The Dom Project (12 page)

He stood in front of her, took a deep, silent breath and let the moment carry him away.

“Open your eyes.”

She fought, all on the inside—lips drawn tight and twisting, chest heaving—and
won
. Her eyes were shining blue, and stricken. Her pupils shrunk to pinpoints as the catchlight pierced them, the special light he’d set up to make her face come alive in the images. Never as beautiful as real life, never with that same pointed, elfin quality he could never draw attention to aloud, but God, he wanted to get close.

“Perfect,” he said, wanting her to feel as perfect as she looked right now. She seemed to respond well to the word, blinking and smiling faintly. “I’m going to catch you—” he tapped the camera “—right as you fall apart, Robin. Do you understand? And are you ready?”

She closed her eyes and nodded quickly, almost desperately, and then opened them again, remembering his command.
Good girl
. He’d never call her that—it was too infantilizing by half—but fuck if he couldn’t help thinking it. Sometimes it was hard to shake tradition.

He pressed the button. And started shooting.

Robin’s hands tightened into white-knuckled fists and she bent at the waist, grasping helplessly at the shag carpet and moaning through gritted teeth. John could hear the surging swell of the vibrator pounding through her on the aptly named “Wave” setting. The vibrator was powerful, but without pressure, without movement, it would be nearly worthless for anything but torture. Robin’s hips undulated, seeking that exact sensation.

He cupped a hand on her small shoulder, stunned by the heat of her body, the softness of her skin. No bare skin-on-skin contact, he reminded himself. It was too slippery of a slope.

He took his hand back, turned off the remote, set down the camera.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she chanted, almost sobbing.

“Listen carefully, Robin. I’m going to talk you through this.” His throat felt dry, but he couldn’t tear himself away to get a glass of water. He’d need to get one for her, though, soon. “First, you need to get on your back for me.”

She was bending, swaying, obeying, before he even finished speaking.

He hit the button again.

* * *

The small part of her mind that was still capable of rational thought did, eventually, recognize the poses. Classic pinup style. Hands on hips, fuck-me heels waving in the air. The poses were acrobatic, intense, even painful, and she loved
them
but oh God why couldn’t John
touch
her? She wanted to be his life-size mannequin, malleable in his hands—his large, strong hands stroking every part of her. There was some reason why he couldn’t touch her, but she’d forgotten it halfway through the pose where she hugged her one thigh to her chest, baring herself like a contortionist courtesan.

The sound of his endlessly patient voice was good, almost too good, because the meaning of the words kept slipping. Especially when he pushed the button and the waves of pleasure lapped at her wet aching cunt and made every muscle in her thighs clench in sympathetic need for
more
,
more
,
not enough
.

“Robin,” he said, his voice coming in with sudden clarity. “Remember your safeword. I want you to take these panties off now.”

He hadn’t phrased it as a question, but she could still back out, still protect the one secret she had left.
Remember your safe word
—his promise to her, that she could refuse him, even now.

She didn’t want to refuse.

Lying on her back, it wasn’t an easy task. She swept her hands down her body, following the shallow curves of her waist and hips until she found the edge of the cloying fabric. She plucked at her panties with uncooperative hands, unable to pull them down, and the frustration of that, of wanting
so badly
to obey but being
unable
to, brought her to tears. But John wouldn’t help her. Wouldn’t touch her. They agreed. Another woman, clearheaded, straight-thinking, had agreed. Unless—

“Help me, sir. Please.”

She looked to him. He didn’t hesitate. His firm, sure hands took hold of the elasticized waist and drew the panties away, down her trembling thighs, right down past the tips of her toes, expertly avoiding tangling them in her heels.

The vibrations had gone away again. John was rolling her gently, oh so gently, on to her belly on the soft carpet. She felt him unhooking her bra and she reared up on her elbows to allow him the space to remove it. Too far gone to feel shy, she sighed with pleasure at having the scratchy fabric and poking underwire pulled away from her searing skin.

“Oh yes,” he said. “Just like that. Up on your elbows like that. Pull them closer to your body.”

When she drew in her arms, her breasts squeezed together, warm and soft and tender. She wished John would cup them in his big hands, let his fingers sink into them,
squeeze
them, but he moved away, down the length of her body until his hands wrapped around her ankles. He lifted them. Crossed them neatly.

The arched curve of her back hurt. Made her tremble. But she didn’t lie back down or stretch or twist. Just stayed perfectly still while he took more photos. More photos of her beauty and agony and—the vibration returned, washing her away into sensation.

“You did so well,” she heard him say. He was kneeling right beside her, looming over her, speaking inches away from her ear. She could see part of his wrist and biceps, tattooed colors writhing over thick corded muscles. His praise was like a drug.

She wanted him. She was tired of the barriers between them. “Please, sir,” she moaned.

“Please what?”

Please fuck me and make me yours for real.
Please let us complete this ritual.

But she couldn’t say it, she couldn’t. It wasn’t what he wanted her to say. And she wanted... she wanted so badly to do and be what he wanted.

“Please,” she said, again. “Please, sir, please,
please
.”

“Well, then.
Go
.” He gripped her wrist and she almost came from that alone—
he’s going to hold me down and fuck me
,
please
,
please
—

—and guided her hand between her legs. And released her.

No.
Yes.
This was good too. What he wanted. She pressed the heel of her palm against the vibrator and thrust her hips hard against it from below, and the waves of pleasure narrowed, strengthened, driving right into her clit.
Harder
.
Yes
. His eyes on her, his gift already inside her, she gave him this gift in return, falling apart at his command.
Go
.

She would have screamed his name but her throat closed around the words. All that came out was a choked sob. Her hips trembled helplessly at the brutal height of the climax, as if her body didn’t belong to her anymore...it was only a lovely thing made by pleasure, to feel pleasure, white-hot and all-encompassing. There was nothing beyond. She was gone.

