Gagged (27 page)

“I saw the movies.”
 

Caspian rolls his eyes. “Oh yes. The movies. I forgot.” A hand goes to his chest, fingers splayed. “But see, I’m a purist. I’m talking original
Smurfs
. On DVD. From the ’80s.”
 

“Why
The Smurfs?”
 

“Why not?”
 

When my eyebrows stay up, he continues, his voice a little more sober.
 

“Probably because he found the DVDs in a bargain bin. Didn’t care to get something I’d actually like.”
 

“But you did like them. At least enough to become a purist.” I give him a small, encouraging smile.
 

Caspian nods. He
was
rolling, but I can tell he already wishes I’d drop it. But I’m curious. Nobody knows much about Caspian’s childhood. The press — and hence GameStorming — knows his rough sketch, but none of the details.
 

“They were
his
favorite. My father’s.”
 

Something hangs in the air. I want to poke further in the interest of our wager — in the interest of having my turn, and pushing Caspian’s limits the way he pushed mine — and ask if it was something shared between father and son. His body language says yes, that the past was maybe not as black and white as he paints it. But I know the topic of Caspian’s father isn’t one he enjoys.
 

I open the basket instead, and pull out two Diet Cokes. I didn’t even pack them; I shoved them in with the blanket and some plastic silverware once I arrived and realized I’d brought nothing of substance. There was a 12-pack of Diet Coke in my trunk. They’re warm and probably fizzy.

I feel stupid even offering him one, but it’s easier than asking about the elder Mr. White. Caspian takes it. Pops the top. I almost laugh as I watch him awkwardly drink it. Then the moment is over, and he sets it aside and fixes me with those weighty blue eyes.
 

“You met Lucy.”
 

I nod, wondering how far I’m over the line. “She called me. Just this morning.”
 

He doesn’t ask why or how. I’d rather not admit to using his penthouse phone and ending up with his sister on the line. But instead of getting angry, he sort of nods and says, “Good.”

“Why good?”
 

“She’s been bothering me about you. I imagine you got along well. You strike me as too similar for your own good.”
 

We’re not similar at all, as far as I can tell.
 

“She’ll call you again, you know. You think you got one over on me by talking to her, but really you’ve let the tempest from its box. You’ve made the mistake of feeding the stray dog, and now she’ll want to talk all the time.”
 

“That’s okay.”
 

“She’ll nose right in and get too personal. Ignore most of what she says about me. She’s jumped to some conclusions, I’m sure. It’s what Lucy does.”
 

What kind of conclusions?
I want to ask. Instead I say, “She’s nice.” Which brings something else I’d like to voice but don’t:
Why did your sister turn out so warm, while you became so cold?

“I’m sure she’ll annoy me more, now,” Caspian says. But I can tell he’s merely mouthing the words. Lucy might irk him in the way a sister can, but his affection for her is obvious. “But it’s a good thing. She needs the distraction, especially now.”
 

“Why?”
 

“The funeral. Her father’s funeral is on Saturday.”
 

The phrasing confuses me. “Is Lucy your half sister?”
 

“No.”
 

“So he was your father, too.”
You know. The son of a bitch who you were never good enough for … but who somehow got you into his favorite cartoon before it all went sour
.

And Caspian says, “If you say so.”
 

“So I’m doing a service for both of you. Distracting Lucy
and
you.”

“I don’t need the distraction. It’s a chapter of my life, now closed.”

“You’re so cold about it.”
 

“It was a cold and businesslike relationship.”
 

“And there were no good times?”
 

“I’d rather not discuss it, Aurora.” But even the way he says it is different from what I expect. He’s politely cutting me off. A firm request, not an outright demand. My eyes go to the scars on his forearm. The last time I mentioned them, he got up and left me. I’m still so, so curious. But I won’t push my luck.

We sit in the shade of the circle of trees. We’ve no food, nothing planned, and now no conversation. For a while we wait and let moments pass.

