I made mistakes, major mistakes, the first time I walked into The Garden.
How was I to know? I wasn't even a novice. Completely ignorant, finally pushed over the edge from intellectual curiosity to actual real life investigation, I sought out an answer before I thoroughly understood my question. I was nervous... more than nervous, actually. Flighty, which I am not, and rattled, which I never am.
But I was also beginning to feel a little desperate.
My life had started to slide into something very hollow and very shadow-like. Intelligent and self-aware enough to realize something was blocked, repressed, unanswered... something. I began to turn over every facet of my existence and found few nuances, little reflectivity. I was a smooth stone.
Something, something, something.
The word gnawed at me for months, taking on it's own life. I'd use it in simple conversation, how many times do you say something over the course of a day, and I would flinch.
Simply, words were my business. I've spent years training my mind to see minute detail and specificity in what was essentially a dead language, relating odd arrangements of letters and spoken inflection to larger issues of community and place.
Ethnolinguist. Middle English. My subjects weren't available for live observation. Rather, I poured over tomes, manuscripts, legal and monarchical documents, literature, constructing an understanding of people who made English into a living, changing thing. In my mind I traipsed over rutted, filth-strewn roads and broad windswept moors, eavesdropping, evaluating, threading conclusions together from every aspect my subjects' world.
Like any good academic, I spent my free time circling my field of study. I found it impossible to leave off analysis of speech and culture. Even mundane activities such as watching television resulted in my evaluation of the actors and the words chosen for them, the way they spoke, their looks, the implications of what was not said.
The night the first shard of smoothness flaked away I was curled on my sofa, proofing a doctoral candidate's journal submission. That Friday afternoon, the July sun had heated the atmosphere into a simmering thunderstorm, which tipped over just as I left my office for the weekend. I'd just returned early from London on the previous Tuesday, escaping the throngs of tourists who blitzed the city from July to September with their Euros, Yen, Rubles, and still occasionally their Dollars, hoping to sample, but never attempt to derive meaning from a cultural smorgasbord thousands of years old.
I ran through the storm to my car, pausing to slip off my slick sandals so I could hop over puddles without fear of breaking my neck in the deluge. Once home, I'd promptly discarded my sodden clothing , showered the rain surely imbued with atmospheric pollutants from my hair and body, changed into the simple, flowing, linen cropped pants and cotton camisoles I preferred for my private life. I retired to the sofa with Jasper's paper - no PDF files for Mr. Antiquity - thank God it wasn't on vellum with an atramentum of octopus ink and animal glue - and a glass of iced mint tea.
I opened the windows behind me, bristling a bit at my environmental irresponsibility - I cared about my carbon footprint because it was natural for someone of my ilk - but swayed by the promise of evening sounds and the scent of wet Earth and lingering ozone after the short lived but violent storm instead of the silent hermetically sealed, air conditioned quiet. Before picking up Jasper's folder, I paused over the curling mist rising from my lawn and twining through the slanted shafts of evening sunlight. The air coming in the open casement window was clean, fragrant, and sultry with the evaporating rain and stirred my hair gently around my shoulders.
Not tonight. Don't touch that place tonight, Kate.
Too hastily, I jabbed toward the television with the remote, switching the channel to an arts network and placing the sound at a level that approximated my own tolerance for white noise. I began to jot the odd note in the green pen Jasper had provided so my comments were easily discernible from the other faculty members. As a relative academic novice I was present in Jasper's committee to learn as much as he was. I'd little familiarity beyond any undergraduate anthropology student with Jasper's Roman topic and found his focus on military tactics and machinery a little dry, but I was not part of his review team to weigh his findings. Rather, I read merely to critique his methods and the overall style of the paper. My evaluation would have no bearing on his final assessment. This made it far easier for us to sleep together.
Jasper was certainly beautiful with his longish sandy blond hair and inquisitive gray-green eyes, intelligent, charming beyond words with his soft Central Texas accent and as physically imposing as any of the Bavarian and Yorkshire immigrants who begat him. A cattleman with a highly analytical and spiritual mind, he was actually seven years older than me. He was making up time for a bit of misspent youth playing music on 6th Street in Austin and ingesting almost any manner of alcohol and street drugs in the leafy old workingman's neighborhoods south of town. We liked each other immensely; I found his presence comforting and easy, and the sex between us was much the same. There was no expectation attached to it; we were physical outlets for each other with the benefit of shared intellect and common interests.
