How to Discipline Your Vampire (3 page)

“Hence the nickname Chilly Willy?”

“I’m not done,” she growled. “He’s also really dodgy—it’s like he chickens out or something once things get steamy. Jennifer said he literally ran out the door after they started messing around.”

I had enough. “Sounds like fun,” I said. “I’ll just wear running shoes instead of fuck-me boots so I can chase him down the street.”

I joked only because I didn’t want her to know how desperate I was to find out if all this was true. I couldn’t let her know I’d be devastated if I didn’t find another sub soon. Most important, I needed to be on equal footing with her.

She was now Brent’s Domme, and I didn’t want her to get too high and mighty just because she was fucking my leftovers. I kicked Brent to the curb about four months ago. Erin played the humanitarian and took him in as her own, but they’re not completely monogamous. Anyways, we hadn’t spoken about it.

“So, what exactly are you doing here?” I asked, remembering she was happily paired.

“I’m running this event. I was the girl who did the tallies at the end.”

I poked her arm playfully. “And you didn’t tell me about it?”

“I thought you and Roy would get along.”

I frowned. “I don’t think I can ever eat salsa again without dry heaving.” I stood on my toes and tried to meet her at eye level. “And am I too short to be a Domme?”

She dismissed my non sequiturs. “Well, let me know if you need any medical assistance when you’ve got frostbite on your nips,” she said smiling. Good, at least we were still on friendly terms. “Up for some tea next Saturday, Shorty?”

I frowned and hesitated as I mentally flipped through my calendar.

“C’mon, you’re gonna need to defrost.”

I nodded. “We have a date with Earl Grey, my dear,” I said, giving her a quick hug. She spun on her heel and walked briskly to her car.

Before she opened the door to the little green coupe, I opened my window and shouted, “Tell Brent I said hi,” and peeled out.

Suck on that!

CHAPTER THREE

Cerise

Strawbery Banke was beautiful at sunset.

The old, historic homes sat on the water comfortably, the way they had for at least a century or more. The gardens glowed luminously at dusk, petals closing slowly as the sun set.

It was a great place to sit on a bench and discuss your sexual limits.

William arrived at seven o’clock on the dot, and I smiled at his punctual nature. He sat next to me and placed his hand on my shoulder and gripped it with sincerity.

“I’m so glad you wanted to meet,” he said, eyes intense and unblinking. He was a lot more confident than when we had first met.

“I just think it’s important to get through the difficult stuff before we get to the goods.”

He rolled his shoulders casually. “I wouldn’t say discussing limits is difficult,” he said smoothly, “especially since I have so few.”

My eyebrows drifted upward. “Only a few hard limits?” I asked incredulously. “You do realize a standard checklist has a few dozen questions? How long have you been in the scene?” He must not have much experience with our subculture if he thought he only had a few.

“My only hard limits are food play, blood play, and multiple partners. That’s it.”

“So you’re looking for monogamy?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Me, too,” I replied, checking his list again. I see he crossed off some of the more off-color hard limits, the ones involving animals and excrement. Guess he didn’t want to get caught talking about that sort of thing in the park.

As I read down the list, my eyebrows came down from their loft and furrowed. “Breath play isn’t even a soft limit?” I asked. Not that I liked it, but most people refused to do something so dangerous.

He shrugged. “It doesn’t get me off, but I don’t mind it.”

I crossed my legs as he talked about getting off. Bizzy, my bossy vag, was nagging me to move in for the kill. I inched closer to him. He didn’t act as though he was going to chicken out, like Erin had said.

“Public servitude?”
That wasn’t for the faint of heart,
I thought to myself.

“Would you like to collar me now? Here, in front of that tour group?” he asked, gesturing toward the large bunch of elderly folks touring the historic homes.

I gulped and resisted the urge to fan myself. “Some other time. What about canes?” Those hurt.

“I actually really enjoy them.”

He
must
have buns of steel. I’d never met a guy who didn’t weep when I used a cane.

“You are one tough cookie,” I blurted, then realized you should never call a man a cookie.

