Chapter 16
Ford
“Did you look up everything I asked you to?”
I stare at her, transfixed, and press my lips together. I don’t like that she’s challenging me. “Yes.”
I spent hours researching sex toys and impact play last night and today.
I should’ve been reading the reports that the board sent me for review.
Instead, I was staring at my computer screen, clicking through websites and blogs about nipple clamps, floggers, and the warning signs that a submissive is losing blood flow to his or her extremities in a bondage scene.
For at least the tenth time this week, I found myself slipping down endless rabbit holes, and I’m running on next to no sleep, but somehow, I feel more energized than ever.
The idea of tying Genevieve up and turning her ass red fuels me in a way coffee never could.
The air conditioning unit cycles on, filling the room with a low hum as we wait for Sloane to appear.
I’d planned on getting here a little early so I could poke around Genevieve’s playroom, using the solitude to prepare my mind while I snooped a bit.
However, she was in here, tapping away on her phone when I arrived.
Based on her attire, I get the sense that she just finished with another client.
My attention dips to the gap of exposed creamy skin that expands from the top of her lace-up boots to the hem of her black leather skirt at her upper thigh.
Beneath my heavy attention, she uncrosses her long, toned legs, only to cross them again with the opposite leg.
“Could you pass a pop quiz?” I suspect she’s aiming for levity, but her voice is sex wrapped in leather and latex.
I smirk. “Depending on the prize, I might even ace it.” Leaning forward in my seat across from her, my elbows rest on my knees. “Is it something good, Genevieve?”
The swells of her breasts rise as she inhales deeply, her shiny black top—is that latex?—accentuating her tits perfectly. She smiles, the apples of her cheeks rounding, but the expression doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“The prize is Sloane, and the knowledge that you’ll be a capable and good Dominant.”
I don’t want to dominate Sloane; I want to dominate you.
I open my mouth to tell her that, but she shoves to her feet, harnessing control of the direction this conversation is headed in.
“Assuming you did read up on the basic tenets of impact play and the toys associated,” she begins, and I grit my teeth. “Let’s go over some things that the internet may not have covered.”
I twist in my seat, watching as she strides across the room, stopping in front of the chest of drawers just beyond the armoire. Stretching to my full height, I move to stand beside her as she slides the top drawer open.
An array of bondage elements is laid out on black silk fabric in an organized fashion, similar styles grouped together. Thick black cuffs—some padded, some not—are on the right side, in the middle are several perfectly coiled lengths of rope, and on the left are a variety of metal cuffs and chains.
“Your bondage drawer?” I ask, my hands curled into fists in my pockets.
My vision is fixed on the metal handcuffs in front of me as I imagine the way they’ll look when I snap them around her wrists as I explain her rights.
The thought twists my stomach, but this is an op, and I always see my jobs through to the end.
She nods. “Unless a client is into Shabari. I keep more rope elsewhere,” she comments, closing the drawer gently.
I wonder how many of her clients are into rope bondage.
After looking into that last night, I determined that Shabari isn’t my cup of tea.
Although, the prospect of having Genevieve restrained does hold a significant level of appeal.
“Anal play,” she announces, dragging the next drawer open, and I take in the incredible volume of toys. Some I recognize, some I don’t.
I tilt my head to the side as I attempt to make sense of the thing nearest to me in the drawer that looks vaguely like a duck bill or Medieval torture device.
Sensing my curiosity, she begins to point to the items, assigning them all names and meanings.
“Anal beads, plugs—glass and silicone—dilators and trainers, tunnel plugs, anal hooks, speculums, and dildos.”
Drawn to the silver hook on the far right, I lift it out, the metal glinting in the light. It’s heftier than I expected, my index finger grazing the round ball fixed at the end. Continuing my assessment, I twist the ball and find that it unscrews, probably for cleaning. “These don’t scare you?”
She giggles, and I glance over at her, loving that sound. “No, anal hooks don’t scare me.”
I arch an eyebrow, the expression morphing into a smirk. “I’ll remember that.”
Her pupils dilate, but she remains quiet. “When you’re done looking, set the hook atop the dresser. It’ll need to be cleaned now.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, placing the stainless-steel item where she indicated. I should’ve considered that she’d have to sanitize anything I touched.
“Never apologize for curiosity. That’s how you learn.” With a wave of her hand, she walks me through the items in the next several drawers—vibrators, strap-on equipment, gags, cock rings, more dildos, clamps, and something she referred to as “e-stim” toys.
“Chastity and genital torture,” she says, revealing the contents of the last drawer.
I balk, my eyeballs nearly popping out of their goddamn sockets.
“Cages, ball stretchers, penis pillories, genital pumps, urethral sounds, glans and cock rings, chastity belts, and finally, penis and ball leashes.” By the time she’s finished describing the items in the drawer, I realize that my hand has moved to cover my dick of its own accord.
Now that she’s given me permission for inquisitiveness, I remove one of the items from the drawer. It has five metal rings in a line descending from largest to smallest with a black leather strip connecting them.
“That’s a Gates of Hell chastity device.”
