by Liz Crowe
“Yes, sir.”
“And quit calling me sir.”
“Yes, si . . . um, okay.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?”
I shrug. “Because you’re obviously a Dominant. And I’m obviously . . .”
“Pretty caught up in the lifestyle. I am too, but I don’t expect that from every submissive I see. Only from my submissive.” There’s not a hint of a smile on his face with that statement.
“Yes, si . . . of course. Yes.” I’m not sure what to say now. Then I decide a little fishing’s in order. “So do you also need a corset for your submissive? Because I make very nice corsets in all colors and . . .”
“So I’ve heard. And no, no corset. I don’t have a sub. Not right now anyway. I have had in the past, but, well, it was somewhere between ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ and ‘familiarity breeds contempt.’ In the end, familiarity won.” Does he mean for himself or for her? Since I don’t dare ask, it’s fortuitous for me that he adds, “Apparently I’m an object of contempt.”
“Oh, sir, I don’t think you’d ever be . . .”
He stops me with a raised palm. “You don’t know me. Looks can be deceiving.” Then he looks me up and down like he’s picking out a Christmas tree before he speaks. “I’m guessing if I told you I wanted you to do the measurements and fittings bare-breasted, you’d comply, would you not?”
Oooooo, god, if only. “Well, sir, you are a Dominant, and I am a submissive, and . . .”
“And you need to learn who is worthy of your service and submission and who is not.” His eyes bore a hole into me that I’m sure is smoldering like a volcano crater. “I understand from Michael that you spend some time at the club.”
“Yes, si . . . yes. I do.”
“I also understand that you’re quite the little pain slut.” There’s no gleam in his eye, no smile, not even a smirk. His face is just passive.
“Yes. That’s correct.” He twiddles with a pencil on the counter for a bit while I work up the courage to ask, “So what exactly is your specialty?”
“Me?” Dropping the pencil, he stands and walks to the window, taking in the view of the city from my perch. Before he speaks, he crosses his arms and his biceps flex, to my delight. “High-level restraint and suspension.” He turns to look at me over his shoulder. “Some punishment and discipline, but not much. I like to bind a submissive creatively, suspend them just right, and then fuck the hell out of them. But I suppose you wouldn’t be interested in anything like that, now would you?”
The throbbing of my clit is like a pump in an oil field, pumping my wetness out to flood my slit. Holy hell. How do I answer that question? Fuck yeah, I’d be interested. Wouldn’t I? Would I? Now I’m really confused. I want pain, but right this second I just really want this guy’s hands all over me. His cock in me would just be a bonus and, from the looks of things, a big bonus as well. My mind is rolling through all of the possible ways I could answer his question when he says, “Well, okay, down to business. How do you do this?”
“Um, uh, well,” I manage to stammer. He grins at me, and I feel that rush of heat across my cheeks and down my neck again. “I usually have the guys slip off their slacks and measure in their underwear.”
“Uh-oh. I’m commando.” That would absolutely be my undoing right there. I’m screwed. As the wave of panic takes hold, he laughs. “Just kidding! Just kidding, really. No problem.” He looks around. “Got a dressing room?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Right through there. I’ll do the measuring back there. I mean, the door’s locked and all, but still . . .”
“Thanks for the consideration of my privacy.” Strolling toward the dressing room doorway, he calls back, “I’ll call out when I’m ready.”
“Sure thing.” I want to die. I want to hide under the table, change my name, move to a different city, kill off my phone number. Humiliation lives large with me right now. I don’t know how I’m going to go in there and measure him so close to his, well, attributes, without coming apart at the seams. Uh-oh. Sewing clichés. I’m coming apart pretty fast.
“Okay. Ready.”
I grab my tape measure, pad, and pencil, and head that way. It takes everything I have to say nothing when I step through the doorway and see him standing there. Guarding my facial expressions is more work than I’ve done in five years. He’s left his tee shirt on and he’s standing there in his socks and briefs. If that’s not a ball bat in his shorts, I don’t know what the hell it is. Sure, my brain is exaggerating it – I know that – but it’s still lip-smacking impressive. I just place my pad and pencil in the chair, unroll my tape, and kneel down to take the first measurement.
