SIX Imaginary Hands
SADIE
When I at last dropped off into slumber last night, I had a dream. It’s a recurrent one I’ve had numerous times, and although I never gave it much credence before this morning, the events at breakfast brought it to the forefront of my mind.
Maybe because it’s a sex dream, and I’m surrounded by three men meant to satisfy me.
The dream customarily plays out pretty vaguely. Like, the people in the dream have bodies but no distinguishing or identifying characteristics. For example, there will be a male leg but no sign of a genitalia, a man’s jawline but not his hair.
I don’t know why it’s always been like this for me, but it has.
Then there will be lots of writhing and undulating and even the prelude to a euphoric climax that rarely manifests in reality. But I won’t see any familiar facial features. Not even those of my past lovers. And though I’ll feel when his cock enters me, I’ve never been privy to seeing the particular size and shape of it.
Even within the confines of my dream world, getting some hasn’t been that gratifying.
Until now. Last night’s nocturnal fantasy evolved into something far more interesting.
It included the rippled muscle of Zach’s bare abdomen, the one I witnessed when he demonstrated his pole dancing routine. It had the broad long-fingered hand of Dom clutching onto my breasts and cinching down on my nipples, and the unmistakable cock from the porn clip of himself that Jerome showed me jutting into and out of my center.
My pussy.
I found this both titillating and disturbing. Because all three of these men were there with me. Not individually taking turns, either.
No.
They’d all been fucking me at once. And that’s not something I’ve ever seriously considered.
But I am now, even though the notion of it is scary. Why? Because for the first time ever, I woke up in the middle of a fully legit orgasm. Not only that, my panties were so soaked they made a splatting noise when I tossed them in my hamper.
I didn’t even know such a thing was possible.
These men have utterly rocked my world without being aware of it, without even having actually done it. Yet I now know what it feels like to climax because of them. Because of their imaginary hands.
Ontheir imaginary hands.
Knowing that these men are my employed contractors required to do what I ask of them makes it ten times worse. I mean, I can ask this of them if I so desire. And this morning it hit me just how much power I wield over them. Or can if I choose to.
Should I have that kind of power? Should anyone?
Yet at this point, maybe that’s not the right question to ask. Maybe the right question is if I could ever dare to go through with such a debauched—and admittedly alluring—scene with them?
Once my heaving breaths returned to normal, I’d stared unseeing at the snow globe on my bedside table. It was a present from Win from several years ago. Thoughts of her, of how proud she would be of me once she learned I didn’t let my fear override what I’m really craving had me climbing out from between my sheets.
And sure, what I crave is love. The honest, dedicated, I’ll-grow-old-and-gray-with-you kind.
But I’m the type of person who incorporates a backup whenever possible. What if in this situation, that backup becomes about physical gratification? In all its various methods? That way, if I can’t get what I want most, I can achieve the next best thing. I can have the runner-up. The ranking of salutatorian may not be as good as valedictorian, but it’s not bad.
Not bad at all.
The men are ranged around me at the table now, their gazes tracking every move I make. Hell, I could probably play airplane with my food, and they’d look just as fascinated. It’s almost funny. And men enjoy sex. They’ll get theirs no matter what, so why should I feel guilty for getting mine?
Even if me getting mine last night was a product of my own psyche.
I shouldn’t be embarrassed, so I’ll try not to be.
“Remember those dates I told you about?” I inquire of them.
“Yeah,” Jerome says, as Zach speaks up a nanosecond later.
“Absolutely.”
Dom, big surprise, merely elevates his chin.
“I want my date with you,” I flick a finger toward my quietest man. “Tomorrow. You,” I do the same to Jerome, “Tuesday, the day after, and you,” Zach is grinning at me like a cat who ate a canary. “Wednesday.”
With that, I bring my plate to the kitchen, pleased to discover Maxine filling the dishwasher. I set my plate precisely where I know she wants it. I’m probably the only current inhabitant she’ll allow to do that. She’s extremely rigorous about her cleaning protocols.
“Well,” she raises an eyebrow as she peeks at me over her shoulder. “Sounds like you’re taking the bulls by their horns.”
Her innuendo isn’t lost on me. I know she means cocks.
“I am,” I decide, then straightening my spine, I say it again with greater force. “I am.”
