Domination Sex: Conditioned Response

DOMINATION SEX: CONDITIONED
RESPONSE

by

Erika Masten

SMASHWORDS
EDITION

Copyright © 2012 Erika
Masten.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Erika Masten

[email protected]

http://erikamasten.com

Published by Sticky Sweet Books. This
book contains material protected under International and Federal
Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of
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This is a work of fiction. Any
similarities to actual persons or events are purely
coincidental.

Warning: Explicit content. Intended for
mature readers only. All characters depicted herein are 18 years or
older, and all sexual activities are of a consensual
nature.

This is a work of erotic fantasy. In
real life, please protect yourself and your lover by always
practicing safe sex.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Domination Sex:
Conditioned Response

Excerpt From

A Firm Hand: Dominated
#4

Excerpt From

My Two Doms: Hot Hard Menage
#3

DOMINATION SEX: CONDITIONED
RESPONSE

Life can go so wrong so quickly.
Yesterday, I was having lunch at my favorite Italian place with my
best friend, Julie, cooing over too many glasses of wine about how
sure I was Robert was getting ready to ask me to marry him. An
argument last night and a phone call this afternoon, and I’m single
again for the first time in a year and a half.

Glancing at the clock over the mantle,
I think about what I’m supposed to be doing right now—what I
thought I’d be doing. Friday night just before a three-day
weekend…I should be walking into Julie’s house for a party. I
should be on the arm of my beautiful blond Robert, waiting for just
the right moment to announce our engagement to all our
friends.

Julie and I went to college with most
of our social circle, and my love-life is a running joke among
them. I’m the wild girl who won’t settle down, who’s having too
much fun dating all the most handsome men in the city. Almost all
my friends are already married and starting to have families. I’m
still going through two or three boyfriends a year, besides the
in-between dating.

In nearly a decade, no one has lasted
as long as Robert. Either I’m moving too fast, or they’re too
boring. His parents wouldn’t approve, or my friends think he’s a
jerk. We’re just not quite compatible in bed, or—behind my
back—he’s compatible with every woman he sees. The back-and-forth
isn’t nearly the Sex in the City glamour-fest people imagine. I’ve
spent more New Years and Valentine’s Days alone or wishing I was
alone than I’d care to remember.

Despite a surge of determination to
get myself together and go stag to Julie’s party, I never quite
made it out the door. Now most of my mascara is melted all over the
tissues I’ve been crying into, and my blue eyes are a puffy red
mess. I tend to twist my hair when I fret, so my long, curly red
strands have gone from a carefree updo to a loose, finger-tangled
snarl. My light blue sheath dress is so wrinkled, after an hour and
a half of me sitting in an anxious little ball on the sofa, that it
looks like a roadmap. Right now, a bottle of wine and a pint of ice
cream, an old t-shirt, and something violent on television in my
nice dark bedroom sounds about as good as my night is going to
get.

Still, when my cell phone rings, where
it’s sitting on the cushion beside me, my breath catches. Maybe
it’s Robert calling to say he was too rash. He didn’t mean what he
said earlier. He doesn’t want to break up. Will I forgive him,
he’ll ask. Can he come over?

I’ll maul him when he gets here. I
suddenly need him in my pussy, need to get on my knees and go down
on him hard and deep, play a bit of the submissive for him. He
seems to like that. I need to hear him moan my name and tell me
that no one sucks cock like I do, that no one’s pussy is as hot or
as tight as mine.

But, no, it’s a number I don’t
recognize, though there is something familiar about it. It goes to
voicemail, and a chime a few seconds later tells me I have a
message. Could it be Robert calling from someone’s house instead of
his cell or his home phone?

After pressing a few buttons, I
instantly feel guilty for not recognizing the number. Jay’s deep
voice vibrates through the speaker with that tone he has when he’s
nonplused, a little sharp, a little sarcastic, always
intense.

“Emma, where are you? Why aren’t you
at Julie’s party, and why is Robert here with some little chit we
don’t even know?” he growls in the voicemail. “So help me, you
better be out having fun somewhere instead of moping over that
prick.” There’s a moment of silence, like he’s reluctant to hang up
without speaking to me, before a tone signals the end of the
message.

Hearing Jay’s voice plays hell with my
wildly swinging emotions right now. He was two years ahead of me in
college but then stayed for his grad degree, so he was a daily
fixture in my life for four years. God, but I had the worst crush
on him my freshman year, before I started dating the student body
president and then that basketball player and then (secretly) a
teaching assistant for one of my classes. And that was just
freshman year.

Even back then, Jay had a presence
about him that made him seem larger than life, sexier and cooler
and less attainable than anyone else. Black hair and bright green
eyes and a long, lean body he’d gotten earning every penny of his
swimming scholarship. Girls loved the way he brooded, but among
close friends, he could be lighthearted and funny at the most
unexpected moments.

