The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom (31 page)

I turned him around to face me, and moved in close. His hands remained at his sides, his right hand still clutching papers. He looked down at me with calm curiosity.

“I want to play John.”

He held my gaze firmly, yet also looked thoughtful. “
Do
you?” he said quietly, as he placed the documents back in his briefcase.

Suddenly he reached around, grabbed a fistful of my hair,
and pulled me close to his face. “You think you’re ready?” he said, more commanding.

I could only nod slightly; his grip on my hair was tight. Was I scared? No. Surprised by his sudden move? Yes. But I was game. Like entering a Haunted House at the carnival, I was more excited than afraid. I was saying yes to a
ride,
after all, one meant to entertain, thrill, and titillate—one that was designed for
my
pleasure and would see me through unscathed.

“Are you ready to do as you’re told? Are you ready to give yourself to me?”

“Yes.” I said again, with emphasis.

His intense green eyes studied my face. “You know I’ll never hurt you. But you also understand that I will expect you to do as I say.”

“Yes, John,” I replied. But my eyes were sparkling, a smirk played upon my lips. I
wanted
to provoke him.

Hand tightening on the back of my head, he pushed me down on my knees and held me there firmly. “
What was that?
Get in the position, open your knees.
Now say it again.
”

“
Yes,
John (humble, head down). I’m ready to give myself to you.”

“Good girl,” he said quietly.

“BUT—” I looked up and giggled mischievously. “You’re probably going to have to
make me.
”

Suddenly I was dragged on my knees across the room by the hair. Shocked, yet strangely aroused by the pain and force of his unexpected move, it took me a few seconds to realize we’d stopped. His hand still held me by the hair. I heard ruffling; the sound of cardboard—
He’s digging into the toy box!
I realized, and I immediately began struggling and tearing at his hand with my nails. He yanked my hair so hard I cried out. “Stop that right now,” he said through his teeth. Then the feel of leather around one wrist. Then the other. They were bound behind my back.

“Much better,” he said with satisfaction. My hands wrestled
within the steely confines of the cuffs, seeking weakness or room for escape, as he stood looking down at me. “Now assume the position: Bow your head and spread your knees.”

But I was not to be a willing prisoner; he had control of my arms, not my mind. “Fuck you,” I seethed, glaring up at him.

“No,
you
will fuck me. You will fuck me exactly as I want,” he stated evenly. “But first you need to learn some manners.”

He pulled me to my feet by my hair and led me to the wall, where he pressed his chest against me hard. Without the use of my hands, I felt powerless and dwarfed by his size. I turned my head away, he was NOT going to kiss me:
If he even so much as tries, I’ll bite him!
Instead, his voice was in my ear. “Now let’s see if we can teach Delaine some manners.” One of his hands held me in place by the shoulder while the other moved possessively under my dress. I wriggled my hips and squeezed my legs together, trying to block and evade his hand. Shots of pain—
he was pinching my thighs apart!
His hands claimed their territory, and the pleasure of his fingers was so great, I couldn’t help but moan loudly.

His lips were beside my ear. “I know what you want, Delaine,” he whispered forcefully. “You’re so fucking wet I can feel you begging me to fuck you. But that’s not going to happen; you’re not going to cum any time soon. Not until you learn some manners.”

His fingers moved harder. I needed to escape them; I needed to escape his voice. I thrashed my head from side to side as if to say no, but my body, despite my mental protests, was clearly saying yes. “Are you ready to assume the position?” I heard. “Are you ready to apologize for being mouthy?”

But before I could even answer him, I orgasmed hard and cried out. John immediately stepped back from me, looking down in surprise at his hand, which was soaked. “You are NOT to orgasm without my permission!” he growled. I closed my eyes feeling strangely content that I’d surprised him.

He spun me around to face the wall, roughly undid my cuffs, then turned me back round to face him. I didn’t protest at all, my body was basking in postorgasm glow. I was quickly stripped: dress pulled over my head, panties yanked down in one swoop. Cuffs were being placed back on my wrists—this time locked in front of me. Hand between my shoulder blades, he half-guided half-pushed me over to the coffee table.