“You weren’t ready.”
 

I was looking away, trying to fabricate something to end the awkward silence. Caspian’s out-of-the-blue words don’t make any sense, and for a few seconds I feel disoriented.

He’s looking into my eyes. Hard, but not hard at all.
 

“What?”

“You weren’t ready. That’s why I left yesterday.”

I don’t know which of the many possible ways to respond I’d like to explore first. He’s not really bringing that up, is he? It was yesterday, during his turn, during the nighttime of this back-and-forth bet. The dark belongs to night and should stay there. I’ve been trying not to hold yesterday against him, but now here it is, front and center, in the middle of my daytime.

“I wasn’t ready.” I repeat the words, deadpan, a bit annoyed, giving the sentence time to make sense in whichever way he means it.

“That’s right.”
 

“So the only logical move was to leave. Because I wasn’t
ready
.”
 

“I’m not a monster, Aurora. I won’t do anything you don’t actually want.”
 

“Interesting where you draw the line. Because I wasn’t
ready
for a lot of what’s happened so far. And this was the first time
I
actually wanted something
you
could give rather than you talking me into doing something for you.”
 

“It’s not that.”
 

“So it’s not taking things too far if I’m reluctant. Only if I’m clearly interested. I’m new to this. You’ll have to explain. Is it only hot if I’m saying no, and it’s something where I’ll debase myself and feel bad afterward? Is my discomfort a prerequisite and a turn-on?”
 

“You’re angry.”
 

I roll my eyes. I look away. I didn’t think I was angry, but maybe I am. We were fine a few minutes ago. I didn’t even bring this up; he did. I’d rather close the lid on this for now. Let’s spend the day in the shade on a bright, sunny day, then revisit his twisted world tomorrow — if I’m not the one to walk away steaming today.
 

“I’m fine.”
 

“There are ethics to consider. I didn’t want to take advantage.”
 

“That’s fine. Just fine.” I smooth the blanket, busying myself with flicking away bits of debris that have made it into our pristine checkered space.
 

“Aurora, you need to see that — ”

I cut him off, suddenly furious.
“Beg me!
That’s what you said. And I’m up on that stupid hook, naked, not protesting because for some reason I
trusted you
, totally giving in and deciding
very much against my better judgement
to let you do what you wanted. And how do you respond to that trust? You fucking demand that I
beg
you. And when I don’t, when I can’t, you … you … ”
 

He tries to put a hand on my hand. I yank mine away.
 

“You don’t understand,” he says. “Of course I could do whatever I wanted. That’s why I had to be sure it was actually what you desired, even if it was something you couldn’t easily admit.”
 

“You said the thrill was being under someone else’s command! Of letting someone else make the decisions, and do what they wanted!”
 

And oh God, I hate hearing these words leave my lips. I sound like such a slut. I might as well be saying,
I wanted you to use and abuse me! I’m your little fuck toy to use however your great and powerful heart pleases!
Shame over my thoughts piles atop the mountain of guilt for what we’ve already done, and I feel myself on a downward spiral. Tears want to fall. There’s no way for me to leave this happy, no way to win. Jasmine was wrong. My gut was right. I should have run from this man without looking back.
 

“Stop,” he says firmly. “Aurora? Just
stop.”
 

The weight of his voice makes me pause. Holds my eyes temporarily dry.
 

“I’m not really a sadist, or a masochist. For me, it’s always been about baseline control. I’m pushing harder with you because I see the girl beneath your repression and want to set her free. It’s not about getting what I want from you. Do you hear me? It’s about getting you what
you
want, even if you can’t yet admit it to yourself.”
 

I’m not sure that’s any better. In fact, it sounds worse. Like sexual pity.
 