The pulses stopped. Her muscles still spasmed, the strain growing until she had to let go, relax, go limp.

The soreness was nothing compared to the sense of satisfaction and release. The violent drumming of her heartbeat settled into a sweeter, slower rhythm.

Something wonderfully soft settled against her skin.
Oh
. John had nestled the blanket around her. He stroked her shoulders through the blanket, smoothed her hair away from her face. No guidance, no demands. She floated in a sea of wordless compassion.

“Hey, you,” John murmured. “Got you some water. Thirsty?”

“God, yes,” she rasped, and sat up, the blanket wrapped like a robe around her. She took the glass from his hand and drank down half of it immediately. It tasted sweet and pure and by the time she put it down again, she hardly felt sore at all.

“Here’s a towel for the toys. You can take them out here, or I can walk you to the bedroom and leave you. Whatever you’re comfortable with, Robin.”

She loved hearing him say her name. But a twinge of guilt hit her just then, remembering how badly she’d wanted him inside her. How close she’d been to begging for it.

“Thank you,” she said, not meeting his eyes, knowing they’d be as dark and intense and wryly humorous as always. “I can...I can do it here.” She took the towel from his hands, and sheltered by the blanket, eased out the toys and folded them into the towel. It was a little awkward, that was all, not shameful. She felt like she’d broken through a wall, in that regard.

“Do you feel different?” he asked. “I mean, emotionally. I hope you don’t get any cramps from those poses, but I figured with all the yoga...”

She laughed. “I’ll be fine. As for—well. I loved it. I think I confirmed to myself that I’m an exhibitionist.”

“So am I.” He smiled. They were making full, easy eye contact now, she realized. “And I like it. That’s what this is all about. Exploring what you want.”

“Yes. Right.” It didn’t sound right, but it
was
right. She had to remember that. “And you are so good at this. So good. I mean, so ridiculously good—”

“I know,” he interrupted, arched his eyebrow into a suave curve, and laughed with her. Like a magician who made it look easy. Who seemed to take his magic utterly for granted. She was in awe of that quality, and in awe of his loose-limbed, sprawling, graceful body language.

She wrapped the blanket around herself more tightly. “There
is
one thing I’m worried about. These things cost money. The candlesticks...”

“Props. I borrowed those from a friend who works at a Hollywood studio. He was kind of pissed I gave them back to him polished, said he’d have to figure out how to retarnish them for a haunted mansion scene, but it’s no big deal. Everything else, don’t worry about. Between friends, it’s nothing.”

She pushed on, not really knowing why. “I know what I’m getting out of this, but you—is it hard for you?” Oh God, could she have picked a worse phrase? “I mean, you know, sexually frustrating?”

He shrugged. “A little. But I’ve got regular play partners I see.” He said that so neutrally, not bragging at all.
That’s his lifestyle
, she reminded herself.
It’s not wrong or right
,
it just...is.

Just like what’s between us.

Somehow that didn’t feel like much of a comfort for her, and John saw it. He narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously. “You can too, you know. We can change the contract if the denial dynamic isn’t interesting for you. I’m not going to cut your brakes if you try to see another guy. I want you to be happy.”

“No, I—I don’t know. I don’t want to change anything yet.” She sighed. And yet, she knew that if she didn’t expand her horizons at some point, she’d be right back at square one: sexless, pining and Picky, and with no real strategy for finding someone to satisfy her needs, long-term or otherwise.

John must have picked up on her worry because he cupped her arm through the blanket and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Do you want to try it? Together? Exhibitionism, or maybe even just introducing someone else into the dynamic? See if you’re up for no-strings-attached if it’s with someone respectful, instead of the assholes you’ve been attracting? Because if you’re curious, I can arrange something for us. Someone you might like. No psychics, no pickup artists, cross my heart. And trust me, I get around so I have a
long
list of eligible play partners to choose from.” He smiled crookedly, and the expression was so baldly proud of his conquests that for a moment she felt ashamed at her own ineptness—though not for lack of trying, dammit!—and she had to break eye contact again, look down at her hands. “I’ve got a complicated private life. I like it that way, even if takes a lot of work to manage all the kinky sex arrangements. I’m just offering you a guided tour.”

“Like when I showed you that medieval manuscript, hmm?”

“I think it’s time to take the collar off,” he said.

He was right. She reached behind and unfastened it, making sure not to look in his eyes. He’d opened a door too far. Not to push her through it, but now that it was open...

She wasn’t sure how she could ever look away.

Week Two

Now that I have two weeks of sessions under my belt (not the chastity kind) and I’m not so tied up (at my day job), it’s time to give you all an update on my contractually nonexistent sex life.

It’s been real.

I’m learning a lot about myself. I’m a private person, but I like to share my body and sexual desire, as I’m sure you readers could already determine... Why else would I be blogging? It’s a paradox common to a lot of people. The pattern is the same; the lines are drawn differently. I’m on a journey to trace them, guided by my friend and dom, J.

That digression into BDSM mysticism aside, I’m having lots of fun times. And orgasms. Who needs sex with all that? At least for the rest of this month, I don’t, although the situation doesn’t seem tenable beyond that period.

Session
One
aka
Pinups
Undone

This is where the orgasms came in. I loved exploring Exhibitionism, and we’re going to go deeper into it later. As difficult as it was at times from a physical standpoint, I can think of nothing sexier and more gratifying (especially from the standpoint of my self-image) than having an accomplished photographer like J do a series of photos of me in various iconic pin-up poses...all while I was practically disintegrating with sexual desire.

Session
Two
aka
Crying
for
Release