The Dom Project (9 page)

“That’s right,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “Go ahead and pull it up. Is it difficult?”

That seemed to be a question he actually wanted an answer to, so she said, “Yes, sir. With my legs spread this wide there isn’t much room for movement.”

He laughed, not mocking at all, and the sound was so familiar she had to smile as well. “I meant emotionally. It’s very much about power. You’re giving some up when you take off your clothes on command, and getting something back in return. I could cane you through your skirt, if you’re not ready.”

“I’m ready.” It was the truth, the wholehearted truth. She wanted the sharp strike of the cane on her bare ass and thighs. Or through seamed stockings, which were sexy enough on their own but even more so when she knew that was what John wanted from her.

As soon as she shifted her legs and started pulling up her skirt, a hot flush of embarrassment hit her. It mixed with her arousal, like a single drop of intense dye coloring a glass of water. She must look gawky, awkward and,
oh God
, her too-small breasts were lifting right out of the bustier.
Damn
the thing, why did it have to look so cute on the (unmoving, busty) mannequin?

The shame twisted her stomach. But it wouldn’t stop her.

I’ve waited so long.
Give this to me.

* * *

Of all the fantasies he’d ever had of Robin, the strangest was the one where he went inside her mind. The details of
how
weren’t important—some hand-wavey science fiction device, perhaps. Her mind would be represented by a gorgeous twisty space a bit like a museum crossed with a jazz lounge, and he’d stroll through it, marveling at all the secrets and feeling like the perverted king of the universe.

Should I be feeling guilty?
he wondered as she slid the skirt up her thighs.
Is this more than a mortal man should see?

Fuck it. No way was he going to regret a second of this.

He used the tip of the cane to draw a line across her cheeks, like he was illustrating a geometry lesson. She didn’t quiver or flinch. Wait, there it was, the slightest wobble of her stiletto heels. “Right there,” he said, making sure to keep his voice completely even, which was
hard
, but the geometry analogy helped. The mathematics of desire. Sounded like an essay title about Irina Mareau. Composition, field of view, the rule of thirds. Negative space, like the one at the very top of Robin’s thighs if she stood with her legs pressed together.

He moved to the left and struck precisely along that line with the cane shaft, not very much harder than the first stinging blow. The faintest of pink streaks appeared; he watched, mesmerized, as it faded back into the warm ivory color of her flesh.

“It’s coming harder next time,” he warned. “Stay straight.” It wasn’t easy to hit the right way with a cane, avoiding any contact with bone, but he’d had a lot of practice over the years. Not his favorite implement by far, but it was the one that seemed to suit Robin best: strict, old-fashioned, trim and elegant and straight to the point.

She nodded. He picked up a hint of eagerness in the motion.
It’s not for you
, he told himself.
It’s for what’s she feeling
. His almost painfully hard cock still throbbed, but he was wearing thick jeans tonight, so she wouldn’t notice.

He had a feeling these jeans would become a mainstay of their sessions.

He struck again. The same place. As a rule, the cane hurt twice: once coming, second going. That second hurt had her arching minutely toward him and letting out a delightful sharp little gasp.

“Lower, now.” Again. No gasp this time; she was expecting it. Now there were two matching pink streaks across her ass. John eyed them critically. The one below wasn’t quite parallel; he couldn’t have that, not for what he had in mind later.

Well, maybe strict geometry wasn’t in the cards for tonight. An informal, asymmetric composition was more his style. He struck again, faster and harder. The percussive
snap
of the blows held its own savage charm.

He stopped, letting the sound fade, then stroked across the streaks as if the cane tip was a lover’s trailing finger. Pausing, he listened attentively to the music of her labored breathing, then struck again.

And again, until the streaks melted each other, becoming a pink-crimson field of color. Marking her, but not marring her. Making her
more
beautiful.

“Oh...” Robin said—a word, not a cry, so he waited for her to finish, but she didn’t.

“Turn around.”

When she finally did, bracing herself against the counter behind her for balance, and he saw her hair was mussed and her pupils were blown, lips parted and color high in her cheeks—he gripped the cane hard between his hands, trying to transfer all his energy into its quivering length so that he didn’t do something stupid like press himself against her, taking her like the lover she couldn’t be.

God, he needed to take a picture of her right now. Not the marks on her thighs, but her
face
, so dazed and breathless. “Stay there. Right there.”

He walked backward toward the kitchen’s entrance, afraid that if he took his eyes off her even a second, the moment would pass. But she didn’t shift, and her expression didn’t change. Her wide blinking eyes just followed him as he moved.

He had a Nikon with a portrait lens in the living room. He should have brought it with him, but he hadn’t expected this. He’d planned to have her pose for him at the end of their session, pretty and perfect and well lit, but now he needed to capture
this
moment, in all its imperfection. He’d have to go without the flash on this one, shoot with a high ISO, embrace the graininess of the image the same way he embraced the way her mascara had flaked off under her eyes.

He took up the camera and walked back toward her, shooting all the way.

“What...what are you doing?” Her voice was soft and low and distant. He waited for her to safeword, to end the whole affair, but she didn’t.

“This is for you.” He lowered the camera, holding it like an offering. She wasn’t in the space to accept it yet; she simply stood there and blinked, still holding up her skirt, her tantalizing plum-sized breasts rising and falling with every breath, bobbing right out of the goddamn lingerie he wanted more than anything else to pull off her.

So he put the camera on the counter next to the gleaming candlesticks, took her hand and led her to the couch. She followed hesitantly but gracefully, her pulse beating strong beneath his fingertips. He guided her to sit down, wrapped a cotton throw around her shoulders, sat down beside her and held her loosely. Almost touching skin-to-skin. So close, so close it hurt, but he knew how to handle pain, didn’t he?

