
A Chronicle of Surrender
Roxy Harte
Published 2007
ISBN 1-59578-326-1
Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © 2007, Roxy Harte. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Liquid Silver Books
http://LSbooks.com
Email:
raven@LSbooks.com
Editor
Laurie M. Rauch
Cover Artist
April Martinez
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
"The past was nothing to her; offered no lesson which she was willing to heed. The future was a mystery which she never attempted to penetrate. The present alone was significant..."
-Kate Chopin, The Awakening
Kitten
Time no longer exists. I do not know if it is day or night, time to wake or sleep, even though I am physically exhausted, even though I have not moved in what seems like forever. I am caged, but not in a kennel. No, my master is more ingenious than that, making sure that my confinement is slightly more entertaining than a random store-purchased wire crate. I think he studied the torture devices of the Dark Ages to come up with something so delightfully beautiful and intriguing to look at, yet so deviously wicked.
He said only that a friend welded it for him to his specifications---for me.
Now I know why he measured me with a dressmaker's bright yellow measuring tape the day after he agreed to master me. I was naïve enough to believe that he wanted to make sure I was eating enough while I was in the hospital. He visited me while I recuperated, still attached to too many tubes and wires after my encounter with Craig Michael Bosko.
I only ever thought of him as Mr. Bosko, my boss. It is hard for me to believe that he is dead, harder still to believe that he was the one responsible for killing Tony Giovanni, Garrett's significant other and business partner. I guess I have to believe all the horrible things about him now that the truth is revealed. My mind cannot reconcile that my boss kidnapped me and could have... No! I'm not strong enough to think of all the could haves, better to try to forget what he did, even though I see the kidnapping as my true turning point, the event that led me to today...
As much as I want to hate all that happened, the journey began there, with me chained in Mr. Bosko's office. I won't say that it was a pleasurable experience---far from it---but neither can I say that I regret the pleasure or the pain I felt at Mr. Bosko's hand. It seems crazy that I would feel anything but anger, hate. I was victimized, brutalized. Raped. Tortured. And yet, there are no tears for what happened to me. I only know that, in the foggy grey haze of pleasure-pain that was, for a moment, my existence, two men came to rescue me, Garrett and Thomas.
Two men.
In that moment, my world tilted and everything changed.
That night, sitting on my hospital bed, Garrett held me before he unlocked my collar, releasing me. He promised, "I'll be waiting for you to come back to me."
He didn't come back to the hospital. Thomas visited twice and, strangely, I found I could talk to Thomas about anything. Though at first it seemed like he asked questions and I answered.
He seemed perfectly at ease on the ugly blue-green hospital chair. Leaning forward, he captured my gaze and held it long after I should have been made uncomfortable enough to look away. "You liked the isolation sphere at Lewd Larry's. What did it for you, Celia? Being watched, being alone, being bound?"
I sat cross-legged on the bed, sheet pulled up to my chin, hugging a pillow to my middle, perhaps hiding behind it a bit. "The isolation."
"Explain."
"Too much time to think."
He smiled at that, repeating, "Too much time to think," as he laughed softly. "You fascinate me, Celia. Most people think that is the worst part of being in isolation. So, if facing your demons excites you, and that is what you are saying, of everything you experienced at Lewd Larry's, what was the worst for you?"
"Hands down, the human-size litter box." I answered. Looking back, I realize I gave him way too much information. Only after I was here, caged, did I understand the purpose of his questions. He has combined the best...and the worst.
My cage is shaped like an animal, the top half of the form folded down over me after I got into position, crawling into the form, placing my legs into the wire-form leg holders, my body supported by a wide chain-link belly, my arms sliding into the front wire-forms. At first, it's not comfortable, but not miserable, kind of like sitting naked in a wrought-iron lawn chair, cool metal warming to match body temperature, causing pain when the depressed skin is released, the metal indentations obvious in the skin pattern created. Yes, something like that.
Except my weight is distributed on hands and knees, my belly, ribs, breasts all molded to fit inside the wire cage perfectly before the top half of the form is lowered. Lord Fyre lined the inside of the hand platform and the lower leg and foot encasements with bright green Astroturf to make my stay even more entertaining. The first few minutes, the spiky green plastic was a curious sensation, after a while, though, the pointy plastic spikes became agony. I can put most of my weight on my stomach to take the pressure off my hands and legs, but then replacing my hands onto spiky plastic is ten times worse. I can arch my back for slight exercise, but pulling my skin away from the imprinted grooves is agonizing. Scratching my nose is out of the question.
My head sticks through the large neck opening and, after finding me droopy, Lord Fyre shook me aware, pulling me from deep sub-space to place a cushioned cervical collar around my neck. I had thought he woke me to remove me. That I was not freed made me cry, not because of my physical discomfort, although I was more than ready for the freedom of standing and stretching, but disappointment that I was going to be left alone again. Not that I am really alone, being caged has afforded my brain the luxury of being acutely aware of my surroundings, even when sleeping or zoning, I am aware, especially of the small blinking red light up in the right corner next to the ceiling. It is a camera, but not just a camera, a link between us. Yes, I admit it, I'm a naughty caged girl, but I wanted to know if he was watching. When I screamed and screamed in the dark, he did nothing, but I knew instinctively that he was watching. I screamed myself hoarse and then I screamed some more until there was no scream left. With no scream left, I forced myself to vomit. It's harder without fingers to shove down my throat, or my personal favorite, a toothbrush, but I had to get creative. Trying to swallow my tongue did the trick.
Vomiting and turning blue produced the man.
It didn't get me released, but the lights are back on and, more importantly, I know he is watching me. I wonder who is suffering more. Me caged? Or he, bored out of his fucking mind, watching me caged? If it were me watching, I'd have quit by now, released my captive so that I would be free of the monotony of watching.
My cage sits inside a small room, or maybe a large walk-in closet. The walls are white, the ceiling and floor also white. Blinding white with the lights on, but at least the lights are on. For breaking my silence, I will be punished. As long as the lights remain on, punishment seems fair trade. A girl has to know her limitations and pitch-black darkness is mine.
Trapped in darkness, I found my father. He stood behind the pulpit, preaching about his favorite subject, fire and brimstone. If my father walked in, would he even recognize me? Would he want to? The dark made it worse, the visions too clear, not knowing if I was thinking or dreaming. Either way---thought or dream---I was terrified. My father, illuminated behind his pulpit, waving his Bible in the air, pointing his finger at me. I was raised better than this. I know the difference. Right, wrong. Good, evil. Saint, sinner. In such terms of black and white, I should be praying right now, admitting my sins, repentant.
Father, forgive me, I know what I ask. I want this darkness. I have no strength to walk away from the pleasures promised my flesh in chain and whip. I call another Master, and I am not sorry. I want this. I want Lord Fyre to master me. I want this, I want this, I want this.
Time has no meaning, but it is a long time, never-ending, without cessation, a bit like hell I suppose, without the fire and brimstone part. My preparation for hell to come.
The darkness was hell.
When the lights are on, I know when I sleep, and when I sleep, I dream of Garrett.
I dream of taking tongue baths on tabletops and drinking champagne from crystal bowls. I dream about his smooth bourbon voice and the touch of his soft hands sliding over my bare ass. I dream of kisses and spankings. My dreams are heaven, although they make me miss him terribly. I don't know how long it will be before I see him again, if ever. I want to see him. However, not here like this. I do not want him to see what Lord Fyre has reduced me to.
I piss and the pee settles into a puddle beneath me on a metal tray, removable when necessary. It could be worse. Lord Fyre is detached, almost like the hospital nurse when I was confined to bed---depersonalized. If it were me, I would be a crueler master. I know I would. I would make my slave hold it until he cried, making him wet himself because he couldn't not wet himself, and rub his nose in it for not being able to hold it. I would not want me as a master.
Awake, I remember the few days before I became Lord Fyre's property...the kidnapping, the conversation that led Master to share me, actually relinquish me, to Lord Fyre. The few remaining days spent in the hospital were an emotional rollercoaster ride. I utterly and completely bottomed out. Sub drop. Abandoned emotionally, at a loss as to whether I'd made the right decision, Garrett gave me time and space to prepare for a new master; Lord Fyre gave me time and space to share a few final days with Garrett---neither saw my abandonment.
After a week, I was free of sterile disinfectant smell, hospital chic blue-green furniture, and scratchy blue-and-white-patterned hospital gowns that made sleeping, walking, sitting an uncomfortable nightmare---half dressed, half-naked. Is it really necessary to be that physically accessible?
My discharge papers were neat and tidy when the nurse handed them to me, along with two prescriptions, Erythromycin and Xanax. By the time she got me settled into the wheelchair for the ride to the exit, the papers were squeezed tightly inside my fist, wrinkled beyond recognition. I was nervous, not knowing which of the two men in my life would be picking me up, wondering why of all the things we discussed, we neglected the most important topics. Who? When? Where?
As soon as I saw the waiting Yellow Cab, I knew neither man was meeting me, the large neat letters of the cab company logo glaring at me from the side of the bright yellow Ford Escape Hybrid. The choice was still mine. Do I give the address of the luxury sky-high penthouse of Garrett Lawrence, otherwise known as Master? Do I give the address of Lewd Larry's, the fetish nightclub owned by Garrett Lawrence, and incidentally where the second man in my life was employed under the professional dominant name, Lord Fyre? Actually, both men are professional dominants and, prior to a psychopathic murderer kidnapping me and trying to kill me---the reason I was in this hospital in the first place---neither wanted me. Amazing how a little thing like almost being killed makes a man sit up and take notice. For a second, I thought they might fight over me, but alas, no. Duels are the tools of heroes trapped within the written page and the damsel being fought over, so overwrought, faints, not knowing which hero lives to carry her off into the happily ever after until the epilogue, where he kisses her back to her senses.
I have a feeling my happily ever after epilogue is far off. I think perhaps I am still trapped in the prologue. This is the story of what happened to a girl from Kentucky. Once she was a very nice girl, with rosy cheeks and a dimpled smile. Everyone adored her...
Except now, she isn't a very nice girl and she plays with sadists.
No fainting allowed in this story.
The cab driver stood beside the rear passenger door, holding it open, waiting, his kind-hearted if impatient smile wavering with each second I sit in the chair. I wadded the discharge papers tighter, twisting them and untwisting them. Garrett wasn't there. Thomas wasn't there either. I wasn't surprised. My life has never been a fairytale.
"Easy honey," the nurse took my elbow, lifting. I stood on solid ground for the first time in three days, with the exception of the four-foot shuffle to the bathroom. Wobbly, not from lack of strength as the nurse assumes, but because of the decision I have to make. Settling in the backseat, I waited for the cab driver to climb behind the wheel. He pulled away from the curb without a word.
"Aren't you going to ask me where to take me?"
"I have the address, ma'am. Just sit back and relax, I'll have you home real quick."
I cringed at the use of ma'am, knowing it would happen someday, I must really look my age, or the title is a reflection of his upbringing. "You're from Kentucky," I guessed.
"Yes, ma'am, yes I am." He grinned big in his rearview mirror, going for eye contact. I didn't give him any. "How'd you know?"
"Lucky guess," I answered, not willing to divulge that I too grew up in Kentucky, my upbringing over and past, no looking back, no longer wondering if my father is okay. Once, I used to wonder if he was even still alive---he was old when I left, older now---or dead. I don't care. I really don't, I told myself, wiping away a tear. "Exactly what address are you taking me to?" I asked, though his answer really wasn't necessary, by the route he took, I knew exactly where we were going. He was taking me home.
Not Garrett's.
Not Thomas's.
Just as well, I was in no shape to be mastered by anyone. Exhausted just from the trip across town, I was more than ready to crawl between my sheets and sleep rather than be tied up and spanked.
Ask anyone who has recently been there, the hospital is no place to catch up on rest, five a.m. wake up, six a.m. sponge bath, seven a.m. doctor rounds, eight a.m. breakfast and the night shift, good lord. Did I really need my vitals taken every hour---all night long? Definitely not a place to rest.
My house looked the same as it did before I left---was kidnapped.
Climbing the four steps to the large wrap-around porch, I noticed first, there were no newspapers, someone had cleared the porch, and second, my front door was standing wide open. Windows, too, open, as if someone was inside purposely airing out my house for my arrival. The someone in question worried me enough for me to drag myself to the porch swing and sit, worrying the edge of a plumped, frilly pillow, too exhausted to face an intruder if there was one. Not curious enough to see which man waited for me, if not an intruder.
"Girl! Get yourself in here! I see you out there---don't you think I don't."
Jackie. Garrett's best friend and my newly entrusted confidante. She awed me the very first time I met her. She wasn't what I expected, but then I could never have been prepared for her in all her glory. I knew immediately that she was a man, or had been a man at one time, I think. I've never really been brave enough to ask, just accepted Jackie for who Jackie is.
Oh hell and thank God passed through my brain simultaneously.
She opened the screen door, holding it open for me, looking me up and down as I approached. "You look a little worse for wear. I sent the boys to the market for a few things. Lord have mercy, your refrigerator was empty! I say we start with a glass of my famous Southern Lemonade, if it doesn't cure what ails ya', it'll sure make ya' forget the pain!" She laughed, pulling me in for a big hug, towering over me, well over six-and-a-half feet tall, probably closer to seven feet with the spikes she always wears, her natural beauty overwhelming. She is dark-skinned, a pure, deep russet, with almond-shaped brown eyes, made even larger and more dramatic by her always-present false eyelashes. Her full, sensual lips are artistically lined and filled with a slick, glossy lipstick. Her wig was a multitude of long, burgundy braids caught and bound in a loose knot, a more casual look than I'd ever seen on Jackie, but a hairstyle that complemented the exotic, brightly colored caftan that reached to her brightly painted toes.
She wrapped around me, cradling me, making me feel six again, held like my mother held me when I'd skin my knee and I'd run to her crying and she would grab me and hold me tight, my face buried against her breasts. Then, a kiss and a Band-Aid were a miracle cure.
Hugged, pulled into the house, with a very strong, heavily spiked lemonade in hand, I felt better, not great, but definitely better. At least until she demanded, "Now, before they get back, I want you to tell me just what in the hell is going on! Why on earth would you agree to let Lord Fyre master you? Are you insane, girl? Lord, lord, whatever were you thinking. Sit and spill." She sat on my overstuffed sofa, patting the faded floral print, indicating for me to sit beside her.
God, I really needed new furniture, not because it's faded and threadbare, that was once the charm for me, but because after seeing the ultra-chic, ultra modern furnishings at Garrett's, mine are grotesquely grandmotherly in comparison.
"I don't know what to say."
"Start with why Garrett is suddenly not man enough for you," she demanded bluntly. "And what Lord Fyre has to do with this?"
"Jackie, I told you to leave her alone." Garrett's warning growl came from the other side of the screen door. Looking up, I saw he had his arms loaded down with paper grocery bags, each overflowing. Racing from the couch, smiling ear to ear, I was glad it was he on the other side of the screen. I couldn't get the door open fast enough, pushing between the weighted bags to press against his chest, his soft, well-worn T-shirt a comfort against my cheek, citrusy and breezy all at once.
"I've missed you," I whispered.
He planted a kiss on top of my head. "I missed you, too."
Kitten. I heard the endearment in my head, even though from his mouth my pet name wasn't spoken. The weight of its loss pulled at my heart.
I didn't look up into his face, though I longed to look into his eyes, I couldn't Not wanting to see if they were the same mesmerizing blue that had lured me in so recently, or whether they were darkened with anger, fear, jealousy...or a million other possible emotions---one of which prevented him from calling me Kitten.
I kissed the spot on his chest bared by the V-neckline of his silk T-shirt. He was tanner than I remembered, but then it was July and I hadn't seen much of him since May. Against the healthy glow of his cheek, my hand appeared ghost white.
"Easy, Celia. Bags!"
Jackie scooted in behind me, taking the bags from Garrett so that he could properly take me into his arms, his mouth lowering to claim mine, his arms wrapping around my waist to lift me off the ground, making me squeal in a very girly way. Lowering my feet back to the ground, he pulled away, but I followed him, refusing to release his mouth from the kiss he initiated, kissing him passionately with the fierceness of desperation. I couldn't bear to release him, because I honestly didn't know what the next moment would bring, our relationship a thrill ride since we'd first met. I, the slave on stage being auctioned, he the master of ceremony, who also just happened to be my purchaser, for the unheard of sum of a quarter of a million dollars. The sum seemed astronomical, even, upon reflection, exorbitant. I feel so much less worthy now than then, and even that night, I wasn't worth what he paid.
I was an undercover reporter, hell-bent on an exposé that would further my career. He was the innocent bystander who stood to lose an empire if my then boss, Mr. Bosko, had his way. It was only after awakening in the hospital that the entire truth was made clear. Mr. Bosko would have killed me if Garrett hadn't arrived to rescue me in time.
"I'm so glad you're here. I was afraid, after what was s-said in the hospital, after you removed my collar and left, that you wouldn't---that I wouldn't...God, you're here! You're really here, at my house! You've never been in my house."
"Sh-h, Kitten, just let me hold you," he whispered against my face, holding me as if he might never let go.
I did cry then, hearing the endearment I longed to hear. Lifting my chin, he looked into my face, wiping tears away with his thumbs as fast as they fell.
"Don't cry, Kitten, I won't be able to bear letting you go if you cry."
"You called me Kitten," I sobbed in explanation.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have. I know better."
"Please don't stop, I am yours, I don't want to go away from you."
"Yes, you do. I shouldn't be here. It's why I stayed away from the hospital---it doesn't have to be this hard." Pulling me into his arms, he hugged me tight, whispering, "I will be waiting for you when you are ready for Lord Fyre to release you."
"I heard my name?" his voice asked from the other side of the screen, as if on cue.
Lord Fyre.
Oh shit!
It was easier when we were in the hospital, Thomas talking to me, friend to friend, or so it seemed. The man who opened my screen door and let himself into my home was Lord Fyre, no doubt about it. I couldn't begin to explain the difference, but different he was.
Again, a man on either side, me emotionally stretched between the two for totally opposite reasons. Garrett, I wanted to love me, to cherish me---to be my Master; but Lord Fyre I wanted to open me, to share with me the lovely darkness that lurked in his soul, the same darkness that I believed lurked in mine.
"Kneel," Lord Fyre commanded.
I fell to my knees and placed my cheek on top of his black leather boot without question, not thinking about Garrett, standing only a foot away. My only thought was to please this man, to convince him to train me. Remnants of my tears smeared onto his boot.
"Oh, please," Jackie whined from the doorway between the parlor and the kitchen. Hearing the sharp click of her stilettos retreating on my hardwood floors, I felt her disapproval, but didn't know her reasons for disliking Lord Fyre. Though I understood well her frustration with me. She had worked so hard, conspiring with me to help me win Garrett back, and now that I could have him, completely, I still wanted another. She didn't understand, maybe never would. It made her angry with me.
Lord Fyre ignored her theatrics, demanding, "Who do you belong to?"
I didn't answer, closing my eyes. In my heart I still belonged to Garrett, but a deep-seated instinct that I was loath to understand insisted I allow myself the experience of Lord Fyre.
"No one," I answered, it seemed the only safe choice. "Master has released me, you have yet to collar me."
"And yet here you kneel before me, not him. Kiss my boots before you rise, slave."
I placed a soft kiss on the top of each boot---black and shiny, smelling faintly of fresh shoe polish. I wondered for a moment who shined his boots with such great care that I could see my reflection in their surface, and would that be my job soon? Standing slowly, I faced him.
"Eyes down."
I lowered my gaze to the floor, but didn't drop my face.
"Walk with me," he commanded, turning and going out onto the porch. I didn't follow, at least not immediately like a good slave would have, instead I looked to Garrett, seeking permission, approval, or some sign that I was or wasn't making a huge mistake. In answer, he used a nod of his head to nudge me out the door.
Leaving the house, I didn't find Fyre on the porch.
The sun was blinding bright, the day turned into a brilliant, clear day with a deep blue sky and white puffy clouds. My favorite kind of day. It promised to be hot. For a moment, I was distracted by the sheer beauty surrounding my porch. My massive perennial gardens had come out in full glorious bloom while I was away, hummingbirds ducking in and out of the overhanging wisteria, monarchs flitting amongst the daisies, honey bees a symphony of their own, darting gluttonously from fragrant bloom to fragrant bloom. I dallied, trying to get my bearings on which way he may have gone, without seeming too obvious.
"I'm here," he called and I walked along the painted wood porch to reach the side stairs leading to the lawn. Joining him, I kept my eyes lowered, stepping back just a little when I saw his hand reach for me. Reflex. Not ducking, not exactly, but defensive. The reaction was met by a heavy sigh, "Who hurt you? Who made you lose your trust?" He shook his head. "Not Garrett."
Then his hand was near my face, not touching, reaching for me in what seemed like slow motion, trying not to spook me, as one trained might approach a new horse, or an unknown dog, but maybe my mind was just having a hard time accepting that he was going to touch me. His fingers were light on my jaw, lifting my face with an easy pressure, forcing my gaze up to his. I directed my gaze away.
"Look at me." His voice was smooth and easy, but not like warm brandy, more like summer thunder, soft, rolling, non-threatening. Our gazes collided when I finally brought myself to lift my eyes to his and the force of will coming from his was a scary thing that I quickly looked away from a second time.
"Keep your eyes on mine."
Swallowing, I looked at him and forced myself to keep looking long after my bravado faded. A slow trembling started in my shoulders, uncontrollable. I feared him for no other reason than once he'd kissed me and once he'd entranced me. Both times, in my mind, I thought of him as Lucifer, the great deceiver; but standing before him, I forced myself to remember that he was a man, just a man. His scent came to me on the breeze, exotic, unknown, like incense, frankincense, and myrrh, a hint of cinnamon and warm leather.
I wanted to look away but took him all in, his jaw darkened with a hint of five o'clock shadow, adding ruggedness to his well-trimmed mustache and goatee. Lashes, longer and thicker than any I'd ever seen on a man, surrounded his dark brown eyes. Just a man, I told myself again, not a God, not a demon, and still I trembled.
"Are you going to be able to go through with this?" he asked.
"Yes," I whispered. "I want this, I truly do."
His eyes narrowed and I felt him assess the truth of my words. "Go inside. Spend the evening with Garrett and Jackie. Eat a good meal---God knows you need one by the look of you. Tonight, you and Garrett are going to make up for the misunderstanding, for the deceit, for the betrayal."
I jerked with each accusation---deceit, betrayal---knowing how much pain I'd caused Garrett, wishing I'd been honest from the start, the regret trapped in my chest begging for release, but my gaze never left Lord Fyre's.
"Tonight he will make love to you and I want you to embrace that love, fill yourself with it, saturate every pore of your being in that love, enough to carry you through three months of not seeing him, because once I collar you, you will be mine, solely mine, for ninety days. Do you understand?"
I nodded, not really understanding what he was saying, hearing only that he wanted me to make love to Garrett, hearing that he wanted me to say good-bye to him.
Emotion caught in my throat, preventing me from speaking.
He repeated, "Do you understand?"
"Yes," I whispered, not able to find my voice.
"Tomorrow you will meet me at noon beside the swings at the park around the block. Do you know where I'm talking about?"
I nodded, even my whisper stolen by the power pounding into me from his eyes.
"Then go to him now."
I stood for a moment on my porch, watching him drive away in a shiny black Porsche, almost identical to Garrett's except that Garrett's Carrera Cabriolet is a convertible, Fyre's 911 Turbo isn't. Parked side by side, so alike, so different. I tried not to make comparisons, both men also so alike, so different. Finally returning to the house, I entered to find it solemn and felt like I had just missed an argument between Jackie and Garrett. Enough so for me to ask, "Is everything okay?"
Handing Garrett plates to set the table with, she turned to me with a questioning, raised eyebrow, "We could ask the same of you."
"I'm fine."
"Sit, Kitten," Garrett commanded, pulling out a dining room chair. "Dinner's almost ready, we'll eat soon."
I looked at the food already on the table and my stomach rolled, but I sat.
"So, we're not going to discuss this?" Jackie demanded, sitting a wicker bowl filled with warm bread on the table.
Their gazes met over the table, each glaring at the other. Garrett's glare said stop. Jackie's glare meant a whole lot more. I slumped forward, propping my elbows on the table, rudely sliding so that my crossed arms pressed the table and my face pressed into my arms.
"For God's sake, talk some sense into her, Garrett! Before it's too late!"
"God has nothing to do with this," I quipped, whispering too softly for either to notice. Exhausted, not wanting to hear them fight over me, over my decision to go with Lord Fyre, I sucked the flesh of my arm into my mouth and bit down, just to feel the pain, just to make sure that I was awake, not dreaming. I just turned myself over to Lord Fyre. He commanded me here to eat and to make love. To say good-bye.
"There's nothing to talk about, Jackie. This doesn't concern you."
"I think she's making a huge mistake, one she's going to regret, and mark my words, Garrett, my boy, you will too."
I closed my eyes, wishing I could turn off the volume, sinking my teeth in harder, deeper, wanting it to hurt enough so that the pain would be louder than their voices in my head.
"God, Kitten, stop!" Garrett jerked back on my hair, pulling my teeth from my arm with a loud pop. "Jackie, hand me a napkin, Kitten's bleeding."
Looking down, I saw the first red drip of blood falling over my forearm. Perfect dents, welling with blood, forming a perfect circle, and then blood spilled in thin rivers of red. Not a lot of blood, but enough to require attention.
Funny, I felt drunk, or drugged, when only moments before my heart was racing from the fear of knowing I'd just taken the final step. No turning back. How will I survive three months with Lord Fyre when a moment on the lawn left me so unsettled?
"And I thought when Lord Fyre kicks her back to your curb in three months you'd have a mess to clean up," Jackie sniped. "Looks like you have a pretty big mess that needs cleaning up right now."
"Enough, Jackie!" Garrett demanded, kneeling beside me, pressing the napkin against my arm to stop the bleeding.
Jackie stormed to the table, pressing herself nose to nose with him. "No, Garrett, not nearly enough! I watched while you destroyed this girl, I held her hand while you ignored her, and now, when you should be stepping up to the plate to reclaim your property, you are letting one stronger than you take her! I've seen you Garrett, as Ice you are every bit as strong as Fyre. If she needs to be mastered, you are every bit as able as he is to help her release her demons and embrace her darkness! Isn't that why you said this is happening?"
"Yes, Jackie, that's what I said."
"If you go through with this, little girl," Jackie seethed, turning on me, shaking me unexpectedly, waking me from my stupor with her angry shriek, "I'm wiping my hands free of it---I hope the three of you can figure out how to fix this disaster once it explodes in your faces, because I'm wiping my hands free of all of you! Do you understand?"
"Leave, Jackie," Garrett stood and pushed her hard enough to move her, screaming, "If you feel that way, get out!"
He didn't have to ask twice. Jackie stormed away, making me jump when the screen door slammed, announcing she was gone. Startled, I blinked, feeling like I'd missed something. Squatting before me, Garrett's concerned face came into focus, but he wasn't really in focus, I saw just his blurred form, enough to realize that it was him, lifting my arm, dabbing at the bloody mess I'd made on my arm. My brain squeezed in on itself when he demanded, "Why did you bite yourself?" I couldn't answer. My shrug didn't seem to please him.
With Jackie's departure, my head cleared a little, though she'd had nothing to do with it. I watched Garrett clean my arm with a square damp pad reeking of alcohol, and once wiped and disinfected, it didn't look horrible, just a red, angry-looking circle of teeth indentations. I watched him repack the contents of the kitchen first-aid kit I didn't remember him bringing to the table.
"I need to feed you," he said.
"I'm not hungry."
"Lord Fyre told me to make certain you ate."
That got my attention. I couldn't resist challenging, "Do you always do what Lord Fyre tells you to do, Garrett Lawrence?"
His eyes narrowed as if he might not answer the question, as if I might have made him angry with the question. I swallowed, realizing too late that when it came to matters between Thomas and Garrett, I was walking on eggshells and hadn't even realized it.
Just when I thought he was going to not answer, he did, his eyes still narrowed. "Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don't. It's a complicated relationship even I am sometimes loath to understand; however, he was once my master, and old lessons are hard to unlearn."
His answer made me wish I hadn't asked the question, especially when he started to speak again, but closed his mouth. I didn't ask what he might have said. We both looked at the table at the same time, seeing how much trouble Jackie had gone to for my homecoming---fresh, warm breads that looked homemade, grilled salmon, glazed green beans, fresh corn on the cob, bowls of cut melons, green leaf salad, and citrus salad. "Please thank Jackie for the trouble she went to, but I can't eat, really."
"You have to start eating soon," he said, but he didn't argue the point, instead lifting me and carrying me through the house and up the staircase to my bedroom, without directions.
He lowered me onto the bed, and then pulled his shirt off. "Did Fyre tell you that I'm going to make love to you?"
"Yes."
"Do you want me to make love to you?"
"More than anything in the world---yes."
"No games tonight then, Kitten. Just me making love to you and you making love to me. No pain tonight. Do you understand?"
I nodded, trying not to be overcome with emotion, watching him as he unzipped his jeans, pulling jeans and plaid boxers off in one swoop. As he stood naked before me, I was very aware of how much I appreciated the beauty of his body, tall and lean, long-limbed and tan. Fine dark hair covered his arms and legs, thicker hair covered his chest, narrowing to a trail that led enticingly to his hard cock. I could say that he stood there posing. I could say that he wanted me to look, he wanted me to commit to memory each shadowed muscle, each subtle nuance that made his body distinctly his. The truth was perhaps somewhere in the middle of me being unable to stop looking and him wanting me to look my fill.
I looked until I could look no longer without touching him, and then reached out to him without thinking, just reaching. Grasping my hand, he folded it over his and kissed each finger, turning my palm to kiss the inside of my hand. A man had kissed me in a similar manner in my past---Lion. I have never been kissed that way by a man who knew what he was doing and put every bit of emotion he held in his being into the kiss, energy crawling over my palm with his lips, the kiss itself electric, coursing through my body, awakening parts of me that I was unaware were sleeping.
Moving to the foot of the bed, he slipped my sandal from my right foot, kneeling before me to kiss each toe as he had my fingers, except after kissing, he ran his tongue over and under each toe, until each had felt the soft lick of pleasure. Continuing to hold my foot, he ran his tongue down the length of my arch before placing a kiss on my ankle. Not to be neglectful, he pulled my other sandal off and repeated the sensual tongue worship on my left foot, drawing and sucking on each toe, discovering quickly that my left foot was more than slightly ticklish. I'm sure the sadist in him made him lick my arch while I wiggled and screamed, begging him to stop. I was both relieved and sorry when he did.
Standing, he watched me. It was hard to lie still, waiting an uncomfortable length of time for him to join me, until finally he bent over me, unbuttoning and unzipping my jeans, wiggling them down over my hips, pulling the fabric to free my legs. He left my black lace panties on my hips while he moved higher, pulling my T-shirt over my head and tossing it carelessly across the room. Lowering his body onto the bed, he covered me, sliding his hands beneath my back to release the hook closure of my black bra with a quick, skilled flick. Drawing the lace away from my breasts and pulling the straps free of my arms, he threw the bra over his shoulder as he lowered his hot mouth to my nipple, his tongue gliding to circle it, teasing me, making my back arch, before allowing me the small pleasure of being sucked. When I could barely stand another second of licking, teasing, circling, sucking, he switched to the other breast, leaving the first so lonely that I reached up to pinch myself.
"No, Kitten." He pulled my hand back, pushing my arms up over my head. "Don't move. You said that you understood there would be no pain tonight, no pinching, no pulling, and no biting. Do you? Do you understand?"
"You're going to drive me insane!" I cried out, arching my back, trying to rub my lace-covered clit against his thigh, frustrated when he angled away, still hovering over me, but not touching me.
"Can you let me make love to you, Kitten---gently?"
"Yes!" I sobbed, begging, "Please don't stop---touch me, touch me, touch me."
His lips descended to kiss each nipple, just a soft kiss on the tips standing out hard, pebbled tight, each ready for more, each in agony to be sucked and sucked hard, and if not sucked, pinched, pulled, bitten. However, Garrett had his own agenda, kissing so softly I barely felt his lips as they traveled the valley between my ribs, over my belly button, a quick light swirl, before going farther, the heat of his mouth finally settling over the scrap of lace that covered my sex. The heat of his mouth caressed me in swirls of heat that made my hips dance with need, his mouth pulling away each time I pressed up, maintaining the distance so that the only thing touching my clit was the heated air being breathed from his mouth.
"Oh God, Garrett! I can't take this!" I groaned, the pleasure he was giving me agony. "Please, please, touch me."
"Do you want me to lick your sweet pussy, Kitten?"
"God, yes! Please. Lick me."
He didn't make me wait, sucking the lace of my panties into his mouth with my flesh, sucking and swirling, circling my clit, teasing me with the same gentleness he'd used on my breasts. "Oh God, oh God!"
I lifted my hips, trying to make the contact more solid, but he pulled away with each lift of my hips, until finally, I lay still and unmoving. My reward was his tongue sliding along the edge of black lace to lick at my wet slit, making me wetter, his saliva mingling with my own wetness. He licked back and forth, side-to-side, front to back, just along the inner, ultra-sensitive edge of my labia, his tongue sliding beneath lace. The dual sensation of tongue and lace between my lips made me crazy. I was wet and slick, ready and needy for more, but he made me wait, licking where he wanted and not where I needed him to be, torturing me with his gentleness.
"Please Garrett, make love to me now!"
"I am making love to you, Kitten."
"I want you inside of me, now!" I growled.
Garrett flicked his tongue deeper between my labia, pressing his tongue inside me, withdrawing to run his tongue over my clit, replacing his tongue with a single finger, entering me softly, slowly, sliding back and forth, in, out, causing me to writhe beneath him, screaming. Pulling his length over me, he pressed his lips to mine, his finger still sliding in, out, his mouth tasting of me. "Is that what you had in mind, Kitten?"
Panting, smiling, I answered, "I was thinking more along the lines of your big ass dick, but if you think that's the best you can do, I'll take it."
"You are such a bad girl, Kitten." He growled, flipping me onto my stomach, pushing my knees under me, pulling my panties down to give me exactly what I wanted. He filled me in one long, solid thrust, hitting the wall of my insides. I gasped, embracing the small pain.
Garrett withdrew a little, sliding in and out so softly.
"No!" I screamed into the pillow, wanting it hard, wanting what that first thrust had promised. "Take me hard, Garrett, please take me hard."
"No, Kitten. I promised to make love to you. No pain tonight."
His dick slid in and out, so unbearably soft, I arched, pressing up, pushing my ass into him, trying to get the most out of each soft slide. Slide, slide, slide.
"You are killing me!"
"No, Kitten, in the months to come, you will remember this night, this softness...this gentleness will be what you crave---not the pain. Lord Fyre will overwhelm you with pain and I will be your soothing balm when you close your eyes at night. You will remember me making love to you."
I awoke in the early hours just before dawn to find him rising, dressing. I caught his hand and pulled him back down. He didn't resist.
I traced the long, defined line of his arm, veins standing out, touchable blue beneath the skin, his fine, dark hair soft. He sat there, watching me memorize him. "I don't want you to go."
"Staying will only make it harder, Kitten."
"I don't want you to go," I whispered, tugging his arm to pull him toward me. "Kiss me once more so that I can remember the taste of you in my dreams."
He reached out and brushed my bangs out of my face, leaving his hand at the top of my head as he looked into my eyes. His other hand reached to cup the side of my face, and still he made no move to kiss me. I was afraid he would refuse.
"What are you doing?" I whispered.
"Memorizing your face, Kitten. Three months without your beauty..." He didn't finish the sentence. He lowered his head and kissed me, softly, gently, even sucking my bottom lip into his mouth with an utter tenderness that made me cry---warm liquid tears that slid over my cheeks without stopping---he was saying good-bye. I was saying good-bye and suddenly, I wanted him to make love to me softly. So softly that the memory of it would keep me sane while I was away from him.
I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naive or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.
-Anais Nin
Kitten
Tearing through the thick undergrowth of the shadowy mini-forest between my backyard and the community park, I questioned my sanity, but I felt better than I had in weeks, even though I was running late, though only by five minutes. He'd warned me to not be late. I prayed he didn't leave. The wisp of turquoise silk skirt was to blame. I changed my top three times because nothing matched the skirt. Now I am late, only minutes, but still---late.
Racing through the damp, muggy, mini-forest, I realized my chosen top, a white spaghetti-strapped lace camisole, was a bad choice. I would be stained and filthy before I ever reached the park. Crashing through waist-high weeds and batting at silvery lines left by spiders as they flew across the path, I was on a harrowing journey though a small cleft of woods---labeled green space on county records---the middle of civilization, but so not civilized. Chirping squirrels, calling birds and the clicking things in dark shadows I had no desire to discover. I tripped twice trying to escape unseen danger I imagined lurking in the shadows.
Relief filled me as I spilled out onto mowed grass and I caught sight of him, leaning against the silvery leg of an ancient swing set. My breath caught as I saw for the first time perhaps just how huge and powerful a man he was. A man to be feared.
I stalled in the shadows for only a second, frozen by the sight of him, before I crossed the open span of lawn. He was like a big Greek God come to earth, a God of war or destruction, so dark and brooding, all height and muscle. Caught in the bright sunlight, his black hair seemed to soak in the heat, reflecting back nothing, his skin so deeply tanned that it seemed right at home in the blazing heat, the flame tattoos licking up his biceps seeming ready to ignite the man. He wore a skintight black T-shirt, the sleeves cut off and the round neck cut to create a V. He wore the T-shirt tucked in, further emphasizing the flat-ridged plane of his abdominals, but it was his tight, black leather pants that held my attention, seeming to mold to every curve, defining his thighs and, yeah, his package. I blushed, thinking about the penis behind the prominence of leather, already imagining that if the truth lived up to the size of the bulge...I swallowed hard, wondering if he'd gone to great lengths to try to seduce me or if this was his everyday look when not at Lewd Larry's. Now that I thought about it, he was actually dressed so that he could have just left work or was going to work.
He had to be melting in those pants, but if he was, it didn't show.
He did nothing to acknowledge that he saw me, not even the slightest tilt of his head, but I knew he did, I felt his gaze on me as I started to walk toward him.
"I'm sorry I'm late." The words gushed out with the remaining air in my lungs. I'd held my breath when I saw him, but even that hadn't stilled my breathing after my race through the woods. I panted, out of breath. He lifted his brow as I doubled over, trying to breathe. I peeked up at him from under my bangs, not quite ready to stand straight, barely able to inhale. "Thank you for not leaving."
"My God, you're out of shape!" He pulled my hands from my knees, forcing me upright, forcing my hands over my head.
I bent at my side, trying to relieve a side pinch, struggling to pull my hand from his grasp to rub my side.
"Keep your arms up and breathe," he commanded. "It won't hurt so much if you expand your lung area. Inhale slow and deep."
"I must appear ridiculous to you."
"No, not ridiculous." He pulled me to a swing and pushed me into it.
Closing my eyes, I relaxed into the rubber seat that hugged my butt, warm from the sun, heat rising through my skirt in a relaxing embrace. Arms still stretched over my head, I focused on breathing until I could actually inhale without pain. When I opened my eyes, he knelt before me. I trembled at his nearness for no other reason than he was near.
I'd given myself to him---for ninety days---starting now.
Oh God, what have I done? A sudden flash of memory filled my brain, and I remembered the feel of his tongue in my mouth, his taste. He'd only kissed me once...at Garrett's house when Garrett hadn't been home...and he'd caught me doing something wrong, something deceptive. He'd punished me by kissing me. His kiss had repulsed me, scared the shit out of me. I wasn't ready for Lord Fyre then. He terrified me. He still terrified me.
Kneeling in front of me, he put his hands on my knees and I jumped.
"You said you were ready for this," he accused, his eyes burning into my soul with a heat that seemed touchable. I willed myself to not break down. "You're afraid of me."
"N-no, I'm not," I denied, trying to stop shaking. I forced a smile and bravely placed my hands on top of his. "I'm here. I'm ready."
"Hold on," he commanded, standing, grabbing the chains. My hands automatically grabbed the heavy silver chains as he stood and pulled the swing toward him. His smile, suddenly brilliant and inviting, put me even more off balance than his quick movements. My grasp tightened as I realized his full intent, the same time he released the swing, sending me airborne. A small scream escaped my lips, making him laugh. I was swinging, backward then forward into him. He pushed me again. And again. Until I sailed as high as I possibly could.
Sailing into him, away from him, I could feel the connection of energy that seemed so overwhelming when we were still, looking into each other's eyes. Flying through the air, the connection pulsed and it was like the moment was predestined. I was meant to find this man and, just that easily, I wasn't terrified of him anymore. A giggle bubbled up from inside me. It had been a long time since I'd felt the rise and fall of swinging, a long time since I'd felt free.
"I don't think you're ready for the darkness that is to come." His eyes were deadly as he pushed me higher and higher, his face twisted sternly. "I don't think you are ready for me. Physically, you would not survive being my slave, and I pray you don't think I exaggerate."
"I am so ready for you Lord Fyre, you have no idea," I bragged, laughing.
"You've starved yourself. Physically, you're a disaster---and emotionally..."
"Are you reneging?" I challenged, amusement making my voice light.
"No," he answered, tilting his head, his mouth twisted between devilish smirk and worried frown. "I just hope you live to regret this."
Broadening my smile until it hurt, I winked at him boldly, giggling and pointing my toes into the blue of the sky. I felt good looking at that sky, empowered, though technically I'd just given myself away.
The heavy chain framed the sky and, for just a moment, my mind transported me back in time. As a little girl, I would fly and pretend. I was an astronaut returning to earth and, in truth, the sky looked as the earth must look from space. Patches of blue shrouded in atmosphere.
"Close your eyes."
I obeyed without question, the bright sky searing red behind my closed lids. My stomach lurched as I felt him push me higher than before.
"Lean back and point your toes, like you did when you were enjoying this a moment ago."
I leaned back, arching my neck, feeling myself soaring higher and higher, my fingers gripping hard into the chain.
"Feel the fall," he commanded. "Feel the pull of the rise."
I felt them both, becoming the fall and the pull.
"It's mind numbing, isn't it?"
"Yes," I screamed happily, his statement echoing my thoughts.
"Keep your eyes closed tight and just feel."
I felt the surge as he pushed me to the limit of the chains. For the first time I felt fear, not of the man, of the swing, of my own frailty as a human being, imagining the broken heap of my bones if I fell. Arms aching, hands tingling, I saw my fingers mottled white, I was holding so tightly to the chain. I wanted him to stop me but I didn't ask.
"Trust me," he commanded. "Relax."
I obeyed and instantaneously the rise and fall consumed me, becoming mind-numbing once more. Rising, falling. I no longer knew which way was sky, which way was ground, a drunken sensation that wasn't all bad.
Just as I was relaxed, flying, my mind no longer on planet earth, he jerked the swing to a stop with a hard thud, and suddenly my ass was pressed against his chest, my legs dangling. His harsh whisper ground the truth into my brain. "That is the way it would be with me as your Master. You won't be in control of your rise, you won't be in control of your fall. You will not know which way is up, or down. You will not be able to come up with a clear thought, your mind will become so numb."
Panicking, I tried to sit up, away from him, though I was high off the ground. His arm tightened around my waist, his breath becoming a warm presence against my bared lower back. The hand not supporting my weight ran along the inside of my bare thigh, stroking skin with an expert skill that was like jolts of electricity. His fingers traced higher, finding the lace edge of my panties, pushing beneath to find the wetness hidden behind the flimsy cloth.
"Such a little slut," he whispered. My entire body stiffened and that was before he whispered ever so softly, "Sophia."
Sophia. I froze, stiller than still, barely breathing. Only my mother had ever called me that. How could Lord Fyre know such a detail?
His fingers retreated, returning to the inside of my thigh. "That was your birth name, yes? Sophia Jane Marie Alexander. Your mother was originally Cecilia DuLaurent, shortening it to Celia when she immigrated, born Catholic, refused to recant. It was a secret your father's flock would never know. He was ashamed of himself for not being able to save her, and for loving her anyway.
"You can't possibly know that!" I cried out, but he ignored me.
"She named you what she wanted to name you, filling out the information for the birth certificate while your father was out of the room. It was a fight, a constant fight in your home, that she not call you Sophia until you were alone with her, and then in private, she could call you by the name she chose for you."
"How could you possibly know?" I gasped.
"I know everything there is to know about you, Sophia."
"Don't call me that," I growled.
With a push of the swing, he released me. Set me free. He walked away, leaving me flying through the air. Too late, I realized how badly I totally fucked up. Such a little thing, my name, and he was walking away because I...I didn't submit to him fully.
"Stop! Lord Fyre! Please, come back!" I screamed after him, afraid to jump from the swing, needing to stop him, closing my eyes and jumping, screaming at his back, "I submit to you---fully."
Standing, I saw that he had reached his motorcycle and, without a backward glance, he was gone. Damn. I kicked the grass and paced, stopping only long enough to stomp and curse.
Damn, damn, damn
I refuse to stalk another Dom, damn it!
Straddling the angled heated leg of the swing set, I pounded my head against the metal leg. Why did he do that? Why did he catch me off guard, making me remember my mother?
I pounded my forehead again. Emotional trigger. The answer becoming as clear as the sky, he wanted to discover what made me tick, what I reacted to, what or who causes me to react. Yeah, I reacted all right. Damn, damn, damn! Each mental curse punctuated by my forehead hitting metal. I stopped when I felt rather than heard the vibration of his motorcycle, but didn't turn to look at him until he skidded around me, braking directly in front of me, revving the engine before killing the power. Sitting on his ebony and chrome Harley, he looked dangerous. Straddling the swing-set leg, I was certain I looked ridiculous, but couldn't figure out how to disengage myself gracefully.
I held myself very still, chastising, "There's no motorcycles allowed on the grass."
"Do I look like a man who obeys rules?" he challenged, holding out his hand. "Come here."
Taking his hand, I stepped over the metal leg and took the single step closer he required. Still holding my hand, his other hand brushed my bangs off my forehead. "You seem to like hurting yourself entirely too much. That is unacceptable. Understood? If I want you marked, I will mark you. Already, it looks like your forehead is going to bruise. That doesn't make me happy."
Really? I didn't think I'd pounded my head that hard but then my head reacted to his words and suddenly my forehead was throbbing. He ran his hand up my bare arm, his thumb tracing the tender, circular-shaped imprint of my teeth. My arm, too, beneath his massaging fingers seemed to hurt more, whereas before he'd mentioned it, I hadn't felt it at all, not during, not while it bled, not after. I'd been numb.
Trying to jerk my arm free of his prodding thumbs, I realized just how not numb I was. "Ouch! That hurts," I complained.
"Remember that in the future, Kitten. If you hurt yourself, I will make it hurt ten times worse." He dug his thumb into the teeth print to illustrate his point, taking me almost to my knees, controlling me. He pulled me into him, whispering against my face, "Only I hurt you now, Sophia. Got it?"
Tears sprung to my eyes. Yeah, I understood, but I couldn't say it out loud. He was going to hurt me, physically and mentally, make me think, make me remember.
Pushing into my tender arm, pulling me the direction he wanted me to turn, he controlled me with pain, pushing me over the front of his motorcycle seat as he scooted back to make room, leaving me face down, belly against warmed leather where my shirt was raised.
"Lift your skirt and pull down your panties," he commanded, releasing my arm.
I started to rise off the bike, but he pressed his hand into the middle of my back, holding me still. "Do it from the position you are in."
We're in a children's playground! My mind screamed. Granted there was no one there, granted we were shielded from the road by a few trees, but anyone could arrive at any time, taking the same path from the row of houses that I did through the green space. Lifting my skirt to fold over my waist, baring my ass with a slide of my panties, the only thought on my mind was that I pass Lord Fyre's test, and if we got caught, I was pointing the blame at him.
"Are you ready to submit to me fully, Sophia?"
I cringed at the name only my mother had ever called me, fighting back tears because I had not heard my name since her death and, unable to speak, I nodded.
"Say it!" he barked.
"I submit to you fully and without question, Lord Fyre," I said, my voice choking on emotion. I blamed it on missing my mother, but she had been gone a very long time, so she wasn't really a good excuse for the emotion clogging my throat with snot as I struggled against tears.
"Good." His answer was soft, his hand sliding over my exposed bottom. "Look to your right, over to the parking lot."
I looked. Garrett stood next to his car, leaning back against the shiny, freshly waxed surface. I started to rise, to hide myself, but Lord Fyre held me down. "A little late for modesty, sweetheart. He's been here all along."
"Why?"
"He's becoming Ice for you---so that when you are ready, he'll be ready. He needed a small reminder of who he used to be, and by seeing me in action, he'll start to remember. Count to twenty."
I chewed my bottom lip, not obeying, looking at Garrett. Why, I'm not sure, I only knew that I couldn't take my eyes off him.
"He sees you in action at the club every night," I argued, still not counting.
"At the club, he sees me physically going through the motions. We, his dominants, are just landscape. Here, it's not just watching, not just going through the motions. This enables him to feel the emotions he's been hiding from, been numb to, for a very long time. This will make him jealous and angry. I can't help him become Ice again until he's good and angry. I can't act in your best interest until I am sure that I will be able to give you to Ice when I'm done with you. Now, no more talking. Count."
"One." I obeyed, starting the count, thinking I knew what was coming, but his hand didn't fall against my ass. I looked up at him, bewildered, waiting for his hand to fall.
"Count," he mouthed.
"Two."
His hand slid over my bare ass, but it wasn't a spanking he had in store for me. It was a stroking, the barest of touches, so fucking soft I thought I would die with the sheer pleasure of it, bringing to mind the pleasure I'd felt at Garrett's hand the night before.
"Hell no," I cried out, trying to rise off his bike. "Not this! Please. Spank me, hurt me."
"Look at Garrett..." he commanded as his fingers teased the sensitive skin running along my crack. "---while you count."
I can't do that!
"Why are you doing this?" I asked, my voice sounding pathetic, pleading. I felt like such a baby, wondering who had started this game and what in the hell was I doing smack dab in the middle of it? Oh yeah, me. This was all my fault. This was my punishment for playing with fucking sadists!
His hand left my ass. "Count or go to him. Your choice."
I turned my head, looking at Garrett, seeing that he hadn't taken his eyes off me. I wanted to mouth the words to him that would tell him how sorry I was, but knew he was too far away to see my lips. He was still leaning against his car, dressed for work, dark slacks, black Armani dress shirt, and black silk tie. I once told him it was my favorite look on him. I counted, "Three."
"No, Sophia, you stopped. Now you start again at one."
"How long are you going to call me Sophia?"
"As long as I want to. I will call you what I want, when I want, and for now, I will call you Sophia." He stroked the inside of my thigh from knee to pussy and I shuddered. "Did your mother call you Sophia when you were bad, or only when you were good?"
"Leave her out of this! Please stop calling me that!" I covered my ears with my hands, still lying over his motorcycle seat, crying openly. "Why are you calling me that?"
"The better question is why shouldn't I call you by your name?"
"Because it hurts too much!" I sobbed, clutching my hands into tight fists. "Does that make you happy that you are hurting me?"
Lord Fyre drew his leg up the inside of my thigh, his warm leather-covered knee pushing against my wet slit as he bent his body over me, whispering against my neck, "I want you to feel, that's all. I want your emotions. I want your mind. I want your body."
I looked at him through slit eyelids as he pulled away---his body, his knee---until he was standing behind me again. Closing my eyes, I waited, waited for him to tell me to leave. Waiting for him to tell me I was unworthy, but then I felt him running his fingers through my wetness, teasing me, sliding through my folds, rubbing my clit, before going back to my wetness. I humped his hand, not meaning to, and not able to stop myself, breathing hard, harder as he whispered promises. "I will hurt you in every way there is to hurt someone, mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually. I will make you feel because of the pain. I will make you beg for more pain because you will become addicted to feeling. Tell me to stop touching you, Sophia. Right now! Tell me that you don't want me to hurt you so that you can go home with Garrett and live happily ever after together, because this is going to change things for all of us. Every action creates reaction...in you, in me, in him. Are you ready to take responsibility for the repercussions of this action?"
"I don't know," I sobbed. "You're confusing me."
"What do you want, Sophia?" he screamed at me.
"I want to face my darkness! I know that only you can help me find it!"
He growled into my ear, "Count!"
"One."
Standing, he softly stroked inside my thigh, making me quake, drawing his fingers between my labia to press his finger against my clit, making me squirm, not realizing that I had stopped counting until he reminded me, pinching my clit. He growled, "Start over, Sophia, and this time count to twenty, or I will drive away and I will not master you, not ever, understood?"
"One," I started again and his fingers slid through my slickness. I closed my eyes against the sight of Garrett, counting on auto-pilot, his fingers sliding, pressing, playing with my clit. "Two, three."
"Look at him, Sophia, remember last night. Did he touch you like this?"
"Four." I didn't answer his question but looked at Garrett, remembering his nakedness, his perfect body, the shadowed lines of rib and muscle. The dark trail of hair that led from the large swath covering his chest to the narrow trail of hair that led to his cock.
"Did he lick you and kiss you here?" He rubbed my clit softly, butterfly-soft touches that at once brought back to my mind the hours I spent with Garrett loving me tenderly. The vision of Garrett's head between my legs, his dark hair spilled against the creamy whiteness of my thighs, his blue-blue eyes rolling up to look at me as I came on his tongue flooded my headspace. I counted without thinking, "Five, six," as I remembered my screams as Garrett took me with such gentle softness.
With each count, Lord Fyre plunged and withdrew, plunged and withdrew. He was fucking me with his fingers, plunging with each count and, as much as I hated what he was doing, fucking with my mind, I couldn't stop counting.
"Nine, ten, eleven." I grew wetter, writhing over the narrow padded seat as Lord Fyre touched me mercilessly, softly stroking then flicking my clit.
"T-twelve," I stuttered, swearing loudly, "Oh God!"
Whispering, "Thirteen," so softly, I was surprised when he didn't comment, but then, for a moment, I couldn't count at all, whispering in curse, in prayer, "Oh God, oh God, oh God," as he kept the rhythm of his fingers consistent.
"Fourteen, fifteen." Flick. Flick.
"Sixteen, seventeen." Flick. Flick.
"Seventeen." An orgasm washed through my body.
Flick. Flick. Flick. "You said seventeen already."
I quaked against air, his fingers hovering over me, waiting for my count, but I couldn't think to count. All I could do was spiral and crash, my orgasm making my knees weak, my breath a ragged, shuddering sound. Only the motorcycle seat supporting my weight kept me standing.
"Eighteen, Sophia. Count."
I repeated, "Eighteen," forgetting why I was counting, but then his fingers were there to remind me. Soft slide. Flick.
I cried out, my clit super-sensitive post-orgasm.
"Nineteen," he said. I repeated it, "Nineteen."
Flick.
"Twenty." I whispered, waiting for the painful flick of his fingers, but his hand was gone from between my legs. He pulled me off his bike, standing me on shaking legs, the dampness on my thighs a mockery of what just happened between us, my panties still around my knees. I fell against him, only the strength in his hands wrapped around my upper arms keeping me from falling. He held me like that a long moment, long enough for me to be embarrassed by what just happened, long enough for me to feel his body heat. I was standing on my own before I realized he'd released me.
"Pull up your panties, adjust your skirt, and wait for me on the swings."
Starting his engine, he pulled away, leaving me to do as he said, but I didn't move. I stood there with my panties around my knees, lip caught between my teeth, dampness sticking my thighs together. It was a short ride for him to reach the parking lot, pulling the motorcycle to a stop in front of Garrett, blocking my sight of him. Hearing voices, I quickly pulled up my panties and straightened both my skirt and camisole before I turned back toward the parking lot, hoping I could see what was going on between Garrett and Lord Fyre.
Two children and their mother arrived swing-side, distracting me from the men in my life. I thanked God they weren't there a few minutes earlier before turning back to face Lord Fyre and Garrett. Too late, I turned just in time to see Garrett pulling out of the parking lot and Lord Fyre hiking up the small rise to the swings. So much for the tough guy who doesn't obey rules. I guessed when children were present, he obeyed.