“People who play at this like to push as hard as a partner will allow. Saying No is part of the play, so the person in control needs to know when No truly means No, as opposed to a No that actually means,
Pretend I’m resisting, and YES.
So there’s usually a safe word. Someone says the safe word, and it stops. But no matter how you slice it, it’s still about consent and dissent. It’s just that the definitions of Yes and No change a little.”
 

“I didn’t say No. And we didn’t have a safe word.”
 

“But you’re new. You’ve spent your life saying No and sort of meaning it, but also sort of not really meaning it at all. Your No doesn’t really belong to you. Maybe it’s your mother or your father’s. Or maybe it’s society’s, when you got the idea that nice girls don’t do the things your body was begging you to do. So I have to figure out what’s right and what’s wrong on my own. I want to push you, Aurora. But right now, neither of us knows what you’re genuinely ready to say Yes to. It’s like I said earlier: I won’t gag you, Aurora. Someone put a gag in your mouth a long time ago, and if there’s one thing I’d like to give you, it’s the gift of finally taking it off.”

This time, when he puts his hand on mine, I don’t pull away.
 

“Later, things would be different. Same if you were older, or if you had more experience. You’d know your Nos and your Yesses, rather than always responding to old conditioning. I want to help you find the line, without ever accidentally crossing it.”
 

“Because I’m a virgin.”

That stupid wall between us again. That unfortunate baggage. I should have listened to Jasmine years ago and gotten virginity out of the way.

Caspian says nothing. We both know the answer is yes. Of course that’s why. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for making me afraid of human touch — even and perhaps especially my own.
 

“Then I guess I know how I want to spend my turn today,” I say.
 

Caspian seems uncertain. Until I reach for his belt.
 

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

A
URORA

I
LOOK
UP
AS
MY
eyes sigh open. I see Caspian, and beyond him the tops of trees in a clear blue California sky. But Caspian eclipses the view, now everything above me.

“I want you to be sure,” he says.
 

I reach out. He’s so silly right now, in his pristine suit, lying half on his side on a rumpled picnic blanket, with his tie still up but his fly entirely open and his hard dick out. This isn’t exactly romantic. It’s on my terms, and I have my expectations. Maybe it’s sweet. But mostly, it’s practical.
 

“I’m sure.”
 

“I don’t really know how to do this.”
 

I actually laugh. I’m not as nervous as I was sure I’d be when this moment finally came. Caspian is acting like a high school outcast who’s never touched a tit, and yet only yesterday he was putting his fingers inside me and telling me I had to beg. I sucked him off in a public restroom and watched him stroke himself while his subordinate fucked my friend between us. The rumors of Caspian’s kinks and conquests are legendary. And yet here he is, too afraid to touch me.
 

“I think you’ve done it before.” My hand is still on his cock. Guiding him. Rubbing him slowly. Pre-come drips from its tip, and I can feel how he’s hard as diamond. The only reticence is in his mind, in this strangely chivalrous sense of restraint above the willing. His biology is ready. His body wants mine with its every fiber.
 

“Not like this.”
 

“Like how?”
 

He struggles for a moment. Then he finally says the word he’s clearly trying to avoid: “Sweet.”
 

I smile. It’s a broad, full smile that eclipses all the anger and guilt I felt before. He’s looking down at me like he might break me. If I had a photo of this Caspian White, I could sell it for millions.

“Lucy was right about you. She said you might surprise me.” Lucy said other things too, but I won’t tell him now, maybe not ever. Like how she’s seen obsession from her brother before, but the amount of time and thought he seems to have put into me is different, something deeper. Lucy didn’t want to save me from him or vice versa. She’s pushing us together.
 

“Please don’t talk about my sister right now.”
 

I take his hand and guide it to my breast.
 

“I’m new to it, too, but I think this goes here.”
 

His hand moves slowly. Hungrily.
 

“Or
here.”
I move it below my dress, to my panties.
 

His hand presses fabric against my folds. Against my clit. I want him to lower my panties so I can feel the heat of his hand, but he’s moving so slowly.