by Leia Shaw
31 FLAVORS OF KINK
Leia Shaw & Cari Silverwood
www.loose-id.com
31 Flavors of Kink
Copyright © July 2012 by Leia Shaw & Cari Silverwood
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
eISBN 978-1-61118-890-5
Editor: Crystal Esau
Cover Artist: Fiona Jayde
Printed in the United States of America
Published by
Loose Id LLC
PO Box 809
San Francisco CA 94104-0809
www.loose-id.com
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning
This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
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Chapter One
“Come here.”
His voice, low and full of authority, slides through me like a cold shiver. My breath hitches as I glide silently over our office carpet.
“On your knees.”
I immediately drop. Acutely conscious of my nudity, I sit with my ass resting on my heels and my hands on the curve of my upper thighs.
“Do you know why you are being punished?”
A lump of anticipation lodges in my throat. I keep my eyes downcast and nod.
“Good. Now, I’m going to tie you to the desk, spank you, and stuff you with the vibrator. And you’re not to come without my permission, do you understand?”
My stomach lurches, and I’m soaked with arousal. I can’t trust my voice, so I nod again.
“Answer me.”
I clear my throat and croak a shaky, “Y-yes, sir.”
“Stand up and bend over the desk.”
My knees tremble. I can barely hold my weight as I walk to the desk. A thin rope dangles from his hands. I dare to look in his eyes. They remain impassive, foreboding. I’m a prisoner in the shadow of my executioner. Can I do this?
His brows rise a fraction of an inch. “Go on.”
I steel myself and bend over the desk. The glass top is like ice on my naked breasts. My breath quickens as he coolly and effectively ties my ankles to the desk legs, then my wrists behind my back. I twist my hands, checking the tightness. No give, at all. Suddenly I feel vulnerable. Too open, too exposed.
I notice the wooden paddle on the desk only when he reaches for it. I gasp. From fear or anticipation, I’m not sure. He moves away so I can no longer see him.
From behind me, I hear, “Count, Sidney.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, and the paddle whistles through the air—
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I wake with a start, flushed and wet. A dream. I exhale a deep breath, then slam my hand on the Snooze button. Nick stirs beside me, his body heating me through the blankets. My dream comes back full force, an assault on my already overeager libido.
Nick. His eyes stern, his lips turned down in a disapproving frown. The rope, the paddle… Oh. I can’t stop a sharp inhalation.
The idea is laughable. Nick wielding a paddle? He’s more likely to cross-dress and pierce his nipples than mercilessly paddle my ass. Nick is the nicest man I’ve ever met. It’s why I married him.
I sigh in frustration and push my fantasies away. The dog jumps at the door. Nick rolls over. His voice is groggy. “Honey. The dog wants to go out.”
“I know.”
Welcome to real life.
* * * *
Books are my therapy. I’m stuck in suburban Maryland, but I can live through the characters as they explore faraway places. I get swept away along with the heroine by Jimmy Thomas, the supermodel who conveniently never has a shirt. A part of me—in a deep, dark place—comes alive as they engage in sexual play I can’t even dream up.
I’m ashamed of this.
It’s eleven o’clock and the middle of my shift at the bookshop where I work as a cashier. Over the heads of the little family of rabid book lovers, I can see the attached café filling. Coffee mugs and books decorate the tables. The steamer hisses, and the aroma of coffee fills the air. Best combination ever—books, coffee, and happy people.
I love my job. I’m surrounded by the very stories I envy. Philosophically, I like to think of myself as an inspiration giver. A young father slides another book across my counter, and I ring up a G.R.R. Martin novel. Chin on the counter, his son eyes his own stack of picture books, then shyly edges one forward. I smile at him. Like Willy Wonka, I give children a world of pure imagination. I’ve always been a romantic.
The family moves on with the boy pointing at a big-toothed dinosaur he’s unfolded from a page. His mother heroically juggles three bags while she oohs and aahs at his discovery. I can’t help grinning.
“Don’t you sell movies here?” A shrill woman’s voice vibrates my eardrums.
I look to my left at the hefty middle-aged woman with enough makeup on to smother a cat. “Um…no, ma’am, we don’t sell movies.”
She looks positively shocked. “Well, why not?”
“Because…it’s a bookstore,” I answer very slowly.
Marco, at the register next to mine, covers a chuckle. I give him a dirty look before returning my attention to Lady Marmalade. “Can I help you find a book?”
“No.” She tries to scowl, and the plaster on her forehead cracks. “I’ll just go somewhere else.”
She stomps away, but I lose control and descend into giggles as soon as I look at Marco.
“Is the giant sign outside that reads ‘bookstore’ not clear enough?” he asks between laughs.
“Maybe she can’t read, and that’s why she’s looking for a movie.”
Marco is my favorite associate to work with. He’s a young, Hispanic man with glasses and a tattoo sleeve up his arm. He’s laid-back and easy to get along with. In my experience, men usually are. Gaggles of women, however, I steer clear of.
“Erotic section needs to be reorganized,” Dale, the general manager, announces. “Volunteers?”
