myself.
“Are we to have a tasting?” I asked, and bit my lip in anticipation.
He nodded, an impish grin creeping up his face. “Whatever you’d like.” He walked over to the table and I saw what he had been working on. Cupcakes, some parfaits, a whole array of desserts were placed in front of me.
All desserts, I noticed, that are lickable. Not bad, Brent .
“I think I know what I’d like,” I said, pulling him close to me by his dog collar. I could feel the heat off his chest as I yanked him near. I bent low and slowly licked the drip that had nearly reached his hips.
He groaned.
We “ate.”
I spent the next week getting chocolate out of my ropes.
I frowned at myself for reading any recipe cards having to do with Brent, especially that one. It was one of our best times together—before he got too clingy, too needy. I had always tried to keep a professional distance from my subs, and with good reason. They were to submit to me sexually—that is what they were there for. They were not in my home to be my friends or be my boyfriends. They were there for me to tie up and fuck.
But Brent wanted more, and subsequently, he got less. There were times in the last month when I pictured what it would have been like if I did allow him to be closer to me. What the hell would I do with him? I couldn’t imagine going to the movies with him, or out to dinner with him. He was so submissive that it would have bled into every crevice of our relationship. I bet he’d even cut up my steak for me.
Was this me talking, or was it the Unabomber inside me bent on blowing shit up? I needed a hoodie and sunglasses for that, though, right?
N o , I decided, I didn’t need a boyfriend . I never imagined having kids, although I was sure I’d be great at bossing them around. What else were guys good for other than banging? I had people to talk to and hang out with. I had TV and movies for when I got bored. Boys were messy and smelly and entirely unnecessary.
What was the use of a man aside from being something to bounce up and down on?
Ding-dong.
I hated my fucking generic doorbell.
Who the hell was at my house at three in the afternoon? It was rainy and gross, so it sure wasn’t someone selling Verizon FiOS.
I hopped up and wiped the caramel ice cream off my top lip and headed to the door. Shit —I hoped it wasn’t one of my principals. Maybe they figured out I’d been avoiding them . . .
“Mistress,” William whispered as I opened the door.
And nearly shut it in his face. His hand shot up, faster than possible, and kept me from slamming it.
“Please, let me in,” he pleaded. “Just hear me out.”
The Unabomber inside me retreated to her little hermit cave, and I allowed him to step inside. I still seethed at his audacity, but at least I’d let him explain. He was holding a garment bag for some reason.
“Do you actually think I’d do a scene with you today?” I asked, pointing to the garment bag.
He shook his head, blue-violet eyes downcast. “No, Mistress, I—”
“I’m not so sure I want you calling me Mistress,” I hissed. “I’m not sure you deserve it. It’s the weekend, and you have the balls to show up at my house, in the middle of the day, like nothing had happened?” I crossed my arms sternly beneath my breasts, which he wasn’t even noticing . Then again, I was wearing flannel pj’s so they weren’t particularly enticing right then.
“I came over to invite you out tonight. I’d like to take you to dinner in Boston, and then to my favorite museum,” he said smoothly, picking his head up.
My mouth fell open, literally. It was like someone had unhinged my jaw and I was utterly gawking at him.
A date?
“What?” I asked, eyes narrowed.
“I’d like to take you out tonight,” he said, still holding the garment bag close to his body.
I laughed in his face. “First off, who the hell do you think you are asking me out on a date? Don’t you know how this thing works? I make
“Are we to have a tasting?” I asked, and bit my lip in anticipation.
He nodded, an impish grin creeping up his face. “Whatever you’d like.” He walked over to the table and I saw what he had been working on. Cupcakes, some parfaits, a whole array of desserts were placed in front of me.
All desserts, I noticed, that are lickable. Not bad, Brent .
“I think I know what I’d like,” I said, pulling him close to me by his dog collar. I could feel the heat off his chest as I yanked him near. I bent low and slowly licked the drip that had nearly reached his hips.
He groaned.
We “ate.”
I spent the next week getting chocolate out of my ropes.
I frowned at myself for reading any recipe cards having to do with Brent, especially that one. It was one of our best times together—before he got too clingy, too needy. I had always tried to keep a professional distance from my subs, and with good reason. They were to submit to me sexually—that is what they were there for. They were not in my home to be my friends or be my boyfriends. They were there for me to tie up and fuck.
But Brent wanted more, and subsequently, he got less. There were times in the last month when I pictured what it would have been like if I did allow him to be closer to me. What the hell would I do with him? I couldn’t imagine going to the movies with him, or out to dinner with him. He was so submissive that it would have bled into every crevice of our relationship. I bet he’d even cut up my steak for me.
Was this me talking, or was it the Unabomber inside me bent on blowing shit up? I needed a hoodie and sunglasses for that, though, right?
N o , I decided, I didn’t need a boyfriend . I never imagined having kids, although I was sure I’d be great at bossing them around. What else were guys good for other than banging? I had people to talk to and hang out with. I had TV and movies for when I got bored. Boys were messy and smelly and entirely unnecessary.
What was the use of a man aside from being something to bounce up and down on?
Ding-dong.
I hated my fucking generic doorbell.
Who the hell was at my house at three in the afternoon? It was rainy and gross, so it sure wasn’t someone selling Verizon FiOS.
I hopped up and wiped the caramel ice cream off my top lip and headed to the door. Shit —I hoped it wasn’t one of my principals. Maybe they figured out I’d been avoiding them . . .
“Mistress,” William whispered as I opened the door.
And nearly shut it in his face. His hand shot up, faster than possible, and kept me from slamming it.
“Please, let me in,” he pleaded. “Just hear me out.”
The Unabomber inside me retreated to her little hermit cave, and I allowed him to step inside. I still seethed at his audacity, but at least I’d let him explain. He was holding a garment bag for some reason.
“Do you actually think I’d do a scene with you today?” I asked, pointing to the garment bag.
He shook his head, blue-violet eyes downcast. “No, Mistress, I—”
“I’m not so sure I want you calling me Mistress,” I hissed. “I’m not sure you deserve it. It’s the weekend, and you have the balls to show up at my house, in the middle of the day, like nothing had happened?” I crossed my arms sternly beneath my breasts, which he wasn’t even noticing . Then again, I was wearing flannel pj’s so they weren’t particularly enticing right then.
“I came over to invite you out tonight. I’d like to take you to dinner in Boston, and then to my favorite museum,” he said smoothly, picking his head up.
My mouth fell open, literally. It was like someone had unhinged my jaw and I was utterly gawking at him.
A date?
“What?” I asked, eyes narrowed.
“I’d like to take you out tonight,” he said, still holding the garment bag close to his body.
I laughed in his face. “First off, who the hell do you think you are asking me out on a date? Don’t you know how this thing works? I make
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