Now
Elliott led me down the hall into his bedroom after he put on his boxer briefs, much to my dismay. We passed a picture in the hall of a beautiful, strawberry blonde woman that almost looked like a headshot. Was his wife an actress? How did she pass? I had so many questions for him, but first, I needed to tell him about my life.
The first thing I noticed about his bedroom was the abstract art above his bed. The bed was neatly made on an iron rod frame, with nightstands on either side. Books were stacked next to a lamp on one side, while the other table was bare apart from the lamp.
“Are you comfortable talking in here? Or would you like to go back out to the living room?” He stood next to the bed, his eyes full of concern.
Still such a gentleman even after fucking me senseless. I’m sure he was nervous to hear all about my trauma.
“Here is fine.” I crossed my arms as I sat down with him on the bed.
I was self-conscious all over again; that was easily the best sex I had ever had, with the best-looking man, and now I had to tell him all about how fucked up I was.
He scooted back and lifted the covers, patting the bed next to him with a grin. I blushed as I crawled onto the bed and got under the covers with him. He put his arm out on my pillow, and as I lay my head down, I realized he wanted to cuddle. I felt like sobbing— is this the real deal? He wanted to cuddle with me and hold me while I told him my deepest, darkest secrets?
I put my arm over his chest, running my fingers through the hair that covered it. He pulled me closer, and I felt his lips press against the top of my head.
“I have to tell you, I’m not used to this. I was never allowed to…do this in my previous relationship,” I started quietly.
“No? Why not?” His deep voice was calm and soothing.
Am I really going to volunteer this information?
“You know how I told you how I was tied up and mutilated?” As if he would forget .
“Yes.” I heard his heart pounding in his chest.
My heart sank. Why am I telling him this? He’s gonna run, Jackie. Don’t do this.
“I agreed to be tied up. I…I consented to it most of the time,” I began. “Obviously I didn’t consent to getting his fucking name and other horrible things carved onto my body. But…we had a dominant/submissive relationship. At least that’s what he called it. And a severely deranged one at that.”
I waited for him to react; I was glad that I couldn’t see the look on his face as I buried my face into his chest.
“Please go on. I’m listening,” he finally said, gently rubbing the tips of his fingers up and down my covered arms.
“We met on a BDSM app. I was instantly obsessed with him, and he was instantly horrible to me. I had never been a submissive before, but I was curious. He raped me the first night we met, but I thought because he made me come that it was okay. He acted as if he did nothing wrong. Then he told me that I was his . And that sparked something inside of me because all I had ever wanted was for someone to just want me.”
My tears were falling onto his chest.
“He became more and more abusive. I tried to leave him and then he…he…” I began to sob, unable to continue as my shoulders heaved into Elliott’s arms.
He put both arms around me and held me until my crying slowed several minutes later.
“Jacqueline, you know that’s not what a dominant/submissive relationship is supposed to be like. Right?” His voice was careful and gentle.
My eyebrows pulled together with confusion. Of course I knew that. But surely he didn’t have any experience with that, did he?
I finally looked up at him, his strong jaw clenching as he looked down at me. His eyes were still soft but I could tell he was upset.
“Yes, I know that now. Is that something…you’re familiar with?” I held my breath—I didn’t even know what I wanted his answer to be.
He blinked before he answered, never pulling his gaze from mine. “Yes. My wife and I…we explored a lot of that during our marriage.”
My jaw would have dropped if it wasn’t resting on his chest. “How so?” I asked eagerly.
“Well, Kate came to me with it. My wife—her name was Kate,” he said, and I smiled. “We had been married for a couple of years when she told me she wanted to try something new; she wanted to be dominated. So I did my research, we tried some things out, and I found myself enjoying being a dom. I liked a mixture of things—being a traditional dom, a pleasure dom, a rigger.”
I started to get aroused again. His words from earlier during sex stuck out immediately: seeing me come turned him on more than anything and my pleasure was all that mattered.
He smiled as he added, “I am also very into primal play. The list could go on.”
