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Chapter Fourteen: Juliet
He held me in his dark dungeon until the tremors left my body, until my tears had dried on my cheeks. The exquisite bliss of my climax eventually faded away, but my ass and breasts still throbbed each time I shifted against him. When he released me, I started over toward my clothes. “Do I…” My voice hitched. “Do I leave now?”
“No. Sit down and wait for me.” He shook his head as I skittered toward the bench by the door. “Don’t get dressed yet. Sit right where you are, there on the floor. It’s clean, I promise.”
I sank to my knees, unwilling to put any pressure on my punished ass. I wanted to get dressed again now that everything was over, but he didn’t want me dressed, and he was the Dominant in this game.
He moved around the dungeon, cleaning and replacing the equipment he’d used with me. Now that our session was over, now that I’d calmed a little bit, I was able to take a closer look at the dark, sleek surroundings, his furnishings and fetish gear. When I’d entered this place, I hadn’t understood how much real sadism hurt. I’d fantasized about “scening,” imagined orgasmic thrills and tantalizing flicks of a whip.
So, reality…actual whips hurt like hell. Spoons hurt worse, and thin wooden dowels were horrific.
I watched Fort’s face, trying to figure out if our scene had gone well, or if I was a disaster. He’d said I had “some masochist” in me, but he’d said it in such a controlled way that I wasn’t sure how to take it. He didn’t look upset or angry, but he didn’t look relaxed either, the way people were supposed to look after they’d done something enjoyable. If he enjoyed doling out pain, he ought to have been ecstatic.
Or maybe the pain he gave me was nothing. Maybe it wasn’t enough to excite him. I didn’t know.
He came to me when he was done and held out a hand. “Let’s go clean up,” he said. “When you’re finished in the guest room shower, come out to the living room and we’ll talk.”
The guest room shower? Why not his shower? Why wouldn’t we shower together after what had just happened? He needed space. That seemed the most likely scenario.
He walked me to the guest room, showed me all the toiletries, soap and towels, and provided a fluffy spa robe for me to put on afterward. I looked like hell, with tears and makeup smeared across my face. And my ass… Oh God.
I would have felt better if he’d showered with me, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t. As I stood under the water in my lonely shower, I thought that I needed more feedback and communication than this. I needed more connection, but he wasn’t into connection. He was into physical and sexual, as he’d told me very clearly.
Damn.
I fondled my tender breasts, trying to wash away the pain without causing more. I inspected them as he had, and found nothing more than tiny, light bruises. My nipples looked completely untouched. My ass was another story, and my clit still felt swollen and sensitive to the touch. I couldn’t see the redness and probable bruising between my legs, but I could see what he’d done to my ass—mottled marks in an irregular pattern, probably left over from the strap, and three parallel welts from the way he’d finished me off.
I ran my fingers over those welts, twisting to look down at them, at least the ones I could see. The one under my ass cheeks wasn’t visible, but it hurt the most. I knew I’d feel it every time I sat down, at least until it healed. The idea of that triggered a new, spreading heat in my pussy and clit. My inside walls clenched, and I pressed on one of the welts just to make it hurt.
I think you have some masochist in you.
He was right, I was a masochist. The things he’d done to me were awful and painful, but I orgasmed even harder than I’d orgasmed last week in the gallery work room. I belonged to this edgier BDSM world, but I didn’t understand it yet, or at least I didn’t understand where I fit in. Could I keep things physical and sexy the way he preferred? Or would the extreme pain and pleasure trigger extreme emotions, a need to be connected to my Dom?
Fort and I needed to talk. I stepped out of his guest room shower and dried off, shielding my nude body with his sumptuous guest room towel. Who designed bathrooms with glass walls? I put on his robe, a white terrycloth dream sized for a man. I fluffed my damp hair and put on a little lipstick, and decided, after scowling at myself in the mirror, that I shouldn’t spend the night. Two could play at this game of keeping a distance, of not falling in love. If I left tonight, he’d see that I could be his masochistic plaything and still live my own life.
I proceeded to the living room determined to keep things short, to sit with him for a moment and tell him how much I had to think about, and thank him for his time. No, not thank him for his time, this hadn’t been an office interview. But I’d just breeze in and let him know I had to get going, that I was having brunch with Goodluck in the morning…
“Juliet.” As soon as I entered, he ushered me toward the sofa. Instead of a robe like mine, he was in a tee and sweat pants, his head a mess of wet, curly hair. The wine and glasses from earlier had been moved to the coffee table. Mine had been refilled. “Please, sit down.”