But there was no passion between us, and there never would be. It was a chemical impossibility.
I blew at an errant wisp of damp hair and shifted restlessly against the sofa cushions, begging myself to just stop flicking at The Something for one night. Sitting Jasper's folder aside, I shifted my body again and reached for my tea. The television program came forward in my focus, as a black and white clip of Leontyne Price singing a piece from Porgy and Bess was showing. Strange, I thought to myself, wasn't this show out of favor at the moment?
Porgy, I's yo' woman now,
I's yours forever...
Mornin' time and evenin' time
And summer time and winter time
Mmm...
Oh my Porgy...
My man Porgy...
Well, she will be until you get carted off to jail in Act 3, I sneered and rolled my eyes.
"I's your woman now..."
Ownership. Possession. Belonging.
I snorted a laugh and picked up Jasper's article again. The idea of possession, one person belonging to another, was ludicrous. As though we were more than calcium and water and amino acids, peptide bonds and firing synapse. Fine, I belong to you. You, sir, are the owner of a collection of imperfect organic compounds, chemical reactions, and dying cells. I shook my head and raised the remote to change channels. Maybe an old movie...
But to belong to someone, my mind argued with itself, not under a yoke but under their protection, guidance, and care. To have someone to strive for, be better for, make proud. Someone who could make my body and mind sing together just for him. ..
An errant vision of myself flashed through my mind. In it, I kneeled before a non-specific man, eyes cast at the floor before me. Every molecule and bond and electrical pule in me seemed oriented to the pair of legs that walked around me, touching my cheek once as he passed.
Condensation rolled from the lip of my glass and landed on my wrist.
How did something like that worm it's way into my subconscious?
It was sick and... demeaning.
I knitted my brows against the thought and reminded myself I was more intelligent and self-possessed than any woman who would willingly allow, even seek out, degradation in an attempt to relive some abusive childhood or outwardly express and affirm low self-esteem. With a dismissive exhale, I picked up the manuscript again.
But what if it wasn't demeaning?
What if it was an extreme act of faith in another person?
What if... it was trust expressed as a palpable thing between two people?
Something, something... more insistent.
I flung the damn folder down and recapped my Jasper-issued green pen.
Amazon. Safe. Research.
A smattering of what appeared to be actual, method-driven literature came up from a general search, in addition to numerous bodice-ripping type fantasy books. Most of the synopses of the fiction revealed broken, lonely heroines matched with reclusive and wealthy men in a predictable dramatic arc ending when the steadfast woman gets too close to the dominant's need for love and acceptance, thus ending their relationship. Some deus ex machina intercedes, and they reconcile and live hand in handcuff forevermore.
Not bloody likely.
I flipped through several of the novels' previews and selected two of the least stylistically offensive, added three methods manuals and a suggested DVD. All with two day-shipping. I selected ‘complete order' before I could change my mind.
The stone that was me lost a longish, thin strip not unlike flakes of flint. What was underneath was hard, white-veined but surrounded with peaks and valleys that sparkled temptingly.
I spent the weekend begrudging the US postal service for not delivering on Sunday unlike the enlightened Royal Mail.
Monday passed, predictably, at a graveyard pace. My letter carrier was nothing if not punctual; every day between one and one seventeen she would steer her truck to my mailbox, crush another bit off of the red clematis vine I'd installed that spring, and shove in my weekly copies of the J.Crew and J.Jill catalogues .
I beat her to my house by eight minutes.
Six hours, one movie, one and a half novels and a cool shower later, I was stupefied, glutted in sexual imagery and repulsed at my body's reaction to it.
"Hey darlin'"
"Hi there, Tex."
"Oh ho... Tex, huh? Missin' me, Legs?"
"That I am."
"Then why don't I invite myself over?"
"Why don't you?"
"See you in a few, darlin'."
