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The inevitable line, “Fuck, yes, Missy. Are you ready for me?”
I know my part—what I’m supposed to say. I’msupposedto be in the zone, endorphin-high and floating on air.Supposedto need more, need cock, needhim. But I don’t.
“Answer me.”
“I’m...”
“You need cock, don’t you, baby? I know. I know just what you need.”
Ineedto feel alive... out of control... possessed... consumed... out of my fucking mind.
I wrench my head around, knowing exactly how I’ll find him. His dick is already in his hand, flogger discarded, his eyes on the spectators outside. They know the drill too. Club Explicit, BDSM haven for dirty freaks like us. We come to play and we come to watch, and that’s all great fun, until you realise you’re playing the same movie on repeat, all of us, over and over. And suddenly I’m angry, angry beyond all rationale. Angry with Cain for not being the dom I need him to be, angry that he’s not the man I knew before him—the man who could turn my insides to jelly with one single command—angry with myself for needing everything I need from this place.
“No. I’mnotready.”
Cain shuffles, surprised. He shoves his dick back in his jeans and goes for the flogger.
“Oh, ok, um, sure. You want more of this, then? Is that what you want?” he approaches my head, leaning in close enough to whisper. “You took fifty, I thought that would do you. How about another twenty?”
And that’s it. Done. Over.
I’m so far out of the zone I may as well be at the office discussing housing benefit claims.
“Surelyyoushould tellmehow much more I should have? You’re the dom, aren’t you?”
His cheeks flush pink as he turns to the window, checking out the faces as he considers they may well have heard my criticism.
“I’m a dom, Missy, not a psycho. You normally take fifty.”
“Inormallytake whatever you dish out. I’ve got a safeword, Cain, and a tongue. I’m capable of using them.”
He retreats, and I hear the flogger whirring. I dare to hope, dare to believe he’ll put me back in my place and give me what I need.
“Count for me,” he says again, and this time I’m really done. I’m already up, slipping through shackles that are too loose on my wrists, another oversight on his part. “Hey!” he says. “Get back into position! I didn’t give you permission to move!”
“It’s over,” I sigh. “I’m just not feeling it.”
“I’ll make you feel it,” he barks. “Just get back in position.” Again his eyes flit to the window and the shocked observers. It’s then I know for certain. He’s scared of losing face, more concerned with what they think than what I need.
“A couple of lashes would have done it, by the way. Maybe a couple of decent slaps. Afuck you, Missy, I’ll be the one to tell you what you need, and then a proper pounding. Maybe in the ass, that would have been good...” I shrug.
“And I’m supposed to be a mind reader, am I?”
“A body reader, apersonreader. We’ve been doing this how long? Six months?”
“Five,” he snaps. “What’s wrong with you these past few weeks? Nothing seems fucking right for you anymore.”
He’s right, nothing does seem fucking right anymore. Nothing at all. “I’m sorry, Cain.”
“Yeah, well, let me know if you sort your fucking head out, will you?”
He doesn’t hang around to hear my response, and it’s probably just as well.
***
“Whoa, baby.” Mistress Raven slid her glass along the bar in my direction. “You look like you need this a ton more than I do.”
“That obvious?” I took a seat, wincing as I sniffed the purple concoction. It smelt like liquid gasoline and gummy bears.