––––––––
AFTER A NIGHT SPENTglaring at my clock as my brain races down one rabbit hole after another, it’s dawn before I finally doze off. A handful of hours later, feeling like last week’s rancid sushi, I force myself off my mattress on nothing but the promise of a strong cup of coffee.
As often occurs when I’m sleep-deprived, getting myself dressed and ready for the day takes longer and requires more effort than usual. So once I manage the stairs, it’s nearly two in the afternoon.
So much for taking the bull by the horns. Much less by the cocks.
Distantly, I hear the clacks of metal on metal that can only mean someone’s working out in the fitness room, something my dad used to do religiously. Mom was a gym rat, too, but she’d never go in there when he was doing his thing on the weight machines.
Outside the public eye, they did precious little together.
Gritting my teeth, I do my best to shake such knowledge from my head and seek out the much-needed caffeine. OJ just isn’t going to do it this time.
“Thank any and all deities either living or dead,” I mutter when I find the cappuccino maker all set to go. I’m about to run the chrome monstrosity when a voice halts me mid-action.
“Had a client with one of those once.” It’s Dom, and while one hand is in his jeans pocket, the other is gesturing at the machine.
“Yeah?”
He nods. “Took me a week to get the hang of the damn thing, but she finally taught me.”
Dom isn’t making any move to take over. In fact, he hasn’t so much as inched toward me from his spot on the opposite side of the marble-topped kitchen island. I appreciate that he hasn’t deemed me so broken that I can’t take care of things like this for myself. Nothing pisses me off more than someone assuming I’m fucking helpless.
Maybe that’s why I invite him over. “Care to show me your stuff?”
Something I’ve learned about Dom is that he has a more solemn nature than the other two. And right now, that suits me right down to the ground. Because rather than shooting me some sensual look or chattering my ear off, he traipses right on over and gets to work.
He expertly adjusts the cranks and levers, using the mug I’d retrieved to catch the dark elixir of heaven that comes hissing out of the contraption’s maw. After that, he pours in the chilled heavy cream and hands it over. He’s created... Well, I’m not sure what shape that’s supposed to be.
It kinda looks like butt cheeks, to be honest.
He sighs. “It’s a heart. Sort of.”
Ah.
“Of course.” I take a sip, and damn. There’s a reason why this motivated me to pull myself together. I take another sip—okay, at least three—before I peek up at him again. “Have any ideas for what you’re going to do for our date?”
“‘Course I do,” he says in his Boston accent, and I almost smirk at him for that. Almost. “When did you wanna start?”
I glance down at myself and register my choice of a frumpy two sizes two big sweatshirt over my yoga pants. But then again, considering how I demanded that the “date” take place inside of these four walls, telling him I need to go get gussied up is unnecessary. This experiment is all about them accepting me for who I am.
Oh, yeah. And getting paid to do so. Can’t forget that.
I drink the rest of my cappuccino, reveling in the warmth of the mug in my palms. Well, my right palm. Despite Dom lacking a little in his cappuccino decorating game, the smell and taste are anything but subpar. Opening the dishwasher, I place my cup rim down before latching my gaze onto his again.
“Now is fine.”
His dark eyes widen as three thin wrinkles appear above his brows. His broken nose almost seems straighter. “Right now?”
“Why not?”
“Right now, then,” he says, like he thought of this himself, and holds his arm out to me, elbow bent.
What does he think we’re attending? A cotillion?
I point none too subtly at that arm. “What’s this all about?”
“This is about showing a lady respect.”
Good answer.
He escorts me to our gaming room with its pool table, dartboard, and air hockey machine. It’s right next to the arcade which has eighties-style gaming cabinets. My parents were Gen-Xers, after all.
“What’s your poison?” he asks me, his stance more of a saunter now.
Oh, I get it. Homeboy here thinks he can beat me at all these activities as if I didn’t grow up perfecting those skills so my parents might legitimately pay attention to me.
He’s in for a rude awakening.
“Oh, whichever. I like them all.” Also, I’m about to beat your ass.
Dom aims straight for the pool and racks up all the balls. “You wanna break?”
“You can.”
After chalking the end, he does so with the ease of someone more than familiar with a cue, the hard round surfaces clacking together and rolling in various directions. Yet breaking is less about strength, which I’m guessing from those muscles bulging all over him that he has plenty of, and more about wrist control. My mother taught me that. She and Dad would come in here and become the fiercest competitors I’ve ever witnessed.
