The Scarlett Letters

by Jenny Nordbak

  “Man, you must think I’m a total weirdo for being into this shit. If we ever run into each other in public, you have to promise not to say anything.”

  “Of course! And don’t be silly. Your fantasy makes perfect sense, and is actually really hot. It’s not like you get off on someone pretending to run you over with a bike or from licking dirty brooms.”

  “You seriously have clients like that?”

  “Oh, yeah. And you know what? They’re fun to play with too. This is a safe place for whatever your fantasy is. There is no reason to feel ashamed of anything when you’re here. As long as it’s safe, sane, and consensual, there’s probably someone here who’s down.”

  “God, I just wish more people were that open-minded. I feel like such a freak most of the time. I can never tell my girlfriends.”

  “Maybe try meeting more people in the scene. Come out to some social events and you’ll realize there are more of us kinksters out there than you would think. Or try introducing the idea to a vanilla girl. Sometimes they surprise you.… I was vanilla once too.”

  I never saw Mark out in the scene in L.A., but I hope he found someone who won’t judge him for his fetish. I had a great time explaining the whole thing to Amelia when I got home. She is now in New York in her final year of medical school. And she’s a pro Domme on the side.

  2. HENRY

  Let’s rewind a year, shall we? Back to a period before words like sub, flogger, or certainly head-scissors would have meant anything to me—a time when the concept of a Dominatrix was nothing more than an archetype and maybe a Halloween costume. Oh, yes, such a time existed when I was uninitiated into the world of BDSM. I thought doggy style and blow jobs were pretty kinky. My mind was about to be blown open.

  I was, by all accounts, a happy and successful recent college graduate. I had a decent job that was more than paying my bills while I sorted out whether a PhD was the right path for me. My friends were fantastic. In particular, my roommate, Amelia, was always there whether I needed a partner in crime or someone to watch a movie with on a Friday night. My family wasn’t perfect, but really, whose is? But my sex life? Not so great.

  On a typical Monday just a year before Mark, I awoke with a start, knowing immediately that I wasn’t going to like what my watch showed me, judging by how much sunlight was streaking in the window. It was 9:32, which meant I had slept in dramatically.

  Fuck it.

  I rolled over and curled around my boyfriend, Wes, waking him. Wes was a law student, but most of the time he was more interested in extreme sports than law. He was medium height with long blond hair. He was handsome and charming and had a playful sense of humor that always managed to get me riled up.

  I glared as I caught him looking at his watch.

  “I know,” I mumbled grumpily.

  “I didn’t say anything!”

  “You didn’t have to. I know I’m late, but my boss isn’t on-site today, so I just need to get there soon and it won’t matter.”

  “Well, I’ve got a few minutes before I need to get going, and someone is awake and ready to go,” he whispered, guiding my hand down to his morning wood.

  All I wanted to do was go back to sleep, but I giggled obligingly and began a stroking motion. When he decided he was ready, he spat on his hand, using it to lubricate things, rolled over, and thrust inside me. I was annoyed at the shortcut, but didn’t outwardly protest.

  If he had a floppy dick, I would hardly expect him to find a way to shove it in regardless of the obvious indicator that things weren’t ready yet. Why is the reverse acceptable?

  I could hear Amelia in the kitchen making breakfast and began to absently wonder whether there would be enough bread left for me to make toast.

  Wes groaned, reminding me of my present duties.

  We flipped positions, and it started to feel kinda good. I was driving a rhythm now that was slowly awakening my desires.

  Maybe this was a good way to start the morning after all.

  Six seconds later, he came.

  Really?

  I wonder whether I can get myself off while he’s in the shower without him knowing.

  Up to that point in my life, almost all of the sex I had made me want to burn a romance novelist’s house down in frustration. I didn’t have the confidence to get what I wanted.

  Even more problematic? I wasn’t willing to admit what I wanted. It’s hard to blame your partner for not asking when you wouldn’t have given him a straight answer anyway.