“These are…sadistic,” I state, a little impressed and a lot horrified by the prospect of stretching my balls or stuffing my cock into one of these devices. I twist my neck to find her eyes gleaming with amusement before setting the item next to the hook.
“Plenty of submissives would drool at the prospect of being locked up. If it’s being caged that turns you off, it might because you’re not a submissive. How do you feel about inflicting pain on someone else?”
“I like that better than having that done to myself,” I answer honestly. My mind fills with images of Genevieve bent over for me, offering her unblemished ass for me to paint with red welts. Yeah, I could get behind that.
Gifting her with more honesty, I divulge, “I think I prefer the items in the armoire to these.”
Genevieve has obviously been doing this for years, if not decades.
She knows herself inside and out, understands her own desires and the lusts of others.
Discovering this side of myself at thirty-five puts me behind the curve, but I suppose it’s never too late to unbox hidden aspects of yourself.
I’d never tell Drake he was right, though.
She smiles, the expression exuding quiet confidence. “You prefer impact play. That’s perfectly normal. There are many types of dominants, just as there are many types of submissives. You don’t have to box yourself into one category either.”
I want to ask her what type of Domme she is. More importantly, I’m itching to know what kind of submissive she is. Instead, I ask, “What are the types of Doms?”
“The list is truly endless, so I’ll only name a few, but please bear in mind that this doesn’t even begin to cover other relationship dynamics like polyamory.
For starters, you have your Sadists—of the sexual and emotional variety, and some Sadists are both, but there are dozens of categories beneath the sadism umbrella. ”
I don’t think that’s me, except the idea of hurting someone who wants to be hurt does hold more appeal.
“Then you have your Findoms,” she goes on, “who prefer to control a submissive’s finances.”
Not for me either.
“Owners like to treat their submissives as property. Not always, but this often means treating a submissive as less than human and includes things like pet play or turning your submissive into furniture to be used.”
Well, that’s even less intriguing than ruling over someone’s finances.
“Then there’re Pleasure Doms who derive pleasure from giving their submissive pleasure, which could range extensively. Pleasure Doms learn their submissives, garnering a deep understanding of what turns them on. A sub’s pleasure is at the center of everything they do.”
The words spear me like an arrow through a part of my brain I haven’t triggered before, the idea of giving Genevieve anything she wanted inflating my dick. I swallow, noting the way her hazel eyes dip to my Adam’s apple. “I think that’s me.”
Her smile is genuine, growing in intensity.
Does she like my answer, or is she simply proud that I’ve found something that may resonate with me?
“I suggest doing some research so you can decide what, specifically, being a Pleasure Dom looks like for you. However, keep in mind that there’s a difference between a Service Top and a Pleasure Dom. ”
“What’s that?”
“This is quite nuanced, but in short, a Service Top is someone who only wants to dominate or control a scene with the sole goal of the bottom’s pleasure in mind, but once it’s over, that’s where it ends.
They aren’t a true Dominant. A Pleasure Dom exerts power and control outside of the scene, too, their submissive’s pleasure and wellbeing still at the forefront of their mind.
Although, this sparks a conversation about the larger topic of Tops and bottoms versus Dominants and submissives, the difference being that a Dom/sub dynamic is a lifestyle and being a Top or bottom is restricted to more casual play. ”
I nod, making a note to explore more about that tonight. I open my mouth to ask her more questions, but Sloane chooses that moment to enter the room.
“I’m sorry, I’m late. My client took mankind’s longest shower after our session.”
Grinding my molars at Sloane’s intrusion on our moment, I force myself to dip my chin in greeting.
“Not a problem at all,” Genevieve remarks. “We were just going over some tenets of the BDSM lifestyle. Would you like to get undressed? I was thinking we could discuss orgasm control and edging, and—”
“Actually, we’ll cover the structure of the scene,” I assert, taking control of the situation. “I want to save the more…intimate moments for private scenes.”
Both women pin me with different expressions.
Sloane’s face tells a story of adoration, while Genevieve’s radiates icy hardness.
I’d kill to know what the Domme is thinking.
Is she upset that I undermined her authority?
Or is she frustrated that I’m snuffing out the opportunity for her to see the way I might touch Sloane?
What she doesn’t realize is that I have no intention of touching Sloane—at all. I’ve spent days trying to come up with a plan, and this is the best I could do. I simply have no desire to touch any woman who isn’t Genevieve.
“Alright then,” the Madam states. “Start by instructing your submissive on how you’d like to start each scene.”
I hold Genevieve’s attention for a moment longer. “Kneel, sitting back on your calves, naked, palms up, and head bowed.”
“Yes, Clark,” Sloane murmurs respectfully, and I flick my gaze to the other woman.
Fuck, she’d be gorgeous kneeling for me like that, dutiful and meek, trusting me fully with her pain and pleasure.
Thinking of what I just learned about Pleasure Doms, I question aloud, “Tell me, do you prefer to be degraded or praised?”
“Degraded, Clark. As Madam Allison mentioned, I’m a pain slut,” Sloane answers, but I wasn’t asking her.
Hazel irises never leave mine, her mouth sewn shut, but she doesn’t have to part her pretty lips to give me the answer I seek. The dilation of her pupils speaks volumes.
I’m so fucked.