LOVERS

by Roxy Harte

  “Sh-h, Hiroko, it’s just a game. Guess.” I slide the perfume into her easily, making her gasp and cry out.

  “No, Bishop, please. I do not like this game.”

  “Then we will play another, but the object stays where it is until you guess.”

  “No, please. Take it out.” A tear leaks out from beneath my tie.

  I knew she would react, but I had no idea she would react so strongly. “It isn’t hurting you. We agreed that I would never cause you pain.”

  “It does hurt, it is a different kind of pain. I am ashamed.”

  I kiss her, holding her face. “You are only ashamed because it feels good. Let me bring you pleasure.”

  “I want to pleasure you now,” she tells me insistently. She pushes at the tie around her eyes, but I still her hands. I also press my hand against the end of the perfume bottle sticking out of her bottom, a little pressure to remind her it is there. I feel her push, but I won’t let the bottle slide out. She begs, “Please, Bishop, please?”

  She fidgets against the mattress. I know that the full, unfamiliar sensation inside her ass is making her crazed. I do not push it deeper. With the end of it sticking out of her ass, I can press it up or down, pull on it to slide it out some before pushing it back in. I want her to remember this game in her dreams.

  “No.” I admonish her. “My game, my rules. Now, tell me, how would you like to pleasure me?”

  She struggles with the question, finally answering with a question of her own. “What would bring you the most pleasure? That is what I would like to do.”

  It has been a long time since we have had intercourse. It pains her too much to open her thighs so wide. So I wouldn’t ask that of her. I struggle to ask anything of her, it makes me feel so selfish. I settle for saying, “We will pleasure each other with our mouths,” knowing that she will blush, knowing that she will be so thankful for the blindfold in this moment so that I cannot look into her eyes. I am regretful I had to put the blindfold on her to hide my indiscretion.

  I turn my body so we are opposite, not a classic sixty-nine position, but similar. She rolls onto her side as I have and I do not wait for her to touch me, I pet the soft downy hair between her legs. She is so soft here, not shaved or waxed, but as she was meant to be. I inhale the fragrance that is distinctly hers, knowing that she will be further embarrassed, even after so many years of marriage.

  I separate the folds of her labia and lick slowly down her clit while pressing lightly against the bottle up her ass, making her moan.

  Her hands finally circle my shaft. She is shy in her attention, every touch a slow, gentle exploration. She will drive me insane if I let her, if I focus on her touch. Instead, I focus on bringing her to orgasm as quickly as I can. I lick in short, sure strokes until her hips vibrate with every touch of my tongue. I wiggle the end of the perfume bottle, and her muscles squeeze around it. It is then I know she is close. I pull her clit into my mouth, sucking softly with the same rhythm as the short strokes. She starts sucking my dick with focused urgency. I allow myself to relax and enjoy her attention when I am certain that her orgasm is eminent.

  She stops sucking and starts keening, a high-pitched, frantic yelp from deep in her throat. The sound of her orgasm speeds up my spine, doubling my pleasure, I jerk, filling her mouth with cum.

  I know the moment when she pushes the tie off her face because I hear her gasp. Her fingers then trace a circle on the back of my thigh.

  Fuck. I forgot about the bite there.

  I pull the bottle from her ass and ungracefully roll away from her. She has already pulled the sheets up to her chin to hide her body from my sight. I try to move close to her, but she backs away from me.

  “Stand up, Bishop. I want to see all of you.”

  Standing in front of her, I deserve to be screamed at. I deserve for her tears to break my heart and condemn me to the hell that neither of us believes in, but as she traces each bruise with her fingertips, there are no tears, there is only awe.

  “You should tell me about her,” she says softly.

  I take a deep breath. This is the moment I am supposed to assure her that she should not worry about the woman because she means nothing to me. I should tell her it was just a moment, a diversion, but the words refuse to form.

  What I say is, “Her name is Bianca.”