“I’m okay,” she said. “I’m okay.”

“I know. You’re just coming down now, right?” She was trembling softly. She probably didn’t even know.

“Yes.” She kicked off her shoes and curled her knees to her chest, sighing. He rubbed her shoulder through the blanket, lending her his heat. They rested there for a long time, John imagining himself in that familiar fantasy, drifting through the halls of her mind—all with her knowing he was there, and sweetly sharing herself with him.

She shifted, and poked him with her knee. “Ow,” he said, snapping back to Earth instantly.

“That was
great
,” she said, a lovely smile on her face. “I’ve been caned before, harder even, but it didn’t reach me the same way. I mean, you’re really good at it.”

“Wasn’t hard enough for you? I’ll keep that in mind. At least you didn’t get bratty to try and goad me into it.”

“No!” she cried with breathy sincerity, turning to look at him with an exaggerated look of horror, “Never!”

Just like that, whatever strangeness between them faded and they were friends again. John gave her shoulder a brisk rub, which was about as close to a buttpat between teammates as he could get while still remaining proper. Robin stood, keeping the blanket draped around her shoulders as she wiggled, clearly pulling her rucked-up skirt back down around her knees.

Pity.

No.
Not a pity.
Good.
Boundaries.
Boundaries are good.

“So,” he said casually. “The necklace.”

“Right.” She reached back to unclasp it. The blanket slipped down, leaving her shoulder bare. Deliciously, kissably bare.
Boundaries
. “Here you go.”

He didn’t take it just yet. “We could go either way with the necklace. You can take it home with you and bring it each time. Or I could keep it here for you.”

She bit her lip.

He tried to tell himself he wasn’t invested in the decision. But as the dark gray pearls slipped through her pale fingers, his hand tightened into a fist.
Let me give these to you.
Let me have this stolen ritual.

“You’d better hold on to them for me,” she said. “That makes the most sense.”

“Sure.” His nails dug into his palm, a comforting pain. “You’re in charge. Until I am.” He put a game-player’s grin on his face. “I’ll hold on to the photos too.”

“I trust you with those,” she said.

The cold feeling in his chest warmed a little.

Chapter Six

Week One

Session One: aka A Long Hard...To Do List

I’d like to thank all my commenters on the last post. I had no idea so many people were reading this blog!

*blushes*

I truly appreciated the full range of opinions expressed, from “I did that before with a friend and it was no big deal” to “your fool ass is crazy.” I bristled a bit when I read that last one, but I can see where he or she is coming from. The emotional work isn’t easy. Never mind butterflies, I had full-grown pterodactyls flapping around in my stomach when I walked into my friend’s apartment. I was so worried.

But it was worth it.

The milestones for tonight turned out to be Service and Pain, two of my favorites. I think I’m going to enjoy this mix-and-match of the known and unknown, the familiar and unpredictable. It’s like the thrill I get when leafing through an old book and finding a risqué 1970s Polaroid pressed between unlikely pages. It’s a little less organized than my ideal, but I also think it’s good specifically for that reason, because Submission is, of course, all about letting go of some control.

J gets me on so many different levels, and yes, he’s a genius with the cane. I felt good, and then bad and then really good and then...well, you know how it goes. It’s not easy keeping certain intense emotions within boundaries, but it helps that we both know we’re so much more compatible as friends than anything else. I’m looking for the kind of long-term relationship that he...isn’t. And I think after this arrangement, I can approach the search with renewed confidence.

J is reading this.

Thank you.

I don’t have any pictures yet, but stay tuned.

Love,

The Picky Submissive

Robin posted the entry and clicked the laptop shut before she started obsessively reediting. She’d spent what felt like an hour on those words, wanting to get the tone exactly right. Breezy enough to balance out the sprinkling of pompous capitalized nouns. Without regrets. Not too emotionally tangled. Pleased, but not infatuated.

Already, she found herself stroking the laptop’s hard plastic case where it lay beside her on the bed, thinking about just one more pass, maybe refreshing and checking her IP logger to see if John had read her post yet...

“Stop it,” she told herself sternly, set the laptop on her bedside table and wriggled under the covers. Her bottom wasn’t exactly tender, more like extra sensitive, so that she could feel the texture of the sheets rubbing through the cotton of her nightgown. She rolled over on to her stomach and sighed.

There was one thing she hadn’t been honest about on her blog. The principles of chastity and denial weren’t all that attractive to her. Tonight’s session had proved that, but even before, she’d really been talking herself into it. Consciously turning denial into a sexy ritual seemed so much more interesting and unique than
I’m not getting laid but damn
,
I
wish I were
.

But she couldn’t admit that to her readers or to John. Not yet. She’d talk about her change of heart when the contract was up, and write out an entry about how she’d given chastity the college try. She could call it “For God’s Sake Unlock Me.”

She hadn’t signed away her orgasms, at least.
Hmm
.

No. Her thoughts would turn to John like iron to a magnet, and she already strongly associated him with dangerous pleasure. Limits had to be mental too. She couldn’t get obsessed. Couldn’t turn John into her one and only because he absolutely
wasn’t
. He was a good friend and he’d never wanted her as anything other than a friend.

Although maybe, considering his high sex drive, he saw her as something less and more...

She groaned and rolled on to her back. This was the worst. The lowest point of a roller-coaster day, and all she wanted to do was get off, in both senses, and go to sleep.

The laptop no longer hummed, but she could still sense it lying beside her, quietly emanating heat. There was a porn clip one of her commenters had linked. It was only a few clicks away. She leaned over, opened up the laptop, pressed Play. It was that easy.
Don’t think of John
.