Wrecked (The Blackened Window) (10 page)

“Well, I want certain things out of a relationship. You’ve already noticed that I’m
bossy
, as you call it. That’s who I am. I want to tell you what to do and I want you to listen and do it.” I put my plate on the coffee table then took hers off her knees and put it down, too. I felt the dominance surging through me. “Do you think you can do that?” I leaned into her space, closer and closer until she leaned back. Her eyes were wide again. I shifted past her face and spoke in her ear. “Can you do what you’re told, Leda?”

“I think so.”

She almost whispered it and I kept moving forward, gently pushing her back on the couch until I was planked over her. I lowered my lips to her neck and clavicle, hooking my finger into the collar of her shirt, pulling it aside so I could get at her skin. She lightly touched my back and breathed a sigh.
That’s enough.

I pulled back. “No, I don’t want ‘I think so’. I want ‘yes’ or ‘I can learn if you’ll teach me’. Until then, I just think it’ll be too much for you.” I completely retreated from her, sitting back on the couch, knowing that it wasn’t fair, but I never said I’d play fair.
There aren’t rules, other than the rules I make.
Her face looked a little dejected, like she’d lost her puppy.
Good.
“How about this? Let’s just try a little play, a little fun. And then you tell me what you think?”

A flutter of hope in her eyes. “What do you mean?” Her breathing was tense and that sexy flush was back in her cheeks. The way she looked up at me through her lashes, the white shirt—she looked so goddamned innocent and I wanted to strip her down, corrupt her, pervert her. Make her into something that was purely
mine
.

Take a damn breath. Control.

“We can go in small steps. And if it gets to be too much, we pause or stop or switch directions.” This was another moment of truth. She’d balk or she’d give. “What do you think? Wanna try?” My palms were wet and I was nervous in a wholly unsexy way. This wasn’t the fun part. Yet.

“Okay. Yeah, okay, let’s try it.”

Thank Christ.
I let out a breath I hadn’t been aware I was holding.

“Let’s say just for tonight and…we’ll see.” She looked willing to try, but unsure of herself. That was about right.

With the way I had been obsessing over her for the last three days, I knew that this could…change me a little. Make me want it more. Open the fucking floodgates. I’d want it with her, but, I knew in my heart that if she failed me, I’d find someone at the Window to take my need out on.

“So, I have one more warning. If we do this for more than a few nights, you’re gonna see parts of me that I don’t show people. It might freak you out a little. What I think about doing to you…” The whole world contracted down to that couch, her face, her breath. She had to know that I’d want to fuck with her, but she could trust me. “You must trust that I will not harm you. I may want to hurt you at some point.” I already wanted to hurt her. “But no harm will come to you by me or by anyone else. Can you trust me, at least enough to try it out?”

I saw the questions and the fear in her face, and called her on it. “Leda, what are you thinking now? Don’t censor yourself—trust me and just say it.” She didn’t speak. “Now.”

She leaned forward and the words rushed off her lips. “I have a million questions and you’re scaring me some.”

Good.

“But then I think about you being here the other night when I was so sick and, I mean, if you were some fucked up, sadistic bastard…”

That’s exactly what I am.

“You could have done anything to me, killed me really, and you didn’t. You just took care of me. I think I can trust you enough for one night.”

I felt the grin spreading on my lips and it wasn’t evil, wasn’t depraved. It was just the smile of feeling accepted, the smile of hopes building up. But she had questions. It was important that she felt as prepared as possible before anything happened.

“What are your questions?” I paused, but cut her off before she spoke, changing the subject a little. “Actually, before we start even talking about things, let’s decide on your safeword. Or something to let me know if you’re not okay with something that’s happening.”

She nodded, but her face belied her confusion.

Let’s keep it easy.
“I think using traffic light colors would be easiest, most straight-forward. Green for ‘I’m good. I like this. Let’s keep going’. Yellow for ‘I’m a little anxious, scared, uncomfortable, overwhelmed. Can we ease up, but not stop’. Red for stop, and everything will stop.” I liked that there was a middle ground, and, hopefully, it was easy to remember. “What do you think—green, yellow, red? Will those work for you?”