And I’m stopped short when his hands wind into my hair, but as quickly as they do, they disappear and he gasps. Did I do something wrong? He murmurs out, “Oh, my god, I’m so sorry.”
“No, it’s okay, really,” my voice says in reassurance, but it’s shaky, and I know he can hear the tremor.
“It’s just that when a woman kneels in front of me, I’m accustomed to it being . . . oh, never mind.” Now he’s blushing.
“No, perfectly all right. Don’t worry about it.” Can he see my hands trembling? Feel the heat rolling off my skin? He’s a Dominant. Can he pick up on how nervous I am? Every ounce of strength I have is called into play to keep me on track as I measure and write, measure and write. And even though I don’t want it, I need the feel of his hands in my hair again, crave it.
Neither of us says anything – I didn’t know how awkward taking someone’s measurements could be until now. I force myself to keep my eyes averted from his crotch, but I want to look so badly that I’m feeling lightheaded. My eyes keep trying to wander there, but I hold them hostage to the tape measure and note pad. The whole time I’m wondering: Is he looking down at me? Staring off into nothing? Thinking about me the way I’m thinking about him? I’m pretty sure the last one is a no. As Phil was so quick to point out at his exit, I’m now a woman of a certain age. We’re hags; they’re distinguished. I got the message loud and clear. It’s a sure bet that Jasper Givens is staring at the ceiling, praying for this to be over. And at this very moment, he interrupts my reverie with, “Are you about finished?”
“Yes, si . . . um, yes, I am.” And his next words make my heart skip three beats.
“Good. It’s getting harder and harder to keep from touching you.”
A shrieking sets itself up in my head, and I want him gone. If he doesn’t leave soon, I’m going to do some things I’m going to regret later on, things that Michael and Robyn will probably throttle me for, damn it. Keep it together, Kimberly, I catch myself reciting in my head, and I’m finally finished. I reach for something to put my hand on to help myself up from crouching, and in a smooth, gasp-worthy move, he takes it and helps me to my feet. Once standing, I find myself looking directly into his eyes.
Not what I’d intended. At all.
But it’s like I’m mesmerized, and I can’t tear my eyes from his. In my peripheral vision I can see him lick his lips, and then he simply says, “Thank you.”
Please, let him lean in and kiss me. Please, let him wrap his arms around my waist and pull me close. I know I shouldn’t want that, but I do, damn it, I do. And before I can process my thoughts completely, he drops my hand and smiles.
And the spell is broken. Ever the good sub, my eyes drop to the floor, and I turn and pick up my pencil, paper, and tape, the ones I’d been holding in my hands and dropped when our eyes locked. Apparently the heat and redness are to be permanent fixtures when he’s around, my cheeks burning like they’ve been scalded, and I can’t turn away and leave the dressing room fast enough. I’m at the work table, laying things out and organizing the measurements I took, when he comes out, dressed and straightened up as though nothing had happened in there. And in reality, nothing had. It was all in my mind, obviously. “Well, do you need anything else from me?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Oh, yes. Here. Can you fill
this out so I know a little more about what I’m doing?” I hand him the form I have all my clients fill out. It’s an innocuous little thing, just contact information and things like that.
“Sure. No problem.” He picks up a pen from the countertop and stands there, filling out the form and occasionally glancing my way. I’m trying so hard to pretend I don’t notice. When he’s finished, he takes the pen that was lying on the countertop and returns it to the pen cup, then stands behind me with the form. “Here you go. If you need anything else, my phone number’s on here.”
“Thanks.” I finally turn to take the form and look up into his face. There’s something there that I can’t quite define. Mirth? Confusion? Sadness? Annoyance? What the hell is it? I’m not sure what to do or say, so I just force out, “Well, thank you for your business.”
“Business.” He almost spits the words out. “Yeah, business. You’re welcome. I can’t wait to see what you come up with. So, I guess I’ll just let myself out. Bye, Kimberly Hendricks. I’ll see you around.”