He laughed. “I guess. It’s more that I’m open to all experiences, and I’m . . . durable. So, tell me, aside from role-play, what are your turn-ons?” He slid his hand from my shoulder down my back. He kept it chaste, but I swear I could have mounted him on the spot. Which would have entertained that group of blue-hairs a great deal more than the details about Portsmouth’s fishing heritage.

“Well, I suppose it all comes back to the scene. I love attention to detail and originality. If I can truly lose myself in a scene, then you’ve done a good job. I like my men thorough,” I explained, arching my back and pressing my body farther into his hand, “in every way.”

He scooted closer, took his eyes off me, and scanned the horizon. “And your limits?” he asked nervously.

I pulled a paper out of my purse. “Not nearly as fearless as yours, but I’m definitely open to many experiences. Like I said, it’s all about the scene. If you incorporate any of these soft limits into a scene, and do it really well, I’d be interested.” He nodded, taking in my checklist.

“I’m a little traditional,” he explained shyly, “so please don’t be disappointed if I don’t . . . um . . . do some of these things to you at first. I’d like to build up to your soft limits.”

I blushed. “That’s sweet,” I said, nearly gushing. “I mean, as far as bondage stuff goes, it’s sweet.” I remembered the story about Jennifer, and even though I knew Erin was lying through her teeth, I thought I’d be safe and just ask. “So, which Dommes have you served in the Portsmouth area? It’s a small community.”

“None. I thought you were aware of my track record,” he said, combing his fingers through his longish hair. He was one of those guys who looked like he was due for a haircut, but it didn’t matter. It fell straight, nearly into his eyes, but curled slightly at the end. I wanted to grip it in my hands.
God, why couldn’t our scene be right now?
Bizzy hounded.

“Not even casually? I thought you might have played with my friend Jennifer.”

“No, I’m afraid not. Glad I don’t have to make things awkward between friends.”

“She’s not really a friend, she just tags along when she’s not fucking anyone.”

He nodded and handed me an envelope with more paperwork. “Health records. Clean as a whistle.”

A whistle I’d like to blow.

“Are you on the pill?” he asked quietly.

I nodded. “The one where you get it four times a year.”

His eyes widened. “That’s a medical miracle,” he joked. He looked somewhat relieved.

We laughed some more, and talked casually about places we had been in the area. I was astounded he had never had brunch at the Friendly Toast. “Can I buy you a drink?” I asked. There were so many great bars in Portsmouth, plus it’s always fun to show off a gorgeous hunk on a weeknight.

“I’m going to politely decline, if I may,” he said. “I planned to check in at work for an hour, and then I’d like to prepare for our scene.”

“So you do work?” I asked, intrigued. “But only for an hour at a time?”

He stood. “I own a chain of nursing homes throughout New England. I pop into the New Hampshire ones from time to time, just to make sure everything’s looking good and the residents are happy.”

“That’s really sweet,” I confessed, not liking the warm feeling this was giving me.
He loves old people?
I wondered.
Does he also rescue puppies from burning buildings?

“I have to do a little planning for a show. I hired a jazz trio to play there tomorrow evening, which is part of the reason I’m going. Actually, I’d love for you to join me—after our scene, of course. They’re always eager for someone new to talk to.”

“I don’t really listen to jazz.”

He pursed his lips. “That doesn’t necessarily mean you wouldn’t like it.”

“I just don’t know anything about it.”

William reached down and picked a flower from the small garden to the right of our bench. “Do you like this flower?”

“Yeah,” I said, appraising the soft pink petals. “It’s pretty. Why?”

“Do you know what kind of flower it is?”

I shook my head. “No clue.”

“See?” he asked. “You can appreciate something without knowing anything about it. Come see the jazz with me.” He took my hand.

My stomach tightened. This was far too normal. “No thanks.” I smiled to soften the blow.

He nodded, unfazed. “I’ll just have to appreciate the beauty of the music since I won’t have you by my side.”

I cleared my throat. “Well, then, William, I’ll see you tomorrow.” I tried to keep my cool as my insides began to melt.

He bent and kissed my forehead and began to leave. “I’ll be counting the hours,” he said, walking away. He stopped about three feet from me and turned around. “Mistress Cherry.”

I didn’t waste any time once I got home.