"Darling, come to me," he called, his normally smooth accent sounding thicker, more guttural, his hand waving me to meet him halfway. Somehow, I managed to make my legs work and followed him the short distance to his bike. The damp stickiness between my legs sickened me. I am such a slut. Putting on his sunglasses, he was already mounted and expecting me to climb on behind him.
"Darling?" I demanded.
"In public, yes...in private, slut, Sophia, or any other name I choose."
I used to be such a nice girl, a good girl. "Can I ask a question?"
"First answer me this, how much weight have you lost?"
I was sure my whole face frowned, forehead, eyebrows and all, but I answered, shrugging, "Thirty-two pounds."
"Jesus," he swore, demanding, "Since I took you home from Garrett's the day he threw you out?"
I shrugged again but answered, "Yes."
"You didn't have half that much to spare. You look like shit."
I shook my head, looking at the ground, asphalt more appealing than the judgment I saw in his eyes. I didn't need this man to tell me I was ugly. His hand lifted my chin and I struggled, losing badly. He wiped the fresh damp track made by a single tear from my cheek and lowered his own head to make eye contact.
Reading my mind, he promised, "You are still very beautiful, Sophia, I didn't mean that, but you need food. You need sleep. And I'm going to take a wild guess that you haven't been getting much of either."
I nodded, agreeing. Sleep? What is that? If it was a struggle to sleep before meeting Garrett, post-Garrett I don't sleep. For a while, at least, I made an effort. Lying, tossing, turning...thinking too much...wanting him to take me back, if only to hurt me. Hurting me would be so much better than ignoring me. At some point, I stopped dressing for bed, stopped crawling under the sheets. Instead, I wrote all night...memories? Memoirs. I didn't tell Lord Fyre any of this though. I just looked past him to the swings, wondering if he too would make it onto the written page of my life.
Lord Fyre still held my chin, forcing eye contact. "I am taking you to a place away from here, a place where we can be alone, without memories or distractions that would interfere, but I will not start the process until you've gained at least five of what you've lost. So plan to eat, plan to sleep. Do not expect pleasure or pain until you've gained some weight. Understood?"
I nodded.
"Being my slave isn't a tea party. I'm tough."
I never doubted it for a minute.
Looking over the top of his shades, he prompted, "Ask your question now."
"Whose benefit was that show for?"
"You don't know?" he asked incredulously.
"You wanted to prove I would let you touch me, even if he watched, but why?"
"You're a smart girl, Sophia, your brain is wired just like mine. No why. Just because. Just as you said, to prove you would. Now, kneel before me."
Nervously, I looked over my shoulder at the woman and children on the swings to see if they were looking. His fingers bit cruelly into the bite mark on my forearm, his thumb pressing into the spot between the two big bones, but he had my attention. He jerked me around to face him with just the pain radiating through my arm.
"That hurts," I cried out, trying to pull away, his fingers biting deeper, until I dropped to the asphalt, my bare knees scraping against the hot pavement. "Please, stop," I begged, hoping for release, but he didn't release me right away. I writhed in agony on my knees, finding no escape from the strength held in just one of his hands. "You're hurting me!"
"Isn't that the point, Sophia? I can hurt you. I will hurt you, whenever I want. This pain isn't because you didn't obey me with immediate obedience, although you would have earned it for that reason alone, this pain is to make you focus. I am the center of your world now. No one and nothing else will distract you from me."
I laid my forehead on his knee, saying "I'm sorry." I think I meant it, but more I was just trying to escape the power of his eyes and the truth caught there.
He released my arm to rummage in his saddlebag, I kept my head on his knee, soaking in the warmth of his leg, beginning to feel how right it could feel to sit, neck bowed, on my knees. With my head in his lap, I wondered, if I surrendered completely would it stop being role-playing? It seemed like with Garrett it was role-playing.
The sun pounded into my back, heating me, baking me, but I didn't lift my head. A drop of sweat trickled down the side of my face, but I didn't wipe it away, and even when my knees were too sore to kneel any longer and my curiosity got the best of me because he held something in his hands that I felt him twisting, I didn't move. I didn't look. I surrendered to the nothingness that pressing my forehead into his knee afforded me. With no thought, no cares, I seemed to float and even the pain in my knees disappeared.
"Lift your face to me."
I obeyed.
"I think you need something to focus your attention, so I've made you a collar out of hemp rope." He held it out to me. "Feel it."
I touched it and it felt rough. It looked like something I would have created in junior high art, macramé or something very similar. I watched him lift it, fitting it around my throat like a choker, adjusting it until he was satisfied. "Bend your head down."
I did and he cinched it down, looping the ends to close it, completing the knot pattern with it on my neck, leaving no loose ends, nothing to untie. It was a solid circlet of rope.
Swallowing hurt, the roughness of the rope pressed directly over my larynx. "It's too tight," I complained.
"You're not turning blue, it's not too tight."
"It hurts when I swallow," I tried to explain.
"Then it's perfect. Every time you swallow, you'll remember that I am the center of your universe."
"For, what other dungeon is so dark as one's own heart! What jailer so inexorable as one's self!"
-Nathaniel Hawthorn, The House of Seven Gables
Thomas
I enter her small room, but she is unaware I am here. Caged, her head droops, cushioned only by the cervical collar I added to help her sleep.
She is beautiful in sleep, beautiful always, but especially asleep. I hate to wake her. For the first time in months, she glows. She is healthy, well-fed, eating six to eight high-protein, high-carbohydrate meals a day, and oddly, caged, she sleeps.
Kneeling by her cage, I stroke her face, softly, until she becomes aware.
"Wake-up!" I shout.
She blinks and rolls her eyes up at me, but doesn't move her head. Wide-eyed by her abrupt awakening, her ocean-colored eyes remind me of the blue-green waters surrounding my homeland. Her eyes are made even more exotic by their almond shape and the utter trust that rests in their depths.
It is hard for her to lift her face to meet my eyes, her joints painful and tight from lack of movement. The last twelve hours she has barely moved at all, and when she does, I see the pain written on her face. The next hour will be the worst for her. I don't plan to make it easy.
Dialing the combination on the four locks holding the cage closed, I watch her, and her eyes follow my every move. Her tongue darts out to lick her lips in anticipation of her freedom. If she knew how badly freedom was going to feel, she would beg to stay caged.
I pull up on the top of the cage and fold it back on its hinges. Kneeling before her, I twist my fingers into her hair and pull her face up to look at me. She squeals in pain, her neck having been supported by the collar for almost a week. "Are you ready to leave your confines, slave?"
"Yes, Lord Fyre." Her eyes appear glazed, still wavering between sub-space and reality.
"And have you learned your lesson?"
"Yes, Lord Fyre," she answers automatically, confusion filling her eyes.
"Crawl to me slave," I command, backing away three feet and watching her attempt to crawl. She lifts her right hand and looks at it as if she is unsure what to do with it before placing it on the carpeted floor in front of her. Only then does she realize that she cannot crawl forward, she must crawl backward to escape the cage. Tentatively, she moves one leg back, followed by her hand, which she places in the middle of cage for support, a good start. Another crawled motion backward though and she is falling. I let her.
"Get up!" I growl.
She presses against the floor with her hand and I see the agony of using her muscles rip through her eyes. She grunts but it is a shrill grunt, almost a scream as she pushes up onto all fours to crawl toward me. Each motion forward is agonizing as blood circulates and tissues stretch. As she gets closer, I back away.
Opening the door, I step into the hallway and walk away several feet from the room, turning to call to her, "Hurry up!"
She tries to move faster, I can see the effort, the determination written in her creased brow. She moves agonizingly slow, arms and legs stretching, hips swaying. Without realizing it, she couldn't move any more provocatively if she tried. She definitely has animalesque down to a science. I wonder if Garrett taught her to crawl like that, or whether it is pain making her limbs reach longer, her muscles stretch more seductively than if she crawled normally.
Entering the hall, she mentally sags when she sees how far she has to crawl to reach me. I shout at her to hurry up then growl, "Lift your face to me, slave."
She lifts her sagging head and makes eye contact.
I back away another two steps and her head moves side to side, warning me to stop. Her eyes glare. She continues her long-limbed, stealthy approach, shaking her head side to side. She is like a mountain lion, pacing toward me, left hand reaching long, stretching the muscles of her arm taut, her right knee sliding forward only a fraction of a second behind the hand movement. Her hips sway slowly with her long, right-hand reach. She is exotic and mine, if only borrowed. Mine, for now. How did Garrett ever let her go? He only possessed her three weeks...
I have three months, and yet, after only a week, I am possessive. She is mine.
Until this moment, I have kept myself in check, but even reading the pain each movement causes her, I want her. My cock hardened with the first long stretch of arm, the first sway of her ass, and the jiggle of her small, tight breasts. My hardness is caught painfully behind unyielding denim. I embrace the ache of it, letting it clear my mind just a little, but then the lust comes back three-fold.
I press my back against the closed door to my bedroom, feeling the pull of energy coming off her, passing between us. I wonder if she knows the power of seduction that she possesses. I'd planned to get her to crawl into the bedroom and point her toward the bed. I planned to close the door and leave her alone to rest and recuperate. Now, victim of her siren's lure, I am not thinking about her recuperation...though in the back of my mind I remember the promise I made to her that I would not touch her until she gained at least five pounds, but truly her health is the last thing on my mind.
She pauses only two feet away, sitting back on her ass, knees pulled up to her body, arms planted in front of her. I've seen her do this before, at the club, but don't remember what it means. Sitting, she glares, eyes narrowed, but not in anger---something else---like she is thinking too much.
I take a step forward, toward her, and she hisses, showing her top teeth, raising her right hand in mock strike.
It all comes back to me, her tabletop sideshow, and all the feral cat antics that followed, all because Garrett had forgotten her, forgotten her basic needs---food, water, bathroom breaks. I've handfed her three times today, so I know that she isn't hungry. We overcame her embarrassment of her losing control of her bodily functions the first day of her confinement in the cage. I'd gone in to check on her after the first couple hours, to see how she was tolerating the utter isolation, the bondage.
I'd knelt beside her. "How does the cage feel?"
"Tight," she answered. "The wire isn't pleasant."
"It isn't supposed to be pleasant," I mocked her and stood to leave the room.
"Wait," she cried out and I was surprised to think she was breaking down after only a few hours.
"I have to pee," she whispered as if someone other than me might hear.
"I'm not stopping you from answering the call of nature," I answered.
"Will you release me?" she asked me. "You can put me right back into the cage when I'm done if you'd like."
I laughed outright and walked back into the room. I folded into a cross-legged position beside her. "It will be much easier if we come to an understanding right now. I am not planning to release you, not tonight and not the next. If you have to use the bathroom, you will do so in your cage. Here, you are no more in control of this situation than an animal. Here, you are my animal, my pet. At Lewd Larry's, you pretended to be a feline persona, isn't that what Garrett said to you when he collared you? Here, with me, you are going to forget what it feels like to be human."
She gasped, understanding dawning in her mind. "Really, I have to pee, please release me. Is that what you want? For me to beg, because I'll beg."
"I don't want you to beg. I want you to pee, right here, right now."
"I can't do that."
"You will," I promised, then I sat and waited, ignoring her tears, ignoring her curses, waiting for the moment she would break down, waiting for the moment, as I cupped her between her legs, holding her in my hand just tightly enough for her to know that I was, her urine flowed.
We'd come to an understanding.
Suddenly, she is falling forward, pulling me out of my memory. She is not slumping slowly, but doing a full-fledged nose-dive into the carpeted floor.
As fast as it registers that she's collapsed, my hard-on shrinks, and I am by her side, lifting her and carrying her to the bedroom. Gently, I tuck her into my bed, then make a phone call I'd rather not make to George Kirkpatrick, otherwise known as Dr. Psycho at the club. Although he is a retired psychiatrist, I call him instead of one of the community-friendly MDs or DOs, perhaps because I feel like she's healthier now than when she came to me. Granted she collapsed, but prior to the collapse, she looked pretty damn healthy, even for a woman who had been caged for a week. I overreact, calling for help...but prefer to think it was a smart decision, wanting to be safe.
I leave her to sleep while I pace my foyer, waiting for George, the soft click of my leather sandals annoying against the terracotta tile. Normally, I would go barefoot, today because of this particular house-call, I break out the Roberto Botticelli designer footwear. Dark brown leather stands up well to the all-white outfit I've chosen, linen pants and an Indian-inspired dress shirt. Of course, the two gold necklaces and dress watch by Forzieri speak even louder of my nervousness. It's my grandfather's fault. Calling me by my childhood name, he'd admonished me. "Clothing makes the man, Aristotle. You will dress for success every day, and you will become the man you wish to be." The worn blue jeans and ancient tank top I wore earlier would have been an embarrassment to him, especially knowing a doctor was willing to make a house call.
As I answer George's knock, Garrett slams into me, hands on my shoulders, shoving me back into the two-story stucco wall that defines the foyer. I do not defend myself. George succeeds in pulling him back, an arm looped around his neck in a choker hold. "You promised you'd be calm, damn it!" George growls.
"I am being calm!" Garrett bellows, struggling to be free of George's hold. "What the fuck did you do to her?"
In the Attic, I've seen George take down men twice Garrett's size with his expert holds, so I exhibit little concern, arrogantly brushing down my mussed dress shirt. Crossing my arms and leaning against the wall, I wait, posing, drawing up to my full height, exhibiting my Greek lineage in haughtiness.
For now, she is mine. I'm not giving her back.
I hope my posturing makes that clear enough. I really don't want to do this, and I don't want to fight Garrett.
"She's resting. She's in bed, she's conscious, I just want her looked over." I try to figure out how to explain what happened, saying, "She fainted." I can't think of a better way to explain it, saying she collapsed after a week of being caged sounds a little too ugly for Garrett's ears, at least until he is fully Ice once more.
"Where?" George asks me, still holding Garrett. "Relax already! Let me check her out."
Garrett sloughs out of George's hold and assumes a tense position against the opposite wall.
"Second door on the right." I point him down the hall, holding my position directly across from Garrett. No way is he getting past me.
George disappears and Garrett and I are silent, both hearing the bedroom door open, his greeting, the note of surprise in her voice, and the door clicking shut again.
"I haven't hurt her," I promise Garrett.
"I'll get George's professional opinion if you don't mind."
I sigh. This is what I didn't want to happen when I accepted her proposal, putting my friendship with Garrett at risk. "I can't believe you brought her here," he accuses, disapproval laced heavy in his tone. "To your home?"
"It's our vacation house, Garrett, not my home," I answer tiredly, squaring my shoulders, feeling defiant. I do not have to explain this.
"And are your wife and children aware that you are keeping a slave at the beach house?"
"Not that it's any of your concern, but they're in Cairo for the summer, visiting her father." I shrug, hoping to make light of the announcement.
Garrett shakes his head and I feel his judgment.
"I did not send them there so that I could keep Celia here," I revert to her professional name, not wanting to ignite his anger any more than it already is by calling her Kitten. Defending myself, I explain, even though I don't want to. "Lattie wants to have her baby in Africa. I couldn't give her a strong enough reason to prevent her from going, and as her time grows nearer, I'll join her there."
"That's longer than just the summer."
"I know, Garrett. You don't have to tell me something I already know." My voice comes out heated. I am better at controlling emotion than this. Stop it!
"Did she leave because of Kitten?" Garrett asks softly, understanding immediately that there is more happening in my life than he was aware, and not all of it fun and games. It's what I liked about Garrett the moment I met him, his deductive aptitude and an innate ability to read people and empathize.
"No, not because of Celia, or me..." I shrug, looking at the ceiling for answers and seeing cobwebs in the chandelier. "...once she thought she wanted all the United States had to offer and would have done anything to come here. Now, she still isn't happy, if happiness was what she was seeking. She still doesn't know what she wants. She only knows that she doesn't want her children raised in the US."
"I'm sorry, Thomas," he says. "I'm pissed as hell at you, but I'm sorry. I hope you two can come up with a solution."
I sigh, making excuses for her, even though I don't need to. "She's more French than she'd like to believe." The foyer becomes quiet, neither of us moving, the plaster walls too thick to hear anything happening behind the solid wood door. Funny thing how time seems so very agonizingly slow in moments like this, a second seeming like an hour.
"There's no fixing this, is there?"
My mouth twitches, "Which fix? There's a lot that needs fixed."
His answer is stopped by George's return. "She's fine now."
"What happened?" Garrett demands. "Why did she collapse?"
"I need to talk to Thomas, Garrett, could you step outside?"
George waits for Garrett to step outside and close the door before turning to me. "It's nothing serious, but I wanted what I am going to tell you to be heard by you---not Garrett."
I frown, worry knotting in my belly, and I am not one who worries.
"It seems that Celia has limited experience with men."
My frown deepens.
"Aside from Lion and Garrett, there haven't been any other lovers."
My jaw drops, quickly corrected, but my brain is still rolling on the floor waiting for the further explanation I know is coming.
"She said you were leading her to the bedroom when she fainted?"
"To put her to bed, not to have sex with her," I defend.
"You haven't had sex with her?"
George sounds annoyingly surprised that I haven't had sex with her yet. It makes me angry. "No!"
"And you had no intention of having sex with her tonight?"
My mouth opens and shuts twice before I decide to remain silent, my silence a larger betrayal of the truth than if I'd lied.
"She's terrified of having sex with you. She thinks that if she has sex with you, Garrett won't take her back, and she thought that sex was imminent when she collapsed. She didn't know how to refuse you without losing this."
"What?"
My exclamation echoes Garrett's, both of us saying the same thing, though our inflection making our difference in meaning clear. George and I turn to find him loitering in the doorway of the living room, he must have re-entered the house through the kitchen, coming in behind us.
"I told you to wait outside!" George demands.
"And miss this?" Garrett asks, amusement making his voice a higher pitch. "No way!"
For some reason it bothers me immensely for Garrett to know I'm not having sex with her. I pace away, retreating to the kitchen for an iced tea, not surprised at all when they follow me. Ridiculously, we sit at the kitchen island, silent, sipping, thinking. The kitchen window is open, emitting a soft ocean breeze. The sound of crashing waves and bleating seagulls arrive with a quickening wind. A glance outside reveals darkening clouds on the horizon. A storm is coming, though I'd estimate it still hours away. Tonight we'll be in for it.
George breaks the silence. "Is sex necessary to make this arrangement work?"
"Yes!" collides with "No!"
Garrett glares at me. "The agreement was for you to top her for three months. You can top her without sex."
"I don't want to top her without sex." I stop myself, irritated that I sound so adolescent, "I mean to say---I never planned, I want..." I start and stop myself so many times, I'm confused. "I am going to continue this relationship in the manner I see fit and there's no room for discussion."
"I feel we should discuss this." Garrett slams his empty glass onto the granite countertop, ice cubes clinking against each other as they resettle, and I am surprised when the glass doesn't shatter.
I stand my ground in silence. I am not debating how I plan to top her.
Calmly, George pours more iced tea all around and we are quiet again, drinking our tea, each of us lost in our thoughts. I find it slightly odd that George has offered no opinion since breaking the news of what the underlying problem was and I can only imagine Garrett's thoughts. His body language is self-evident, sitting back in his bar stool, arms crossed, his silence screaming loud and clear that he is furious. I can't understand his obvious resentment. He had to assume that I would have sex with her. Is it because he learned that I hadn't yet, giving him reason to think I might not?
I've never known Garrett to be jealous. He loved once, his business partner, Tony Giovanni. They'd shared a committed relationship that made room for others even though they loved each other completely, passionately. He'd never exhibited this kind of jealousy. Maybe because it's been so long since he's been in a relationship, five years, almost six, since Tony was murdered, and Celia is Garrett's first interest of any kind since Tony. It may be a reasonable explanation. I could probably think of dozens more, but my job is not to psychoanalyze Garrett. Right now, my duty is to Celia, and I am not meeting her best interests by sitting in my kitchen, arguing with my friends about how to top her.
I stand, coughing faintly to get their attention before announcing, "Thank you for coming George, Garrett, sorry for the scare. I'd like you to leave now."
Garrett stands. "I want to see her."
"You agreed to accept my professional advice, correct?" George asks.
Great, now the psychiatrist wants to speak.
"Yes." Garrett answers, leveling his gaze.
George faces him squarely and reaches a hand out to grip his shoulder. "It's not in either of your best interests for you to see her right now, she's too conflicted, and you're too emotional. If she is to stay here, she needs her dominant link to be Thomas, not you, and part of the struggle within her right now is her connection to you, knowing you are waiting for her."
Garrett jerks away, not liking the answer.
Turning to me, George doesn't offer a touch, folding his arms across his chest instead. His stern look is what keeps me from making a comment. "I want to caution you, Thomas, she is very vulnerable emotionally. The men in her past have been manipulative and abusive, which is one of the reasons she is here. She needs a safe place to fight her inner demons and, from what she's told me, I think you've exceeded my expectations. You used good judgment today calling me, and I assume you will continue to use your best judgment after we leave."
My level of respect for George ups a notch. Nodding, I open the front door for them. The sun is bright but dark clouds are gathering over the ocean, lightning strikes visible far out to sea. It's beautiful, too beautiful not to share, so I point for George and Garrett to take notice. We stand for a while watching, the storm moving closer. George comments unnecessarily, "Still a few hours away."
"Did I mention Kitten is afraid of storms?" Garrett asks.
"Yes, you told me. I'll keep her safe, stop worrying."
His jaw tightens and it is his tension that makes me react, pulling him into me, hugging him, holding him, even when he would struggle away. "Stop worrying. You love her. I get that. It's going to be okay, just trust me." A second later he relaxes, hugging me back.
"I trust you, Thomas. If I didn't, she wouldn't be here."
I stand on the other side of the heavy carved door that leads to my bedroom, technically her bedroom since she is occupying it, and the easy solution for today would be to just retreat and leave her alone. After a week in a cage, she deserves time alone, but that is a chicken answer and I am no coward. The truth is that, after a week caged, she especially needs the mental and emotional support of her Master---of me.
I press my forehead against the door. Two hours ago, I was ready to jump her bones, now I'm afraid to be in the same room with her and I am not sure what's happened to cause the change in how I feel. It wasn't seeing Garrett, though seeing him reminded me of their bond. Learning of her inexperience made a definite difference, but it's still not completely responsible for what I'm feeling. Sighing, it is a now or never moment, and mastering myself, I push open the door.
She lies on her side, facing away from the door. I approach her quietly in case she sleeps, but I know immediately that she is awake because she stiffens beneath the blanket.
I sit on the edge of the bed carefully, not touching her. "I know you're awake, look at me."
Rolling onto her back, she groans and I know it is sore muscles not the command that causes her discomfort.
"Are you okay?" I ask softly, seeking her eyes and finally making eye contact.
"I'm okay," she answers, holding my gaze. It seems a good start.
"Hungry?"
"Not yet," she whispers, her lower lip quivering into a pout. "I'm sorry."
I stroke her cheek and draw my thumb over her pouting lip. "Whatever for?"
"I'm weak. You were right. Maybe I'm just not tough enough for you."
There is honest desolation written across her features. Scooting closer to her, I lift her to pull her halfway into my lap, causing her to gasp.
"Long-term bondage is exhausting. Where do you hurt?"
"Everywhere," she moans. I have no doubt.
"I'll run you a bath; a good soak would be good," I offer.
"Not yet. Did you mean what you said when you first brought me here about being honest enough to tell you what I need?"
"Yes."
"Does that include asking you to just hold me?" Her lip dips out farther and I know it is not contrived. Quivering, it is an honest pout. A tear slips and slides over her cheek.
"Do you need me to hold you?"
"Yes, Lord Fyre." Her voice breaks, a prelim to the larger sob that wracks her body when I pull her fully into my lap.
"You were a very good girl caged, Sophia, you were very brave," I commend her, stroking her head, letting her cry.
"Constantly just to herself, mind! This is the quality of true passion."
-George Meredith, Sandra Belloni
Kitten
I fell asleep in his lap, actually cried myself to sleep, and obviously he let me. Awake, I am still exhausted, and still held in his arms. He sleeps as well. I shift in his arms and he is awake instantly.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."
"It's okay," he answers, looking down at his watch. "You've only been asleep an hour," he says, shifting his weight to lie me on the bed. "Scoot beneath the blankets."
I obey, gladly, every muscle on fire from too long in the cage. Stretching out, I moan, unable to help myself. Lord Fyre stands. "I'll be right back," he says before he disappears into the adjoining bathroom. He leaves the door ajar and I can hear the sounds he makes, his piss hitting the water in the toilet bowl and then the water running as he washes his hands. I flush, embarrassed that I've overheard the intimacy of such a small thing as him using the bathroom. Was it only a few days ago that he caught my piss as I urinated out of desperation? Does it get any more intimate than that?
He returns with three pills, a glass of water, and a bottle of liniment, Icy Hot. "Ibuprofen," he explains, having me open my mouth so that he can put the pills directly in. He holds the glass of water to my lips and helps me drink, washing down the pills.
"That was a very un-sadist thing to do, Lord Fyre." I say bravely, thankful for the pain reliever.
"How do you know I am not thinking of my own comfort?" he asks.
I frown, not understanding, as he lays me back onto the pillow and takes my right arm between his hands. I had not noticed he had already squeezed a good size measure of Icy Hot onto his palm until he started rubbing the cream into my muscles. Massaging me until the massage and the Icy Hot covers every inch of my arm, his massaging fingers paying particular attention to the places that make me gasp and moan, his fingers pressing harder, finding all the agonizing tender spots.
"My God, you're enjoying this," I hiss between clenched teeth, trying to breathe through the pain he is causing. He spreads the cool cream into the other arm, bringing me to tears because he won't stop, even when I beg. He doesn't stop torturing my muscles with the firm pressure of his fingers.
"Relax," he commands, spreading more over my sternum, between and around my breasts, over my abdominals and my ribs. I'm embarrassed that he is touching me intimately, but it isn't sexual. It still feels sensual. When he rubs my stomach, I tense, feeling things happening low in my belly that I am not ready to face and am relieved when he moves on to my thighs, skipping my private places, not because I fear the sting of the Icy Hot on my genitals, but because I fear my reaction to the man. Bending my knee, he works the liniment into both the front and back muscles of my thighs and my calves until finally he sits back, finished.
"Icy Hot is such a double-edged sword. Soon your skin will flame, becoming almost unbearable, but within a few minutes the flames will recede and you will be left feeling very warm and deliciously languid---and then you will sleep, and more importantly at this juncture, I will sleep," he tells me.
I realize that he has had little to no sleep the entire time I was caged. "You must be exhausted."
"That, dear Sophia, is the understatement of the century. Make room."
I scoot to the left, making room for him on the right, suddenly forgetting my pain and the burn of the Icy Hot, thinking too much, worrying too much as I watch him pull his shirt over his head. He chuckles. "No worries, sweetheart, there will be no debauchery tonight. Your Master isn't up to it."
Master.
Is he my Master? I have thought of him only as Lord Fyre, but yes, I suppose he is my Master. I try to not make mental comparisons as he pulls his slacks down his legs. Chewing my bottom lip, I cannot stop making comparisons. Lord Fyre is taller, wider-shouldered, and heavier-muscled than Garrett. He is also darker, a warm golden bronze, his dark brown tan line displaying a paler ass. For some reason his tan lines make me smile.
I scoot farther away from him when he climbs into the very wide bed, wider than a king, actually longer than a normal bed as well. It dawns on me that there is room in this bed for a lot of people.
"I didn't mean scoot off the bed entirely," he says, lying flat on his back, arms to his sides, eyes closed. "I know that you told George that you're afraid of me, afraid tonight that I was going to have sex with you."
"Oh God," I moan, thoroughly and completely embarrassed, hiding my face behind my hands. "So much for doctor-patient confidentiality."
"Don't fear me," he mumbles softly and I realize that he is already asleep. It is most anti-climactic after being so terribly embarrassed. Well, embarrassed, but in a way that this is something I need him to force me into talking about embarrassed. How am I ever going to get this dialogue started again?
I close my eyes but reopen them, realizing the lights are on still. I wonder if he left them on because I had such a problem with the dark before. Closing my eyes becomes easier, knowing that it will be light when I open them.
I move closer to him, allowing my face to rest on his shoulder, happy for the touch of skin on skin in a purely human, non-sexual way after so long being caged. His heartbeat becomes a comforting rhythm in my ear. He smells of exotic incense-fragranced shower gel, cinnamon, and leather. It is a heady, comforting combination that I know I could get used to and that scares me. I try to remember the cool citrusy scent of Garrett, but the warm fragrance of Lord Fyre overwhelms my memory.
Lethargic muscles refuse to move, even my eyelids seem too heavy to lift. I am annoyed that I am awake, so tired, I want only to sleep. The thought goes through my mind that perhaps Lord Fyre has awakened me, ready for more sadistic games. My body isn't ready, I am not ready. I crack open my eye, finding the room pitch black, confused because the lights were on when I fell asleep. Fear assails me for no other reason than it is dark, and not it's going to be okay, my eyes will adjust to the light dark, but pitch-black dark. A searing flash of light fills the room, followed by a crash.
"Aaaah!" I scream, scooting into the farthest corner of the bed, away from the window, knowing suddenly that it was the storm that woke me. Another flash, crashing thunder, screaming.
I pounded the floor of the bell tower, screaming. Rain slammed into me through the bell tower's graceful arches, lightning so close that the hair on my arms stood up with each strike, thunder so loud, so close, it was like gunfire, ripping through my eardrums. I covered my ears with my hands, curling into a ball, crying, over and over again, "Mommy, mommy, mommy."
My mother wasn't coming. That was the reason I'd gone to the bell tower, my hiding place, my secret place, the one place she always knew to find me when she'd looked everywhere else. I wanted her to find me; I wanted her to take me with her.
Lightning hit the large iron rod on top of the steeple the same moment my father pushed open the trap door, but he didn't pull me into his arms as mother would have done, he grabbed me by the hair on top of my head, and dragged me down the spiral staircase, screaming at me to stop screaming. Screaming, "You stupid girl! You could have been killed up there! Do you want to be stuck under the dirt like your mother?"
Hands grab me and pull me into solid warmth and still I scream. "It's okay, sweetheart, the power went out, but you're okay, I'm here with you."
The storm seems to go on for eternity, lightning, thunder, rain pounding into the glass of the French doors leading to the balcony. Lord Fyre holds me in his arms, stroking my arms and talking to me softly, calling me Sophia with each gentling sentence. "It's going to be okay, Sophia, relax. You're safe here, Sophia." He whispers a mantra of my name, "Sophia, Sophia, Sophia," and I don't cringe. I don't feel sick with the pain of losing my mother and, finally, I can relax against him, finding peace in my name, and it seems my mother has finally found a way to comfort me during the worst of the storm.
I awake, realizing I fell asleep during a storm, and it wasn't a small storm. Unbelievable.
Storms terrify me. Normally, I sit vigil, waiting for the end of the storm, fear keeping me immobile. It has been that way since I was a child, though I don't know why. I only know that I hate storms. I wait for the end to come, not the end of my fear, but the end of time. With each roll of thunder, I wait for the trumpet blast that will signal the return of the King---the return of Jesus. Silly? Yes.
The storm has ended. No Jesus.
I am going to hell---for many reasons---but for today, I am going to hell because I am glad Jesus didn't come. I would have felt sorely cheated if he had returned before my three months with this man had ended. Oh yeah, so going to hell.
I look at the man lying next to me, looking so incredibly sinful. He sleeps and even in sleep he looks unholy. Totally and inexplicably forbidden. Sleeping, he is too much temptation and I reach my hand out to touch him, the hard plane of his chest, the skin stretched painfully taut over his pectoral muscles, his nipples hard points in the midst of all that stretched skin. Pushing down the cotton sheet that drapes over his body, I look, taking in the angular lines and solid muscle that forms the man.
Where has my shyness gone?
Where is the woman who hid under the covers from Garrett?
I am not that same woman. I do not know where she went, but I am no longer she, and honestly, I am glad that she is gone.
She would have been too afraid to join Lord Fyre for three months. She would have been too afraid of the feelings awakening in the very tissues and fibers of her being, feelings that make me want to reach out and stroke the imperfections of his body. I've never seen him naked. Last night that changed and I was too tired, too sore to pay much attention. I am still tired, languidly so, still not wanting to move, but it takes little effort to stroke the length of the scar on his left forearm, long and deep, slightly ragged, even though it appears to be an old scar. I wonder only for a second how he got it, then he moves, startling me, but he only rolls onto his side, in sleep. I sigh, taking note that his back is scarred just as much as his front. My gaze moves to the next imperfection, a row of round circles, angling across his back, not decorative, not on purpose, though their effect accentuates his power. It is a wonder he survived whatever caused the marks, and because I know instinctively that he is lucky to be alive, I trace each dented, perfect circle reverently.
My touch must tickle because he rolls back over, hiding the scars that make me curious. I smile. Looking at his body, it is so hard not to. Even scarred, or maybe because of his scars, he is perfection and it makes me giddy. Perfection in my bed.
My touch could wake him, but there is no fear of him waking even though I lie in his bed naked. He too is as naked as the day he was born. Even though, yesterday, I admitted to Dr. Psycho that I fear sex with him, I explained it wrong, or the explanation was twisted by the time it reached Lord Fyre, because it wasn't that I feared the sex. I feared my inexperience. I feared not being able to please him. I feared the ultimate outcome---losing Garrett forever if I allowed my baser needs to win and I gave myself to Lord Fyre fully.
I do not know how long we've slept; I know only that it is daylight again, and in my mind, time for him to awake. Awake before I lose my nerve and am no longer brave. Awake before I start thinking too hard about consequences, guilt, and judgment.
I smooth my hand over the flatness of his stomach, dropping lower, finding him hard. Wondering what thought God had when he made all healthy, able men awaken with a hard-on. Awaken. Hard. Oh, shit.
"How long have you been awake?" I ask, letting my fingers close around his length. His hand closes around my wrist, holding my hand still, though I don't release his length, feeling him grow stiffer in my hand.
"Long enough to see where you wanted your exploration to lead."
I bite my lip, not looking at him, taking in the very fine vision of his hard cock. He is not a deep rose color as the other two men I've had sex with have been. Lord Fyre's penis is a darker tan, with distinctive purple undertones.
"Is it okay that I touch you?" I ask.
"A little late to be asking," he replies. "Do you have any idea what you've started?"
I giggle a little selfconsciously. "I hope so."
"Have you thought this through?" he asks, sounding to my ears very dark and foreboding, making my breath catch and hold. I look up into his eyes and he traps me there, holding my gaze with his, becoming my conscience. "Have you considered Garrett? Did the two of you discuss where three months with me could lead?"
"I assumed..."
"I assure you, he wouldn't assume."
"So, we shouldn't?"
"I didn't say that."
"I'm confused."
"Exactly. The forty-eight hours after an extreme scene, especially the kind of extreme scene I put you through, can be emotionally unbalancing. I don't want you to do this if you are going to regret taking our relationship to a more intimate level, and I'll be very clear here, if you want me to fuck you, you will ask me to fuck you. What you experienced with Garrett wasn't fucking, was it?"
I swallow hard, thinking too hard.
"Did Garrett fuck you, or make love to you?"
I start to tremble and release my hold on his swollen cock, but his hand still holds my wrist, so my hand is left hovering over his erection, I am left nervous, disconcerted.
"I don't know," I lie.
"Touch me again," he commands, relaxing his grip on my wrist enough that my hand drops, touching by accident before closing around his length on purpose.
"Good girl," he praises. "While you decide what you want, fucking, or not fucking, give me what I want."
My lips part to speak, to deny knowing what he wants, but my hand moves, holding him, stroking him, and to deny that I understood would only sound childish.
I hold his gaze, slowly moving my hand up and down his length, my fingers gripped around him so that his flesh moves separate from his hard shaft. His cock is baby smooth in my hand, rock hard but smooth, and I'm afraid I'll hurt him. I keep the movement slow, my hand tight. It seems such an intimate thing, touching him while I look into his eyes. By watching his changing expressions, I can tell if I'm doing it right. I want to do it right. I want to please him.
"Harder," he commands.
I squeeze harder, nice slow strokes up and down his shaft. His eyelids droop a little, though he still watches me and I still watch him.
"Faster," he whispers.
I move my hand faster, twisting as I pump, causing him to moan, the sound of his pleasure rippling through me, making me feel pride. I pump him harder and faster, wanting him to feel it, feel me, wanting him to ache with need for me. Wanting him to need the pleasure that I'm giving him as much as I needed the pain he gave to me.
Harder...faster...up...down...twist...twist.
"God, Sophia," he sighs and the name he calls me cuts through me, brings me pain, not like the comfort he brought me last night, but acute pain, making me miss her, making me think of her knowing I'm here, knowing I'm doing this. I don't want to know what she would think of me now and I'm embarrassed, thinking the worst. I squeeze tighter, wanting suddenly to hurt him back, needing him to scream my name in pain the way I've screamed his and I succeed, my name a roar from his mouth. But it's not pain I'm bringing him and I watch, satisfied as his come shoots free. When our eyes meet, a jolt of awareness quickens my heart. Need. His? Mine? I reach out to stroke his face, but he pushes my hand away, shutting all emotion visible in his gorgeous brown eyes away as if what I saw hidden in their depths hadn't been there at all. But it was. I saw it. I felt it.
"Taste me," he says, pushing my face down. "Taste what you've done to me."
I close my eyes, feeling unsettled, really unsettled, and snuggle my face deeper into the pillow, hiding, crying, but not sobbing, slow hot tears rolling down my cheeks. Tears of confusion. I've never done that before, not for someone else---though once, Lion shoved his dick into my mouth, but it was after everything else, after he'd raped me, sodomized me, had already come himself, and his dick was shriveling as he shoved, a last-ditch attempt to humiliate me more.
When Lord Fyre said, "Taste me," I wanted to. I enjoyed taking him into my mouth after I'd stroked him to orgasm. He was still coming when I lowered my mouth over his still-erupting shaft, his warm, salty jism coating my tongue. I didn't swallow, at least not at first, so it flowed into and out of my mouth, covering his cock. I enjoyed doing that to him, feeling powerful when his come crested and flowed over the tip of his penis, thinking, "I did that! I brought him!"
I was proud, giddy.
Now I just feel dirty, used, and I don't know what the difference is.
He came in my hand, in my mouth. So much cream that I couldn't possibly swallow it all, and so it flowed out of my mouth and onto my chin in a large splatter.
I made him feel good. Why do I feel so shitty? I'm ashamed of what I did.
He left me in bed alone while he went in to shower. I look at the mess we've made, his come a wet puddle of darkness on his turquoise-colored sheets, other splatters and streaks tell a sordid story. I roll them into a ball, hiding the evidence of what we've done, a tear hitting the sheets to form one more dark spot among so many.
I will not cry over this. Not when I wanted to touch him.
I pull the sheets completely from the bed, leaving them wadded on the floor, not knowing where to put them. I want the bed changed, all evidence of what happened gone, but as I rummage through drawers and closets, I find nothing more than clothing, his, no women's clothing, and of his, it is a sparse closet, some summer shirts, slacks, a few pairs of dress shoes. I wonder where he hides his endless supply of leather, thinking that perhaps he has an underground lair, like Batman, the place where he keeps his kink clothing.
"Find what you're looking for?" he asks as I come out from the walk-in closet, scaring the shit out of me, so that I jump and "eek", hiding my nakedness behind a shield of arms. He stands in the doorway of the bathroom, steam rolling from the warmer bathroom into the cooler bedroom. The heavy scent of cloying incense flows into the room not burnt but damp, warm, the fragrance of his shower gel perhaps. I don't recognize the scent.
"Sh-sheets," I stammer, pointing at the pile on the floor.
"For future reference, hallway closet," he says sternly. "Right now, you shower."
I hurry to cross the room, thinking to lock myself and my embarrassment behind a closed door. Lord Fyre has other ideas and follows me into the bathroom. Taking me by the elbow, he helps me step into the shower. He'd left the water running and the temperature, though a little warm for my taste, is nice hitting my body. I reach for a bar of soap.
"No. I'll bathe you."
I freeze, my hand still outstretched to reach the bar of soap. Had I thought he was there to just watch?
I don't know, but the thought of him bathing me teeters me on the edge of freaking out.
"I can..." I start to tell him I can do it myself, but am silenced by a small sea sponge shoved between my open lips. I know better than to spit it out.
He rubs the small bar between his hands, creating lather, releasing the heavy fragrance I don't recognize. It is exotic. The bath he gives me is erotic, rubbing my arms, my breasts, circling my small breasts and pinching the nipples into tight buds. "I like your breasts."
I grunt, hoping my disagreement comes through. Why do men keep telling me they like my breasts---first Garrett, now Lord Fyre. I know my breasts haven't grown any, and they are almost non-breasts, they are so small. Lion always made fun of my breasts; even my father argued that it was a waste of money for bras. It wasn't as if anyone would notice one way or another, after all.
His soapy hands travel lower, rubbing, sliding, fitting between my legs, one hand in front, one hand behind, washing, massaging everything between them, but he doesn't linger, at least not long enough for me to really enjoy myself, just enough to tease, moving on to lather my thighs, my calves, my feet, even between my toes.
Standing, he pulls the sponge from between my lips. I look up at him and am astonished again by the raw, intense beauty of this man. His long damp hair clings against his solid-muscled shoulders and I force myself not to reach a hand up to brush a stray, damp lock of hair from his cheek. I don't understand myself. I was mad at him for making me suck him but I wanted to do so. I wanted to taste him. I enjoyed tasting him. And now...I want to touch him again and I'm not so mad anymore.
"How are you feeling?"
"Fine?" I squeak, sounding like I'm asking him if I really am.
"You were crying while I was in the shower," he accuses.
"How did you know?" I bite my bottom lip.
"Are you all right now?" he asks, not answering my question. "Are you ready to continue?"
"Continue?" My voice makes me sound more confused than I am. I know what he means, am I ready for him to Master me and the answer is, I really don't know. I thought I could do this, I really did. Well, maybe I had doubts, but they were physical doubts. Could I withstand the pain? Not, could I survive the man?
Holding him in my hand, pumping him, making him come, made him seem so much more human. Not so God-like. I don't know what I was thinking, but his emotions never came into the picture. I worried about hurting Garrett's feelings, but the raw emotion I just saw...can I survive if he ever reveals that part of himself?
"Sophia?"
I look at him, water sluicing over his shoulders, making him seem once again stone, God-like, all Master. No, I'm not ready to continue. I need a time out. I need time to think. I want you to call me Kitten so that I won't forget who I really belong to. Calling me Sophia has given you an unfair advantage over my heart and that isn't playing fair. That isn't playing fair at all.
"Yes, Lord Fyre, I'm ready to continue."
"Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows."
-William Shakespeare, Strange Bedfellows
Garrett
I lie in bed, naked, alone, very hung over and, because of my ringing cell phone and a nonstop banging at my front door, awake. I do not answer the phone. I do not answer the door. I do, however, manage to climb out of bed and throw open the heavy foam-backed drapes that trick me into thinking it is the dead of night. From my perch high above San Francisco, it is not at once obvious that it is a big-time party day in the hood---but yes, it is the last Sunday of September, the sun is shining and, even as I rub the sleep out of my eyes, vanilla tourists are arriving in droves to join the downtown leather party.
Really, I suppose there are worse things than waking up to four-hundred-thousand people in your backyard, but at the moment I can't thing of any and the last thing I want to do is face the day. Folsom Street Fair is a party and I am in no mood to laugh, play, or check out the local and tourist eye-candy, though there promises to be eye-candy in mass quantity dressed in leather, chains, and brightly colored outrageous costumes. My heart just isn't up to it. I miss Kitten. I hadn't really thought what it would be like to share Folsom with her, but then I remembered how much fun I'd had with Tony our last Fair together and it dawned on me fast and cold that I didn't have anyone to share the fun with...pounding at the door, screaming through the walls at me friends aside.
For a moment, I wonder where Enrique is and then belatedly realize that, in my drunken stupor, I gave him permission to do Folsom with his boyfriend-of-the-week. My cell phone clangs again and I wonder why on earth I thought I needed to switch it from vibrate for the alarm to wake me. I ignore the ringing phone, ignore the pounding at my door, and head for the shower, making a list in my head of everything that needs doing this morning that didn't get done last night to ready the Lewd Larry's Fetish Fantasy booth for the Folsom Street Fair throng.
It is an annual big deal that we wait all year for and then can't wait to be over so that we can have our privacy back...or maybe it's just me.
With the streets roped off, our booth will be one of many lining the roads---ours offering Lewd Larry's merchandise, Tshirts, coffee cups, shot glasses, postcards, even members-only membership packages. Of course, we will have gilded cages flanking our booth and a nice whipping post for those who wish to be flogged. The majority of the booths will offer kinky toys, kinky food, and everything else the alternative lifestyle community can showcase. Brochures will be handed out by gay-friendly churches and stages will offer music, comic relief, and entertainment found few other places on the globe.
Last night, already drunk, I promised I'd go. The company booth would be run by paid employees. I would enjoy the day as part of Jackie's entourage. God, I regret last night.
My shower muffles the noise, an escape from phone and door until my bathroom door is flung open. The closed glass door of my stall reveals Jackie, looking very smug.
"How in the hell did you get in here?"
"I told Gerard I was worried. He agreed you've been very distant, very depressed. Together we summarized you may have done something tragic."
"He let you in?" I turn off the shower and grab a towel.
"You are a very rude man but I love you anyway." Jackie bats her two-inch-long rainbow eyelashes at me. Her face is painted in a psychedelic wave. Bernard is her twin, though shorter, the top of his painted bald head even with her shoulders. "I'm glad you're still naked. I brought clothes."
With a wave of her hand, she calls Bernard forward. He lifts the costume. I tilt my head and frown. "Where's the rest?"
"You are going to look fabulous!"
"I am going to look ridiculous."
She hands me the leather jockstrap, black lace-up boots, and leather biker cap.
"Chaps?" I ask, hopeful, as I step from the shower.
"You did that last year." She pushes two leather armbands high on my biceps. "This year is your year to be seen...buff, awesome tan," She glides her hand down my still damp abs then jerks the towel from my waist with a flourish. "God, you are a walking wet dream."
Bernard leers.
"Out!" I push them both from the bathroom, close the door, and pull on my clothes, if you can call my jockstrap clothing. I'm not a prude, but I like my privacy. Clothing is a good thing and my usual attire even at the club is a T-shirt and leather pants, poet's shirt and leather pants, or my standard tux. It's not that I'm selfconscious of my body, I know my body is good even by San Francisco standards, which is above the national norm, but the problem is others noticing how good my body is. Which is to say, the average local leather-man checking me out is okay, the tourist who is someone's housewife in Idaho wanting her picture taken with me, not okay.
I step from the bathroom and grab a studded leather chest harness from a hook inside the closet as an afterthought and pull it across my chest so that it crisscrosses between my pecs as I walk down the hallway. I know it's a good effect when Jackie is turned speechless and Bernard's mouth drops.
I guess I'm ready for the fair.
We arrive early enough to check my booth, make some last-minute decisions and cage up the boys and girls who want to be the gilded attractions for the day. Nude and painted gold, they are spectacular. By the time I'm ready to walk away, assured the booth will survive without me, the streets are filling quickly. The people buzz around us. It is so far a perfect mix of scantily clad leather-folk, strutting bare chests, pierced nipples, bare asses clad in chaps, and fetishists, no doubt hot and sweaty beneath their spandex, but smiling happily, and thousands of others who just fall under the category of beautiful. Couples stand out to me, whether male/male, female/female, or female/male. I sigh, longing for Kitten.
At one of the corner booths, I spot Frankie Perez, a friend who owns one of the leather bars south of Market. Walking over for a quick hello, I am surprised when he spins me around to check me out. "Well, hel-l-o, Garrett Lawrence. Look at you."
I blush and smile wide. "I know, I'm naked. I've never worn so few clothes in front of so many people."
"Do so often from now on---please."
Frankie is my height and not a bad-looking man himself, although in one word, rugged would do it. Clad in tight jeans and leather chaps, three-day growth on his cheeks and slicked back blue-black hair, he is slightly irresistible, even though I'd never really looked at him as partner material.
What is wrong with me that every guy and girl within ten feet is suddenly turning my head? I wish Celia was here to take my mind off the man standing in front of me and my raging hard cock.
"So Garrett, are you in a mood to flog or be flogged today?"
Glancing at his hand, I see him playing with the thongs of a suede flogger hung from his belt. He looks down at the solid line beneath my jock strap and chuckles. When our eyes meet, we both share that yeah we should moment, but my thoughts go straight to the gutter, not an in-broad-daylight glimmer of what I'd like to have happen.
"Gaa-rrrrrr-ett! O-v-ver he-re!"
I turn to see Jackie, waving at me and holding tight to Bernard's leash.
I smile and wave, almost disappointed that I have an out if I want one. I turn back to Frankie. "Another time."
"I'll be looking forward to it."
Walking away, I wink.
"Just what was that?" Jackie demands.
"Look, you can't dress me up for the whole world to notice and then get mad when someone notices."
"He has a point, Jacksy," Bernard coos.
I cringe at the pet name and laugh my ass off when she smacks the back of his head and tugs his leash hard to follow her. Huffing, she commands me to, "Stay close."
I leave Jackie pouting at the Fair, but she has more than enough friends to keep her company, a major concert post-Fair she plans to attend and her annual post-Fair play party to host, beginning at her house around midnight or right after the concert. I assured her she wasn't going to have time to miss me. The club is empty now. It's early, too early for guests, and we expect a light crowd, at least until the Fair closes for the night. By midnight, we'll be packed. I want to be ready for it.
Walking through the labyrinth of hallways, crossing dance floors, checking playrooms for needed repairs or dwindled stock, I go through the motions, detached. I love this place, my creation, mine and Tony's, but with Tony gone I've overcompensated lack of love with my passion for Lewd Larry's, creating more than we'd ever thought it could be. Only having met Kitten did I realize what I'd missed out on these last few years. Only since meeting her has there been a moment that I felt complete and now...she is gone. I close my eyes with a heavy sigh and lean my back into the dividing wall between the main dance floor and the hallway leading from the playrooms.
I'm not a jealous man, I never have been, but knowing that she is with him...I can't stop thinking about her. After weeks of trying to forget her and almost succeeding, now, I want only to remember. I think about her constantly, her smile, too sad and too rare, her laugh, sarcastic and raw, and her eyes. If eyes are a window to the soul then hers lies in the great gateway between heaven and hell. I have never seen one more tortured.
I think about the times I bound her, I think about the time she spent in isolation, and during those times, her eyes changed. It was as if a great burden was lifted from her. Her soul was made free to soar and her eyes reflected true joy. Bliss.
I imagine Lord Fyre seeing that in her soul and know what he will do with it. He won't go beyond the constraints of sanity but he will take her to the edge at every opportunity and, bringing her darkness, he will set her free. I'm not a jealous man, but I'm sad. More sad than I have a right to be. I sent her away. When she needed me, I turned my back on her. Truly, do I deserve the second chance I crave?
I don't. Especially considering the lust I felt today at the Fair. My God, so many beautiful men...and women. What started during my conversation with Frankie as a spark of lust flared all day, becoming frustrated lust. God, I'm horny.
"You're early."
"Shit!" I jump, startled by George Fitzpatrick's silent entry. He chuckles, knowing he scared me. "I thought I was alone."
"Obviously. That was some deep thought you wrapped yourself around."
"Yes, I suppose." I look at his face and find him studying me. The building is lit only by the filtered light coming from the second-story windows, giving the building a bluish cast, like dusk, or early dawn, though I know the sun outside shines high and bright. "So, what are you doing here so early?"
"Meeting someone in a bit. Complicated interrogation scene request and I wanted to make sure I have everything ready. You know me, neurotic, I don't like surprises."
"A regular?" I stand in the middle of the hallway, blocking his path, wanting him to stay and chat, though I haven't wanted to make small talk with George for years. Today he's a welcome distraction.
He nods but then his brow creases, showing he's thinking too much now, working out the puzzle of me.
"I'm fine," I assure him.
"I didn't ask."
I turn to walk away, agitated, wondering why the hell I'm not having sex. I should be having lots of sex. I imagine Celia is all but frustrated.
"Her heart is given him, with all its love and truth. She would joyfully die with him, or, better than that, die for him...for the want of something to trust in..."
-Charles Dickens, Our Mutual Friend
Kitten
He said only that he wants today to be special. Special? Alarm bells go off in my head. I am beginning to completely understand the mind of a sadist now that I've lived with Lord Fyre for two months. Special equals I am not going to enjoy this but he is going to have a fucking really good time and somewhere along the line, he is going to convince me that I am having a fucking good time too.
He leads me to the beach---I am naked, he is dressed in jeans. I follow him down three flights of stairs from the balcony off the living room, very conscious of just how naked I am. The wind is blowing very hard and I feel like I'm fighting my way through the force of it. The sky is dark, the ocean grey and frothy. I do not want to be outside with a storm brewing. Lord Fyre knows how much I hate storms and, because we are now outside, a storm on its way inland, and him looking forward to making today special, I know that this is trouble waiting to happen---and still, I haven't learned my lesson. I'm still playing with sadists.
On the beach, I wonder how fast I could run for it if the storm hit fast and hard, adding three full flights of wooden staircase to get there. I look up to see his house. It is perched on a cliff and magnificent to look at from the beach. I can see the other balconies, the one off the master bedroom, seeming to hang midair over huge rocks. The ocean spray there is magnificent and I promise myself to remember to ask him to let me see the view from his bedroom balcony, because for now, he commanded me to be silent.
He leads me onto the large rocks. I shriek a little, ocean spray threatening me, the surface of the rocks slippery beneath my bare feet. He holds my hand and helps me to lie down on a large grey boulder. Pulling a digital camera from his jacket pocket, he aims and shoots, directing me in poses that make me blush.
Tucking the camera into a pocket, he pulls a large coil of rope from his backpack. I eye the rope with trepidation as he approaches. A soft roll of thunder makes me forget the rope.
"Easy, sweetheart," he commands, rolling me onto my stomach. He starts looping the rope around my wrists, behind my back, my arms bent. I am not happy about this, not happy at all, especially when I hear the rolling thunder louder, closer. Without thinking, I struggle, fighting harder until I can't breathe, realizing only when the red haze clears my vision that he is lying on top of me, pinning me in a painful hold that takes my breath and makes my brain acknowledge that he is bigger, stronger, faster.
My heart pounds so hard it seems like it is trying to escape my chest.
He smoothes his hand down my arm, soft strokes that pull moans from my throat. Every caress, every whisper seems amplified in sensual echoes that course through my bound body. I am ashamed that I want him so desperately. I do want him. My body needs him, throbbing awakened parts of me that I never realized could ache with need before cry out for his touch, my bared shoulder, the length of my spine...innocent glances of flesh touching flesh course through me to make me writhe in painful pleasure.
"Better?" he asks, kissing my temple, releasing the hold he has on me only enough for me to acknowledge with a nod that we can continue. He loops rope around my chest, above and below my breasts, winding also around the outside of my upper arms, pulling snug, then snugger. Something inside my brain snaps a little and I feel the panic coming back. My heart pumps high in my throat and I want to scream, but I don't. I squirm on my stomach, ridiculously testing the bonds as he loops rope around my waist and hips, knotting and twisting and wrapping as he descends my body, encasing my legs in a rope net. "Hold still."
"I can't." I say, shaking, breaking my silence, trying to not freak out. "The storm."
"Stop worrying," he commands, pulling his camera from his jacket pocket. "I'm here with you. Nothing is going to hurt you. Trust me."
I shake my head, unable to quit worrying, and he takes three quick shots before depositing the camera back into his pocket. Kneeling, he pulls the length of rope between my legs and starts weaving the pattern around my middle. "God, stop worrying. I'm not feeding you to the sharks! It's called Shibari. Haven't you ever heard of it?"
I nod, yes, of course, anyone who had hung out as long as I had at Inappropriate Voices, the underground alternative lifestyle newspaper I used to work for, would have heard of it.
"Then you know it's Japanese erotic bondage. Have you ever experienced it?"
"Heard of it, haven't done it," I reply shortly, turning my head to stare at the sky.
"Nice," he leers, kissing my temple. "Your first time and I get to be the one to tie you up."
The first real crack of thunder sounds in the distance. I panic, trying to sit up, succeeding only in flopping around like a fish out of water.
