to sit on the lap of a sexy, dominant man, and call him Daddy. Be his baby girl.
I’m long since past being ashamed of what I crave, thanks to the books I’ve read that have made me accept who I am, and the staunch believe that there’s freedom in sexual exploration. I applaud the writers who’ve brought these fantasies to print, and now write the fantasies that lurk in the dark recesses of my mind.
Literature not only fuels my imagination. It’s given me space to dream, and now a purpose.
“Geoff? You alright, man?”
I blink in surprise at Travis, who’s wiping down the bar but looking at me in concern.
“Yeah,” I stammer, putting the phone down. “Got an email that distracted me. I gave my students an assignment and read all but one before I came here tonight.”
“Hey, I forgot you were teaching,” Travis says, and I think we talk about classes and time frames and books, but my mind is somewhere else. I’m not really thinking about what I’m saying. I need to read her email again.
She’s just handed me a confession. Part of me wonders if she’s playing me. Is she trying to get me focused on her? Does she want me not able to focus during class, eyes on her as I fantasize about pulling her out of her chair and bending her over her desk? Is she trying to get me fired? I frown, turn from the bar when Travis begins serving other customers, and look out at the large room in front of me.
Her little essay on her imaginative exploration of dominance and submission’s got me hard as a fucking rock. I need to read what she’s written, see for myself what dark fantasies lurk in her beautiful, depraved mind. What kink’s her flavor. When I got to the ‘daddy’ part I about dropped my phone. I haven’t had a baby girl since my last submissive left the country and I didn’t realize how badly I craved it until I read it here, in this little wicked essay.
She ought to be punished for putting something so bold out there like that.
But hell, I invited her to.
I take a pull of my beer, scanning the crowd. For what? I don’t know, until my eyes rest on a beautiful, tall, graceful woman who’s standing by the pool table. She’s talking animatedly to a couple, but there’s a man behind the couple who’s eyeing her. I can see the scroll of musical note tattoos along her neck and know exactly who this is: Sasha. She’s the CEO of a medical supply company located in New England, and only comes here for the kink. She has no interest in anything serious or long-term, and would kick the balls of a guy who demanded her submission outside of a scene, but she comes here for a top.
And tonight, I need to scene.
I finish my beer, slam the empty mug on the counter, and stalk to the pool tables before someone claims Sasha before I do. She sees me prowling closer before I get there, her caramel-colored eyes warming as I approach.
“Master Geoffrey,” she says, bowing her head like a good little sub. “I hear you’re free, sir.”
I reach for her neck and wrap my fingers around the back, feeling the tremor that courses through her.
“I am. Are you?”
“Of course, sir,” she responds, eyes cast down as she’s been trained to do. I need to dominate her and cleanse my mind of the depraved thoughts of the sassy student who’s baiting me.
I move my fingers to the hair at the back of her neck and tug hard. Her mouth falls open but the corners of her lips quirk upward as her eyes flutter closed. I put my mouth to her ear. “Will you be my dirty little sub tonight?”
“Mmm,” she purrs. “Hell, yes.”
It isn’t satisfying, though. It’s empty and weirdly unfulfilling. I miss the surge of adrenaline, the chase. This is too easy.
I release her neck and take her by the hand, pulling her with me to the dungeon. If I had a chain I’d snap it on her neck and make her crawl, but tonight she’ll walk. Beyond the bar area lies the dungeon, outfitted with everything from spanking benches and horses, to exam tables, restraints, harnesses, and implements.
I’m feeling the St. Andrew’s cross tonight.
The rooms are crowded with couples and singles, dungeon monitors prowling around making sure everyone’s following rules. Verge is the most renowned kink club in all of NYC, and we keep things tight here. Club owner Tobias has rules everyone must follow, and those who don’t comply are promptly escorted out. It helps that some members are also officers on the NYC police force.
“Hey, Geoff.” Still holding tightly to Sasha’s hand, I look to my right and see my friend Zack with his wife and submissive Beatrice on a leash beside him. She’s wearing nothing but a skimpy leather outfit, the collar around her neck thick, attached to the chain Zack’s holding.
“Hey,” Beatrice says, as if we’ve just run into each other at the grocery store and she’s not half-naked standing next to her husband wearing a chain. “Haven’t seen you in forever. How’ve you been?”
“I’m good,” I say. “Busy.” Not in the mood for chit-chat, I force a friendly smile and move past them. “You good?”
Zack gives Beatrice a little tug and she squeals. “Never been better,” she says with a grin, her eyes on Zack.
