Fighting Attraction
Page 26
Jack cocks his head to the side and studies me. “You’re kneeling.”
“Your couch isn’t really that comfy,” I point out. “So the kneeling wasn’t really a hardship.”
A reluctant smile spreads across his face. “It’s not meant for comfort. Nothing in this room is about comfort. People don’t come here to be hugged and cuddled.”
“So why the bed?” I gesture to the four-poster bed in the corner, the posts and beams surrounding it embedded with D-rings and chains.
“Master Damien insisted,” he says. “He rents the room out for private parties when I’m not around. I’ve never used it.”
“A virgin bed.”
This time he laughs out loud. “I suppose it is.”
I work the carpet again between my fingers. The pile is soft and thick, unexpectedly luxurious compared to the austerity of the room. “So what do we do now that you know I’m not submissive and I’m not comfortable sitting with my hands on my lap staring at the floor like a good little girl?”
“We don’t get hung up on labels.” Jack walks across the room and drags the giant padded bench from against the wall, identical to the one Master Damien used on Wednesday night. “But I am going to restrain you on this bench and spank you for disobeying my rules. How does that sound?”
I nibble on my bottom lip. “You’re asking me? I thought you were the Dom and what you say goes. Isn’t that how it works?”
He lifts the heavy bench easily and places it on the carpet in front of me, his delicious biceps bulging with the effort. “You have all the power is how it works,” he says. “How much you want to give up to me is entirely up to you. I’ll never take anything from you that you don’t want to give. If you want to trust me to take you as far as I think you can go, then you can. Or we can set limits before we begin. And you can always stop the scene with your safe word.”
His words speak to the fear deep inside me—the loss of power, the loss of control, the futility of trying to please someone who could never be pleased, of obeying all the rules only to be punished anyway out of spite, of looking for love where no love could be found.
“I set out all my limits in the questionnaire. Except for the hard-core stuff, permanent injury, or scarring, I’m up for anything.”
Jack gestures me over to the bench. He seems guarded tonight, not the chill, friendly Jack I know from the gym and yet not quite the cold, distant Dom he was the last time we were here. It is almost like he’s not sure what mask to wear.
“One knee on each ledge, body across the center.” He pats the padded sides of the bench, and I take up the required position, shifting to accommodate my breasts and the almost-uncomfortable spread of my thighs. I feel less exposed on the bench than I did chained to his ceiling, and yet the way it forces my legs apart makes me feel curiously vulnerable.
“I just want you to hurt me.”
His face tightens, the Dom mask slipping into place. “I will.”
I lay my head down, and watch him select cuffs from the rack on the wall. My heart is thudding so hard I can hear the vibration through the bench.
“Really hurt me. I can take a lot.”
“In this room, Pen, I’m in charge.” His voice drops to a warning tone. “I make the decisions. I decide how much you get and how much you can take.” He buckles one cuff around my wrist and affixes it to the nearest D-clip. After testing for movement, he restrains my other wrist, clipping the cuff to the side of the bench.
“I’m not a masochist, though.” I don’t know why I can’t stop talking, but my mouth just keeps going. “I don’t get off on the pain.”
“Apparently you do, or I wouldn’t be punishing you.”
His words hang heavy in the air. I’ve never derived any sexual pleasure from cutting myself, but I do get a rush that gives me release from the emotional pressure that builds up inside me when life throws its curve balls. But it was different with Jack. Although I didn’t get release, the feelings I had from our encounter were most definitely sexual. Very sexual. Very intense.
“I think the getting off part has more to do with you than the pain.” The words fall out before I can catch them, and I squeeze my eyes shut as if blocking out the sight of him could erase my faux pas.
An awkward silence fills the room. Jack turns away and takes another set of cuffs from the rack. From my vantage point on the bench, I can see his shoulders stiffen and his fingers tighten around the stiff leather until his knuckles turn white. Have I overstepped? Whatever I’ve done, it’s had some kind of effect on him because for a long moment he doesn’t turn around.
“Do you get pleasure from this?” I ask to cover my embarrassment.
He releases a long breath and turns around. “The pain aspect, yes.”
A shiver runs down my spine. “Do you need it, the way I need to…” My voice trails off. I’ve never discussed my cutting with anyone except my therapist. Adam, my ex, didn’t give a damn about my cutting so long as I cooked and cleaned, did as I was told, and made myself available in his bed for his sexual pleasure and on the other side of his fists as an outlet for his anger. Only once did he bring it up, and that was when he threw me out, telling me I was sick and twisted and no one would ever want a broken girl like me. But here, in this room designed for pain, with a man who already knows the secret I’ve kept for so long, I feel free. Even more, I don’t feel judged. “Cut myself?” I finish.
He hesitates, the cuffs in his hand. “No. It’s more like a craving. I could give it up if I had to.” Regret crosses his face, but it disappears so quickly I wonder if I saw it.
“I couldn’t give up coffee.”