I can still remember Mom cackling as she yelled, “In yo face,” at him.
Sportsmanship is something I had to be away from home to appreciate.
Dom lines up his first shot, and while it’s nothing tricky or particularly flashy, he has no trouble sinking it in the corner pocket. The same proves true for his next one, and on his third shot, he succeeds in sinking two of his solids in the same hole.
If Zach or maybe even Jerome were here, I wonder if they’d make a joke about that. Dom doesn’t. Instead, he shoots again and sinks a striped ball, launching the game over to me.
“Nice start,” I tell him, secretly ready to whoop the man like he’s never been whooped. Or with what he told me about his past with BDSM roleplay, maybe he has.
“I do any and all positions, oral, anal, giving and taking. BDSM, if you prefer it. Though if you’re treating me as a sub, I’d prefer no permanent marks, if possible.”
“Wait, wait, wait. You’d agree to be the sub in a BDSM scenario?” Is he serious?
“Yes.”
That conversation from over a month ago still floors me.
But now it’s time to show him what I’m made of. It’s as I’m squaring up to the table that I register there might be a problem. Yet since I don’t want there to be a problem, I ignore it, pretending that I’m as much of a deft hand at this as I used to be.
Leaning my cue against the green felt edge, I chalk the tip. Positioning myself, I eye the orange three ball—not the most difficult shot but not the easiest, either—and aim for the side pocket. Yet since my executing this with one arm isn’t like performing it with two, my shot goes awry. Worse, not only do I miss, the white ball goes in, too. It’s a fucking scratch, which decimates my turn.
“Dammit.” Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.
How could I have forgotten that my body isn’t my own anymore?
The same motions I’ve made a million times with my left hand not only don’t work the same on my right side, they don’t work at all. Every act is off to the point of feeling wrong and understanding the mechanics of why doesn’t make one bit of difference. Neither does pretending that my right side is as agile and capable as my left side once was.
It takes every ounce of my control to not fling my pool cue across the room, even if I’ve never been prone to tantrums. I don’t behave like that. But it’s just so...
No. It’s fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.
I force myself to exhale even if that breath leaves me in staccato-like little bursts that sound anything but natural.
I open my eyes, unaware of when I closed them, and unfurl my hand from around the pool cue since I’m gripping it so hard my palm hurts. The uppermost part of my stomach hurts, too, as does the area around each temple. That last one is because I’ve been clenching my teeth. I relax my jaw.
“Sadie? You okay?”
I should do my best to return to some kind of behavior that approaches normal, but instead, all I do is bite out, “Your turn.”
The game continues, and soon, it’s apparent that I’m not going to win. Hell, I’m not even going to come close to winning. Everything in my bloodline detests this, and if relatives rolling in their graves is a thing, my parents are no doubt doing precisely that right now.
I try and try. I’m no quitter. But nothing improves. Doing my very best only nets me a single point before the advantage goes right back to my opponent.
Date, I mean. Dom, my date.
I lose. Miserably. So, when he suggests a change to darts, I’m so onboard that I might as well be wearing boat shoes.
Yet the situation there isn’t much better. I’m barely able to hit the board when I’m accustomed to nailing the bullseyes dead center nine and a half times out of ten. My stats are suffering this afternoon, as is my pride. Dom attempts to cut the game short, perhaps noticing my consistent failure rate, but I’m not giving up. It ain’t over till it’s over, baby.
And then, it’s over.
With—obviously—Dom stomping my game into next week. Not that he rubs it in my face or anything. He’s too nice a guy. Yet all this coming up short on expectations is doing a real number on my internal leaderboard. Not to mention my confidence levels.
Dom: 2
Sadie: Zip
I can hear the shit now.
Dad would spout, “Is that all you’ve got? Thought you claimed you’d be the one doing all the trouncing.”
Mom wouldn’t say anything. Instead, she’d just regard me with that vicious sneer of disappointment as if I’d singlehandedly let down all the past females of every related generation. As if to remind me that my performance wasn’t good enough and that means I’m not good enough.
I once had to live that all the time. And somehow, I’m still living it, even if they’re dead and gone.
Comprehending that makes me want to rampage through this room like a bull, trashing all the game tables, knocking the neon off the walls, and smashing all the appliances and everything else to the goddamn floor.