I try not to sound too eager. “I’ll do it.”
I must’ve failed miserably because Dale’s eyebrows shoot up. Heat creeps up my neck, and I’m sure my face is bright red.
“All right,” he says. “You know what to do.”
I nod, and he takes over my register. The erotic section is upstairs in a corner partly sheltered by some strategically angled shelves. Just stepping into the naughty zone gives me a little thrill. I relish this duty because I’m too shy to visit here when I’m not working. The book covers are beyond titillating. I idly browse for new additions as I sort the titles that are out of order. I’m here to do a job, I re
mind myself, not ogle Jimmy and his riding crop.
I ignore the half-naked men and women glaring at me from the covers. Most I’ve seen before anyway. Some I’ve read. If it doesn’t have a racy title, I’m brave enough to buy it on my Kindle. E-readers are the best invention since sliced bread. I no longer have to hide an erotic novel inside a textbook at the store to get my kicks. I can read it late at night when Nick’s asleep, then dream about Jimmy’s riding crop and his serious lack of sensible clothing.
I roll my eyes and feel a twinge of guilt. I’m a horrible wife. An even worse lover.
The books are easy to reorganize, and I’m saddened that my time in this section is almost up. I didn’t even crack one open. My gaze travels up and down the bookshelf, double-checking my work. One title catches my eye.
Training the Dom.
Hmm. That’s new. I reach for the book. A bare-chested hunk graces the cover, but behind him, a woman is placing a flogger in his hand. I read the description on the back.
Bethany Morris longs for some spice in the bedroom, but her sensible boyfriend, Mike, wants nothing to do with it. That is, until Bethany brings home a beautiful woman dressed in leather, called Mistress Helvetica. She’s here to train Mike to become Bethany’s Dom. Mike has some serious reservations, but once he sees the world of passion that opens—
“Hey, Sid!” Jessie’s voice makes me jump out of my skin.
I momentarily forget the book in my hand. “What the heck, Jess? You scared the crap out of me!”
She chuckles. “Sorry.” She eyes the shelf I’ve just organized. “Came to tell you it’s lunchtime.” Her gaze reaches my book.
I try to look unconcerned, then start to put it back.
“Whatcha got?” She grabs the book from my hand.
“Uh…nothing.” Why am I nervous? Jessie’s five years younger than me, single, and has a very healthy sex life, if her lunchroom stories are true. She’s probably read this and more. Still, I blush a little. “I was just finishing up.”
She turns the cover over in her hands. “Hmm. Didn’t read this one. Looks hot, though.” She gives me a sly smile, and I already know I’m not going to like what she says. “Getting some ideas to spice things up with Mr. J?”
You have no idea. I roll my eyes. “No.” I snatch the book from her hands and return it to the shelf. “And I’m not discussing this with you.”
Jess snickers, and we walk together to the back room to clock out for lunch.
Briefly I wonder how it works out for Bethany and Mike. Maybe I’ll buy it on my Kindle.
Chapter Two
It’s Thursday night, and Nick and I watch our comedy lineup together in bed. I lay my head on his chest. His little bit of curly black hair chafes the skin on my cheek. I glance up. Firm, manly lips, a jaw that’s pretty square but not perfect. A scar where he fell over as a kid and hit a shovel blade. He often has a simple hairstyle with mostly, like now, buzz-cut hair. If he were Fabio or Jimmy, he’d have long, flowing locks. I grin at that thought. I’ll never be able to run my fingers through his hair, but I don’t care.
I snuggle closer. His body is always a slightly higher temperature than mine. And he smells like love and comfort.
He strokes my hair as we laugh together through the shows. Humor is a big part of our relationship. In fact, I’m convinced he married me because I make him laugh. I remember my dream. Nick—serious and full of authority. I snort out loud. Never gonna happen. Even Mistress Helvetica can’t save us.
The TV goes off at ten p.m. sharp, and I roll over, tucking myself under the heavy white comforter. Before the light goes off, I trace the cherry blossom design. When we bought our little two-story, two-bedroom cottage a year ago, Nick gave me free rein in decorating. In turn, I don’t question his remodeling projects. That’s how our relationship works. We’re each in charge of separate little compartments of our lives. We’re like a business. The cherry blossom quilt, the bonsai tree on the dresser, the elegant bamboo window blinds are my ideas. The hand-built patio outside, right next to where the yard runs down to a little park—that was Nick’s.
I take a deep breath and process my day. Work too damn early, lunch, work, dinner, dishes, TV, bed. This is my life. I’m not complaining. We have our health. We have job security. We have the house with the dog and the white picket fence, minus the two-point-five children. Maybe someday we’ll even have that. We’re just like every other red-blooded American family. Except most couples probably have sex more than once every few months. And most women actually enjoy it.
But we have a strong relationship. Internally I pump my fist in the air to accentuate it. We don’t need sex. We have love, a foundation, commitment.
But no orgasms, my libido is quick to point out.
I sigh and briefly wonder if there’s a section in the phone book for “Dom Trainer.”
