WanttoGoPrivate (5 page)

I’m sorry. I have questions, I
really do. I just can’t seem to put them into words, which is ridiculous
because in the real world I’m talking to people all the time. I appreciate the
opportunity. Maybe I’m not as ready for this as I thought.

C2aF

Relax, Curious one.
J
Take a few
deep breaths and try to come to terms with the fact that no one here is going
to judge you. There are people here who are more experienced but by no means
completely knowledgeable and others who haven’t been able to partake in a
single session of exploration. We can always learn from each other.

Isabel suddenly wanted to say
screw it
and not only
sign off but go in and delete her account altogether. It had sounded too good
to be true and apparently it was. She wasn’t a person who opened up and shared,
at least not somewhere everyone could read her personal thoughts. But she
believed in honesty and that’s how she would respond.

I’m sorry, MSM. I can’t be as
open as I thought I could. I appreciate you taking time to chat with me but I
think.

C2aF

She inadvertently hit the send button before she was
finished and swore at her computer. Before she could add to the sentence
another reply came from the Master.

WTGP?

Isabel stared at the acronym, no clue whatsoever of its
meaning. She typed before she thought about going online and looking it up. It
was probably something ultra-easy to figure out, but he’d probably realized she
wasn’t savvy on more than a few fronts by now.

What’s WTGP?

C2aF

His return message made her heart lurch.

WTGP
J
Want To Go
Private?

Private? As in email? There’d be no harm in that, would
there? She could ask him anything she wanted. But it would be in print with her
email addy attached to it, which wouldn’t be prudent. On the other hand, he was
a font of knowledge, one which she might never come in contact with again.

That would be much appreciated.
Do you mean email?

C2aF

The brevity of his response didn’t surprise her.

I’m here to help. Watch your
inbox.

Five hours later, Isabel had told a complete stranger not
only her past history, in vivid detail, of what she had experienced at the
hands of a weekend Dom but her ongoing fantasies, as well.

Had she paid a trained therapist to listen then offer his
thoughts, her bill would have been into the tens of thousands and spanned
months if not years. He had helped her see the benefit of acknowledging her
dark side, as he called it. Which sounded so much better than some of the other
terms she’d dubbed it over the years. His experiences and suggestions always
centered on a single principle—respect.

When they had waded into the waters of lifestyle versus
playtime, his knowledge substantiated the fact that it wasn’t what she needed.
She needed a man who shared her desire for exploration, a man who would
willingly embrace her need.

She even told him about her decision to go online and it was
the only time his messages seemed stilted. She finally asked if he thought the
alternative dating sites might be an option and his reply had floored her. She
scrolled down to read it one more time before she shut her computer off.

Those sites, like the ones out
there for the general populace, serve a purpose, but I don’t think it’s a path
you want to travel. You can put up your level of experience but you have to
remember that a great deal of the other world, especially Doms, know how to
read people, sometimes for less-than-moral purposes. I’d advise against it,
Isabel.

She hadn’t regretted giving him her name, although he didn’t
offer his. She had decided on total honesty five minutes into their
conversation.

Then how am I going to find
someone for exploration? I’m not even sure whether I want the nonsexual
relationship you helped me identify as what I actually had or one that’s more
intimate.

He had shocked her with his response but she was too far
enmeshed in their interaction to second-guess anything.

Meet me tomorrow. At the bar you
think harbors the kinky bartender. Maybe I know him, lol. We can talk in person
at the very least. If that goes well, perhaps we can try a bit of light play.
Your choice of course, but grant me one demand. Wear a plain, little black
dress. Even Master Doms have fantasies they need fulfilled. And no panties. On
The Left at 10:00 p.m.

It wouldn’t be bad. It was a safe place. She intended to
tell the girls what she was doing. Unless they totally wigged out on her. But
Chris would be there if the guy turned out to be some crazy deviant. She hadn’t
asked for a picture because she really didn’t care about his appearance. If he
was hideously deformed, they might have a problem. But she’d never been a
superficial person. James had been what women called ruggedly attractive but
was by no means handsome.

No. What was important remained the same as always. A man’s
integrity made him ten times more appealing. And one thing she sensed
MySecretMaster had a great deal of was integrity.

Chapter Three

“What’s the matter, Izzi? You’re wound tighter than a drum
tonight. Did GNO not end well? I saw your friends hightail it for the door
awhile ago.”

“Girls’ night out was fine, Chris. We solved all the world’s
problems, as usual.” She glanced over her shoulder once more. He wasn’t going
to show. She realized that now and hurt and anger swirled within her, vying for
the superior spot.

“Really? All the problems?” he asked, his voice carrying a
hint of understanding that Isabel found uncomfortable.

“All but one.” She forced a breezy tone into her voice.

“So what’s up? Two of you buy the same sexy little dress or
latest pair of Louboutins?”

Isabel stared at him. Maybe humor would help. “You’re the
master of a great pour
and
know shoe designers? You’re not hinting at
coming out of the closet, are you, Atlas?”

“Honey, I’ve mastered a boatload of stuff and convincing
myself I can’t live without looking down at another dude’s hairy ass isn’t one
of them.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t be the one on top?”

“Trust me. I’m always the top and what can I say? Black and
red is a pretty rockin’ combination. Especially if it pertains to killer heels.
What’re you wearing?”

He wiggled his eyebrows and Isabel’s smile faltered when she
thought about his “top” comment. It had to end—her turning every innocent
statement into some sort of bondage innuendo, especially now that her hopes
seemed to have been trampled. She allowed him his moment of mirth before
bending her knee and drawing her foot upward toward her butt. She hooked her finger
around the heel of her boot and pulled her leg upward until she resembled a
figure skater.

“Nice boots, Oksana. Very hot.”