“Yes.” She looked so demure and obedient. Head slightly downcast, looking up through her lashes with big eyes, hands in her lap, voice soft. I wanted to jump on her.

Restraint.
I reminded myself I was playing the long game. I wanted more than tonight, wanted to draw it out, so she was my slave in all things, so she was begging me to fuck her, wanted only to be in my bed or anywhere else I told her to be. “Tell me what the safewords are. I want you to tell it back to me so I know we’re on the same page.” Closed loop communication, less chance for a misunderstanding.

“Green means go—I want more. Yellow means slow—I’m freaked out, but don’t stop. And red means stop.”

I tried to stop myself from saying ‘Good girl’. But it was a perfect answer.

“Okay. Good girl. Now, tell me your questions. I may not answer them completely. Part of how this works is that you don’t always have all the information in advance and I make the decisions for you, for what I want for you.” The cold heat of control was snaking its way through my body. I felt it in the palms of my hands, in my chest, in the stretch of my neck. I felt solid, in my body, powerful. Her eyes widened as she saw it, then her pupils dilated.
God, she’s hardwired for it.

She spoke softly. “I don’t even know what my questions really are. It’s just all of it, you know? Like what do you want to do to me? What is the difference between getting hurt and getting harmed? I don’t know…so many thoughts are circling in my head that I can’t really keep track of them all.”

“What I want to do to you…is a very long conversation and truthfully, I don’t want to tell you everything yet. I want to make you experience things you haven’t experienced before and telling you about them in advance would ruin it.” As I spoke, I took our glasses to the kitchen. I had to put a little distance between us before I lost my hold on my control. From the kitchen, I continued, while I refilled our glasses.

“It’s essential that you understand the difference between hurt and harm. It’s like when I spar with my Jiu Jitsu buddies. I might get hurt, but nothing goes so far to harm me. I may have some bruises, but I’d never get a broken bone, never really have anything bad happen to me. It’s the same thing. Some things may happen that are intense sensations, maybe even some pain, but nothing will ever harm you in a way that has lasting effects. In this type of exchange, it’s my job to take care of you, even as I push you to your limits. The other side to that, your job, is to remember the safewords and tell me honestly if something is too much, too fucked up for you, too painful, too scary. Whatever.”

I sat back down on the couch, a little closer to her, and she asked, “So, are you hinting at wanting to tie me up and whip me or something like that?”

I sighed, internally marveling at her innocence. “Tie you up? Definitely. Whips? I don’t know, not tonight at least.” Her hands flexed in her lap. That scared her a little. “But there are times that I do want to hurt someone—and that someone would most likely be you. More than anything, I just like to be in control—whether it’s physical with some sort of restraint or psychological where I get you to a point where you do something you never thought you would because I want you to do it, because you belong to me and want to make me happy.”
I mean, isn’t that what every man wants?
I was such an asshole.

I expected her to tell me to fuck off. I had just basically told her I wanted to make her do shit she didn’t want to do, that I wanted her so twisted up over me that she’d do what I told her to. Her face was thoughtful, a moment of rejection passed over her features, but it softened and disappeared—and was replaced by peace.
Peace?
Not what I’d expected. “What is it? What is that reaction?”

She didn’t pause now, just answered immediately. “My mom is a feminist and I mean like bra-burning, shatter the glass ceiling feminist. I grew up with these messages of ‘don’t ever let a man control you, control your life. You are in charge of you. You can do anything a man can do, be anything a man can be. Don’t ever let yourself feel like less because you’re a woman’. And it’s a confusing set of feelings to be so intrigued by what you are saying and so interested in giving up control. Does it make me less of a feminist? Or mean that I have less value or something? That seems like bullshit, but I really don’t know.”

I wasn’t really expecting to discuss feminism, and my domlust banked itself in my cock as I tried to answer intelligently. “Well, I can’t answer that question for you, but I can tell you three things that may help you decide for yourself. One, none of this lessens your worth in my eyes in any way. Two, I think the submissive person actually has almost all the real control. The dominant person really only has control of the playtime world that both people willingly choose to go together and three, I know a super-feminist woman who is into kink. I’d be glad to introduce you to her. She may have some insights that would help you.”

She smiled and took a deep breath. Acceptance.