"Please, please, take me inside," I beg. "After the storm..."
He presses a finger to my lips. "It isn't going to happen. You and I are going to face this storm together, right here on this rock."
"No, no, no!" I cry out. "Take me inside!"
He pushes a bit of bamboo between my teeth, securing it to my face with rope. He takes another picture, a close-up of my face. "I promise to keep you safe."
I shake, I cry, I roll around on the top of that rock as well as I can, tied front and back, but it doesn't make him release me. Pulling the camera from his pocket, he shoots and shoots, thunder rolls, lightning strikes. He is lucky, not a single drop of rain to ruin his camera. I wish it would pour. Maybe then he would stop photographing me and take me inside.
Rumble.
The thunder rolls, loud and seemingly directly over head just before the sky seems to open, dropping buckets of rain. I receive my wish for pouring rain, but still he doesn't take me inside. He aims and shoots, even when my hair is plastered to my face, cold water dripping off my face faster than it rains, pounding rain hitting my body.
Rumble, rumble.
I hate the rain, I hate the thunder, and I hate the lightning. He knows these things and yet he keeps shooting. I close my eyes, crying in earnest, afraid. Shaking so hard the rope bites into my arms and legs. Hyperventilating.
It is only when I start screaming that he puts the camera away and sits beside me on the big rock. He holds me, wiping my wet, dripping hair out of my eyes. His own wet hair blows into my face. With each strike of lightning, I scream against the bamboo in my mouth, his holding me not making a difference.
He pets me, strokes me, and speaks softly to me. I can barely hear him over the thunder. "It's beautiful," he says. "Look at the next strike, feel the energy of that strike."
I look, a jagged streak piercing the black sky. I flinch in his arms and close my eyes against the brilliant flash of light.
"Beautiful," he says, lowering his face to mine, kissing me above the rope that holds the bamboo in my mouth. "You are beautiful, Sophia, more beautiful than the sky. When I pull the pictures up on the computer, you will see that I do not lie."
He kisses me again, turning my face to him. "Open your eyes, sweetheart. See me here with you." I open my eyes for him and he captures my gaze, his look so intense, so passionate, that I can't look away. I don't squint my eyes closed on the next strike of lightning, seeing only a flash of brightness across his features. "You are so beautiful. Thank you for trusting me."
Holding my gaze, he kisses my forehead, my wet nose and in the midst of his kisses, locked in his gaze, I forget the storm, forget my fear.
Rumble.
He begins to untie the rope pattern, releasing first my mouth from the bamboo bondage, replacing the exotic wood with his mouth, kissing me hard, harder, like a man possessed. I kiss him back with equal fervor, enjoying his mouth, his tongue. His hands follow the rope, releasing my legs, my body, my arms. Free, my arms go around his neck, I want to hug him and kiss him, but he stops me, pulling me into his lap so that my back is against his chest. In silence, he holds me on the rock, rain pouring over us, pointing at each lightning strike, kissing me on the temple, and the silence between us is good. With each strike of lightning, I feel the tightness of his arms holding me. With each strike, I know I am safe with this man.
"...I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul...all a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down, but I wish you to know that you inspired it."
-Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
Thomas
She is beautiful when she's sleeping. During the ten weeks she's been mine, it seems I spend a lot of time watching her sleep, not because she sleeps excessively, but because I can't sleep. I don't want to sleep---I want to watch over her, memorizing how her eyelashes flutter in dream, how her lips part in sigh. When I stroke her skin, she rolls into me, seeking me, my touch. Even in sleep, I can draw her to me.
The right thing to do would be to go to Garrett now, with the truth, the whole truth. If I only knew what that truth was. I only know that one of us is going to get hurt, him, her, me.
"I love her," he said, when we met at her house, waiting for her to come home from the hospital. We stood outside the kitchen on the back porch, a warm summer day, the sound of lawn mowers and children playing floating over the back privacy fence with the breeze.
I'd answered nonchalantly, "It's obvious."
There was a painful moment of silence while we both stared at the overgrown backyard, grass high, flowerbeds weedy from lack of attention. He broke the silence, admitting, "She's fascinated by you...and you're fascinated by her."
"Yes. There seems to be a chemistry that draws us to each other."
"That's what worries me."
"Don't worry, it's going to be fine," I'd promised him and it should have been fine. I never expected to fall under her spell. I never expected to feel anything other than what I've ever felt, which is as close to feeling nothing as possible and still be considered human, and there are days I am not human.
I shouldn't have assumed that anything normal could come of my Mastering her; after all, she made Garrett fall in love with her when we had all come to believe that Garrett would never love again. He loves her and she loves him. Knowing that should make a difference. It doesn't. I have fallen in love with her and Garrett needs to know that. If I were an honorable man, I'd tell him, before one of us gets hurt. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day. Or, I could wait until this wears off. Why cause a problem if there is no problem?
Soon, she will return to him and all will be right with the world again.
I stroke her cheek and she opens her eyes. "Lord Fyre?"
"Do you want to play, sweetheart?"
She smiles, sweetly, naughtily, the corners of her mouth barely curving. God, she is so sexy when she smiles at me like that, it touches something in my core. Smiling and stretching, making still sleepy sounds that wrap around me, making me want her desperately. Nodding, she says, "Let the games begin."
I smile at her, laughing lightly at her pure, innocent enthusiasm. Her smile brightens, though if she knew what I had planned for her she might not be smiling at all. She might be terrified. But she isn't terrified, she trusts me, and it is her total trust that has lured me in. I'm in love with her. Lightly, I ask, "Can you swim?"
My friend Bob, from my soccer team not the SM world I mostly travel, is a deep-sea fisherman by trade and, as such, owns a fairly large vessel. When I am possessed by the need for high sea and adventure, he can usually come through for me with ready, willing and able transportation. Today, I needed a few extras, and in true Bob fashion, he came through for me.
Kitten caged is a beautiful sight.
Cuffed and shackled to the inside of a shark cage, she eyes me warily. I am in a wet suit, she is naked. The water is going to be cold. That I plan for us to go into the water didn't cause her much alarm. That I am suited up with an oxygen tank and she is not has her slightly nervous. Okay, she's scared shitless. I can see it in her eyes, even through the mask I put over her eyes so that she will be able to see clearly under water. She handles scared shitless very well---just one of the many things I love about her.
"Ready?" Bob asks, a note of unease in his own voice. The only point in my favor is that when I drag him out on these excursions I pay him very well for his time and I haven't killed anyone. Scared us, me included, a few times, but nothing we haven't lived to laugh about.
With my nod, he hits the controlling switch that will swing her cage out over the side of the boat. It is only when she hangs suspended above the ocean, her feet getting wet, that she cries out, "Lord Fyre!"
I smile and wink, Bob drops the cage with a splash and we watch as it slowly settles into the waves, she only waist deep.
"You asked me if I could swim," she tries to joke, twisting her wrists in her shackles, trying to get free. "I want to remind you, Lord Fyre, that I can't breathe underwater."
"Trust me," I call out to her. "It's all I ask."
The cage continues to sink, leaving her chin deep. "Oh shit," she says, still trying to tug free.
"Inhale, Sophia!" I command, screaming over the noise of the boat just before she goes under.
Bob glances at his watch nervously. "What was the plan from here?"
I pat his back. "I'm not going to let her drown, brother. You take care of the fresh meat. I'll take care of the girl."
Adjusting my tanks and regulator, I prepare to enter the water. Watching him pull fresh, bloody meat from a sack, I drop into the ocean, taking only a second underwater to get my bearings on the cage. It has been less than two minutes---she isn't struggling in the water. She hangs suspended, eyes closed. For a second I am nervous, my own breath catching. Wrapping my hands around the metal bars, I enter the opening in the top of the cage quickly, joining her inside the cage. It is only when I touch her that she opens her eyes. Her lips curl up in that naughty smile that could bring me to my knees in worship if I would let myself. I take the mouthpiece from my lips and press it to hers, helping her to get it just right. She inhales. I kiss her on the cheek, running my hands over her stretched body, feeling her ribcage expand with air. I caress her softly and she shivers in my embrace.
Holding my own breath, I rummage inside my waist pouch for the weighted nipple clamps I brought along for our underwater scene. As I attach them, her eyes grow wide. It is only when our cage is bumped that I realize it is not the pain of the clamps causing her anxiety but a shark. Moving behind her, I wrap my arms around her waist, holding her, absorbing her trembles as the shark pounds into our cage a second time.
I play with her beasts, teasing her nipples, pulling on the clamps while together we watch the shark's graceful path. Her head falls back against my shoulder, relaxing. Trusting me. It feels as if we spend a long time like that, me passing the breathing regulator between us, enjoying the peacefulness of the world underwater, though really very little time passes.
Even the shark seems peaceful, swimming in a path in front of us, back and forth, back and forth. In a strange way, even with the freedom of the entire ocean, it seems he paces before us, waiting. I realize the woman in my arms is also waiting for the what next, though she hides it in false indifference. I feel the truth of her nervousness in the pounding of her heart. I think the shark too feels her fear.
Together we wait for the climactic what's next.
Fresh meat falls near the shark. With a high-powered kick of his tail, he makes a grab for the meat, smacking the cage hard with his body. The cage shakes us. This close, his teeth glisten menacingly. Several sharks join him and suddenly Kitten and I are surrounded by grey ghosts that bob and weave through the water, their singularity of purpose evident. Their struggle for possession of the meat fierce. Kitten shakes hard in my arms.
I love her fear, soaking it in as it rolls off her in waves.
Kissing the back of her neck, I lick and stroke her with my tongue before sinking my teeth in softly. She jumps in her bonds, feeling my teeth. Keeping my eyes on the sharks, I kiss and nip her neck and shoulders, causing her to be jumpy in her restraints. I tug her nipple clamps, wanting her to feel the quick jolts of pain from my bites and the weighted clamps while she watches the sharks fight.
Two sharks collide with our cage and she struggles in her bonds, breathing harder.
Taking the regulator, I force her to hold her breath. She struggles hard, her fear making her panic, even though I am still near. Her eyes are wild, the sharks very close. The next drop of meat hits the side of the cage, snagging on the cage and we are shaken hard in our confinement as the sharks battle it out for the large piece of meat.
My heart pounds with pure excitement. I know she must be going out of her mind. I quickly inhale, exhale, then inhale again slowly and evenly, filling my lungs with enough air to hold my breath again before passing the mouthpiece back to her. I want her to enjoy this moment. There is nothing like pure terror to increase sexual response and I want her to know that feeling. Sinking to my knees and then swimming between her legs, I take her clit into my mouth, rolling my tongue over her while the sharks battle over the meat. A feeding frenzy ensues.
Reaching for the nipple clamps, I tug the weights, making her dance in her cuffs.
Bondage underwater is so much different from bondage above water; weightless, the tension normally placed on muscles and tendons disappears. Likewise, underwater orgasm is mind-blowing. Muscles contract and it is an almost painful experience, like an underwater muscle cramp, everything just feels more intense, harder.
When her body flexes and folds in on her, I realize an orgasmic wave is crashing through her. My lungs scream, wanting air, and seemingly in answer the regulator floats down to me. Sophia spat it from her mouth, either mid-orgasm or on purpose, I will not know until I can ask her above the water. Releasing her clit, I shove the regulator in my mouth and breathe, but not wanting her orgasm to stop, I pump her hard with my fingers, the muscles of her vagina wrapping around me harder than when on dry land, her terror making everything more intense.
On the deck of the boat, I hold her in my lap, toweling her dry. She shakes, her knees bouncing uncontrollably, but it is a good shaking, not shock, but pure adrenaline, her body having pumped more into her system than it can utilize.
"I'm sorry," she keeps saying. "I'm not scared, I don't know why I keep shaking."
"You're fine, sweetheart," I assure her. "You were beautiful underwater."
"Thank you."
"Thank you?"
"I would have never agreed to that, if it had been a choice. Now, I know just how deep my darkness runs. I mean, I never thought for a moment that you would let me die...not on purpose---if something went wrong, you would do your best to get me out of the water alive; but knowing that, doesn't mean that there wasn't primal terror...and facing that...wow." She pauses, mouth open to say more, but then she chokes on the emotion she's been trying to hold back, big, wet tears falling over her cheeks and spattering on my chest.
My heart swells in my chest, knowing exactly what she is trying to say and I am suddenly faced with my missing half, the one I feel complete with.
"Thank you, Sophia." I pull her in close, kissing her cold, damp shoulder. She smells of the ocean. If I close my eyes, I could pretend I was back in Greece. I'd like to take Kitten there. The thought comes out of nowhere. I want to take her to Greece.
I don't share my homeland with my women, not even Latisha has been to Greece and we've been together for five years. She knows the man I am here in the United States; she knows I have a past I keep hidden, my true darkness. I also keep from her the lightness, the part of me that I only set free when I am home. Only one woman have I ever taken to Greece to see my homeland---her name was Eva. With her, I shared the dark and the light, but not the truth. I think of her often still, but she is lost to my past.
Kitten has no place in my future. The thought rips through my middle, unwanted. I am not one to dwell on past or future and to have such a thought bothers me. What is happening to me that I am no longer in control of my thoughts?
The boat's crew mills around us, completing their tasks, but Kitten is oblivious to them, having eyes only for me. Her level of passion and trust is incredible. She is totally unconscious of her nudity, as she spreads out two oversized beach towels on the deck. I lie down on one. Reaching for her, I pull her down next to me so that she can relax in the warmth of the blazing sun with me. It is a hot day and, stripped to my swimsuit, the sun feels good on my skin.
"This is nice, Sophia." I stretch out, letting the sun hit as much exposed skin as possible. She cuddles in close, wrapping her naked body around me. Her skin is still cool from being in the water. I pull her closer, her damp hair fitting into the curve of my shoulder as she wraps her body around me. I kiss her again, inhaling her warmth, her fragrance, whispering, "I love you."
"Hmmm?" she says, pushing against me to be nearer.
"Nothing." I clear my throat, hiding emotion I never expected to feel in a soft cough. "I was just telling you how proud I am of you."
"Make the most of your regrets; never smother your sorrow, but tend and cherish it till it comes to have a separate and integral interest. To regret deeply is to live afresh."
-Henry David Thoreau
Thomas
A distant ringing wakes me and, for a moment, I am disoriented, not realizing it is the phone. Then I realize that it is midnight, we have been asleep less than an hour, and the phone is ringing. The ring doesn't stop, no voice mail pickup. It is the land line. No one has the beach house number.
I roll onto my side, ignoring the phone, assuming a wrong number will give up and hang up on their own. The ringing stops only to restart again. No one has the beach house number, except Aman.
Heart pounding, I race through the dark house to the wall-mounted kitchen receiver. "Hello?"
My answer is met with very quick Arabic, my brain translates Arabic reasonably well when I'm fully awake and the speaker talks in a rational fashion. My caller is frantic, the main context of the conversation being his fear that I am going to kill him.
"Aman!" I shout, to be heard over his babbling. Aman is my man in Cairo, my eyes and ears while Latisha and the children are away. Technically, he is the gardener slash pool-boy at her father's villa in town. "In English and slow down."
"So sorry, sir, your wife and children left. I begged them not to go but they went."
"Are they on a plane to Paris?" I demand.
"No, Sir. Sudan, Sir. Please don't kill me! I am just a lowly gardener, as insignificant as a slug, no lower, an earthworm..."
I hang up on him, knowing his excuses could go on for another hour. Closing my eyes, I press my forehead to the cool kitchen wall. "God damn, Latisha. What are you thinking?" I expected her to want to stay in Egypt as long as she could, visiting with her father, before traveling back to his country estate in France. I understood her reasons for wanting to raise our children away from the US, I wasn't thrilled with France as her first choice, but then, what did I expect? I never expected to keep her as long as I did.
Here, everyone believes she is my wife and once the children started arriving, I suggested we marry for real, but she wouldn't hear of it, wanting only her independence. Her mother died young, her father, a very wealthy antiquities dealer, both legal and illegal antiquities, raised her in boarding schools. She considers it normal to raise your children away from home.
I don't consider it normal, my opinion falling under the same thoughts I have about nannies. She wants one, I don't. I could say we don't see eye to eye on a lot of things, but that would be the understatement of the century. We expected Nikkos, our now ten-month-old to be the last baby, but when she went in for the appointment to have a tubal ligation performed, she was already pregnant, again. She wanted to abort. It wasn't a pretty argument and it lasted for days. I don't believe in accidents and I don't believe in abortion.
"You've killed before, Thomas!" she'd screamed and the sound coming form her throat was barely human, so much did she want to abort. Three children had already cost her so much in terms of personal freedom.
"Yes, I've killed..." I admitted, hell, she'd seen me kill, so up close and personal that we were both covered in blood spray as we barely escaped with our lives the last time I was in Egypt. I couldn't deny the truth even though she couldn't comprehend half of what I've done in my past. "...but comparing what I have done in my past to aborting an unborn child is low even for you." I was in her face, seething, her hair wrapped in my hand and her neck jerked back as far as it could go without causing her very real damage. She'd pushed me too far and realized it. Whatever she saw in my eyes that day made her back down, no abortion, but I couldn't keep her from running home to Daddy, the same man she originally helped me escape from in return for taking her with me.
What a tangled web. Now she has returned to him. Oh, sure, they've reconciled. Yes, he's thrilled to have grandchildren. However, he still wants their father's head on a pike. So, to return to Egypt is suicidal and still, I make plans to go back. I really do have a death wish. When I read her note, saying she'd gone to Cairo, I was pissed because the instability of the entire region scares me; especially when I considered all that could go wrong for a woman traveling alone with three small children. But I didn't chase her down. I let her go, giving her time to cool down and think. Now, she's crossed the line. I must go.
Recovering, I call Delta, securing flights to LAX and CAI quickly and easily. It's amazing how helpful airlines are when you use American Express Black and insist on first-class. Flights arranged, I speed dial Garrett's cell phone, planning to leave a message, and am surprised when he answers on the first ring. The volume level of the club in high gear drowns out what I assume is his hello. He must be in one of the lower public levels.
"Garrett, Thomas. Go somewhere quiet so you can hear me," I command, not wanting to have to shout what I need to say more than once.
A moment later there is silence, so silent, for a moment I believe I have lost our connection, and then I hear his voice. "What is it, what's wrong?"
"Where are you?" I ask, curious.
"Playroom two. I was standing outside its door when you rang. Now, what's happened?"
"I'm leaving for Cairo---in five hours. I know that this is unexpected, but can you come and get Kitten? Not now, not yet, but in the morning. She doesn't know yet, I need time to break the news to her. I'm giving her back to you." I leave so much unsaid, speaking fast, almost as fast as Aman when he called to beg for his life. I hope Garrett heard what I left unsaid. This isn't because I want to give her back. I don't want to give her back. I'm in love with her.
There is a moment of silence before he asks, "Is Lattie okay?"
"I'll call you when I know something," I promise, then I hang up, seeing her shadow against the wall, actually only a slight shift in shadows but I know it was her. Then the shadow is gone. I'm not sure how much of the phone conversations she heard, but as soon as I walk through the bedroom door, I know she heard all, or most of what was said. Her face is crumbled, devastated. I kneel beside the bed, taking her hand in mine. She looks into my face, questioning.
"Garrett is coming for me?"
"Yes, in a few hours. It will be early, before daylight. I'm needed in Cairo."
"Your wife?"
"Yes."
Kitten doesn't ask for details, she chews her bottom lip nervously, looking at the bedspread. I capture her hand, stopping her from pulling a broken thread. Her eyes lift, catching my gaze. I can't look away, maybe she can't look away either, I don't know. I only know that when her eyes pool with tears something inside me rips, something inside me that I thought no longer existed.
"Don't cry," I whisper, catching the first tear that falls with my thumb. Holding her gaze, I lift it to my mouth and lick its saltiness away with my tongue. Another tear falls and I catch it sliding down her cheek with my mouth, whispering, "Please don't cry. I won't be able to leave you if you cry, I'll have to sneak you onto a plane with me and smuggle you into Cairo. Trust me, you don't want to go with me to Cairo." I leave out the part that I am not welcome in Cairo and that this is going to be a very dangerous trip for me, instead saying, "I want tonight to be special."
Our faces are close, cheek to cheek, but our eyes meet. I feel her breath catch as she holds her breath, waiting expectantly, her lips parting with anticipation. I notice each subtlety as a major moment, capturing it all on the film reel of my mind, wanting to hold each nuance as a memory for the rest of my life. I catch her lips with mine, kissing her, knowing I shouldn't be kissing her...not like this---tenderly, lovingly, letting my soul mingle with hers in the wetness of our mingled saliva. I kiss her until my heart rips in two and the pain of continuing to kiss her would be greater than the pain of stopping the kiss.
When did I fall in love with her?
It isn't even really a question. I've been in love with her since the moment I first saw her---onstage, with Garrett. I didn't bid on her that night. I saw no reason to. At Lewd's, today's property becomes tomorrow's throwaway and I knew I only needed to wait.
Tomorrow's throwaway. Yes, tomorrow I give her back to Garrett, but Kitten is no throwaway.
"Tonight, I'm going to hurt you. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Yes, I understand. I like it when you hurt me."
I smile at her honesty. "I have left you marked before, but tonight, I want you to understand before you agree, I am going to hurt you worse than I have ever hurt you. I am going to leave you marked and the marks are going to take a long time to fade. I am going to return you to Garrett marked and used, so that there is no doubt in his mind how sorely I abused you. Do you understand why?"
She shakes her head no, saying, "It is your right to do so."
"Yes, it is, but what I am doing is marking you as mine."
Her eyes narrow, my words curling through her mind. Concluding my meaning, she gasps, "You want him to refuse me?"
"No, he won't refuse you, but he'll receive the very important message that I'm sending him. I'm returning you to him because I'm honorable, because I said I would, but by the marks I leave on you, he will know I loved you and that while you were mine, you were mine completely---and if for any reason you are no longer his in the future, you will be mine again. Do you understand?"
She sniffles, nodding, thinking she understands but I wonder if she truly does.
"You are mine." I kiss her on the cheek tenderly then stand, pulling her up with me. "I want you to go out onto the balcony and wait for me."
Questions run through her eyes but she remains silent, turning to obey me. I watch her pad across the carpeted floor barefoot, her bright red toenail polish stark blazes of color against her pale skin and the beige carpet. She pulls open the French doors, leaving them open, their sheer white window gauze catching and fluttering in the damp ocean-scented breeze. She goes to the rail and holds onto it, waiting for me to join her without looking back to see if I am coming.
It is pitch black on the balcony, the sky and sea barely distinguishable except for where the waves break and white foam is created. The balcony is private, screened from three sides and the ocean beyond, allowing for no voyeurs.
Crossing the room, I open the doors to my toy armoire, choosing carefully from my favorites, a large wide paddle, a thin-tailed riding crop, a birch cane, and a soft suede flogger. Fur-lined hand restraints and a fur-lined collar and chain join the collection. Finally, I choose a jeweled butt plug and a handheld vibrator. I will hurt her, I will leave her marked, but her memories will be of the pleasure.
Joining her on the balcony, I place the items I will be using on a small table. She doesn't turn to look, but rather keeps her eyes on the ocean. Carefully, I move in behind her, grasping her at the nape of her neck, feeling her nervousness, her apprehension. It is one thing to be told you are going to be hurt and quite another to willingly submit to it. Especially knowing what is to come, and though she thinks she knows, she really doesn't have a clue. All that I have done to her during the last few weeks has been the warm-up for this moment.
I press down on her neck, slow, steady pressure as I direct her in what I want her to do. "Go up on your toes and bend at your waist, over the railing."
She gasps. I apply additional pressure, pressing into her lower back with the palm of my other hand, seeing that her gaze has traveled the distance to the large boulders and crashing waves below.
"Relax, I'm not going to let you fall," I promise. "Go up on your tiptoes."
She complies, stretching on tiptoe to bend at her waist. My hands are still on her neck and lower back. Her hands cling to the railing as she bends. I push harder on her neck, bending her deeper over the rail, raising her higher on her toes. She screams and struggles, pushing back against my hand, I shove my knee into her lower back, holding her, digging my fingers into her neck and back, giving her a little shake. "This isn't going to work if you don't trust me! Calm down."
I feel her struggles cease, leaving her shaking all over. I hold her like that, bent over the rail, shaking. I whisper, "Relax."
"I'm scared," she sobs.
"I know, sweetheart. I'm here. Remember that. I'm here with you."
She nods and I know that for a second I can take my hands off her. She stays still and in position, though I hold her only with my knee pressing into her ass, while I turn at the waist to take the fur-lined leather hand restraints off the table. Taking hold of first her left arm and then her right, I stretch her arms out along the railing as far as they'll comfortably stretch before securing her. "Okay?" I ask.
"Yes," she whispers and I barely hear her over the surf.
She is bent completely over the rail upside down. I squat to look into her face, seeing that her eyes are squinted tightly closed. I command, "Open your eyes." I stick my tongue out at her when she does, making her smile. "As long as you can still smile at me like that, we're okay."
Sliding my hands through the bars of the railing, I attach the fur-lined collar around her neck, drawing the pre-attached chain to hook her to the railing. Her eyes don't leave mine. "Trust me?"
"Yes, Lord Fyre."
"Are you ready for this?"
"Yes, Lord Fyre," she answers, looking so unsure, so afraid. I smile at her.
"Good, stay right there," I wink at her as I walk back into the bedroom. "I just need to get a few things to make tonight memorable."
"Only now it had become indispensable to him to have her face pressed close to him; he could never let her go again. He could never let her head go away from the close clutch of his arm. He wanted to remain like that for ever, with his heart hurting him in a pain that was also life to him."
D.H. Lawrence, The Horse Dealer's Daughter
Kitten
He's leaving me. The thought makes me want to scream hysterically though I wait patiently, silently...I want to rant and rave and scream, so great is the pain in my chest. He's leaving me, he's leaving me, he's leaving me.
I knew this day was coming, but I had no idea it would hurt so badly.
I face the crashing surf, literally, bent head to heel, only the rail and cuffs keeping me from plummeting to my death. Could dying hurt any worse than this? Yet, I fear the fall, shaking uncontrollably, or maybe it's the anger.
I hate his wife. How dare she call now!
Father forgive me, but I do hate her. I hate her!
I think about her, imagining her in my mind, the tall, leggy black woman with beaded braids that cascade to the center of her back. I met her only once, the night Garrett bought me at auction. She was beautiful...mean, very mean...but beautiful. She nipped my bare nipple instead of saying hello, although nipped is hardly adequate, because she bit me hard, not hard enough to draw blood but hard enough to leave behind a raised blood mark.
I hate it that he is going to her. He deserves so much better.
The sound of his step draws my attention immediately back to him. I close my eyes, counting to ten, breathing. I will not let her destroy our last night together. It is hard, but I release the anger and the hate. She is, after all, his wife.
I, the fornicating preacher's daughter am on the road bent straight toward hell. I release that thought to the universe. I will not pray away what I am thinking or feeling this night in repentance. I embrace me for who I am and for what I am doing this night.
I look between my legs to see him watching me. He is upside down, arms full, the look on his face one of pain. I have seen the look before. He too is hurting. I know it as much as I know the pain in my heart is bent on destroying me. Dear God, what is to become of us apart? We have found our perfect matches.
Seeing me looking at him, he busies himself, setting a dozen candles on the table and lighting them. He leans inside the doorframe just enough to flip the light switch, casting us into darkness, except for the soft flames. He moves the candles around the balcony, two in one corner, three in another, dispensing the light to cast a soft warm glow around us. The wondrous golden glow fills the air with a sense of magic and purpose. It pleases me that he is going to such elaborate effort to make tonight extra special. He disappears, back into the bedroom, returning with a full-length mirror that he angles to give me a view of myself. He takes the time to angle it perfectly, steps back to see what I will see from my angle, then adjusts it a bit more. He catches my gaze in the reflection. "I want you to see how beautiful you are. I want you to see what I see."
I smile at him, he smiles at me. I hate to even think the thought, but I do, I love this man. I love you. I think the thought, not daring to voice it, saying instead simply, "Thank you." Thank you for this night, thank you for helping me find my darkness, thank you for loving me.
Watching him almost takes my mind off the burning starting in my calf-muscles. Standing on tiptoe, stretched as far as I can stretch, I find it hard to not fidget, shifting my weight from tiptoe to tiptoe.
I watch him lift a large, round paddle off the table, relieved that he is ready to begin. He presses the handle between my tightly pressed together knees. I hadn't realized how taut I'd become, every muscle flexed tight.
"Open your legs."
I shift my feet, inching my toes apart, thinking my calves will find relief in this new position, but I am made even more uncomfortable, the muscles inside my thighs stretching and aching immediately. The rub of the handle between my burning thighs makes me quiver involuntarily. He chuckles, teasing strokes that make me shake, teasing strokes that lead to my sex. "Ah!" I sigh. The pleasure so great in contrast to the discomfort, I am aching with new need.
"Very nice, Sophia, you are beautiful tonight," he whispers. "I am going to film our last night together. Does that please you?"
Reaching up, he adjusts one of the corner-mounted security cameras. Suddenly, it becomes very important that I have a memento from this night. "May I have a copy?"
"If you'd like," he answers, turning his attention back to the wooden paddle. He caresses the inside of my thighs lightly, then presses the hard wood into my damp slit, sliding in my wetness.
I lift my ass higher. "Yes," I hiss.
"Are you ready for the pain I offer you tonight?"
"Yes, Lord Fyre."
"Count off," he commands.
I peek around my legs at him, wanting to remember him, just like this, strong, powerful, cast in candle light. He is my perfection.
"Count!" he says more sternly, furrowing his brow.
"To what number, sir?"
"Sir?" He chuckles. "So formal tonight. Count until I say stop."
My brain freezes, without a target number, I am left feeling floaty, light-headed, but I manage to start the count. "One."
He makes the first swat hard, making me dance on tiptoe as the full sting of the swat sinks in. My right ass cheek flames. I consider that he is being kind, letting me know immediately what kind of night I face. He waits for me to stop moving before continuing with the next swat, but it is impossible to hold still, my hip flaming, the sting racing up my spine and down my legs.
"Two," I scream when his hand falls hard on my ass, directly over the same area as the last swat. Holy shit!
He angles away, giving me time to breathe. I unsquint my eyes, seeing the reflection of my legs and ass. His handprint blazes in a bright, raised welt. Yeah, that's gonna leave a mark.
"Three, four, five, six," I count faster, barely leaving him time to swat, or so I thought, but his swats keep pace and my body shakes, as I dance on my toes to escape the flaming pain. I count, he swats. The intensity seems less, or maybe I am just bearing up, my endorphins kicking in. The swats warm now instead of rip through my body. I don't cry.
I remember crying the first time I was ever spanked. Garrett spanked me the day I woke up at his condo the first time. I swallow hard, thinking that this time tomorrow, I will be with Garrett. Although the thought invades, I don't want it to. I don't want to think about Garrett, not yet. I don't want to worry that I will not feel the same way about Garrett as I did before. I don't want to worry that I am so changed by what I have shared with Lord Fyre that anything less intense than him won't be enough...and not intense as just the actions of what we have shared---because the photo shoot on the rocks and the shark cage both rank as the highlights---but the intensity of his personality. Lord Fyre lives the way we all should live, like the next breath he takes might be his last and he doesn't want to miss a single second of life.
I love that about him. I love Lord Fyre.
Yes, I can admit this to myself. I love him and I want to enjoy my last night as his property.
I focus on watching his reflection in the mirror. I count, he swats. My ass becomes a rosy glow, though a perfectly formed deep purple handprint defines the site of his first swat. I know I will keep this bruise a week, maybe longer. It will change its color, gradually fading, but for a while, I will remember.
I am grateful for the mark he has left on me.
At the club I have heard the bruises left behind referred to as trophies and have often wondered at that. For me, it is not so much a prize but a remembrance. If I could, I would immortalize these bruises, and I pray that, true to his word, I am allowed a copy of the film. I have no doubt of his word but I worry that Garrett will not let me keep it. Damn, the man is in my brain again.
Go away, Garrett. Leave me be this night!
"I never wanted to go away, and the hard part now is the leaving you all. I'm not afraid, but it seems as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven."
-Louisa May Alcott
Thomas
She shudders when I stop. I run my hand down the smooth center of her back, hip to neck, then reversing the stroke, petting up from neck to hip. I stroke, once, twice, letting her know that for now she is safe, the pain over.
"Thank you, Lord Fyre."
Her bottom glows, rosy and bright. Her flesh blazes heat beneath my fingertips. Two perfect handprint-shaped bruises blossom in the center of her ass cheeks. I bend, kissing her left ass cheek, directly over the bruise. "You're welcome, sweetheart."
I lay the paddle down on the table. Seeing it go down, she licks her lips, relaxing only once she sees the paddle leave my hand. I pick up the long-handled vibrator, switching it on so that she hears the faint buzz. I run the vibrating head over her calf, teasing the back of her ankle before drawing it up her calf, nudging the inside of her knee to spread her legs wider before sliding up the inside of her thigh, keeping it away from her pussy, knowing how badly she wants me to touch her there. I take the vibrator down the inside of her other thigh. She hisses, not daring to beg. I rub the vibrator over the backs of her thighs and along the curved edge of her ass. Switching the vibrator to my left hand, I rub the vibrator inside the creases of her knees. It is a sweet spot for her. Tickling. She dances on her toes. I ease my right middle finger along the slick edge of her labia.
"You are so wet for me. You like this don't you sweetheart?"
"Yes," she moans, lifting her hips.
I press my finger into her, feeling her vaginal lips grip around me. I end the torture, drawing the vibrator up to her clit, tapping then holding it over her most sensitive spot, making her scream as she rides out her orgasm, waiting until she sags against the rail before I pull the vibrator away. Turning it off, I lay it on the table and reach for my next implement of pleasure, a special gift I bought for her and have yet to find the right moment to give to her. It is an extravagance, a solid metal butt plug, the handle shaped like a bird's head, the beak holding a diamond setting. I hold it down for her to see. "I bought this for you."
I tilt my head down to see her better, seeing her eyes glow. "Before you ask, yes, it's a real diamond." I smile at her. "Always play with men of means, if you can, it's so much more fun than getting shagged by a man who shoves a ninety-nine-cent fingernail polish bottle up your butt and calls it plugged."
She giggles and the sound is music to my ears. "It sounds like you may have some experience in that department, as well, Lord Fyre?"
I wink. "None I'm willing to admit to." I stay kneeling, letting her see me play with the smooth edges of the plug. It will be the largest I've ever used on her. It will be a heavy mass inside her, stretching and filling her, but the best surprise will be the weight.
"It's beautiful," she whispers.
"Yes, beautiful women deserve beautiful, expensive toys."
Standing, I rub her ass, stroking over the dark purple circles very softly, fanning out my fingers to caress every bit of her bright pink skin. I smack her lightly with my bare hand, smacking as I slide the plug through her vaginal wetness, slicking it, then pushing quick and hard to insert the butt-plug into her anus. It is large and she grunts, but lifts her ass to take it. God, she pleases me.
"Wiggle your ass, sweetheart." I want to see the diamond sparkle in the candlelight.
She wiggles and it is a glorious sight. I am deeply affected by her erotically, the sight of her, doing the things she does...so sensual...so feral, and yet I think over and again that she is unaware of her affect on me---on him. I do not want to let her go. I know I promised Garrett, but the fact remains, I want her. As much as I know he wants her back, I want to keep her.
I close my eyes against the sight of her, almost wishing I wasn't taping this night together. It is so hard to steel my emotions against the thought of walking away from her and what we've shared here. "Are you ready for me to hurt you some more?" I pray she doesn't hear the cracking in my voice, forcing myself to focus so that I can complete this scene.
"Yes, Lord Fyre."
"You want me to hurt you while you hold your new pricey toy inside of you?"
"Yes," she sobs, closing her eyes.
"Squeeze it with your muscles."
The metal plug bobs, evidence that she does what she is told. "Keep squeezing it until you can't squeeze any longer. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Open your eyes." She does, her toy still bobbing in her ass.
I pick up the riding crop with my right hand, the flogger in my left. I hold them in her line of vision, so that she will see what's coming. I think it is so much more exciting when the anticipation is allowed to build. I rub them both up her leg, one at a time, tapping her lightly with each, and then stroking again. "Are you ready for this, love?"
Her brow furrows, showing her worry. "Yes, Lord Fyre."
"Stay relaxed," I warn her, stripping off my shirt, folding it over the chair. More focused than before I am ready to enjoy myself with her, not having allowed myself this particular pleasure until now. I will mark her, leaving behind a web of stripes and welts for her to carry for weeks to come as her trophy of our time together.
I start on her ass and the backs of her legs with the flogger, warming her up, light and medium thuds, quick, rhythmic. I set the pace so that I will be able to last a long time, knowing that she will outlast me. We have three hours.
I make her rosy and pink, getting her to the point where she is floating on endorphins, only then increasing the tempo, punching up the pain level.
I slap her with the flogger then, lifting the whip, I add its sting, alternating, sting, thud, sting, thud. Even floating on endorphins, I have her undivided attention as I combine flogger with single tail, covering her back, buttocks, and thighs.
Sting, thud, sting, thud.
"Oh God, oh God," she pants and I know she isn't praying for pain relief. I sting her good, once, twice, leaving a welt, then tease with the flogger, thud, thud, thud.
"Oh God, Lord Fyre, please, please, please."
"Tell me what you need."
"I need to come," she grits out.
"How?" I ask, near to losing my own resolve to finish this scene. God, I want her badly. "How do you want me to bring you?"
"Mouth," she pants. "Fingers, vibrator, I don't care, just please, please."
"Beg me, slave."
"Oh God, please, please, please, Lord Fyre, please let me come!"
I drop to my knees and touch my tongue against her clit. Her taste is a mingling of salty and sweet and her dampness quickly covers my beard. I inhale deeply of her, enjoying the sigh that comes to her lips when I do so. She is soaking wet as I slide in a finger, two fingers, working her gently, and then withdrawing them, taking away the sensation, returning my tongue to barely lick her clit. I hear her gasp. I lick harder, alternating softer, setting up a rhythm I know her body won't deny and, just as I feel her tension building, I tug the butt-plug from her hole, sending her over the edge. I hold her legs tightly as she bucks and writhes, not letting go with my mouth, licking her, sucking her, making her scream into the night.
She trembles, shaking and writhing in her bonds, senseless in the time it takes her to absorb all the pleasure. With my arms still wrapped around her legs, I rest my head on her thighs. As I wait for her to come back to earth, I am filled with gratitude so great my head swims and my heart pounds. There are many women I've given up, many more I've walked away from. Some, like Latisha, who have chosen to walk away from me, and none have affected me by half as this woman.
Dear God, thank you for the moment in time I've shared with this woman. She is the light that casts my shadow. Only in the depth of her darkness have I found my own light. How am I to ever let her go?
Pulling her collar chain, I drag her lips closer, until they are pressed between the rungs of the safety railing she is bound to. Holding the chain tight, I capture her mouth, kissing her, licking, her, raping her mouth. This is as close to fucking her as I will ever come and I want her to remember my taste, mingled with hers, bruised into her mouth.
Kissing her, hard, harder, I shove my fingers into her again, driving them deep, finger-fucking her pussy while I rape her mouth with my tongue. I bring her hard and fast, just because I can, just because it gives me pleasure to do so.
She lies across the bed face down. The evidence of my abuse is displayed in a pattern of pinks and reds and purples across her ass and thighs. I sit down on the bed, leaning over her face. She is resplendent, exhausted, and gloriously flushed. I kiss her temple, holding her bangs away from her face. "Are you ready for the birch cane, sweetheart?"
She opens one eye lazily, hoping I am teasing, and seeing the cane in my hand, she knows I'm not. She closes the one eye, and I think for a moment that she will cry, her face screwing into a devastated mask that she hides behind her hand. I let her hide, watching her regain her composure.
It is a moment before she can speak, a moment before she can surrender to this pain; but she does surrender, saying, "I am ready, Lord Fyre."
"Turn over, love. I'm going to mark your front side now."
She gasps then settles for holding her breath before finally blowing out her resolve in a loud huff, and rolling over. She squeaks in pain, the endorphins calming enough for her to feel the welts along her backside scraped by the bedspread.
I do not drag out her agony, catching her quick on top of her thighs with two quick flicks of the birch, again, quick, two more flicks on top of her thighs. The welts spring up angry and red immediately. After the second set of flicks, she grabs her thighs with her hands, hiding them from me. I know that she hurts like hell and her covering herself is more reflex than conscious action. I flick the birch against her stomach and her hands move to cover her middle.
I flick the inside of her right thigh hard, the birch marks her wide and deep, the welt an ugly purple, but not breaking the skin.
The pain brings her off the bed. I grab her shoulders and pull her into me. "I'm done. We're done," I promise. It takes a moment for my words to sink in and then she understands. We're done.
The words reduce her to hysterical sobs. I hold her, letting her sob until she sleeps, and even in sleep, she cries.
"...I am running away from something dreadful and cannot escape it. I am always with myself, and it is I who am my tormentor ... it is myself I am weary of and find intolerable and a torment. I want to fall asleep and forget myself and cannot, I cannot get away from myself."
-Alexei Tolstoy
Kitten
I awake to find him gone. It is early, very early. I slept, not meaning to and now he is gone. I close my eyes, remembering...
I end up screaming at an empty room and the walls echo back to me as I slam into the cold, tiled bathroom. "I will not cry for you, Lord Fyre. Damn it. I do not love you. I love Garrett. I belong to him and today I will go back to him."
I hit the light switch hard, turning on the light, liking the pain of hitting the light switch hard. Seeing myself in his mirrors, seeing each bruise, each mark, I am flooded by the memory of last night. I sobbed and he held me. It was too much knowing that we were finished, knowing that our time together was over. He held me and kissed me, saying things he shouldn't have ever said to me.
"Thank you for sharing your darkness with me, sweetheart."
I cried harder.
"I love you," he'd said...oh my God, he did say it. Why? Of all the things to say, why did he say that to me? Only my mother ever said I love you, no one else, not until the moment in the hospital when Garrett said it. It was just three words strung together with the promise to be waiting for me. But Garrett does love me, doesn't he? Or he wouldn't be waiting, would he?
I wish Garrett had said I love you like Lord Fyre said I love you. I love you with so much pain in his heart that he sounded like it hurt to say it. I love you like I may never see you again and I don't want that to be truth. I love you, I love you, I love you.
I see myself in the mirror and trace each mark. "I will not love you!" I scream, punching the wall, punching again and again and again, the tiles unyielding and cool. I throw my body into the cool tile wall, screaming, "I will not love you, do you hear me?"
Sliding down the wall onto the tile floor, I fold into a ball, sobbing. "Go to your wife. I have Garrett! Damn it! I have Garrett! I will not love you!"
I am still lying in a curled ball when the doorbell sounds. "Go away," I sob, not loud enough for anyone to hear. "Go away, go away, go away!" It never occurs to me who it is. All I know is that I am alone. I am alone.
I do not move, not even when I hear padded footsteps on the stairs.
I close my eyes, not caring who is here.
I feel a warm touch on my shoulder, but still I do not move. I squeeze my eyes tighter, not wanting to know who is in the room with me, not caring.
I hear footsteps and the turn of the shower handle, water spray pounding the tile, and then I am being lifted and carried, carried into the warm spray of the water. I wrap my arms around the neck of my rescuer, feeling the starched collar of his dress shirt, his shirt soaking through with the water, the blast of the shower spray, soaking us both. I open one eye to see the curved jaw of a freshly shaved face. Inhaling, I smell his scent, fresh and breezy, citrusy.
"Your shirt is getting wet," I say. Meeting his eyes, my face crumbles and I can't stop it from doing so. I release a sob. "It hurts."
"I know, baby. I know."
I never knew I could miss someone so much.
I wrap my arms tighter around Garrett's neck, sobbing, realizing suddenly how much I'd missed him, crying, "I missed you," and meaning it, knowing that the pain in my guts is just the beginning of how badly I will miss Lord Fyre. Having Garrett back in my arms makes the pain of waking without Lord Fyre beside me so much worse; because though there was always the promise of Garrett's return, there is no such promise from Lord Fyre.
"I missed you." I say again, hurting so badly, wanting so badly.
I miss you, Lord Fyre.
I try to say good-bye in my mind, try to release the need, but trying to let go hurts so much more, and so I hug the pain to me, holding it tight, remembering each look, each touch, each caress of the whip and cane that was Lord Fyre's good-bye. I sob until I can't breathe, sobbing until my thoughts no longer make sense. Garrett's kiss brings me back to the shower, to the wetness, to the soggy cloth of Garrett's shirt pressed between us. I look into his eyes, finding worry, but then looking deeper I see the desire, trapped, held in check.
Holding his gaze, I unbutton the first button of his shirt. He doesn't stop me, so I unbutton the next button.
"What are you doing, Kitten?" he asks, his voice raspy.
"Your clothes are wet," I answer, unbuttoning another button. His face drops nearer and I move nearer, waiting for him to close the distance. He doesn't. The temptation to kiss so strong but he doesn't kiss me and I don't kiss him, so we hover just near kissing but not, erotic energy building between us. Desire rips through me with lightning speed and I press my face up. He draws back, keeping the distance between our mouths equal, almost touching but not. I growl, trying to close my mouth over his, but his fingers woven through my hair hold me away, keeping the distance perfectly agonizing between our lips.
"Do you want my kisses, Kitten?" he teases.
"Yes," I growl softly. Lifting my chin to kiss me, he tugs my hair to hold me in place.
"Did you miss me?"
"Yes," I hiss and I realize that it is truth. I did miss Garrett and now, I am his again. I close my eyes, not wanting to cry for Lord Fyre any more, wanting to move on, wanting to not hurt so desperately with the gaping hole in my heart. Dear God, please let Garrett be up to mending this. How can I want Garrett so badly in this breath and miss Lord Fyre so desperately in both the one before and the one after?
"Did you find your darkness, Kitten?" he asks, moving his lips teasingly, minutely closer to mine.
Opening my eyes to meet his gaze, I don't answer, I can't answer, and yes, I will refuse to share with this man what I shared with the other, because that is too private. I want to tell him that my darkness is none of his damn business, but how fair would that be? Someday, maybe I'll share with Garrett...maybe when I'm stronger, but not now, not with Lord Fyre's touch so recent. Pushing my mouth to his, our lips barely touch before he tugs me away by my hair, reestablishing the agonizing distance between our mouths. I cry out, "Oh God," and it isn't because he's hurting me. Lightning shoots through my pussy and I come, just a jolt, but an orgasm nonetheless.
"Who is your Master, Kitten?"
My lips part to answer, I want to say you are, but the words get caught in my throat and I am stuck opening and closing my mouth like a goldfish. You are, you are, you are, my mind screams but the words won't come out and I don't know why the words won't come out. Lord Fyre is gone. Gone!
My face sags forward, but Garrett holds my head in place with a firm grip in my hair, shaking my head with the strength in his hand. He regains my gaze. "When you are able to call me Master, when you are able to say that you belong to me, then Kitten, and only then, are you allowed to kiss me. Understand?"
"Yes," I whisper and I realize more than my face is sagging in shame and exhaustion. My heart sags, my heart is exhausted, and as much as I want to reach out to him and ask him to fix me...it isn't his job. Only time can fix this. Only time...
"Can you stand?" he asks.
I shrug, answering impatiently, "Put me down."
He lowers me to the tile floor of the shower. I press my back against the cool tile wall behind me, needing the support, not realizing how badly I was shaking before I stood. I berate myself for not calling him Master, it's just a word, though I don't even try to convince myself of the truth of that particular lie. I know that someday I will be ready to call him Master again, but not today.
I wonder where Lord Fyre is at this exact moment. Mind or gut answers that he is on a plane...on a plane to join his wife. I wonder why that fact doesn't mean anything to me? I should be on my knees praying---praying hard. I am so going to hell.
Garrett dunks his head under the spray then throws his head back, flinging water off his head. Reaching for the tail of his shirt, he pulls his dress shirt off over his head without unbuttoning. He unbuckles his belt, unzips and lowers his pants, pulling off pants and silk underwear at the same time. He rummages through his pants pocket for a sample size bottle of body wash. My lips smirk, noting that nothing is more comforting than a Dom who comes prepared. Even before he starts lathering me, I know what the fragrance will be. Ocean Breeze: A Bay Spa Luxuriant. It is Garrett's signature scent, fresh and breezy with a touch of citrus. He will wash from my body the scent that I have come to think of as Lord Fyre. Does he really think he can wash the fragrance from my mind? I do not have a name for the scent that is Lord Fyre, but I know I will never forget it.
He steps under the warm spray one more time before stepping back and holding his arms open to me. "Come here."
I step close to him, my body wrapped in my own arms. He turns me so that my back is to him. I only realize his intention when I feel his fingers easing through my hair, lather building, the fresh clean scent filling the shower enclosure. His hands leave my hair, drawing lather down my neck and over my shoulders as he kneads and rubs. His fingers are magic and, for the first time in months, I feel the muscles in my neck and shoulders relax. I didn't realize how tense I was until my body goes soft beneath his touch. The shower spray hits me in the chest and I close my eyes, relaxing into the pulse of spray and the magic of his hands.
His fingers slide lower, no longer massaging, just tender strokes of pleasure. Turning my head, I look over my shoulder to see what he is doing, the stroke of his fingers making immediate sense in my head, when I see him touch the edge of a welt. He looks almost reverent when he slides his finger along its length before moving to the next and then the next, touching, stroking.
Each soft touch brings to mind the implement that left the mark. Riding crop. Cane. Paddle.
Without asking permission, I turn to face him. I touch my fingertips to his lips, asking, "Can you do that to me?"
My question seems to startle him and he stands looking at me in silence. I trace his lips with my fingers then draw both of my hands around his face, holding his face, waiting for his answer.
"It will be weeks before these marks fade. Until they do, I will not touch you, not like that. Only when your skin is healed, all trace of him gone from your flesh, will I touch you like that."
"But you will?"
"I will bring your darkness, Kitten, you will beg me to Master you."
Waves crash below me as I stand on Lord Fyre's balcony...for the last time.
The water was music in my head only yesterday, but now it is not music. It is ugly and harsh, the waves crashing a hard sound, like a toilet flushing. The sun is hot, baking me, searing me, like the fiery furnace of hell, when yesterday and the day before it was a healing balm on my too pale skin...skin that had gone years without the touch of the sun before Lord Fyre asked me to sit with him---each morning, basking in the sun, basking in his arms. How will I ever enjoy a ray of sun again?
And then there were the nights spent gazing at the stars, the light of the moon witness to the things he did to me.
I remember with dreamlike intensity the events of last night. The bruises are a physical reminder of what broke free in my head. Freedom in pain. Pain that brought clarity of truth. In giving myself purely to pain so intense that for long moments I couldn't even breathe, I felt wholly alive.
I close my eyes against the beauty of the sun glinting off the water, my thoughts too chaotic to bear the serenity offered by the scene. Garrett's words echoing and repeating through my brain in an effort to make me insane, "Did you find your darkness?"
Did I?
I found more than I ever came looking for. Should I laugh? Should I cry? I feel like the monk who found enlightenment and, when asked what it feels like, can only shrug then burst out in hysterical laughter and tears simultaneously. How do I answer the question, "Did I find my darkness?" when in reality, it was never missing. I have owned my darkness all along. It has walked inside me, been a part of me for so long I can't even remember the time when I was filled with lightness. The only difference was having someone to share it with.
The scariest part is that, in Lord Fyre, I found a man with a core of darkness so deep that it matched my own and, in our time together, I feel we only skimmed the surface of what we could find together. What would become of us if left together longer than the time we had?
The saddest part is that now we will never find out...
What will become of us without the other to share our darkness with?
I am glad that Garrett went downstairs, giving me time alone to collect my thoughts, or maybe he needed time to collect his thoughts.
"...he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."
-Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights
Garrett
I escape to the kitchen, leaving her alone in the bedroom, knowing that the last thing she needs is to be alone right now. I need to breathe. I counted to ten while still in the bedroom with her, trying to get my anger under control. Right now, I'm counting to ten for the two hundredth time since seeing her on the floor.
I knew he would leave her marked. Hell, I've played with him enough to know that he always leaves a mark. But, my God, he left her marked.
Large, round, dark purple bruises, thin welts, wide welts, bright red surface stripes and black and blue, deeply bruised stripes so far under the surface that at first glance it could be a shadow but on second glance isn't going away. Over the next week, or more, they will raise closer to the surface, getting darker before lightening to a horrid shade of green, then finally fading to yellow then nothing.
I know bruises. Leaving a mark or not leaving a mark is part of my day to day business. Some want a trophy, some demand no marks at all. It pays to know how and why bruises form. My knowledge makes me desirable as a Dom, but I think not such a desirable trait in a man. I could tell with a glance how each bruise was made on Kitten's flesh...paddle, flogger, whip, cane, hand, mouth.
I don't want to look at her knowing how each mark was left on her body. I don't want to know that each mark had a story, a whispered verbal flog or caress that will be remembered by her long after the physical bruises heal.
She will look in the mirror each day, tracing the marks with her fingers. She will trace them, remembering how she received each one as day by day she watches them fade. The memories will grow more important to her with each passing day. As each mark fades into oblivion, she will note it, she will cry over its loss. I know because she did the same for me when I disappeared from her life, calling me, leaving message after message chronicling her loss of connection with me. Bruised, she was sad, lonely. Healed, she became devastated. I will not leave her time or energy to mourn him with such ambition.
Lord Fyre is gone. The sooner she forgets him the better off we will be. I want her to forget him, so that she can remember how badly she wanted me.
Sitting in his kitchen, I have a straight view into his living room and it takes me a moment to realize what I am staring at. When I realize, I stand and walk forward, closer to his fireplace, where hanging above the mantle is a framed portrait of Kitten. For a moment, I think it must be airbrushed, a fake background, but on second glance realize no airbrushing took place. She is beautiful. Bound in one of Lord Fyre's classic Shibari designs, she is caught in rope meant to represent a mermaid's tail, hands caught behind her, bamboo gag looking quite uncomfortable, but it is not the rope, or even the woman, that makes the captured moment so breathtaking. It is the stark beauty of the sea storm framing the woman...boiling waves against a granite sky cleaved in two by a bright yellow streak of lightning. The woman caught in the tempest, a siren beckoning with terror-filled eyes, is merely an object caught in the brutality of it all.
If Thomas was here I'd hurt him.
I told him of her fear of storms not to use that knowledge against her, but so that he would comfort her. God damn, he is such a sadist.
I close my eyes and count to ten again.
"What scares you, Garrett Lawrence?" he'd asked me once, so long ago that the memory seems only a remembered dream.
Then, I hadn't answered him. In the silence that'd followed he'd jerked the chain attaching my nipples to a cock ring. The pain I didn't mind, even though I knew he'd make it worse. I'd closed my eyes, clenched my jaw. Ready for the next jolt of pain. Stubborn.
I didn't expect gentleness but that's exactly what came next. He ran his fingers lightly down my spine, followed the curve of my hip, and cupped my ass in his hands. He pressed himself into me, shoulder to thigh. He still wore his clothes, but I could feel his hard length pressed into my bare pelvis.
"I enjoy you, Garrett." He rubbed his rougher cheek on my smooth one, whispering against me. "Your will amuses me, but don't fool yourself for a minute. I will discover your scary places. You will wish I hadn't but I will and then you will barter with your soul to escape the terror I will feed your mind. You see, it's a gift...for you. Only in that moment when you are scared to death can you find the kind of pleasure that poets write about, that you dream about---and once you experience it, you'll want it again so desperately that you will beg me to take you back to that place.
How right he'd been when he discovered my fear, using it, warping it, making my fear and my need become one through the link of mind-blowing pleasure. Years later, I dream about it still...the fear, the pleasure---him.
Kitten will never forget Lord Fyre.
I have to get out of this house, away from all things Thomas before I do something drastic---like call LAX and demand a flight to Cairo so that I can kick some serious ass. Opening my eyes, I look down at myself, barefoot, wrapped in one of Thomas' many silk robes, wondering just how far I would get if I took drastic measures---not far, knowing Thomas. I might get to Cairo, but if he doesn't want to be found---and my guess based on his mood before leaving, he doesn't---I'd never find him.