“Get on the table. On your knees,” he ordered crisply.

I looked at him, wide eyed. A look that said,
Are you fucking kidding me asshole?

As I gingerly climbed up on to the table, he walked over to the toy box. I stood up tall on my knees watching him, feeling acutely aware of my nakedness, yet also curious with anticipation.
What the hell was he going to do now?

He walked back toward me and my eyes moved to his hands. He carried a pink dildo in one hand, his riding crop in the other.
Oh boy, here we go!

He slapped the pink dildo down in front of my hips, suctioning it to the table. “Ride it,” he ordered. “You’re obviously dying for some cock.”

My mouth was wide open in shock.
As if!

He slapped my ass hard with his hand and I fell forward onto my hands. He crouched over and lifted my chin. “Next time I use the crop. Now climb onto it and fuck it. NOW.”

I dragged my body forward and positioned my hips over it. He held it upright and pushed me down onto it hard. Pleasure shot through me; my body welcomed being filled. But as I slowly began moving my hips, my mind was racing to process the newness and strangeness of what was transpiring. I was masturbating, on a coffee table, naked, in front of a fully dressed man who had handcuffed my wrists. I was a freak performing in a freak show; an
animal pulled in from the wild. Yet that wasn’t true at all—I wasn’t forced into captivity but had done so willingly. My spectator was an invited audience member, not some passerby. And the act I was performing, in all its rawness and obscenity, was natural and felt blissfully good.

John walked slowly around me as my stage show continued, periodically snapping his crop. “That’s it, my little slut . . . Good girl, move that ass . . .
Mmm,
you love that dildo in your pussy.”

Slowly, my self-consciousness yielded to the feelings of pleasure. And attached to that pleasure was a feeling of power. For in having John stand by and watch, but a witness to my personal sexual fulfillment, I felt like I was choosing the toy over him; like he could stand there and try and direct my actions as much as he wanted, but the only person privy to the mounting pleasure was me; it was
mine.

I suddenly felt John’s fingers on my clit. Oh my god, it felt so good. But he was reminding me he wasn’t just a spectator. He was the Dom and in charge.

“Are you ready to apologize for being mouthy, Delaine?”

“
Mm-hmm,
” I moaned, so close to orgasm . . .

He grabbed my hips, immobilizing them with both of his hands. “I asked, ‘
Are you ready to apologize for being mouthy?
’”

“Yes,” I said faintly.

“Yes,
what
?”

“Yes,
sir
.”

“And what are you sorry for?”

“I’m sorry for being mouthy, sir.”

“Good,” he said and released my hips. “Now get down off there. It’s going to be a long time before you orgasm yet . . .”

 

JOHN’S FLIGHT HOME on Sunday departed earlier than mine, so I stood with his luggage at the hotel entrance as he drove the rental
car around. We’d spent Saturday driving up and down the coast, stopping whenever we so desired to shop, dine, or walk along the beach. John was pleasant and easygoing but remained true to his calm, self-controlled personality. Only once did I see him get ruffled—when the car’s GPS system was being wonky. But that made me giggle: It took a “she” in the guise of a computer to make him lose his cool.

Now, as John threw his luggage in the trunk, I watched him closely . . . tenderly. Time felt like it was slowing down so I could imprint these last moments in my long-term memory. Despite what might come across as John’s rough handling to the uninitiated, the experience fostered a deeper intimacy and bond with him; a backdrop to our broader relationship, which had always been underscored by kindness, depth, and sincerity. He helped me grow. I adored him for that—and for being John the Dom, when I needed him to be.

He took me into his arms for a big hug. My eyes filled with tears, and I embraced him tightly, knowing this was the one and only time I’d ever see this wonderful man; for we’d arrived at the decision earlier this morning. This moment was not just goodbye for now, but forever.

It wasn’t that we didn’t click; in fact, we did very much. But the bottom line was that we both had lives in two different cities, in two different
countries.
The mere thought of what that type of relationship might entail over time—financially, emotionally, logistically—was just too much for me; too complicated. I wanted simple, I wanted free-flowing. No more upstream battles. And I didn’t have room for that type of priority, not above my children. No, as much as he’d helped me grow, this was as far as we could go. It was time for me to stretch toward the sun myself. And I knew I could do it, on my own.

