11
"Ready?" she throws at me, giving me a once-over.
I nod. That's my default gesture when my forehead is pounding and my brain’s pedaling in low gear. I breathe, smooth out my face, try not to sweat drama.
"Safe word," she says, softer.
Did I hear that right? I replay it in my head in case my internal antenna drops the signal with all these nerves. I need a second take, subtitles included.
"Huh?" I answer, eloquence at rock bottom. Classy, that’s me.
"A word," she explains, step by step. "You pick it. If you say it, I stop. If you want water, say so. If you want the lights on, say so. If you start to spiral, look at me. I’m watching you. If you need a hard stop, that’s the word. This isn’t about toughing it out; it’s about being able to choose. "
The drumming in my chest eases a little. I don’t start clapping—no need—but I appreciate the protocol. I think, without saying it: there I could scream and nothing happened; here I say one word and the world hits the brakes. That difference steadies my pulse.
And then my one creative neuron starts casting for serious words and I come up with names that sound like cheap perfume or nap-prone cats. Horrible.
"How about 'bologna'?" I blurt, because if there’s anything that defines me it’s this: sexy as a cheap cold cut.
She smiles without a laugh, minimal and lethal, with that boss vibe of someone signing the contract while checking if you can read. Okay, she saw it coming. Okay, she already has my number; she knows I’m incapable of taking this seriously.
"Perfect," she decrees. "Bologna it is. If something doesn’t work for you, say so."
"Okay. And I get to set rules too. No cameras, no videos, no photos—this is serious. Also, don’t put weird things in me without asking. And… if I get nervous, grab my hand. It grounds me."
"Deal." She steps closer. "Anything else?"
"Don’t you dare hit me in the face. It makes me lose it."
"Off the menu."
And then she comes over me with the seriousness of someone about to recite a poem, but instead of rhymes she strokes my cheek and my hair.
My brain’s operating system crashes: human puddle in 3, 2, 1.
Her mouth travels down my neck and she kisses me slow, and when she whispers, her voice goes full phone sex hotline.
"This time you only do what I tell you, no complaints. And if you complain, I won’t listen. Only the word to stop for real. Otherwise, you obey. Period."
My inner rebel shoots up off the couch. I have the soul of a rude dollar-store manager—stamp and stapler—and suddenly I’m taking orders.
When did I go from the strike committee to "yes, ma’am"? You, on your knees—what are you even doing, Alaska? I prep a mental speech: girl, rule number one, don’t let someone into your home if you can’t handle them at the door.
I even picture myself handing out flyers with bullet points.
I think it. I enjoy it. And I don’t say a thing.
My mouth goes rogue and sticks to nodding.
A traitor. A silent okay. A bologna on my tongue, ready to fly if I need it.
She stops a step away. She holds my chin with two fingers, and I clamp down on my pulse so it won’t sing.
"Last question," she says. "Do you want this today?"
"Yes. A lot." My voice comes out rough.
"Couch," she orders.
"Couch," I repeat, very diligent, while I pray for Vega’s soul and that she doesn’t come out of her room.
She guides me with a hand on my waist. She sits me down and stands in front of me.
I’m on the edge. She unbuttons her shirt without theatrics.
Button by button. No airs. Black bra. Nipples outlined.
She looks me in the eyes. My mouth opens with nothing in it.
Nothing comes out. My hands are restless.
I put them on my thighs so I don’t launch myself at her.
"Can I touch?" I ask. My voice shakes with hunger.
"Yes. Here." She takes my hand and brings it to her waist. "And here." She sets it on the edge of her bra. "Not here yet." She moves me away from her nipples with the tiniest smile. "You earn that. Now get on your knees on the floor," she says, low.
I let myself drop, all in on the game. My knees burn against the cheap apartment carpet, the short-nap kind that scratches and sheds lint, and there I am, happy, half laughing inside at how completely I’ve handed myself over and with zero urge to fake anything.
She looks down at me and combs my hair with her fingers, positions my face, guides me without hurry, leans in and lets out a low sound that lights up my stomach and flips my switch.
"Take my pants off," she orders.
I undo the button with patience, slide the zipper down slow, tug the fabric, and she finishes taking them off with a move that’s so her, drags the socks along and loses them on the floor. She has pretty feet.
She looks at me, waiting, and I’m already drooling. I tug her panties down—off—and the universe is two inches from my face. It smells like skin, fresh sweat, my vice. My mouth waters and I have to hold back so I don’t go in like a maniac.