Shaking my head and sighing heavily, I face the truth of my predicament. I caused this...every bit of it. If I hadn't abandoned Kitten in the first place, none of this would have happened. She needed a Master, and with painful honesty I am man enough to admit that if not me, Lord Fyre would have been my pick for her. I can even say I saw this coming. Like a moth to the flame, she was drawn to him, and if only I'd been there as the brighter light, maybe I could have kept her fascination from becoming this.
She lies upstairs in the bed she shared with him, devastated, broken into a million fragmented pieces, pieces of self. It is my job to put her back together.
How in the hell and where do I start arguments wage war in my mind.
Getting us the fuck out of Lord Fyre's beach house is a beginning, but where do I go from there?
"You heard what I said. The PVC catsuit."
"Ju hate PVC, boss," Enrique argues over the phone, his accent heavy. After seven years in this country, one would think his accent would start to fade.
"Call Morgana, she'll have it ready," I demand, hanging up. He hates it when I hang up on him. I hate it when he argues with me, even when he is right. I am not a lover of PVC fetish wear, but I cannot take Kitten to the penthouse yet. I'm not ready for that. Which leaves the club, and I will not allow her to be seen like this, not covered in Lord Fyre's marks. I am not certain which would be worse, knowing that there were those who would guess I did not make the marks or knowing that some would think I actually did.
I should be with her.
I sit down on the couch that faces the fireplace, leaving her alone while I wait for Enrique. I stare at a photograph of Kitten, life-size and framed in a black leather frame, a monumental piece of art, commanding center-stage, impossible not to stare at. I am torn between wanting to throw it from the balcony onto the rocks she posed on and stealing it to put over my own mantle. But no, it is Lord Fyre's trophy. It will be interesting to see what Latisha has to say about it being in her house. Although she shares him, she doesn't share well. When it comes to matters of Latisha and Lord Fyre's other women, the phrase plays well with others does not apply---not even in the remotest sense.
"Kitten?" I call her name, entering the bedroom, my tux fresh from the dry cleaner in one hand and her catsuit straight from the Fetish Emporium in the other. Enrique was quick, making me glad I hung up on him. He is a pleaser---the only reason I hired him and kept him as long as I have.
"I know you're not asleep, you may as well come out."
I hang the tux in Thomas' closet and carry the catsuit over to her. The bed creaks as I sit down and touch the curve of her hip through the sheets, thinking for only a moment that perhaps she does sleep. Feeling her tremble, I know that she's awake.
"Do you fear me?" I ask.
"No," she answers, making me remember when she did fear me.
I jerk the sheet and blanket covering her completely from the bed, throwing it to the ground, staring down at her naked, covered in a hundred welts and bruises, body. I don't bother counting to ten. I bend over her, nose to nose, whispering, "You should."
Standing, I toss the PVC catsuit at her. "Hurry up and put this on. There's baby powder in the bathroom, it will make your skin smoother so it's easier to pull the suit on."
She lifts the heavy suit and looks at it. I wonder if she thinks it is beautiful or ugly.
"It's white," she whispers.
"So?"
"You hate white---on your dominants and on your submissives. You told me that."
I look from her to the suit. "Today, my likes and dislikes don't seem to matter. I also like my submissives to be mark-free, and because you are not, I will hide the marks."
She rubs her hand over the slick material, saying quite matter of factly, "You're ashamed of me."
"Not ashamed, Kitten."
"Then what?" she challenges sarcastically, flipping the dangling sleeve of the catsuit so hard with her hand that it flies up and smacks me in the face.
I snap, "When I figure that out, I'll make sure you're the second to know."
Grabbing her by the back of her neck, I pull her up from the bed and push her toward the bathroom, growling, "Hurry up!" Even marked with his mark, I want her. Even defiant and challenging, I want her...maybe even more than when she is sweetly submissive. I want her. Desperately. Maybe because of his mark I want her even more urgently. I want to rub out his marks with my body, erase his memory from her mind. I want her to scream my name loud enough to chase the sound of her screaming his name from my imagination, replacing it with something real.
"You're hurting me!" she squeals, as I press her through the doorway.
I jerk her up short, with a tight pull on the back of her neck. With more anger than intended, I demand, "I'm hurting you? Did you whine for Lord Fyre? Or did you take it? I know him and he wouldn't put up with pathetic. Why do you think you can play pathetic with me?" I jerk her when she doesn't answer. "Why, Kitten?"
"You've changed," she accuses, ripping herself from my grasp, huddling in a corner of the bathroom. She holds the PVC suit in front of her like a shield.
"No, Kitten. I haven't changed. I did what you needed me to do, I reawakened Lord Ice. I am ready to give you what you need."
"I don't need you to be mean!" she spits, throwing the PVC suit at me. Holding out her arms, she twirls in a complete circle, giving me the whole show. "Do you think that this was done with meanness? Do you think that Lord Fyre was spiteful with his whip, with his cane?"
She waits for an answer, arms still outstretched. I can't speak.
"I will not be abused by you!" she seethes. "Love me as he did, or release me forever. Do you understand?"
"It is in the uncompromisingness with which dogma is held and not in the dogma or want of dogma that the danger lies."
-Samuel Butler, The Way of All Flesh
Kitten
Towel dried, hair blown dry, I watch him standing outside. The wind off the ocean whips his dark, curly hair around his face. It is slightly longer than when I first met him, the curl more evident. I like it. If anything, our time apart has made him even more handsome to me. I try to not compare the two men, Lord Fyre who just left me, and Garrett Lawrence who returned to claim me. I can't not compare them. So alike, so opposite. Lord Fyre, so dark and brooding, his rare smiles take my breath away. Garrett, so filled with mesmerizing brilliance, he shines, lighting an entire room with his personality. Both men tall, Lord Fyre taller; both men lithe and muscular, but Lord Fyre more solidly bulked with muscles seeming on top of muscles. They both make me feel safe, happy, wanted---needed. Or did, once. I wonder if Garrett will ever feel that need for me like he once did. Or have I ruined it entirely?
His hands wrap around the rail I was bound to last night.
Dressed up in Garrett's PVC catsuit, all traces of my play with Lord Fyre hidden away, I know the marks are there. With intimate detail I see the leather cuffs, the collar, the chains of last night attached to the rail Garrett touches in this moment. My mind recalls the crack of his paddle on my ass and the spot flames anew, reminding me of the bruise hidden under my clothing.
I look down at my shiny new PVC jumpsuit. It is bright white, detailed in blue and red piping. The fabric is suppler than I would have thought. Warming against my skin, it conforms to every curve, leaving nothing to the imagination; especially in light of the fact that there are cutouts for my breasts. A thin strap crosses over them to hide only my nipples, leaving the rest of my breast exposed. I have such small breasts, embarrassingly small, and he chooses to highlight them with this outfit. I would accuse him of meanness again save for a conversation I had with him when I was new to him. He said, "I love your breasts." I believed him.
The rest of my skin is covered, my bruises and welts hidden from view. The marks left by Lord Fyre are a slap in Garrett's face...I understand that but it doesn't mean that I regret any of this. I cherish each mark left on me by Lord Fyre. I cherish them.
Enrique was summoned with a change of clothing for Garrett. I didn't see him, but I heard their voices.
"Is the library ready?" Garrett asks.
"Everything you asked for, si."
My mind dances with images of what those two sentences mean.
Most sadists keep a dungeon. Garrett Lawrence keeps a library well stocked for pleasure and pain, and although he promised to not touch me until Lord Fyre's marks were gone, I anticipate the play. Yet, with the thought of play, I realize my body needs time to recover before I even consider it.
Still, tonight, if he asked, I would play. I would let him do to me whatever he wanted...anything to make things right between us. I worry that things may never be right.
A tux jacket hangs on a hanger, a fresh, starched white dress shirt lays draped over a chair next to the double doors. He took the time to pull on his pants, socks, and shoes before stepping outside. I walk to the threshold, not wanting to disturb him, but wanting any distraction to take my mind off my worries.
Can Garrett and I ever go back to having what we once shared?
Are Garrett's friends mad at me?
Where is Lord Fyre right now?
I know, I know, I have to stop thinking about Fyre, but it's impossible. How long does it take to fly to Cairo? Is he safe? Is his wife and baby all right? Why I'm suddenly worried about his wife and baby is beyond me, but I am. Maybe because it's Lord Fyre's baby. I at least care that nothing happens to the flesh of his flesh. And really, I do not begrudge him going to his wife, I just feel like we should have had more time together.
I feel cheated, though would more time have made me feel better or worse? I will never know the answer to that question. He goes to his wife. I return to Garrett. It is time to get on with it.
Outside, Garrett's attention is on the waves, inside, I slip on my four-inch black-patent stilettos. He pretends to be immersed. Pretends, because he, like I, am trying so hard to be nonchalant, but my blood is boiling, and so is his, I have not a doubt. I call out to him, "I'm ready," but he has already turned to face me. We look at each other, him outside, me inside, and we both sigh heavily because we are both committed to this path and leaving Lord Fyre's house together is the next step. I guess the question remains, then what?
Inside the car, he hands me a red satin box I've seen before. Taking it from him, I rub my fingertips over the embossed gold name of a much-respected jeweler on its lid before opening the box, remembering the night he purchased me at the slave auction. Taken into a private room, I had no idea what to expect. New to him, new to slave play, my imagination made me jump at every shadow. He'd pushed down the hood of the velvet cloak he'd wrapped me in, exposing my neck, before he lifted the circlet from the box and placed it carefully around my neck. It was a shock to feel the coolness of the metal resting on my collarbone and scary when I heard the metal mechanism click in my ear, signaling that my slave collar was locked. That night alarm bells sounded, I wanted to run screaming into the dark of the night and hide.
Opening the lid, I realize that this collar is the ticket to my internal darkness. I shiver, remembering what he promised in the shower. I will bring your darkness.
I look over at him, expectantly. Seated behind the wheel of his Porsche, dressed in his tux, every hair in place, it is almost impossible to imagine him bringing my darkness as he promised. I pray he can.
He doesn't move and I realize that he is waiting for me to do the deed. He collared me once, I asked him to remove it. I must be the one to replace it.
My hands tremble as I lift the cool, metal circlet from its velvet-lined bed. The large ruby charm swings, dangling and sparkling in the brightness of midday. I hold it up to my neck, clicking it in place, noticing only after that the small lock that hooks through the back is still lying in the box, alongside the small key.
I smile slightly, knowing he wants me to know that everything must be a conscious choice today. Nice. That alone makes my pulse quicken, my breath catch. I'd forgotten that Garrett Lawrence does dominance very, very well. He is a Master, but more, he is a teacher of Masters. Every action, every word, is calculated, weighing and measuring the reaction he hopes to get far in advance of the actual deed.
I lift the small key from the box and hand it to Garrett. "This belongs to you," I say before taking the small padlock in hand. It too I hand to Garrett, pivoting in my seat to expose the back of the collar. I sit patiently, waiting for him to lock it. The engine starts and the lock is not in place at the back of the collar. He pulls out of Lord Fyre's driveway without putting the lock in place. I turn back to face him, but he is hidden behind the shield of dark designer sunglasses. The key and lock are tossed carelessly into the change tray of his between-seat console. Purposefully. Does he expect a reaction? My mouth opens and shuts, but I don't ask, feeling more inclined to sit and pout, pouting so much more preferable to crying, especially when he promises, "You will beg, Kitten."
We enter through the side doors, traveling through the chaotic kitchen to the service elevator. Men in white chef hats compete in a screaming match over the clang of pans and the sizzle of grilled meat. Garrett leads me by the hand and we dodge and weave past a dozen assistant chefs and servers as they hurry about their tasks. The heat of the kitchen is insane and just the few minutes we walk through is too much time, I feel overheated, dizzy, but sneaking a peek at Garrett, I realize it isn't just the heat of the kitchen messing with my body, my mind. I remember the first time I saw him onstage, so charismatic, his blue eyes seeming to see into my soul. Even scared as hell, I felt safe with him, all because of the way he looked at me. Even before I belonged to him, it seemed I belonged with him. His promise to make me beg brings the scared as hell feeling back. His Master voice, so filled with the promise of seduction and darkness, makes my blood race. Why do I fear this man's seduction so?
Waiting for the service elevator, he exchanges words with the head chef, shouting over the kitchen noise. "Two. One hour."
I haven't been away so long that I forgot his abbreviations, two dinners, today's specials. By the look of things, I'd guess prime rib and mashed potatoes. That he's ordering the food to be brought to the table in an hour causes me alarm. I'm not hungry, won't be hungry in an hour, and hope to God I don't throw up in the time between now and then. My heart skips a beat then flies into overdrive as the elevator doors close. Alone again, as in the car, a terrible vastness separates us, he leaning against the wall of the elevator, I leaning against the opposite side. This is my fault.
I'd needed something more, but did I need to go to Lord Fyre to get it? Could Garrett have filled me with completeness if I'd only given him the chance? I didn't even let him try. Right or wrong, I can at least let him know that I want him to try now.
Dropping to my knees, I crawl as seductively as I know how across the carpeted square between us, stopping before the elevator controls, where I push the emergency stop. Ignoring the alarming jangle that ensues, I crawl to Garrett, rubbing his pants leg with my body.
"What are you doing, Kitten?"
"Meow." I rub his leg again, purring loudly.
He sighs, sounding aggravated, and takes the two steps to repress the button for the third floor.
I crawl between his legs, rubbing, hitting the emergency stop again from a position between his legs. He looks down at me, amazement crossing his features. I look up with what I hope is a challenge, then to make sure it is received as a challenge, I stand, blocking the buttons with my body.
Garrett reaches for the elevator control panel, but I move to block his hand with my shoulder.
He growls, "Kitten, knock it off."
A deep voice comes over the intercom, "Everything okay?"
Garrett glances up and nods. Reaching over my shoulder, he hits the intercom button. "We're fine."
The alarm stops and the elevator starts its ascent without either of us pushing a button. I look to where he looks, seeing for the first time a small security camera. I stick out my tongue to whoever watches and push the emergency stop a third time. The elevator stops, the alarm sounds. Garrett looks at the camera and gives a slight nod, the alarm stops sounding, I assume in response to the nod. I wait for the elevator to go back in motion, but it doesn't.
He leans against the wall, arms crossed, waiting. "What's up?"
"You, Master, I hope," I answer, sounding sarcastic, angry, not seductive. Kneeling in front of him, my hand goes to his waistband and I loosen his pants, feeling him, soft inside his silk underwear. I try to tease seductively, "Darn, not hard---yet," but it comes out flat. What is wrong with me?
His hand touches my hair softly. "Kitten, you don't have to do this."
"I want to. I want to make things right between us." I start to push down the elastic band to expose his penis but he stills my hand.
"This isn't going to make things right."
"It will," I promise. "You are my Master and it's time for me to start acting like you are."
Taking my hand, he pulls me to my feet, his gaze harsh, stern, and his words don't make me feel any better as he zips his pants. "I want you to believe with all your heart that I am your Master. That is what is going to make things right between us, not a collar, not a blowjob. What's in your heart? What's in your soul?"
My hand shakes as I lift the glass tumbler of Glenlivet to my lips. Though Scotch wouldn't be my first choice, it will do. Abandoned in Garrett's office, at least for the moment, the Scotch was easily available, second drawer, right side of his desk. Yeah, I snooped. I remember the first time I snooped, the morning after the auction, sipping coffee without permission, and the result, my first spanking from my new Master.
Will drinking his whiskey get me a similar response?
What's in my heart?
What's in my soul?
I catch my reflection in a mirror behind his desk above a wide credenza. My reflection draws me to the mirror, my fingers grazing the smooth surface, touching the reflected woman, wide blue-green eyes, exaggerated by fake eyelashes, heavy eye makeup, and surrounded by white PVC eyeholes. I don't recognize myself. This woman is theatrical, magical, sensual.
Pulling off the mask, I try to find me.
How can he own my heart, my soul, if I can't even find it? I close my eyes against the image. Where am I? I was pure with Lord Fyre. With him, I recognized myself. I found my soul. Does being with Garrett mean that I have to go into hiding again? That it's all pretend? Make-believe?
His voice carries from the hallway, making me quickly glance into the mirror, seeking his image in the doorway. He isn't there, his voice still not as close as it seemed.
I guess I'm glad we're here at the club, I don't know what I thought he would do, but bringing me here was a relief---less personal---and although I need the buffer zone, can I live with just role-playing, now that I've experienced the real thing?
I don't want to even consider that and, if nothing else, the Oasis lounge of Lewd Larry's is a marvelous distraction. I look forward to resuming my role as Kitten; however, we're early and, although the doors will open any minute to let in the public, it is still hours before the regulars start to arrive. I look forward to seeing Garrett's friends. I've missed them. I also dread seeing them.
Who do I dread seeing most? Jackie? George? Such a toss up at this point and I know Garrett's friends will be at the club in force, a united front of moral support for their hero, and I so not the heroine of this story. I could hope for understanding, they work at a BDSM fetish fantasy nightclub, for crying out loud. It's not like they expect complete monogamy in any of their relationships---they dominate people for a living. Well, not Jackie, I'm not sure what she does for a living...but she's around the scene enough that my hooking up with Lord Fyre for a few months shouldn't cause a fuss.
I am tucking my hair beneath the mask when he finally enters; once again I'm the exotic woman I don't recognize. In the mirror, I see his reflection. He's watching me, seeming to be waiting. I can tell by the look on his face that he lusts for me. It seems strange that now, after everything else, I want more. In the beginning, lust was enough. Now, a married man tells me he loves me and all of a sudden, I think I need love. Who am I kidding? Girls like me don't get love. I am a stupid girl. Lust is enough. If Garrett still wants me, he can have me. Gulping The Glenlivet, I hope it will numb my brain if not my heart. Lord Fyre isn't coming back.
I feel his eyes watching me as I walk, not crawl, to the couch against the opposite wall. I try to make it a very enticing walk. I've never been very good at games, but if he is going to lust after me, I want him to lust hard after me. Being a very naughty slave, I sit, then recline, not caring, caring too much, needing a reaction from him. I need his touch and whether it is a hug or a beating, at this point I'll take it, anything to help me put Lord Fyre in the past and Garrett as Master in my future.
My mind feels numb and out of control at the same time. God, it hurts. All of it. Lord Fyre. Garrett. When am I going to stop aching?
"Comfortable?" he asks sarcastically from the doorway.
"Almost." I sprawl deeper into the couch, sipping The Glenlivet with grand aplomb, hoping for a spanking.
"Let's get this over with. Our table is ready, we can be finished eating before the regulars arrive."
I stifle a laugh, trying to look serious. "Are you dreading this, too?" I hold out the tumbler and am surprised when he comes toward me to take it, tilting his head back to down the contents in one swallow. He left the door to his office open and from the hallway I hear several voices, but see it is just his handlers as they pass one after the other, going down to the main levels. Showtime.
"I am," he admits, lifting my legs to sit on the couch then lowering my legs so that they drape over his lap. He hands me the empty tumbler. I lift the bottle, asking with a silent lift of my eyebrows if he wants me to refill it. "Please."
With only a small green-shaded desk lamp and a small table lamp beside the couch glowing, his office isn't dark, but it isn't bright either. Mood lighting, although I'm not sure what mood he was striving for in his office. There are overhead fluorescents available, but they aren't turned on. I watch him lean his head back against the sofa, slouching into its comfort after he takes a swallow from the fresh glass of Scotch. He balances the glass on his chest.
"I really don't want to go to the Oasis tonight," he admits.
"Then why are we going?" I ask softly.
"I really don't want to go home."
I rub my bare cheeks with my palms, digging my fingers into my PVC-covered forehead as I rub to try to relieve the headache I realize just formed. "At least you're honest."
"All we have is honesty, Kitten. If we blow that we're screwed."
I nod, not liking it much, but it's truth.
"So honestly, are you attracted to me still---now?" I ask, trying to not sound as pathetic as I feel.
He rolls his eyes to look at me, shifting his gaze without moving his head. "You're serious?"
I nod.
He scoots and pulls me so that I am farther onto his lap but still laying back against the couch. Unsnapping one strap that barely covers my nipple and then the other, he lets my breasts spill completely out, then lightly strokes the nipples, making them pebble hard. "Being attracted to you isn't the problem, Kitten. You are incredibly beautiful. Being Lord Fyre's plaything for three months didn't change your beauty. If anything, your beauty has increased with your self-confidence. Lord Fyre turned you into quite the slut."
I jump at his crude honesty. He pinches my right nipple and I close my eyes, enjoying the quick jolt. He pinches the left nipple too, harder, and I moan.
"I can't stop thinking about you making that sound for him. I can't stop thinking about all of your sounds, your sighs, your growls, your scream. Those were the sounds you made for me, and now you've made them for him, too."
"But I..."
"Sh-h, Kitten, let me finish," he says, "I thought for a moment that I was just feeling jealousy, but I've never been jealous---ever. Though once, with Tony, I made him give up a lover, but only because of time, too much time with the other man, not enough with me, but it wasn't jealousy...it was scheduling---and sadly, that decision cost me Tony's life and almost yours."
I don't want to think about what he is saying about the man who kidnapped me and killed Tony, my dead boss, Mr. Bosko. I shudder and he pulls me close, kissing my temple, saying, "Sorry," before he continues, "I'm just trying to say that I'm not jealous."
He laughs at the face I make, affronted.
"Wait," he cautions, seeing I'm about to speak. "I don't have to be jealous to prove I love you. The thing is, although Lord Fyre played a very big part in creating in me the dominant I am today, we're very different in our Mastering styles. It doesn't make one better than the other, just different and if I am insistent that before we go any further than we have, it is because you do have to be sure this time. The next commanding Dom who looks your way and makes you feel you have more darkness to discover---well, let's just say that's not happening. It has nothing to do with jealousy but it has a lot to do with possessiveness and that, too, is a new feeling for me. I don't want to share you. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
I nod, but I'm unable to stay silent, promising, "I never stopped wanting you."
"I know," he answers quietly and reaches for me. "Come here."
I climb completely into his lap, looping my arms around his neck. He unzips the small zipper over my neck that holds the PVC mask, complete with kitty ears, to my face and head. Pushing the hood off, he ruffles my damp bangs and wipes the sweat off my forehead.
"These damn suits are too hot to be completely enjoyable," he comments, unzipping the back of the suit as well, exposing my back. Cool air floods my skin and I feel several big wet drops of perspiration roll down my skin. Garrett is suddenly close, too close. I've been sprawled mostly over his legs, but until this moment, he wasn't really there. Or maybe I wasn't really here. It seems I am seeing him for first time and he is incredible to look upon. Sensual. Intense. Holding himself in check, like a high-tension coil ready to spring.
"I like the catsuit, it's beautiful," I assure him. As quickly as I say it, I realize just how uncomfortable I am in the PVC, the row of thin welts covering my back itchy and stingy at the same time. I wiggle and arch, trying to get relief from the discomfort.
"Beautifully uncomfortable." He chuckles softly, running his hand down my bare back and I find myself willing my body to not move.
"Relax," he demands softly with an eerie calmness that makes my insides quake. I feel my eyes drop, my cheeks heating.
His fingers trace each welt, drawing my attention back to the sting, making me remember how I received each one. I close my eyes, embarrassed. How did I ever think I could return to Garrett and it would be magically okay?
"I'm sorry," I whisper, not regretting what I did with Lord Fyre, but feeling like I owe Garrett an apology. For a second, I wonder where Lord Fyre is, if he has joined his wife and children yet...if he's thought about me as often since he left as I thought about him. I open my eyes to find Garrett watching me and know my face is drooped with sadness because the gaze he reflects back is one of empathy. It kills me that he knows I am hurting this much.
"For what?" he asks softly.
Shrugging my shoulders, I reply, "Isn't it obvious?"
Reaching around me, he tilts my chin toward him, so that I have to look over my shoulder to his face. Caressing my cheek, he draws me back against his chest so that our faces are almost touching. To look at him, eyes slanted, head lying tilted against the sofa, he is relaxed, but the energy simmering from his body is all but relaxed.
I shiver nervously against him, and even though I am leaning into him, I am wired tight. Something glints beneath his own hooded lids, he is projecting comfort, ease, so hard, but there is nothing comfortable or easy about the energy passing between us.
"There is nothing to be sorry about," he says, leather sofa squeaking as he pivots me, slowly, carefully, so that I am bent over his elbow, my back completely exposed to him.
I swallow hard, not believing him. My heart speeds to triple time, sounding like thunder in my head. Carefully, slowly, he peels open the back of my suit, exposing more flesh. I feel myself tense, I can't help it as he arranges me. His hands move to my shoulders in a flash of heat and silkiness, pushing the PVC over the sides of my arms.
His hands are so soft and gentle, though he touches me deliberately, willing me to relax with silent strokes and gentle squeezes, no longer focused on the welts and bruises but focused on tense muscles. Loosening bits of me I wasn't even aware were tight. He draws his fingers down my spine, tickling, teasing, waking me up on the inside.
Stroking me in a way that makes my skin melt and my brain mushy, he whispers, "I need you to talk to me about it, so I'll know what you're feeling."
Every nerve ending jumps in response to the demand in his voice, even though he whispered, maybe because he whispered. I had forgotten his feral intensity, so much a part of him that it is forgotten until he makes me remember.
"Tell me about your time with Lord Fyre," he says, turning my shoulders and leaning me back into the crook of his elbow. "Tell me what you are thinking, what you are feeling now that you are back here...with me."
I squirm in his lap, trying to escape, uncomfortable beyond belief, trapped by the PVC holding my elbows against my body, held by him.
"Do you think you're going somewhere, Kitten? No, I don't think so. You're uncomfortable, and I understand that, what you shared with Lord Fyre was intimate, mentally, physically, emotionally, but if you are mine, the only way this will work is if you submit completely. You will share all of the intimate details of every moment, of every scene."
What is it about sadists and their insistence on submission? If I am truly a masochist, and judging by the amount of chaos I've caused myself, it's true, then I should want this. I should want to totally submit to Garrett all things, even this. But I sit, silent, not willing to share what I haven't even had time to digest myself. I am saved by a knock on the doorframe, calling my attention to one of his men in black. I cover my breasts, wrapping myself in my arms, hiding. Garrett doesn't allow me the luxury of modesty, pulling my arms down to my sides, exposing my breasts, holding my wrists until he feels me relax, resigning myself to this forced exposure.
His man in black asks from the hallway, "The package is here. Where do you want it?"
"Here is fine."
Two more men appear, maneuvering a dolly, I turn to look at the wall behind Garrett, flustered, embarrassed, trying to figure out what to say, what not to say while the men shuffle about in the room. Finally, I hear their footsteps retreating, a man asking, "Would you like the door open or shut?"
"Open is fine."
Garrett chuckles, turning my face to look at him, I feel my blush rise. "What is this? You're embarrassed, honestly embarrassed?"
I shrug.
"Why?" he asks, sounding incredulous. "I saw the pictures highlighted in Inappropriate Voices from your Lost Kitten tour and I can honestly say, you were more exposed then than now. What happened?"
I shrug again, my voice lost. He shakes his head. "Fine, let's break this down and make this very simple for you. Tell me about that." He nods his head toward the spot on the floor where his men left his delivery, I turn my head just enough to see what he is taking about and my mouth drops. My cat cage.
Everything unravels at once, my brain, my body, my heart, emotions I haven't felt in years as the cat cage recedes behind a blur of tears. I will not cry. I will not!
Suddenly, I am buried against him, sobbing, saying things I never meant to say aloud, declaring my love, admitting how much I miss my mother, wishing I'd lost my virginity to anyone besides Lion, hating my father, blaming God, and then the tirade stopper, because after I say it I can't say anything else, "I miss Fyre."
He lets me cry, holding me, waiting for my sobbed litany to stop and then waiting for the pathetic hiccupped sobs to cease. Waiting, patiently, until I can look at him.
I heave a sigh, in that all sobbed out way that sounds especially pathetic when nothing can be said to make things right.
"Better?" he asks, his voice like warm, smooth bourbon.
I nod my head, thinking, please let this go.
Garrett pushes me up and forward, readjusting my catsuit, pulling the fabric back over my shoulders, zipping me, snapping the straps over my breasts to hide my nipples. Shit, shit, shit, I've ruined everything.
"I'm sorry," I say, but I know it is too late for I'm sorry. I start to stand but Garrett holds me in his lap, holding me while he pulls his cell phone from his pocket. He dials, saying, "Bring the car around," then folds the phone closed.
"No, Kitten, I'm the one who's sorry. I wasn't brave enough to take you to the penthouse, I thought it would be easier to get reacquainted here, where we first met, but the thought of taking you to The Oasis...I can't." He brushes my bangs out of my face. "I'm not ready for that. When I take you back into The Oasis, to share you with my friends, I want it to be a celebration...that you are mine, and I am yours." He tilts my chin up when my face drops. "I thought bringing you here would reverse time, make things automatically right, and I was delusional to think so."
His gaze holds me still, searching my face for answers.
"I can't reverse time. I can't take what I shared with Lord Fyre back," I whisper.
"I don't want you to take it back, I don't want you to regret it---but I do want you back. The question is do you want me back?"
The raw emotion in his eyes makes me start to cry again but I nod.
"Good. We're going back to the penthouse now, so that we can restart where we left off. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Heart thudding because I think he's implying that he wants to make love to me. Am I ready for this? I nod, trembling, nervous.
"Is that what you want?"
I nod.
"No, ask me."
"Make love to me?" I ask and it sounds uncertain even to me.
The limo ride to Garrett's isn't nearly long enough. I sit on the edge of my seat, worrying a fingernail, and he lets me, not even attempting to touch me. This ride to his place is so much different than my first trip to his house. That trip seemed to take hours, but in a good way; this trip, speed of light, and that is bad, very, very bad. I need time to think, time to process, and time to figure out how I could ever convince him that I want him. I'm here, isn't that good enough?
Sure, lots of really cheesy ideas come to mind---a strip tease, a lap dance, a welcome home blowjob---and I'm not up to any of them. I don't want to play games. I lied my way into his life, got caught, and promptly got dumped. It doesn't sound pretty when put that way, but damn it, that's what happened. He didn't want me. Even when I obsessed about him, exposed my soul to most of the California coast, and generally made a really big fool out of myself, he didn't want me. Then, kidnapped and almost killed, I got his attention. I tell him I want his best friend to play with for a while, still not sounding pretty, but yeah, I got his attention on that one, too. Now, voilà, he wants me?
Does he?
What can I possibly do to make him believe that I want him?
Too soon the limo door is being opened by the doorman, Gerard. Too soon, we ride up the elevator to his penthouse.
God damn. I give up worrying the fingernail and rip the painted acrylic tip off with a solid grip of teeth. This shouldn't be this stressful.
Fyre went to his wife.
I came back to Garrett.
All is right with the world. Right? I didn't know it was going to hurt so much. I am happy to be here with Garrett and it hurts like hell. I miss Lord Fyre...and that hurts like hell too.
Garrett holds open the door for me and I am assailed by a million memories. It is said that everyone's home smells a certain way, their scent, and I think that's true because I wasn't really homesick until this minute. Now that I'm here, I know I'm home. Turning to him, I can't take another step. I reach out my arms, looping my hands around his neck, crying, because that seems to be all I can do tonight. "I've never had a home. Not where I knew I was loved, knew I was safe, until I came here. This feels like home to me and it's not because of the walls or the floors or the ceiling, or anything that makes this place other than a building. It's you, Garrett. You feel like home to me. Do you understand?"
"Yeah, I do," he answers, pushing his forehead against mine. "Welcome home, baby."
Fur rubs around my ankles. "Monet!" I shriek, squatting in my four-inch heels to pick her up. "Oh my God! You kept her! Oh my God! Thank you, thank you, thank you," I say, standing with her in my arms, stroking her, but she doesn't like the feel of the PVC and struggles from my arms, bouncing back down onto the wood floor with a thud.
"What was I going to do, throw her out?"
I shrug, screwing my face into the universal scrunch for "duh."
"I'm a sadist, not heartless, there is a difference, besides, there were the kittens to think about."
"She had kittens?" I gasp.
He points with his head to the sofa where five kittens sleep. I race across the room to see them, kneeling, stroking their round bellies while they sleep. I whisper, "Thank you."
"You said that."
"I really, really mean it." My head nods, and more tears flow. When did I become such a baby?
"It's okay," he says, taking my hand and pulling me toward his bedroom. "Come with me."
I stall in the middle of the doorway, shaking.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"I don't know what to do."
"What are you talking about?"
"To make you know that I want you because I want you to feel wanted, cherished, and I don't even know how to reconnect with you."
He pulls my hand and I go two steps farther into the bedroom. His eyes narrow. "Resistance isn't making me feel cherished, Kitten."
"I know!" I shriek, frustrated that I'm screwing this up...again.
He catches my cheek in his palm as my face drops forward and he closes the gap between us, lifting my face so that he can kiss me. I don't resist and he kisses me like a man well skilled, making my body want to melt into him, but my brain rebels, thinking too much. He pulls away, holding my gaze, drawing my hand, me attached, to the bed.
"Look, Kitten, I know you don't have a switch that clicks from on to off and off to on. I know that you experienced something very powerful and amazing at Lord Fyre's, and for a while, you may even make comparisons. I'm not promising to not get really ticked off when you do, because I might, and I say that because I'm getting a little ticked off that you're not trusting me enough to help you make this all right."
I let him pull me forward.
"We do need to talk about the time you spent with Lord Fyre, and we will talk about it, but you can't share the last two months in a few minutes. So, I am taking you to my bed, because what we shared once was powerful and sexual. I enjoyed you. You enjoyed me. And that is where we are going to start again. Someday, you may ask me to Master you. And if you can make me believe you mean it, I will Master you. Until then, if you are willing to let me, I want to love you, because while you were with Fyre, I wasn't thinking about the times I spanked you, or the times I bound you. I missed the times you held my hand. I missed your smile and your laughter."
My knees hit the edge of the bed and he pushes me down onto the mattress. Holding my shoulders he looks into my eyes, commanding, "Relax." He rolls me onto my side and slides the zipper of my catsuit down my back. Drawing it down off my shoulders, he pulls my arms out. Lying me all the way back, my upper half nude, he lifts my hips and shimmies me the rest of the way out, leaving me nude, exposed, shaking. Just his gaze sweeping over my body makes me quake.
He runs his hand down the center of my body, ending at my clit. Kneeling next to the bed, he looks closely, too closely, leaving me overwhelmingly selfconscious as his fingers press apart the lips of my labia. Looking. "I missed this too."
"...the shadows of our own desires stand between us and our better angels, and thus their brightness is eclipsed."
-Charles Dickens, Barnaby Ridge
Thomas
I am exhausted and more than a little irritable, having been on the hunt for my wife and children for four days. I knew they wouldn't be at her father's house in Cairo and that they had left with him for the Sudan, but damn, the Sudan isn't that big. I can fall off the face of the earth, I can disappear, but I always find those who think they can disappear. For the life of me I cannot believe my pregnant wife is dragging three small children through the desert. When I find her, and I will, I will kill her, if the rebels haven't already had the pleasure.
Tonight I will sleep in Wadi Halfa, a juncture between Cairo and what used to be the Sudanese border. Technically, today it lies in Sudan; a month ago it was Egypt, country designation changing with the day's guard, whoever has the most guns today wins. Ten years ago, I might have been persuaded to call it a town, but to say that it is a town would imply that any form of modern civilization exists.
The Range Rover I drove into town will not see me out. Transportation from this point farther south seems questionable at best. Based on the east bank of the Nile River, I could conceivably hire a boat, a better bet than relying on the train that sometimes goes through, but most times doesn't. I am hoping for a bus, also unpredictable, but more reliable than my other options because a regular flow of buses usually follow the road along the Nile. There is no bus stop, no bus schedule, and no organized itinerary, it's sort of like sticking out your thumb to hitchhike and getting closer to where you want to go, if not the exact destination.
Since I am not sure where I'm going, taking the luck of the draw bus seems the best way to get there. Once upon a time, a little more than five years ago, I stumbled upon Lattie when I was leaving Egypt in a hurry. She hid me in her father's tent. Until the morning I awoke to her note saying that she was joining her father in Cairo, we'd been together most of the years since.
I sit beneath the shade of a canvas lean-to, invited by one of the locals to share his dwelling and drink tea. I envy him his simple abode, cooler than my stifling hotel room. If only to keep me out of jail tonight, I rented a room, the accommodations the best in town, offering a thin, ancient mattress that sits on the floor, a green metal table and small plastic chair. The room is as clean as it can be, though the plaster is chipped, scuffed and painted an awful shade of blue that seems grey next to the brilliant blue sky beaconing from the small open window. After reading the temperature in the room, I escaped to the out of doors, where the air is unmoving but at least fresh. I'd give my soul for a shower, soap. I was told that the communal showers in the center of the Nile Hotel are closed temporarily, until the end of the water shortage comes. Sometimes, the desert isn't so bad and water can be had for a price, other times, like now, no water for miles. Living in the United States, I have forgotten that simple daily hygiene is a luxury that can only be had for a price in other parts of the world, and sometimes not even money can answer your desires.
Time passes slowly in the desert, flies competing for a spot on my nose or lips, seeking moisture. I shoo them away, but they seem immune to my swatting. Several die for not taking the hint to go away.
Aside from drinking tea and watching the young boys stand guard over their small tables of wares, clear glass bottles of dark amber gasoline, roughly a liter in each bottle, and the Coca-Cola that marks today's hot commodities, I have little to do. Each corner has a table set up, hosted by a young boy. Stranded here for six hours, already it seems like days. I place a travel thermometer on the table beside me---one hundred and twenty degrees Fahrenheit. It is a dry heat, much like opening an oven door. My shirt is as wet as it could possibly get. I consider pulling it off and wringing it out, but that might be looked upon poorly by the locals. Here, the men wear a white long-sleeved garment that looks like a nightshirt, except longer, to the ankles. They look cooler than I feel in my cotton T-shirt and jeans, but then I want to stand out as the tourist in town. That and my fake American accent will see me at least delivered back to Cairo on a very bad day, whereas if I dressed in traditional garb, with my coloring, I could be shot on sight just because, depending on who is carrying the rifle and who is controlling the border today.
A roar in the sky alerts me to a helicopter, no doubt military issue. There is also little doubt that it is here for me, especially when it lands less than a hundred yards from where I sit.
The young soldier who hops out looks nicely starched; he is flanked by three others as he approaches. "Sir? I'm here to request you that you get in the helicopter, Sir."
I note that the three men flanking him are pointing their Kalashnikovs at my midsection. I shrug, holding out my arms to my sides, sending out the I'm not dangerous vibe. I don't mind going with them, the helicopter is definitely better than waiting another hour, or day, or week for the bus, and I recognize the men's uniforms as those of her father's brand of armed guns. I don't bother asking where we're going. I'm only mildly surprised when they don't search me. Regrettably, I once took out three of his men because they'd decided I didn't need my weapons and I was forced to demonstrate that I really don't need my weapons. I am calmer with the small arsenal I have tucked away in my loose clothing: two knives, two small caliber guns. I'm glad they let me keep them. Knowing that they know I am armed but choose to let me stay that way, almost makes me feel that this isn't going to go as badly as I think it's going to go.
Three hours later, I find myself sipping more tea, though this time in a tent on the Egypt side of the border. It is a luxurious tent set in the middle of nowhere. Large oriental rugs, overlapping and covering the wide space, oversized pillows in slick satins and shiny silks, each embroidered in intricate patterns, litter the floor, serving as beds, seats, tables, whatever is needed at the moment.
I am unimpressed because, as far as I know, Lattie and my children are on the Sudanese side of the border with her father. Somehow, when I hear the commotion outside my tent, I'm not too alarmed. Only my wife can curse in six languages simultaneously, and when she is tossed into my tent unceremoniously, I know that I'm really racking up a debt-bill with Charles François Charbonneau, her father and the second wealthiest man within about two-thousand kilometers.
"You!" she screams, pointing a finger at me. I follow only every other word after that as she skips in and out of languages faster than my brain can translate, I roughly catch the drift of the one-sided conversation as who in the hell do you think you are and several impossible suggestions involving camels. I wait for her to stop screaming and for the tirade to drop to only two languages so that I can jump in with both feet.
"How dare you follow me here!" she says in French, followed by, "I told you---I need time to think!" in English, and "Why are you always so dangerous?" in French again.
I stick with English, not that it matters, but I hope she'll follow suit. "Me? I am not the one who took three small children into a war zone!"
"Vous exagérez."
"No, I'm not. That your father encouraged this insanity is not surprising, since he raised you between three warring countries, but come on---three children under the age of four and a pregnant woman? Were you sightseeing?"
"Je vous ai dit que c'était une réunion de famille!" she screams. "Did you even read the note?"
"I read the note, but it didn't say anything about crossing into Sudan." I use my calm voice.
"You wouldn't have let me come if I had."
"As if you'd ask permission!"
"We crossed the border for a day and a night! We're safe, okay? I'm sorry if I scared you." She sighs, then starts pacing. "Mon père est ici, Thomas. Qu'avez-vous pensé qà arrivé?"
"I don't care if you are with your father! Anything could happen out here!" I sigh heavily and she argues nothing further. We are left merely staring each other down. "You're lucky to be alive."
Shaking her head, she says, "A daughter's love holds only so much sway here, Thomas. He wanted to kill you and I begged him not too."
"Maybe you shouldn't have. I'm not a good person, Lattie. It's having you in my life that made the difference. You bring balance to my life...you and the children. Please, come home."
"I know, baby." She lifts her eyes to me and smiles.
Of all the women I've shared my life with, Latisha understands my conflicts, my demons, even if she isn't privy to the details of my dangerous past. If this tantrum is as bad as it ever gets, I still think we'll be okay. Sometimes, I think she may even love me.
I hold open my arms, hoping for a truce with my wife at least and I'm glad when she walks into my arms and I find her pliant. I stroke the small of her back, knowing from past pregnancies that she likes it when I do. I am rewarded with her sigh.
"I've missed you, Lattie," I whisper into her hair. It smells fresh and clean, scented with jasmine. Obviously her father can afford the luxuries.
"Sh-h." She presses her fingertips to my mouth. "We don't say things we don't mean, Thomas. Even if it seems the right thing to say, remember?"
I start to argue with her, to tell her that I honestly missed her, but she replaces her fingers with her mouth, silencing me with her tongue. In the silence of her kiss, I am forced to realize that I did miss her. I missed her expertise in the erotic arts, I missed the knowledge she has of my body.
I have missed my children. I love them, all of them, even though Hektor isn't biologically mine. When she talked me into helping her get out of Cairo, I hadn't realized she was pregnant until after we were away safe. If I'd known she was pregnant, would it have made a difference? I don't know. I do know that she was so afraid of losing her independence to a man she didn't love that she would risk everything to keep her pregnancy secret.
I needed a fresh start, a new identity. If my enemies did come looking for me, they would not seek a man with a wife and a child. If she used me for a fresh start, I used her as well. Then there was the lust. Maybe it was just the element of mystery, danger, and the fact that we were total strangers. The beginning was easy.
If nothing else, lust has kept us from killing each other.
Pulling me down onto a pile of floor pillows, she unbuttons my shirt. If I stink from three days in the desert with no bath, she is kind enough to not mention it. She strokes my chest while I undo the many layers of cotton and silk she wears, exposing her large, heavy breasts and her swollen stomach. Three months have made a significant difference in her shape. For a moment I hold the roundness between my hands, waiting for the baby's kick to find me as they mysteriously do and am rewarded with a quick movement.
Lattie smiles, but her eyes hold sadness. I wish I could make things different but I can't. I hold her, stroking her, rolling her onto her side and positioning pillows to make things work out when I enter her from behind, spooning around her, cradling our unborn child and feeling its movements against my palms as I move inside her. Sex doesn't cure all ills, but for a moment I forget exactly why I was so pissed off. She too puts her anger away for this.
"I know these scars, Thomas," Lattie says, rubbing her fingers around each quarter-size circle, a trail of eight running diagonally across my back, left hip to right shoulder, old scars, faded but still visible, even after twenty years. "I grew up seeing men make scars like this. Machine gun spray gave you these scars. So many scars."
I roll away from her, onto my back, hiding the scars from her, hiding the memory of how I got the scars from myself, never admitting to anyone that they were self-inflicted to escape another life, another identity. I pull her down onto my chest, though she is still folded, sitting on her knees.
"I can't go back to the United States, Thomas."
"I don't want my children raised here."
"You think I do?" she gasps. "I told you, I needed to be here but I wouldn't put them in harm's way! I don't intend to stay here forever, but I do want my child born here."
"My children are not staying here!" I argue, my voice so full of emotion that I am pushing her away, but I cannot help it. This time, this war is too close to my heart.
She pulls away, standing and redressing in the layers she entered the tent wearing. I pull on my pants as she paces the tent, if we're going to fight again; I'm at least going to be wearing clothes.
I implore once more, "Let me get you out of here, Lattie. Pick anywhere else in the world to raise our children." As soon as I say the words, I regret them, knowing just how badly I have been played.
"I'm glad you feel that way. From here, we travel to Bahrain. After the baby is born, I will be taking the children to France. My father has a large estate there, vineyards, land, horses. It will be a good place for them to grow and then, when they are eleven, we will discuss boarding schools."
"I can't live in Bahrain, Lattie," I state a truth she knows well. There is a death warrant for me in Bahrain, the king less forgiving than even Lattie's father, and knowing he is here in this makeshift tent city makes me very nervous. I do not want my children to see their father killed by their grandfather. "I can't go to France, either." A treason trial awaits me there. If this is karma coming back, I am truly being punished.
"I know, Thomas. I want you to leave. Return to the United States. You're protected there."
I shake my head in denial, knowing she has no intention of ever returning to the States. As much as she once thought she wanted all that it promised, it was ultimately the materialistic gluttony and imperialistic governmental ideals that made her hate the US.
"Will it help you to go if you know that the child I carry isn't yours?"
I see the truth of her words reflected in her eyes. Together five years, I know the difference between her truths and her lies but hearing truth and accepting truth is two different things. I close my eyes, wanting her words to be a lie, wanting to believe that she is saying hurtful things to make my leaving easier. I want to ask who, but the tent flap swings open and I spin around to find myself facing her father. Before the door-flap slides back in place, I see that darkness has fallen, at some point becoming night. The dark doesn't hide the four armed guards standing just beyond the swaying flap. I don't need her father to state the obvious, but he deems it necessary. "There are more than two places you'd be shot on sight. You should be thanking me that you made it as far as you did still breathing. I did some checking, your dead carcass is worth as much to your enemies as you delivered alive."
I pale at his words. I spent too much time and effort making sure my enemies all thought I was dead for this man to awaken old grievances.
"Ah, don't worry, son, all is well, and as long as you behave, your secret is safe with me. Now let's talk about what it's going to take to get you back to the United States alive."
My world was okay as long as I thought my children would be coming back to the States with me. Now, the knowledge that it will be months until I see them again destroys me. I pull them each to me, Hektor, Olympia, Nikkos, so young, so innocent. I close my eyes, wishing I could go back in time, but what would I change?
"Do you have to go, Father?"
I kiss Hektor on the forehead, whispering against his face, "Yes, son, but in an emergency you know how to get a message to me and you memorized my cell number."
"Yes, Father."
I kiss him again, quickly as Olympia climbs over him to get into my arms. I hold her tight, inhaling her scent. She smells like her mother, exotic fragrant oil scenting her dark curls but beneath that is her scent, the distinct scent of Olivia tucked in the soft crease of her neck. I will miss this small girl, my daughter, my princess, and for a second I think I will take a chance against my father-in-law's armed guns, but in the end, the guns win. If anything happened to Olivia, to the boys, I would not want to live a moment more.
"Don't go, I command it!"
I laugh into her hair, pitying for a moment her grandfather, but knowing he will dote on her every bit as much as I have. "I have to go, but I'll see you in the spring."
"That's too long." She stomps her small, bare foot on my thigh. I kiss her nose, standing to hand her to her mother. It crosses my mind that within forty-eight hours and a few stakes called in, I could potentially have my children safely away. I still have a few friends who would help me get my children away safely, unharmed, but that would leave us hunted and having been hunted in the past, it is not a life I want for my children.
I tell myself this happens every day in almost every country---divorce, broken lives. I'm angry there was no warning, but could I have changed it if I'd seen it coming? I'm intelligent enough to know I might have delayed this, but there was no way of stopping this and, for a moment, I allow myself to be pathetic on the inside, hugging all three to me at once. I am strong enough not to let Lattie or her father see my tears. Holding my children, there is still doubt in my mind that her father will let me leave the sands alive and I find myself praying for the plane ride and the time to cry alone.
I'm not going back to the United States, not yet. I need time to think, time to be alone, and with Lattie in the middle of a third-world country, pregnant, I won't be far from her. After all of this, I wish I could hate her, but I don't. I will be close if she needs me, flying only as far as Greece. After her child is born, I will think about returning to the United States, but that is months away and I cannot begin to think about returning and the pain I have yet to feel over not being able to reclaim Sophia.
"Love is the flower of life, and blossoms unexpectedly and without law, and must be plucked where it is found, and enjoyed for the brief hour of its duration."
-D.H. Lawrence
Kitten
I awake to hear Garrett's voice and Enrique's rising in excited discussion. "A week? Ju es'pect me to plan all dis in a week? I don e'en know vere to start. I don e'en like de bitch!"
"Gee, thanks," I say to the beige walls.
Garrett strides into the bedroom, hollering over his shoulder, "Look, figure out a theme, plan the damn party, I have a little more on my plate than normal this week."
I scrunch my face, glaring, confused, tired, achy.
"Good. You're not asleep. You can help Enrique. I hate to do this your first day back, but I have a meeting downtown and I really have to run." He kisses me brusquely and heads back out of the room. Tilting my head in dazed confusion, in desperate need of coffee to clear the fog, I follow Garrett through the extra long great room and into the kitchen.
"Kitten's awake, thanks to your big mouth, but at least maybe she can help you come up with some ideas."
Enrique glances up from a note tablet filled with notes to catch me standing behind Garrett and promptly covers his eyes. "Naked girl, boss."
Garrett turns and wags his eyebrows at me. "Ah, naked girl. We'll have to do something about your delicate sensibilities because she's going to be staying."
"Robe?" Enrique squeaks.
"No, Enrique, she'll blend with the furnishings before you know it. It'll be okay." Garrett reaches for the coffee pot and pours a mug, handing it to me. I lift my brow.
"Tempting," he says, touching his fingers to my lips. "Alas, no time to even drizzle sips from my mouth to yours, but soon, when you are ready, I'll make the time." He kisses my cheek. "I'll be back in two hours, have it planned by then, or I'm using your ass for the party piñata."
Enrique blanches behind his shielded eyes.
"Party?" I ask.
"Jackie's birthday party. It's a surprise and you are helping Enrique plan it. She's turning thirty-eight..."
Enrique snorts, interrupting, "Again."
"Age isn't the important issue," Garrett rebukes. "The theme is. It has to be as dramatic as the woman."
Enrique snorts again.
"I love surprise parties," I say, the caffeine and the challenge perking me up.
"Then I know I'm leaving Enrique in good hands." Garrett kisses my cheek. "Really gotta go. Have it completely planned by the time I get back!"
His exit is sudden, leaving me naked and alone with his houseboy. I sigh into my coffee and swallow a massive gulp.
"Welcome back," Enrique says behind me.
I pivot quickly to face him, expecting sarcasm, but find him blushing behind his still lifted palm.
"Does my being nude really bother you? Or is this theatrical?"
He peeks between two fingers, quickly closing them to hide his eyes. "I don' know what ju mean, but we need to wok on dis."
"Tablecloth?"
"Hmmm?"
"Where does Garrett keep the tablecloths?"
"Dat drawer." Enrique points, I rummage, finally finding the drawer near the vicinity of his blind point. I pull a plain tan tablecloth from the drawer and wrap myself in it.
"Better?" I ask.
Enrique peeks and I am blessed by a gracious smile and his lowered hand. "Si."
"Can I see your notes?"
He pushes the notebook over and I peruse what he has---wigs, makeup, and a word I think if spelled correctly would be decadence.
"This is it?"
"Si. Jackie's favorite tings."
"Ah, and we have to plan a party around this?" Pointing at his list, I see that her birthday is October thirty-first. "Her birthday is Halloween?"
"Si."
"Then we have to have masks...and high drama?" I think out loud.
"But money no object. Free reign." He smiles, waving Garrett's credit card.
"Oh my." I bite my lip, thinking how incredibly dangerous it is to not give someone a preset limit. "How many guests?"
"Intimate. Only a hundred closest friends."
I nod, understanding that a hundred people in Jackie's sphere is rather intimate.
"Do we have a where?" Enrique lifts his brow, making me guess, "The club?"
"Si. Jackie and her friends can be as vulgar as they like."
"Ah," I say.
"What ah? What you mean the way ju say dat ah?"
I smile. "Nothing, just understanding."
He gives me a look. "Ju understand no-ting."
"You don't like Jackie but I have a feeling Jackie likes you."
"No," he denies, adding quickly, "Ju have ideas or not?" He points at his watch. "Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock."
"Yeah, yeah, tick tock, all right. Sure, I have an idea. Jackie adores wigs and makeup and high heels and glamour and decadence. Vulgarity? Erotic?"
"Yeah, si. So?"
"Have you ever seen the movie Amadeus?"
"No."
"Vanity Fair?"
"Si." He nods, smiling. "Big wigs, costumes. Si. Very lavish. Like movie Marie Antoinette."
"Yes! That's it! We'll have a Marie Antoinette Masquerade!"
Amazing things happen when money is no object. I should have been a party planner. Invitations to the surprise party went out a week ago, mine and Garrett's costumes hang ready and waiting in his office, and Jackie was shanghaied for the event two hours ago. We couldn't have her show up at her own party not dressed for the occasion, so her kidnapping and forced costuming became part of the surprise. It is my understanding that although she kicked and screamed, being corseted, made up and wigged had her squirming delightfully. The wig chosen for her is bright white and will tower eighteen inches above her head. I helped pick out her gown and it is beautiful---bright red with orange and magenta embroidery, beaded, and the neckline scooped very low. If nipple doesn't show, it is because she doesn't want it to.
My nipples will definitely show. Actually, my corset is cut to fit completely below my breasts, but then, as I stand drying---my arms, breast, neck, back and face painted white---I wonder if anyone will notice. Closeted in the employees' lounge with six of Garrett's female servers, I apply a thick line of eyeliner. Only seven women will be at the party, they to serve, me to grace Garrett's arm.
It will be my first time seeing Jackie post-Lord Fyre servitude and I'm nervous as hell. I know she didn't like my decision and I know she gave Garrett a hard time about it. I'm hoping this extravaganza at least lets her know how much I care about her. I've missed her and I spent extravagantly as a result of guilt. Even though I didn't directly do anything, my decision to go to Fyre, and Garrett's support of my decision, has affected their friendship.
I wrap myself in a blue terry robe as the women around me flutter and giggle, applying fake eyelashes, dark black fake moles above, below, or beside their dark scarlet mouths. Their wigs are pale yellow, their corsets and skirts match, distinguishing them as servers. I look like a boy next to them, they are all so well endowed. Looking in the mirror, I try to imagine myself with boobs, big ones, maybe a doubleD cup. I push my white painted breasts together with my hands and sigh, I can't even imagine it. However, wigged and painted, even swaddled in blue terry, I am beginning to look exotic in a sultry, eighteenth-century manner. I can imagine the deep royal blue gown and silver embroidered corset. My costume is exquisite on the hanger and that is always a good sign that it will look equally amazing on. For a second I wish Lord Fyre could see me as well as Garrett; I imagine the way he looked at me when he was photographing me on the rocks. He wanted me.
I don't know what kept him from having sex with me. Well, I do. I didn't ask. All I had to say was fuck me, and he would have. But I didn't and he didn't and now he's gone so it doesn't matter. The only thing that does matter is that Garrett wants me to become his pampered pet again and I want to be his Kitten again. I just have to convince him I mean it.
A knock signals it is time for the servers to go out, and they leave me alone for only a moment before Garrett enters bearing my gown, corset and shoes. He isn't dressed yet and I try not to look too disappointed. Admittedly, he is a head turner in slate Armani slacks and a monochromatic pullover sweater, both fitted to show off all his best features.