Naturally, I
had
to get involved with
him, about three years ago, in the most torrid three and a half
days of my life. That’s all it took me to realize I was in over my
head with Jay. Zero to sixty in two seconds flat, and I was in for
a major crash.

It was another three-day weekend just
like this. One moment we were having dinner together at Pardini’s
around the corner, and the next we were here with Jay bending me
over the arm of this sofa and fucking my cunt rougher and deeper
than I’d thought possible. Then we moved to the bedroom for more.
And started up again the next morning.

The second night, he tied my hands to
the headboard with his tie and wouldn’t let up until I literally
couldn’t come anymore. By the third night, I was sore and well-used
and worried about what this would do to one of the longest-standing
friendships I had. He was curled around me, asleep and so peaceful,
while I lay awake most of the night.

The next day, I called
Jay’s home phone while I knew he’d be at work and left a message
saying I thought we’d made a mistake and how much I didn’t want to
risk our friendship for sex. Yeah, cowardly of me, but I couldn’t
face him. This was
Jay
. The Jay who held my hand all night when I found my senior
year boyfriend in bed with my roommate. Broody, private Jay, who
let so few get really close to him, and here I go and fall into bed
with him way too casually. Plenty of women would have killed to be
able to say he had tied them to their beds and inflicted orgasm
after orgasm on them all night. I just wanted… I don’t
know…

There was silence between us for two
days, before a bouquet of roses arrived with a note apologizing for
assuming too much, moving too fast. It was slow getting back to
normal, with months of dancing nervously around one another at
parties and barbeques and over group road trips. And I was anxious
as hell about bringing new boyfriends around the group, until Jay
brought his own girlfriend around. Since then, we’ve settled back
into our friendly banter, though I don’t think Jay has ever really
liked most of the guys I’ve been dating.

My doorbell ringing literally makes me
jump, and I want to curse at whoever is making that nerve-jarring
noise. The clock tells me I’ve been sitting here in a daze,
thinking about Jay and my checkered college years, for more than
forty-five minutes.

I frown suddenly, at the thought that
maybe it’s Robert outside. It surprises me that I don’t leap up to
answer the door at this possibility. Maybe…maybe because I can’t
get the sound of Jay calling Robert a prick out of my head. Jay
would so disapprove of me cowing to Robert after everything, after
Robert cheated on me briefly last year, after we talked about
moving in together only to have him back out, and now after he
broke up with me and showed up with another woman at a party being
thrown by my best friend for people he only knows through
me.

After wiping at my eyes one more time
and smoothing my tousled hair, I stumble across the room, my legs
stiff from being curled to my chest for so long. I answer the bell
to find Jay leaning outside my door glowering. He must have gone
straight from his office to Julie’s party, I think to myself,
seeing him still in his tailored black suit. My gaze homes in on
the dark red tie knotted under his collar. It’s the same one from
that weekend. My stomach flutters inside me at this thought. Why
would I even remember that?

“You’re not out celebrating your
break-up with the golden boy,” Jay drawls with the hint of a sneer,
looking down his perfect roman nose at me. “How did I
guess?”

I step out of the way in a weary
gesture of invitation. Jay stalks in ahead of me, but as soon as I
close the door, he rears and turns on me.

“What the hell is wrong with you,
Emma?” I’ve never seen Jay this pissed off at me. Annoyed is bad
enough. The force of his anger, without him so much as clenching
his fist or even raising his voice, is palpable. It’s the way he
narrows his eyes and sets his jaw. It’s the tension in his body,
like he’s gearing up to pounce.

I put one hand over my face and wander
past Jay back to the couch. “Please, do we have to do this now? You
have no idea what this has been like for me today.” You have no
idea I thought I was about to get engaged.

“Oh, yes,” Jay snips as I drop down
onto the couch with a heavy sigh, and his tone makes me do
double-take. This is the man who comforted me all night in
college?

“No idea,” he continues. “This is
nothing like last year, before Robert, when Sam slapped you in the
back yard at Julie’s birthday party and you begged everyone to
forgive him because he was drunk and thought you were flirting with
me. You didn’t eat for four days after he dumped you.”

It had taken three of our friends to
pull Jay off him.

“And this is nothing like Bruce. How
much was it he put on your credit card before he took off to Vegas
with his ex? Three thousand dollars? Four thousand? But you
wouldn’t press charges against him.”

As much as I want to go
back a few years and cry into Jay’s chest, I dart to my feet and
point my finger at him. “That’s not fair. Kick me while I’m down,
why don’t you? I didn’t press charges because it was too damn
embarrassing to admit I’d let him use me like that, but I certainly
didn’t moon over him afterward. And, yes, Robert might turn out to
be just another cheating jerk. I’ll get over it. But, well, fuck,
I
was
flirting
with you at that party with Sam.”