Jasper was quite pleased to be the beneficiary of six hours of hovering arousal, and I was beyond grateful for someone else's hands on my skin, even if they belonged to my ever-gentlemanly friend. Still... it was nice. We both climaxed perfunctorily with little more than a physical release attached to the muscle contractions, blood-engorged genitals, and stimulated nerves.
As another, deeper, piece of the stone fell away, I knew suddenly and without any doubt, I wanted those physical processes to be attached to someone stronger, more willful and willing than me. I wanted to give provenance to someone else who could handle the task and adore me for it.
I realized I might like my bodice ripped, too.
As I showered , I was hardly relieved and actually adding to my own torment. Instead of rushing through a utilitarian rinse, I lathered a bath mitt and washed languidly, my mind running it's own reel of full lips beside my ear whispering explicit instructions as I kneeled before him. The same lips brushed my forehead as a long, obviously masculine finger rested under my chin. I stood, hands clenched behind my back and head down, my confirmation rivaling the showiest of show poodles as I positioned myself across the edge of a ridiculously outfitted canopy bed, worthy of any ripping bodice. Face down and ass thrust high, I saw myself waiting patiently, and I looked content, happy even. I was as soft and flouncy as the bedclothing around me. I could hear my own mind looping a cadent ‘for him... for him... for him...' .
A leather-gloved hand cracked across my bare skin, then a whisp of fur, then the hand; there was no discernible pattern, no start, no stop. I remained perfectly still, and looked almost euphoric. The man's lips descended to my pinked flesh, kissing and smoothing, patting and stroking , all with great affection. I saw the same mouth, smiling beside my ear again, whispering as the long, gloved finger stroked my cheek, then bounced lightly against the tip of my nose. He withdrew his hand from my face and slid it between the mattress and my torso, and I saw my own nipples pinched and pulled taut over and over. I knew without any sort of visual confirmation that my thighs began to tremor at the heavier attention. A thin, sinister-looking silver chain configured in a lengthy ‘Y' and finished at each end with small clamps, exactly like the one in the movie I'd watched this afternoon, was placed before my face. My eyes opened, seemingly commanded to do so, and focused on him as I pressed my lips against the metal. Again I saw my nipples, now dusky and hardened, as they were caught up in the little clamps. The final clamp disappeared between my legs, and was affixed to my clitoris.
His mouth was beside my ear again, whispering something that made me beam rapturously. He kissed my forehead and was gone, returning his attention to the skin on my thighs and ass, now readied for his more stern attentions. Again there was no pattern to the march of items assaulting my now reddened skin. Paddles covered in leather were replaced with bits of soft suede, then stinging nibbed plastic strings. Without warning the gloved hand would dip between my legs, pulling at the chain or dancing lightly over the slick layers of skin as the hardest of blows fell on my upturned cheeks, now a vivid red. I could sense another increase in speed and intensity, and I watched, seduced by my own obvious bliss, as he struck me again and again. I looked flushed, sweaty with exertion and clearly lost within my own reactions to the sensory overload. The chain was pulled cruelly taut as his fingers dipped deep inside me, collecting the wetness pooled there as a leather-clad thumb stroked at my pinched clitoris. The effort I had to exert to stay completely still, even though I appeared to be inhabiting another type of consciousness, was extreme. He nudged at my knees with his own legs, opening me further and began again, this time slapping my bare labia, as his fingers plunged inside me. My own slippery lubricant was rubbed into my anus, and his finger slid inside as he tightened the slack on the chain. I saw my knees sway and then the hands were stroking again instead of spanking, the nimble long fingers reaching up to release the clamp stationed between my legs and then soothing me as the blood and sensation rushed back in. Once again I saw my own face, now luminous with a mix of perspiration and exhilaration. The finger in my anus pumped languidly, twisting and then barely remaining inside, then plunging in again.
He was directly behind me, his skin and muscle pressed tight against my own reddened thighs. The coarse dark hair on his legs and groin tickled and tormented my heated skin as his erection pressed against my heated red cheek. The weight of him fell along my body, making me feel engulfed with his solid and imposing presence. Once again he whispered in my ear, just as he slid his stiff cock deep within me and slowed his fingers inside my ass . We remained still, joined together, for a short time as he directed me to focus on his body filling me to the point of agony. His hips began to thrust against mine, alternating strokes with his fingers. Then, without warning, his lips moved, and I finally heard his voice, deep, masculine, and even in this moment, dripping with a sort of light-heartedness. Seeing me like this pleased him.