"How's the captive?" I ask lightly, at a loss how to convince him I want him.
"Captivating," he answers. "Did you know how stunning she would look in the colors you picked for her?"
"She'd look good in sack cloth. I didn't have anything to do with it."
"Well, she's beyond beautiful tonight."
"Should I be jealous?" I ask, teasing, but true worry behind the question makes my smile waiver. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth nervously, balancing by holding onto his shoulders while he helps me step into the skirt, the yards of fabric a nightmare to climb into alone.
"Jackie is my best friend. We've never been lovers and we never will." He rubs my stocking-clad leg from ankle to bare thigh, snapping my garter as I try to maneuver the heavy, swirling fabric and not lose my balance. "If I decide to take a secondary lover, you'll be the first to know."
Secondary lover?
"You aren't helping!" I complain tersely, pushing his hands away, wondering if he's been considering a secondary partner. It's only been twelve days, but I thought things between us were progressing, even though I haven't locked the collar yet, even though I haven't begged him to master me. Oh hell.
Garrett rubs his hand higher, over bare skin, cupping my sex, pinching my labia between satin panties and his forceful fingers, lifting me so that I have to look at him. "I am helping you. I'm being extremely patient."
I gasp as a single digit slides beneath the silk and finds me wet. Our eyes meet, our gazes lock. He wants me to beg and my brain does; every night, he holds me. He makes love to me so tenderly that I want to scream, but still I remain silent. "Master me, Master me, Master me," is the unspoken mantra that I can't seem to voice aloud.
I glance away. "I'm sorry."
"I don't want your apology, Kitten." He pulls the silk panties free in a single rip, throwing them to the side, leaving me bare bottomed. "I want your submission."
"I know." I drop my face farther, heart pounding, knees shaking, not understanding why I can't do as he asks.
He lifts my skirt, exposing my ass to his view. "The marks are faded almost completely," he says before dropping my skirt. It falls with a whoosh around my ankles, sending up an unfamiliar breeze to caress my bare thighs.
I stand shaking, knowing a sadist threat when I hear one. No, not a threat, a challenge left unspoken---are you ready for me to leave my mark on you? Heaven help me, I don't know.
"Bodice," he says, holding out the heavily boned corset. I lift my arms and turn my back to him. He fits the stiff fabric around my ribcage just under my breasts and starts lacing the back. By the time he is finished, I am grunting, the garment so tight I can barely breathe. He turns me toward a mirror to look at myself. "Voilà, beautiful."
I am Yours.
I am Fyre's.
My mouth drops, my heart and lungs freeze in my chest, mid-beat, mid-breath, for a moment I believe I said it out loud; but Garrett turns to leave and I know that I didn't say it. I grip the back of one of the tall-backed chairs, steadying myself. I have to be more careful. What am I doing? Fyre is with his wife. I am with Garrett. I shake myself.
"Are you all right?"
"Fine. It's just the corset, it's tight."
"It is supposed to be tight but I can loosen it a little if you need me to?" he asks, concerned. I shake my head. Irritation fills his voice as he says, "Fine. Meet me in my office. Two ladies down, I get to dress me now."
I turn back to the mirror, watching him leave in its reflection. Looking at myself, I realize why I don't recognize myself. It's not me in the mirror. She disgusts me. I lean in, pointing a finger at the girl in the mirror, growling at my reflection. "You are going to commit to him. Do you hear me? He's a good man. He wants you. Even after the stunt you pulled with Lord Fyre, he still wants you."
Walking into Garrett's office, I'm distracted by a loose string on the front of my corset, trying to decide to pull or not to pull. I decide to not pull, pulling seems like a very bad idea when beading is involved. "Hey, do you have scissors?"
Looking up, I swallow the question behind a cough. Garrett is wearing skintight, navy blue velvet breeches tucked into over-the-knee leather boots with a turned-down cuff at the top of the boot. I think my head tilts, trying to take in the whole view and not able to process so much ooh-la-la at once. Oh my.
When I suggested a Marie Antoinette Masquerade Party, I was thinking about women's hairstyles, flowing gowns, decadence, and frivolity. I wasn't thinking, what would a man of the era be wearing. Now, remembering history classes about Mozart and King Louis XVI, enlightenment dawns in the vision standing before me.
He is painted as white as I, face, neck, hands, his cheeks reddened, scarlet lipstick pouting, even eye shadow in blues and plums. If his face was beautiful before, he is sin itself painted, even the star-shaped beauty mark above his lip is decadently sinful in a kiss me here fashion. He wears a white wig with long curls. His white shirt is all ruffles and lace. His long-tailed silk-brocade jacket in sky-blue with ornate silver embroidery and beading matches his eyes, making us not matchy-matchy, but closely color coordinated enough to take one damn fine photograph...if anyone is so inclined. I do hope someone is so inclined. My God.
I take a step forward but hold myself in check, heart slamming through my chest, trying to escape the bonds of my too-tight corset for want of rushing to him and throwing myself at his feet.
"You're wearing false eyelashes!" I accuse wickedly, smiling.
"So are you," he accuses right back.
I flutter my long, silver stick-on lashes, thinking, oh yeah, I am.
"Do you have a sock stuck in those pants, mister?" I leer.
"I should say not, Madame," he replies aristocratically and with a seemingly well-practiced accent.
The game is on.
"Mademoiselle," I correct with a curtsy, holding out my hand. Predictably, he hurries forward to lift and kiss. "Enchanté." He kisses the top of my hand, then rolls my wrist to inhale and kiss, palm, wrist, then higher.
I clear my throat when he reaches my inner elbow, asking with wide-eyed innocence, "Escortez-moi à la mascarade, mon seigneur?"
"Escortez-moi au sofa, mademoiselle?"
I am stunned by the request, forgetting French, not really believing that he wants me to do what I think he wants to do on his leather couch. "You'll ruin your makeup," I protest, but don't put up a real struggle when he leads me there.
"Be careful and our makeup will survive." He sits, opening the front of his pants, his very hard, very erect penis springing free. He quips, "See, no sock."
He lifts my skirts, sliding his hand over my silk stockings. He snaps my garter against my bare thigh before pulling me onto my knees to straddle him. He slides just the tips of his fingers through my wetness.
"No sock," I repeat breathlessly, holding my skirt out of the way while I fidget into position. Impatient, he grabs my waist and pushes me down, hard and fast, impaling me with that single thrust.
"Oh God," I moan when he hits the wall of my insides and tries to go that bit deeper. "Mon dieu, mon dieu, mon dieu. J'aime ça."
"When you talk to me in French, it drives me crazy." His lips close over my left nipple, not sucking, biting. I embrace the pain, trying not to scream out. Luxuriating in it. This is the first time he's hurt me since my return. He bites harder, making my head swim. I scream out, riding him hard while he bites me even harder. My orgasm takes me by surprise, coming too quickly, embarrassingly swift; however, by his labored breathing I can tell he is with me, following me in orgasmic bliss before my spiraled fall is even complete.
The party is running along at top speed when we arrive, tables set around the walls, leaving the center clear for ballroom dancing. Wigs bob and skirts flutter. It seems the ball is a hit with Jackie's friends.
Garrett kisses my temple, whispering against my face, "You are to be commended, Kitten, the party is a huge success."
Not knowing Jackie's friends as well as Garrett's, I am still nervous and double check everything with my eyes to be certain, taking into account that all is running smoothly. Live music in the corner---clarinets, Baroque oboes, eighteenth-century strings and bows, two violinists and a harp capture the Mozart piece they are playing sublimely. I smile. Finding a group to recreate our eighteenth-century soiree was a challenge, but we did it. I credit Enrique for all the hours he put in to make this happen. I'm sorry he refused to take part in tonight's festivities, but I knew going in that Enrique is not a big Jackie fan.
The beds in the corners, canopied for privacy, were an Enrique-brainstormed moment. He insisted. I thought the beds were a tacky addition since we do have private play rooms strung throughout Lewd Larry's for such moments, but since each of the four beds seems to be occupied to full capacity, I guess I was wrong. I watch as couples disappear between the drapes of one of the opulently curtained beds and decide to stop counting after the fourth couple disappears, not really wanting to know what full-capacity of a queen-size bed is.
Garrett chuckles, seeing where my gaze has wandered. "We'll try out one of the beds later. Right now, I want to dance."
One of the beds later? My brain screeches to a halt. No, no, no. I may have officially acquired slut-girl status by having sex with Garrett's best friend, but having sex with several of Garrett's friends all at the same time? I draw the line. Kitten does not gang-bang.
Dancing a waltz, thighs damp and sticky post-sex, is a new experience and my almost non-existent bare boobs managing to jiggle while we dance keeps me on edge, nervous, or maybe it was only the comment about the bed.
I will kill Enrique for the bed idea.
Three dances later, I have forgotten to be miserable or worried. Sex scenes have broken out all around us. We should have had all beds and no tables. Garrett is having a blast, twirling me around the floor, having learned tonight that I can actually dance. We are laughing and mid-spin when Jackie joins us. She looks incredible.
"Happy Birthday, Jackie," I say, slightly winded.
"Shouldn't you be sitting naked on a cushion, slave?" she demands.
I back away from her vehemence.
"Jackie," Garrett growls a warning under his breath.
"She needs to know her place."
"She is mine. Her place is at my side, in the way I see fit." He defends us and it makes me feel horrible. He shouldn't have to be defending us, or me. I remember the day he was too harsh and it was Jackie defending me and even then his harsh wasn't really harsh, but still, she defended.
"Or until she runs back to Thomas's beach house? Hmmm?"
I back further away, a tear slipping over my cheek. Jackie hates me.
"That was uncalled for, Jackie." Garrett sighs. "Without her, none of this would have happened tonight. Enrique's big idea was penis-shaped piñatas and pin the woody on the donkey."
"So she's a classy party planner, give the girl an award," she quips, snapping her well-manicured fingers, posing for the crowd gathering at her flanks. She titters. "Now let's find you a piece of meat at this party worthy of being your true submissive."
I stand there, in Garrett's shadow, taking her verbal abuse, not knowing what to do or how to stop it. Then, remembering what Garrett said---she is mine---I react without conscious thought, moving closer to press my face between his shoulder blades, wrapping my arms around his waist. "You are mine," I whisper.
I feel him still beneath my hands, knowing he heard me, if no one else did. I say it louder, "You are mine," making sure they all hear.
I drop my hands, cupping his soft, curled cock in my hands and he responds to the touch, growing hard beneath the velvet.
I duck under his arm, still holding him in my hands and the crowd grows larger as I size up Jackie, glaring, seething, baring teeth and hissing at her. "He is mine."
"You could have fooled me. Can you prove it?" She flicks my collar and without the lock through the hinge there is no safety catch. It drops. The crowd gasps as it falls but Garrett manages to catch it.
"The proof is the dampness of his come between my legs; the proof is the mark he left on me when his teeth closed around my nipple." I reach up and flake away dried paint, revealing the deep purple dents made by his teeth on my breast. "The proof is the mark he left on my heart and on my soul and that is no one's business but mine. How dare you challenge a mark so sacred that only he, I and God are privy to it! You may be his oldest, dearest friend---but I am his."
Gasps are followed by oohs and aahs as Garrett secures the circlet around my neck, locking it in place with a small padlock, leaning close to my ear to whisper, "You are mine, Kitten."
I lift my mouth to his, offering my lips. "You are mine, Master," I affirm, kissing him hard and deep. A litany resounds in my head, for better or for worse, for better or for worse, for better or for worse.
I open my eyes to find Garrett gazing into my face. He smiles, I smile, and Jackie in a grand harrumph storms away, followed by her entourage.
"I'm sorry." I say.
"Whatever for?"
"It is her birthday and she is your very best friend. I don't want to come between you."
"You will never come between our friendship, Kitten." Garrett states with a most serious voice. "Jackie has been my friend longer than anyone else. We tend to protect each other."
"And right now, she thinks she's protecting you from me?" I interrupt.
"Yes," he agrees, lifting my chin when I drop my gaze to the floor. "The question is, do I need protecting?"
I close my eyes against his gaze, fighting against the tears that would fall...mad at Jackie for ruining the fun we were starting to have, mad at myself for feeling so much doubt.
Opening my eyes, composed once more, I state an obvious truth without answering his question. "I wear your collar. I am here because I choose to be yours. Can we go back to having fun, now?"
"You are my heart, my life, my one and only thought."
-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The White Company
Garrett
I am not certain whether I should strangle Jackie for trying to cause trouble or kiss her for waking Kitten up. Collared, we can begin again, and she will learn that though Lord Fyre and I play very differently, we still play hard.
I promised her I wouldn't mark her until all of his marks are gone. I lied. There are still faint lines on her back and buttocks; I marked her anyway, circling her breast with my teeth marks. God, she is beautiful, she marks beautifully, all that pale skin, so very white even before the stage makeup.
I purposely chose a table next to one of the beds and although all of the food is decadent, luscious, Kitten has yet to do more than nibble. She watches. Overtly, but I catch her now and then, peeking from beneath hooded lashes. Two men climbed into the center of the bed next to us moments ago, and although they were obviously enjoying each other, one of them called a server to them. She is older, mid-forties, but beautiful, and not as blushingly shy as the twenty-somethings who float around refilling champagne. I was vaguely surprised that she put up little fuss when she was pulled onto the featherbed mattress as easily as she was, but then I look at the two men---Gulliver and his latest beau, Phillip, reputably bi-curious, and seeing that he had no trouble pinning the girl now sandwiched between them, believably so.
I used to believe in labels, straight, queer. I don't like labels so much any more, having no idea where I would fit. Easier to just be who I am than to be classified, especially if someone were to try to label me as bi-curious at this late date.
I seek Kitten's eyes, but she ducks, blushing, and I wonder what she was thinking. I pull her from her seat on the floor cushion at my feet and push her onto the bed. She bumps into Gulliver's thigh and he glances no more than casually until he realizes who has bumped him. I subtly shake my head so as not to interrupt their ménage à trois and he returns his attention to the girl's breasts, sucking, biting. She moans loudly and Kitten angles away, I think in reaction to the sound, trying to become very small.
I push her back into the sinking mattress, lifting her skirts to expose her. I leave her to lie beside the joined threesome, spreading her legs so that her beautiful pink flesh stretches open. Her eyes grow wide, but I cannot tell if she is turned on, humiliated, or scared. Maybe a little bit of each.
I stroke her face, using my fingers to press closed her eyelids, letting her feel the mattress motion and hear the sounds the three are making. Without her sight, only her other senses and her imagination will tell her what is happening, turning the experience into a very up close and personal event.
I touch her clit, lightly enough for her to wonder if she imagined it, and then again for confirmation that she did feel something, barely touching. I repeat the motion, knowing that her mind is making her crazy. She turns her head toward the woman's moans, the sound of a woman on the threshold of orgasm unmistakable. Kitten gasps as I press harder, drawing her attention away from the woman and to the demanding spot between her own legs, pressing against her, not rubbing, not stroking, just easy pressure against her clit.
Gulliver's pants join the woman's and I watch as he pulls back, establishing eye-contact with Phillip, who in turn shakes his head, saying not so subtly, no, not even close. Maybe he's not interested in girls after all, and if not, he maintained his erection inside her ass admirably while she straddled him. In response, Gulliver slows his pace, allowing the woman time to orgasm completely before withdrawing his still-hard penis from her vagina. A small maneuvering springs Kitten's eyes wide in time to see the woman fall to the left beside Phillip, where she lies unmoving, catching her breath.
Leaning over Kitten's face, I demand in my most serious Master tone, "Do I need to ruin your makeup by blindfolding you?"
Her eyes slam shut, missing Gulliver tear a wet condom from his erection and apply a fresh one before pushing Phillip's knees up to his shoulders.
"Wait?" I request, stalling Gulliver just before his thrust met his target. He paused at the last second to look at me, giving me that look, the one that says, this better be fucking mind-blowing. I smile broadly, remembering that once, as Ice, I was the Master of Mind-blowing. Gulliver smiles back and I think, good, he remembers too.
Without too much effort, I prop Kitten against a stack of pillows, so that, spread and exposed, she serves no more function than backrest for Phillip. I place her arms around his chest, so that she is hugging him close, his hips nestled against her spread pussy, knowing that once Gulliver lifts Phillip's legs, the weight of both men will pound Kitten's body. Satisfied, I nod at Gulliver, who lifts and bends Phillips knees. Kitten grunts with the extra weight, but the feather mattress springs with forgiveness, lessening her burden so that when Gulliver plunges and thrusts, Kitten feels all the action and hears all the moaning, sloshing, slapping skin sounds that two men can make while having a really good time of it, but can still manage to breathe.
I am pleased with my efforts, knowing her blood is boiling, knowing she has never been this close and this involved with two men fucking before. As Phillip's sweat makes him slick and hard to hold onto, Kitten tightens her grip; but still I cannot read her face to know what she is feeling. I take the moment to fidget around so that I can kiss her while she holds the man being fucked.
Her mouth responds to mine with enthusiasm, tongue stroking tongue. Just the bobbing motion of her face tells me that her body is taking the full brunt of the two men on top of her. "Open your eyes, Kitten. I want to see you."
Still kissing me, she opens her eyes and her gaze goes to the two men for only a second before locking on mine. Her eyes fill with wonder and more, hunger maybe, making me ask, "Do you like this, Kitten?"
"Yes, Master, thank you for sharing this with me."
I kiss her again, rewarding her honesty.
Without looking, I feel the woman lying beside us move. Half-sitting, half-lying, she reaches out her hand to stroke Kitten's neck, her fingers traveling up to come between our mouths, touching us both as we kiss. My eyes don't leave Kitten's as the woman explores us with her fingers, traveling to touch anything exposed, shoulders, hips, knees, not focusing on one or the other, but touching each of the four of us in turn, with fingers, with lips, pinching a nipple, stroking a leg.
For the most part, all of my clothing is still on, but the woman manages to find me erect. She leaves me covered, patting me lightly, as if to say, I'll be back, or maybe another day. I really miss her touch when she withdraws her hand, but I am not left untouched for long. Kitten's fingers replace the woman's, finding me hard, finding the clasp that holds the pants closed, managing to open my pants while she stares into my eyes. Her kisses and her touch leave me breathless. Oh God.
If I were less experienced, less skilled, I would have come in her hand with that first touch and, as it is, I struggle not to come on the first fluid stroke of her fingers.
I don't take my gaze from hers, even when Gulliver and Phillip start breathing hard in unison. But then Kitten moans into my mouth and I know it isn't reaction to the boys fucking on top of her, but rather because the woman who left me wanting saw no such reason not to touch Kitten.
I want to look. I want to see what she is doing that is bringing Kitten so quickly, but then Gulliver grunts, his orgasm shaking him and the bed, Phillip yells, and Kitten sobs into my mouth, "Oh God, oh God, I am so going to hell for this."
It is more than I can take, and my own wracking orgasm joins theirs. We may all go to hell for this one.
I have never been a believer of too much excess, but after too many glasses of champagne, too many hors d'oeuvres, and a seven-course meal that would have left Henry the Eighth feeling gluttonous, not to mention the sex...and sex...and sex...I never thought I'd say it, but am I feeling the excess and have rarely been this glad to see my home, my bed, my shower, and yes, yes, yes, my toilet. I come out of a steamy shower to find Kitten sitting on the edge of the bed, drying her hair.
"Don't go in there for a bit, eh?" I try for humor, tilting my head at her non-reaction, not even a snicker. "It was a wonderful party, Kitten. If I haven't told you thank you yet, really, thank you for making it an incredible night."
"You said thank you earlier," she answers, not looking up, staring into space.
Leaning in the doorframe, I bend at the waist to swiftly towel-dry my own hair, watching her from the corner of my eye, recognizing the look on her face. It's the thinking too much look. The oh my God what have I done look. I'd hoped she was past that. Obviously, she isn't.
A smudge of white grease paint remains in the crease behind her ear. Taking an edge of the towel, I scrub with the barely damp terry, making little improvement. "Bitch to get all this white off."
"Um-hmm."
"Kitten?"
"Hmmm?"
I squat in front of her, making her look at me. "You didn't do anything to be feeling guilty about."
She swallows hard and a tear drips down her cheek. "And God saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually."
"Kitten?"
Her gaze meets mine, but her eyes are unfocused. "I remember the verse but for the life of me I can't remember whether it was prophesy of the forthcoming flood, or Sodom and Gomorrah. Perhaps it was the foretelling of both. When God gets fed up, he destroys. It seems so important to remember what it takes to make God so mad that he gets fed up, gives up, and destroys."
I shake her shoulders, making her face me. "Kitten, God isn't going to destroy you for what we did tonight."
"How do you know that?"
"Kitten, love. You are perfect in God's eyes."
"I haven't been perfect in a very long time, Master."
I kiss her face, glad her eyes seem focused again. "You are perfect to me, Kitten. In my eyes, you can do no wrong. I love you. Don't feel guilty about tonight. Tonight was wonderful."
She pulls back and searches my face for the truth, whatever had made her feel so torn, the answer she finds in my face makes her smile.
"I scare you shitless when I get all maudlin, don't I, Master?"
"Maudlin? Is that what you call it? God, Kitten, I was waiting for you to start speaking in tongues."
"Sh-h, Master, don't make fun of the sacred." She laughs, grabbing my face and kissing me hard. "Oh God, Garrett. I don't know what I believe. I have all these verses in my head, memorized, stuck there, for better or worse. Sometimes they start battling in my brain and it's hard to think."
"You're thinking now."
"My brain stops reciting when you kiss me."
"Then I will endeavor to kiss you more often."
"My brain isn't reciting but I'm still confused about tonight. I don't understand how I could let that happen." She looks at me, I lift my brow. "Three in the bed? Before, I mean, after we joined them, watching them was one thing, but we joined them, making it five in the bed. Oh my God." She wipes her hand over her face, pinching her entire face between her hands.
"Not attractive," I tell her, pulling her hands away from her face to protect her from herself. Holding her hands, I'm glad when she meets my eyes. I stroke the side of her face and she rubs her cheek into my palm, her eyes drooping with pleasure and maybe exhaustion. I hold her face, asking, "Did you like it?"
She looks away, not pulling away, letting her face lie in my palm, but blushing fiercely, refusing to answer.
"Did I force you to do something you didn't want to do?"
She pulls her lip between her teeth. "Could I have worded out?"
"You can safe word whenever you need to. I told you that."
"I know, I didn't want to. I didn't even consider it. Tonight everything felt so..." she looks at me confusedly, like she's trying to figure out what she wants to say. "Right. Everything happened just perfectly---we only did what we should be doing. My God, there were five of us in a bed together, how can that be right by anyone's standard?"
"You enjoyed it."
"Yes." She nods, hiding behind her hands and for a minute I think she will break into tears, but when she peeks around her hands to catch my gaze, she is smiling. "I am wicked, totally sinfully wicked, by my father's standard, condemned to eternity in hell; but God, Master, I enjoyed tonight---all of it! The nudity, the costumes and makeup, the dancing and food, the sex on the beds and the tables and the floors. It was an orgy from beginning to end and I loved it!"
"I didn't get to have sex on the floor," I pout, pulling her down onto me, rolling us onto the soft, plush carpet, kissing her hard, rewarding her honesty with the graze of my teeth on her bare shoulder. I forget I'm exhausted, I want her again.
The first time I woke up the sun was setting, warm orange hues casting the bedroom in shades of mystery, softening the hard edges. I didn't get up, not even to drop the blackout shades. I did roll over to wrap my arms around Kitten, finding us still on the floor. I managed to drag a blanket over us, not wanting to move, not wanting to wake her, not even to help her into the softer, more comfortable bed. We'd slept all day on the floor, would a few more minutes make a difference?
I wanted to be at the club by ten. Waking at midnight, I realize that isn't going to happen. On my second waking, I roust Kitten, managing to get her up onto the mattress. Her groans let me know that being awake isn't appreciated. I manage to stumble to the bathroom, piss, swallow Tylenol with no water, and climb back into bed. Strangely, I am proud of myself for the accomplishment.
"Damn. Why did you do that?" Kitten growls from beneath the blanket.
I'm too tired to pull a Dom, so I settle for asking, "What'd I do?"
"You pissed. Now I have to piss."
"Oh, that."
While she takes care of her own bladder, I lie in bed grinning like an idiot. We sound like an old married couple. It's pathetic, I'm totally in love with her and I don't care who knows it. It seems important to share this new realization with someone, so I call the club, surprised when George answers, but I don't bother inquiring as to why. If anything tragic requiring my attention would have happened, I'd know it by now.
"I wanted someone to know, I won't be there tonight."
"Is everything okay?" he asks.
"Everything's perfect. I collared Kitten last night."
"I was there, Garrett."
Kitten flops down on the bed, pulling all of the sheets and blankets onto her side.
"Share," I growl. She harrumphs but acquiesces, taking elaborate measures to make sure I'm comfortably covered. "Good girl, thank you."
She lies down on her pillow, watching me.
"Garrett?" George's voice bellows over the phone. "Is everything all right?"
I smile at Kitten, "Everything's wonderful, George. I just wanted someone there to know that we won't be there. So, you'll take care of things?"
"Oh sure, I'll take care of everything. Fyre's gone, you're gone, Morgana called in with the flu, right, like I believe that. I was at that party, too, damn it..."
"Thank you, George," I cut him off mid-sentence, clicking my cell phone closed with a sigh. "We're playing hooky tonight."
"Thank God."
I laugh at her heartfelt response.
"I don't know about you, but damn, that was a helluva party."
"You throw a mean party, Kitten."
"Do you think we could do it again?" she asks, pulling the blanket up under her chin, looking very innocent. "We could make it a once-a-month event!"
"Dear lord, Kitten," I groan. "Ask me again after I've recovered completely from this party." I use the last of my energy to swat her behind, making her giggle and rub against me sweetly. "Go to sleep."
In all, we slept twenty-one hours with only a few bleary moments of bathroom stumbling before either of us felt like facing the world for real and then we only made it as far as the kitchen for juice and the sofa for an afternoon of television channel surfing. When it was time to face the realization that we had to get dressed for work, I wasn't excited. Strange, I love the club. I always want to go to work. It takes us both an exceptionally long time to get dressed and out the door.
Lazy, I call for the limo, usually reserved for special occasions and PR moments. Tonight, it's pure lethargy. That and I want to hold Kitten in the backseat. I torment her terribly, pinching her nipples and teasing her clit through her satin panties.
"I love to touch you," I growl, hugging her tight.
She reaches up to stroke my cheek. "I love to touch you, Master."
Too soon, we are pulling up in front of Lewd Larry's. I almost ask to be driven around the block again, just to play with her more; however, feeling slightly guilty, but not too much, I get us into the club before the public doors open.
It gives us a chance to walk through the lower levels to the elevator without excessive scrutiny. I allow Kitten to walk beside me, though we don't hold hands. I find myself wanting to hold her hand as we walk. If the doors had already been open and guests present, she would have had to crawl behind me.
Inside the elevator, I press her back against the glass wall, kissing her, holding her hands high above her head. "I want to bind you tonight."
"Yes," she hisses.
It has been a long time since I've played with her at the club. Tonight, I decide, I want to play. If I have to be here, I want to enjoy it completely.
"How do you want to bind me?" she whispers, her voice shaking just a little. It pleases me that I can get such an intense response from her with just a few words.
"Leather cuffs around your wrists, your arms pulled high over your head, stretching you onto your tiptoes."
"And then?"
"I don't know." I kiss her nose as the elevator doors spring open. "When I decide, you'll be the first to know."
In the middle of the hallway, I stop to kiss her.
"Are you recovered fully from the party?" she teases.
"Why?" I ask, intrigued.
"Just wondering if we could do it all over again?"
Every nerve ending in my body springs to attention with her question.
"Mr. Lawrence?" I turn with slight irritation to my waiting secretary, sending Kitten into my office to wait for me while I get a report on last night's numbers from the main office. I am pleased to find that the public numbers were staggering, but then any time something special happens at Lewd's that pulls major news coverage, our public numbers go through the roof. I didn't watch the news to see if Jackie's party rated high on the publicity charts, but knowing Jackie, she sold them exclusive video footage from inside the Masquerade Ball.
I'm not surprised to see the members-only numbers are low, very low. Jackie's little birthday bash had a significant effect on attendance but not on overall income. Thus assured everything went smoothly in my absence, I make my way to my office and Kitten.
"Miss me?" I ask from the doorway.
Standing beside my desk, she is distracted, stroking the top of my computer monitor with reverence. This is the third time I've caught her this way, looking at the keyboard with intense longing. It makes me jealous and envious.
"Kitten?"
"Hmmm?" she asks, utterly distracted She sits in my desk chair, touching the keyboard, not turning on the computer. Her fingers fly across the keys, her eyes close and a tear slides down her cheek. Shoulders slumping, she stands and walks away from the computer, sighing heavily. She walks to the window and looks down at the forming line, forgetting that I am even here or that we were having a conversation.
She's a writer. I'm not sure when I'd forgotten and maybe never considered what she'd given up to be here with me. I remember my first year away from the hospital, holding a butter knife would make me long for the smell of disinfectant. I made the choice to walk away from medicine and still it took years to not regret the decision. Some mornings, I still wonder. No one gave her a choice. She deserves time to be herself in addition to being mine. I don't mention it now, but I add this latest revelation to my things to do for Kitten list.
I close the distance between us, wrapping my arms around her waist to pull her hips into my groin as I rest my chin on her shoulder. "You were asking me if we could do something again, Kitten, but you didn't tell me exactly what it is you want to do again?" I whisper, sucking her earlobe between my lips. Her eyes close and she sighs.
"The Masquerade Party," she answers. "I was thinking that everyone had so much fun, we should do it again. A new tradition maybe, like Margarita Movie Mayhem Sundays, just for our friends, or if you think the members would be interested, we could offer it every three or four months as a gala, extra charge for admission of course." Her eyes open and she looks over my chin as I continue sucking her earlobe. "Well?"
I release her lobe, kissing her cheek, "You're expecting a response?"
"You hate the idea." She pouts.
"I'm glad you enjoyed it, Kitten. I'll bring it up at the next board meeting."
"Oh." She turns back to the crowd, but I feel her disappointment at not receiving a more enthusiastic response. "The line seems small tonight."
I peek over her shoulder, looking down the three stories to the sidewalk below. Ten early arrivals make a ragtag line. Tourists. "Still early. I'm not worried." I kiss her shoulder, "I need to make an appearance in the kitchen tonight, you going with me or staying?"
"If I stay in your office, will you lock me in the cage?"
Her question takes me by surprise, I've never locked her inside the cage Lord Fyre designed and had made for her since having it delivered to the office. It is here more as a reminder, though I'm not sure who I'm reminding, her or me. "Do you wish to be locked in the cage?"
"It will keep me from being bad if you lock me in the cage, and I really don't like going to the kitchens." I applaud her honesty, some of the kitchen staff make her nervous, the head chef especially, having made a crude remark in her presence the last time we toured. She doesn't know that he was severely reprimanded.
"What could you possibly think of doing in my office that would get you in trouble, Kitten?"
She looks at the floor and shuffles her feet. It makes me wonder what she's done in my office in the past that is making her act this way tonight.
"When you left me alone the last time," she admits, "I turned on your computer."
Her admission leaves me no choice but to punish her. "Feeling guilty?"
"Yes."
"You thought you could keep this secret from me?"
"Yes." She drops to her knees, pressing her cheek to the top of my dress shoe. "I'm sorry."
"What did you do on the computer, Kitten? Surf the web? Chat rooms? Porn sites?"
She gasps. "No! None of those! I only opened Microsoft Word. I wrote."
"I hope what you wrote was worth getting spanked for."
She actually thinks about it for a moment. "Yes." Her eyes drop to the ground. "I started a journal, I don't want to forget any of what we share...ever. And when I am old, too old to believe I ever did these things with you, I will be able to read my journal and remember the truth of what we shared.
Pulling her into my arms, I know I am too soft on her, but could I really punish her when it is all I can do not to cry with the emotions she brings out in me. "I'll be beside you to remind you, Kitten."
She looks up into my face. "Promise?"
"For the memory of love is sweet, though the love itself were in vain. And what I have lost of pleasure, assuage what I find of pain."
-Lyster
Kitten
Life suddenly takes on the calm routine I remember from pre-kidnapping, pre-Lord Fyre, when I was the beloved pet of Master Garrett Lawrence. I never really thought of him as either Lewd Larry or Lord Ice, though I knew going into the undercover assignment that he sometimes used those aliases. I saw Lewd Larry on stage, showman extraordinaire, and I wonder what it will take for me to get acquainted with Lord Ice and then I wonder if I really want to know. For some reason the name Lord Ice scares me.
Most days, I awaken to coffee, taken in sips from my Master's mouth, followed by a finger-fed breakfast, strawberries are my favorite, followed by banana pieces; however, he sometimes feeds me fresh peach slices, not my favorite, his, and he says that he likes my mouth to taste of peaches. I suppose it is still considered breakfast, though most days we eat our first meal between two and three, depending on when we wake up. Master rarely sets an alarm, so we wake up when we wake up.
Life is routine but strange. I like dawn. I miss dawn. The only time I see the sun rise now is if it was a very late night at Lewd Larry's and we happen to drive home while the sun breaks the horizon. I suppose I could rejoice in the sunsets as we drive to the club each night, but it just isn't the same as breaking day.
Life is taking on a routine so complete that there is no unexpected. Sadly, the excitement of the evening is waiting for someone to misbehave or request a scene in the Oasis room. I miss talking to Jackie, I miss Margarita Sundays, I miss...no, I won't even think it, I am over my obsession completely. My problem is that I am not comforted by routine. Once I was, I went to great lengths to guarantee routine.
That is why today is special, not because it is my birthday, though it is, Master doesn't know that, but because we are going out! This is not routine. He took me out only once before; we went to the aquarium and the wharf. He doesn't tell me where we are going. He tells me only to dress for a day amongst the mundane, the non-community, meaning I should wear clothes that aren't see-through and sensible shoes.
I am so excited I could orgasm just on the thought of doing something other than what we do each day. Though I won't complain, I love the way Master cares for me. I will not miss the adrenaline rush that was Lord Fyre. As Master leads me to his car, I pray he at least drives with the top down today. It is sunny and warm, the breeze in my face would be most welcome.
"Buckle up, Kitten." He closes the door after I am seated. I watch him walk around the car before climbing into the driver's seat. God, he is beautiful to look at. Tall and well-built and his Ralph Lauren hangs on him like he is a runway model. He catches me watching him through the windshield and he smiles at me. I can't help but smile back. I am as excited as a girl going on a first date and solely because we are not going to the club. I rub my hands over my jean-covered thigh. There's something about blue jeans. Naked everyday should seem exotic, but it isn't. Pulling on a pair of blue jeans after not wearing blue jeans for almost three months...that was exotic. Closing his door, we are entombed in silence together. For a moment, we just look at each other. "What are you thinking, Kitten?"
"I'm excited that we're going out, but..." I glance down and pull my lip between my teeth. His thumb pulls my lip back out before he captures my chin and forces me to look up and meet his eyes. I swallow. "...I'm just nervous."
"There's nothing to be afraid of, Kitten. We're just spending the day out." He chuckles and starts the car, pulling out into the maze of parked cars and descending ramps.
I sigh. That's what I'm afraid of, spending the day out like normal people. I'm not normal anymore. His pronouncement also makes me a little sad. Just a day out, meaning, no scene, no adrenaline rush.
I tell myself, when my skin feels all tingly and my heart pounds super hard for no reason, my skeleton wanting to leap out, that it is the adrenaline rush I miss, not Lord Fyre, and when that happens, I admit, I sometimes misbehave. If anything, the club is a distraction and I am the lead attraction, my naughty Kitten antics are becoming so commonplace that even my punishment doesn't raise my heartbeat. I enjoy the isolation sphere though...my secret adrenaline rush.
We ride in silence. The sun is bright and Master thoughtfully provides a pair of sunglasses. Putting them on, I pull down the visor and expose the vanity mirror, surprised at how normal I look. No one would know by looking at me that I am the naughty pampered pet of Garrett Lawrence. No one would know by looking at me the dark thoughts I have lurking in my brain. I glance at the man beside me. He glances too and for a moment I fear he can read my thoughts, but no, he smiles and I smile. Not even he needs to know what I think about. I sigh again, heavier, thinking my thoughts would terrify him.
"You have a lot on your mind today, Kitten."
"Not really," I whisper. "It's just nice to be out."
"Yes." Garrett surprises me by pulling off the road and into a parking lot. I recognize the building as one that was abandoned a few years back. Once the artsy refuge of architect Lewis Rolston, the building reflects his love of the abstract. The city lost a visionary when he died and no one took over his firm. I take a double glance, reading the nondescript business sign in front of the building, The Darkness. I wonder if it has been turned into a club, maybe a competitor who has come to town. My heart pounds wildly with the thought that this could be a new play place, but then I think no, it's very early in the day, not a nightclub.
"Do you want to go in? See your old friends?" Garrett asks, parking, opening his car door.
"My old friends?" I scrunch my forehead with confusion. "I don't have any friends."
Coming around the car, he opens my door. I shake my head, not wanting to find out what The Darkness is. "Not even curious, Kitten?"
"No." I pull into myself, really, really not wanting to get out of the car. "Can we go home, Master?" I ask as he takes my hand and helps me from the car.
"Celia? Celia Brentwood is that you?" a man's voice calls from across the parking lot, making a fast stride toward me.
"We should go," I whisper, shaking, really wanting to go, stepping behind Master to hide.
"Who is he?"
"No one." My best friend Charlie.
He arrives and reaches his hand out to Master for him to shake it. Garrett takes his and smiles broadly. "You must be Garrett, I'm Charlie. When Celia worked at Inappropriate Voices, well, we were friends---just friends."
Garrett sidesteps to reveal me behind him.
"Hi, Charlie," I whisper, staying beside Master, wanting so much to hug Charlie, trying desperately not to cry as all the memories of my past life race back to jar me. Who would have thought I'd actually miss Inappropriate Voices? God, I really do, I really, really do.
"Celia, God it's good to see you. I'm glad you're here! We reopen next week...new name, but I've managed to secure all the past advertisers and reinstated 90% of our subscribers with a free first month."
"You are the ad guy, Charlie; you could sell anything." I wink, smiling, glad we ran into Charlie, but then immediately ducking my head, hoping Master didn't see the wink. What is the punishment for winking at an old friend?
"Now I know who you are." Master laughs, ruffling my hair, not seeming mad at me. "You're the guy who made my life a living hell, Kitten Sightings, billboard campaign. Are you responsible for the screen saver that I still haven't been able to disconnect?"
"I can say I'm sorry if you want, but the Kitten campaign put my career on the map, so it wouldn't be sincere. And as far as the screen saver goes, I can't take responsibility for that."
I close my eyes, nauseous, remembering how much I didn't care what the punishment would be when I was trying to get his attention. I've never seen Master mad. That's the problem, not that I fear him, that I just don't know what to expect. "I did it, Master," I admit softly. "I'm sorry, I'll remove it."
He pulls me into a hug, wrapping his arm around my waist. He kisses my temple. "I don't want it removed, Kitten. I'd be very interested in how you did it though."
"Executable file," I admit. "Kindergarten stuff. When you opened Outlook, it downloaded."
"You designed it?"
I nod.
"Well, I like it, but before you do anything else to my computer, run it by me first. Now let's go inside and see the new digs. If you'll give us a tour, Charlie.
"Excellent." Charlie beams.
With two men pulling me, it's hard to resist, but I do. I don't want to go inside the new headquarters for the new improved lifestyle daily newspaper...even if it has a new name---The Darkness. I hesitate before the wide glass revolving doors, reading the name. "What kind of name is The Darkness?"
A large billboard covers one curved wall and is graced by the advertising copy for the new tabloid.
"The Darkness, an alternative lifestyle daily tabloid...formerly Inappropriate Voices...returns to the Bay Area. Sexier. Naughtier. More outrageous than ever. Together we embrace our Darkness."
The sign, huge against the wall, makes me angry. Lord Fyre said to Garrett once, "She deserves to feel the darkness burning through her soul." Since that moment, the three of us have referred to my need as the darkness. That the owner of this newspaper used the saying for ad copy, for the title...I'm annoyed---no, pissed as hell. How dare he, and how did he know? I turn to Master, my mouth open, unable to say anything, wanting to accuse. Who else would have the kind of money and the desire to recreate the alternative daily but Master?
"Happy Birthday, Kitten."
"I don't understand." I say, still trying to decide if I am pissed about the newspaper's name or flattered that Master would name his new project after my need. Then I realize what he just said to me. "How did you know it was my birthday?"
"I like to think I know everything about you, Kitten, but sometimes, you throw me a curve." Taking my hand, he lays into my palm a key ring as he leads me to a closed door. Even facing the frosted glass and polished metal door, I don't understand...not until I read the dark lettering on the glass. "Celia Brentwood, CEO."
"I don't understand."
"This is for you. You are the owner of all that once was Inappropriate Voices. All of the staff who were willing to come back to the jobs they held before are in place here, and thanks to Charlie's efforts, both subscribers and advertisers are beating down the doors to have a piece of the first issue, which is ready for your final approval and goes to press at midnight."
I'm stunned. Worse, speechless. Master leads me around the amazing space and I am dazed. What happens now? Just what in the fuck happens now?
Sitting beside him while he drives us home, I am still dazed, managing a meek, "You bought me a newspaper? I don't know what to say...I don't understand...why?"
"I want you to have your career back, Kitten. You're a journalist and you haven't been happy being just mine, you need also to be you. It's going to be harder, our hours won't always match up, but I'm willing to do whatever it takes to make you happy."
I close my eyes against the tears burning hotly beneath my lids. He knew I wasn't happy, he knew I wasn't content, and I thought I'd been faking it so well.
"He cherished the unfulfilled desires, the longings. He loved them for their own sakes and told himself that with fulfillment the best of them would be past."
-Thomas Mann, Death in Venice
Garrett
Last night, Kitten fell asleep in a solemn mood, and I was worried; but coming from the hot shower, I find her awake and smiling. Crossing the room to give her a kiss good morning, I am surprised that she is smiling brightly, more surprised when she pulls the damp towel from my hips and palms my soft but getting interested quickly cock in her hand. I push her down into the mattress.
"You bought me a newspaper?" She giggles, not letting go, pulling hard on my cock. She makes me rock hard instantly.
"God, Kitten, if I'd known it was going to make you this happy, I'd have bought you the newspaper ages ago." Gripping harder, jerking harder, she lets me know that she's figured out that I like to be played with roughly and doesn't wait for my command or permission to use me the way I like it, hurting me just enough to make the beginnings of her hand job really interesting. I moan above her, unable to stop the sound as she pushes my cock down hard, pain shooting deep into my groin. "You're killing me."
"If I hurt you too much, will you spank me?" she whispers, releasing me to spring and bounce, the sensations rippling through me almost an orgasm in and of themselves.
I pull up, my weight on my knees, looking down at her. "You are so getting a spanking tonight, Kitten. I can tell it's been too long."
Smiling, she open-hand slaps my erection back and forth several times before grabbing me hard and fast, twisting and pulling at the same time, not hurting but close, a teasing ache. She could make me come if I weren't so focused on not coming.
"So, if I make you come and he feels all better, you won't spank me?" she asks with a pout, pumping me senseless in her silken palm.
"I didn't say that." I hate it that my voice sounds raspy even to me. I'm definitely losing control of my little slave girl tonight. I fall onto her, stopping her stroke, crushing her beneath the weight of my chest, pinning her arms between us and still she doesn't release me. If anything, she is pumping me harder and faster. Rolling onto my back, I grab her wrists and pull her over on top of me so that she is the one off balance, straddling me. Holding her wrists at her sides, I take her in, the mischievous smile, the pride in her shoulders, and happiness that seems to bubble up from within her. She has blossomed over the months, so different now than the girl I bought at the auction. It makes me happy to see her so comfortable with me that she challenges me at every turn, waiting to see how I'll react.
"I want to spank you while you ride me." I smile, seeing her face change expression, from flippant to nervous in two seconds flat. "Mount me, Kitten, and don't even think about using your hands to guide me into you."
Holding her wrists, I enjoy her struggle as she wiggles and slides, trying to get the angle right. I don't let her fall forward onto me, knowing the angle would be too easy then. I want her to struggle with the command, trying so hard to capture the tip of my penis with her pussy. After some effort, she succeeds and I am faced with her pride of accomplishment as she starts to ride me, establishing her own rhythm. Jerking her wrists, I pull her down, crushing her breasts to my chest, changing the rhythm to the pace I prefer. I swat her hard, making her jump. My palm stings, so I know her ass flames up nicely. I swat again and then lightly rub the skin warmed by my hand. Establishing a nice easy pace, I control her ride, I control the thrusts, and when she relaxes in my grip, I swat her again, warming her ass very nicely. She gasps against my shoulder and I swat her hard twice more, knowing at least one of the swats will leave a mark before I unsettle her again, pushing her back, releasing her hands so quickly that she slides deeper on my cock and has to use one hand braced on my chest to keep from falling.
Looking at her, I see that there are tears on her cheeks.
"I didn't spank you hard enough to make you cry, Kitten. What's wrong?"
"Are you mad at me?" she whispers. "I was playing. I didn't mean to be bad."
I understand then, I have never given her pleasure and pain like this and her spankings have always been for punishment in the past.
I smile at her, stroking her arms reassuringly. "No, Kitten. You've pleased me very much. You make me very happy. Now, ride me in this position, ride me until you come, and then we will discuss whether I should spank you for real tonight for being such a naughty girl."
"I was naughty?" She bats her eyelashes at me.
"Kitten, you are so naughty!"
Giving Kitten a newspaper publishing company seemed like a good idea when I did it. After all, there are more than enough people in place to see that everything runs smoothly. What I didn't expect was for Kitten to want to go there every day to proofread each issue cover to cover before meeting me at the club. She could link by computer, but she wants her employees to see her. She doesn't want to be known as the exotic, reclusive owner of The Darkness. I see no point in caring what other people think.
It doesn't seem to trouble her overly much that she is the missing slave of Lewd Larry. Maybe that is what's really eating at me. Not the part about what other people think, but the part about how I am missing her...and I'm not so sure she's missing me. I know I'm being ridiculous and I'm trying to give her time and space, but I want Kitten back completely.
Jackie finds me sitting alone at our regular table, swirling a half-empty Scotch, Kitten nowhere to be seen.
"So, your slave is working late again tonight?"
"Don't start, Jackie."
"I wonder what causes people to become workaholics, is it because they really love their work that much, or are they avoiding the life they have away from work?"
"Jackie," I growl a warning, just as I see Kitten step from the elevator. She immediately drops to her knees and starts crawling to our table. I hiss to Jackie, "Be nice."
"Oh, baby, I'm always nice. I'm just wondering what your Kitten is doing night after night, working late. Who's helping her work late."
"Jackie," I warn, seeing Kitten nearing the table. I pat my knee and she climbs into my lap, rubbing her face on my cheek.
"Are you hungry?"
She rubs her face on my cheek. Yes. When she is here with me, she is the perfect, obedient slave. When we are at home, she is devoted, loving, voracious. It seems my only complaint is the time we're apart and, truly, it isn't even an eight-hour workday. It just seems like forever. Jackie's comments are unfounded. I glare at her over the top of Kitten's head and lift my hand to order. "Are you joining us for our evening meal?"
Jackie twists her lips, looks at Bernard, and sighs. "I suppose we shall, since I haven't had a chance to share my news."
"What news?" I ask, only mildly interested as I stroke Kitten's hair.
"You'll never guess who I saw down at the marina this afternoon."
I shrug, sipping my wine, offering Kitten a sip from my mouth.
"Thomas Stephanopolis is back from his trip. Of course, I didn't ask him if he had a good time in Africa, I don't like him that well, but we did exchange pleasantries..."
I try to ignore the fact that Kitten has gone very still in my lap, but it is obvious, she barely breathes, trying to appear nonchalant as she eavesdrops.
"...he's a father again, another girl. Oh, I'm trying to remember her name but it's slipped my mind. Oh well, it doesn't matter. I'm sure he'll tell you when he sees you. He is still your employee, isn't he?"
"He's my employee as long as he chooses to be my employee."
"Sophia!" Jackie exclaims, pounding the table.
Kitten jumps, flying from my lap to hide on a pillow under the table.
"That's Thomas' daughter's name. I knew I'd remember."
"And why are we discussing my daughter?" Thomas stops tableside and I wonder how I didn't notice his entrance. Pulling out a chair, he sits.
"To different minds, the same world is a hell, and a heaven."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
Kitten
My reflection stares back at me, tear-streaked, my makeup a ruined disaster. I do not know how long I've been standing in front of the mirror in the ladies' room. Long enough to be too hot, heart pounding, sweat sliding beneath my armpits. Long enough to be too cold, shivering, teeth chattering. I splash my face and succeed only in making myself vomit. Lord Fyre is back.
He named his daughter Sophia.
He didn't even look at me. He spoke with Master, he even exchanged polite pleasantries with Jackie, but for me---sitting on the cushion at Garrett's feet---nothing. I remember lying in his bed, every muscle on fire, welts screaming, but the greatest pain, a ball of aching need in my heart, was knowing he was leaving. He'd leaned over me and stroked his finger down the length of my face, kissed my lips, and said, "I love you."
Pounding the granite sink top, I scream at my reflection, "I do not love you."
I pound and scream and scream and scream until Garrett's men in black enter the ladies' room and drag me out, carrying me kicking and screaming to the isolation sphere. I don't care; I could even say that knowing I am going to the isolation sphere is a relief, even though their intent is to punish me. Inside I laugh, knowing relief is close at hand; physically, I kick and scream and bite, even beg not to go in. I play the game, wondering who's keeping score, who's winning.
Stripped, shackled spread-eagle, ball-gagged, I hang inside the surreal mirrored ball, on display, but I see only myself. Here, like this, I cannot hide who I am, what I am. Here, I'm all right. Here, I'm at peace.
The first time I ever saw Lord Fyre I was here, confined in this sphere. The internal lights had dimmed and he had been standing there, looking at me though he was dripping liquid wax on another. His voice entered my head, taunting me with dark dreams that I had thought were confined to my headspace, but no, somehow he shared the same dark thoughts.
Tonight, the internal lights stay on for the entire length of my descent and the returning ascension, back to the members-only Oasis, back to Master. I cannot see who is watching me tonight. I cannot hear them. I truly am in my own space, my thoughts my only companion and tonight I do not want to hear the voices in my head. I do not want to think about Lord Fyre. I do not want to think about Master. I refuse to think about Lion or my father.
I focus on my irises, reflected in the curved walls of the sphere. The individual flakes of blue, green, and all the shades in between that define the color of my eyes. It is entertainment enough to see me through this madcap ride to hell and back. I do not think about what they want me to think about and so, in this small way, I rebel. Someday, Master, Lord Fyre, all of those who would taunt me with promises of darkness when Master's back is turned, someday, they will all figure it out. I submit willingly because I want to and when I choose to not submit, as now, there is no force great enough to make it so, even though I am here in this sphere because they want to see my reaction.
The crowd wants to see me cry. They are to be disappointed. I will not cry, scream, react. Kitten is not tonight's entertainment. Tonight, the sphere is for me, for my sanity.
Ascension complete, I await the opening of the sphere doors, waiting to see which man claims me, but the doors do not open immediately. It takes me a moment to remember that the last time I was confined like this, the doors did not open when the sphere was back in place. It took a while and so I wait patiently. I wait what I think amounts to a half hour and then I wait longer. An hour? Two? Relaxed, I find it doesn't matter. Who is in charge of my punishment? Master? The men in black? Does it matter? Inhale, exhale, refusing to panic, refusing to give in to the fears that scream to be heard in the back of my head. I know I have not been forgotten. I know that I am not alone. I know I am not dead and confined to this purgatory for the remainder of eternity. I can calmly outwait them because they have not even begun to come close to what I can endure. Lord Fyre was kind enough to teach me that lesson in the cat cage where hours became days.
Inhale, exhale. Calm. No thoughts. Ignore the burning muscles. Relax.
I don't want to think about Lord Fyre, but I do. I wanted to rush to him the moment I saw him. I stayed on my pillow, being an obedient Kitten, until it was too late, the moment passed. Lord Fyre walked away. I didn't realize that I was holding my breath until Garrett leaned down and whispered into my ear, "It will get easier with time Kitten, just remember to breathe while you're waiting for it to stop hurting."
I laid my head in his lap, trying to hide my tears, but he wouldn't let me hide and it was too much knowing that I'd hurt him, I'd hurt me, I'd hurt us. "I'm sorry."
"I'm a big boy, Kitten. I love you, I know that you love me. We're going to survive this."
I ran away, hiding in the bathroom because I don't know any possible way to survive what I'm feeling. I love Garrett. I love Thomas.
Clink. Hiss. Thud.
A new sound brings my awareness back, but time has ceased to have meaning. I do not know if I have been here hours or days. I have descended and ascended three times that I have been able to keep track of. The second descent, the interior lights went out so that I could see the taunting crowd. I let my vision blur and breathed through the moment. I do not care who sees me this way. I am who I am. I have nothing to hide from anyone. The third descent, both Doctor Psycho and Mistress Morgana were voices in my head, but the words had no meaning, neither are my Master, their words were just words, they could have been talking to anyone. I did not hear their words as sentences meant to have personal meaning to me.
Clink. Hiss. Thud
The sound comes again, but the sphere doesn't move and just when I begin to get intrigued, I have my answer. A hard spray of water blasts me in the center of the chest, icy cold water with the force of a fireman's hose. Holy fuck.
Water splashes into my face and, for the first time, panic rises, water in my nose, ball-gag in my mouth. I don't scream, aside from the initial shriek of surprise. My heart pounds on the inside, meeting the force of the water pounding on the outside, and primal fear races through my veins. I want to run but, shackled, I can't move. They---I assume now that it is the men in black who are in charge---have my attention now. Too much water, I really can't breathe. Tipping my head back, I look at the ceiling, the water hits my middle, hurting, freezing water but with the water not hitting my face I can breathe. I can focus, seeing in the reflected ceiling that water swirls around my feet and ankles. The sphere is filling. Great. Just great.
I didn't tell Master about the shark cage.
He did see my reaction once to cold water in the shower though. He forced a breakdown without meaning to and I'd revealed all my secrets. The next day he'd thrown me out and I'd done everything in my power to get him back. Is he trying to make me remember that? Just how badly I'd wanted him back?
Icy water climbs and swirls, teasing up my legs. I wonder when the blast will stop. The pulse against my chest is painful but is all but forgotten when a second jet blast aimed between my legs takes me by surprise. Intense, cold water hits my clit and, for a second, it is pain but then the pain becomes an immediate spiral of orgasm. I scream, unable to bear the intensity of my orgasm, but even when the wave of pleasure crests and plummets, a fresh, more intense wave of orgasm is there to lift me back up. I forget about the rising water and focus on the force between my legs, holding me in a wild, spiraling ride of pleasure and pain. "Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God!"
Two days have passed since the night spent in the isolation sphere. Two days and Garrett hasn't mentioned it at all. I haven't seen Lord Fyre since leaving the sphere. When I was released by the men in black and taken to Garrett's table, I saw that he'd stood nearby, discreetly, shadowed, but near. Garrett sat at the table, involved in conversation with Jackie, I was deposited onto a cushion and given a bowl of water and a towel by one of Garrett's men. While Garrett ignored me, my eyes held those of Lord Fyre. In Garrett's attempt, or at least what I saw as his attempt, to weaken my spirit, I grew stronger, knowing that Lord Fyre was there to hold me up...even though we didn't speak, even though none but I probably even noted his presence, he was there for me.
Today I have been allowed to return to work.
Normally my office is such a serene place, calm ocean colors, a trickling water fountain, and on most days I have soft new age or Baroque music playing softly. Today, my office is not calm or perhaps it is just my mind that is not calm. I stare at my screen saver, pink and yellow water lilies on a teal background, floating across the screen and long to throw it through the huge glass window behind my desk.