"Hands clean," she reminds me.
"Freshly washed." I lift my hands so she can see. "Can I?"
"Touch me."
I part her with two fingers; she’s slick, warm, wet. My thumb goes to her clit—gentle, barely there. Eyes closed: she likes that. My throat hums with pure need; I draw slow circles and a moan slips out. She lifts her hips. I bite at the air so I don’t speed up like an idiot.
"Your tongue," she says, steady.
I taste her. Warm, salty, clean. I hold her hips and lick her slowly. I touch where she guides me—soft, eager, but with my head on straight. I shut my eyes for a second to really listen. She lifts her hips into my hand, sets the rhythm without counting, breathes. I listen, test, adjust.
She comes a little undone and I feel very clever but also very hers, which is new and makes me a bitch in heat and soft at the same time.
I’m not listing moves, I’m not teaching a class; I’ll just say her body speaks and I translate without mistakes.
I slide one finger in, slow. She exhales deep.
"Two?" I ask against her skin.
"Two."
I go in with two. I keep my tongue on her clit. I set the rhythm with my wrist. I move without fumbling.
She tightens. I speed up. I feel the tremor. I hold on tight.
"Stop," she says, breathless.
"You okay?" I pull back, hands up.
"Yeah. I want you on top now." Her crooked smile kills me.
"Let’s go to my room—Vega’s home."
She follows me to the bedroom and shuts the door. I breathe, fix my hair, wipe the dumb grin off my face, and another one still sneaks out.
"Look at me," she orders.
She pins me with that boss look. She smiles when she finds me already out of my panties. She brushes my clit with two fingers. I melt. She gives me two light slaps on the thigh. Little ones. I laugh.
"Talk," she demands. "Tell me what you want."
"I want you to fuck me. I want fingers inside. I want you to squeeze my throat a little. I want you to bite my shoulder. I want you to tell me I’m your guilty pleasure."
"My guilty pleasure," she repeats, and pushes in two fingers to the hilt.
I scream. I bite my fist because I don’t want Vega to hear me. Nat presses her free hand to my throat—light, total control. She asks without asking. I give her an OK sign. She picks up the pace and my body climbs. I lose my head. I’m on the edge.
"Tell me," she whispers. "Are you going to come?"
"Yes." I don’t recognize my own voice. "Yes, yes, yes."
She finishes me with three short strokes and a twist of her thumb. I see internal fireworks I won’t tell anyone about. I come hard and scratch her arm without meaning to. She takes it, slows down, and holds me while I shake. A stupid little tear slips out. I laugh and flop onto the bed, sprawled.
Today she comes prepared with the deluxe bondage kit, pulls out real-deal rope, and ties my wrists with calm, meticulous confidence—you can tell she knows what she’s doing.
She leaves room for circulation and tells me so in that low voice that works on me like a mantra.
I let her; my ego winds itself into the rope and I’m happy to be her toy for a while, giggling like a devoted fan in the front row.
The sensation is outrageous in the best way—soft, silky. My brain shuts off and another part switches on that I can’t explain without sounding corny. It lasts five seconds because my nose itches; real life barrels in, all lust and pleasure and me sweating because I can’t scratch.
All very hot, but if she doesn’t scratch my nose I’ll die here and my ghost will haunt her forever.
She comes up behind me. She murmurs death-whisper stuff: "Trust me, don’t move, feel everything.
" I’m getting more nervous by the second.
At what point did I go from charging wilted women to make them feel something to giving myself away for free to a blonde who could be my biblical punishment…
or my medal for bravery, depending on the minute?
But yeah, resistance is not my strong suit.
What I am fucking great at is freaking out: fear, not much; uncertainty, triple helping; emotionally crossing over to the other side, a lot.
"Scratch my nose or I’m going on strike."
She laughs, scratches with the pad of her finger, and I come back to peace. She gives me a little reward kiss on the forehead, tucks my hair behind my ear, and holds my face.
"Good girl," she murmurs, and I melt and squirm because I hate that phrase, though not enough to stop.
She opens my legs without hurry, spreads my wrists a little farther above my head, the rope pulls just enough, a delicious heat floods in, and I realize I’m giving myself over with a giddy joy that’s almost funny.
She bites my shoulder without going overboard, squeezes my neck, and a shiver opens at the nape of my neck that slings me right back in. By now I’m down to weird sounds and promises I’m going to forget. I make sure to breathe so I don’t get dizzy, and in a flicker of clarity I blurt: