7
We walk into my room and thank God it’s presentable.
It’s big, with a huge window facing the street and, for obvious reasons, I hurry to yank the blinds down.
There’s a shag rug, a couple of framed posters I love (one Bowie and one Scarface), and a plant that’s been dead since last year but I still water it in case it makes a comeback.
The bed is, miraculously, made. Not a single lonely sock in sight, no panties on the lamp, nothing incriminating. The sheets even match. For me, this is mother-in-law’s-coming level.
"Nice room," she says.
I lean against the door while she lets her gaze wander. I smooth my dress for the umpteenth time, swipe my bangs like I actually styled them, and put on my best this-is-totally-routine-I-spend-entire-nights-bringing-dangerous-blondes-back-to-my-lair face. Sure, Jan.
Then Nat shrugs off her jacket. Underneath she’s got on a tight white short-sleeve T-shirt, and that’s when I realize “strong” wasn’t just an attitude: even her tendons are defined.
Mamma mia, a tasting menu of trauma and protein.
I’m trying to decide whether this goes on my résumé or in my obituary.
She’s got me somewhere between scared shitless and turned on, an explosive combo that’s already kind of her brand with me: fear, kink, and the urge to scream "help" and "do it already" at the same time. My heart is thumping so hard it’s about to launch out of my mouth, but my body won’t respond.
"You into watching, Alaska?" she says, with that low voice engineered by God to soak panties. "Or are you the one who likes to be watched?"
My throat is so dry that if I spit it would come out dust, but in full silent-film diva mode I give her a little smile that’s pure pose.
In my head I deliver a super-sexy speech in French; in real life, I just stare, half my brain planning my funeral of shame and the other half screaming at her to take one more step—since I’m already doomed.
"You're getting nervous," she drawls, dangerous as hell. "What scares you more, what you want to do, or how much you’re gonna love it once you let go?"
I award myself the Toughest Girl on the Block trophy. "Nope, nothing scares me."
Lie. Inside, I’ve got a nun marching through my fallopian tubes with an XL rosary.
She moves behind me. Wraps those do-push-ups-for-fun arms around my waist, presses in her heat, her smell, her strength, and something else I won’t describe if I want to keep a little mystery.
She lets a thread of sound slip into my ear that raises every hair on my body and snaps my nipples to attention.
"I’m fine."
"You sure? Because you look pretty wound up to me, Alaska."
And there, with her breath on my neck, I realize I’m so turned on it’s actually embarrassing.
"I’m not nervous," I lie, though my voice comes out thin. "I’m just… anticipating."
She laughs low, because she knows if she squeezes any harder I’m going to start mewling. She turns me with a flick and—bam—I’m facing the mirror. High-def of my filthy little face. I catch my own eye and want to scold myself, but I’m also looking with interest. I’m both critic and fan.
"Alaska," she whispers, and my spine lights up just from the greeting. "Want to watch me undress you?"
Spoiler: I do. But I don’t answer. And before I can react, she turns into a freaking sorceress: one button, two, three…
She leaves me in my underwear, which, thankfully, today is the "I believe my own hype" set and not the cotton avocado panties and a maxi pad. If I’d shown up in granny-panty mode, I swear I would have faked a heart attack and yeeted myself out the window before anything happened.
She studies me in the mirror with a slow, sure, bossy smile.
"Take a good look. You like this, and you’re denying it just for sport."
"I’m not denying anything, I’m managing," I say very seriously. "There’s a committee in my head and they’re voting—slow count."
"Then tell the committee there’s a double feature tonight," she murmurs, pressed to me. "Your call: balcony seats or general admission."
Okay, emotional striptease in front of the mirror—unbelievable.
Naked and already graduating with a degree in Historic Levels of Horny.
I’m telling you, I’ve never felt this revved up; I almost rocket out the window straight onto the 6 o’clock news: "Local girl explodes from pure pleasure; neighbors applaud. "
My tits are hard, my skin is hot, my pussy’s wet. I’m breathing hard. I get the nervous giggles, the urge to hide my face. I want to tear off her T-shirt with my teeth and beg her to pin me to the wall. But I just crane my neck and bite my lip.
"You're getting slutty," she says, grabbing my waist.
"You're the one making me slutty."
She strokes my belly, slides down to my hip, plays at the edge of my panties.
My whole body trembles. Maybe she’s about to throw me on the floor, spread my legs, and leave me speechless.
But fuck, not yet. She just squeezes, slips a finger under the elastic and lets it snap, mean on purpose. The sound turns me on even more.
"Take off your bra," she orders softly.
I obey without a word. Strap off. Tit out. Her eyes stay right there, fixed. A quiet ah slips out of me. Her hand, my skin. She brushes my nipple and I moan.
Sure, I’ve almost gone up in flames with other women, but this is different. My body has turned into one giant erogenous zone. And while Nat slides my panties down in slow motion, I’m thinking I wish it had always been this savage.
"You like this, Alaska?" she throws in my ear as she slides a finger up my seam.