"Let me have it, baby girl," he said, nuzzling his face against mine. "Come for me."
I did. Hard.
His hands were on my hips, pulling me against him as I panted and moaned through several waves of intense orgasm that swelled and spilled over as I heard him groan with his own climax inside me. The muscles in my vagina constricted around him, pulling him deeper into his own release. I felt one of his hands slide around the crease of my thigh and settle on my bare mound, his fingers stroking again at my labia and clitoris. Suddenly, he gave the chain imprisoning my nipples a rough tug.
"Come again. Now."
My body obeyed him and washed over into a deep wave, clenching from deep in my thighs and burning through my pelvis.
"Whose are you?" he asked as I submerged and rolled under again. When my answer wasn't rapid enough, the chain yanked again. "Whose are you?"
"Yours, S... Sir," I gasped.
"Who am I?" His fingers flitted lightly at my still-tight clit as his voice slipped over my disoriented senses.
"Master, Sir," I said in a small breathy voice. It wasn't to his liking.
"Again."
"Master, Sir," I repeated with more focus, even through the shudders starting to take over my body.
"Good girl. One more time. Come. Now."
A low whine escaped from my throat, and I was lost, battered by flashing colors and the sound of his breath in my ear. The last vestiges of energy I had collected in my chest, and I screamed, flinging my head back against his shoulder.
Suddenly the screaming in my head was replaced by the sound of flesh slipping against porcelain. Unable to discern the noise of the useless clutching of my own hands on the wet tile from the last wave of the most intense orgasm I'd ever experienced, alone or otherwise, I managed to catch myself before I fell and leaned heavily against the cool ceramic, my breath coming in ragged and shallow snatches.
Jasper. Oh my God... did I... did he hear? How ....
Reality crashed in, and I was mortified. I wasn't even aware of what I was doing and...
Oh my God. The realization of what I'd just done, the nature of the fantasy and my body's almost cataclysmic reaction to it, overwhelmed me.
That was me.
That was no fantasy, it's what I want and probably have for so long... oh Jasper, God damn, did he hear me?
I am like that. I am.
I am a submissive.
I could almost see the smooth exterior of the stone disintegrate. One of the white veins cracked, and a small portion of glittering dust and pebble fell away, revealing a deep blue stone, its light bouncing up towards me like moonlit water reflecting on stone.
I'd never felt so directionless and alone. Stiff, as though I really had borne the weight and sheer size of my fantasy Master, I leaned down to turn off the water and stepped from the shower. My trembling hands tucked a thick towel around me and wound another around my hair. As I dressed, I avoided my own reflection in the mirror. I wasn't sure who would be looking back at me.
After a few minutes of deep breathing and silence, I padded out to find Jasper stretched out on my couch in the dark.
Watching the same damn movie which made me call him. Outed.
"Oh shit," I sighed and covered my face with my hands.
He sat up quickly, paused the DVD and patted a place beside him on the cushions.
"Come over here, Legs."
I settled against his chest, sighing heavily as his arms wrapped protectively around me.
"Jasper, I'm... Oh Christ, you shouldn't have seen that."
"Is this why you've been so sad, darlin'?"
I nodded, mute with emotional exhaustion.
"It's titillating, that's for sure. But uh... lookin' at this, and your current choice of reading material..."
Fuck if I didn't leave everything out on the coffee table. I had begged him to discover me. It felt like cheap emotional manipulation, leaving this out for Jasper to walk into, but I was so hazed over in it all I didn't consider what I was leaving lying around. I'd met him at the door, beyond needy, and we had worked our clothes off on a slow retreat to my bedroom.
Jas was one of the most open-minded, loyal people I'd ever met. Maybe I did myself a favor.
"I think I want this. I... please don't... Jas... I can't -"
"Katie, you know I'm in no position to judge anyone's lifestyle. Live and let live."