“I doubt that,” I throw at his receding back. That’s when he spins to look at me.
“Oh, you do, do you?”
“Yes. Why would I see you around?”
“You go to the club, don’t you?”
Now I’m starting to tremble. “Y-y-y-y-yes. Why?”
“Because.” A sly grin shoots its way across his face. “Because I was just accepted for membership yesterday. So I’m betting I do. See you around, that is.”
Oh shit. No. This can’t happen. “Um. I don’t go very often so . . .”
He smirks and I want to slap him. “Whatever. Thanks again.” With that, he opens the door and closes it gently behind him.
Damn it. I’m in deep shit.
*****
I’ve managed to stay away for four days. Four long days. I can’t hold out much longer. Last night I had the granddaddy of all nightmares, and I know it’s because I’m holding all of the pain in. Something’s gotta give. So I decide I’ll go. I’m sure he doesn’t go every night. Maybe this’ll be the one he doesn’t.
But after twenty minutes, those hopes get dashed when I hear another woman three stools down the bar mutter, “Holy fuck. Sex on a stick just walked through the door. Wouldja take a look at that.” I don’t even have to turn around; I know exactly who she’s talking about.
“Um, how about a Sam Cold Snap,” I hear him tell the bartender, followed by a, “and hello, ladies.” I don’t turn and look, but before I can slink away, I get nailed to the wall with, “And hello down there, Kimberly Hendricks!”
Shit.
I turn to see him grinning at me and the other three women sitting there glaring my way. Great. I force out a less-than-clever, “Hello, sir.”
“Ah! Now this is the place for you to address me that way! Very nice. Very nice indeed.” He throws a five down, thanks the bartender, and picks up his beer. And, to my discomfort, he heads directly toward me. “Mind if I sit?” he asks, pointing to the stool next to mine.
“No, sir. Suit yourself.”
He takes a sip, followed by a long, “Ahhhhhh.” Then he stares directly into my face. “Oh, Kimberly. You look lovely tonight.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome.” He waits a few seconds, then says, “Oh, that’s usually followed by a, ‘And you look amazing yourself, sir.’”
Damn him. I counter with, “Yes, sir, you’re looking well.”
He chuckles, and it makes me furious. “Tough crowd, I see. Oh, well, the night is young, isn’t it? Think I’ll go change.” Standing from the stool, he grins at me, this mischievous grin that makes my stomach flutter. “Never know where the evening will lead.” That statement is followed by a wink as he walks away.
As I watch, a half dozen other guys walk into the locker room as they come in, but he’s still in there. They come out one by one, and then the last one comes out, accompanied by Jasper. They’re chatting, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is Jasper Givens.
He’s wearing a pair of skin-tight leathers that disappear down into his knee-high, silver-adorned biker boots. They have flip clasps all the way up the sides and they had to have cost a fortune. And the leathers weren’t cheap either. They’re just about the nicest I’ve ever seen, a far cry from the simple ones I make, and I’m almost embarrassed. Why would he want any from me if he can afford something like that? But studying all of that is my attempt at avoiding the obvious.
His chest. God have mercy. It’s broad and sculpted, with a smattering of smooth, dark hair between his nipples that’s headed straight down the center of his torso, down the center of those ripped abs, and disappearing into his leathers. The tips of his “V” are peeking out the waistband of the pants, and I desperately want to see where that covetous letter points. Refusing to stare, I try to watch out the corner of my eye, checking to see where he is and what he’s doing.
Before he’s been standing there a minute and a half, one of the women down the bar rises and heads straight to him. She walks right up, practically gets in his face, and starts to chat. Of course, she’s about ten or more years younger than me, toned, blond, tanned, and has the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. I think they’re lit from the inside, actually, or coated with some kind of phosphorescent paint. Still watching without watching, I see him change his stance, spread his legs wider apart, lean back into it, fold his arms across his chest, and flex those pecs. She’s laughing and nodding and generally coming on strong. And something I never expected happens.