“Call me when you get home tonight so I know you got home safe, okay?” he said, as he wiped a tear from my cheek with his thumb.

“I will.” I looked into his green eyes and saw his concern. “I’m okay,” I laughed. “I’m just deeply grateful for everything we’ve shared this weekend. And prior to it. Thank you, John. Thank you.”

He pulled me into another strong embrace. “You’re an amazing woman, Delaine,” he murmured.

Two minutes later, he and the rental car were gone.

Back up in our hotel suite, I lay down on the bed and looked around. It felt strange without him here. So empty and quiet. The weekend had gone by so fast: forty-eight hours, vanished—like a dream.

But I could feel his presence, the energy of our togetherness, lingering everywhere in the room. I turned my face into my pillow; I could still smell him on it. I smoothed my hand across the sheets, noticing a small stain from one of my many orgasms that the towels hadn’t absorbed.
My God, he had made me climax!
—so intensely and so many times that my body had trembled for many minutes afterward. I couldn’t even hold a thought in my head at that point. My body was so overloaded with ecstasy, my brain had just floated away. John had lain down beside me and smoothed my hair out of my face, caring for me, watching over me, protecting me. This heaven-like realm was what John had referred to as “subspace.” I couldn’t think, couldn’t move, there was only light carrying me away . . . and lightness.

All alone now, I rolled over onto my back and stared up at the white ceiling with a sigh.

Flash!
—neurons, electrons, and protons swarmed into a memory: my throat angled sharply off the side of the bed, mouth full and gagging.

Flash!
—eyes veiled in darkness, the soft strands of the flogger trailing the length of my body.

Flash!
—John hissing from the side of the bed:
“Kick me? You think it’s okay to KICK me?
He walked to the dresser and put
something in his pocket. He turned and looked at me coldly.
I think you need to lie there tied up and rethink that. I’ll be back later.

Flash!
—The sound of the hotel door clicking shut. Staring at the ceiling aghast:
Holy fuck, the asshole actually left me here!
Struggling to get free. Lying back in defeat. Arms beginning to ache. Praying the hotel maid didn’t show up. Staring at the ceiling for what seemed like an hour . . .

My mental screen dissolved into the present: I was staring at the ceiling now by choice, not confinement; John was gone and I was alone. But my heart was pounding; my body remembered.

No doubt, much of what I experienced with John that weekend involved my being physically “forced.” And my “need” to experience that was scary and weird to me—it seemed dark . . . twisted . . .
violent
. It was one thing to have accepted my “need” to be taken by men during vanilla sex these past months; the former Delaine of soft touches and gentle kisses had certainly expanded. But in bringing the concept of “being taken” to being physically and sexually forced, potentially even demeaned, I feared I was subconsciously taking the abuse I’d endured in my marriage to the next level.

But I now realized that my fear was misguided. The sexual and physical control John exerted over me actually empowered me, not stole my power. For our connection was first and foremost psychological—a battle of the minds. I’d needed John’s control and self-control to force my assertiveness, something I never did when disempowered and belittled in my marriage; his knowledge, his creativity, his outstanding intuitive abilities helped direct that. The act of learning to submit forced me to assert myself enough that I felt confident and trusting enough to
willingly
submit, and for my gain not my loss. I had “submitted” to Robert against my will, and at great emotional cost, throughout my entire marriage. I didn’t trust myself—or believe in myself enough—to take control. John was the foil to my passivity and mistrust. And in opening up to
him, in allowing him to dominate me, I’d made him “earn me.” Unlike Robert . . . who had “taken” from me for himself, sexually and emotionally.

So in the strangest of ways, the D/s relationship I shared with John—from our many phone calls right through to the scenes in our hotel room—had helped free me from the wounds of my marriage. The sex we’d shared in this room had been the final gateway—a passage through which I was able to learn to trust a man again and to claim the ecstasy and power of my sexual energy as my own.