A hand snakes under my shirt and around my waist, warm against my bare skin. Nick’s breath sifts across my ear. Every muscle in my body tenses. I know what he wants. His cues are not so subtle.
I am in a constant state of guilt for always denying him. Tonight I will give it the old college try. His hand reaches my breasts and kneads one gently. I feel a tingle between my legs. Yes, that’s good. I can do this.
His fingers tweak my nipple, stimulating me in an uncomfortable way. I stiffen, then squirm a bit, reflexively, before forcing myself to remain still. Nick takes this as excitement. He kisses my neck. I melt into the mattress, looking up at him as he turns me onto my back. My neck, my ears, my collarbone—those are my erogenous zones. I wish he’d bite me. Just the thought of it makes my thighs clench. For some reason, I think the pinch of pain will help somehow. That’s based on instinct, not logic. How could pain make me relax?
He pulls my nipples again, and all I can think of is a cow being milked. I groan, but not in bliss. It’s really more of an irritated growl. But I can’t find it in me to say no. Everything from that point on makes me more and more uncomfortable. I’m ticklish and sensitive. It doesn’t feel like my husband’s loving hands on me but grating sandpaper. I want to crawl out of my skin. I tense at every touch, every kiss. I can’t help it. My body is a ball of anxiety. I will it to calm down. This is my husband, I yell in my head. He won’t hurt me!
No, but you want him to, a voice inside me yells back, smirking.
Ugh! This is so frustrating, I want to cry. And the worst part…it isn’t just me who’s suffering. It’s Nick, the man I love.
He enters me, and I fight to keep my thighs open. My face scrunches in pain. He stops and looks down—so much love and concern in his eyes that I choke on my guilt. I wish I could beat myself with a paddle. I’d deserve it.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Uh-huh.” I give a shaky smile.
He ponders me for a moment. “I know what you need. Lube.”
I sigh as he reaches under the bed to get it. Yes, I am that woman—the one who’s as dry as a desert. Cold. Impassionate.
“Better?” he asks, rubbing his erection at my opening after lubing up.
I nod. I hate lying, but I’ve ruined this too many times before. I’m petrified he’ll cheat on me if I don’t put out. So I grit my teeth and take it. The lube doesn’t help the pain much, but it keeps me from tearing. I stare at the ceiling and wait for it to be over. He finishes inside me. I am blank. Numb.
He rolls off me, then goes to clean himself.
I turn on my side and curl up in a ball under the blanket, hiding this horrible wrongness clawing at my soul. He climbs in beside me. If he hugs me, I’ll cry.
“I love you, honey,” he whispers in my ear.
I hate myself.
I fall asleep with the salty taste of tears in my mouth.
* * * *
Bethany Morris is doing far better than I. Bethany is twenty-three and having the time of her life with Mike and Mistress Helvetica. I’m just past thirty, and I’ve never had an orgasm with my husband. Bethany is a size zero with long blonde shi
ny hair and bright blue eyes. Lucky bitch. I’m a too-curvy plain Jane with unmanageable brown hair I keep cut in a bob and dull brown eyes. Though I used to be cute and perky, now my boobs sag, and I found a few gray hairs in the mirror the other day.
It’s nine at night, and I’m in bed reading Training the Dom. I hate Bethany Morris. I hate her and I admire her. My lips are pursed as I read. Sure, the Kate Moss look-alike can get her man to go Dom. I sigh in frustration and click to a different book. Nick comes upstairs and sits on the bed.
“Whatcha reading?”
I open my mouth to spout a generic answer I know he won’t question—romance—but Bethany Morris screams in my head. Do it! she says. Tell him the truth!
I consider it a moment. What would he say if I told him I’m reading a naughty book? It’s only a book. If he looks at me in disgust, I’ll just say I didn’t know what the book was about when I bought it. Yeah. That’ll work. This will be a test. An experiment. Like when Bethany told Mike her friends were going to a BDSM club to see what he’d say.
I look up. “Um, an erotic novel.”
His brows pop up to his hairline. “Really?”
Figures he’d be interested. He is a guy after all. “Yeah. It’s about…” Does he know what BDSM is? “Bondage and stuff.”
I stop breathing as I study his face. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. My fingers shake as I clutch my Kindle. It all comes down to this.
“Hmm.” He lies back against the pillows and grabs the TV remote. “That’s hot.”
I’m reeling. Hot? Did he say hot?
We’ve been married for five years—five years of bad sex. Half the time I end up in tears. Nick comforts me, always, but I can hear his frustration. I can see his disappointment. It isn’t easy for me to talk about. Sex is shameful. I know it’s supposed to be joyous and beautiful and magnificent, but I only ever feel pain, shame, and guilt.
Nick’s frustration has gotten the better of him in the past. We went on a romantic weekend getaway a couple years ago. It was dark in the bedroom of the hotel. He was on top of me. I started to moan, loudly. He covered my mouth and shushed me. I panicked. Tears welled in my eyes and sobs escaped my throat, even though I tried to contain them. Nothing like a crying lump beneath you to kill the mood.