I slumped against him, wearily. "I've worn out every damn feminist theory I know, and I feel like I've abandoned everything I believed about my needs. Jas, I can't wonder any more. It's been eating at me for so long, and I just need to know if that's what I really want. It feels right, and it's scaring the hell out of me."
We were silent for a few minutes, his gentle hands rubbing at my shoulders and neck soothingly.
"Alright, then. We're going to figure this out."
"Jasper, you don-"
"Ah - now stop it," he said quickly and turned me to face him. "You've kept my shit together numerous times, Katie. Now desist with the martyr act and climb off your cross. I know a guy."
I looked up at his broad grin and had to laugh. He knew a guy. Thousands of miles from home, ensconced in academia, and Jasper was still the guy who knew a guy. A real, honest to God resourceful Texan to the very fiber of his being.
"You know a guy?"
"Let me talk to him, ask him some questions. I think he knows a place where you can go."
"Oh, God... Jasper, I couldn't... I mean... in public - I..."
"What do you think your myth man's gonna do, Legs? Saunter up to your door with a whip and some handcuffs and carry you off on the back of a Harley?"
"Well," I considered and looked up at him as innocently as possible. "Sure. Except the motorcycle part. Too statistically dangerous."
He snickered and shook his head. "No cycles, just paddles and chains and shit, right? Because that won't hurt."
We laughed together, and suddenly I realized what this implied for us.
"Jas... you wouldn't..."
"No, Legs. Not in my makeup. If I tried to smack at your flanks I'd feel like I was swattin' at Bertha to git along," he drawled excessively on purpose with a broad grin. Bertha was his Palomino back home in Buda. She lived the good life on his parents' ranch just thirty miles outside of Austin.
"So, I guess no more evenings in for us?"
"Hell, no. No matter what you're my girl, Katie. Just no more evenings in your bed."
"I'm sorry, sweetheart."
"Know what, Katie? I'm relieved. I thought it was me. I always knew I could get you between your legs, but here," he touched my forehead, then heart with his index finger, "and here I never stood a chance."
Oh God... did he want...
"Jas, you didn't..."
"No. Would have liked to. Tried to make myself think it could happen. But..." He shrugged. "We just don't fit like that. I care about you... really, Kate I care for you deeply. But just not in the way I want to be in love or more to the point, the way I'm capable of loving. We both deserve to know how that feels, Legs."
"Oh, Jasper, I do love you." I smiled up at him wistfully and fell against him in a tight hug.
"I love you, too, Katie. Don't you worry, darlin'. We'll figure this out."
Thanks to my former lover, now closest confidante, I found my way to The Garden.
Two weeks after that Friday night, I sat in my car gnawing at my thumb as I waited for the speaker beside the simply detailed, but enormous, wrought iron gate to answer.
"Good evening?"
"Hello, I'm um... Kate... Kate Oksanen. I've been invited... um... to the, I mean to -"
"One moment, please."
I collapsed against the headrest and exhaled heavily. How in the hell did Jasper swing this?
"Ms. Oksanen, please proceed down the drive and meet the valet at the service porch."
Service porch? Dear God, what was this place?
As I drove over I was careful to note where I was going, ticking off a list of landmarks and impressions of the hilly and deeply green environs. The area, twenty minutes from the city, dripped with the air of very old, well-established money; the kind that need not show off with the latest model everything.
Somehow ‘the guy' Jasper knew also knew about this ‘gathering' known only as The Garden. According to Jasper's final prep this evening, The Garden was an exclusive, bordering on paranoiac, private club, offered once monthly to selected individuals who were BDSM actives. After Jasper's ‘guy' managed to get me an invitation to be considered for an invitation, we sat together on my sofa last Sunday night with a bottle of red wine for me and proceeded to lay it all out there in a orderly fashion for someone I'd most likely never fix my eyes on.
I dug in my heels; there was no way I would be admitted. Jasper was more stubborn; how would I know if I didn't try. I rolled my eyes. He rolled his eyes. I drank and finished the bottle of Sirrah just as the fax machine on my printer was connecting with the fax number on my application. Under separate email I was instructed to forward a recent picture, inscribed with the signatures of two witnesses, as well as a copy of my driver's license. I was surprised they didn't want anything notarized.