  What she says is, “I want to meet the woman you have fallen in love with.”

  Chapter 22

  Bianca

  I turn the key and open the door, finding Jameson’s suitcases and some crates filled with his things, mostly books and CDs, a few DVDs. I take one off the top, Secretary. I wave the DVD in the air. “Hey, this one’s mine!” I tuck it under my arm and go off in search of the man who is obviously moving out.

  I’ve done my share of sneaking out in the dark and I’ve had my fair share of ruined relationships come and go, so I know what it looks like…and this desertion smells of something rotten…namely Emma. I wonder what she has done now.

  “Jameson?”

  He pokes his head through the bedroom door at the top of the stairs. “I’m here, babe.”

  I startle at the endearment, repeating it with a shout up the stairs. “Babe?” He’s moving out and he’s calling me babe? What the fuck? “Is something going on that I should know about?”

  “Yeah,” he shouts through the ceiling. “Give me a second. Have you seen my ball glove?”

  I shake my head, confused, not about the glove but about what is happening. “Do you even own a ball glove?” I holler up through the ceiling. Oh, this is ridiculous. I mount the stairs and find him on his hands and knees, head buried in the depths of a small hole that leads to an extra small attic storage space. I think for a second that this is about me, this is about my disappearance off the Jameson map for all of four days, but I shake it off. This doesn’t have anything to do with me. It never has.

  The revelation doesn’t shock me.

  What is wrong with me that I’m not emotionally melting down? Oh, that’s right, I’ve lived this scene a dozen times, maybe two dozen, each a different man, sometimes because they are moving on, sometimes because I am. Lyrics fill my head, to the left, to the left, everything you own in the box to the left.

  I start humming. Beyonce Knowles isn’t a favorite…most days…but today I could belt the words, every word, with the primal emotion and desolate anger I used to throw at Love Me before it was cleaned up and turned into a pop sensation.

  “What’s going on?”

  He bumps his head as he pulls out of the hole and leans back on his heels, squatting. “We need to talk.”

  “You think?”

  “A lot happened while you were away.”

  “Obviously.” I look around the room, noticing all the missing items that were ours and the ones that were specifically his. “Let me guess, you’re going back to your wife?”

  I pull two candlesticks out of a box, definitely ours. The picture fragment of me running my plastic through the card reader to pay for them fills my memory. Beyonce rolls through my head, if I bought it please don’t touch.

  I wave them in front of him. “These are mine.” Not that it matters, not that they are valuable, but I would rather burn them than think of them being in her possession.

  “I haven’t taken anything out of the house yet. I want you to go through everything, you know, make sure I don’t take anything that’s important to you.”

  I look at him like he has lost his mind. “You want me to go through the boxes looking for things that are important?”

  He sits down on the edge of the bed, looking wrung out and exhausted. Thank you, Emma. “I just don’t want this to be any more emotionally hard than it has to be.”

  You must not know ’bout me, you must not know…

  I can have another you in a minute…

  Matter fact he’ll be here…

  I hide my face in my hands, mumbling, “Goddamn, B, get out of my head.”

  Jameson l
ooks up. “What?”

  “I was talking to myself, thinking how messed up this is.” For a second Bishop’s laughing, smiling face runs replay through my brain. I shut it down. But then Jameson gets a go with a fast forward play by play, not smiling, rarely smiling, serious, always serious.

  “Stay.” I say the word automatically, knowing it is easier to be the one who leaves than the one who stays.

  “I can’t.” He shakes his head, looking more miserable than I feel. I think he will cry. I won’t. I never do.

  You must not know ’bout me…

  I walk out of the bedroom and go back down the stairs, because if I stay in that room, looking at him, seeing how emotionally destroyed he is, I could end up in prison by night’s end, because I want to kill Emma for doing this to him. I hear him rushing down the stairs, following after me.

  “This isn’t breaking up, Bianca!” he calls through the rooms.