“I don’t even know what any of that means.” I laughed, embarrassed. “All I know is that I enjoy being told what to do.”
Elliott smiled at me again, seemingly holding something back.
“What?” I smirked, getting up on my elbow.
“I could tell during sex that you were submissive. Begging for my cock, asking me with a ‘please.’” He almost looked embarrassed to be talking to me this way.
I looked down at my empty left-hand ring finger.
“Do you like to be called anything in particular while you’re being dominant?” I looked up at him hesitantly.
He gave me a soft smile. “Before we get into this, I’d still like to get to know each other better, if you’re okay with that.”
I think I’m in love . I nodded and slowly sat up, unbuttoning my shirt. Somehow, I was ready to show him. The fear that had always held me back seemed to dissipate in his presence. My heart pounded in my chest, but there was a strange sense of calm washing over me. I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of my past and the scars that marked my body, both seen and unseen. In this moment, I knew that showing him meant revealing not just my physical vulnerabilities, but also the emotional wounds that haunted me for so long. Yet, with him, I felt a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, he would understand and accept all of me.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I interrupted. “I don’t want to be ashamed with you.”
I let my shirt fall off my shoulders, down onto the bed, and removed the blanket from my lower half. I watched his jaw clench and his eyebrows pull together slightly as his eyes scanned my body. I looked down at the “Michael’s Property” scar on my stomach, then to his name on one arm and his name plus “slut” on the other. My upper thighs bore the same marks on each leg.
“Besides the physical pain he inflicted, the emotional scars he left may be even worse.”
“He’s in prison? Because if not, I’m going to kill him,” he said quietly, his voice trembling with barely suppressed rage as he continued to eye my scars, his jaw clenched and his eyes burning with fury.
I realized he was dead serious.
“Yes, I think so, but he’s getting out soon. He may be out already. I changed my number so he can’t reach me anymore,” I explained.
He sat up and sighed. “That’s his name? Michael?” he asked, looking over at me, his face still serious, a mix of concern and anger etched in his features.
I laughed, the idea of Elliott hurting anyone bizarre to me, but his face never softened.
“Elliott, he doesn’t matter anymore. He’s out of my life.” I shook my head and wrapped my arms around his shoulders, trying to reassure him.
He took a moment to respond, his head hanging low. “Thinking of anyone hurting you makes me…” he trailed off.
I pressed my mouth gently on his cheek, the light stubble tickling my lips. “Let’s talk about something else.”
He nodded. “Okay,” he whispered.
“What was your wife like? Is that okay to talk about?” I asked, sitting down next to him and putting my hand on his muscular thigh. I wondered when I would get over how hot he was.
Elliott looked over at me and smiled. “Yeah, I don’t mind.” He paused for a moment and linked his fingers with mine. “We were married for fourteen years. We bought this house together. She was an actress.” His eyes lit up as he looked at me. “She was very kind and she loved art. She did this piece here.” He gestured to the painting above his bed.
I eyed it with admiration. “It’s beautiful. I love it.”
He was quiet again before he spoke, his eyes on the floor. “She, um… she had cancer—pancreatic cancer. She died a year after the diagnosis.”
My heart dropped. I immediately began to tear up. Why was I crying? “Fuck, I’m so sorry.” I shook my head. He immediately looked over at me and gave me a sad smile.
“She had your dirty mouth too,” he said, eyeing me fondly.
Every time he looked at me like that, my heart grew wider and softer. He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and surveyed my face.
“Is it too soon to ask you to stay the night? I haven’t done this in…almost twenty years.” He grinned, almost looking embarrassed.
Holy shit; I kept forgetting he was eighteen years older than me. And the fact that he wanted me to stay the night meant more to me than the sex. Of course, the sex was amazing, but I wanted connection. I wanted to be wanted.
“I would love to stay the night,” I replied.
We cuddled in bed, my first time actually intimately cuddling, and I fell asleep in his arms knowing that deep down, obsessive Jackie was on the horizon.