I felt invaded by these details; Jasper felt they kept me safer, so he could send me off on my own. True to his word, we hadn't slept together again, but it certainly hadn't subtracted sexuality out of our relationship. He asked questions, I covered my face in awkward horror, he asked again. By the time I sat in front of those gates, I felt ready to come out in a small gathering of two hundred or so of my here-to-fore unknown friends as a newly minted and ready-for-perusal submissive.
So I thought.
I also had the $500 membership fee to spare since I'd come home early from London. If they accepted me. Which, of course, they wouldn't.
The substantial square envelope arrived Thursday enclosed in a larger overnight mail envelope. The cardstock was heavy linen and a lovely warm cream, typeface something regal but simple and a bit blocky. Embossed, not thermal printed, slate gray ink. Hm. Interesting choice. This wasn't just a card, it spoke volumes: expensive, exclusive and a very private enclave.
And apparently I had been admitted as a provisional member.
I checked myself one last time, handed the keys to the tuxedo-clad valet and stepped through the French doors.
"Ms. Oksanen?" I was approached by a very nondescript brunette, mid-length hair, brown eyes, friendly but reserved. "Good evening. "
"Uhmm. Yes, hello," I mumbled.
"If I might see your wrist?" I held it out to her, and she clasped a heavy silver link bracelet with a small heart hanging from the clasp. "Please don't remove this," she said, still smiling evenly. "Your sponsor is in the front sitting room if you'd like to say hello." She stood aside, indicating a wide sunporch. "Just through here."
Before I could form a sensible reply, she had disappeared as quickly as she'd come. I inhaled, bracing myself, and started to the front sitting room. I must have been announced.
"Ah, you must be Kate," said a tall blond man as he approached me, not at all what I'd expected. In fact his widow's peak with slightly receding hairline, clear hazel eyes and starched white shirt with cuffs, turned back over muscled and tanned forearms, all indicated a businessman possibly ten years or so older than me who'd just arrived home and was casually relaxing with the weekend's first martini.
"Carlisle?"
"Yes, hello. I've heard so much from Jasper about you and your recent discoveries." He took my hand and smiled down warmly at me.
"Um... yes."
"So nice to meet you. Our friend has lovely things to say about you."
Oh... this is the 'guy?'
"It's very exciting, the journey you've undertaken, Kate. "
At that moment, my feelings were so far removed from excitement all I could do was smile tersely again and nod. He stepped closer, and I had the distinct sensation of evaluation.
"You really have no reason to worry, Kate. You're quite safe."
I nodded again.
"Why don't you have a look around, Kate? I'll catch up with you later and maybe then you'll feel ready to talk."
"I'm sorry," I said quickly, wincing at how horribly wrong this was going.
"Kate, not to worry. I think you're rather overwhelmed with information and emotion, most likely a good dose of fear in the bargain."
I laughed with a quick burst of air and nodded again. He was even repeating my name, trying to settle me down. I knew it.
"What should I... where should I go"
"There are several playrooms downstairs, as well as more private gatherings upstairs, although I'd advise you to keep to public spaces this time. You don't seem ready for more than observation."
"God... I'm so... pathetic."
"Hardly. Do you know how many people wouldn't have even stepped to the door the first time?"
"Rea-" My response was cut short by a loud ‘thwak' that made me jump.
"Ah, maybe you should start across the foyer, sounds like they're getting started. Public scene, very mild." He offered his arm, and I accepted, allowing him to lead me across the dimly lit foyer to an alcove which opened into another sitting room. "Here you are. Let's meet up later for a glass of wine, shall we? I do ask that the guests confine alcohol to the rear of the house only, and we keep things fair by restricting re-admittance to the play areas after anyone's had anything to drink.
Well, that was... sensible. Hmmm...
"Thank you, yes, I'll see you later and, um... keep that in mind. "
"Kate, take it lightly, okay?"
"Yes, alright." I felt more at ease and smiled at him.
Another loud smack promptly erased my acclimation.
I stood in the deep shadow of the alcove and watched as a tall, lean man, dressed in a white t-shirt and jeans, with the most unusual shade of red hair squatted before a pommel horse. Draped over it was a small brunette in what appeared to be a cheerleader's skirt.