  My basic understanding of intercourse was: It begins when the man is aroused and ends when he achieves climax. To ask for something else in the middle would be to risk both ridicule and rejection.

  Wes grinned beneath me, and I hid my frustration with what I hoped would pass for a contented sigh. He kissed me and then headed for the bathroom to shower.

  “Mmm, thanks, babe. That felt amazing,” he said as he started the water.

  Fuck it.

  I rolled over and snuggled back into the covers, smiling to myself. In spite of its mediocre beginning, today was special. Today, I had a secret, and something about it was much more powerful than the orgasm I had just compromised on. Today was the day. I was interviewing for a job at the Dungeon. Deep down, I thought it was probably wrong to be hiding it, but it felt like something precious and embryonic, not yet ready to survive outside the careful nest of secrecy I was protecting it with. To speak about it would make it too real, and I knew I would be too intimidated to go. I had courage, but only because no one knew. There was nothing at stake until I told someone.

  Before Wes, I had been deliberately single for a while. I needed a break after Henry.

  Henry was short, with curly blond hair. He wasn’t exactly handsome but had a charisma that drew people, so when he chose me it felt like the clouds had parted and the sun was shining for me alone. Such a giddy feeling can cause us to ignore the insidious voice that reminds us that our happiness should never be based upon the fickle favor of a man.

  He was a fiercely intelligent creative writing student with a flair for the dramatic. He was also jealous to the point of it being absurd. And we were both stubborn and arrogant. As a result, our fights were spectacular. Long, passionate, and carefully articulated and reasoned disagreements were commonplace, but I always seemed to lose and be the one apologizing in the end.

  My friends could only watch in dismay as I succumbed to the all-too-familiar “I made him do it” reasoning.

  One particular fight over a game of beer pong sent things into a downward spiral.

  Henry and I faced each other down across the battlefield, both equally determined to emerge victorious. As my team had slowly gained the lead, the vibe had turned from a friendly game of beer pong to something more serious. Admittedly, my partner Colin was the reason we were winning. Of the eight cups we had cleared from the table, I had accidentally bounced one in without meaning to when I dropped the ball. The other seven fallen soldiers belonged to Colin. Eye-hand coordination had never been a strength of mine, something I would be forced to address once I had a whip in my hand. It’s amazing how quickly those skills improve when there’s something at stake besides sobriety.

  Henry’s team had only made two of their ten cups, so they had a long way to go. It was my turn to shoot.

  “C’mon, Jen, you got this. Make one and I’ll make the other,” said Colin from behind me. His patience was encouraging as I had thus far been a useless partner.

  From across the table, Henry rolled his eyes.

  “Jen? Is that his little name for you? He only wants to play with you so he can stare at your ass. You fucking suck at beer pong, baby. Maybe you should just suck Colin’s dick while he plays. At least you’re good at that.”

  Shit talk in a college drinking game was normal, expected even. But this was stunningly inappropriate and seemingly out of left field. I knew it was his wounded ego lashing out. I had seen it before.

  Colin had been a close friend of mine for years and
I didn’t want to make him any more uncomfortable, so I ignored Henry and threw the ball.

  It landed in the left cup with a satisfying splash, and I threw my arms in the air, victorious.

  Colin swept me into a bear hug as cheers went up from the watching crowd.

  “That’s my girl!” Colin shouted.

  “No, bro, that’s my girl. Get your fucking hands off her.”

  I could sense all six feet three inches of Colin bristling in my defense, but I gave him a look that begged him to let it go. For months he had been pushing me to break up with Henry, but I wasn’t there yet.

  “Whatever, man,” he said and stepped back to let me shoot again.

  As usual, my previous shot had just been a lucky fluke, and this one made up for it. The tiny ball soared over the table and nailed Henry in the shoulder. It wasn’t deliberate, but he took it personally.

  “Nice shot, baby!” he said sarcastically. “But you know the rules … miss the table and you have to play with your pants around your ankles until someone makes a cup.”

