Chapter 2 #2
I have no official experience with real kink, but I like a spank here and there.
I like my breasts sucked and squeezed, my nipples bitten and pinched.
Maybe Joaquin can introduce me to some stuff tonight, even if there aren’t any toys to play with.
I reach for his bow tie and offer it to him with my wrists already crossed.
He hesitates as he watches me, and I think he’s going to reject my silent suggestion.
“If I tie your wrists, are you ready for what that means, Tre? Are you ready to submit?”
“Are you a Dom?”
“Yes.”
That seems antithetical to the shy man I thought he was. Maybe dominating his partners is how he gets over that shyness, or maybe it’s an escape from it.
“I’ve never been a sub before.”
He watches me again before he responds. “I want you to submit, but I don’t want you as a sub. I don’t want to be your Dom either.”
Ouch.
I guess he isn’t into the idea of teaching a novice.
“Tre—”
“Why do you call me that? I go by Tricia with family and friends. No one’s ever called me Tre.”
“If you don’t like it, I wo?—”
“I didn’t say that. I asked why.”
“I don’t know. It came to mind, and I guess it just makes sense to me.”
It’s special that he created a nickname for me, and intimate that it’s even shorter than the diminutive I often go by.
“I like it.”
I practically whisper that admittance because I don’t want to make more of something than it is.
The longer we’re together, the more sober I’m getting.
Or I’m so drunk I’m in that stupid haze where you believe you’re barely drunk at all.
But it doesn’t feel like some toss-away thing he’s saying to seduce me or laziness that keeps him from saying my full name.
He eases my thong off as he continues to explain what he means. I’m glad he does because I don’t know how to differentiate his dominance from being a Dominant, or my submission without being a submissive.
“There’s a power exchange that happens in a D/s dynamic that I don’t want with us.
I always want you to feel like you’re my equal.
I don’t want to hear you call me sir or master.
I’d like to hear you say my name. I won’t punish you if you do.
I don’t think you’re ready or will ever want the headspace that subs enter when they give up that much control.
But I still want you to have a word in case you don’t feel safe or fear being harmed. ”
He sounds pretty fucking sober as he explains. Maybe he’s in better shape than I am. After all, he’s a lot bigger than me, so maybe the alcohol barely did anything to him. But I’m following along just fine. At least, I think I am. I’m definitely drunk because I’m feeling—and saying—all my emotions.
“I know I’ll always feel safe with you, and I don’t fear you harming me. I don’t think you could live with that. But I get what you mean about a safe word if I hit my physical limit.”
“Physical, mental, or emotional limits. Don’t accept things you don’t want because you feel like you agreed to kink, and now you have to live with it.”
“Guaro. I definitely won’t be asking for more of that.”
His chuckle is sin and seduction.
“Okay, chiquita.”
Chiquita. Little girl.
I heard Alejandro whisper that to Vittoria during the rehearsal yesterday afternoon and during the photos after the ceremony today. I thought it was sweet at the time since Alejandro’s the biggest of all the impressively large men in the Diaz family. He makes Vittoria seem little in comparison.
I’m nearly a foot shorter than Joaquin, so it makes sense. But it doesn’t strike me as a toss-away endearment for Alejandro or Joaquin. Just the opposite. It feels as personal as him calling me Tre.
He binds my wrists with the bow tie, and I tug just to see how tight it is.
I can move them to keep from losing circulation, but I’m not getting loose on my own.
He did something that’s more than just a regular knot.
When he’s done, he places his massive palm over my sternum, his fingers sliding along my cleavage.
He presses until I lean back, my arms extended over my head.
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t him practically sucking my clit down his throat.
I cry out, not in pain but surprise. I tuck my chin to see him, and he’s watching me intently.
Gauging what I can take as his teeth capture it.
He doesn’t bite, instead running his lower ones back and forth along the bundle of nerves.
I draw my feet up to the edge of the mattress—or at least attempt to—so I can lever my hips upward.
But that’s not what Joaquin wants. He draws my legs over his shoulders before his arms slip beneath my thighs and wrap around to spread my cunt open for him to lick.
He has me locked in the position he wants, and I’m here for it.
He works my clit and cunt with his tongue, teeth, lips, and fingers until I’m begging to come.
“Not yet, chiquita. Later.”
“Later?!”
“When I’m inside you. When we can come together.”
“We can do this together. I can suck you off while you keep eating me out.”
“We can, but we won’t. As much as I’m certain I’ll enjoy my cock down your throat, right now, I want all my attention on you.”
How am I supposed to argue with that?
A guy who wants to give and doesn’t expect to receive in bed? I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth. When his tongue slips inside me, I practically forget my name let alone offering to sixty-nine with him.
I struggle not to come when he brings me to the edge and doesn’t back off right away.
I keep feeling the beginning of an orgasm starting, and that’s when he pulls away.
I don’t know how he knows, but he does. Just when the frustration threatens to get the better of me, he rises.
He strips off his pants and is about to push down his boxer briefs when he freezes.
“I don’t usually do hookups. I don’t have a condom.”
“I don’t do one—hookups either. I don’t have any, but I’m on birth control. I got tested after I broke up with my last boyfriend six months ago. I haven’t been with anyone since.”
I nearly say one-night stand, and I admitted I haven’t gotten any in six months. Marvelous.
“I test regularly too. Tre, I’ve never had sex without one.”
Somehow saying I’m popping his condom cherry doesn’t sound right.
I’ve had sex without condoms, but only when I’ve been in committed relationships.
We stare at each other, and something passes between us.
We’re both far more sober than we were when we got on the elevator.
It’s not just the time that’s passed. It’s something about being with him and wanting to be alert for all of it—remember all of it.
My eyes practically pop out of my head when I see him naked.
He drops his boxer briefs, and it’s not just his dick that impresses me.
It’s the V-shaped grooves along his hip bones.
The kind that makes women drool over models.
It’s the indents along the sides of his ass that scream for my hands to hold onto as he fucks my pussy.
It’s how his ass and upper thighs are still golden brown but not as tan as the rest of him.
He’s the ultimate male specimen.
He is masculinity at its finest without coming across as toxic.