I withdrew into the shadows, rolling my eyes. Buffy had been bad, I thought snarkily.
The man stroked the woman's head and returned to his place behind her, raised a flexible looking black leather paddle.
"Yellow, yellow, yellow!" the woman cried. The red... no - that rosy ginger color looked just like copper in this light - copper-haired man looked up, exasperated, across the room. Two pairs of footsteps echoed on the marble floor, coming closer, then passing by me.
A man and woman, as impressive as any that could be seen on a catwalk or red-carpet, strode by and paused just beyond the alcove. She was tall, close to my height, with long delicate limbs and a tumble of golden blonde waves. Although her natural stature would have made her imposing to many, she added at least five inches to her height with a pair of torturous-looking black patent leather boots that laced up her long legs and concealed the bottom of her black trousers. The hard line of her lower half was contrasted with an elaborate white satin corset, overlaid with black lace and bound together with wide black ribbon. Her costume was set off with an impressive pile of pearl necklaces that surpassed the single strand I wore, black opera length gloves and a... policeman's cap? Leaning forward slightly, I confirmed it was, indeed, a city policeman's cap.
She spoke with an air of slight disinterest to copper-hair, who, now that he was closer, revealed pair of alarming clear green eyes beneath hawkish brows. His perfectly unkempt hair waved and bounced as he spoke emphatically. Behind him, I spotted the brunette raise her head slightly. Even at this distance I could see her eyes wrinkle with a smile.
She was playing with him! It wasn't him in control, it was her! How sneaky... I actually gaped, open-mouthed at her defiance, given the assumed role she played. My eyes narrowed, and I shook my head slowly.
Brat!
Suddenly, I felt exposed and... evaluated. Glancing back at the gathering at the side, I saw the other newcomer was watching me, his face highlighted with an array of dimples and crinkling smile lines. He towered over the blonde by several inches, even with her heeled boots, and over the paddle-wielding redhead, who I now realized was dressed like, oh no! Danny Zuko from "Grease". Yes he was. Even down to his black Chuck Taylors.
My eyes flittered back to the taller man, and I swallowed thickly when I realized he was still watching me. I saw him hold up an index finger towards his companions and approach me.
Hooo man, look at the size of those hands...
"Good evening," he said in a voice I'd call butterscotch for the ears. Not a scholarly interpretation, but a sound like that transcended academic quantification. He looked at me, slightly bemused, as he approached, and I found my feet propelling me back into the solid frame of my alcove observation post. His bright eyes, blue like a tiny flower I remembered my mother planting but couldn't name, were set off by a cropped mop of warm chestnut curls.
I actually caught myself gasping a little. This wasn't a tasteful gathering like Jasper said Carlisle described. It was like a party cast with Ford Models.
As he strode up to me, I caught myself and looked at the floor respectfully. A gust of Opium, my sister's favorite perfume, snaked around me in it's spicy familiarity. I shifted my eyes slightly as the blonde woman slid by, pausing to look at me.
"Hello, pet," she purred in my ear. My stomach tumbled in answer, and I muttered a quiet response. "Sweet, you're Carlisle's little guest, aren't you?" She moved closer until her body was within centimeters of mine, and I realized, too late, her legs straddled my hand as I fisted nervously around the long cuff of my black crepe blouse. Her hips shifted slightly, and I sensed heat radiating down on my bare skin. That was no accident of proximity. "Answer me, pet."
"Um... yes," I managed to spit out. She leaned even closer, and I flinched as her pubic bone hit my forearm. If I moved at all, my arm would press into her.
"I just made you wet, little baby subbie, didn't I?" she said right into my ear. My body shuddered in response, shocking me, and I looked more intently at the floor. She was right. I'd never reacted to another woman that way in my life. "Mmmmmm...?"
"Rose, aren't you expecting someone?" I heard Butterscotch say in what I knew was a combination of friendly remonstrance and real authority. If she was tantalizing, he was completely enthralling. The commanding tone behind his warm regard for the blonde made my body home towards him as my pulse quickened. I stubbornly kept my eyes on the floor when I wanted nothing more than to look at him again as the small brushfires of arousal warmed me.
