Chapter Eight Grant
CHAPTER EIGHT
Grant
I GET HOME, STILL thinking about the way my little sub took off into the night like a kinky Cinderella.
The abrupt ending to our scene doesn’t sit well with me.
I get pleasure from giving pleasure, and that didn’t happen the way I’d have liked.
Nothing irritates me more than sending off a play partner without a happy ending.
Then there’s the issue of aftercare. It wasn’t a particularly intense scene, but it was her first play session.
I would have liked to at least provide a check-in.
A water. A seat. Time to get her emotions, adrenaline, and hormones in order.
I’m antsy as I trudge up my porch steps, trying to let it go, when every one of my dominant instincts tells me to finish what I started.
Which is why I pull out my phone and shoot a text off to Harlow.
Me: Could you please send my number to one of tonight’s new subs? She took off quickly. I want to check up on her.
Harlow: You couldn’t possibly mean the cute redhead, could you?
Shit. What am I doing? They’ll never let me live it down if I show any interest at all in this woman. Which I’m not. This is about providing her with a safe experience.
Me: Never mind. Forget I asked.
Harlow: Sorry. Just got her number from Daff. I’m texting her.
Me: Please don’t.
Harlow: Too late.
Me: FFS
Harlow:
I stomp down the long hall to my kitchen, chuck my phone onto the island, and pull a beer from the fridge, so irritated that the bottle cap goes flying when I smack it off on the counter’s edge.
I spot the damn thing halfway under the butcher’s block, bend to retrieve it, then bash my head when my phone vibrates with a new text.
Cursing, I stand. It’s an unknown number.
Sunny: Hi. Thanks for checking in. I had an amazing time tonight.
Me: Good.
Sunny: Thanks to you.
Me: You get home safe?
Immediately, my mind spins up a cute little house in the suburbs. No. Maybe she’s got an apartment. Hell, maybe she’s in college? A dorm room? I hope not. Actually, that could be a good thing. I don’t do college girls, so that would put an automatic stop to this.
Sunny: Yep. Thanks. So, I was thinking I’d go back. To the club. Maybe next week.
I sink onto a stool and picture her sitting beside me.
I’d make her hold on to the edges of her seat while I drag that dress up to reveal her panties.
Lace. No, cotton. Pink or white or, fuck, with little flowers on them.
I resist the urge to ask for confirmation and instead gather myself together, and type.
Me: You should.
Just looking at those words makes me go hard. I shut my eyes and take another slug of beer, imagining how she’d taste. How she’d feel as she came against my tongue.
Sunny: I will.
Me: Good.
Sunny: I’d love to play again sometime.
It’s a terrible idea. Which doesn’t stop me from imagining her strapped up on the St. Andrews Cross, arms and legs splayed wide, leather straps striping her body, just tight enough to press her breasts out and highlight those generous curves.
Thighs and belly outlined, her pussy perfectly framed for my mouth.
I’d make her come so many times, she wouldn’t be able to walk out on her own two feet.
I force myself to tap another text.
Me: I’m afraid not.
When she doesn’t reply, I shove the mental image of sucking her nipples aside, and continue.
Me: I’ll show you around, though. Introduce you to a couple decent Doms who’d be happy to play with you.
The ellipsis appears and disappears a couple of times. I resist the urge to make a promise I’ll definitely regret and force myself to wait her out.
Sunny: Great. I look forward to it. Take care now.
Now it’s my turn to start a message and delete it. Twice. Both times offering up my services in ways I would absolutely regret.
Finally, I force myself to type a message she will in no way be able to misinterpret.
Me: You too. Have a great night.
And then, because I wouldn’t be fulfilling my responsibilities if I didn’t end on a caring note, I add, Sweet dreams.
Later, I lie in bed, hard as nails, mentally scrolling through every single storyline in my playbook in search of a quick release to help me sleep. It’s not until I give in and replace my usual fantasy women with Sunny’s sweet face that I get anywhere close.
But when I do—fuck me, it’s so good. Her list of BDSM limits and fantasies was so on par with mine that I don’t have to look far.
She’s on her knees, her hands tied at her back, those long red curls a wild tumble, just begging for my grip. Her spine arches hard as I consume her from behind, forcing one orgasm from her body after another.
She’d beg me to stop, and instead of giving in, I’d tell her just how pretty her pussy is, all puffy and pink and shining with want.
When I finally line up and allow myself the mind-numbing pleasure of penetration, the tight, swollen clasp of her body pushes me right over the edge. Hell yes. That’s it.
My climax blasts through me so hard I see stars for a few head-spinning seconds. Best I’ve had in ages.
A few minutes later, I clean up, stretch out in the dark, my heartbeat finally back to its normal rate, and think about how, once Sunny’s learned the ropes, grown a thicker skin, and gotten a hang of the kink world, maybe we can play without the worry that she’ll get too attached.
In the meantime, I grab my phone with the intention of deleting tonight’s text chain.
My thumb’s hovering over the trash icon when it occurs to me that she might have questions at some point, or hell, maybe I’ll come up with a great Dom for her and send the info along.
Instead of deleting her number, I save it under Subby Sunny.
Finally, I fall asleep.