  I am already standing on the back porch, looking over the backyard at grass that has been perfectly manicured…by him. He really is torn up about this.

  The screen door, an old-fashioned wooden one with a spring load, screeches as he comes through it. “Please, say something.”

  I turn to face him and decide he hasn’t slept, probably since I left him with the boys Friday night. I wonder if she showed up that night and if that was the reason she wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to be around. I ask, “Why?”

  “She’s pregnant.”

  I shake my head, knowing how he feels about his children, knowing how guilt ridden she’s made him over not being there for his boys every second of their lives. This is the one thing I can’t compete with. “Well, I’m not going to hurry up and make a baby just so you’ll come back.”

  “Bianca, this is serious.”

  “Yeah, it is. I really underestimated her need to dominate you.”

  “That isn’t what this is,” he says. “I’m not breaking it off with you. Things will just go back to the way they were before.”

  I turn around, facing the lawn, giving him my back. I feel him behind me, and he wraps his arms around my stomach. He lays his head on my back. I have to close my eyes when I feel his chest spasm, knowing he is sobbing. I fight back my own tears, hating his wife for her manipulation, and I have no doubt that this pregnancy was planned as the tool to force him back home, but he will never see it that way. As big a bitch as she is, he still loves her, and it isn’t like I can solely blame her. He could have used a condom.

  I roll in his arms to face him, to wrap him in my arms and hold him close. I kiss his face, tasting his tears, finding his mouth and taking control of the kiss. I want him to have to face up to just exactly what he is leaving.

  “Take off your clothes, Jameson. Mistress gets a piece of you before you leave.”

  He backs up, planning to turn to go back in the house.

  “Not so fast.”

  He faces me. “Mistress?”

  “Strip. Here.” I tap the deck with my high heeled, pointy toed shoe, drawing his eyes to my feet and ankles. I know if I told him to drop and lick them, he would; I don’t, because I couldn’t bear it today. This is why she can control him. He is so easily controlled.

  His need to be dominated was what brought us together as a couple. He attended a few FemDom classes that I was teaching and fell totally under my spell. I usually make it a rule to never date a student, but he was needy, so abused, I had hoped that by bringing him here, by teaching him the difference between what we do and what she does to him, and by empowering him to embrace his submissive sexuality, he would see how wrong what she does to him is.

  He stands there a moment too long, making me believe that this is it. I really have lost him, but then I realize that it is just his reaction to the request and I give him credit because he obeys, peeling off his shirt and pants, underwear, socks and shoes. It is dusk, not dark, and even though he hates being forced into an exhibitionism scenario, he obeys. Not that anyone will see him over the six foot privacy fence, but just the chance that they could is enough to make his thoughts crazed with worry.

  I’m wearing the black dress that I wore out Friday night, and I pull it over my head. I am not wearing a bra, or panties, garter or hose.

  I stand before him completely nude except for the high heels, and I let him have a good long look at me before I say, “You’re going to fuck me now, but you aren’t going to come, because you don’t deserve to come.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “Fuck me with your mouth,” I say, leaning back into a cushioned lounge that looks out over the lawn.

  He kneels beside me and goes to work, licking, stroking, just like I like it. Orchestrated…months of practice to get it just right…to the left, yes, yes. I close my eyes, seeking the familiar tug of pleasure, but there is nothing.

  My mind takes a field trip back to The Renaissance and Bishop on his knees, pulling my clit between his teeth, biting gently, making me moan…

  “Stop.”

  Jameson stops, sitting back. “Did I do it wrong, Mistress?”

  I swallow. “Leave.”

  “Mistress?”

  “I said go!”

  Jameson stands, sudden tears streaking down his face. He grabs his pants just as I hear the neighbor’s back door open, his feet heavy on his own wood deck. He will water the lawn, just as he does every night. I give Jameson credit. Hearing the neighbor, he doesn’t bolt inside, he manages to get his pants on even though he is shaking like a leaf. So much fear…

  I hear his cellphone ringing. He looks at me panicked, and I know he wants to answer it before it goes to voice mail.