She laughed at his understanding of the pose and held it for
a second longer before letting go and lowering her foot to the ground.

“I was supposed to meet a guy tonight, but he never showed.”

“Yeah, just like three-fourths of the usual customers. It
hasn’t been this dead in forever,” he mumbled, before taking in the way she was
dressed. “At least that explains the sexy-yet-modest skirt. The low, but not
cleavage-screamin’ shirt. The leather CFM shoes.”

“They’re not ‘come fuck me’—”

“Yes they are and you know it. And there’s no shame in that,
Izz. None at all.”

She looked into his eyes and her heart beat a little faster.
Wouldn’t it be lovely if he truly meant that? But she’d heard him with enough
customers to know he had a gift for saying just the right thing at just the
right time.

“It’d be great if people weren’t judgmental,” she said,
placing her hands against the flat surface of the bar, pretending to study her
perfectly manicured fingernails.

“People tend to place their insecurities on others in ways
too various to consider. You have to admit to yourself all the weaknesses and
fears and then move on. So were you planning on letting this guy take you home
and screw your brains out?”

“What!”

“The guy you’re waiting for. Was he a Match or Chemistry
dude? Did he meet all your criteria? I know what women want. I hear it a
hundred times a night.”

“I’m thinking you don’t know a damn thing, mister. And I’m
not like most women, FYI.”

“I never said you were, Miss Defensive. But you’re wearing
the stereotypical uniform of coital expectations—”

“And you’re wearing the smirk of a total douche bag.” The
blood rushed to her face and Isabel wasn’t sure why she was arguing with him.
He certainly didn’t deserve her ire.

“What did you expect to have happen tonight? When women set
off on these online fishing expeditions—”

“He wasn’t from a dating site.”

“There are tons of horn dogs just looking for a quick fuck.”

“I’m not looking for a booty call.”

“What the hell could some guy you’ve never met have that’s
so appealing to a classy broad—”

“He understands there’s another side to me, you dumbass. One
I can’t even understand myself!”

The words hung in the silence of the near-empty bar as they
stared at each other. For an instant she thought a glimmer of victory crossed
his features and she turned her head to the side, not really seeing a thing as
she stared off into the distance. Her harsh breathing was the only sound
breaking the silence and the level of discomfort rose to the point that she
stood to leave.

“Don’t go.” The vehemence of his tone made her hesitate and
a second later he had her left forearm in a firm grip. “Isabel.”

Her name was a firm command and she immediately spun around,
focusing on his face.

“Good girl,” he said with a stony countenance but his voice
dripped with praise.

The exact terminology he used wasn’t lost on her and she
remained speechless when his big hands encircled her wrists and pulled them
toward him, so her upper body stretched across the bar. Her ribs pressed
against the rolled-leather edge, her breasts resting against the glossy wood.
Her heart kicked into double time and, to her utter disbelief, her nipples
hardened.

“Chris?” She doubted her lips even moved. She doubted that
he’d even heard her.

“Come closer.”

She could refuse. Wrench her hands out of his grasp and
storm back to her table, throw him a twenty and leave. She could tell him she
didn’t kiss her friends on the lips, which he hadn’t asked her to do, but she
sure as hell wanted to. But none of her friends had used that tone with her. A
tone that made her pussy feel suddenly heavy. She had the overwhelming urge to
obey him. But he wasn’t part of her plan. What if MySecretMaster walked in
right now?

He’s not coming, Izz. You know that. But look what you
have right before you. Great body, awesome smile, long fingers. Look how he’s
staring at you.

“You realize you have the furthest thing from a poker face,
don’t you?
I
asked you to come here, Isabel.”

Her name rolled off his lips and she put one foot on the
rail and hoisted her body closer to him. She hadn’t picked up the spicy scent
of his cologne before but now it wafted toward her and she closed her eyes and
breathed deeply. It seemed very important that she commit the smell to memory.
His thumbs massaged her inner wrists. She hooked her other foot on the rail and
tried not to moan at the deliciousness of the undeniable strength he kept in
check, as he brought her palms together and transferred her wrists to one of
his hands before tightening his grip.

She wasn’t sure what he was doing and she really didn’t
care. Part of the appeal of being restrained was being at the mercy of someone
virile and in complete control. It was a true aphrodisiac. She obviously knew
the reality of the situation, the one thing all the books and online references
never failed to highlight. It was the submissive who ultimately held the
control. She opened her mouth to speak, to think of some witty way to ask him
if he was “down to play”, as MySecretMaster had called it, but her words froze
as something hard and thin was thrown over her hands and tightened around her
wrists.

She opened her eyes, shocked to find a bright-yellow plastic
tie, the kind used to bind cable, holding her captive.

“What the hell—”

“Hush.” He hooked another tie through the one holding her
and had both ends cinched tight around the base of the beer taps before she
realized what had happened.

“Hey, Eileen. Your ride’s here, sweetie. Let me help you
out.” He directed his words to someone behind her.

“Wait,” Isabel said, as he walked around the bar, unable to
turn her body very far. She watched his reflection in the bar mirror as he
walked over to an elderly patron and helped her out of her chair.

“Time to go.” He spoke in a gentle voice, so very different
from the tone he’d just used with her. She heard the woman’s slurred “thanks”
and stared, somewhat dumbfounded, as they both walked out the front door.

She glanced back at the simple little plastic strips holding
her hostage before checking out her reflection in the mirror. She looked as
perfect as when she had walked into the bar, two and a half hours ago. No sign
that she’d had a heated discussion with her friends about whether she should
meet a man without talking to him on the phone for hours on end, or texting
like a madwoman. No sign that her stomach had been in knots about the prospect
of meeting him. No sign that she was more than a little concerned to be bound
to a beer tap by her friendly, neighborhood bartender who was soooo full of
shit about her poker face.