My office is so completely feminine when compared to Garrett's very masculine penthouse, at least that's what I told myself. Did Garrett notice that my office could be an extension of Lord Fyre's bedroom? I honestly didn't realize. I didn't even think about it when I was selecting shades of turquoise for the walls, one so light it could almost be white, a mid range, and a very deep shade for the window wall behind my chair. After seeing Lord Fyre at the club, everything came back, and I dreamed his bedroom in my sleep, I dreamed my last night with him. Then, I walked into my office this morning and staggered. If Master noticed, he didn't say a word.
I need to talk to someone about what I'm feeling, but it can't be Master.
But who, then?
Charlie? He is truly my only other friend since Jackie still hates me for going to Lord Fyre in the first place, even the birthday surprise masquerade didn't make any amends. What would I say? That when I see Lord Fyre, my heart stands still, I can't breathe, that every look, every touch becomes electric? It isn't that I love Garrett less, only differently. Garrett is my peace, my serenity, the place where my heart feels most at home. Why would I even think to tempt fate a second time?
I can't call him. I can't, I can't, I can't!
No! No! No! I love Garrett. I can't even consider the thought.
I'm not impulsive, okay, I'm rarely impulsive, so I find myself surprised, though not really, that I am driving down the freeway toward the beach house. Yes, Lord Fyre's beach house. I'm a fool. I haven't seen the place since I left there months ago, and I return now to clear my head. That's what I tell myself.
Master is at the Club. It is Thursday, he left early, will stay late. Our life together has become so regimented, so routine. Normally, the limo takes me to the club at midnight on the nights I work and then I stay with Master until close. It is only five, that gives me seven hours. An hour's drive there, an hour's drive back, I have the time. Why am I so nervous? Driving up Sea Cliff Road, I see the house and stop in the middle of the road, stunned. For a moment, I am not sure it is the right house, it seems huge. It didn't seem huge when I was there. Then I see him. Oh God, I didn't plan for this. He knows Garrett's car. What if he sees me?
He doesn't, or I assume he doesn't, because he gets into his car and pulls away. What now? I pound my head on the steering wheel for all of two seconds trying to answer that question. Deciding, damn it, I came for closure and I'm going to get it---one way or another. So, not impulsively, but practically, I follow him, not trying for discreet, just intent on not losing him in rush-hour traffic. Luckily, he takes side streets, ending up at a secluded community park. I wouldn't have ever known of its existence if I hadn't followed him. Pulling into the parking lot, I am certain he sees me. He actually nods but doesn't come over to the car. Instead, he joins a dozen men in the middle of the soccer field.
Instinctively, I know he would not appreciate it if I followed him onto the field and insisted on talking. I need so much more than talking. I need to go! Now!
Too clichéd, but really, wild horses could not drag me away, not with him so close. Seeing him, I want to touch him. I want to fall to his feet and lick his boots, although today it would be cleats. I don't care, I would kiss them, lick them, shine then with my saliva if he wanted. That is why I am here, not to hurt Garrett, but because I ache inside with a longing that cannot be described. I ache, physically, painfully, needing him, needing his attention in only the way he gives it. I hunger for this man, as deeply as I hungered for Garrett when I stalked him, when I was obsessed with him, but somehow this is even greater than then.
Garrett put the question to me that perhaps it was being topped, perhaps anyone who topped me would ignite this kind of visceral response. I argued that Dr. Psycho topped me, Morgana topped me; and that was true, mentally they had both topped me in the past. I do not think this has to do with my reaction to being physically topped, and if it does, so what? It doesn't change the fact of what I'm feeling.
I love Garrett and I need the kind of attention he gives me. I am his pampered pet. I don't want to lose him over my wanton desires, but I can't be in as close proximity to Lord Fyre and not seek him out. It is irrational, I know. When he was in Cairo, I missed him, but I could breathe. Knowing he is here...miles away, a room away, it makes no difference because I can't think or function for the longing inside me to go to him.
Only God should be longed for so intensely, not a man.
I smile, watching him, longing for him with a very unholy nature. He kicks the ball in an odd swaggering shuffle, controlling it for a long run before another steals it away. Athletic, toned, he moves gracefully; of course I've seen his muscles, felt the strength in his arms and legs, but never gave any thought to what having such a hard, defined exterior might be good for. This is it. His white silk shirt, with horizontal stripes of green and yellow, hug against his chest as he runs, kicks; likewise, his white shorts ride up and cling, muscles bunching as he runs. He is glorious to watch. So glorious, even his knee-high yellow socks are sexy.
I sit in the car watching him, knowing he knows I am here, but he doesn't even look my way. I'm not going to get all paranoid. I could, very easily, but not yet. If play ends and he gets in his car without a single word, yeah, then I'm going to be freaked. But I don't think that is going to happen. Last night, at the club, we shared a moment. He looked, I looked, and without saying a word, his look said it all, I miss you, too.
I didn't imagine it. I didn't.
I close my eyes for a second and when I open them again the windshield is covered with a fine mist. I squint, as if it will make seeing the men on the field easier. If I turn on my windshield wipers, will he notice? Will everyone on the field notice? I leave them off, squinting as I try to watch the game. I know nothing about soccer. It dawns on me that I don't even know what the object of the game is. However, on quick assessment, it seems the object is to get the cute black and white ball into the big nets at either end of the field, guarded by a big guy from the other team intent on not letting the ball get into the net. So when Lord Fyre sets up the ball to kick it into the net, I hold my breath, waiting, hoping, and cheer enthusiastically when he scores. He is suddenly a hero, tackled by his teammates and hugged, ass slapped. God, watching him play makes me so happy. I can only imagine the elation he must feel being in the middle of it.
A sudden downpour, in my mind, means the game will stop. They don't stop playing. Come on, give me a break already. You've been playing two hours. Granted, the view has been nice, lots of eye candy on both sides, but I want to talk to Lord Fyre and I want to talk to him now!
Rain, they keep playing.
Torrential rain turning the soccer field into a huge mud pit, they keep playing.
I have decided that Lord Fyre and his friends are insane! The only difference the rain has made is their play has turned rougher, the rain, slick grass, and resulting mud making soccer a dangerous sport. So far two bloody noses, one each side, an injured knee, not Lord Fyre but one of his teammates, and a wicked pileup that should have been photographed for the impending liability suit when all eight guys wake up in the morning unable to move.
Darkness is falling, still they play, and although the rain has stopped, the mud is still treacherous. I think they are continuing to play because of the mud. This is great fun for them. I have sat watching for over three hours, watching with no end to this game in sight, knowing the time I have to leave to be at the club by midnight is near. What would Garrett do if he knew I was here?
My stomach churns, dear God, is this what it feels like to cheat on someone? I sit here still, what have I become? I am not married, but I feel as sinful as any adulteress who has come before me. I am a sinner and still I cannot bear the thought of driving away without talking to him.
Talking does not make me an adulteress. Thought is deed.
Yes, I thought it, but damn it, thought is not deed!
Sometime between the second and third hour of play, they turned on the headlights to their cars to illuminate the field, continuing to play in the dark. Did I mention that soccer players are insane?
Finally, at twenty after ten, they start to pack it in. I am elated knowing that I have forty minutes in which I can talk to Lord Fyre before I have to be on the road. Forty minutes...
All the men retire to their cars, hot, muddy, exhausted, some broken and bruised; all except Lord Fyre. He stands in the middle of the field, looking toward my car. Parked next to his, he cannot avoid me any longer, if that is what he is trying to do.
I step from my car, walking around it to stand leaning against the hood, not approaching Lord Fyre. He stands centerfield looking at me.
Just breathe, I command myself, and it is as if the playing field before me breathes with me, expanding on my inhale, imploding on my exhale. I wonder if Lord Fyre feels it, it's as if the entire universe is waiting with me to see just what he will do.
Slowly, he starts to walk toward me. He slows halfway to the parking lot to retrieve a stray soccer ball, kicking it back and forth between his feet as he jogs forward, short even rolls, bringing the ball in.
Kick, step, step, kick.
I am enthralled by his grace of movement, watching the muscles in his legs contract. Even in the darkness I can see him, the glow of the city reflected off the clouds enough illumination for all I want to see.
Kick, step, step, kick.
Muscled and powerful, each step he takes is feral. At the edge of the grass he stops. Lifting his face, he looks at me. Playfully, he kicks the ball forward but stops its roll with a tap of his cleats, and rolls it backward, another cleat tap and it pops into the air behind him, shooting straight up, then plummeting fast, he nails it with a head spike, shooting it straight into me. Surprisingly, my reflexes are quick and I grab the ball to my chest, holding onto it, my heart pounding. He mock applauds me as he walks up to me, spiked shoes clattering on asphalt. Clunk, clunk.
My heartbeat joins his rhythm and the surrounding night air seems to sigh as he nears, or perhaps it is only me sighing.
Reaching me, he stops far enough away that we couldn't possibly touch. "Hello, beautiful," he says, smiling.
"Hello yourself." I smile back.
"God, that smile." He sighs, shaking his head. "You could own the world with the power of that smile."
"I don't want the world," I answer arrogantly. "I want you."
"You are Garrett's now," he answers strongly, refusing me in that sentence, but his eyes say more than the words. His eyes dare me to refute the words, which I can't do.
I can, however, give him the truth. "Yes, I am his, but I am also yours. I didn't ask for this to happen, but my heart, my soul, is divided. I want both of you equally, when I am with one of you, and without the other, I ache desperately. I love you both. Can you understand that?"
"Yes, I can understand, but have you explained this to Garrett?"
"Not in words, but he knows how I feel. He thinks I will get over you, with time."
"And you don't think you will?"
"I don't want over you," I promise, the night seeming to swell and enclose us in her protection. Lord Fyre takes the two steps that separates us and enfolds me in his arms. His body is steaming hot, his skin and clothing damp. He smells of musk, hot, healthy male scent. I close my eyes and breathe him in, wanting to remember his scent forever, hoarding his scent in case he turns me away once I have said what I came here to say. I plant soft kisses on his silk-jersey-covered chest and he kisses the top of my head in return. "I missed you," we say to each other.
His arms hold me tighter, trying to soften the blow of the words he is waiting to say, staving off the moment as long as he can. "I'm not a cheating kind of guy, love, what I do is in the open, or I don't do it."
His words don't have the intended effect if he is trying to scare me off. Through his soccer shorts, I feel his penis hardening, thick and ready, pressed against my hip, and I hear his words for what they really are, a challenge.
"Do you remember when you told me that I was the one charting the course of how my relationships would play out?" I ask him, remembering that night. I was terrified, commanded by Lord Fyre to make love to Garrett one last time, knowing that the next morning I would be joining him for three months of servitude.
"Yes."
"You were talking about this," I say softly, stroking his hard length through his silk shorts. "You were talking about opening myself to you, of giving myself to you, of creating a relationship with you; but all I heard was a promise of three months, a promise of darkness filled with pleasure and pain. You wanted to make love to me then."
"Yes." His answer is a sigh caught by the dark night surrounding us.
"You want me still?" I ask, continuing before he has a chance to answer, "Enough to share me with Garrett?"
"Yes."
"Good." I wrap my hands into his damp ponytail and pull him into a kiss, whispering against his mouth. "I'm tired of always wanting what I can't have. I want you both. Help me make that happen. Please."
"What you're asking will be difficult."
"No more difficult than waking each morning only to die a little more each day because half of me is missing! Always missing! If I am with you, I miss him; if I am with him, I miss you. Only the two of you can make me whole. Help me?"
I watch him nod his head and make him say the words. "Promise me?"
"Do you even realize what you're asking for?" he asks incredulously, then, seeing my quick nod, promises, "I'll help you."
"Starting now?"
He frowns, but he thinks enough like me to understand what I am not saying. He warns, "This will change everything."
I don't know what I expected. Maybe I just expected him to say more, to expand on how to make this work, some compelling argument to take to Garrett. He doesn't. He takes the soccer ball I'd forgotten I held and tosses it into the front seat of his car. Taking my hand, he leads me into the darkness of the soccer field and again it seems like the field is alive, breathing with my breath, inhaling, exhaling. He turns me to face him and the air seems suddenly too thick to breathe. I hadn't really thought this through. I hadn't really thought that he...and I...would...not now...and a small part of my brain screams at me, what are you doing, what about Garrett? Then Lord Fyre lowers me onto the wet grass and muddy center of the soccer field and I feel my heartbeat swell against the earth. My shirt soaks through, wetting my back, the damp earth soaking through my jeans as well. He follows me down, supporting his weight between knees and one hand, as if doing a girlie one-handed pushup. He strokes the side of my face. "I've done so much to you, but never this. I've never made love to you."
If I was thinking about asking him to stop a second before with the intention of cluing Garrett in on my wants, my desires, my needs, that one sentence disconnects all logical thought. He wants to make love to me.
"Nervous?" I ask breathlessly, feeling a slight tremor in the hand stroking my cheek.
"Do I look nervous?" he asks casually, striving to look tough.
"Yes." I giggle nervously.
"You can stop this."
I pull my lower lip between my teeth, afraid to say a word. He takes my silence as a green light and, pushing back onto both knees, he unzips my blue jeans and pulls them and my panties in one fluid motion down to just past my knees. He leaves the fabric there, wrapped around my legs, I try to kick them free, but he stills my leg with a touch. "No, leave them."
Relaxing back onto the damp earth, two sensations strike me at once, water and mud pushing into my ass crack, cold and slimy, and his hands sliding under my shirt, covering me with mud. I look at him and he pulls his hands out from under my shirt, dipping his hands back into the earth with a look on his face that challenges me to try to make him stop. He pulls up two fistfuls of mud, an evil grin twisting his mouth. I smile. It feels like an evil smile, but I have no idea what it looks like, I only know that I don't want him to stop.
He slides his hands under my shirt again, this time lifting it above my breasts as he slides his mud-filled hands up my body. Pushing my bra up, swirling his hands over me, he leaves a muddy trail around my breasts. It is cold and slick. Lord Fyre makes it feel erotic and desire shoots through me, soaking my wet pussy even more.
"Make love to me now," I beg.
"After three months of torturing me with the need you're feeling only now, I think you can wait until I'm ready, sweetheart."
I swallow, catching his gaze, seeing the truth for the first time. "You ached for me this badly for three months?"
"Every moment I was with you, yes, and even before that, perhaps from the first moment I laid eyes on you."
He takes my knees and pushes them into my chest, commanding, "Hold your legs."
I obey, holding my thighs, mud squishing between my fingers.
"You are such a dirty girl."
"Oh, God," I moan, responding to his declaration, his words, and his touch, as his mouth lowers over my heated slit, his tongue sliding through my wetness. I feel his hands, covered with fresh mud, and he swirls the mud over the backs of my thighs while he licks me. My eyes close, overwhelmed in sensation.
More mud is scooped over my thighs and pushed over my ass; I know my lower half is now just as covered as my breasts. I jolt when I feel his fingers sliding along my crack, mud making my ass cheeks feel slimy, dirty, like when I was forced to sit on the floor to release the enema, ending up sitting in my own shit. I am degraded once more. God, what levels will I stoop to for the men in my life?
Liar! God or my conscience answers back. No one makes me do this. I want this. I want everything that's ever been done to me and more. Forgive me Father for the sin of this pleasure.
He keeps licking my clit and I hump against his mouth, wanting to come. He pulls away, commanding, "Not yet, baby, I want you to come the first time when I'm impaled inside you. I want you to be looking into my eyes when you come. So, enjoy the little pleasures I give you but don't come until I'm inside you."
"Yes, Lord Fyre."
"I'm going to lube your ass with the mud you're lying in and then I'm going to enter you, hard and fast, do you understand?"
I nod, suddenly frightened. Garrett is large, but Lord Fyre's cock is both longer and thicker. Garrett's isn't an easy fit. "That's not a good idea."
Even in the darkness, I can see him arch his brow.
"I'm scared. It will hurt. Please, just make love to me the normal way!" I beg.
Lord Fyre chuckles. "Garrett is too easy on you, you've forgotten everything you learned with me, haven't you?"
"No," I deny, but it is truth, Garrett compared to Fyre is a cakewalk.
"What's the first rule of our relationship?"
I repeat it automatically. This I know. "It's not what I want, it's what you want."
"Exactly." He chuckles again, and I feel his hand smearing mud into my crevices, into my vagina, into my ass, one finger covered in mud, two fingers, in and out. My mind is torn in half, I didn't come here for this, I never expected this, but at this juncture I don't want to walk away either. I feel the squish of more mud and then his tongue descends on my clit and the surrounding night swirls into nothingness, too much pleasure, too much.
"Stop, stop, please, I'll come if you don't stop!" I cry out.
"Then come for me," he commands, breathing cool air over my clit before his tongue descends, covering my clit with hot, wet heat. I spasm, screaming into the night. He sucks and licks harder in response, making me squirm, making me scream with the pleasurable pain of an orgasm too intense.
Only when he is ready to release me does the erotic tongued kiss on my clit stop. He pushes my knees higher, forcing my jeans into my face, my ankles still trapped. I am bent in half as he climbs onto me, pressing his cock against my vagina, I imagine the mud, imagine that I am packed full of mud, feeling it gush when he enters me, relieved that he is using my pussy. He thrusts only twice before withdrawing, pulling mini-screams from my throat with the force of his thrusts. He touches my anus with the head of his shaft and I tense.
"Sh-h, sweetheart. I don't want to rip anything, but I do want you to feel stretched and used. I want you to remember our first time making love."
I giggle, not meaning to, my mind is as mushy as the mud covering my body as I think, how could I ever forget this? "Isn't making love supposed to be in my pussy?"
"Says who?" Pushing all his weight onto me, he covers my mouth with his kiss, crushing air from my lungs, stopping my laugh. He is needy and intense and this is not the time for humor. Yeah, I get that. I meet his mouth with equal fervency, tongues dueling, teeth colliding, I grunt, trying to breathe, trying to shift my weight a little, but he holds me, bent double, knees pressed to my shoulders, skull crushed into the mud.
"Please, Fyre, now! I can't wait anymore. I need you now!"
"You want me to fuck your ass?"
I nod frantically.
"Beg me," he demands, his fingers pressing into my tight hole, finding that I am wet, slick. He rims my anus with his fingers, sliding through the mud to push into me, testing my flesh. He repeats the command in a growl, "Beg."
I hunch and arch, begging suddenly not a problem as I am shaken with a need more primal than I have ever felt. I beg, not recognizing my own voice, sounding raw, guttural---primitive. "Fuck me! Fuckmefuckmefuckme! Please Lord Fyre, ohgod, pleasepleaseplease, fuck me in the ass. I want you to, I need you to, I want our first time to be special. Please do it, do it now!"
His penis pushes at my entrance, more than ready to comply, my body is less sure.
"Relax," he commands, aiming himself using his hand. I pray to be able to relax enough to take him, gasping when he plunges deep. I rear away, trying to get away from the fire eating though my sensitive hole.
"Ohmygod, oh my God! Stop, stop, stop!" I cry out.
His hand comes down hard on my ass, new, stinging pain replacing the fire. I try to buck away again. He grabs my face, forcing me to look into his eyes, his intensity swallowing me. He slaps my ass again, holding my gaze, letting me know without a doubt it is what he wants, not what I want. Like magic, he slides deep, deeper than anything I've ever had shoved in my ass. Hallelujah.
"Good girl, sweetheart. Give me what I want." His eyes command me in unspoken language, surrender, give over to me, trust me.
He slides in and out, though I am still tight, I feel full enough to explode, but it is a good full, a good tight. My entire body sighs with pleasure.
"What do you want?" I ask softly.
He thrusts in and out easily, building the pressure between my legs that promises an all out explosion of pleasure. Thrust, thrust, thrust.
Swirls of pleasure run through me, and suddenly it climbs, taking me higher and higher. I arch into him, taking him deeper, whispering, "Harder," as I reach to touch myself with my own fingers. He doesn't tell me to stop, he holds my gaze with that naughty, naughty smile he is capable of.
"I want this," he finally answers, pinching and holding my ass. "I want you. You are mine. Don't forget it!" He barks, throwing his head back, shouting, "Mine!"
"I am yours," I echo, screaming into the night air as the promised pleasure explodes through me like a million starbursts, leaving me limp, and very, very satisfied.
Crushed by the behemoth of a man on top of me, I try to wiggle out enough to breathe, but not enough for him to slide out of me. He feels distinctly still hard, but I'm not taking any chances. I want him inside me, I want him to grow soft inside me.
"Don't even dream about asking me to move," he pants, still breathing hard.
I wrap my arms around him. "I don't want you to move, baby."
He lifts his head off my breast, mud covering his cheek and part of his beard. "Baby?"
I smile broadly, giggling at his unbelieving, sarcastic tone.
"I make love to you, and you think you can call me baby?" he chuckles, digging his thumbs between my ribs. I giggle and scream and curse, wiggling deeper into the mud pit our evening activities have created. It hurts so good, I think I'll wet myself, but settle for shrieking hysterically, in a good way.
"Baby, baby, baby!" I squeal as he tickles.
He finally stops and rolls onto his side, his exhausted penis slipping free.
"Aww." I pout. "I liked him inside of me. I wanted to keep him there forever."
"That would be a bit hard to explain to Garrett, but I could try."
I cringe, thinking, oh God, what time is it?
"Too late for remorse, love, you're mine now. I won't walk away a second time."
"I know," I say, rubbing my muddy hand over my brow, making a bigger mess of my face than I know it already is. I say, "I know," a second time, more for myself than for him, convincing me, I think, more than him that I do understand.
"It is going to be okay," he promises. "I know you love him and I'm not asking you not to. We'll work this out."
"Thank you." I smile at him, though I feel it is a small smile, not broad, and the corners of my mouth shake. I will not cry, not when I have everything I've asked for.
I squish my hands into the mud and bring a handful up to his face, squishing onto his cheeks, pulling it into his beard. "And you promised! So we will make this work."
"Oh, you are so going to pay for that!" he cries out.
We walk to the cars, muddy hand in muddy hand. We are a mess, and it is past midnight by his watch. I don't wear one, so I'll take his word for it. It was so much easier to be brave two hours ago, now...worry knots wrap my insides in agony.
I open my car door but Fyre stops me with his hand on my arm, smearing mud. "Come to my car a second."
I follow him, waiting by his car while he rummages in his trunk. He pulls out two beach towels. "Cover your seat. There will still be mud...but you won't ruin your seats."
"Thanks," I say, rushed to leave. Turning to walk away without a touch, without a second look, knowing every minute past midnight I'm not at the club, Garrett will notice. My mind whirls, trying to think what I am going to say to him. The last thing I want to do is hurt him. A little late for that, my brain argues.
"Wait." He uses his Master voice, and I stop short, turning to face him. He comes away from his trunk with a bright red loop of rope. "Come here."
I approach him, but reluctantly, I see that he is already twisting the rope into a series of knots. I stand watching him as he knots, dried dirt coming off his fingers into the weave. I chew my bottom lip, worried. It looks like the collar he made me wear when I went to him. It wasn't pleasant and I was thankful when he finally removed it. I didn't get to watch him make it the first time. Watching him create this new collar, and I have no doubt now what he intends, I am fascinated by the process.
With the collar complete, he pulls me into him, pivoting me around to place the rope to my neck. I try to pull away, panicking, not wanting Garrett to find out like this. He holds my arm, saying only, "No." Unsaid are the words he said only moments ago, too late for regrets and you are mine now.
He loops, ties and finishes off the end. I swallow, knowing this sensation was coming, not liking it any more than the first time. My collar is a choker, rough, dried hemp, directly over my larynx. It rubs my skin with each swallow; I will be rubbed raw by morning. I really, really hated wearing this before.
"Why?" I ask, a tear falling onto my cheek.
He lifts the gold circlet of Garrett's collar so that the ruby dangles, glinting in a street light. It winks gaudily though it is a very expensive bauble.
"You wear this because you are Garrett's. I made love to you anyway, eating my pride and deeming it worth it to share you. Now, you will go to Garrett wearing my collar, a statement that you are mine---even though you still wear his collar, still his. He'll figure out the implications fairly quickly."
Oh, shit.
The rough rope around my neck itches, and already I feel my skin burning. Lord Fyre has sent me into war, but this is my fault. I am the worst kind of woman. I don't know what that is, but a dozen filthy names come to mind and none of them good. My hand trembles as I push the key into my lock. I went home to my quaint Victorian on the hill, needing time to think. I need a plan, getting de-mudded first on the list. No, I need to call Master so he won't be too worried---I tried calling from my cell to his while I drove here, but hung up hearing his voice on his voicemail. What would I say?
I enter the dark house to the clang of a dozen antique clocks, all clamoring one, two gongs. It is two a.m. Holy shit.
Turning on the lights, I go straight to the laundry room, adding soap to the washer as I peel off wet, muddy jeans and a soaked tank top. I step out of my cute leather sandals, sure that they are ruined. I toss them aside to deal with after they dry out and turn to go into the kitchen. I am shaking so badly a cup of hot tea seems to be a good place to start, followed by a hot bath. By then I will know what to say to Garrett---I hope.
"Sex is the only power I know that can defeat the awful pressure of the present."
-Colin Wilson, Sex Diaries of a Metaphysician
Garrett
I'm drinking cola tonight, shocking even myself when I grabbed it from the bar. I hear Thomas's voice reprimanding me, dead brain cells don't think, knowing that she is with him. I don't want to think about him, I do, I especially don't want to think about her with him, but that too I do.
His voice rolls through my head.
He was also once my Master, so I too easily understand why she is so drawn to him.
When pacing doesn't produce her, I call her cell phone. When she doesn't answer, I get slightly worried, but not frantic. After what I've gone through over the years, I should be terrified but I'm not and for the sake of knowing Kitten so well and especially knowing Thomas so well, I'm not frantic or terrified. Nothing tragic has befallen Kitten. Unless she herself sees this moment as tragic.
Her moral fiber may be what destroys her...
Moral...but not so moral that she couldn't stop herself from seeking him---and I know that he did not seek her out---I trust him that much because I know him that well. Kitten, on the other hand, is a big throbbing vessel of need. I've felt her desire simmering just below the surface. I see the look on her face and know she is thinking about him, remembering what they shared. I know that look because I've worn that look myself. Thomas is a hard man to get over, and last night, when their eyes met, the entire room felt the tremor of excitement. She still wants him and the look in his eyes told me without a doubt that he isn't over her either.
Kicking back the cola, I guzzle what is left in the glass. I swallow hard, trying not to remember the days and weeks following my own self-incarceration with Lord Fyre. I'd wanted him to teach me to be a Dominant, because my boyfriend, Tony, was tired of the role, and truly, Tony was submissive. He could pull off dominant, but he didn't want to. So I left Tony to spend two weeks with Lord Fyre. I'd ended up staying a little longer than that, not because Lord Fyre had forced me to stay, but because I'd wanted to stay.
Only a year had passed when I saw him again and I'd be lying if I said I'd never thought about him, what we'd shared, him as Master, me as submissive. We were at one of Jackie's famous parties. She'd given lots of parties in those days. Our crowd had nowhere to go just to hang out in the pre-Lewd Larry days and so Jackie had been filling a need for the community.
I'd approached him while he was filling a paper plate with snacks. Made small talk, and when that had failed, I mentioned my lecture series that I was taking across country. I explained to him that his words were a recording in my head, becoming the basis for most of my series of lectures. I offered to share what profits I'd made using his words, my presentation to the masses, but he hadn't wanted my money, saying, "You've made what I've taught you your own. What you teach isn't my style of dominating, it's yours."
I almost felt like I'd offended him with my offer. Then he punched me, hard. We shared a laugh and that was the end of it. Almost.
He'd turned away, his plate filled with little triangle-shaped sandwiches, chips and brownies and taken two steps before turning back to face me. His smile was devastating, evil and so sexually and completely seductive that, for a moment, life stilled. All that mattered was his deep brown eyes locked on mine. The thudding in my heart let me know I still wanted what he could give me.
He took the two steps back to where I stood and ducked his head forward so that his lips were even with my ear. "Nice to know, I can still Master you." He laughed then and walked away for real.
My heart stayed high and tight, pounding in my throat for a long time. I was shaking because I wanted to follow him, I wanted him to Master me, but a greater moral obligation kept me loyal to Tony.
He approached me from nowhere, wrapping around me, tugging my ear in between his lips for the bite kiss that had become a comfort between us.
"Tony," I sighed against him, letting him love me, letting him chase away the memory of all that I had experienced beneath Lord Fyre's hand.
"Take me home?" he asked.
I looked at him hard then, but he was busy stroking my body, making me want to take him home even though going home was the last thing he really wanted to do. He could have partied all night and lasted until midday the following day. He was sacrificing for me. Taking me away from the temptation, giving me a buffer zone to forget in.
I should have been willing to give Kitten the same decency.
I didn't and now I pay the price with my imagination, my doubts, knowing in my heart that she just wasn't strong enough to resist the lure. If I find her in time, I'll take her away. Jackie keeps telling me I need a vacation and time away from here is definitely the prescription for what ails Kitten. Distance and time.
I am overjoyed when I see her car in the driveway and the lights on inside her house. I follow the trail of lighted rooms, parlor to dining room to kitchen. Hearing the automatic cycle of her washing machine, I go straight to her laundry room. She doesn't see me, doesn't yet know I am here. Seeing her, it is all I can do to keep from rushing to her to find out what happened, but I don't because just finding her here at her house, instead of at the penthouse, alerted me to the fact that something is up.
Until seeing her, I'd prayed I'd found her in time.
Anyone else wouldn't have noticed the red, knotted rope around her neck. Me? I had to notice it first, knowing its purpose for being there, having worn one very similar myself. It is trademark Lord Fyre. My jaw grinds tight as I watch her add detergent to her washer, trying to hide the evidence of her muddy clothes. Was she going to shower and change and then break the news to me that she wanted to return to him---a little belated since she'd obviously already returned.
By the time she bounces into me, not seeing me, I am seeing red. I actually reach out and touch the length of rope circling her neck to assure myself that it is real. I close my eyes, wanting Lord Fyre's handmade collar to go away, but it doesn't. I look at her, seeing what he obviously did to her, mud covering more of her than not. Mud swirled around her breasts in a pattern that I know his hands created.
I cup her face, I can't help but want to hold some part of her, and even splattered in mud she is beautiful, made even more exotic because of the dark brown splats. I wish I didn't understand, I really do, but because I understand, I whisper to her, "It would have stopped hurting if you'd just given it time."
I turn away from her because I have to. I turn away because it is one thing to use force when it's consensual, but it's another thing entirely when done in anger, and I want to shake her...hard---but I don't, I won't. I will not abuse Kitten. "Everything was wonderful," I say, talking more to myself than to her, pacing her small kitchen, feeling caged in. "Why would you do this?"
She doesn't answer. I didn't really expect her to. She stands sobbing in the corner of the kitchen and I feel no sympathy. "Do you want to still be mine, Kitten?"
She nods her head and, for now, that is enough. "Get in the car!" I snarl at her, wishing I knew how this was going to play out, watching as her lips part, expecting her to refuse, and daring her with my eyes to try. It must have been the look, because she runs naked and barefoot, covered in dry, caked mud, outside into the night air. Only then do I consider where we are, her neighbors quiet people who would be shocked if they saw her. It is late; hopefully no one is watching.
I have enough presence of mind to grab her keys to lock up as I leave. Coming from the porch, I see her naked and shaking outside of the car. Glancing around assures me no one has seen her as I race to the car, wanting to get her hidden from sight. "I said, get in the car."
She starts crying as I open the car door and push her shoulder to try to force her inside. She pushes back. "I'm dirty, I'll ruin the upholstery."
"I don't give a fuck about the upholstery!" I turn her chin toward me with a cruel jerk. "I can pay someone to clean my car. If I had to, I'd just buy a new one. You, on the other hand, are one of a kind---you care more about this car than my heart. Unbelievable."
This time, when I push her, she goes in. Dry mud flakes onto the leather seat. I scoot into the driver's seat and pull away from the curb. She sits closed tight, hands folded in her lap. In the green glow of streetlamps, I start to make out just how much of her is covered in caked, dried mud, breasts, belly, between her thighs.
"Do I even want to know?" I ask.
She shakes her head.
I notice that she isn't buckled and command, "Buckle up."
"Pain and foolishness lead to great bliss and complete knowledge, for Eternal Wisdom created nothing under the sun in vain."
-Kahlil Gibran
Kitten
Did I think we were going to his penthouse? When we arrive at Lewd Larry's, I am surprised, but not as shocked as I should be, not as scared as I'd have been even three months ago. I am naked, except for my two collars and the drying mud that covers most of my body, but especially my breasts, my ass, and between my legs.
Climbing out, he comes to my side and opens the door. "Get out," he barks, more sternly and more loudly than he needs to, but then Garrett is a showman. Here he is Lewd Larry, proprietor, everything he does is well thought out, executed with the knowledge of how it is going to affect the bottom line.
His eyes are challenging. Does he think I'll refuse? Does he think I will beg to avoid this humiliation? Three months ago, I would have begged.
Three months ago, I wouldn't have found myself in this mess.
I climb from his car, gracefully, well-practiced, hands first, long stretch onto the pavement, stepping, hand, hand, knee, knee, making sure that each long-armed stretch is provocative, each knee forward wiggling my ass just so. I realize Garrett has never seen me in all-out Kitten-mode. This I learned on the streets when I was doing the Kitten Sightings for Inappropriate Voices, my way of passively stalking Garrett in an effort to win him back after he dumped me because I was an undercover reporter. Now is as good a time as any for him to see what he missed.
The line for entrance to the club is long tonight; it seems the line is always long now. Lewd Larry's business is booming. I wonder if there are any Kitten fans in the crowd tonight? Yes, my Kitten Sightings created a huge fan base, many who subscribe to my online newsletter. I still receive pictures, both spectacular and mundane, in my emails from fans who have caught me about town. I crawl toward the long line of waiting patrons, knee step, hip wiggle, long-arm stretch. Someone in the line whistles, camera phones are at the ready, some taking pictures, others recording, so yes, fans are here.
Yippee for me.
Tomorrow, I will be on the front page of The Darkness; well, maybe not, I am the CEO, maybe that will save me. I sigh, because there is no salvation, not for me, not in heaven, not with Garrett, and not with Charlie. With this newest scandal, he will step up to the plate and milk the publicity for all it is worth. Lewd Larry's is our number one patron, spending more on advertising than average homeowners spend on their home.
Charlie loves me, but Lewd Larry's will come out on top with his advertising skills, even if there is scandal. Lewd Larry's wins. I don't think Garrett is feeling very much like a winner tonight. Yes, I fucked up, in so many ways, but talk to me about it, don't bring me here. Don't put me in the spotlight.
"Kitten, get inside the club!" Garrett's bellow is only fuel for the fodder at this point. He has no idea what he instigated. Think to reduce me and humiliate me because I transgressed? Kitten thrives on humiliation.
I crawl all the way to the long line of waiting patrons, veering to follow its path to the main entrance, long-arm stretch, knee to hand, sway, sway. Whistles and lewd comments follow my every step. Garrett's famous men-in-black, SECURITY blazoned across the backs of their tight-fitting Tshirts, arrive to control the crowd, trying to make a wall barrier between them and me. I am too busy crawling to pay much heed to security or the crowd. My show is for Garrett only as I crawl provocatively, taking lots of mental concentration, long-arm stretch, knee to hand, sway, sway.
Camera flashes blind me, but not so much that I don't see Garrett striding purposely toward me, a gleam in his eye that spells trouble for me. I sit back on my hips, knees pulled in, arms stretched out, braced for impact, hissing as he gets closer. There is no impact, I am scooped from behind by security guy Bob. I should have seen him coming, quite literally. Bob is so wide he goes through doorways sideways, and not an ounce of fat on him. Bob lifts me like I am a naughty two-year-old. I don't have a chance against him.
Glaring, I am not happy.
Garrett winks, triumphant, a smirk on his face that I've never seen before. What does that mean?
The three of us wade through the lower-level crowd, though really it is the two of them wading, I am solely along for the ride; at least until we arrive at The Oasis. There, without ceremony, I am dumped onto my floor cushion at Garrett's regular table. Jackie, Garrett's oldest and dearest friend, is already there, seated and waiting.
"Well, well, just look at the cat you dragged in, mister."
"Don't start, Jackie," he warns.
Garrett sits, lifting his hand to the waiter, holding up two fingers. At first, I didn't understand how the waiter always knew what to bring to the table on cue, but after paying attention, I realized it was some type of coded sign language. Two fingers tight together, tumbler of Scotch, no ice. Two fingers apart, cheesecake. Tonight, his fingers call for Scotch and, on cue, it arrives tableside.
"How much fun would my life be, Garrett, if I didn't get to tell you at least once a year that I told you so! Cats are trouble, don't like 'em, don't need them." She glares at me, saying, "They're fickle, never loyal, I swear to you, what you need is a warm, companionable canine, perfect like my sweet Bernard."
The sweet Bernard in question lifts his head from his pillow.
I hate Bernard, not really, but at the moment he isn't at the top of my like-list, since he's been promoted to perfect status. He winks at me, making me feel worse. Jackie doesn't like me anymore and that makes me sadder than anything else going on at the moment.
"Take off her collar, Garrett. Set her free," Jackie hisses. "This course is just going to lead to heartbreak."
"It's going to lead to heartbreak?" Garrett repeats. "Meaning that you don't think I'm heartbroken yet."
"Of course not, don't be ridiculous. You've had some fun with the girl, but it was never like you were going to be together forever. That's so junior high. By tomorrow night, this will be behind you and you can start living again."
Hello! Sitting here listening.
"Now, I haven't been living?"
"I'm your friend, Garrett, and I'm going to tell it to you like I see it. Since she went with Thomas, no, you haven't been living at all. This girl is the worst thing that's ever happened to you."
I close my eyes, not wanting to cry even as warm liquid slides over my cheeks.
It is early morning. We've been home from the club for several hours, but we haven't spoken about it, not at all, not even all of the horrible stuff Jackie said. He let me shower at least, so I'm no longer covered with mud. He sleeps in the bedroom, but I came to the kitchen seeking coffee and, finding a splash of sunlight, I laid down in the pool of light, hogging the warmth. I am miserable but can't help laughing at the kittens. They seem to be growing before my eyes. Rolling around on the floor, they attack me as I lay in their midst. The sunlight flooding the floor warms their fur, making them smell fresh and innocent. I am not fresh or innocent.
Mama Cat strolls in from the living room and I am abandoned. Seven hedonists leap and tackle, seeking their sole pursuit of happiness---milk. I wonder when Mama Cat will get fed up with it and wean them. For now, she sprawls, seeking the relief they give her in draining her.
I close my eyes, chasing away the unwelcome image of a baby attached to its mother's breast. The image becomes clearer, revealing a baby with dark brown hair and blue eyes. I rub my eyes and chase away the dream, because that is all it is anyway, an impossible dream. Life just doesn't happen that way for someone like me.
One of the kittens slides between my legs. Round with milk, sated, it curls into a ball, making a bed for himself at my crotch. I scratch the nape of his neck and his purr reverberates up my arm.
Buzz, Buzz.
I don't answer the ringing doorbell. It rings again, and again, but I don't move. Enrique is here, somewhere, unless it's Wednesday, he's off on Wednesdays. The doorbell rings again. Is it Wednesday?
I close my eyes, clearing my mind.
Thud, thud, crash.
"What the hell?" I jump up, race into the living room, and find Garrett and Thomas in a tussle on the floor. I sigh, numb. This is my moment to do the girlie thing. I should jump in screaming and try to separate them. I don't. Shaking my head, I step around the shattered vase and sit on the sofa, pulling my legs up to tuck them under my chin, watching the show. I hope they beat the crap out of each other.
Enrique comes into the room, rumpled from sleep, hair messy. He puts a hand on my shoulder, watching the show. "Should we do something?"
"Nah. Let them kill each other."
Thud, thud.
I tilt my head back, rolling my head on the back of the sofa, to look at Enrique.
I've never seen him rumpled or messy. It's a good look on him. Sexy. A cough draws my attention to a very young-looking blond boy, peeking his head out of Enrique's bedroom. Ah, the explanation as to why the doorbell wasn't answered.
"Is he legal?"
"Si, of course. He's from Cincinnati."
Cincinnati, of course he is. Oh, hell. "I meant old enough to be in your bed?"
"Ooh. Si, si. Veintidós."
Twenty-two. "He looks sixteen," I reply sarcastically.
Enrique turns to look at him. I turn to take a second look at him. The young blond smiles, pushes his bangs out of his eyes and manages to strike a pose in the doorway. His stomach muscles stand out against tight skin, not because he is buff, but waif thin. He manages sexy very well---too well. San Francisco will eat him up and spit him out, used and broken. Sixteen or twenty-two, he needs someone to take care of him. I turn my head, quite certain he is too young for me to be looking at him the way I just looked at him.
"Wow. You better get some ID."
Thud, crash. A lamp joins the vase as casualties.
"Ju gonna be okay out here?"
"Yeah, Enrique, go on, have fun. ID first, please, though." I sigh. "They seem to be running out of steam anyway."
A final head butt into the stomach skids both men across the floor, Garrett doubles into himself, maybe a little lower than the stomach. Thomas sits up, waiting and watching. "Are you okay?" I realize he's not asking Garrett, he's asking me.
I nod, holding his gaze. "I'm okay, you okay?"
He nods, smiling, not his hundred-watt smile, but a wow I'm glad this fight is over smile.
Garrett moans and sits up, still holding himself. "Yeah, I'm okay. Thanks for asking."
Thomas and I look at each other and shrug, asking Garrett at the same time without meaning to, "Are you okay, baby?"
Garrett looks from me to Thomas. "That was scary."
I wanna say, jinx, but I don't. I just sit, waiting. Waiting for what, I don't know.
Garrett pulls himself up, sitting cross-legged, head leaned back against the wall. We all sit together in silence. I wonder what they are thinking. Unfortunately, I know what I'm thinking. I should say to Garrett, I'm sorry, I fucked up, but then, I don't want to say that because I wanted to be with Thomas. I still want to be with Thomas. I still want to be with Garrett. This sucks so bad.
"You're still wearing both collars," Thomas comments.
I nod. "I am." My hand goes to my neck, touching both, smooth metal, rough rope.
He turns to Garrett. "You going to let her keep it that way?"
Garrett cracks open one eye, closes it, then pounds his head back against the wall. "I don't know what I'm doing yet. I need to sleep and I need to think."
Thomas stands. "I'll go. I just needed to see that you are both okay."
"Both of us?" Garrett snorts. "Now? You're worried about both of us?"
Thomas sighs heavily and turns to leave, Garrett watches him go through the door before standing. I didn't notice before, but he's wearing striped pajama bottoms.
"Come to bed, Kitten. You need sleep, too."
"I'm fine here. I'll stay on the couch," I say stubbornly.
"This is one thing that we're not fighting about, Kitten, and right now, I'm too exhausted to think about any of it." He holds out his hand to me. "My bed. Now. Or leave. You choose."
Twelve hours later, we're back at club. Jackie pulls more shit, starting the minute we arrive. "Still cuckolded by Lord Fyre. Wonderful."
Garrett passes the table, not sitting, but hearing Jackie. I don't try to analyze the look that passes between them. He drags me by the collar to the small stage in The Oasis, usually reserved for demonstrations. Great, I'm to be the main event. I don't even ask.
Lord Fyre is here, waiting. It isn't that I see him, but I feel him, somehow knowing that somewhere in the shadowed room, he is available if I need him.
Garrett shackles my hands in leather cuffs then attaches the cuffs to a chain above my head. Pushing a button, the chain is pulled tighter, lifting my arms, making me go up on tiptoe before it stops. I watch him walk away, leaving me stretched, naked. Great. Just great.
He sits down at his regular table. I wish I could hear what Jackie was saying. Whatever it is, it makes him mad. I watch him stand, pacing. He stalls in a corner, talking to George. In another corner, three men in black cluster. I wonder if they are here to take turns punishing me or to protect me from Garrett's wrath.
George grabs Garrett by his jacket sleeve, trying to pull him back, trying to get him to talk. Garrett shrugs away. I wish I knew what his friends were saying. Based on last night, I can guess Jackie's comments, but George, he's the wildcard. What advice would George offer?
Approaching fast, Garrett grabs a birch cane from the display wall behind me before spinning me to face him.
"Why?" he asks. "Am I not harsh enough with you because I don't leave you black and blue every time? Am I not enough Dom for you?"
He jerks my head back, kissing me, not gently, forcing the kiss. "Is this what you want from me? A public show? Do you want my mark so badly that you resort to this?"
I shake my head, crying out, "No, Garrett. I love the way you Master me."
"But you'd still go to him for this, wouldn't you?" he demands, bringing the birch cane hard against my ass. Four more strikes follow in quick succession.
I scream out, dancing on my tiptoes to angle away from the stinging strikes.
Lord Fyre steps into my line of vision, asking, "Do you want this?"
I sag, facing him.
"This is none of your business. Step away, Fyre," Garrett demands. "It is my right to punish my property."
"I'll take the punishment," I grit out between clenched teeth.
"How many strikes?" Fyre asks.
"Twenty more," Garrett answers curtly.
I gasp.
Lord Fyre strokes my cheek. "Can you do this?"
I feel a trickle of blood going down the back of my leg. "No more blood," I answer.
He swivels me to look at my flaming ass. "Only one of the welts was deep enough to bleed," he whispers to me before saying to Garrett, "You heard her, do you agree?"
He must have agreed, though I didn't hear him say one way or the other. I don't think Lord Fyre would allow him to continue if he didn't agree. He stands in front of me, his eyes a focal point for my gaze until the tenth strike. I fall, hanging by my wrists. Fyre catches me, lifting me and I sag around him completely.
"Can you finish?" he asks using his stage Master voice, it is deeper, more commanding.
"I don't know," I whisper.
"Do you feel you deserve this punishment?"
"I should have told him I was going to see you, I didn't. That was wrong."
Unexpectedly, Garrett releases me ten strokes remaining---a quick, panic-snap release. I fall into Lord Fyre and he lifts me, carries me to a dark hallway. I don't realize I'm crying until he wipes my face. He sits me onto my feet and I stand shaking next to him, torn between hiding in the hall and racing back to Master.
"I'll talk to Garrett," he promises.
"There's nothing to talk about," Garrett growls. I jump, unaware that he'd followed us to the hallway. "Get out of my sight."
I don't need to hear anything more. I leave, running from the club, passing the long line of waiting patrons. Only their catcalls bring attention to my nakedness. Great. I've become so used to not wearing clothes that I can run onto a busy sidewalk not noticing. Hearing my name being called, by both Garrett and Thomas, I duck into the line, hiding. I ask a man in line for his shirt. He offers to take me home but relinquishes his Pink Floyd concert shirt in exchange for a picture taken with his cell phone. Yippee, I'll be on someone's personal blog by morning.
I sneak out of the line and hit the pavement. Rain is falling, pouring rain, and within minutes, I am soaked through. Running across the alley and two blocks farther before I stop to breathe, I don't look back. I'm not sure why I'm running. I could have stayed. Lord Fyre would have helped me, taken me to a private room in The Attic, taken me home. I'm sure he'd have taken me anywhere I'd asked. I don't know how I know that, but I do, with certainty. Lord Fyre---the man I'd compared to Satan in my head more times than I can count in the months I've known him---and he I can count on. Garrett is the one who is always pushing me away.
A payphone beckons from the corner. Rain drips into my eyes and off the tip of my nose as I dial from memory, not waiting long for an answer. Thankfully, Charlie accepts the charges for my collect call.
"I need help, Charlie."
"Do you want me to call one of them?" Charlie sits down on the too-soft sofa next to me. I glance around the room and it is like I become aware of my surroundings, and then like on a fast reel, it all replays in my mind, the mud, the sex, the anger on Garrett's face, the worry in Thomas's glance, the rough and tumble in the middle of Garrett's living room, the birch caning. The soaking wet, borrowed Pink Floyd T-shirt has been replaced by one of Charlie's skater-boy hoodies and a pair of his shorts. I'd never really realized how small he was. He's small, his clothes are snug on me, like I've pulled on a child's outfit.
His apartment isn't chic, it's geeky, post-college but still not domesticated male bachelor pad. Stacks of magazines litter every conceivable surface. Cola cans and empty pizza boxes litter the remaining floor space. "I'm sorry about the mess. I wasn't expecting..."
"No, Charlie, the mess is fine, no worries; just let me sit here for a while."
Charlie pulls a pack of cigarettes from between the sofa cushion, and taps the end of the pack like one well practiced doing so. I'd never realized he smoked. After the few days I've had, it doesn't even register on the surprise meter. He removes one, offering it to me. "Emergency stash, I only smoke when I'm on deadline and can't meet it without miraculous intervention. It might help."
"No, I'm good, but go ahead."
"They'll be worried, Ce."
"Garrett threw me out and Thomas won't worry," I deny, lying down on his too-soft sofa. I start crying, not focused on why I'm crying, only knowing that I must cry, couldn't stop crying if I had to.
Charlie pats my shoulder and pulls a blanket from one of many piles of stuff littering his floor to cover me. "What can I do?"
"Nothing. Just loan me your couch 'til I figure this out."
"Sure, sofa's yours." He strokes my arm, ending with holding my hand. "Mind if I ask just exactly what you're trying to figure out?"
"How to fix this. I fucked up. What's wrong with me?" I cry harder. Charlie lays his body over mine, holding me, whispering, "There's nothing wrong with you Ce, you've just fallen down the rabbit hole, and things seem all messed up right now. But it's going to be okay. I don't know them except by reputation and in the community, but you couldn't ask for better---either way, you'll win."
"No, Charlie, either way I lose. When I'm with Garrett all I can think about is not being with Thomas, and when I'm with Thomas, I think about Garrett." I snort and it isn't a happy sound. "I am such a fucking whore."
I awaken on Charlie's sofa, not that I slept, not really, twenty-minute naps, followed by tossing and turning, followed by a lapse into sleep that was terrifying. This is the way I sleep, have always slept for as long as I can remember. Sleep frightens me. Strangely, in Garrett's bed, I slept. At Thomas's too, I slept. What does that say about me that I need to be chained, caged, or even merely in bed with a sadist and then and only then do I feel safe enough to sleep?
If everything falls apart with Garrett and Thomas, I will talk to George, not to Master me, but to psychoanalyze me. Even if Garrett or Thomas keep me, a long discussion with the once-upon-a-time psychiatrist is in order.
An alarm pulls me further into wakefulness. Charlie's wake-up. Sounds of rustling come from behind his closed bedroom door and I know he prepares to go to the office. He'll be there by eight; then, I'll be alone again. I can't panic. I'll be fine alone in his apartment...no, not a chance...I'm a wreck, an utterly useless, hand-shaking, heart-racing mess. What is wrong with me that I want to cry again? I will not cry!
I bury my face under the pillow, hiding tears that shouldn't be falling. Footsteps alert me to Charlie's presence in the room.
"Celia? Are you okay?" He jerks the pillow from my hands and pulls me, sobbing, into his arms, though I didn't realize I was sobbing hysterically, I obviously was.
"I want to go home."
"Okay, I'll call Garrett."
"No!"
"Thomas?"
"No!" I bury myself tighter against Charlie, whispering, "I don't know." Letting him hold me and rock me.
"Shh, just relax. Everything is going to work out, Ce. Just relax."
He tries to pat my back, but it is an uncomfortable pat. As a pastor's daughter, I've unfortunately held too many disheartened or mourning people in my life---enough to know a genuine pat from an awkward what in the hell do I do now pat and I never meant to put Charlie in this position. Feeling ridiculous, I force myself to stop crying and just lie against him for a moment. It isn't a comfortable moment. I shouldn't be here. I'm not comfortable being comforted by Charlie and he isn't comfortable comforting me. Awkwardly, he pushes me back down onto the sofa and covers me with a blanket. "I'm calling off work, then I'll be in the kitchen making breakfast. Pancakes okay?"
I nod, but he is already moving away, grabbing the phone from the top of the coffee table en route to the kitchen. His voice comes through the wall, calling in to say he will be in after lunch. I close my eyes. He honestly believes this can be resolved in a few hours and maybe he's right. Maybe I'm making too much of this.
Hearing him pull out bowls and ingredients calms me, identifying objects by the sound they make on the counter top, eggs, milk, oil, a box of pancake mix. I hear the flash of fire when he turns the knob for the stovetop. I don't want to think about the actual kitchen, not tidy based on the condition of this room, but I won't let my brain wander to the disgusting mess it wants to conjure either.
The condition of the living room didn't improve overnight and the sight makes me grimace. I could clean his apartment while he's at the office, or I could just go into the office myself. Clothing would be an issue, as in I'd need some. Charlie is about the right size, as long as it were sports gear, a T-shirt and jogging pants would see me to the car, though not exactly office-wear.
A clothes basket full of clothing beckons from the hallway and I quickly identify by sniff as it being fresh laundry, not dirty. A quick rummage sees me dressed for the day, granted I'm forced into making quite a fashion statement. Shorter and narrower than me, Charlie's clothes fit but barely. I pull on a tight, light blue T-shirt, with a slogan that reads, "Your mother called, she says you're gay." I really don't understand gay humor but the shirt smells clean so I keep it on. Shades of grey camouflage shorts that hit just above my knee and black army boots complete the ensemble. Luckily, we wear the same size shoe.
"Pancakes are ready."
I didn't look in a mirror but manage to smile when I see Charlie's startled expression. "Do I look okay?"
"If I wasn't gay I'd take my clothes off you faster than you just put them on. How do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"You're amazing, you're beautiful. Even red-rimmed eyes look good on you."
I laugh, Charlie always manages to make me feel better. "So, after pancakes, can I hitch a ride with you to the office?"
He looks me over after I follow him into the kitchen. "Are you sure you want to go to the office?"
"Look, I know I'm not dressed like a CEO, but I'll hide in the mailroom, or I'll make copies for you and get your coffee like I used to. It will be like old times," I promise. The ringing phone interrupts his answer.
"We make an idol out of our fear and call it God."
-Ingmar Bergman
Thomas
She ran out, not understanding that Garrett was demanding me out of his sight, not her. One thing is for certain, the girl moves fast when she wants to. I can't believe we lost sight of her. How do you lose a naked girl in downtown San Francisco?
How did I lose her?
We've had all night to think about Kitten in downtown San Francisco, unescorted, naked. I close my eyes and rub my face. My jaw hurts where Garrett plowed his fist into it right after he realized she was gone. Luckily, the front entrance security team was there to pull us off each other until our heads cleared enough to think. Both of us could have handled this so differently. If only we would have.
Garrett has been to her house, the penthouse, and my beach house, leaving a security post at each place in case she did show up. Watching him sit on the leather sofa, face buried in his hands with fatigue and worry, I don't have the heart to tell him that if she's hidden herself as well as she's capable of, we won't see her again until she's ready for us to. She's already proven she can disappear and stay hidden, for years if she wants to. That's the worry I don't share with Garrett---that she may be gone for good. I just don't know how far this has pushed her emotionally, obviously not as far as her father and Lion pushed her, but far enough for her to run.
I make my last phone call, hoping for the best, calling The Darkness. The receptionist is a wealth of information. I determine that, when this mess is cleaned up and Kitten is home safe, a new receptionist will be needed. Hanging up, I announce, "Got her!"
Garrett looks up, fear making him pale. "Where is she?"
"Let me make sure, I think she's at Charlie's. He's not at work," I tell him, hitting speaker phone, dialing the number provided by The Darkness' lovely receptionist. Tomorrow, I will tell Garrett to fire her for giving out personal information over the phone, but for today, she has been useful. Charlie answers on the third ring.
"You called off work today. Why?" Garrett demands, before I have a chance to say anything.
"I'm not feeling well?" he answers, sounding shaken.
"You're a liar. She's there, isn't she? Let me talk to her!"
I touch Garrett's arm to calm him, he won't get anywhere this way. He glances my way, his brow creased in anger and determination.
"You threw her out, in front of everyone. Is it your personal mission in life to humiliate her on every possible level?" Charlie demands through the speaker.
Garrett spins away from the desk, not answering. Pacing to a wall, he slams his fist into it. I take up the conversation where he left it. "Charlie, this is Thomas Stephanopolis."
"I know who you are."
"Then, you will know that I am an important person in Kitten's life and all I want to know is that she is safe."
There is silence on the other line, not even background noise. He either muted or disconnected, but the phone status LCD shows we are still connected. He comes back on the line. "She's safe."
