Relapse (Doctor Dom Volume 4) (A BDSM & Medical Play Novella) (11 page)

He laughed. “God, that’s hot,” he said, and I grinned and pushed my breasts together, and he pushed his dick between them. Each time his cock came close to my mouth, I daintily licked his head, and he groaned deep in his throat in reaction. I teased him for minutes, until he finally looked at me and growled “
enough
,” and I opened my mouth, relaxed my throat, and took the entire, hard length of him in my mouth.

“Ah fuck, Lisa,” he moaned, his hands tightening in my hair. “I’m really close.” I made a noise
signifying assent, and redoubled my efforts on his dick. It wasn’t long before he pushed his dick deep down my throat, and I felt his spurts of come in my mouth.

I pulled out, licking a spot on the head of his cock, and giggling a little at his hiss of pain. He reached automatically for my clitoris, and I swatted away his hands, and he chuckled.

“That was a good quickie,” I muttered, as I turned on my side and started forming my cocoon of blankets, and he made a noise of assent, and he snaked an arm around my waist, and we both fell asleep.

Lisa:

I was going to tell him about the
night I wouldn’t have used my safe word.

I’d spent the last few weeks with it prickling the back of my mind.
This past week, I’d been actively contemplating telling him.

The deciding factor? I didn’t want to double-down on the dishonesty. The decision to refuse to use my safe word had been a mistake. A stupid mistake, but an honest one, born out of my confusion about what it meant to be a good submissive.

But not telling Patrick? To me, that was tantamount to a lie. I had already hesitated a shameful amount of time. As much as I loved him, and as much as it would break me apart if this caused the end of our relationship, I knew I couldn’t live in a lie. This had, in my mind, already grown to be something a lot larger than it had been initially. I would be honest and I would take my lumps like a grown-up.

Would heartbreak result? I crossed my fingers and my toes. I desperately hoped not.

***

Friday night, I’d asked Patrick to come over, and I had cooked dinner. So far, our food history involved quick meals grabbed in bars and little ethnic dives that Patrick found. I wanted to make a proper meal. I didn’t cook often, but when I did, I really enjoyed myself. Plus, if there was going to be a massive fight, I wanted it to happen in the privacy of my condo.

After a dinner of pseudo-Thai curry and jasmine rice, with mango ice-cream for dessert, we were lounging on my couch, with beer in our hands, trying to agree on a movie to watch on Netflix. I kept shooting sideways looks at Patrick.

“What’s the matter?” he asked me finally, looking up from my Netflix queue. Seriously. A zillion movies, and nothing we could both decide to watch.

“I have something to say,” I said. My heart was thumping. My words – this could result in our breakup. Things were good with us, but I knew that what I had done would hit Patrick’s triggers about BDSM.

“What’s up,
Lisa?” He had picked up on the nervousness in my voice. He could tell that I was upset, and he instinctively pulled my body into his on the couch, and cradled me in his arms. I swallowed. Tried not to cry at his sweetness.

“You remember the day my mom was sick? When you punished me in the examination room?” The day I’d called him after ignoring him for more than a week, running away from him due to my emotional fucked
-up-ness. I still felt guilty that I had called him when I needed him in the hospital. To this day, I felt like I had used him that night.

“
Mmm,” he replied.

“You wanted to punish me later, and I pushed you to punish me that day,” I said.

He looked wary as I spoke. His entire body had stiffened. Every bit of body language indicated how tense he was at that moment. “I remember,” was all he said. “I probably shouldn’t have done it that day. You weren’t exactly in the right emotional state to make that decision.”

I shook my head. “That’s not what I’m getting at,” I said.
I gulped. This was it. “I need to confess something. That night, I wouldn’t have used my safe word. I felt like I needed to atone for not picking up your calls.”

He gave me a look of utter horror, and I gulped. Fuck.

“Please tell me you are joking.” There was forced calm in his voice.

I shook my head. I didn’t trust myself to speak at that moment. I could see what he thought. How shocked he was at how unsafe my behaviour had been. I had failed to be responsible for my own safety that night.

“Fuck.” His voice was flat. I could feel him start to distance himself.

“I’m sorry,” I said. This reaction was worse than any I’d expected. I had hoped that he would yell. That we would fight. Not that he would retreat from me. “Can I tell you why?”

He didn’t say anything, and I took the silence as consent. “I think my relationship with Nick maybe gave me a warped view of D/s,” I said. “I think I thought, subconsciously, that I was a failure as a submissive if I used my safe word. That it was a badge of honour to push through.”

I took a deep breath. “Then, there was you.
Things were great between us, but I’d still run because of what Andrea had said. You were nothing like Nick, and I didn’t see that. That night, when you showed up at the hospital, when you were there for me though I’d ignored your calls all week, I felt the need to atone for my actions. I felt like I used you that night. I had to show you that it mattered that you were there. That you mattered.”

“
By not using your safe word?” he asked. His tone was completely without emotion, but his eyes were troubled. So filled with pain. I wanted to reach forward and hold him, but I didn’t think I could bear it if he pulled away.