  Colin came to my defense.

  “Dude, we haven’t played with those rules all night. We’ll just pull one of your cups and call it good.”

  “House rules, Colin, and it’s my house. Drop your pants, baby.”

  He laughed hysterically and high-fived his partner, like a frat-boy douche bag.

  Colin pulled one of their cups and slammed it.

  “We’re good now. Your throw.”

  I was blushing furiously and considered running inside, but my pride planted my feet firmly to the ground.

  Henry was drunk and wasn’t going to let it go.

  “What, now all of a sudden she’s a prude? You’ve been acting like a slut all night—laughing and hugging this guy, but now you’re gonna pussy out? He’s been imagining what’s under those sweats this whole time. Why don’t you just show him?”

  It was a game for Henry. He would push and push me knowing that I wouldn’t do anything about it until we were in private later. He was getting humiliated at the game, so he needed to turn it around on me. I knew he didn’t actually want me to drop trou. He was way too possessive for that. He was just being an asshole. This time I snapped.

  Without saying a word, I dropped my sweats to the ground where they pooled around my ankles.

  At the sight of my green thong, the crowd erupted with astonished yells and clapping.

  I pushed my chin up, looked Henry in the eye, and said sweetly, “Your turn.”

  Colin started to say something, but I turned and silenced him with a glare and a shake of my head.

  Henry’s pride was evidently an obstacle as well because he was no longer talking and he obediently threw the ball. It struck the rim of one of the cups and Colin snatched it before it could bounce away.

  Quietly, so only I could hear, Colin said, “Okay, that’s enough, Jen. You can pull your pants back up. You’ve proven your point.”

  I was not as quiet with my response. “Just make the cup and then you get to be my hero.”

  This sent Henry into a rage. He violently smacked the last remaining cup in front of him, knocking it flying from the table and covering the people around him with beer. Now I was worried that I had pushed things too far. The last thing I wanted was for an actual fight to break out, though in hindsight, an ass whoopin’ was exactly what Henry needed.

  As he took angry steps toward our side of the table, Colin protectively swept me behind him with his arm.

  “Move, asshole,” yelled Henry. “And pull your fucking pants up now. You really are a slut. I can’t believe you would embarrass me like that.”

  “You embarrassed yourself, Henry. And you made it perfectly clear that I couldn’t pull them back up until someone made a cup … but now you’ve ruined the game, so I guess I’m not allowed to.”

  Stubbornness prevailed over logic.

  Henry tried to move around Colin, but he blocked him.

  “This doesn’t concern you, Colin. I want to talk to my girlfriend!”

  “She shouldn’t even be your girlfriend. I don’t know why she puts up with this shit.”

  He was right, but he had taken things too far.

  “Colin, shut up. That’s not helpful.”

  Henry lunged forward, but Colin pushed him back by the shoulders. I jerked away instinctively and tripped over my pants, landing on my bare ass in a mortified heap. I wanted to cry at how ridiculous the situation had become. I could feel the tears stinging my eyes, but crying would only make it worse.

  As though he sensed that he had turned the tables again, Henry leaned over and spat, “You want her, Colin? You can have her. She’s fucking trash to me.”

  He stormed into the house.

  My stomach dropped.

  Oh, my God, is he breaking up with me? I hadn’t meant for it to go this far. I need to stop him and apologize. This was stupid and it’s all my fault. I should’ve stayed calm. Why did I have to call his bluff? Fuck! I’m going to lose him.

  I started to cry. I pulled my pants up and Colin helped me up from the ground. He wrapped me in his arms to shield me from the awkwardly staring faces around us. He couldn’t understand that I was too head-fucked to accept his sympathy. I still wanted to be in Henry’s arms, not his.

  Years down the road, Colin would still be trying to “save me” … but that comes later in this tale.

  I tried to push him away.

  “Stop! This is your fault! Why did you have to say that?”

