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I could feel myself responding. I got positively wiggly in my shorts. I felt dorky in them, and in my dumb South-By-Southwest T-shirt a size too small to begin with and washed on hot like all my clothes because I simply can’t be bothered. I hadn’t really dressed for seduction. But then...does anyone ever really dress for being seduced?
Maybe someone other than me, I guess. Having stewed all day in the ninety-degree heat and my airless hovel of a top-floor apartment, I had figured it would be dumb to dress to impress so I tried to look casual. My one kinky outfit had been purchased a week before and remained unworn, hanging in my closet, waiting the three days for Folsom. It was not safe for drinks with friends at Lombardi’s on a weeknight, even if those friends were in fact Internet famous.
I had showered out of politeness, of course, and slathered on some makeup—I always do when meeting new people, though heaven knows why since I always end up feeling like I walked into Tammy Faye Baker at the mall. I usually call it quits when there’s slightly more lipstick on my lips than my T-shirt.
It was a nice warm weeknight, and the patio was warm and calm and we mostly had it to ourselves. There were hyacinths, and the scent caressed my senses as gently as Andre and Jamie were caressing my neck and my hands and my wrists. The scent of the flowers gave me a little tickle deep inside. I felt high. So I answered Andre...sort of.
“Um,” I said, “I don’t think so.”
Andre looked at me like I was crazy. Jamie laughed lightly.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked, her voice soft and musical, close to my ear. “You don’t think so? Are you telling us to stop?”
“No, no, no,” I said, my face reddening quickly. “I mean, about Andre’s question. I don’t think I’ve ever played.”
Andre cocked his head, tossing his dreds in a rakish gesture. His grin just melted me.
“Well, if you don’t know,” he said, “who does?”
Now I was very red, and Jamie was laughing more lightly, which only made her breath feel warm and gentle and sexy on my neck. She brushed her lips there, and it felt like lightning ran through me. She kissed my shoulder and I felt her tongue—just a hint of it. I made a strangled noise as I tried to talk.
I stammered, “I’ve done a few things. But I’ve never done a scene. I mean, not really. This guy I was seeing—we tried, but...no, I don’t think I’ve ever really done much.”
“Well, what have you done?” asked Andre, leaning in a little closer as his hands caressed my forearms. There were gentle swells of pleasure coursing through my body; the farther up my arm he stroked, the farther down my arm Jamie kissed me. Now her tongue was shameless and active. Andre held my hand up so she could take it from him; her fingers laced through mine and she brought my arm back a little so she could kiss it wetly.
One of his hands traveled up to my face; he brushed my hair away and gently touched my ear.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” he said. “Or...we can stop. You’re not uncomfortable, are you?”
I was very uncomfortable, but I didn’t want them to stop. I was uncomfortable because I knew there wasn’t a damn thing they could tie me to without getting the cops called.
This absolutely isn’t happening, I told myself. It couldn’t be. What would the kinky couple from The Secret Fire want with a boring little fan-girl like me? Free beer? They paid. To get shown around San Francisco? Survey says uh-uh. I live in Oakland, and I’ve only been here for a year and a half myself. I don’t get out much. I haven’t done much.
And now Andre was asking exactly what I had done...while his wife kissed my neck and he gently stroked my arm. It was helping my carpal tunnel, all right—which I don’t even have.
So I answered Andre’s question: What have you done?
I told them in detail—abbreviated detail, but it didn’t really matter. There wasn’t much to tell. Some scarves, some handcuffs, a boyfriend or two. At home, a pair of leather restraints, a dog collar and nipple clamps I used when I was alone. More stuff about when I was alone. Candle wax, clothespins, silicone cocks, a wire coat hanger—a hissing intake of horror at that. Ten lengths of premium rope mail-ordered from Phoenix, which I’d never taken out of the package because it scared and embarrassed me that I didn’t know how to use it.
I didn’t look Andre in the eye very much as I told the story, and Jamie was still behind me.
I didn’t look him in the eye partially because when I did my tongue got thick in my mouth and I could barely speak, but also because I was embarrassed. But I wasn’t embarrassed because my sex life was dirty. I got embarrassed because it was lame. I was twenty-six years old, for god’s sake. How was this the most I’d done?
Andre smiled and listened. He sometimes asked questions. When he did, he asked them softly, gently, smiling; his questions were firmly respectful.
Jamie’s questions weren’t. She said very different things than her husband, in a very different tone of voice. She was slowly becoming harder, scarier, the Jamie I knew from a few scattered posts. I thought about girls trussed and moaning, tits and butts striped with red, their faces between her legs while Jamie pulled their hair. She alternately kissed and slapped them and they always hugged her at the end. I felt her lips against my ear and I shivered.
Where Andre only asked clarifying questions, Jamie asked leading ones. She asked me nasty things. “You wished he’d hit you harder, didn’t you?” “Does it turn you on to have your hair pulled?” “How wet do you get when you torture your nipples?”
This last thing was said as she eased her fingers up my T-shirt and down my bra and felt them, hard and sensitive. The answer, in case you’re wondering, was and is very.
When she wasn’t tweaking my nipples, Jamie let her caresses turn into scratches, as her sharp red fingernails began to bite into the sensitive flesh of my belly and breasts. All the while, she kept kissing and licking my neck. Toward the end, I felt her teeth.
It took ten or fifteen minutes to relate my entire history with bondage. Like I said, there wasn’t much to tell, but Jamie managed to make it sound like the prehistory of a slutty little fuckslave who was begging to be tied up and hurt.
By the time I was done, it wasn’t just Jamie feeling me up. Andre’s hands were up my shirt, too; if he hadn’t had such a big, broad frame, we might have been kicked out of Lombardi’s by then. I was pretty sure we were about to be. I just didn’t care anymore.
His thumbs worked my nipples. Jamie bit my neck. Her fingernails firmly raked my scalp as she pulled my blonde hair.