He took a long moment to speak, and I could feel drea
d settle between my shoulders. “There was never anything to atone for,” he said.

It felt like someone had put a hand on my heart and squeezed
hard. It hurt. Everything hurt, but I deserved every bit of this. My private act of atonement had put both of us in danger.

“I was wrong,” I said. “It was a really stressful time, and I made a mistake. I’ve used my safe words since then, and you know that. Can you forgive me?”

He just looked at me
silently. 

Fuck. I had known that this outcome was likely. What I had done – that act waltzed into a minefield of both our previous D/s relationships. I had thought that a good submissive wouldn’t use her safe word; a lesson from the time I was with Nick O’Malley. But I’d also thought a good Dominant would be able to magically intuit when I was close to needing a safe word. Which was crazy. Neither of us were mind-readers. If we didn’t communicat
e during sex, I could get hurt, and by extension, so could Patrick.

“Andrea and I were married for eight years. I never tried the zipper on her. Want to know why?”

The zipper. One of the things we’d done a few weeks ago. Clothespins on my body, with a string of twine between them. When I had convulsed in climax, Patrick had ripped the pins off my body in a fluid movement. I had balanced for an instant at the perfect point between pleasure and pain, before the waves of pulsing orgasm had tipped me towards pleasure. It was among the most intense sexual experiences I’d ever had. Even now, thinking about it, my pussy clenched in remembered arousal.

He continued. “Because I could never trust her to tell me if it was too much.
”

“Do you trust me?” I had to ask.

It took him a while to reply. “In my head, yes. Absolutely.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not being rational. I understand that. You probably think I’m over-reacting.”

“
I can sort of understand,” I said, my voice small. “I have my own minefields as well. Can you forgive me?” My palms were sweaty. I kept my gaze on my drink in front of me. What did it mean if he couldn’t forgive me? Would we break up? We hadn’t been dating long, and this was a serious breach of trust. For both of us.

He took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said. He wanted to say more, I could tell, but he didn’t. He kept his eyes on his drink for the longest amount of time, and we sat in silence. Finally, he looked at me. “You made a
mistake,” he said. “Not even a major one, in the scheme of things, but you had no idea why what you did would bother me as much as it does.”

“But it does bother you,” I said. I didn’t phrase it as a question. He was clearly troubled by our conversation. The label on his beer bottle had been shredded to pieces, his fingernails worrying at it as he struggled to find words in this situation.

“Yes, it does bother me,” he said finally. “I have eight years of Andrea as precedent. Eight years where it was one step forward, two steps back. Eight years of swiftly eroding trust.”

I wanted to cry out that I was nothing like Andrea. I had used my safe words since that day. But if he didn’t see it, there was nothing I could say.

“Are we breaking up?” I thought I’d just ask. Might as well put it out there. If he was looking for a way out, I had just given him the words. I didn’t look at Patrick.

“Hey.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him walk over to me. He put his hand on my chin, and kissed me very softly. “I feel
slightly betrayed. But I love you.” I noticed he didn’t assure me he wasn’t breaking up with me. That was still on the table then. 

“I love you too,” I said, and I clung to him.

He gently disengaged himself from my death-grip. “Let’s give it some distance,” he said. “I’ll call you sometime next week. Let’s have dinner Friday?”

A whole week of not seeing Patrick. It was insane how much the idea of that hurt. I gave him the tiniest nod, and fought the urge to burst into tears.

He got to his feet and gazed down at me, his eyes troubled. “Lisa,” he said, his voice level. “I need some space right now. But I’m still your boyfriend. I’m always here for you. If you need something, please call me.”

“I’m not going to call you,” I said. “I already feel like I’m using you for emotional support.”

He rolled his eyes at me, lightening the mood just a little. “I see. That’s not okay somehow? You being there for me as I’ve fretted about Andrea and worried about Liam, that’s perfectly fine?”

I had no clever reply, so I kept quiet.

“Friday dinner. I’ll text you,” he said.

***

The thing about never being in a relationship? You have no idea how to tell the serious shit apart from the trivial shit. I mean, okay, I wasn’t an idiot. I could tell we were having a trivial squabble when we were talking about how many blankets we each needed in the middle of the night. But something like this?

I had no idea if we would survive this betrayal of trust.

Read on for an excerpt from Recovery (Doctor Dom Volume 5)!

Recovery
(Doctor Dom Volume 5)

Text copyright © 2014 Tara Crescent

***The stunning conclusion to the Doctor Dom series is finally here! ***

We can remain haunted forever by the past.

Or we can move past it.

Is it finally time for recovery?

Note: This novella includes medical play, spankings, domination, graphic sexual scenes, and more.

Read on for a
preview of Recovery (Doctor Dom Volume 5)…

***

Patrick:

Are you supposed to run from your girlfriend in horror, because she had deliberately chosen one day to refrain from using her safe word? I had run. But through it all, I couldn’t fight free of the feeling that I was making a mistake.

