31 Flavors of Kink (7 page)

Pleasure hits. I buck against the vibrator, pulling on my restraints. A strangled moan escapes my parted lips as a soft wave of heat ripples through my body.

My panting subsides. Oh. My. God. I’ve orgasmed here—tied to a pole. Incredible.

Nick slips out the vibrator, and I pout as the movement reawakens need. He uncuffs me, lays me on my back, and positions my aching body on the floor. With floppy arms and my shoulders still tired from being stretched above, I feel like a rag doll—his rag doll.

The fog in my head lays a blanket over my thoughts, slowing everything down. He props his arms on either side of my shoulders, and I look up into his eyes and smile. Then his muscular thighs nudge mine open. But something evil escapes the dark place in my soul and pushes to the surface, gripping me with terror.

“No!” I cry out.

He freezes. “What?”

“Sorry. Sorry.” I’m conflicted. I’ve never felt so good. I don’t want to stop. Yet…I can’t stop the fear. “Don’t ruin it,” I beg. “Please.”

With a sigh he flips me over, and I instantly feel better. His body is heavy on mine, pushing me into the floor. The carpet is soft against my cheek.

There’s laughter in his voice when he says, “Did you say ‘lady parts’?”

“What?”

“A few minutes ago, did you refer to your pussy as lady parts?”

He’s bringing this up now? “Yeah, I guess.” He shoves his hand under my body and finds my clit. His finger lightly strokes it. “Ahh!” I dissolve into the floor.

“You can do better than ‘lady parts.’ We’re getting down and dirty now. Say a dirty word for it.”

Mmm.
Is he talking? Why is he talking?

Abruptly he stops moving and holds his finger on the tip of my clit. “Say it.”

Sweat beads on my brow. “Say what? The p-word?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

He removes his hand. “Then I’ll stop right now.”

I snort. “You can’t. I know you.”

“Do you really want to test me?”

Do I? One thing about Nick—he means what he says. And he doesn’t threaten idly. My lower body wants more. I ache and try to wriggle my crotch into the carpet, though his weight means I can’t do much. My heart beats a smidgeon faster when I feel his erection pressing along the divide of my backside. I sigh. “No.”

“Then say it.” His hand strokes down my side and across my ass. My eyes drift shut as my muscles relax under his warm hand. “The dreaded p-word. What do you think will happen? God will smite you?”

“Haven’t you heard, every time you say the p-word, a fairy dies?”

“Say it,” he growls. He lowers his mouth to my ear and bites it.

The jolt of pain makes me blurt, “Pussy.” Then the word and the bite somehow intertwine and run a streak of warmth straight down to my…yes, my pussy.

“Good.” He shoves my thighs open and finds my slick center with his hand, cruises along, his finger just a tiny thrust away from entering. “And what do you want me to do to it?”

His fingers circle my clit, slipping in my moisture and spreading it…around and around. This is so not fair. The answer slips through my lips. “Fuck it.”

He gasps in mock horror. “Dirty girl!”

“You made me!”

He laughs, then lifts my hips and plunges into me, splitting me with his cock. I gasp and arch. The orgasm has left me so ready for this that one stroke is enough. I groan and tremble with anticipation, waiting for the next thrust, but he only shifts, rocking himself, pressing deeper inside. Perfect. I lie there, absorbed in feeling the pulse of him within me.

Chapter Eight

Sunday morning I wake up stiff and sore. I reach over to my bedside table to grab my cup of water, and a smudge mark on my skin catches my eye. I take a closer look. A nasty blue bruise decorates the top of my right wrist. I stare at it for a moment, shocked. How did—
oh
. Handcuffs. I was pulling hard, though I didn’t feel much pain at the time. An odd sort of fulfillment sweeps over me. I like this bruise—this proof that last night really happened.

All day at work, I study my bruise out the corner of my eye. Like a newly engaged girl who can’t stop staring at her ring. In what dark, twisted place do I exist?

I shake my head. No. I’m psychoanalyzing myself too much. This bruise is a reminder of last night. My first orgasm at the hands of my husband. Putting my body in Nick’s care and trusting him to take care of it. Things I thought I’d never have. Why shouldn’t I be infatuated with the reminder?

I’m so proud of my newest accomplishments. That night I write to the BDSM online forum. Some of the members I’ve had long conversations with. They feel like friends, though most of us live hundreds of miles apart from one another. They may not know my real name, but they know my deepest, darkest secrets—a strange combination of anonymity and vulnerability. But I’ve grown to trust them.

I tell them about the ice, the vibrator, and my small orgasm. I brag about Nick’s performance. That even though he started too hard with the belt a few days ago, he backed off when I told him to. He proved that I could trust him. But mostly I tell them that we had a great time.

A few encouraging and congratulating responses come through and warm my heart. I shop online for a while, browsing for Christmas presents. An hour later, I visit my group again, eager to read more encouragement. I blink, shake my head, then blanch at the new comments.

“Topping from the bottom isn’t true submission.”

“She’s playing at the lifestyle, not fully committed to it. Someone is going to get hurt.”

“She’s admitted her husband isn’t really into it. A dominant personality can’t be created. You either are one, or you’re not. A friend who tried pushing her husband into being a Dom ended up divorced.”

“Sounds like he’s just going along with what she wants so he can get laid. He’s resentful she has all these new needs; that’s why he’s spanking her too hard. The man sounds a nasty piece of work.”

“Just because he spanked you doesn’t make him a Dom. It’s stupid to think so.”

What the hell? My face heats in anger, my good mood crushed to pieces, along with my confidence. I slam the laptop shut and gnaw on my nails. Mentally I give them all the finger.

Suddenly I’m not really submissive because I tell him my preferences and ask him to stop when I’m scared? Well, maybe I don’t want to be submissive. Maybe I just want him to tie me up once in a while. Maybe I
like
topping from the bottom.

I open the laptop again and stare at the hurtful responses. Familiar names and profile pictures stare back at me next to the ugly comments. A few of them I thought were my friends. How could they say such bad things about Nick? Tears sting my eyes. The betrayal cuts me deep. I shared my life, my hopes, and my greatest desires with these people. For a month, they’ve supported me, assured me I wasn’t alone. They claim the group is judgment-free. How quickly they changed their tune. I slam the computer shut again in disgust—this time I leave it closed.

Nick is in the bedroom watching
Mythbusters
. I can hear them blowing up stuff from all the way downstairs. I tap my foot against the desk in agitation. Last night I orgasmed. It was a small one, but it counts. I’m angry and hurt, but most of all confused. Are we doing it wrong?

I take my frustration out on my nails, biting them until they hurt. Maybe I don’t need this group anymore. Apparently their way is the only way—true submission with a born Dom or nothing at all. Maybe I don’t need BDSM either. Last night could have been a breakthrough for me, getting me past my trauma. Maybe I can have vanilla sex now. I eye the stairs leading to the bedroom. There’s only one way to find out.

I ascend the stairs in a determined stride. My legs ache, reminding me I’m still sore from last night. But my mind is made up. I’m having vanilla sex tonight. And I’m damn well going to enjoy it.

Catching Nick off guard, I burst into the room and snatch the remote from his hand.

“Hey!” He bolts upright on the bed. “What are you doing?”

I shut off
Mythbusters
—it’s taping on DVR anyway. I strip off my shirt, then my pants, and I’m left in a bra and panties, standing next to the bed, staring down at a shocked Nick.

“Having vanilla sex,” I tell him, my voice firm.

His brow furrows. “With who?”

“You, stupid.” I launch myself onto the bed and lie on my back next to him. He gapes at me, and I make an impatient sound. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

“What the hell is going on?”

If he rejects me, I’ll fall apart. My voice small, I plead, “Please, Nick. Just let me try.”

He swallows hard, then gives his head a shake. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you.”

I play with the elastic on my underwear, and his gaze fixes on it. “Please?”

With a sigh, he answers, “All right.” He shifts on the bed, leans in, and kisses my temple. His lips skate across my cheek, bumping at my skin with tiny kisses, here, there—gentle and sensuous. I inhale his scent. He had beer with dinner. I love that smell. His lips make their way down my jaw and behind my ear. I giggle and squirm. It wakens nerves, and my body tingles. I recognize the signs. This is working. Vanilla, here I come.

I sigh and tilt my head. Taking the hint, he continues to move his mouth down, following the line of my throat. He’s warm and soft, and though nothing is stirring below, it still feels good.