"Will she talk to Garrett?"
"She's shaking her head no."
"Will she talk to me?"
I hear his soft question, mouth obviously away from the mouthpiece. "Will you talk to Thomas?"
Her voice, barely audible, comes over the speaker. "Are they together?"
Garrett returns to the phone, squatting beside me, calmer since hearing her voice. I know exactly how he feels. I answer, "We're together, Kitten. Garrett's been out looking for you all night and I've been on the phone calling every single person we know in an effort to find you."
"Wait," Charlie says. "Let me put it on speaker." We hear the click over, the in-a-tunnel sound as he asks, "Are you there?"
"Yes," Garrett answers, then repeats what he'd said for Kitten's benefit. "We're together, Kitten. We've been out looking for you all night."
"Together?" she asks, sounding full of disbelief.
"Believe it or not, Kitten, we were once very good friends." Garrett says softly.
"Did I ruin that?"
Garrett looks at me, his look full of regret. "No, Kitten, I tend to ruin relationships all by myself. No assistance required. I don't want to ruin this one. I'm in love with you. Please, come home. We'll work this out."
"I don't see any way to work this out, Garrett. I'm screwed up in the head and I don't know how to fix what's wrong with me."
Garrett starts to say something but I stop him, touching his arm, motioning for him to wait. Kitten's voice comes across the line. "I want both of you. It's horrible to say this, I can't even believe I'm admitting it, but I want you both. I want you to share me. When I'm with only one of you, I still feel incomplete, something is missing---I want to be whole."
I chuckle, wishing I hadn't when the line goes silent. I wish she were here, not on the other side of the phone line miles across town. "Kitten?"
Charlie answers for her. "She's here. She can hear you."
"I wasn't laughing at you. I don't do that."
"I know," she whispers. "But do you understand what I'm saying? What I'm asking for?"
"What you are asking for isn't unusual, Kitten, not here. Committed poly relationships happen. In San Francisco it's more acceptable than the part of the world you were raised in."
"Kitten, this isn't something we should be discussing on the phone. Come home. Let us come and get you," Garrett interrupts.
"No!" Kitten's voice comes over the phone line, panicked. It's obvious to both of us that she's crying, whereas a moment ago, you couldn't tell that. Raw emotion floods the phone line. "When you two are in the same room, it's a competition. I am not the prize! I just want to be happy with both of you. Why is this happening? I feel like I'm going to lose both of you and it's killing me!"
Garrett looks at me and I look at him. We're both feeling our own panic, we've let her down, she's bottoming out and neither of us are there to hold her together. Fuck.
I gesture for him to keep talking. He does. "I'm sorry, Kitten. I've been making decisions on emotion, and not even my emotion, someone else's emotion, and I apologize for that."
"Jackie?" she whispers.
"Yes," Garrett admits, pacing away from the phone.
I lean closer to the phone, though it probably isn't necessary. "Hey, Beautiful."
"Lord Fyre," she responds, her voice choked with emotion, just my name coming from her lips sounds painful.
"Jackie is Jackie. We all love her and, at times, we all hate her. When she wants to be a bitch, she is in the biggest way. But you need to know that the animosity she is showing you is only a projection of what she feels for me. She hates me, Kitten, and as long as I'm in the picture, it will hurt your friendship with her and it will hurt Garrett's friendship with her. Until now, he's been able to keep us separate. Now, with me seeing you, too, I'm in her face and she's striking out at anyone she can."
"Jackie isn't part of this, Kitten. I admit, I behaved badly in reaction to what she was saying, but now that I know what's going on, that she's manipulating me, I can get a handle on it. The most important thing is getting you home. She isn't part of this," Garrett promises from across the room.
Kitten laughs and it is an ugly laugh. "Jackie and your friends are your life, Garrett! Everyone is a part of this. Everyone will be choosing sides, just like during the Kitten Sightings. I can't take that kind of drama over this."
"You're right, Kitten," I say. "Only the three of us united can keep this from being a fiasco of major proportions. There's no room for jealousy or possessiveness."
"What are you saying, Lord Fyre?" she asks.
Garrett lifts a hand for me to remain silent and I do.
"Kitten," Garrett speaks softly. "You've asked for us to share you, but the real question is, can you share as well, because the only way this will work is if the three of us become a committed ménage à trois for real, a working threesome." Garrett looks at me with desperation. He really wants her back. He loves her and at this point will agree to anything. I love her too and, for the sake of all of us, plan on making it so that he never regrets this.
There is silence on the other side.
"Kitten?" Garrett asks.
Harsh silence answers, not mute, the tunnel sound of being on speaker phone remains. Then a bare whisper comes across the line, Charlie's voice making comforting noises. "Hey, Charlie," I call out. "Everything okay there?"
"No, guys, everything isn't okay. She thinks that you will both say whatever it takes to get her back there with you and then the fight over her will begin again. She's seen Jackie's manipulative power in action enough over the last few months to know that the thing with Jackie isn't over. Celia's wrung out. Emotional doesn't even begin to describe what I've got going on over here. Damn you two! I saw her through the Kitten Sightings and that was a rollercoaster to hell and back, this...this is worse."
"Let us come over there," I suggest. "Just to talk, she doesn't have to leave with us. We just want to see her."
"She's shaking her head no, man, and I hate to agree but I think she needs a minute to breathe. So, I'll stay with her until she's ready for me to take her home, or until she says she wants you to pick her up," Charlie answers. "One thing. Were you both serious about this ménage à trois?"
"Yes," we both answer.
In the background, muffled, we hear him ask her if she wants him to disconnect.
When Charlie comes back to us, he says, "She wants to know why you think that Jackie's reaction is because of you, Thomas, not her?"
I shake my head, really not wanting to answer this, especially not wanting to answer this with Garrett listening. This could ruin everything, but then Jackie's poisonous tongue could ruin everything, too. Better to come clean with my side of the story. I look up at Garrett, capturing his gaze and holding it. I need the eye contact as I explain it to both of them. "It's an old grudge from years ago. We played once, when she was he. He thought he wanted to play hard but he wasn't up to it. I was too young and dumb to let him safe word out. I wanted to teach him a lesson that he couldn't just pick up random players off the street, that it was dangerous. I didn't hurt him, but I scared the hell out of him. Made him think I was going to cut him up, make him a girl for real."
"So that's why she doesn't play anymore," Garrett whispers, nodding. He breaks eye contact, looking away. I hold my breath, waiting for his reaction and when he turns back to me, he says, "Thank you for telling me."
"So, Kitten, that's why Jackie doesn't play and that's why she hates me." I talk into the speaker. "I've apologized more than once, but she won't accept it. I scared her for real and I really didn't mean to, and didn't realize it until it was too late."
"She never told me," Garrett says, patting my leg, letting me know that he isn't going to defend her honor at this late date. To Kitten, he implores, "Let us come and get you now, Kitten. Only together can we fix this."
"No!" Her voice is a scream over the speaker, still having that panicked edge to it. I'm worried. Garrett's worried. I think we both consider ignoring her wishes and driving to Charlie's for her, but when our eyes meet, it is with the understanding that he won't go without me and I won't go without him.
Her voice comes over the speaker, calmer, but not by much. "Not yet. If you're seriously ready for this to work, another day won't make a difference. And I'm safe on Charlie's couch."
"She is so on my couch---nothing is going on here," Charlie assures us.
"You were awfully quick to say that Charlie," I warn him with my voice.
He snorts. "There's two of you...both of you over six feet and I'm betting close to four hundred pounds of muscle between you. If you didn't notice, I'm squirrelly boy. Five-feet-two-inches, one-hundred-and-twelve pounds of skin and bones. I have no desire to fight you guys over a girl. I love her but she's like my sister. Besides, I've seen the two of you go at it."
"You saw our tussle at the club?" I ask, not remembering him there.
"I saw the cam cast and that was too close for comfort." He laughs, but it isn't really a laugh, just nervousness.
"Understood," I say, hanging up. No niceties, no good-bye for Kitten, no I love you, nothing. I do look at Garrett, wondering what he's thinking, sitting behind his desk, bent over, his forehead resting on his arm. For a second, our eyes meet and he shakes his head, answering my unasked question with his own manner of silence.
"So you just lied to her?"
Garrett looks up at me but doesn't answer.
"You have no intention of creating a ménage à trois, you were just spewing words to try to get her here."
"That isn't true."
"I think you're lying, Garrett. Lying to her, lying to yourself. If, for once in your life, you are going to be honest with yourself, let it be now."
Garrett stands, arms crossed, defensive. "How am I not being honest? I said we will, we will."
I close the distance between us, leaning into him. "Be honest with yourself, Garrett. Admit that you are doing this as much for yourself as her. Admit that you want me back in your life. Admit that sometimes you just want to be that guy who met me the first time on the beach. You want to be helpless, and used, scared out of your mind, humiliated..." Feeling his tremble, I know I'm pushing the right buttons. I lift his chin and whisper against his cheek, "Cherished."
"What do you want me to say? That yes, I still think about it, the times you mastered me, teaching me how to master others."
"Admit that there was more to it than that."
Lifting his chin stubbornly, he insists, "No. There wasn't more. I loved Tony." I feel the lie in the tremble beneath my hand.
"Take down the walls, Garrett," I whisper, brushing his cheek with my beard. "It's just me and you here. If we are going to try to do this with Kitten, we can't hide behind old lies." I pull him into me, his crossed arms becoming his own trap. I hold him tight, not that I need to; I'm surprised that he doesn't resist. "Are you ready then to just give yourself to me...after years of refusing this? Or will you fight me?"
I watch his every reaction to me, closed eyes, chewed lip, heavy breathing. I know his blood is boiling. I know his every trigger, but I don't hit any of them. Just merely touching him has sent him into sub mode. I didn't want that. I wanted his resistance. I wanted him to face the truth.
Finally, between clenched teeth, he demands, "Let me go, Thomas."
He doesn't have to ask twice.
Facing him, I watch a million emotions flood over his face.
"I told myself that it was because you were my first Master. I told Kitten the same thing...that over time, she would forget you...that it was only because you brought out her darkness that you made her want you so desperately. I lied. There's a decade between then and now, Thomas, and I still want what you can give me. I feel like an addict. I wake mid-dream and it is your voice in my head, always your voice."
I reach out, cupping his face, his stubble rough against my palm. "So you want the three of us to share? Equally?"
"Yes, it's what I want." He sighs. "It's killing me that I want you. I pushed it aside, all of these years I've buried it, but I still need you. I am such a hypocrite. In my head, I condemn her for wanting no more than I want."
"It isn't wrong to want us both, Garrett."
"Yes, it's wrong. After all the years I lived with Tony, hating that he needed other men, knowing that I wasn't enough to complete him, and just wanting to be his everything...how can I dare do the same to Kitten?"
I reach out to touch him but he pulls away. "What the three of us will share cannot be compared to what Tony did to you." Garrett tenses visibly, I think he knows I don't plan to sugarcoat it. "Supposedly, you and Tony had a committed, monogamous relationship, excluding clients of course, but he chose to cheat. Repeatedly. He fucked around. Bathhouses, back alleys, under your nose at the club...he did what he did in secret, but in full view of anyone paying attention. Whether he wanted you to know or not is debatable, but the fact of the matter is, even after he was caught, even after you asked him to stop, he still cheated." He looks at me with hatred but I know he doesn't hate me, he hates the truth. I reach out to touch him, he doesn't pull away. "You won't be cheating on Kitten and Kitten won't be cheating on you. It isn't the same."
"I know," he whispers. "I know. I just don't want to---I don't want..."
"You don't want to hurt Kitten and you don't want to be hurt again, I understand."
"We have to stumble through so much dirt before we reach home. And we have no one to guide us. Our only guide is our homesickness."
-Hermann Hesse, Steppenwolf
Kitten
My mind races at a million miles an hour, wondering, thinking too much, trying to figure out if the two Doms in my life were being truthful and will honestly share me; or whether they lied, saying anything, agreeing to anything, just to get me within hands' reach. Neither man has lied to me before, but I don't see either of them willingly sharing me either.
I sit behind my desk, looking blankly at my computer screen open to days of unanswered emails, hoping I look officially very busy. Occasionally, I even remember to scroll. I couldn't stay at Charlie's place alone and he couldn't sit there with nothing to do all day but hold my hand, so when he left for the office, I went with him, coming straight to my office, leaving the door open. Closed is too claustrophobic.
In the three hours I've been here, I've decided that either the reception desk is getting moved to the other side of the building or my office is changing locales, because the receptionist is out of control. Answering all of the calls on speaker phone, she is driving me insane.
Ring, ring.
Just pick up the God damn phone!
"Thank you for calling The Darkness, where your twisted secrets are our business, how may I help you?"
I asked her to turn it off speaker. She argued that it is easier to multi-task if her hands are free for other things. Thirty transfers to four different departments, two personal calls, and one solicitor later, all within the last hour and I'm ready to disconnect her.
"This is Inappropriate Voices, right?" A man's deep voice booms through her speaker swelling the room. My ears perk up, instantly recognizing the unwanted voice from my past, days of sermons, nights of promises...
I leave my desk, planning to tell Hannah to dump the call, but hear her explaining, "I'm sorry she isn't doing any interviews."
"I don't want to interview her!" Lion's voice comes over the speaker in scream decibel, but not screaming, pure pulpit projection. "It's about her father and I need to talk to her immediately."
My knees go weak and I lean into the doorframe for support. Heart pounding, body trembling, I respond to his command as if he's here in the room. Seeing me, Hannah pantomimes at me the question, "Do you want to take the call?"
I whisper, voice shaking, hoping she doesn't hear my voice shake, "Transfer him, Hannah!" I know she hears me because she nods that she will.
My hand shakes above the receiver as I wait for the call to come through. I lift the handset to my ear when I see the light, not hearing the soft buzz. "Lion?"
"Hey, Jane...sorry, Celia...ah Kat...oh hell, what do you want me to call you?"
"Celia's fine but I asked you to not call me. I really don't want any contact with you or my father or my past. My life is way too complicated for this. Can't you just leave me alone?"
"Your father's in intensive care, but if you don't care..."
I sit down hard in my cushioned desk chair, but there is nothing soft to it.
"Are you there? Do you really not care at all?"
"What happened?" I whisper, trying not to care, trying really, really hard not to care when he tells me that my father just had a heart attack and that they are prepping him for surgery.
"They can't wait long enough for you to get here. I'm sorry, machines are all that's keeping him alive. They really don't know if he'll survive the surgery, but they assure me that they have the top cardiovascular surgeon at UC doing the job, Dr. Steve Lowenstein. I wanted you to know so you could stay near a phone, in case you wanted updates."
I swallow, a million thoughts going through my head, the one winning out being how fast can I get on a plane. I press hold without telling him, screaming for Hannah. She appears in my doorway as if she'd been standing there all along, but I don't bother to comment. "Get me on the next flight to Cincinnati, no stops, no layovers. Use the company card."
She starts to say something but, meeting my eyes, she doesn't. When she walks away, I know she'll do as she was instructed and make the arrangements. Reconnecting to Lion, I'm glad he waited. "I'll be on the next flight. I'll be there."
My back is to the towering brick hospital facing the officially designated emergency entrance. Ambulances line the curb, attendants coming and going at a brisk pace. I close my eyes against harsh red lights flashing in my face as an ambulance speeds by me with a new drop off. Bare maple trees line the curb. I shiver in my T-shirt, actually Charlie's T-shirt, because I never took time to change or to even pack an overnight bag to insure that at some point I could get decent.
Unwilling to go back inside the hospital, I stand alone. A light mist of rain falls, making the air smell clean. It's the kind of rain that is so fine you can hardly see it, but it clings the minute it hits, seeping in and filling the pores of fabric, leaving my shirt clinging, my hair dripping into my eyes in what seems like only minutes.
Dawn came and went without a sunrise, at least not a visible one. It is determined to remain a wet, dreary day. I'd forgotten how this part of the world feels in winter. Cold and grey and gloomy. I should have never got on that plane. I shouldn't have taken Lion's call. Tears spring to my eyes and I shiver harder, sinking into a squat, sobbing into my hands. The sky seems to respond to my grief and releases a torrential rain.
Lion comes up behind me, waving a concerned attendant away, helping the hysterical woman into the warm car that I didn't even hear pull up to the curb. Hospitals don't normally come with valet, but then Lion doesn't accept normal as his standard. As Lionell McCain, evangelist extraordinaire, he expects immediacy in all things and people always respond to his expectations.
He climbs in beside me, closing his door, buckling his belt. I hide my face in my arm as I slump against the door, using the window as a hard pillow, and am as uncomfortable as hell. I shouldn't notice such things, my father is dead. He never knew I'd returned. As close as I can figure, my father died while I was over St. Louis.
"Are you okay?" Lion looks my direction as he pulls from the curb. His glance suggests concern, even though the last time I saw him, I threw ice water in his face. I suppose if we compared sins against each other, we would be tied.
I nod, even though a steady stream of tears flows over my cheeks. He looks back toward the road, driving. I didn't ask where we're going. It hardly matters for now. Through the window, rows of asphalt and block after block of brick buildings, cars, and pedestrians finally give way to the interstate. Lion doesn't look my direction again. He looks tired. I imagine he's been awake all night. He became the son my father always wanted in the absence of the daughter he had no use for. Lion needed a father, I'm glad mine was there for him. Sometime, not now, when my skin no longer crawls in his presence and the pain in my chest is less intense, I should tell him that.
As we drive, the vaguely familiar becomes upsettingly familiar. Cincinnati, becoming Newport, becoming back roads that should have parted cornfields but now divide whole subdivisions. I stopped crying midway across the Ohio River bridge. I still sniffle, not knowing why I cried at all. I think about my wild flight from San Francisco. I didn't call anyone. I should call someone. I don't know who I'd call. I consider Garrett and then Lord Fyre. I close my eyes, not having the energy to face either. I toy with the idea of calling George, but know that I wouldn't survive George. Jackie?
I look at my watch. Seven-thirty in the morning. Jackie would fly here just to kill me if I called her this early. So kill me. I dial but my fingers work of their own volition. They, knowing better than I, dial Garrett. Chickening out, I hang up, realizing Lion was talking and I wasn't paying attention. "What? I'm sorry?"
"I have the keys to his house. Will you be okay there tonight?"
I nod, wanting to vomit. I can't do this, I really, really can't do this. I will not sleep in that house.
"You could stay at my house if that would be better. I have an extra room."
I grip my cell phone so tightly it hurts my hand. I look at it stupidly, realizing it is vibrating. I flip it open and lift it to my ear. "Hello?"
Garrett is on the other side of the connection, sounding panicked, wanting to know why in the hell I flew to Cincinnati.
"How did you know?"
"Credit card. We tracked the purchase." He sighs heavily, taking a calming breath that is audible over the phone. I hear Thomas's voice in the background and it makes me smile that they are still together. Tears fall over my cheeks, the wet flow beginning anew. "Why, Kitten? Why did you go?"
My throat closes in, unable to answer the simple question and I am barely able to get out, "Can I talk to Thomas?"
"Of course." He sighs, not disguising the hurt in his voice
I cry harder when I hear Thomas' voice. "Can you come here?" I ask. "Can you both come here?"
"Yes, Sophia. We weren't going to say anything before, but then you called...and hung up. We're actually already in the air. We land in an hour. Where are you exactly?"
I frown, not understanding how they could already be en route, how they could be so close behind me. "I don't know. I'm with Lion. He's taking me to the old house."
I push my wet bangs out of my hair, realizing for the first time since getting into Lion's car that I am dripping water everywhere. Making nervous chatter, I give Thomas the exact address of my childhood home, even though I don't believe for a second that he needed me to do so. My mind goes back to the playground the day he came to claim me. I know everything there is to know about you, Sophia.
It's how Garrett knew my birthday. I'd been missing Lord Fyre, but he'd been keeping track of me all along. I don't know how I know, but I know.
"We aren't too far from the house, now. At least the scenery seems familiar." I look at the phone to make sure I still have a signal. "Are you there?"
"I'm here with you, Sophia."
"I need you."
"I know."
I stop crying, holding myself and rocking. "I'm glad Garrett is with you. I need both of you."
"We're both here for you, sweetheart. Do you want to talk to him?"
"Not yet. Just tell him, I'm glad he's on the plane too."
"I'm here, Kitten. I heard, we've had it on speaker the whole time."
"I'm glad," I whisper, watching Lion's face darken, realizing that he knows my San Francisco lover is on the phone with me. He'd be appalled rather than angry if he knew both men on the phone were my lovers.
The view through the window becomes the old neighborhood as I sit holding the phone to my ear, watching trees and houses whiz by. I don't want to be here. I really, really don't want to be home. I whisper into the phone, "Don't hang up."
Thomas offers me the reassurance, "We're not going to hang up. We're here with you."
"Thank you," I answer and although for the most part the phone line stays quiet, every few minutes one of us will ask, "Still there?" and wait for the affirmative response. Other than that, there is little else to say. I'm glad they cared enough to find me, to follow me.
Lion pulls into the driveway of the old house just as Thomas announces that they have to disconnect long enough to land, promising they'll call back. Nervously, I disconnect and clutch the phone, waiting for the vibration. My hands shake so hard, I fear I won't feel the vibration. I open the phone to watch the screen face as Lion opens my car door. At least his manners have improved over the years. I'd never have expected him to open the car door for me.
He starts to hand me the keys to the front door of the house, but I wave them away, looking across the road to the church. Without thinking, without looking both ways to cross the street, I cross the road, pulled by memories stronger than the emotion that kept me away so many years. I feel rather than see Lion following me. I climb the few steps to the front doors, pulling them open, knowing the doors won't be locked. It is a poor church in a poor town, there is nothing to steal, and aside from prayer or shelter, there is little reason to go inside. My father wouldn't deny either for the sake of security.
Tall, glass-paned windows line both sides of the main sanctuary, the view outside grey, dark clouds and bare-limbed trees; there is no beautiful stained glass in this church. White walls, high ceiling, no artwork, just rows and rows of antique pews as old as the building built in the early eighteen-hundreds. I walk between the high-backed wood seats, so simplistic, minimalist, not cushioned for comfort, and remember the hours I spent here, growing up, Sunday morning, Sunday night, Tuesday bible study, Wednesday's midweek service, and the Friday evening choir practice. The others who attended this church were my family until I left---leaving because I was too ashamed to face any of them ever again.
I feel their judgment here, even though I am alone. I can see their faces in my mind, fingers pointing accusingly, mouths turned down in contempt. Sinner, fornicator, murderer.
I do not see God in my mind, I do not feel his outrage. He was there, with me, through all of it. God knows the truth. I didn't run from him, just the people who sit in these pews Sunday after Sunday.
I run my fingertips across the gleaming wood, following the main aisle to the pulpit. I pass it, veering right, going into a small alcove to pull open a sheltered door. The wood sticks, swollen with time and neglect, but a hard pull releases it. The stairway is dark and spider webs hang from the ceiling, but neither my fear of darkness or insects deters me.
Lion won't follow me here.
No one has been up this staircase in decades, except me, and since I've been gone, none but the ghost I know remains.
I hear wood creak as Lion sits down in one of the pews. At the top step, I stop, wrapping my arms around myself. Freezing air flows in through the open arches, my wet T-shirt sucks around my body, clinging, adding to the chill. I take the final step, placing my hands on the cold metal of the bell. It is covered with a thin film of ice, proving it's not my imagination that it is colder here, it really is, the temperature dropping fast.
Sitting down, I cross my legs and hold my cell phone in my lap, willing it to vibrate. Knowing it has only been about five minutes since I hung up, questioning how long it can take for a fucking plane to land. I don't want to be alone here. What was I ever thinking? Coming here? Dear God, why did I come back to face all of this?
My father is dead. Can I admit that I don't care? Can I admit that? Father forgive me, but I miss the man who once loved me. Loved me when I was sinless. That was a long time ago. Cold, I curl into the wall, wrapping myself in arms and legs, hearing my mother's voice in the shrill sound of the breeze whistling through the arch of the windows. Sophia.
"The serious thing for each person to recognize vividly and poignantly, each for himself, is that every falling-away from species virtue, every crime against one's own nature, every evil act, every one without exception records itself in our unconscious, and makes us despise ourselves."
-Abraham H. Maslow, Toward a Psychology of Being
Garrett
Mist turns to ice hitting the windshield of our rental car. Welcome to winter in Ohio. God, I love San Francisco. Thomas keeps Kitten company on the phone, using the ear piece as he drives. I try to remain calm, inhaling nicotine, exhaling. Wondering wearily why I am making my lungs suffer for my sins. I cannot believe I am in Ohio. I could have put this trip off an entire lifetime. Inhale, exhale smoke rings. Puff, puff, puff. Thomas hits the interstate; I exhale smoke just like Daddy did when I was a child. Three perfect rings. Only then it was a game, not a bad habit. "Catch the rings on your finger, son, and make a wish. Make it a good wish, Larry."
I can almost see myself then, sitting on his lap, in blue shorts with suspenders over a short-sleeved oxford shirt, white knee socks, and the very best Buster Brown leather oxfords, not forgetting the horrible Dutch boy haircut. Is it any wonder I am what I am?
"Are you okay?" His hand leaves the gear shift to pat my knee, our eyes meet, and I realize he's talking to me not her.
"Ask me again on the flight home." I offer a weak smile.
"It doesn't have to be this hard." He rubs my leg. I cover his hand with mine, still holding the cigarette between my fingers.
"What doesn't have to be this hard?"
"You, facing your ghosts. Embracing the past so that it doesn't hurt our future."
Our future. It seems like non-reality that we agreed to a ménage à trois for real, an absolute working threesome. I've never been in a poly relationship, although I guess, in a way, what I had with Tony was poly. I was monogamous, except for the scenes I did at work, sexual but never crossing the line to sex; Tony, with his steady stream of boy-toys, was always discreet, or so I thought, thinking we kept up the appearance of happy, committed couple.
I accepted Tony for who he was, so why is accepting this arrangement with Kitten and Fyre causing me to feel odd?
"Do we need to talk about this before we see her?"
"Is she still on the phone?" I ask.
"Lost the signal five minutes ago." He looks at me hard; I inhale, hand shaking.
I hold the tobacco in my lungs, wishing it was more than tobacco, hissing around a burning exhale of smoke. "It isn't necessary for us to say anything else...not until we get Kitten back to San Francisco. It isn't like we can make this happen. She may not want this."
"Kitten wants this."
"No, Kitten wants you and her. She may even think she wants me and her, but the reality is, until we put it into practice, it's all theory anyway; and I know for a fact she's never said anything about you and I, or the three of us together.
"You're scared, get over it. And we both know we're not talking about our relationship with her. That's not what you were thinking about. Who's here? Mother? Father? Ex-girlfriend? Who's the ghost who has you scared white as death?"
I look at him hard, not liking what he's saying, but understanding. Thomas has always had the ability to see through my façade. I'm jolted as he pulls into a driveway I wasn't even aware we'd approached. I look at the two-story white-frame house and try to imagine Kitten growing up here. We're here to rescue her; my drama is just going to have to wait. Turning back to him, I find him looking at the house too. "Let's get her out of here, my ghosts can wait."
"Can they?" Car parked, Thomas turns to me and I make the mistake of looking into his eyes. The pull is there, even after years of hiding from it. I can't deny the chemistry between us, the physical attraction. Suddenly, it can be mine, if I just accept that it can be, assuming Kitten agrees. I open my mouth but no words come out. I put my lips back together and lean in close to him, close enough to smell his cologne and soap and the warm, masculine scent that is his alone. He comes an inch closer, so that our foreheads touch, our eyes meet. "Get us both out of here with our sanity intact and then we'll talk about relationship strategy."
"I can do that." He winks.
I kiss his jaw quickly before pulling away. "Let's get our girl."
Stepping from the car, I toss the cigarette butt, squashing it beneath my heel. I'm really surprised Thomas didn't say anything about the cigarette. I stopped years ago, for Tony. When I was with Thomas before, I smoked, too much, and he put restrictions on my smoking---that I didn't do it while I was with him. I shouldn't have grabbed the pack in the airport lobby, but they were there, and I really needed the distraction. Sleet hits me in the face and I hold my arms out to it, letting it lash me, enjoying the sting. Thomas climbs out and, facing me, shakes his head. "You're insane."
"I am Ice."
We both turn toward the screech of wood against wood, seeing the doors to the church across the road fly open. For a second it is an idyllic scene, rustic church caught in a storm, dark gray clouds and fading sunlight casting an odd halo over the steeple, ice mixed with snow blowing lateral. Then I see Kitten and the scene isn't idyllic anymore.
She races down the steps and across the road, an icy gust both propelling her and holding her back. I'm hurt that she goes to Thomas first, but then I see just how needy she is, arms and legs wrapped around his middle, holding on for dear life like someone drowning. This isn't about us. This is more, much more than the problem we left in San Francisco. I close the gap, wrapping around her from behind as Thomas holds her from the front. Between us, she is soaked through to her skin, her bare arms tinged blue, but she isn't shivering. She should be shaking involuntarily, her body's auto-pilot self-preservation mode to keep her internal organs warm.
The pellets of ice sting my face and hands as I rub her arms briskly. I state the obvious, "We need to get her inside and warm immediately!" Thomas is already balancing her with one arm under her hips and yanking her wet T-shirt off her body with his free hand. She isn't wearing a bra, so she is bared completely for the moment it takes to free her of soggy fabric. She immediately goes back to hugging him tight, her face buried against his neck. I pull off my leather jacket and wrap it around her.
A man clears his throat behind us. I turn, Thomas doesn't even look up. He whispers into Kitten's ear and I hear her laugh softly. I'm so pleased to hear her laugh that I don't even care what he said. Recognizing Lionell McCain, I am pleased to see that his nose is no longer as perfect as before.
"There are neighbors here---with children---watching. I think that could have waited until you were behind closed doors."
His lips are blue, ice hitting him as hard as us, but he seems oblivious.
"Is this how you treat guests in this part of the world?" I demand, spoiling for another go at his nose. "You let them get hypothermia?"
He lifts his hands and backs up. "She won't talk. She won't go inside the house. What was I supposed to do?"
I shake my head and look away, irritated that he is here. Irritated that Kitten came here to him.
Fyre opens the car door and puts Kitten in the back seat. Tugging on my arm, he pushes me into the back seat with her, commanding, "Get her warm, now, whatever it takes."
He climbs in the front seat and closes the door against Lionell, who rushes forward to say something. Thomas ignores Lion, pulling out of the driveway. Kitten curls against me and I am shocked anew at how really cold she is. I don't have to tell Thomas to turn the heat on full blast, as soon as he has the engine running, he turns it as high as it will go. He turns to face me, nodding at Kitten.
"Where to?"
I pull Kitten closer. "Where to, baby?"
"I d-don't know," she answers, chattering. "Anywhere b-but here."
Taking her face in my hands, I hug her face, warming her, leaning in to kiss her. Her eyes and nose are red and swollen. As much as I want to ask her what's happened, I don't. I kiss her, willing her to kiss me back, teasing her lips with my tongue until she submits and opens her mouth to me. Her lips are cold but my greater concern is that her tongue is cold, telling me her core temperature has dropped. "A warm hotel room would be a good start."
I push her down in the seat before pulling my own shirt over my head and lying over her. The only thought on my mind is getting her warm.
Amazingly enough, the small town has a choice of two hotel chains, Red Roof Inn or a Residence Inn, and that because the interstate passes over town, literally. Thomas pulls into the parking lot of the Residence Inn and, in less than five minutes, has us registered. He returns with the key to a ground-floor room and only glances in the backseat to determine how things are with Kitten. That I am lying over her body, our naked chests skin to skin doesn't warrant comment. If she wasn't shivering so hard, I might have found a way to enjoy the moment, as it is, I focus on using my own body heat to warm her.
Moving the car to park closer to our room's door takes a few moments because of the maze of buildings, but once the car is parked, I roll aside for Thomas to lift Kitten into his arms. I settle my leather jacket back around her bare shoulders before racing to the door and sliding our keyless entry card. Inside, I'm delighted by a room that is exceptionally fresh and clean, always a nice bonus and, from the older exterior, I'd had my doubts. Thomas doesn't pause to look, carrying Kitten from the car directly to the bathroom. I follow close behind, kneeling to run water into the plain, white porcelain tub while he helps her out of my jacket and the rest of her clothing before helping her step into the tub. She cries out as she sits in the tepid water. "It's too hot."
"It's not too hot baby, you're too cold," I cajole, watching Thomas struggle with her only a minute before she is pinned in the tub, warm water covering her thighs. I slowly increase the temperature as the level of water rises and her body adjusts to the warmth.
"It is too hot!" she insists and Thomas silences her with his mouth, kissing her and holding her in the barely warm water. She fights, splashing even more as the water rises and grows even warmer, but he holds her in, both our shirts soaked by the time she calms down. With the water as high as the tub allows it to go and as warm as I dare make it, she slouches against the back of the tub, staring into space. Thomas kisses her forehead and stands. "You two be good. I'm going to go make a few calls to get our jet readied and bring back some food. I want to get us out of here as soon as possible."
He looks from me to Kitten, lying still and silent in the tub, lost in her own world. His words seem to break into her thoughts though, because she looks at him, a delayed reaction. "I can't go."
We both wait for her to elaborate, she doesn't. Kneeling beside her, I push her damp bangs out of her eyes and turn her face to me. She doesn't resist and in fact seems lethargic, wrung out. She closes her eyes to keep from looking into mine, whispering, "My father's dead." All the puzzle pieces collide into place. "I have a funeral to plan."
Should I be concerned that Kitten hasn't talked about it? Maybe. But then we still don't know all the details. She isn't crying and, as far as I can tell, hasn't cried, but then everyone deals with grief in their own way.
True to his word, Thomas did manage to rummage up a meal. Italian takeout from a local restaurant, three kinds of pasta, Caesar salad, homemade breads. I didn't expect him to return with a fast-food paper-bag meal---that isn't his style because he would go without food before putting into his body what he considers garbage---but we are feasting like gods. I almost feel guilty, because Kitten isn't eating and even the threat of punishment didn't make her open her mouth. Actually, I've never heard Kitten be a real smart-ass, but tonight she said, "That's an idea, force me to eat so I can vomit on your pillow."
I left her alone.
Now, she sleeps, pillow safe from vomit.
Thomas kicks back in the small desk chair by her bed, bare feet on the mattress, not watching her, but seeming to watch over her. A littering of dirty plates, glassware, and Styrofoam coffee cups line the desk behind him and, out of nervousness or a need to tidy, I do, tossing empty carryout containers and putting the dirty plates and glasses in the kitchenette's mini dishwasher.
I'm surprised when Thomas comes up behind me and starts rubbing my back. "She's going to be okay. She's exhausted. Stop worrying."
"Who said I'm worried?"
His fingers knead deeper, loosening tight muscles, making me moan.
"Fine, if you're not worried, you can come into the bedroom and rub my back."
I bend my head low, letting his iron fingers shred my neck muscles, sighing. "Please don't stop."
His warm, deep chuckle vibrates against my back as he slides in closer, molding his body into mine. "I'm glad you still like my touch." His voice tells me even more than his touch that he expects things to turn intimate.
"We can't," I say, trying to shrug away from him, but he holds me in place, pushing his weight against me to wedge me between the solid wall of his body and the sink. "Kitten might wake up."
"Kitten isn't going to wake up. Relax."
"We haven't discussed this with her yet. She may not want us to be a ménage à trois for real, full-time." I pant, my body responding to him, though at the moment I wish it wouldn't.
I never thought romance might be what I was bargaining for when I agreed that we should become a threesome. I expected to be pushed, hard, physically, painfully by Thomas, not seduced. Now, twice in twenty-four hours, he's seduced, teased, and treated me like a new lover, a new boyfriend, and my mind is having a hard time wrapping around it. I never expected this and that makes me wonder if he's playing a mind game, to see if I can deal with the consequences of a ménage à trois before announcing the plan to Kitten. Right now, this second, we could still back out. If we wanted to. I lift my chin. "What's going on, Thomas?"
He leans in, biting my cheek, hard. "Stop overanalyzing, Garrett. Relax."
"You're going a little soft on me, I think I need to worry."
"Far from soft." Hands on my shoulders, he pivots me to face him. I don't resist when the pressure of his hands pushes me down onto my knees. He gives me a moment to balance myself, the space he has given me between his braced legs and the cabinet to my back just barely enough room; or maybe he's giving me time to refuse, but honestly I don't even consider refusing as he slides his zipper. I push his jeans down just enough to expose him to me completely. His erect penis springs forward, hard, ready.
His hands pull me into him, insistent. I keep my lips pressed together, letting his smooth head bob against my closed mouth. He pushes harder. I like the feel of his hard cock pushing against my lips. I nudge in, just enough to let him know that I'm not saying no, just playing.
"Bitch."
Catching his gaze, holding it, I watch his face darken with lust as I lick the tip of his cock, rimming his piss hole. I resist the pull of his hands as he tries to push himself into my mouth. I hold his gaze, taking my tongue in a slow slide down the sensitive underside. I give a fast lick around the base of his balls before pulling the smooth globe into my mouth to roll it around with my tongue. Lips closing, holding him snug in my mouth, I suck. Thomas's eyes close and his head falls back. I pull the second ball into my mouth, holding, rolling, sucking, pulling his flesh hard until he moans and his fingers twine into my hair, pulling tight. I bite, a teasing bite, and his grip tightens. I run my hands up his hard, jean-covered thighs, letting his balls slide from my mouth, running a teasing lick up his shaft before taking his length into my mouth. His hiss of pleasure makes me look up and, for a moment, our eyes meet again. Low on his shaft, his entire length in my mouth, I bite, making him tense---teasing bites, bite, release, bite, release.
"Garrett." He growls my name softly, but it's a warning growl. He needs me to give him quick release and I toy with him. I bite, harder. My name comes from his lips in a spasm.
I grab his thighs then, pulling him into me deeper, setting up a rhythm, loosening my mouth to take him in and out smoothly, quickly. Sucking in my cheeks just enough to make my mouth feel as tight to him as a warm, throbbing pussy. His thighs shake beneath my firm grip and, around his cock, my lips smile. This I'm good at, really good, and I want him to remember that once upon a time I blew his mind with my skill.
Swallowing more, I relax my throat, taking him deeper with my swallow. Hands gripping hard on his ass, I control the rhythm, forcing his cock deeper, letting him fuck my throat, but in reality, my rhythm, my control, I know he feels like I am fucking him...hard...harder.
He tries to slow the pace, to force down his own need, his own desires, but I don't let him, knowing he's close, very close. I push him, tightening my mouth, quickening the stroke until I feel him tense, knowing he's about to come.
"Blessed mother," he grunts, coming hard. "I've missed you."
"It is good to have among us such men, such balancing monsters of love."
-Leonard Cohen, Beautiful Losers
Thomas
Ohio is the land of ghosts. I heard that once, somewhere, but I can't remember where for the life of me; but it must be true. I sit here watching Kitten sleep fitfully, wrestling demons she'd once locked far away. While she was with me at the beach house, she'd seemed to find peace, but now the old fight resurfaces here. Even in sleep, her brow is pinched like she is thinking too hard. Garrett lies beside her, staring into space, not the self-confident man of San Francisco, but made fragile by a single flight.
I covered them both with the sheet and lightweight, institutional-grade blanket provided by the hotel, cranked up the heat, and hoped that we'd all find refuge in sleep. Kitten did, Garrett and I didn't.
I have no time for thoughts of Lattie and my children, but they are on my mind much since I boarded the plane---too much time to think. I miss them. Kitten has spent so much time escaping her father, her upbringing, and Garrett, though he denies it, has done the same. I wonder if my children will even remember me when they are adults. I wonder if they will hate me for my desertion or will they realize that events out of my control kept me from their lives. I sigh, crossing the room, escaping my thoughts with distraction. I sit down on the edge of the bed next to Garrett. He lies on his stomach. I rub his back, offering him the small comfort of my thoughts. "She's going to be all right, she's just exhausted."
Garrett sighs. "Ohio is an exhausting state."
"We're in Kentucky."
"Same difference." He arches his back into my hands encouragingly.
My hands respond, kneading deeper, noting how tense his muscles are. It hasn't escaped my notice that Garrett has been as despondent as Kitten since our plane touched down. "How far is your family from here?"
He jerks with the question, admitting, "Across the river, ten miles."
"Really?" I keep rubbing, focusing on the places that make him moan. "Will you go see them while you're here?" I don't think he'll answer because he takes so long doing so, but then he stretches. "I don't know."
Sitting up, he looks from her, curled on the bed, to me. "She hasn't said it, but this has to be destroying her. She didn't get a chance to say good-bye."
"Lots of people lose loved ones without getting to say good-bye." I find a really tight knot that makes him squirm.
"I know, but isn't it different when you choose to not see people on purpose, when you just write them out of your life?"
"Is that what you did?"
"No." He shakes his head, standing, putting us shoulder to shoulder. "I've been back. I've done seminars in Cincy. I always stop by the house. Mom's great. She doesn't really talk about my lifestyle, but there's no condemnation either. My dad...he's always away when I visit, at the hospital, golfing, something, anything. I disappointed him a long time ago. He hasn't forgiven me. I did everything I could, but over the years, we never really reconciled, even though I flew in to take all the final exams, making the money and time spent on med school not a total loss. I had the M.D. following my name after all. But it wasn't the same. I wouldn't be carrying on the family tradition, I refused to join the family practice. Worse, I didn't want the white picket fence dream."
I roll him over so that he is on his back, looking up at me. I catch his chin in my hand as he turns his head away, pulling his gaze back to mine. "You're wondering what it's going to be like when you get the phone call that your dad died?"
"Maybe. Or I could just be missing the white picket fence." He sighs. "I really don't want to talk about this. I want to sleep. I want to stop thinking for a while. I want you to go to bed, too, with us." He scoots, pulling Kitten with him to make room for me on her other side. She sighs, wrapping around him in her sleep.
"Three in a bed?" I ask, arching my brow. "Is that even legal in Kentucky?"
"I didn't take you for a man who obeys the laws of the state you're in." Garrett laughs and it's a good sound to hear after the day we've shared. "Now who's scared?"
"It's too early for bed."
"I don't know about you, but I've been awake forty-nine hours at this point. I could really go for some sleep."
"Nothing else?" I tease, smirking as he squirms uneasily against Kitten. His guilt is palatable and I enjoy torturing him. We still haven't talked to Kitten about a ménage à trois for real. And honestly, I don't see the point. Garrett has always been and always will be monogamous. I don't see that changing. I lean over Kitten, brushing her in her sleep and she snuggles even closer to Garrett. Bending closer, I bite his cheek, whispering around the fold of skin between my teeth, "Come outside and play with me?"
"Only if I can snore through it," he answers sarcastically.
I laugh outright, pulling away from him, leaving his face unmarked, though I really wanted to mark him.
On a more serious note, he asks, "The club is opening its doors for the evening in an hour, did you call anyone?"
"Anyone as in to say that neither one of us are going to be there to run the show?" I ask before assuring him, "Lewd Larry's would survive without us, but yes, I gave George a courtesy call to let him know what was happening."
"Thank you," he says, patting the empty spot of mattress. "Now, come to bed with us."
Too tired to argue, I pull my T-shirt over my head and push off my jeans. Naked, I climb in beside Kitten, but not spooning.
I awake, chilled and very alone in the bed. Still and silent, I locate Garrett and Celia by sound, then, as my vision adjusts, by sight. Garrett holds her in his arms, pinning her between him and wall. That they are having sex is immediately obvious---raw, passionate, rough, pounding, up against the wall, screaming sex. I watch, seeing no reason not to, enjoying the show enough that I am fully erect when they stop moving, both convulsing into each other.
No words are exchanged as Garrett pulls away, bringing her with him to carry her back to the bed, where he tucks her between us. She rolls onto her side, wrapping her arm around my waist and snuggling her face deep into her pillow without a word.
"I'm sorry we woke you." Garrett pulls the blanket and covers all of us back up.
"I didn't complain."
"I just needed a release, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't stop thinking."
"Are you done thinking now?"
"Yes."
"So we can all sleep now?"
"Yes." He sighs and it is a harsh, shuddering sound.
Reaching over Celia, I wrap my fingers around his bicep, giving a small squeeze. "It's going to be okay, Garrett. Morning will be here before you know it."
"It's always worse at night," he says and, in the dark, I nod, understanding exactly what he's feeling if not what ghosts are haunting him. We all have those people, places, regrets that we spend all day hiding from, but in our wakeful thoughts and uncontrollable dreams, we brave the battle night after night. My ghost is Eva and some nights it is better to not sleep at all than fall victim to the memories relived in my dreams night after night.
"To breathe is an affliction requiring real courage. At this hour of the night the only anodyne for such sadness is the diversion of sweet flesh itself."
-Richard Wright, The Weekend Man
Kitten
I awaken, at once wide-eyed, realizing that the nightmare wasn't a dream at all, but fact. My father is dead. With my awareness comes the moment it dawns that I am snuggled naked between equally naked Garrett and Thomas, a cage of their arms and legs wrapped around me. I vaguely remember the sex. It was powerful, feral, brief, and I am sore as a result. Shoulders aching, I shift to release the pressure, and realize without a doubt that the muscles of my ass cheeks and thighs are a firebrand of pain. I hold very still. Still enough to relax and let the pain pass. Still enough for the memory of last night to come racing back.
I'd awakened in Garrett's arms as he pulled me from the bed, saying, "I need you, Kitten."
Carrying me across the room, he'd received my assent in kisses...hard, fast, passionate, breath-stealing kisses.
"Fuck me hard, Garrett," I'd whispered, coming up for air. "Make me forget why I'm here."
Standing me up, pressing my back and hips against the wall, he posed me, hands high above my head, as though I was chained there, and although no chains bound me, my hands stayed in position, even when he went down on his knees and pulled my clit into his mouth. I held my hands high above my head, even as I bit the inside of my lip to keep from screaming, as he pulled the first orgasm from my body. He held my hips tight while I convulsed against his mouth, and then he stood, kissing me, hard, deep, tasting my blood in my mouth. He forced my shoulders into the hardness of the wall. The textured wallpaper was a distracting irritation against my bare shoulders and ass as he lifted me, impaled me, his hard length an undeniable force demanding to go deeper inside me with each thrust. His hands squeezed my ass cheeks hard with each unforgiving pound, so intense were his hands I still feel the throb of ache deep in the muscles he gripped. My nails scored equally painful tracks down his back.
He growled, grabbing my hair, forcing me to meet his gaze.
Something happened in that moment.
He pulled away to look at my face, locking gazes with me in the darkly shadowed room. Trapped between wall and man, I felt strength and power and emotion that had no name but whispered harsh and needy against my cheek. "You are mine, Kitten. I am all the darkness you will ever need. Let me Master you."
I tremble with the memory and hope I don't wake the man on either side of me.
Their breathing tells me they sleep still.
Reaching down, I tentatively touch my pussy lips with my fingers. Dry. Painful. God, really painful, this is going to require triple antibiotic ointment and a few days recovery time. Abraded pussy lips...just in time for the funeral...a constant reminder of the whore I am. Thank you, Garrett, for that.
"I'm yours." That's what I'd said to him last night. "I'm yours, Garrett, forever and always." But lying here, between the two of them, I wonder, did I mean it? Did I mean exclusively Garrett?
I don't remember him returning me to the bed. I don't remember Thomas coming to bed at all or being there in the middle of the night. Did he hear us? Did he see us? Oh, God. Thomas watched me have sex with Garrett. I can't reconcile any other conclusion; however, my brain can't even go there this early in the morning, not without coffee.
Equally strange is unraveling my body from the grip of two naked men.
I want to wake up and find that all of yesterday was a dream, but I know that there is no waking up from this as I pad silently over the plush carpet to the window. Pushing aside heavy foam-backed curtains, the view from the room slams me back into the middle of my nightmare. It is still dark, not middle-of-the-night dark but not yet dawn. My hometown glares at me. The Waffle House across the road was a home away from home my high school years, every penny saved for college a drop in my sanity bucket. From here, I can see the glimmer of glittering city lights---white, red, yellow, green---reminding me that Cincinnati really is just across the river, the skyline I grew up with. Tears well, sudden and unwelcome. I have come home. The pain is more than I can bear.
Ashamed of my nakedness, I pull on the shirt and shorts borrowed from Charlie.
"Celia?" I turn and face Thomas, folding into his warm solidness when he holds open his arms to me. Memories of last night and the intense pounding I took against the wall from Garrett come back and, for a moment, I am embarrassed. Knowing that Thomas was there, even though it was dark, what he didn't see, he heard. That part, yeah, in the light of day, mortifying. Rubbing my hair, he asks, "Are you okay?"
I laugh and the sound against his chest is harsh and ugly. "How do I answer that question? My father is dead and I'm having illicit sex in a hotel room with not one but two lovers."
"I missed that part. I don't feel like I had sex."
"Oh, you had sex, you participated by listening." I am so glad I pulled on the shirt and shorts. Embarrassed and clothed is so much more preferable to embarrassed and naked.
The rumble of laughter, deep in his chest, is comforting. "I don't think it works that way."
"I can't believe my life," I whisper.
"What do you mean?"
"My father has never cared about my happiness and now, with this, you and Garrett, and me, I really want this to happen, but I'm here...and I feel his condemnation, I feel his eyes on me, his voice in my head screaming, "Sinner!" and all I want to do is run. I don't want to be here. I feel like I can't go to his funeral, that I'm too evil, too dirty. I shouldn't go."
"Whether you go, or don't go, is a decision that only you can make."
"I could skip it? Just not go?" I ask incredulously, my voice muffled against his chest. My eyes are open and I focus on the chest hairs closest to my left eye, dark curly hair again a solid wall of pale skin. Pale in the darkness of the room, an illusion. I know the olive tan tone of his skin tone as well as I know the pale, pale whiteness of my own. "How can I not go to my own father's funeral?"
"You're going," Garrett says from the bed. We both turn to look at him. Standing, he crosses naked to the middle of the room where he pauses, rumpled from too little sleep and swaying slightly from being only half-awake. He is unselfconscious of his slack penis swinging between his legs or the fact that we are watching as he scratches the curve beneath his left ass cheek. "He was your father."
I look from Garrett to Thomas, seeking any other answer and, finding none, I run into the bathroom. Slamming the door to my newfound refuge, the bright white tile walls blinding, I turn off the lights and sit on the lidded toilet in the dark. Their voices come through the door. They are not talking to me, but to each other, in soft voices. I hear Garrett's curse through the door and try to not care what he thinks, but I do.
I always care what others think.
I want to please although I fail miserably at it more often than not.
Even in the dark, the cold, hard porcelain presses in on me, confining me. It is not a good confining, like the isolation sphere. It is a horrifying confining, I imagine, quite like a grave. Dark. Dirt. Cold.
I can't stay in this bathroom.
I can't face Garrett and Thomas.
Dark, dirt, cold...I press my hand against the tile, cold and damp. My hand sinks into the tile and I am suddenly being swallowed by the hard porcelain, but it is soft like dirt, swallowing me. I have to get out of here!
I could ask myself what I was thinking, but the answer would be that I'm not thinking, not thinking at all, and that scares me. It makes me feel like I've lost my mind, but I assume if I am lucid enough to realize that I'm not thinking through my actions, then I am not quite insane yet. It's small comfort as I sit on my mother's grave, miles from the hotel, icy, raining sleet hitting my face, the bare skin of my arms and legs. Dawn is a mere lightening of the sky. Dreary gloom seems to be the theme of the new day.
If I were thinking, I would have stayed in the warm hotel, not crawled through the small bathroom window to escape the cold, tile walls. If I were thinking, I would never have gotten on that plane. But I didn't think, I did get on the plane, and now, I am here, in Kentucky, the landscape of all my nightmares.
The sting of ice is good. It reminds me I'm not dead yet.
That's what pain does for me...reminds me that I'm still alive.
I lift my face into the sting and still tears don't come, my eyes water from the cold, from the breeze, but I shed no tears for my father.
"I hate him," I scream into the early morning air.
On hands and knees, lips to the frozen granite of my mother's grave marker, I whisper, "I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!"
I know for a fact I am losing my mind when I hear my mother's voice calling my name, "Sophia? Sophia?"
The arms lifting me are solid though, and rough, not a mother's embrace, the voice deep, panicked, demanding, "What were you thinking, Sophia? Do you want us to bury you as well?"
"The serious thing for each person to recognize vividly and poignantly, each for himself, is that every falling-away from species virtue, every crime against one's own nature, every evil act, every one without exception records itself in our unconscious, and makes us despise ourselves."
-Abraham H. Maslow, Toward a Psychology of Being
Garrett
Steam rolls from under the bathroom door, the scent of Thomas clinging to it. I cringe that it is his scent that brings her comfort. It makes me tired and angry and I wish to God I'd never agreed to let her find her darkness with him. I could have given her what she needed. I just needed time. I need time now, time alone with her, time to talk to her. As much as I want to please her, as much as I still lust after Thomas myself, I don't see a ménage à trois working between the three of us. Will I always feel like the odd man out?
"Shit." I start toward the bathroom, but a solid pounding at the door brings me back around to see Thomas going toward the door. I stay between the two rooms, waiting to see who it is, never expecting the open door to reveal George and Jackie.
"Honey child? Where are you?" she shrills from the sidewalk, coming through the door at full speed. "Kitten?"
The bathroom door crashes open and Kitten flies from the room, jumping into Jackie's arms, wrapping both arms and legs around her middle. "You came! Thank you, thank you, thank you."
Kitten is both naked and dripping wet.
"Christ." Thomas sighs.
"Is he here too?" Jackie quips. Aiming a finger at Thomas, she gives him the look that says I'll deal with you later. She then turns to me and gives me the same look before saying, "Jesus must be hiding in this room somewhere because I know I said I'd see the second coming before I ever stepped foot in Ohio again."
"We're in Kentucky," George says, dropping their carry-on luggage in the middle of our room.
"Same difference," Jackie and I say at the same time. George and Thomas share a look that says clearly that they don't understand. Jackie and I share a look that says all too well that we do.
"How did you find us?" Thomas demands.
"Don't want us here? Well too bad." Jackie narrows her eyes and I shrug, pulling on clothes, determined not to say another word as Jackie sits on the edge of the bed, Kitten, still wrapped around her, sits on her lap. "Baby girl called, and Mama Jackie is here."
"Kitten called you?" I say and Thomas asks at the same moment.
She gives us both a challenging look before pulling an edge of the blanket up around Kitten, who is now shaking in her arms. "Men just don't understand. Times like these, crying times, a woman needs the heart of another woman to share the pain with." She pats Kitten and rocks her. "Yes, that's what we're gonna do, child."
Thomas kneels beside them both, a towel in hand, and I think for a moment that I should have been the one to bring Kitten a towel. Kitten doesn't move, like a child separated for a long moment from her mother, she clings to Jackie, letting Thomas towel dry her hair, and I just stand here like an idiot watching.
"Baby girl, baby girl. You poor, sweet thing. Tell me what's been done to plan this funeral."
"I don't know. Lion is taking care of everything," Kitten whispers.
"Then I need to talk to him. Because certain things must be done," Jackie insists and, whipping open her phone, she presses a button.
"You have Lionell McCain on speed dial?" I demand.
"He's an important person in Kitten's life and Kitten is an important person in my life, of course he's on speed dial."
"He is not an important person in Kitten's life!" I scream, illogical emotion tearing through my guts. I'm pissed as hell that her father died and she ran to him instead of me. Watching Thomas pull one of his overly large turtlenecks over her head, I feel like a failure all the way around and punch a wall because it will help me forget that it's not really Lion I'm mad at in this moment. "I am her Master, damn it, and he is a non-existent ass."
"Thomas?" Jackie lifts her brow and nods toward me.
"Oh, no, I know that look, that's the deal with him look. I do not need to be dealt with!"
"Then stop being a drama queen and start being helpful!" Jackie demands.
I find myself shoved into a corner table of McDonald's, untouched Big Macs and fries littering the tabletop, Thomas blocking my left, George sitting directly in front of me. Their scowls tell me I'm being an unreasonable brat, and I am. I don't know what happened on the flight here. I feel like I regressed farther than I ever have and now, here, I'm the little boy again, wanting to grow up to make my father proud, but I'm also the jealous lout on the verge of losing Kitten because I really don't share well. I'm sure not doing a good job comforting her.