Tomorrow, Mr. Freeze was coming over and the house had to be clean.

So, I put on some punk music and cleaned my house like a motherfucker—it sure as hell was a lot more fun to listen to than jazz. Then again, I probably would just be ogling William if I went to the old folks’ home instead of appreciating the tunes. I tried to put away the thought of the semi-date he proposed, and focused on my music. I bopped along to the beats, dusting, sweeping, and throwing in some sexy moves here and there. Thank God my broom didn’t have eyes; poor guy would be scandalized.

I grabbed a paper towel and lovingly wiped down my recipe box, the little treasure that sat on my counter like an innocuous piece of housekeeping. Sordid details of my sexual past, neatly alphabetized by scene. It fit right into my home, both the outside and the contents.

I lived in a cute town house on a small cul-de-sac. It looked like all the others, and hopefully the neighbors didn’t care about the sporadic men who, for the past two to three years, had been faithfully letting themselves in at two
PM
. Except for the last few months.

I couldn’t wait to clean the bedroom. My playroom. My pleasure room.

I had a brushed-metallic motif going on. Polished-silver curtains, with flecks of bronze here and there. A gunmetal gray comforter. A few framed black-and-white photographs on the wall. Pretty stark, actually. The point of minimalist décor was so that the room could transform into anything once a scene had started.

My mind was restless—what did William have planned for me this week? The anticipation was killing me; thank God for obsessive-compulsive cleaning routines. I typically did a thorough scrubbing before any new sub came over, just to calm my anxieties. At least I knew
a little
about tomorrow.

To say I was excited for our first scene would be a gross understatement. I felt like a romance novel was going to come true in my home. Tomorrow, a dark lover would appear. A lonely vampire who desired domination. I could give him what he wanted. And he, oh yes, would give me what I wanted. I wanted that beautiful face to regard me with reverence. I wanted that lovely mouth to tell me filthy, naughty things. And I wanted that notoriously tight-assed form to pleasure me in a thousand different ways.

Granted, the vampire thing was kinda overly trendy lately, but I was definitely still intrigued.

I ran my hand over the cool silk sheets and imagined what his cool body would feel like.
If all that were true,
I told myself,
he may just run a little colder than others.
I shook my head to keep the thoughts away as I moved to my toy chest.

As I removed each piece methodically, as I had done dozens of times, I cleaned it with a wipe and thought about how I’d use it on him.

Riding crop—maybe not tomorrow. I definitely planned on spanking him with it at some point this week, if things went well. I loved to use the riding crop to set our pace. I’d ride him, and when I wanted to go faster, I’d smack him with it.
Giddyup!

Flogger—hmm, maybe. I wasn’t planning on pleasuring him tomorrow, but who knows, maybe he’d use it on me. Nah, he probably won’t have the guts yet. Most of my subs are shocked when I tell them that, by permission only, they may use floggers and crops on me. Sometimes that was what the scene dictated. I’d had a few flat-out reject the idea of using anything on me that induces the slightest amount of discomfort. I told them that if I asked for it,
I got it
. That’s what a Domme does.

Then I dismissed them.

Massage oil—definitely not tomorrow. The smell of it still reminded me of that unpleasant night. The scent of the almond oil and red wine still wouldn’t come out of my drapes. The bottoms were still slightly stained from when the glasses smashed and the cabernet went everywhere. There was one part of the hardwood floor that was more maroon than the rest. I put a rug over it.

I think that is enough cleaning for today.

On to happier subjects: He was coming tomorrow.

On several levels, I hoped.

“Dismissed.”

The bell had rung, but I typically punctuated the sound with my own permission to leave. Kids filed out of class frantically, desperate to get to lunch.

But, as always, one or two stragglers remained. It was like this wherever I went.

The punk kids adored me.

“Miss Norrel, did you hear Red Monday’s releasing a box set?” Nevaeh asked, bouncing up and down in her hand-painted Chucks.

I nodded. “Preordered it last week,” I said, giving her friend Lizzie a fist bump.

“I got you these,” Lizzie said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a little tissue paper bundle.

She pushed it into my empty hand and giggled as I peeled off the tape and unfolded the paper.