  He fought to keep me against his chest as if I were a child who would calm down eventually.

  “That guy is an asshole, Jenny. You deserve better.”

  “Let me go!”

  I broke free and chased Henry to his room to continue the melodrama.

  I can’t bring myself to detail the sobbing, pleading argument that followed. I was pathetically desperate to make amends, apologizing and assuming responsibility for the entire situation. He tormented me for at least an hour.

  He stood by the door and said, “It’s over. Get out.”

  I went to him and tried to wrap my arms around him. “But I love you!”

  I was devastated when he reached around me for the door handle, but at the last second, he pulled me into a passionate kiss instead. He acted as though it was impulsive, but I’m sure he had been planning it the whole time. He pulled me toward the bed with him and my relief was palpable. It seemed so passionate and romantic.

  He pulled out his dick, once again removed my offending sweatpants, and managed to drive it home. He thrust hard against me for a few minutes and then abruptly pulled out and came all over me.

  The underlying message was pretty clear to me.

  The trend continued like this for months.

  He locked me out of his house in the middle of the night and left me to find a ride home … but I had brought it on myself by questioning his relationship with a female friend. I needed to be less jealous and trust him more.

  He reduced me to tears on a regular basis for what he perceived as my flaws, and then he would explain that he was just trying to help me to grow, to be honest with me about what I was doing wrong.

  No matter what happened, I saw the fault in myself because I desperately wanted our love to be real, needed lightning bolts and fireworks in my life. Blame daddy issues or whatever else it could be attributed to, the outcome was the same: I was willing to overlook almost any fault to make it work with this handsome, intelligent, larger-than-life creature because I was pathetically desperate for my happy ending.

  The first time we had sex, I remember sitting on the bed and watching as he stripped his pants and shirt off. He stood before me in his gray briefs and black socks.

  There was a moment of slightly vulnerable eye contact, and then he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and slid them off.

  Why do they always leave their socks on? I thought with a giggle.

  Determined to be seen as the desirable vixen I wanted to be
, I pushed him forward and slid to my knees in front of him. With no hesitation, I took him in my mouth and began servicing him like a seasoned porn star. My fake noises of pleasure had been practiced in the shower for years to sound appropriately naughty but sexy at the same time. I used them now, hoping to show him just how wild I was.

  He eventually stopped me with a touch and pulled me up from my knees. We stood chest to chest, and I leaned in for a passionate kiss, missing his mouth as he turned away and offered me his cheek.

  Are you fucking kidding me? He really won’t kiss me after I’ve been down there?

  Now such disrespect would be a deal breaker, but I hadn’t yet found enough respect for myself to demand it from others. Rather than questioning the behavior, I flopped back down on the bed, sliding my dress up and over my head.

  Henry knelt in front of me and planted a kiss on my satin-covered mound, and I began to writhe, thinking things were about to get good, while simultaneously worrying about whether anything smelled/tasted/looked bad to him down there. He licked slowly up and down the satin, repeating the motion one more time before abruptly standing up again. He slid my panties to the ground and pushed me farther back up the bed, climbing on with me. I was still trying to figure out what had caused him to stop, internally crawling into a hole of insecurity, when I felt him pressing at my entrance. He entered with a quick thrust and a grunt.

  I mentally freaked, realizing he wasn’t wearing protection, but again, I didn’t have the confidence, self-respect, or presence of mind to say anything. Absurdly, it seemed somehow impolite now that he was already doing it. I had been repeatedly told that condoms don’t feel as good for the guy and if he just assumed it was okay, then clearly others had let him ride bareback. So on the one hand, I didn’t want to be the lame girl who forced the issue and made the experience less pleasurable for him … but on the other hand, by my own argument, the fact that he automatically deemed it acceptable meant that he was irresponsible and was the guy I should be forcing the issue with. As always, my eagerness to please prevailed and I let him keep going.

  As Henry began to thrust in earnest, he grabbed the headboard and pounded, our hips slapping together rapidly.