My stomach tightens. As the years pass and Verge grows, the couples who find their way to each other grows in number, though many couples are still here for the kink and not looking to hook up beyond a scene or two. I never thought I’d be that guy looking for a quick lay, yet here I am. I eye the St. Andrew’s cross, thankful it’s free for the moment, release Sasha’s hand and point.
“Take your position,” I say without preamble. There’ll be no foreplay tonight. I need to get my hands on a sturdy implement, need to mete out measured pain and pleasure, drink from the cup of power and control.
Like a good little sub, she obeys, walks with her head held high to the cross, spreads her legs and lifts her arms up so I can restrain her. I cuff her wrists, then gently but firmly kick her feet a little further apart so her taut ass stretches the fabric of her skirt tight. “Good girl,” I say in her ear when she’s properly restrained. “It’ll be leather tonight. Pick a safeword.” I love striping a woman’s ass with leather when we’re playing.
“Mmmm,” she moans, stretched spread-eagle on the cross with her back to me. I can smell the heady scent of her arousal from where I stand. “I can’t imagine I’ll need a safeword with you, Geoff, but I’ll pick one if you insist.”
“Got it. Red.”
I go to the display of implements and choose a sturdy red leather strap. The implements here are to be used over fully clothed guests. If a member wants to spank on bare skin or involve any sort of bodily fluids—and believe me, I usually do—we’re supposed to use our own toys. I don’t have any, though. I got rid of everything when my last relationship ended.
I test the strap on my hand and nod. It packs a good sting but is fairly thuddy. When I have a girl trussed up on the St. Andrew’s cross, I need something with length and give. Frowning, I eye the assortment in front of me, ignoring the sound of the crowd in the full room. I enjoy knowing I left Sasha at my mercy. I spy a scarlet flogger, with thin, crisscrossed folds of leather that join together in a sturdy handle.
Excellent.
I remove it, test it out on my hand, and find it’s fairly tame. I’ll have to swing hard to get this to sting, especially over her clothed bottom. Good. I’m game for some exercise.
I go back to Sasha, my mind on the email that sits like a red-hot poker in my inbox, the thought of the beautiful Giada tied to this cross flashing in my mind’s eye like a beacon. I shove the image away. No fucking way. I’d lose my job, and how would I ever live that down?
I walk over to Sasha and run the flogger over the tattoos on her neck. She shivers. I know it tickles, and building anticipation heightens our scene.
“Tell me what you’ve done to deserve punishment,” I say, trailing the flogger down her bare neck to her back, covered in a thin, black cropped top. “Have you been a bad girl?” Sasha has bad girl fantasies and I love playing into that. Hell, it’s my fantasy, punishing naughty little girls. She can’t move much tied to the cross but turns her head to look at me.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she says in a seductive whisper.
I snap the flogger against her ass. She hisses and comes up on her tiptoes, a flush of pleasure coloring her cheeks.
“Yes,” she says. “I did wicked things deserving of punishment, sir.”
Something comes over me then. I don’t know if it’s the memory of what I had with Philippa, or the thoughts of Giada, but I let myself indulge. I lean in close and put my hand on her arm.
“I want you to say, ‘Punish me, Daddy.’”
She hesitates, so I give her another lash of the flogger. Her body tenses.
“Say it.”
“Red!”
I blink, startled. I’ve seen Sasha take a whipping before, the few smacks from the flogger child’s play compared to what she can take. What the fuck is she safewording for? I let her go like she’s a hot poker, scalding to touch, and step back.
I haven’t had a sub safeword with me in years. I prefer reading their signs, knowing that I can test limits without taking them out of the pleasure of a scene. I read cues and body language and know how to meet needs. Hearing her safeword feels like some kind of failure. Does she have a bad memory associated with the flogger?
“Red?”
Her jaw tightens, her eyes narrowed. “I will not call you Daddy. That’s a hard limit. No way.”
Oh.
An uncomfortable flush of unease washes over me. She won’t call me Daddy. Jesus, I hadn’t even thought about it before I said it. The daddy dom aspect of my personality is such a part of who I am, I forgot some subs hate that.
“Fair enough,” I say tersely, taking my position from behind her. “Sir will do.”
“Yes, sir,” she says, though her voice is still tight.
I flog her harder than I intended, somehow needing to punish her for not giving me what I need tonight. The lash meets its target with careful precision, the bundle of leather marking her. I’m careful not to hurt her, but it feels good to wield this power. She doesn’t know why I’m punishing her, and when I’m done, she’s in a state of near-bliss, grinning, her eyes half-lidded as she slurs out a “Thank you, sir.”
I’m not satisfied, though. I follow through with her aftercare in a state of semi-automation. I need to get out of here.