This was the beginning of her submission, of her learning to belong to me. I savored the moment on the precipice, the anticipation. I wanted to memorize the moment and mentally cataloged the feel of the couch under me, her shallow breaths, the low light in the room, and the red stain on her lips from the Sangria.

Chapter Ten

Leda

The XX,
Infinity

He was staring at me intently and I shifted in my seat, ate a chocolate with caramel in it, the caramel squishing out when I bit. I wiped it away with a finger, but then had caramel on my fingers, so I started licking it off—all messy and I felt like an idiot, very uncool—until I looked up at him and the naked hunger in his eyes rocked me back in my seat and stole my breath. He could go from normal to a little scary in a heartbeat, or maybe it was there all the time, in layers or something.

“Stop. Take your fingers out of your mouth.”

He said it with such authority that I blindly obeyed him, but the look on his face and the steel in his voice had me on edge, a tickle inside, that breathless feeling again. He took my hand and brought it to his mouth, licking at the caramel. Then scraped it off with his teeth. Not biting me. Not hurting me…just scraping his teeth along the length of my finger. The sensation was intense and different than anything I could remember experiencing with any of my exes.

He paused, taking my fingers out of his mouth. “Green?”

“Green.”

He pulled my hand to his mouth again and started biting into the fleshy part of my palm and it didn’t hurt exactly, but it was that same type of intense and different. My skin felt hypersensitive.
I
felt hypersensitive. His iron grip wrapped around my wrist and he moved his mouth on me, biting my forearm, the inside of my elbow. His mouth was hot and wet and his teeth scraping me was almost too much, nearly ticklish punctuated with the light sharpness of his bite. My breathing was shallow and quick. I flushed and he pushed me back on the couch again.

“Green?”

“Green.”

He pinned my arm above my head and pulled my other arm up to mirror it as he laid his body against mine, letting his weight settle on me, pushing my breath out of my lungs. He watched me closely. With his free hand, he tilted my chin up, scraping his teeth along my jaw and down my neck, to my collarbone. I sighed, stretching and arching into him. He suddenly climbed up me, his knees on either side of my rib cage, his weight exclusively pressing on my chest so I was very aware of each breath. Without letting go of my wrists, or breaking our gaze, he one-handedly took off his belt.

Is he going to pull his cock out right now?
I felt the first quake of real fear building in my chest—fear of what sex with him would be like, fear that I truly did not know what to expect next from him. I think he saw it in my eyes, because he changed further, like he was bigger again, stronger, less tentative even. I took a deep breath, saying nothing. But his hand left the fly of his jeans and instead joined the other hand at my wrists, using his belt to start tying them, fastening my wrists together.

“Green?” he asked, his voice soft and tender, even as he tightened his belt on my wrists.

“Green.” But my voice was much shakier this time.

“What are your safewords, baby girl?” he asked as he climbed off me, kneeling at the side of the couch.

“Green, yellow, red.”

“Are you green?”

“I’m green.” I said it with more confidence and he held my gaze for a moment. His eyes held satisfied warmth. He was pleased. I felt embraced in his presence and wanted in a way I had never felt before.

In all my previous relationships, I had felt generically wanted, wanted for my ability to provide a warm, wet place to put a penis. This was different. This was being wanted for all of me, being wanted for my specific body and my specific mind, my specific reactions to what was happening. Even though we’d just met, even though it was all new. I let it ride, let the questions fade away, dropped the worries. I felt hedonistic, slick with wanting, golden and lit from within.

“I’m only going to touch you. I’m not taking any of your clothes off, not trying to push you too much tonight. Just touching you. You will not speak unless it is to say your safeword.” As he said it, he pulled my T-shirt up just enough to reveal my abdomen and laid his hand flat across me. It was warm and firm, a hint of some calluses, but most of all it felt big, as if all of my attention was sucked into the sensation of his hand on my skin. He held his hand still for a few beats longer then started gently moving it in small circles on my tummy. The movement against my soft skin created this wonderful dragging friction between us. He held me transfixed and I closed my eyes, laying my head back and willing myself to relax into his touch. His fingers traced circles and lines centering on my navel and the light touch was almost more intense than it would have been if he had grabbed me. Each pass of his hand over my skin felt full of promise, full of risk.