  “Answer it!” I bark. “But get out first. I’ll have your stuff delivered.”

  He runs through the house and I hear him pant, “Hello?” before he is officially out of my house.

  “Leave the key on the table!” I scream.

  The neighbor looks over the top of the privacy fence. He takes a long look at me, naked and sprawled, before saying, “Beautiful evening.”

  “Yes,” I agree, leaning completely back, closing my eyes, not caring if he continues to look.

  I think about Jameson’s boxes piled by the door, and I consider setting them out on the porch. I also consider dumping them in his driveway, giving everything to Goodwill, or lighting a huge bonfire

  “Good night, Bianca,” my neighbor calls over the fence. I hear his screen open but not close. He asks, “Are you all right?”

  I almost don’t answer but with a heavy sigh, I do, “I’m fine, Jack. Tell Mary hello for me.”

  “I will.”

  I hear his screen close and then the more solid thud of his inside door. My cell rings and I think that Jameson can go fuck himself, but then I remember that I promised Bishop I would call him as soon as I was home. Grabbing my cell, I see his number on my Caller ID. Shit. I answer, “I just walked in the door.”

  “Liar.”

  “Okay, I’ve been home an hour, but I didn’t want to have to say I didn’t call you because I was arguing with Jameson.”

  The line is quiet.

  “He’s moving out,” I admit, hoping he will take it as a valid excuse for being distracted from calling him. I take a deep breath and sigh heavily when I realize Bishop isn’t going to say anything. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

  “Thank you,” he says. “I ask very little, Bianca. Just do what I ask when I ask.”

  I feel myself nodding, but no words come out. I don’t think I can handle a relationship where I’m not the dominant partner. I know I agreed to try, but I just don’t think it is in my nature. I tell him, “I miss you already.”

  “I miss you, Bianca. Get some rest. I’ll call you in a few days.”

  Right. Does that mean don’t call him?

  Scowling at the phone, I try to not be thoroughly pissed off but I am. Projecting maybe. Lord knows I have enough frustration built up dealing with Emma the last year to be furious…

  “Damn it!”


  TWICE A MONTH, ON THE second and forth Wednesday nights, I teach a beginner’s FemDom class at Orgasms. Very basic stuff, but the turnout is always good. I have to admit, I am beat after the weekend with Bishop followed by the break-up with Jameson. I almost call Adrian and tell him I can’t be there, but I don’t and when I arrive, dressed to kill in one of my sexiest dominatrix outfits, I feel better as soon as I see the crowd. Twenty couples are waiting for me and I’m not even late.

  I feel good, powerful as I start the class. I forget Jameson and the mess I left in my apartment, I forget Bishop and the ache that makes me wish he’d call me and get lost in what I’m doing.

  “Welcome! I see a lot of new faces…and some of my regular pervs,” I say, scanning the crowd. I stumble over my introduction because for some reason, Toby is sitting in the back of the room. I force myself to make eye contact with each of my students.

  “My name is Mistress Bee, and I will be guiding you through a basic session today on forced masturbation.”

  My words come out of my mouth on autopilot.

  “Ladies, you want your little slave boy to be enthralled by you, so pay particular attention to the outfit you choose and he won’t be able to take his eyes off you. If you really want to get his motor running, do a little preliminary research. Does he prefer leather or latex? Stilettos are a mandatory accessory, whether pumps or boots. The higher heel you can learn to tolerate, the more powerful you will feel and the sexier your feet, ankles and legs will look to him.”

  As my eyes wander back to Toby, I think that it is a good thing I could teach this particular class in my sleep. Her face is unexpected, especially since Adrian isn’t with her. She is unobtrusive, behind the bar, hidden in the shadows, and I doubt that anyone knows she is there watching, except for me. I don’t know how anyone could not know she’s there.