I start when his hand shoves under my bra to squeeze my breast. A small pit of dread starts in my belly. No! I squeeze my eyes and push it away. When his fingers graze my nipple, my body jerks. But not in arousal, in an attempt to get away. It gets worse when his other hand reaches my…pussy. I gulp, choking on the dirty word. Even that doesn’t make me feel like it did last night. Tears well in my eyes. What is
wrong
with me?

I will my body to relax, to stay still under his ministrations. But each slight touch brings me closer and closer to panic. I can’t take any more. Placing both my hands on his chest, I push him off, then turn over and bury my face in the pillow. I don’t want him to see my tears. He’ll feel bad for me. I don’t want pity. I just want to be fixed!

His discouraged sigh seems to echo in my ears. The tears come faster.

His hand is warm on my shoulder. “Would handcuffs make it better?”

I shake my head.

“What’s wrong?”

I suck, that’s what’s wrong.
But I don’t answer.

He tugs hard at my shoulder. “Talk to me.”

My voice is muffled in the pillow. “I can’t have vanilla sex. And I can’t even do BDSM right!”

“Who said that?”

Finally I turn over to face him. I’m sure my face is blotchy and red, my eyes puffy, but I don’t care. I’m miserable and deserve to look ugly. Self-pity, thy name is Sidney. “The online group.”

His eyes widen. “You talk about our sex life to strangers online?” He sounds angry.

Oh crap. I guess I forgot to tell him that. “Anonymously,” I squeak.

He sighs. “It’s not anonymous unless it’s from a different IP address.”

Tear-stained cheeks, in the middle of a crisis—now is not the time for geek talk! “That’s not the point.”

He sits up on the bed, crossing his legs. “Then what’s the point? Strangers don’t approve of our sex life?”

I sit up and lean against the headboard. Fumbling with my hands, I’m unable to look him in the eye. “The point is, I’m a failure.”

“A failure?” He still sounds angry, and I flinch. “This is the best sex I’ve ever had!”

My gaze jumps to his face. Is he serious?

His eyes soften, and he grabs my hands. “Look. We’re not vanilla. And that’s okay. But we don’t have to be rocky road either. Baskin-Robbins alone has thirty-one flavors. We can be a combination of flavors or even make up our own.” His hands squeeze mine. “And no one has the right to judge us. Okay?”

I give him a small smile. The taste of guilt is still bitter in my mouth, but his assurance makes me feel a little better. Thirty-one flavors. There has to be something that fits even a messed-up misfit like me.

I nod. “Okay.”

* * * *

For three days straight, Nick and I tease and flirt and find playful ways of doing just about anything. During Christmas shopping, he molests me with rolls of wrapping paper, swatting me with them when no one’s looking. One night, while I pour us drinks, I grab an ice cube and stick it down his pants. I earn a hard smack for that one.

Then he grabs my hair and rasps in my ear, “Next time you do that, I’ll make you give me a blowjob until your lips go numb.”

That threat has me frozen in place while Nick saunters away chuckling.

The TV remote becomes a prize for the victor after a friendly wrestle that makes me descend into a fit of the giggles. Though I remember to shove it under the pillow this time and not my shirt. When Nick bites the back of my neck before retrieving the remote, I suffer a tiny meltdown and sink into the bed.

It’s like we’re dating again. Like we’ve found some recipe for newfound love. Can the rest of our marriage be like this? Does sex really matter that much?

Tonight Nick and I hang out on the couch. The History Channel is on, mostly for background noise as Nick’s working on a graphic design project on his laptop. I’m spending time with my second husband, the Kindle. I finished
Training the Dom
a couple days ago. Bethany and Mike and, to my surprise, Mistress Helvetica move to Salt Lake City and live a BDSM-themed happily ever after.

Bondage and domination was Bethany’s fantasy. The three-way was Mike’s. He gave Bethany her fantasy, and she then fulfilled his. Give and take.

I watch Nick’s eyebrows descend as he concentrates on the computer screen. I haven’t given him anything. I worry over this, gnawing at my lip, then my nail. Worrying is like my second religion. Still…have I become a taker? Our relationship means everything to me, and I don’t want to get it wrong. And pleasing Nick is just as important to me as getting my Big O. His wide grin after we’d made love warmed me to my toes—made me feel all glowy knowing I’d done that for my man.

Later, as I get ready for bed, I decide it’s time to remedy this give-and-take imbalance.