I was probably being a jerk. A jackass. I wasn’t being fair to Lisa. But every time that weekend I reached for the phone to call her, I found that my hands were shaking.

The first thing I did when I got back from her place Friday night was to call my therapist, Jackie Blackburn. Jackie wouldn’t answer her phone, of course – it was late Friday night, and Jackie was very clear about boundaries. But she’d pick up her messages Monday morning. I left her a message pleading for a Monday slot – as early as she could fit me in. Because without my therapist’s cool voice of reason, I was afraid I was going to do something stupid; that I would do something to shatter this beautiful thing between Lisa and me. Not because I wanted to, because I didn’t. I wanted her more than I had ever wanted anyone before. I needed Lisa.

But I wasn’t going to pretend to myself that I was okay. There were too many shades of similarity between this incident and my relationship with Andrea, and my first, instinctive reaction was to run in fear.

It was a difficult couple of days. There wasn’t even the usual distraction of work. My schedule left me clear on the weekend. The week ahead, I was just scheduled during the day, leaving my evenings free. Typical Murphy’s Law bullshit. I had all the spare time in the world when I wanted to be buried in work. I tried to read, to do other things, but my mind kept returning to Lisa.

I remember well the day I fell out of love with Andrea. Or maybe I don’t. Memory is a funny thing. It plays tricks on you. When you look back on your past, you shape your memories to form a narrative. A story, with a convenient start, a middle and an end. But of course, that’s not exactly how things play out
in real time. At the moment we are living it, life is messy and chaotic and random. It’s only when we think back that we arrange our experiences to fit the story we wish to tell.

But still. When I think back, there is one incident that I will swear to my dying day that marked the beginning of the end for Andrea and me.

Andrea was a runner. She ran marathons and when she was in the mood to take it easy, she ran 10Ks. I wasn’t as dedicated a runner as she was – I’d never have the desire to run a marathon, but I’d occasionally join her for shorter runs.

Anyway. We played that night. I’d tied her up on our bed – legs splayed wide, ankles cuffed to the two corners of the bed. Arms cuffed as well, and tied to the headboard. I had flogged her on her inside thighs. Not particularly hard, my goal hadn’t been to cause pain. I’d hit her just hard enough to reach that place where every sensation was felt more deeply. Just hard enough so she was squealing and squirming with mingled pleasure and pain with each whistling stroke.

When we were done a few hours later, when we both lay slumped, our needs sated, I removed the cuffs around her ankles to find one of them raw and bleeding. She’d had a few blisters from her socks around her ankles, and the cuffs had aggravated them so much that they had burst. She must have been in incredible pain the entire time we were making love, but she hadn’t said anything.

It was so typical of Andrea. It was so in keeping with her fantasies about what a good submissive did or did not do that she hadn’t thought for one minute how I’d feel to see blood flowing from the woman I loved. Blood that I was responsible for causing. All she had needed to do was ask to be tied differently. But she would have viewed it as failure of some impossible standard that didn’t make sense in real life anyway.

I remembered watching her bleed and feeling like a heel because I caused it.

Through my childhood, I had felt responsible for being born, for causing my mother to forsake her dreams. Through my teenage years, I had felt responsible for not caring enough for the family business, for not being the heir my father wanted me to be. And that day, I had felt responsible for failing to ensure Andrea’s safety in a session.

It took me a long and substantial time in therapy to realize that I was responsible for none of those things. But feeling responsible for things was a bad habit of mine. In some ways, it made me a good Dominant. I would always be responsible for the safety of my submissive. But there was a fine line, and it was easy and possible to tip over the line to the other side, where nothing was left except self-loathing.

That day with Andrea – that day when she wouldn’t use her safe word to pause the session so she could be tied a different way – that day was the beginning of the end for the two of us.

What Lisa had done was relatively unimportant in the greater context of our relationship. An honest mistake, she’d called it, and I believed her. But she had had no business playing that night, worried as she was by her mother’s trip to the hospital. I should have known better as well, but I wanted so much to be with someone that would be responsible for their own well-being. I had ignored my instincts that night and punished her.

I had wanted Lisa to make that decision that night because Andrea had never made decisions. Doug had been right when he had expressed his disquiet about the way I thought of Lisa as the anti-Andrea.

The issue wasn’t really that she had decided not to use her safe word that night, though that was a pretty major breach of trust. The bigger issue was that she really shouldn’t have been playing any D/s games in the mental state she’d been in. And I had let her. I had failed just as much as she had or more. I had needed Lisa to prove to me that she wasn’t Andrea, and I had put her in an impossible spot.

I had thought I was finally ready to embark on another D/s relationship. After our conversation Friday, I wasn’t really sure of that anymore. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

I sat on my couch, in my empty house, feeling entirely alone, trying to figure out where to go from here.

Jackie really needed to have a spare slot on Monday.

Continue reading Lisa and Patrick’s story in
Recovery (Doctor Dom Volume 5)