"God, I'm such an ass!" I bury my face in my hands and, in delayed reaction, scan the closest tables to make sure no small children heard my outburst. Lunchtime at the only fast-food place in town has made this McDonald's a busy place, but there are no small children in hearing range.
"Yes, you are, but tell me how you came to that conclusion?" George asks.
"I should be the one at the hotel holding Kitten's hand and comforting her, helping her make arrangements, seeing to her needs."
"Yes. So, why aren't you?" George lifts his cola mid-question and sips as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Nice, Doctor, very nonchalant.
I look at Thomas, feeling more animosity than I should. "He seems to do a better job of taking care of her than I do."
George looks between us. "Yet, you are both here, she is there, with Jackie and Lion comforting her."
"Thank God for Jackie." I close my eyes, grateful, in truth, that she set aside all her issues and came. It has always been that way with her. If I needed her, she was there, no matter how mad at me she was the moment before, and now she has taken in Kitten the same way, like family should be. Toying with a French fry, I complain, "I didn't want her to call him."
"His presence was necessary, he has all the answers. I'm pretty certain that most of the funeral is already arranged because he stepped in...and like it or not..." Thomas says softly. "...he was a man who made a very significant impact on who the woman is today, you can fault him all you like for what transpired in the past, but without him, Kitten wouldn't be in our lives today."
"So what? I should thank him for fucking with her mind?"
"Maybe." Thomas locks gazes with me. "Lion isn't the reason we're sitting in a McDonald's at twelve-thirty in the afternoon."
"It isn't?" I hide my question behind a bite of cold burger.
"You've changed your mind."
I swallow, the burger sticking halfway down. I take a drink to force the meat down and push the boxed sandwich away.
"Can you two catch me up? I'm a little behind on current events," George asks.
I look through the window at falling snow. Avoidance...it's what I'm good at.
"Celia wants us to share her. We haven't had a chance to talk about to what extent yet, fifty-fifty, seventy-thirty...but shared. And Garrett thought it would be a better plan if we all shared each other, a ménage à trois."
"Is this true, Garrett?"
I ignore him, pretending to watch a red Ford spin on slush, stuck for the moment in the drive thru lane. I really haven't missed this. I haven't missed anything that this part of the world offers.
"Garrett?" George touches my arm, drawing me back to the conversation. I look from George to Thomas, throat dry, words stuck in my mind. Was it my suggestion?
I sigh, trying to buy time, not knowing what I want, what I really want. "I may have suggested it, I may be having second thoughts, it may just be that we're in this godforsaken part of the world and, as a result, I'm not thinking clearly about anything. What I do know is I've been a jerk to Kitten ever since I got off the plane and I'm going to start making up for that. I need to be here for Kitten and the last thing any of us need to be worrying about is what's going to happen once we get back to San Francisco."
"In my degradation I have not been so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I thought had died out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that I thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from old voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever."
-Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
Kitten
I face my father for the first time in seven years. He lies dead in a sky blue, satin-lined coffin and doesn't even look like the man I remembered. This man, made up with the heavy pancaked artistry only the best funeral home in the area's cosmetician could muster, is old. Liver spots dot his face and hands. His cheeks, arms and waistline have gone soft with pudgy rolls of fat. His hair is snow white. Such a different man...it's hard to believe so much change in so little time. The whisperings of two of my aunts on my father's side vaguely filter through my brain gone numb with shock and pain.
"The funeral home did a good job, Anne. He looks good."
"The makeup's too heavy around his eyes."
"No, he looks fine," Aunt Judy assures her. "But where are his glasses?"
Glasses? I watch as bifocals in a heavy, black plastic frame are produced and propped on his nose. A sob breaks from Aunt Anne's throat and I watch as Aunt Judy wraps her arm around her, saying, "That's much better. He looks more like himself now."
I look at the man again. A man I never saw out of a suit and tie the entire time I lived at home. Now, he wears a green and white plaid cotton shirt, layered under a forest green cardigan sweater, and although a bible rests beneath his hands, he couldn't look less like himself.
"Comfortable," Aunt Judy insists. "He looks comfortable."
Garrett walks up behind me, wrapping his arms around me, placing a kiss on top of my head. "You okay?"
"Yeah." I avoid the judgmental glances of my aunts. Although Garrett was the man introduced as my official boyfriend, Thomas has been my constant shadow. Even now, he stands hidden between sprays of fresh-cut flowers, leaning against a wall. All but I have forgotten that he is there. I am glad he is near and my aunts can think whatever they want to think. I catch his gaze and, with my look, draw him to me until he is standing beside me, holding one of my hands, Garrett still plastered to my back.
"Do you need anything?" He pulls me closer, molding against me and it is nice. With Thomas against my chest and Garrett at my back, I can relax.
"Sedatives." I sigh, going for a joke but it comes out sounding desperate. Turning me into him, Garrett kisses my forehead, whispering against my face, "I know George came prepared but I'd prefer that you experience this without numbing your emotions with pills."
I push my face into his lips and he kisses me softly. "Okay."
"Garrett? Garrett Lawrence? Is that you?" A shrill voice breaks the solace of our private, though very public group hug.
We all turn to face a woman who I don't recognize.
"Steve's mom, Silvia Lowenstein! Surely you remember. It seems like yesterday that you boys were burning the midnight oil at our kitchen table. I didn't know you knew Brother Alexander.
As distraction from the conversation between Garrett and Mrs. Lowenstein, I watch George, standing across the room, with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment as women from the church converge on him as they tried to do to me earlier. I escaped by being distant and blatantly rude as only one in mourning can do without being thought the worst of. George has no defense and, for a moment, I feel sorry for him, but then I catch his wink and I imagine that he is enjoying the attention. Vanilla women, church-going pious women, petting him, bumping him accidentally, flirting as only women stuck in a small town faced with a possible escape route can flirt, and he is enjoying it. I wonder what perversion is going through his mind...
The woman introduced as Mrs. Lowenstein won't be ignored, her shrill voice as impossible to escape as nails on a chalkboard. I want to cover my ears.
"Have you seen Steve since you've been in town? I suppose not, I hardly ever see him myself, although I see his wife every day. Ellen Kramer, I think you dated her for a while before moving out west..."
Garrett dated a girl named Ellen? Okay, this could be interesting. I want to know about Ellen.
"Not to be impolite, but I was thrilled to hear you'd moved out west, making that charming girl eligible!" She grants a glance at me, explaining with a wink, "She was quite a catch, I couldn't be happier that Garrett left her standing at the altar, and now...I'm a grandma and couldn't be happier about it!"
I lift my brow at Garrett, asking silently, "Is this true? You left a girl standing at the altar?"
He answers her, looking at me, "You exaggerate a bit, we never made it quite as far as the altar."
"Just the same, she was devastated and my Steve was there to pick up the pieces. You have to see their babies!"
I feel Garrett's cringe as she pulls out a thick miniature album, on the front of which is scrawled Grandma's Little Angels.
"I really don't know when he and Ellen had time to make these precious little bundles, but they've given me five. Five grandchildren! I'm a lucky woman. Five precious babies and every single one with a silver spoon in its mouth. You have no idea how proud I am of Steve." Mrs. Lowenstein whisks a tear from the corner of her eye. "And you, tell me all the details so I can fill Steve in on your life. I know he'll be so disappointed to hear he missed seeing you and of course your girlfriend. Are there wedding bells in the future? I know we shouldn't talk about it now, but who knows when we'll ever talk again."
My Dad seems to smirk from his satin-lined observation point. Mrs. Lowenstein keeps going, not noticing my or Garrett's discomfort. She turns to me and takes my hand. "Of course, a baby would help you get over this horrible grief. Losing a parent is hard, but the love of a new baby... Why that's a miracle that will cure all. And think, you could name the new one after your father, a tribute to his greatness."
Latching onto Thomas, I walk away, leaving Garrett to his own devices. Rude covered by distraught is always okay. I cling to the side of the casket, Thomas close enough to hide my fake tears. My father seems to really be enjoying the moment and I realize the smirk on his face is real, frozen in his death mask. "Thomas?"
"Sophia?"
"If I swoon, is that enough reason to get me out of here?"
"No. I think funeral homes are used to swooning women, but if you were brave enough, you could just walk away and no one would notice."
An hour later, I find Garrett in the smoking lounge, sitting at a small table, cigarette in one hand, Styrofoam coffee cup in the other. It seems he needed an escape too.
"Are you okay?" he asks, standing. "Sorry, I'm not being much support am I? I shouldn't be hiding."
"I'm okay." I sigh, sitting down beside him. The table is a cheap fold-out model. I rub a coffee stain ring with my finger, not looking at Garrett, focusing on the soiled tabletop. I don't want him to know how deeply I'm feeling his loss. "And if you're here hiding, I think I must be the one who deserted you. Are you okay?"
"I'll be okay. Coffee?"
"Only if you're prepared to give me sips from your mouth." If you leave me, I will never sip again from a man's mouth...Lord Fyre doesn't do that.
"I don't think the natives would understand."
"The natives don't have to understand," I say, accepting the steaming cup of coffee he offers. "As long as we understand."
He sighs, sitting nearer. "Do we understand?"
I choke on my coffee, dribbling it down the front of my dress. Thank God it's black. "I hope so. If we don't know what we're doing, how can we expect anyone else to understand it?"
Garrett snorts. "I may need you to explain it all to me."
"Did this somehow get more complicated when I wasn't paying attention?" I set down the Styrofoam coffee cup too hard and hot, black coffee sloshes over the edge of the rim. One more stain to add to the collection of others because I don't have the energy to search for a towel. I don't have to imagine the emotional state of the one who left the last stain...I'm right there with him.
"Maybe, yes, I think it did, and that's my fault. I asked Thomas to top both of us when we get back to San Francisco, without even mentioning it to you." He pauses, taking my hand across the table in the silence. "But I don't know if I can go through with it. Any of it. I don't know that I want to share or be shared."
Shaking, I pick up the cup, ducking my face as I sip coffee, hiding, I hope, the hurt I know is reflected in my eyes as well as hiding my sweaty palms against the white Styrofoam. Watching Garrett from the corner of my eye, I wonder if this is it, if this is going to be our good-bye for real, but he doesn't say anything else and I am thrilled when Thomas and Jackie arrive together to insist that we leave.
Back at the hotel, the fog I managed to lose my brain in lifts. I am no longer miserable, but to say I've regained happy would be a major over-statement. Relieved, perhaps. Relieved that the funeral is over and I survived seeing a hundred of my father's closest friends without dying from the humiliation of my past. I am ready to catch the first plane back to San Francisco and, although I came back to the hotel ready to do just that, Garrett announced he has no intention of leaving town today. I can't say I was surprised by his announcement, disappointed, but not surprised.
Now, he sits across the room so stone still and distant I am ready to strangle him.
I'm the one who's supposed to be in shock. I just buried my father, but to look at Garrett, you'd think it had been one of his parents.
I'm pissed off that he is getting more attention than me, even though I sit in Thomas' lap, pretending to watch television. I don't have a clue what show is playing, only that there is canned laughter and occasionally Thomas chuckles softly.
I watch Garrett.
"I saw you with Mrs. Lowenstein," Jackie says to him sarcastically. "Was she bringing back wonderful memories?"
Garrett leans toward her, demanding, "Let it go, Jackie!"
I look at Thomas, but he shrugs, neither of us knowing what is going on.
"It was a huge affair. The wedding of Stephen Lowenstein and Ellen Kramer was the biggest social event of the decade," Jackie says breezily, taking time to check her reflection in a mirror, tucking a curl, smoothing an invisible perfection on her high arched brow. "I thought for sure you'd have received an invitation as well, but then when you weren't at the wedding..."
"You went to the wedding? You've got to be fucking joking!" Garrett shrills before sighing and leaning back into his chair to close his eyes. Softer, he whispers, "Did Ellen look happy? No. Don't answer that, I don't want to know any of it."
Jackie keeps talking, though more to the empty room, or perhaps to George, because he nods his head as she rambles. "Funny thing, halfway across the world Garrett meets Celia and yet there was only ten miles between where they each grew up. Then here, her father is operated on by his ex-fiancée's husband. George, did Garrett ever mention the rivalry he had with Steve, during his college days? Yes, it's a funny thing that Garrett found Celia and Steve ended up with Ellen..."
I mentally hug him from across the room, feeling the total and complete loss of him, not because of my need for Thomas, but because of a woman's name from his past.
I watch as the room shifts, Jackie excuses herself to the ladies room, although there is only one bathroom in the two-bedroom suite. George stands and crosses the room to hug Garrett for real, making him look at him when he grabs his chin and forces him to meet his gaze. "Deal with your fucking demons, Garrett."
Garrett pushes back, stands and, passing me, storms out of the room; but it is only a second later that he storms back in.
"Get your shoes on, Kitten. If you're mine still, you're coming with me."
Thomas's arm tightens slightly around my waist but otherwise doesn't react.
I move to stand and Thomas's arm immediately slacks, releasing me. Without looking at anyone, I put on my shoes and step out into the cold, icy night.
"I can't believe you are making me do this tonight."
"It'll be okay, Celia. Mom is going to love you," he says, but for a reassurance, he doesn't do a good job. Unsmiling, he still wrestles with whatever has put him in this funk. We agreed to use Celia, not wanting to explain Kitten as a name. Driving into an Indian Hills neighborhood, mansions all in a tidy row, I don't think my name will make a difference as to what his mother thinks of me. "For her, it's early, she'll be awake."
"It's five o'clock in the fucking morning! I'm wearing a T-shirt, flannel pajama bottoms, and flip-flops, Garrett! I am not meeting your mother!" I struggle to stay in the car. Garrett pulls me out easily and pushes me forward up the flagstone steps. The heavy scent of wood smoke, filling the cool air, assails me. Someone is enjoying their fireplace on this cold winter morning. My breath comes out as white fog as I hug my bare arms.
"You look fine. I'm wearing khaki shorts and K-Swiss. She won't care.
"I look awful." I pout, having not even put on makeup before leaving the hotel. When he said, "I want to take you someplace," my brain went right to the gutter. I thought he wanted to take me someplace where we could be alone and make out, not to meet his parents.
The porch light comes to life.
"Just don't expect June Cleaver, okay?"
"Who?"
He looks at me and shakes his head. "Never mind. Smile, mom is going to love you."
Garrett's mom doesn't love me. Garrett's mom, it would seem, wants me dead. Or at least I feel like I'm dying.
Just whose idea was it to power walk the neighborhood at six in the morning? Garrett is no help, having sprinted ahead in a jog that made it appear he was training for the Boston Marathon. He is no longer even in sight.
"So what's the story between you and my son?"
I choke on my own saliva, and stop in my tracks, doubled over, making a big deal of breathing. I peek at her tidy figure draped elegantly in white, not a drop of sweat visible, wondering how a woman of sixty manages to look so good.
"Well?" she asks, not forgetting what led up to my wheezing attack.
"There isn't a story. We're dating," I manage. Her eyes narrow.
"Really? My son's gay. He owns a lewd sex club. What he does cannot be called dating." She power walks away.
I jog to catch up. "Fine. We're not dating. We live together,"
She stops dead in her tracks. "My son is gay. I don't know what kind of trickery you're playing at, but it's taken me a very long time to accept that my only son will never give me grandchildren, so how dare you taunt me with lies."
"I'm sorry, I wasn't taunting you," I protest.
"Did you know Tony?" she asks, not waiting for my answer. "He was a lovely young man. He sure charmed the pants off Garrett. My husband hated Tony with a rare passion." Her voice catches, but only for a moment. "He hasn't spoken to Garrett since the day Garrett left med school to be with Tony."
I can't speak, not knowing what to say.
"My family was destroyed by Garrett's unnatural inclinations. So, whatever game is going on between you and my son...take it back to San Francisco. I will not let you destroy my husband by giving him false hope that he didn't raise a queer after all. Did you even consider that Garrett only brought you here to meet his parents for one reason? Maybe to get back in his father's good graces? Does he need money? Well, he won't get that. My husband wrote him out of the will years ago. So take my son back to San Francisco and that horrible sex club he calls home."
I blink, shocked.
I expected her to be offended by me---but for the sake of me---not because of hostility toward her son and especially not because of his sexual preferences.
"I don't think Garrett brought me here to meet you for any other reason than for us to meet," I say, defending Garrett. "And he sure doesn't need your money!"
Her laugh is cold and bitter. "He may have money, but that doesn't mean he doesn't need more."
My mouth opens and shuts but no words come out.
"Such a dear, sweet girl. So young, so naïve, so innocent, but then Garrett mentioned that your father was a minister. It may be hard to accept, but once you start seeing the truth for what it is, you'll be much happier with your life. The truth is, there is always an ulterior motive, a reason behind every word, every look, every touch. Soon, you will know why Garrett brought you here. Why he had to choose this path to break your heart, I don't know, but believe me, my son will break your heart. It's what he does. He breaks the hearts of everyone who falls in love with him. He always has. So be ready, Celia Brentwood, because he will break your heart and you will never, ever be the same after he does."
Garrett is towel drying his hair when I finally manage to stumble back inside the house, still shaken from my walk with his mother. She left me at the foot of the hill, leaving me to my own devices to find their house in a row of nearly identical stately mansions. Still not smiling, he winks at his mom as she breezes by. I see it as an improvement in his disposition as I collapse in the nearest chair.
"Did the old bird wear you out?" he asks, dropping a kiss on top of my head. It is a definite improvement. I open my eyes to find him squatted before me. He is wearing frayed jeans, still unbuttoned at the waist. Just jeans, but so damn hot, I am torn between staring at his sexy chest and his sexier toes. Toes win.
"She loves you."
"You're delusional. I didn't get that impression."
"She was testing your mettle."
"You weren't there. You don't know the horrible things she said."
Garrett winks. "But I know my mother."
His ringing cell phone draws his attention away from me and he walks into the kitchen, and sits in a small breakfast nook overlooking the barren backyard. I follow, sitting at the table across from Garrett, not about to take the chance of another lone encounter with his mother. Garrett maintains eye contact with me while he talks. He's making flight arrangements, but I can't discern if he is talking to George, Jackie, or Thomas.
I am suddenly distracted by the horrid wallpaper, a blue and green Scottish plaid, and an even worse wallpaper border crowning the chair rail, English huntsmen mounted on horses, pursuing foxes, also pursued by really ugly mutts. And it dawns on me, very clearly in fact, why Garrett's condo is all beige. My eyes fly through the doorway and land on the floor-to-ceiling gnarled branches of unnamable flowers in even worse hues of blue, green, and gold that make up the living room wallpaper.
Beige is good. Beige is very, very good. Beige just may become my new favorite color.
Garrett is watching me, having hung up the phone.
"I've been horrible to you. I'm sorry," he says. "I've been so trapped in my own head, I haven't been any emotional support to you at all."
"It's okay. I had..."
I don't finish the sentence, stopping myself from being mean, stopping myself from saying that I had Thomas and Jackie and George to lean on. Actually, even Lion was more emotional support than Garrett has been.
He caresses my cheek, making me look at him. "It wasn't okay, not at all, Celia."
It doesn't escape my notice that, even in private, he still calls me Celia, not Kitten.
"Okay, you've been a jerk," I say, smiling to soften the sting of the truth. Surprisingly, Garrett smiles back, the first real smile I've seen in days. Quite suddenly, the barrier that has held us distant crashes, and his arms go around me. It is good to feel his arms squeeze me and as we fall into each other, it is hard to discern who is comforting whom, but it is good. I rub my face into his shoulder and inhale his scent. It is both spiritual and tragic when his lips find mine. It is not as before. It is different. For better? Or for worse? Only time will tell.
He stands, pulling me with him and leading me down a hallway and up a flight of stairs. I find myself standing in the center of the bedroom of his youth. The room is tidy and so very obviously his room, not a guest room. "Your mother?"
"She went to the gym."
"The gym?" I ask, unbelieving, taking in the view of Garrett's bedroom. "After that walk?"
He shrugs. "It's how she stays sane."
When he bends to kiss me, I let him and I don't stop him when he unzips the warm-up jacket I borrowed from his mother and pulls it off. He follows with my T-shirt, and finally, with infinite care, unties the drawstring of my pants, lowering searing kisses to skin cooling as it is exposed, belly, clit, thighs, centering finally on my clit, making me ache with need in seconds. He is not manic, but slow and tender as he licks and kisses, using fingers and tongue to tease and probe. He is so tender, my eyes mist and I have to force myself not to cry for the intimacy we share now, praying we can keep this, because I don't want to lose this man and for days I have worried about it so much. His mother's words taunt me. He will break your heart.
I am so distracted by her voice in my head, I cannot enjoy the teasing circles his tongue makes in a very real attempt to drive me insane. Softness. He is gentle---gentle will not drive out his mother's voice.
I close my eyes against light blue wall, plaid curtains, plaid bedspread, and shut out his mother's voice only to hear my father. Sinner. Fornicator.
Oh God, gentle will not drive the sight of my father lying in a coffin from my brain.
"Hurt me," I whisper. Leave me alone, Dad, I mean it!
"No, Celia." Garrett sits up, pulling me with him so that I am straddling him.
I can't interpret the look on his face. "Garrett?"
"I think I'm done, Kitten," he says.
"Done?" I hump his thigh, hoping he'll lay me down on the bed of his youth and take me fast and rough. Tracing the length of his semi-erect penis, I tease, "We haven't even started and I know I can get you a lot harder if you let me."
Hugging me close, he says, "I've given up so many dreams, Kitten. I can't give up the dreams in my head of you."
He holds me, but doesn't look at me. My heart crashes in my chest like it hit a speed bump, but then it is pounding and I am filled with the fear that this is the real good-bye, the one I've been waiting for, his mother's voice in my head a shrill warning. He will break your heart, and you will never be the same.
"I don't understand," I whisper, staring at the things he collected during his youth. Bookcases line the walls, filled with books from all stages of his life, from Disney to college in row upon row. Trophies stand guard over the books and I wonder why it never occurred to me that Garrett played football. Or that he may have once had a fiancée, as the too perky blonde framed on his childhood desk comes into focus.
"I want babies with you." He still doesn't look at me. He just holds me and whispers in my hair. "I want the house in the suburbs and a big backyard, and a dog."
Stunned into silence, my heart in my throat, I stare at him when he pulls away from me to look at my face.
"I want this life. I know I walked away from it, but everything I gave up is in my face when I come here, and I always run back to San Francisco thinking I need what I have there, but I'm beginning to think that I need this more."
"You want to live in Cincinnati?"
"No, not necessarily," he says, shaking his head. "But, I want this...a home in the suburbs..."
I'm sure I'm looking at him like he's grown a second head, but I never saw this coming. I thought we were breaking up, or better scenario making up. Either way, making love was definitely on the agenda for two point five seconds.
"...marry me Celia, make babies with me."
"A funeral is not death, any more than baptism is birth or marriage union. All three are the clumsy devices, coming now too late, now too early, by which Society would register the quick motions of man."
-E.M. Forster, Howard's End
Garrett
Did I really expect her to say, yes? Did I really think she would jump up and down, excited about the prospect of marriage and babies? No. Did I even consider her reaction? Never even thought the thought, does she want marriage and children? Like a fool, I just blurted it out.
I'm not surprised she ran from the room.
Even less surprised that she called a cab and raced back not only to the hotel but to Thomas. I am a fool. The surprise was Jackie pounding up the stairs to my old bedroom in her four-inch stilettos, more furious than I've ever seen her. The bigger surprise was Jackie dragging me down the stairs with a mean-ass grip on my ear. "What in the hell did you say to that girl to scare the shit out of her? She thinks you need an intervention, or to be committed, or both, and I'm not sure I disagree with her at the moment. Tell me you did not tell that girl you wanted a house in suburbia!"
Jackie buckles me into the passenger side, not that I was going to fight her, at least not while she had hold of my ear.
"Suburbia?" she shrills, repeating it again. "Suburbia?"
We drive, neighborhood after neighborhood, and I listen to her sarcasm until I am ready to puke with it. She points at two women taking a walk. "Ahhh, how sweet, two little mommies all dressed up in their cute, little vanilla sportswear to push around their little vanilla baby carriages and talk about all the very vanilla designer clothes they just charged to their very vanilla, missionary-position-only husband's credit cards." Facing me, she smiles, but it is too wide, spreading her face into an ugly, mean look. "I'll bet you can find Kitten a little mundane aerobics suit that won't clash too badly with her collar. It might be difficult though, explaining the collar at Parent-Teacher meetings."
She lifts her brow at me, but I keep my eyes on the road, wishing an end to this insanity.
"I can't wait to come and visit you in your cookie-cutter house with its cookie-cutter yard and little white picket fence...maybe we can play naked croquet on the front lawn or have pony races out back..."
"And your point, Jackie?"
"My point is, Garrett, that you can take the boy out of the dungeon, but you can't take the dungeon out of the boy. You can buy the house and go to work every morning, but somewhere around lunchtime after your third month without any real game time and you are going to get flashback fever so bad, you'll be stopping at the lumber yard on the way home from work to build a St. Andrew's Cross in your basement while the little woman is upstairs cooking dinner. Tell me, do you have a little woman picked out yet? Oh, don't worry, there's a country club up ahead, we'll just pick one...one's the same as the other."
I didn't think she'd do it, but she does, pulling into the Country Club parking lot, rolling down her window and addressing women as she drives by. "This is my friend, Garrett Lawrence. I know he don't look like much right now, but he cleans up real good, has a wad of cash that would make your daddy's eyes go big, and he's looking for a little woman to share the suburban dream with."
"Jackie, that's enough!" I hide behind my hand.
"Oh, oh, there's a good one, blonde, like the one you left standing at the altar for Tony." She hits the accelerator hard, speeding up to cross the parking lot at an unsafe speed. Thankfully, the blonde has already ducked into her Audi and is pulling out of her parking space by the time Jackie skids to a halt.
"I didn't leave anyone at the altar. I wish everyone would stop saying that! We broke up! And I'm not looking for anyone. I happen to love Celia. Did she neglect to tell you that part? That I asked her to marry me?"
"And make babies with you in suburbia?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever think that maybe she doesn't share the dream? My God, Kitten just found herself, do you really think she's going to want to put the mask back on so soon?"
"I'm not asking her to put a mask on. She could live this life with me."
Jackie snorts. "Oh, I'm sure she could, but would you ask her to, keeping in mind that this is the same girl who disappeared from what the world considers normal, ended up in San Francisco, became the celebrated sub of the most notorious Dom our side of the Mississippi, increased her notoriety by being The Little Lost Kitten, and in doing so, became brave enough to ask you to share her with your best friend? Will you ask her to stop being herself just so you can be who you think you want to be?"
"We could make this work and she could still be who she is!" I pound my thigh in frustration, watching the mommies we just drove by push their baby carriages past the van. I imagine Celia pushing a carriage, me at her side. We could fit in again. We could!
"So there's no problem with her crawling through the neighborhood IGA in her bright red latex g-string and corset set, pushing the little handheld grocery basket with her nose here in Cincinnati? Because that, Garrett Lawrence, is who Celia became when you weren't paying attention---Kitten. And Kitten is a walking, crawling, teasing, undulating photo opportunity at every turn and she likes it that way."
I don't follow Jackie into the hotel, opting instead to walk over to the outdoor pool patio. The pool has been winterized, covered with a dark, rubber pool cover, the kind that can supposedly support the weight of an elephant. Not much of a view really, but the only view that came with a nearby seat.
I'm still not seeing what the big deal is. I think that Celia and I could do the suburbs. It would be quiet, relaxing, and admittedly, if we needed a night out to play, we could get a sitter and go out and play. But in my rush to ask her to marry me, I did leave that part out...the part that I didn't want to give up the lifestyle entirely, just change our lifestyle to be more socially acceptable, so that we don't lose our children to Social Services.
Pulling my cell phone from my pocket, I text her. Come out to the pool so we can talk.
What seems like an eternity later, Kitten comes outside to find me sitting in a bright pink plastic chair poolside. She is not only dressed for the weather but also the duration of waiting me out. Sweater, leather coat, and wrapped in the hotel's thick bedspread. I think she went overboard with the layers. The rain, ice and snow from the earlier hours left a bright sunny afternoon in their wake, the air cool and crisp but not frigid.
"Are you freezing?" she asks.
"No. It's not too bad." I pat the seat of a matching pink chair. "I didn't feel like being part of a crowd."
She nods and sighs, sitting beside me. "We actually have a private room tonight. Jackie and George caught a taxi to the airport. Thomas said that he would see us in the morning."
"Really?"
"We are officially alone."
"Thomas didn't say where he was going?"
"No, I thought he'd tell you. Didn't you see him out here?"
"No, but then that's not surprising. Did you want to go with him?" I regret the question, because it comes out sounding bitter and jealous though I didn't mean for it to. By the look on her face, I know I hurt her.
"I wasn't invited, but then I was actually looking forward to some alone time with you. Is that so hard to believe?"
It's obvious by her red eyes and the shredded Kleenex squeezed in her fist that she's been crying. I suddenly remember the reason we are here in the first place. I reach out my hand, knowing she needs to talk about her father, about his death, not knowing how to get the conversation started. Knowing also that we need to talk about us...the mess we left in San Francisco, the bigger mess I made at my mother's. Although, I don't know how to begin any of the topics started. "I'm sorry. I know you're aching terribly, the funeral was nice though, lots of supportive friends..."
"You think I've been crying all night over my father? Are you insane! I hated him! I've been crying all evening because I've ruined things between us."
"Nothing is ruined," I say, knowing even as I say it that it was the wrong thing to say. Her snort confirms it. "I want to marry you, Celia."
Leaning forward, she looks into my eyes and caresses my jaw. "I would do anything for you, except put the mask back on and pretend that I am anything other than I am."
This time I stay quiet, just looking into her eyes.
"I am Kitten...originally of your making, but now...so much more than that. Do you understand that I can never go back to being anything less than who I now am?"
George psychoanalyzed her...great. How else can I explain this change in Kitten? I take her hands in mine, shredded Kleenex as well, holding her hands and feeling their tremble.
"I was hiding, but I don't want to hide any more. I've never felt before what you made me feel...loved, cherished, deserving. You terrified me with pleasure. Then, with Lord Fyre, I felt something more. I felt powerful and confident. It sounds ridiculous, but every time I survived what he threw at me, I felt stronger." Tilting her head, she silently asks me to understand. Her eyes beg me to tell her that I do. I remain silent, not to be mean, but to make certain that the answer I give her isn't more than she wants. "I guess the thing is, I've seen you two tag-team a dozen clients and it's magical, and then when Thomas held me and you flogged me, I felt a part of that magic. I knew in that moment I could never settle for less than having the both of you. And yes, to answer your fucking insecurities, Lord Fyre really does it for me as a Dom. He brings my darkness like you never could because he thinks like I do, but honestly, if he is able to channel my darkness, it is you who channels my lightness. I need you both to be complete. I want you both."
She lifts my hand to kiss the top of it. "Please understand, I have no relationship experience to compare to. I've never been anyone's property. I've never been loved...I'm completely winging it---all of it, especially the love part. I haven't felt love since my mother died." She sighs heavily, a tear sliding over her cheek, and she shreds the useless Kleenex into fibers that fall to the snow-covered concrete. Staring into the dark, her look far away and haunted, she says, "I hate my father, his voice is still the one in my head condemning me. I spent so many years trying to please him, taking over where my mother left off, cooking, cleaning, setting appointments, and then, as I got older, holding, counseling, consoling right along side of him, but it wasn't enough. I wasn't a man. My prayers would never be strong enough to reach heaven."
I lift her hand to my lips, kissing her knuckles. "How old were you when your mother died?"
"Eight, and she didn't just die, she killed herself. I found her hanging in the bell tower," she answers, not pausing, not giving me a chance to sympathize or ask more questions. I am stunned by this new revelation. God, this woman has been through so much.
"I'm tired, Garrett. I'm so tired. That's why I appreciate the life I've embraced in San Francisco. I don't have to think too hard, I don't have to make decisions, I don't have to plan my day or anyone else's. I can just be Kitten and right now...I am not ready to be a wife or mother. I just want to be the pampered pet known as Kitten."
I laugh and it sounds cold and sarcastic. "Who does Kitten belong to?"
She stands abruptly and I feel her frustration, maybe even anger, rolling off her in waves, although I don't feel like I've done anything to make her angry. The growl that comes from her voice is almost inhuman it is so raw, so filled with emotion, "You figure it out." I'm not surprised when she storms away. I am surprised that I don't follow after her.
"God, you are a stubborn man! I give up a warm bed with my two favorite people in the world so that they can be alone together and you insist on staying out here to catch your death!"
I crack open one eye. "I thought you left for the night."
"That was the plan until you went stupid."
I look at Thomas. He is dressed for a night out and looks damn fine. He towers over me, casting a shadow over me where the security lights hit his back.
"Sorry if I ruined your plans. Celia shouldn't have called you."
"She didn't, Jackie did." He slides into the pink chair Kitten occupied earlier. "While you've been out here pouting, Kitten caught a cab to the airport. She's on her way back to San Francisco."
I stare at the flat surface of the pool covering, saying suddenly, "I'm starved," but thinking, I really need a drink.
"That's all you have to say?"
"What do you want me to say, Thomas? That I'm fucking this up royally?"
"That would be a good start, followed by why you thought it would be okay to drop a bomb on Celia like the one when you said you want her to have your baby...and live in the suburbs...and give up our lifestyle."
"I didn't say it exactly like that."
"But that's what you meant."
I stand, looking down on him. "I don't know what I meant. When I come back to Ohio, I feel like I'm losing my mind, all the old wants come back."
"But when you left it was because you didn't want those things."
"I know. I know." I turn, pacing away from him.
"So what are you going to say to Celia?"
I stop pacing poolside, contemplating walking across the pool, suddenly wanting to test the theory that the cover will support the weight of an elephant. "I don't know."
"Well, you'd better figure it out, because it looks like she didn't get on that plane after all."
I turn around to see Celia walking across the parking lot. She doesn't look any happier now than when she left the first time. As she gets closer, I know she isn't any happier. I stand to meet the force of her head on because it is obvious she is a wave of fury. It also dawns on me that I've never seen her mad. God, she's beautiful. Her pale skin glows with her fury, fiery flames under brilliant ice.
"How dare you!" she growls. "How fucking dare you!"
Thomas watches the show from the pink pool chair. I back up two paces. Celia steps forward three. "Just who in the hell do you think you are? Asking me to marry you? Asking me to make babies with you? After promising that we," she takes a moment to wave her hands, indicating the three of us, "could be a threesome. Babies? My God, do you get the lifestyle we live in? So your son or daughter comes home from school and asks where mommy is and you say, 'She's locked in the cat cage, darling.' Or maybe you have an excellent plan to explain why mommy spends every other weekend at Uncle Thomas's house?"
"Hey, whoa, only every other weekend? How is that fair?" Thomas demands from the side.
She turns on him. "You be serious. He asked me to marry him and make babies with him!"
Thomas stands, astounded. "You're considering it?"
I step in front of Thomas. "You're considering it?"
She looks at us, not answering, then turns to walk back to the hotel. She doesn't make it far, only eight steps before she turns around and comes back, stopping directly in front of me. "Are you insane? I love you, I want you, I need you! I do not want to make babies and be a responsible adult."
She spits the sentences like curses and I start to say something but she pushes her hand against my mouth. "Shut up. You've said enough for one day. You are not to say another word until we get back to San Francisco. And you," she commands, poking Thomas's chest. "I love you! I want you! I need you! And because you love me, want me, and need me back, you are going to make sure he remains silent until we are home and he is thinking clearly again."
"...all my love and life shall be devoted to you, and with my last breath I will breathe your name to god..."
-Charles Dickens, Dombey and Son
Kitten
I knew I could count on Thomas. I never expected him to carry Garrett onto the private jet already gagged and bound. With an easy toss, Garrett was in a seat and buckled in.
"To your satisfaction, Sophia?"
I look Garrett over, trussed, electrical tape, leather gag. He slouches in the hold of wide safety-buckles and expensive upholstery, but he isn't going anywhere. Behind the gag, I think he's actually pouting. "He'll do. Thank you."
"Ready to go home, then?" Thomas stands, leaning against one of the other tall-backed seats.
We are alone, no flight attendants in sight, the pilot behind a closed door. It is a mid-size jet, more than capable of taking us anywhere in the world we want to go, and in answer to Thomas's question, I sigh. "Yes, ready to go home." I realize I have a decision to make. I have no idea where I'm living. "Are we agreed that we are going to forget about making babies and living in suburbia and concentrate on making this threesome work, or are you relinquishing me to Lord Fyre?"
Garrett shakes his head, banging his head against the soft fabric of his seat in frustration. Loud mumbles come from beneath his gag.
"No, we're not making a go of the threesome?"
Garrett shakes his head harder.
"We are making a go of the threesome."
Garrett nods his head.
"But only because you don't want to let me go."
Garrett sits completely still, barely breathing, looking hard at me, but then I realize, he is looking past me at Thomas.
Thomas steps closer behind me, putting his hands on my shoulders. "When we go back to San Francisco, we're going to be a committed threesome. You will have time with him, you will have time with me, there will be times when the three of us are together, and there will be times when just Garrett and I are together. Is that what you wanted her to know?"
Garrett nods.
I turn to face Thomas and am suddenly wrapped in his arms. "And just what am I going to do when the two of you are doing your boy thing?"
"That sounded very selfish," he chastises, kissing my temple. I don't want him to, I purse my lips in pout and scrunch my brow in response. I'm certain I don't make a pretty picture, but I don't care.
"Yeah, maybe it did, maybe I'm feeling a little selfish today. It's been a stressful few days. Maybe I'm realistic enough to know that I can't spend nights alone." I sound angry and bitter even to my own ears.
Thomas turns me around to face him, kissing me. "Then you'll never spend a night alone. Either Garrett or I will be with you when you sleep."
"Are we going to need a day planner to schedule our sex life?" I demand, not feeling like I just got everything I thought I wanted.
"I don't think so, but if it gets too messy we might."
"Are we going to enjoy this?"
"Yes, Kitten, I think this is going to work very well for the three of us," Thomas promises, covering my neck with kisses.
"You sound very confident."
"You sound very doubtful," Thomas accuses.
I snort. "I don't know how I feel. A few hours ago he was spouting nonsense about suburbia and babies---and I started thinking about babies and the life I would have had if I hadn't run away to California."
He pulls back to look at me, taking me in in a long, assessing glance. He knows all my secrets and sometimes I feel like he can read my mind.
"It's something I wanted," I admit. "The baby thing."
He tilts his head to the side, studying me. "You want a baby?"
"Maybe," I answer as honestly as I can. "Once I did, I really, really did, and Garrett made me think of what might be someday, and I don't know how to add babies to a sadomasochistic threesome, but maybe, someday...I'd like to try to have a baby." I turn, looking sharply enough at Garrett to earn a chuckle from Thomas. "Not this year or even next!"
Thomas turns me back to face him. "Maybe, someday, or never, the decision is yours, and if you choose to add a baby to our kinky threesome, I know a trick or two for making it work. I do have some experience in these matters."
He kisses my nose lightly. I think about the wife and babies he left behind in Africa but I don't mention them, knowing without his ever saying the words that leaving them behind crushed him. "But this?" I ask, so filled with doubt, seeing Garrett bound. "For now, we can make just this work?"
"Trust me?" Thomas asks.
"Honestly, I trust you." I sigh, exhaustion and relief to be going home in my voice. I stroke Thomas's cheek, then turn just enough to pat Garrett's head and catch his gaze. "And I trust you, so wherever the two of you see fit to take this relationship, I'm along for the ride," I promise.
Thomas laughs at that. "Kitten, you really don't get it do you? You are the one steering this mess, and if we are all on a collision course, so be it, but I believe and Garrett believes that we are all in for a hell of a ride and we intend to enjoy every second of it."
I kneel in front of Garrett, my hands balanced on his knees. "Is that true, are you ready for this?"
He nods, but his nod isn't enough, I want to hear his voice. I need to hear his voice. Seeing him gagged and bound was fun for about two seconds, but then...not so. In my mind, Garrett is Dominant. Reaching for the buckle, I release the leather gag.
"Do you think you can still Master me?"
"I never doubted that I could Master you, Kitten. You were the one who doubted."
His voice is raspy and I wonder if it is from the gag or merely emotion. Looking into his eyes, I see the promise behind his words and have no doubts that he will be able to Master me. His eyes were what mesmerized me first, so long ago on the stage, second to that, his voice.
I close my eyes to keep the sudden moisture in my eyes from spilling, realizing I was blind for a moment to this man who I do love so much. "I love you." I say it, not meaning to say it out loud. "I want to live with you at your penthouse, but for now, no more talk of babies." A dinging sound alerts us to a Fasten Seat Belts sign. Neither Thomas nor I take a seat or do as we're told, not even when the jet starts taxiing.
"For now?" Garrett whispers. I sense a note of hopefulness in his voice and I really don't want to go there. I can't even imagine babies with our lifestyle.
"For now, until we figure out how this is going to work, there is no room for babies."
"Someday?"
I don't want to be mean to him, but my words come out grated and harsh. I want to remind him of what he said to me once, that honesty is all we have, but I can't bring myself to be so cruel. "Someday is a myth Garrett. All we have is today. Let's see where today takes us."
"God, Thomas, she really has been spending too much time with you. She sounds just like you."
I can't tell if Garrett means it as a compliment or a curse, but it makes Thomas chuckle.
Walking up behind me, he pulls me against him, and I realize without words that he is okay with what I've said to Garrett, even though none of us have discussed living arrangements or when or how we will divide our time. It makes me wonder whether it was truth or a head game that put me in charge.
"Kneel, Sophia."
There, I suppose I have my answer. Lord Fyre is in charge. Dutifully, I kneel.
"I want you," he commands in a sensual whisper, walking around me to reattach Garrett's gag. Stepping around me, he bends at the waist to whisper against my cheek. "You please me so well when you obey without question."
Rising, he lifts me with him, steadying me on my stilettos as the jet lifts into the sky. My brain tells me we should be seated, buckled, but only Garrett is restrained and I stagger in Lord Fyre's steady arms. He holds me tightly, as balanced as if he were on solid ground. Catching his gaze, I smile at him, realizing just how much I've come to trust him to keep me safe.
"Thank you, Lord Fyre," I say, standing firm once more. "How may I pleasure you?"
"Unbuckle Garrett's belt and unzip his pants, tell me if he is aroused."
My lips part to speak, but I don't say anything. What would I say, having no idea where this scene is going? Squatting in front of Garrett, I don't have to unzip his pants to tell that he is aroused, I can tell by the slant of his eyes. The verbal play between Lord Fyre and I has done its part in getting Garrett's attention. I slide my hand over the raised bulge hidden beneath silk boxers.
"Yes, Lord Fyre. He's aroused."
"Expose him to us."
I swallow, watching Garrett's face, unable to read the emotion crossing his features, but knowing strong emotion when I see it, even when half-hidden by his leather gag. I pull the elastic band of the silk boxers beneath his penis and balls. The dark blue fabric accentuates his pulsing cock.
"Very nice, Sophia. You may stand back up now."
I stand, knees shaking, still not certain where this is headed. Through the small windows, I watch clouds roll by as Lord Fyre closes the distance. He molds himself behind me, lifting my skirt to expose my pantyhose. I am bare beneath the nylon. Normally, I would prefer stockings, but Jackie packed my bag and brought what she wanted to bring me, including several pairs of pantyhose, but no stockings.
Lord Fyre runs his hands up the backs of my thighs, over my hips, until his hands rest at my waist. The touch of his hands, warm through the nylon, is a very erotic sensation and, despite my best effort to remain still, I push into his hands. "Pull these down to the middle of your thighs."
I obey, exposing my bare ass to his hands.
He lifts the hem of my dress. "Hold this up."
I obey, leaving his hands free to explore the softness of my sensitive ass, one of my hot spots and he knows it. He knows just by rubbing my ass I will get wet, ready. But his hands don't stop moving and he uses the strength in his hands to move me, placing my bare ass directly in front of Garrett's line of vision, placing me so close to Garrett that the backs of my knees brush his knees. The nearness to Garrett makes me nervous and I realize that although Lord Fyre has seen me make love to Garrett, Garrett has never seen me with Lord Fyre. I turn my head to look over my shoulder, but Lord Fyre stops my progress before I actually see Garrett's face.
"I didn't give you permission to look anywhere but at me." His tone and gaze are harsh, reminding me that even though we have shared much, he is still the Lord Fyre I first met at Garrett's penthouse, the day I compared him to Satan in my mind. I didn't like Lord Fyre at all that day. He was the enemy. I try to reconcile in my brain that he is not the demon I believed him to be, that he is a man I've fallen deeply in love with. It's a stretch---he terrifies me still.
"Relax."
I obey. Without thinking, I let my muscles go soft, realizing only as I relax how tense I'd become.
Positioned in front of Garrett, holding my dress high at my waist, pantyhose elastic digging unmercifully at mid-thigh, ass bare, I stand, muscles relaxed and unmoving. Lord Fyre walks away, leaving me standing. Without his touch, his eyes to gaze into, his mere nearness, I feel ridiculous, but stand completely still. Thankfully, I don't have to wait long.
"Relax, Sophia," he commands and I realize in the time he walked away, I'd become as rigid as a board again. "It's going to be a very long flight."
"Yes, Lord Fyre."
He looks from me to Garrett. Stepping behind me, he makes a sound like he is amused. "Still aroused. Good, and how about you, wee cat, are you still aroused, Sophia?"
Lord Fyre slides his hand between my thighs and finds me wet. He slides a single finger into my damp folds and, withdrawing his slick finger, traces my lips then lowers his mouth to kiss me. "Straddle Garrett, now. Use your hands to guide him into your wet pussy."
Turning to face Garrett, I place my knees to the sides of his thighs, the pantyhose elastic cutting deep into my thighs. I know better than to ask to arrange them differently for my own comfort and struggle to guide Garrett's swollen length inside me. Just my touch brings a moan from behind his gag and I look, thinking to see his eyes closed, but they remain open, locked on my gaze, capturing me with his amazing blue eyes. I sit, taking him inside me fully, feeling his body sigh beneath me.
"Lean forward, Sophia. Place your cheek next to Garrett's."
I do as Lord Fyre commands, closing my eyes. Feeling Garrett inside me, I melt into him, forgetting the pain of the pantyhose elastic. I inhale his scent, fresh and breezy, citrusy. His shirt is soft against my chest, his muscles hard, straining against the cloth. His cheek above the smooth leather of the gag is rough against my cheek.
"Open your eyes, Sophia." Thomas's voice comes from in front of me.
I open my eyes to find Thomas standing behind Garrett. Hands at his belt buckle, unbuckling it. "I want you. Take me in your mouth, now."
I feel Garrett tense beneath me and I pull away from his face, glancing between men. Garrett's breath is harsh and his face dark, but the hard length inside me seems suddenly even more firm, painfully, rock hard. I shift and he moans.
"Place your cheek back against his and open your mouth to me, Sophia."
My heart pounds triple time as I continue to look between the two men. Then I see Garrett's nod, his hips lifting ever so slightly. Encouragement? I look hard at Lord Fyre, seeing again the demon, not the man I fell in love with.
"Now, Sophia."
I close my eyes and obey the lift of Garrett's hips, placing my cheek against Garrett's. I open my mouth and Lord Fyre slides his length into me. With my eyes closed, his penis is a familiar shape and weight in my mouth, his taste is one I know. I inhale and smell his scent, frankincense and myrrh, mingled with Garrett's lighter, crisper Ocean Breeze. Opening my eyes, I see Lord Fyre, confidante, friend, lover, Master. I rub against Garrett's cheek, he too is confidante, friend, lover, Master.
I feel his hips lift and fall in a familiar rhythm, Lord Fyre matches the pace. I am filled by two men who I love. I lock my mouth tight around Lord Fyre's cock, making him work to slide in and out. Garrett too, I tease, tightening and releasing the muscles lining my vagina. They set the rhythm, but I control the sensation, tight, tighter.
My brain is in chaos, I am not focused on gaining pleasure from what we are doing, here on a jet, thousands of feet in the sky. Only blue sky is visible now, the clouds too far below us for me to see. Garrett moves his hips as much as his bindings allow, Lord Fyre fucks my mouth and my brain whirls, wondering what Garrett is feeling, wondering what Lord Fyre is thinking, and then the thought occurs to me, I am the only one thinking so hard. Garrett's moans tell me how near he is, Lord Fyre, too, so close I can feel the pulse of his come filling his length just before he floods my mouth and I taste him.
I am the only one thinking.
I am the only one not enjoying this moment.
The penthouse is dark and quiet when we arrive. For an awkward moment, I stand in the living room, feeling lost, misplaced, but then Lord Fyre is there, wrapping me in his arms, his strength, his love. I feel his love surrounding me and it is the best feeling in the world. But then he is kissing my forehead, promising to phone in the morning. Leaving.
He is leaving?
Leaving, leaving, leaving! "Noooooooooo!" I scream, racing into the hall, catching his arm as he and Garrett stand talking quietly by the elevator. "Don't leave, not tonight. Stay. Please stay."
I'm begging, sobbing, on my knees hysterical and, for the life of me, I don't know why. I feel like it's the first day of kindergarten and I'm being abandoned to a strange classroom by my mother. No, not that, I feel like it is the night of the day I found my mother dead, dying, actually still gasping. Her neck didn't break when she hung herself, she suffocated and I was there, trying to support her weight, trying to hold her up with my eight-year-old strength. That night, like this night, so displaced, so alone, so abandoned. "Please don't go. Not tonight, please don't leave tonight!"
"Sophia! Stop. You are home. You're with Garrett. You're safe." Thomas kneels beside me, lifting me. He hands me into Garrett's arms and still I reach for Thomas.
"Please don't leave me!" I beg wretchedly, sobbing, snot running from my nose.
"Kitten. Stop. You have to tell us what's wrong because this isn't about Thomas leaving."
"I d-don't know w-what's w-wrong," I sob, teeth chattering. "I j-just c-can't be alone t-tonight."
"You won't be alone, baby. I'll be here," Garrett promises, holding me closer.
"Thomas," I beg. "You too, please stay with us."
The men exchange a look. I'm not so far gone that I don't see the look exchanged, but Thomas leads the way, walking back toward the penthouse, an improvement, not going into the elevator. Not leaving.
Thomas turns on lights, leading us through the penthouse to Garrett's bedroom. I finally relax into Garrett, wrapping my arms around his neck, kissing his neck, promising him, "I love you, just don't let Thomas leave."
"I'll make him stay."
I awake between two warm bodies and I know that Garrett kept his word and whether Garrett had to get extreme or Thomas changed his mind about leaving, Thomas stayed.
"Feeling better?" Garrett asks, pulling me closer, startling me, making me very aware that he sleeps in the nude. I take a deep breath and look into his pale eyes. Blue. Mesmerizing. I suddenly remember just how much I enjoy waking up in Garrett's bed.
"I'm sorry. Last night I was just..."
"Having a nervous breakdown?" he teases, then lifts my chin to assure me that he really is teasing. "I had at least one major episode a week after Tony died. You're entitled."
"You didn't take it personally?"
"Of course I did, but I'm in this for the duration. No matter where this takes us. I'm committed to make us work in all its many dimensions...even the schizophrenic ones."
"I'm sorry."
"Stop saying you're sorry."
"I don't know what else to say."
"You could start with I love you, you did mention that last night."
My heartbeat explodes in my ears, my pulse triple time. I search his eyes, looking for some sign that he is angry about last night, but find none. "I do love you, very, very much."
Rubbing my hand down his stomach, I smooth lower, finding him hard, ready. "And I want you very, very much."
Rolling on top of him, I position myself over Garrett, and only after I feel the sweet slide of his penis entering me do I remember the second naked man in Garrett's bed and looking toward him, I realize he, too, is very awake.
"Morning, Sweetheart." Thomas smirks, and his hand slides down his own firm length.
I start to pull off Garrett, but he holds my waist firm, forcing me into a rhythm. "Look at me."
I look, getting caught in Garrett's gaze. He smiles easily and I realize that I am the only one feeling awkward and selfconscious at every turn. "Make love to me, Kitten," he commands.
"I don't think I can."
Garrett tilts his head, his look questioning but silent.
I nod toward Thomas. "He's watching."
"Yes, he is, and in a moment, he'll be participating."
"Hmm?"
"Yeah, me, the guy you begged to stay last night, because the original plan was for you to wake up alone in Garrett's bed and you could have been alone and as sickeningly mushy as you wanted, but as it is, I am here, and instead of sweet kisses between two, I'm going to insist that we have wild, crazy, kick-ass threesome sex, and before it's all said and done, someone is going to be screaming, because two out of three of us in this bed are sadists. So one guess who gets to scream."
Garrett rocks me on his hard dick, I banter back with Thomas. "Are you always so threatening in the morning?"
"You think that was threatening?" Thomas leers.
"You sounded pretty serious about the whole screaming thing."
Garrett rocks me back and forth, soft and easy. Thomas rolls onto his knees and before I can think about what his next move might be, he has slid behind me, straddling Garrett, molded thigh to shoulders with me, hand around my waist, fingers sliding lower to stroke my clit.
"No, no, no, it's too much," I cry out. "I don't like to..." I pant, trying to tell Thomas that my clit is too sensitive for direct stimulation, but then Garrett's rocking increases and Thomas's stroke softens just enough that my mind slides into nothingness and I can't think any more about what I was going to say.
"Mm, mm, mm," I pant.
"Like that, sweetheart?" Thomas whispers.
"Mm, hmmm, ah, ah, ah."
Garrett forces the rhythm faster, harder.
"Oh God!"
"Like that, Kitten?" Garrett asks.
"Oh God, ohgodohgodohgod! Ahhhhhhhhhhhh! Ah, ah, ah."
"So that was good?" Garrett asks.
"Mm hmmm, very good." I sigh, still plastered to his chest. "Am I crushing you? I could move."
"Don't you dare move," he growls and I feel his penis flex inside me.
"Good. I couldn't move if I wanted to."
"Well, maybe you could move your hips a little bit. Just slide a little forward."
I slide, then realize that Thomas is still behind me, holding my shoulders down, lifting Garrett's legs, and I realize by Garrett's grunt that Thomas has entered him, hard and fast. Sandwiched between them, I ride Garrett, while Thomas rides Garrett as well. For no other reason than nervousness, I start laughing hysterically.
"Something's funny?"
The motion doesn't stop and neither does my laughing. "I don't feel like I'm steering this mess."
"Oh, but sweetheart, you are, and right now, Garrett is getting the ride of his life. Isn't that right, Gar?"
"Oh God, yes, yes, yes."
Laughter under control, I feel Garrett spasm, a second later Thomas joins him and I am crushed between two growling, orgasming men, at least one of which and I couldn't swear which, is conscious enough to be concerned about the girl in the middle because in a flash of heat and silkiness, a hand is definitely rubbing my clit and it doesn't take much because I am twisting, climbing ascending. "Oh my God, ohmygodohmygodohmygod." And in the fuzzy recesses of my brain, I think that we are all in for the rides of our lives.
The End
About the Author:
Roxy Harte lives in a small town in southwestern Ohio; however, that is just the beginning of the story...
I wanted a house in the historical district and I found a wonderful Craftsman style that was perfect...well, it became perfect, actually quite wonderful, after I made nice with the resident ghost. Her name is Lucy and she's a young, mischievous girl who likes to play hide and seek. This is excellent, because Lucy has become known as the finder of lost things...keys, pens, earrings, cell phones.
I started writing incredibly hot BDSM erotica a decade ago, as a respite from caring for my invalid parents. After tucking them in, I would write the day's stress away until the wee hours of the morning, sometimes until it was time to start my day over again.
Now, I write for myself, for my joy...and hopefully to bring a moment's escape to my dear readers when they are in need of respite themselves.
Roxy lives with two of her three awesome daughters. Her oldest lives away from home and is busy raising Roxy's two incredible granddaughters. Also part of the family are two big, boisterous dogs and two reclusive cats.
Roxy writes for Liquid Silver Books and is an active member of Romance Writers of America and the Passionate Ink erotic romance chapter.
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