I pin her with my eyes in the mirror, everything buzzing, my air gone and the last thread of pride headed to the trash in three, two, one.
"Fuck, babe…" comes out in a tiny voice that isn’t me—good-girl version, taking a number.
She laughs with her whole mouth, thrilled to be holding the remote, and I’m in toy mode.
She brushes, she strokes, and there’s no real finger action, no mouth going down.
She goes slow, slow. I almost grab her hand and put it in myself, straight to business, but I hold out shaking because I know the art of the slow burn and, besides, I’m into the game.
She’s got my clit on fire and her breath on my neck. She tortures me gently and I start getting pissed because she won’t go for it, just keeps up the little game—very artiste.
"Fuck, blondie, are we gonna fuck or are you gonna leave me hanging here like a side of beef?" I snap, shaky.
She’s unruffled. She skims a fingertip and gives me a neat little sidestep, pure matador, and I’m ready to huff and blow her over and at the same time apologize for existing.
"Easy, Alaska."
The smug bitch laughs at my urgency, a hands-on seminar in lesbian desperation. All I can manage is a scream:
"Fuck, blondie, just fuck me already, for fuck’s sake!"
And her? Nothing. That little Machiavellian smile, still torturing me slow as she leans into my ear and whispers in that low voice that sets my skin on fire:
"Begging, Alaska? Not playing tough anymore?"
And yeah, at this point I’m not even fit to fake it. I’m flashing all the emergency signals and I surrender unconditionally:
"Yes. Now. Please." I hear myself and want to crawl under the bed. "Take over until I say stop."
I’m smiling inside and out, face sliding into happiness and want, and I admit that if there’s a heaven, I’ve got it in this room with a blonde who smells like expensive trouble and vodka light on the ice.
Nat steps back just a hair, looks at me in the mirror with that little smile that says she had this game in the bag from minute one.
"Is the lesson clear or should we write it a hundred times?"
My blood heats, but not in a sexy way—more like I want to smack her ego with a flip-flop. Even so, I don’t move half an inch, glued to this theater of consensual humiliation that makes me laugh and makes me feel alive.
"Oh, how charming," I toss, half elegant, half clown—my specialty. "We doing the cryptic cool-girl routine now? You think you can keep me like this and call it a day?"
She’s the one who steps away. Crosses her arms. A smug look begging for a thrown drink.
I pull my last bullet:
"Come on, kiss me. And you let go too, fuck, I didn’t come here to watch you teach."
Nat leans in just enough. Her breath reaches me; it smells like losing my mind.
"If you want something, ask nicely."
She puts my ego on the floor and my panties on strike. Even so, I cling to the rebel role out of pure vice.
"Well, I don’t feel like it," I shoot back, matching her tone, though my voice is shaking harder than my hands.
She laughs under her breath and talks to me, half amused.
"You don’t feel like it, Alaska?" she rasps, and brushes my nipples with a slow finger.
I play the tough girl, but to argue I’d need blood in my brain and right now it’s busy with other, needier organs.
"Fuck, blondie, come on!" I yell, already out of orbit.
She presses in, arms around my waist, delicious pressure, her voice in my ear running all the way to my big toe:
"Are you going to do what I say, Alaska?"
And me, I can’t take anymore. I give in.
"Yes, fuck, fine," I shout, my voice wrecked, while she bites my neck—gentle, but intense.
She takes me to the bed by the hand. She climbs on top of me—kisses, caresses—and I’m in full sociological experiment mode: let it all happen, no complaints, brain offline.
I get so brave I even let her take my hands. She crosses them over my head and slides her belt out of her pants. I have one of those belated attacks of common sense.
"Hey, hey, hey, you think I’m one of your trainees or what? Trust isn’t exactly my thing, okay?"
She cracks up, and I laugh too, because I’m doing the whole I’m-resisting-but-I’m-into-it bit, and it’s obvious from a mile away.
"Alaska, if I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t need a belt. This is about you having a good time. Trust me. I know you don’t know me—that’s exactly why I’m telling you."
It’s true, and it even makes me laugh. God, I’m basic. Still, I keep playing tough.
"Just so we’re clear, if you leave me hanging, I’ll blast you on Instagram and at the precinct. I can be a real pain in the ass when I want to, okay?"
Nat dips her head, looks me in the eye, and goes serious—the kind of serious that takes your breath away.
"I’m not going to ditch you, pretty girl.
I’ve been thinking about this since the gala.
You’ve got a body and a mean streak that does it for me, and those cat eyes have me hooked.
You’re really cute, Alaska. I’m going to devour you, and then we’ll see if you’ve got any energy left to keep acting tough. "
My hotness spikes, my self-esteem too—hell, even my insomnia. Desire flares; I let my arm go, rag-doll mode, and give her the face that says, do your thing, witch—I see you, and I’m yours.
"Come on—what, you think I’m a coward?"
She wins. She smirks, and I let her tie me up, because for once, yeah, I trust this madness is going to turn out fine. Or at least be very, very fun.