“That’s an addiction,” he says dryly. “Not a craving.”
“Your couch isn’t really that comfy,” I point out. “So the kneeling wasn’t really a hardship.”
A reluctant smile spreads across his face. “It’s not meant for comfort. Nothing in this room is about comfort. People don’t come here to be hugged and cuddled.”
“So why the bed?” I gesture to the four-poster bed in the corner, the posts and beams surrounding it embedded with D-rings and chains.
“Master Damien insisted,” he says. “He rents the room out for private parties when I’m not around. I’ve never used it.”
“A virgin bed.”
This time he laughs out loud. “I suppose it is.”
I work the carpet again between my fingers. The pile is soft and thick, unexpectedly luxurious compared to the austerity of the room. “So what do we do now that you know I’m not submissive and I’m not comfortable sitting with my hands on my lap staring at the floor like a good little girl?”
“We don’t get hung up on labels.” Jack walks across the room and drags the giant padded bench from against the wall, identical to the one Master Damien used on Wednesday night. “But I am going to restrain you on this bench and spank you for disobeying my rules. How does that sound?”
I nibble on my bottom lip. “You’re asking me? I thought you were the Dom and what you say goes. Isn’t that how it works?”
He lifts the heavy bench easily and places it on the carpet in front of me, his delicious biceps bulging with the effort. “You have all the power is how it works,” he says. “How much you want to give up to me is entirely up to you. I’ll never take anything from you that you don’t want to give. If you want to trust me to take you as far as I think you can go, then you can. Or we can set limits before we begin. And you can always stop the scene with your safe word.”
His words speak to the fear deep inside me—the loss of power, the loss of control, the futility of trying to please someone who could never be pleased, of obeying all the rules only to be punished anyway out of spite, of looking for love where no love could be found.
“I set out all my limits in the questionnaire. Except for the hard-core stuff, permanent injury, or scarring, I’m up for anything.”
Jack gestures me over to the bench. He seems guarded tonight, not the chill, friendly Jack I know from the gym and yet not quite the cold, distant Dom he was the last time we were here. It is almost like he’s not sure what mask to wear.
“One knee on each ledge, body across the center.” He pats the padded sides of the bench, and I take up the required position, shifting to accommodate my breasts and the almost-uncomfortable spread of my thighs. I feel less exposed on the bench than I did chained to his ceiling, and yet the way it forces my legs apart makes me feel curiously vulnerable.
“I just want you to hurt me.”
His face tightens, the Dom mask slipping into place. “I will.”
I lay my head down, and watch him select cuffs from the rack on the wall. My heart is thudding so hard I can hear the vibration through the bench.
“Really hurt me. I can take a lot.”
“In this room, Pen, I’m in charge.” His voice drops to a warning tone. “I make the decisions. I decide how much you get and how much you can take.” He buckles one cuff around my wrist and affixes it to the nearest D-clip. After testing for movement, he restrains my other wrist, clipping the cuff to the side of the bench.
“I’m not a masochist, though.” I don’t know why I can’t stop talking, but my mouth just keeps going. “I don’t get off on the pain.”
“Apparently you do, or I wouldn’t be punishing you.”
His words hang heavy in the air. I’ve never derived any sexual pleasure from cutting myself, but I do get a rush that gives me release from the emotional pressure that builds up inside me when life throws its curve balls. But it was different with Jack. Although I didn’t get release, the feelings I had from our encounter were most definitely sexual. Very sexual. Very intense.
“I think the getting off part has more to do with you than the pain.” The words fall out before I can catch them, and I squeeze my eyes shut as if blocking out the sight of him could erase my faux pas.
An awkward silence fills the room. Jack turns away and takes another set of cuffs from the rack. From my vantage point on the bench, I can see his shoulders stiffen and his fingers tighten around the stiff leather until his knuckles turn white. Have I overstepped? Whatever I’ve done, it’s had some kind of effect on him because for a long moment he doesn’t turn around.
“Do you get pleasure from this?” I ask to cover my embarrassment.
He releases a long breath and turns around. “The pain aspect, yes.”
A shiver runs down my spine. “Do you need it, the way I need to…” My voice trails off. I’ve never discussed my cutting with anyone except my therapist. Adam, my ex, didn’t give a damn about my cutting so long as I cooked and cleaned, did as I was told, and made myself available in his bed for his sexual pleasure and on the other side of his fists as an outlet for his anger. Only once did he bring it up, and that was when he threw me out, telling me I was sick and twisted and no one would ever want a broken girl like me. But here, in this room designed for pain, with a man who already knows the secret I’ve kept for so long, I feel free. Even more, I don’t feel judged. “Cut myself?” I finish.
He hesitates, the cuffs in his hand. “No. It’s more like a craving. I could give it up if I had to.” Regret crosses his face, but it disappears so quickly I wonder if I saw it.
“I couldn’t give up coffee.”
“That’s an addiction,” he says dryly. “Not a craving.”