Chapter Three
Giada
The next day, I sit in my car staring at the clock on my dash. I sent my essay to Professor Slade last night, and never received a reply. Has he read it yet? If he did, what did he think? Does he think I’m a silly girl he can’t take seriously? Does he think I’m playing him?
Or have I affected him in another way?
Class begins in one minute, and I’m sitting here watching the clock run down on purpose. I want to push him, see what he’ll do if I’m late. I look down at the outfit I chose for today and smirk. I have a checkered schoolgirl skirt, a fitted, button-down blouse unbuttoned to reveal cleavage, and my hair is in two demure braids. It’s a style that’s trending, and to the untrained eye I look totally fine.
I wonder what Professor Slade will think.
When it’s five minutes past the start of class, I leave my car. My phone buzzes, and I look quickly at the screen.
How’s it going, baby sis?
I roll my eyes. Baby sis is so condescending. Emilio, one of the four older brothers who love to smother me, is the sappiest of the bunch. I text back quickly.
I’m good. On my way to class.
Good job. I’m proud of you. Study hard, kiddo.
I purse my lips. He’s proud of me? I just sent a provocative essay to my teacher with every intention of seducing him. Would that make him proud?
I smile to myself. Probably.
I’m a full ten minutes late when I get to the entrance of my class. I bite my lip, suddenly a bit nervous about what will happen now that I’m here. What was I thinking? I take a deep breath, and with my hand shaking, I test the doorknob. Of course it’s locked. I give a quick, sharp knock, my breath frozen in my lungs. This is why I do what I do. I love the feeling of adrenaline coursing through me, the fear of what will happen exciting and raw.
It seems like I wait an eternity when the large, bulky shadow approaches from the other side of the door before it opens. His green eyes smolder when he opens the door, and even though it’s what I expected, I’m surprised at how it scares the hell out of me. My stomach drops when I feel the palpable heat emanating from him. I’m the sole focus of his piercing gaze, and despite the fact that I planned this out, I’m literally quaking.
I swallow hard. “Sorry I’m late, Professor,” I say, my voice a little shaky and husky.
I need to get a fucking grip. You’re not roleplaying, I tell myself. This is real life. And yet…
“You’re sorry you’re late?” he asks, crossing his arms on his chest and tipping his head to the side. “Why do I find that hard to believe?”
His voice is deeper than I remember, or maybe it’s because he’s stern and corrective now?
Oh, God. Why’d I think this man would be easy to play?
My mouth is dry when I take a step back, but he takes a step closer to me, not allowing me to cower. “You will be sorry, Ms. Romano,” he says in a whisper that makes my nipples harden with want. “You will remain after class with me this afternoon. I told you there would be consequences for misbehavior.”
Oh, God. Oh God oh God oh God.
Me, alone, with him, and in trouble.
It’s exactly what I wanted, but now I’m questioning my sanity.
I’m dimly aware of him stepping aside so I can enter the room. A flush of embarrassment crawls up my neck and my cheeks, as I take my seat on the other side of the room. My other classmates thankfully don’t look my way to give me space to sort my shit, but it doesn’t matter anyway. They may as well not even be here, since the only person I’m aware of is the big, angry, dominant man standing just a few feet
away from me. My eyes zone in on the thick leather belt at his waist, and I imagine what it would be like to watch him unfasten that belt, double it in his hands, and bend me over the desk.
My panties dampen. Christ, I need to get a grip already. It’s like my class has become some sort of fetish fantasy play.
I really, really need to get some action, and soon.
He crosses to the front of the room. “I enjoyed reading the essays you sent me,” he says, lifting a stack of papers from his desk. “The literary influences on your imaginations are many and varied,” he continues, and now he’s walking up my aisle, his eyes focused on me once more. “And it will be my pleasure to see you explore where your imagination takes you.”
Of course my dirty little mind has fun with that.
He’s just responding to the assignments, I tell myself.
But my body knows better.
I take down notes and jot down what he says. Tonight’s assignment will be an actual piece of fiction I need to write based on the imagination piece I wrote the day before. So while my classmates write about traveling to foreign countries and world domination, I’ll be writing about nipple clamps and wax play.
Excellent.
I’m so caught up in mentally drafting my essay for class, that I momentarily forget where I am. When I become aware of everyone around me standing up and leaving their seats, I blink up at the clock. Class is over. On autopilot I stand with the rest of them, pretending I was totally paying attention, but his sharp voice freezes me.
“Sit down, Ms. Romano.”
I blink. He’s at his desk, leaning back as my classmates filter out of the classroom. His stern gaze focuses solely on me. His arms are crossed on his chest, like he’s challenging me to defy him.
Obediently, I sit.
A corner of his lips quirks up, then just as quickly he sobers, so swiftly I wonder if I imagined that.