“I can’t stay that long,” I started.
“Come sit down. Let’s cuddle a minute.” He patted the cushion beside him. Okay, I could deal with some cuddle time.
I crossed to the couch and sat, and sucked air through my teeth. My ass hurt like freaking hell. He gave me a sympathetic look and pulled me close to him, and handed me the wine. I wasn’t sure if he remembered what I’d said earlier, that I really didn’t like it. He probably did. Making me continue to drink it was a form of sadism, but part of me needed it, so I drank.
“Is this expensive wine?” I asked, looking up at him.
He scratched one of his eyebrows. “I guess. I don’t generally drink cheap wine.”
“I don’t even know why I asked that. I think I’m a little in awe of you now. And really scared of you.”
He made some weird kind of twitch with his lips, like he wanted to smile but wouldn’t. He was still the Dominant during this aftercare cuddle, and I still felt submissive, wrapped in his fluffy robe, in his arms.
“So, did I do okay tonight?” I asked. “Did I pass the test?”
“It wasn’t a test.” He took a sip of wine and put his glass down. “It was an exploration, so I could figure out what really hurts you and what feels good to you.”
So he could more efficiently cause future pain. Of course that’s what he’d been doing.
“It all hurt really badly,” I said. “Nothing felt good.”
“You came. Didn’t that feel good?”
A flush bloomed on my cheeks. “I don’t know how that happened. I felt so frantic, so hot and throbby, and then…”
He stroked a hand through my hair. “And then the pain turned into something else. It happens that way for some people. The adrenaline and arousal outpaces the negative sensation.”
“I don’t know. Even now, I can’t explain how I felt or why I orgasmed. I just kind of went wild.”
He nodded. “You take pain very beautifully. Was there any point where you felt…I don’t know. Transported? Heightened by the pain?”
“You mean subspace?”
“That’s one word for it.”
“It was just pain the whole time,” I admitted. “Even when I orgasmed…even then my body was hurting, and I felt scared and crazy, but I came anyway. How does that work?”
“I don’t know, but I feel the same way about giving you pain. It shouldn’t feel good, but it does.” He ran a fingertip up and down my forearm, beneath the softness of the robe. “I think we should have another session and see what else we discover, if you feel up to it.”
I nodded, but I also took a huge sip of wine. Then I said Yes, Sir, because he was looking at me like I should.
“It won’t be any easier than this session, Sparkles. It will probably be harder.”
I put down my wine, grimacing. I could tell it was good quality, but it still tasted strange in my mouth. “What’s the alternative to another session?” I asked. “Never seeing each other again?”
I took his silence to mean that yes, we would never hang out again. Well, I wanted to hang out. I wasn’t ready to separate my path from Fort St. Clair’s. I wanted to see where this BDSM adventure would end up.
“I’d like to do another session,” I said. “Sir.”
He smiled, pulling me into his lap and hugging me against him. I buried my face in his neck. This was as much of a safe word as I got: Another session, yes or no? But it made me feel a little more secure about moving forward.
“So…when?” I asked when he released me.
He got that distant look again, the one I couldn’t read. “We should wait a week before we meet up again. Process things. You should see how you feel after a couple days have passed.”
“And let my ass heal a little?”
“Your ass will be fine.” He lifted me, flipped me over, and draped me over his lap. I flailed for a second, but then I went still and let him manhandle me. He pushed up the back of the robe and traced fingers along the edge of my panties; he pressed one of the welts, as I had done in the shower. The same burst of arousal bloomed between my legs. “These marks will be gone by next week,” he said. “I’ll make more to replace them.”
His voice was deep, rough, and matter-of-fact. The bloom became a burn.
“Do you want to go home,” he asked, “or would you prefer to sleep here tonight?”
“I think I should probably go.” It would have been nice to sleep in his arms, but I needed to be independent and strong, and not fall into another ill-advised “relationship” that wasn’t really a relationship.
I went back to the guest room to dress, hiding my new marks under socks, undergarments, and my burgundy dress. When I returned to the living room, he said the car was waiting for me downstairs. I didn’t expect him to kiss me now that I was leaving, but he did. It was a probing, demanding kiss, the kind where he grasped my face between his hands. It encapsulated a lot of what we’d done tonight: his controlled force, my straining acquiescence.