I’m completely overcome by a wave of jealousy the likes of which startles me. What the hell? Well, at least I’m honest with myself about what it is, but really? Jealous? I have no reason to be jealous. And yet I am, horribly so, frighteningly so. Even though I’m fighting it, my head swivels toward them and I find myself straight out watching them both.
To my absolute horror, he turns his head ever so slightly and looks directly at me, his eyes meeting mine. With that action there’s that look on his face again, the one I couldn’t identify, and I feel my stomach flip and knot. It’s a look that’s instantaneous and is over as quickly as it happens, his eyes pivoting back to the blond, laughing with her, pecs flexing again. I can feel my face blooming with blood once more, can practically hear the capillaries popping, smell my eyebrows as they’re singed right off from the heat. Spinning on my bar stool, I see a sofa on the other side of the room, completely unoccupied and in a corner, and I pick up my drink and head there without ever giving him another glance. When I’m there and settled, I look around, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Just when I figure he’s gone to a private room with the blond, I see her over there, chatting up Ross. Jasper’s nowhere in sight.
My drink is good – a mojito – and I take another sip, but I spit it everywhere when a voice whispers directly into my ear from behind, “I wondered where you’d gone.”
“Shit! You scared me to death!” I blurt out just as he steps around from behind the sofa into my line of vision.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. Well, actually, I did, but not that badly. Are you finished?”
“Finished? With what?”
“Ignoring me.”
“Whaaaa . . . what are you talking . . .”
“Kimberly.” He points to the sofa. “Mind if I sit?”
Before I can stop myself, I snarl out, “Does it make a difference?”
His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline but, instead of snapping back at me, he starts to laugh, which just makes me furious in a hot, sexy kind of way, damn it. “Well, no, I guess not! I’m going to sit regardless,” he announces, which he then does. Once he’s gotten comfortable, and by that I mean legs crossed, arm stretched across the back of the sofa behind me, and drink in the other hand, he smiles. “Let’s cut the bullshit, shall we?”
Now I’m seething. “What bullshit?”
“We both know you’re attracted to me.”
“And I know you’re an arrogant ass,” I manage to
gasp out.
“Who’s also attracted to you.”
Now I can’t think of one damn clever thing to say. He’s attracted to me? He’s attracted to me. Holy hell. Instead of uttering one feeble word, I just take another sip of my mojito and wish I had a five gallon bucket of the stuff. “You are attracted to me, right?” he asks.
Out of force of habit from dealing with puffed-up Dominants for years, I just roll my eyes. “Well, actually . . .” I begin, not knowing exactly how to finish the sentence, when he holds up a hand.
“Never mind. My mistake. I’m sorry. I just thought that there was some kind of,” he stammers as he stands, “I don’t know, chemistry or something. I guess I misread it. I’m very sorry.” I watch in horror as he turns and takes about three steps.
And then I do the thing I know I’m going to do, the thing I know I’ll hate myself for doing, that I’m probably going to wish I could take back, when I call out, “Wait!”
He stops, and this time when he turns to me, I can read full well the look on his face. It’s sadness. Something in my chest spasms and the pain is almost unbearable. There’s this wounded look about him, like someone who’s been kicked in the gut one too many times, and it surprises me. The idea that someone like Jasper Givens could ever be broken like that has never crossed my mind prior to this moment. In that instant, I wonder if all of that swagger and starch is actually a cover for hurt and loneliness, and that makes my insides melt. “Sit back down, sir. Please? I’m sorry, really.”
He doesn’t move, but instead, he just says, “Are you sure? I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just trying to be honest.”
“I’m sure.” I pat the seat beside me. “Come on back and sit down.” Now what the hell do I do?, I wonder.
He heads back slowly, almost as though he expects a bear trap to snap from somewhere beneath him, and then sits down beside me again on the sofa. He doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t settle in like he did before, just kind of slumps there, leaning forward over his lap, left elbow on his knee and right forearm resting on the other thigh, drink still in hand. He hangs his head. I feel terrible, and I’m wondering what to do or say when I hear him mumble, “Ever wish you could erase time and go back, do things differently?”