"Jesus, Em, it's a party. Try to have some fun."
She was gone without acknowledging me.
"You don't have to do that," he said quietly. I floundered in my mind, unsure what he meant. "You don't need permission to speak, either."
I raised my head, feeling extremely foolish. Of course.
"Don't get me wrong, I appreciate it and understand what you're doing, but you don't, in fact, shouldn't lower your eyes to anyone your first night around this lifestyle. It sends out the wrong message, and in certain environments that, and something like this," he indicated the silver bracelet I was given when I arrived, "could put you in a bad situation."
I looked up at him and felt my shoulders lower as tension ebbed from my body.
"I see, thank you."
"Sure," he shrugged his shoulders, then looked back at Danny Zuko. "Out of curiosity, what did you see that caused you to react like that just now. Before Rose and I came over, I mean."
"Um... well, "
"Look, it's okay if you'd rather not say. I just thought you might have observed something in this scene that surprised you."
"She was watching the three of you," I said as softly as possible. "She saw his frustration and smiled at it."
He shook his head, laughing softly. "Brat," he said, shaking his head.
My thoughts exactly. Odd.
He seemed more like an indulgent big brother than an awe-inspiring Dom I imagined he could be.
The sudden mental collision of him and the concept of Dominant, as I knew it so far, made my body react again, this time not violent and frightening, but like it was responding naturally. I swallowed heavily, smoothing my bottom lip with my tongue. The friendly smile he wore shifted into something softer, and charmingly, a little lop-sided.
"Pardon me just a minute," he said and turned back to the other man. They spoke quietly and then broke apart. He paused and watched as his friend went back to the cheerleader skirted... brat. I laughed a little inwardly at the word. Her Dom? Master? Owner?... I had no idea what the context of their relationship was... lifted her chin so their eyes met and appeared to speak to her. A small smile creased her face, and his grip on her chin appeared to tighten slightly. Her eyes dropped, and she shook her head emphatically. He stood and held the paddle in front of her, waiting. Her body seemed to shift somehow, more in its apparent intention than actual position, and she kissed the paddle softly. He rose from his crouch and stood directly in front of her, his waist within a whisper of her bent head.
"Now, that was how many?"
"Five, Sir."
"And for using your safeword to control the punishment you agreed to instead of accepting what you've earned?"
"Five, Sir." Her voice betrayed no fear, in fact she sounded strong and quite clear.
"Why am I adding the additional strokes, Bella-girl?"
"Because I used my safeword 'yellow' to make you stop. I wasn't scared or hurt, I wanted to control the pace and force you used, Sir."
"And why is that problematic, Bella-girl?"
"It erodes trust, Sir. It shows unwillingness to submit to your judgment, Sir. You were kind to me by offering me a choice, and I took advantage of that, Sir."
"That's acceptable for now." He moved again to his position behind her. "Count out, Bella-girl."
The large leather paddle was pliable, and I knew, from my research, designed to make noise and impress more than cause actual pain, despite it's sinister look.
The tall Dom was back beside me, grinning like he'd just witnessed a wayward puppy or toddler do something charming in it's willfulness.
"Would you like to step outside? The interesting part is over, I promise," he said with a small laugh. It was disarming, the number of times he'd indicated some level of amusement in the few minutes I'd been in his presence: his unbelievably attractive and charismatic presence. I could see how he might seem intimidating, particularly because of his truly exquisite face coupled with his height and obviously strong, substantial body. To me, his size and apparent power immediately made me feel safe and brave; his face was an invitation to be intoxicated by physical beauty.
God, Kate. Wax rhapsodic much? My inner adolescent chided.
"Sure," I agreed and stepped aside. He actually ducked a bit as he passed through the alcove, probably just out of habit rather than necessity. I followed him back to the front sitting room where I'd met Carlisle.
"By the way, hi." He held out his hand and shook mine firmly. I fought the urge to step closer, ignoring the hazy molecules of fantasies about his hand that were gathering rapidly just outside of my full attention.
"Hi, I'm Kate."
"Em. Nice to meet you, Kate." He withdrew his hand and crossed his arms over his chest, thumbs falling along the slope of his well-defined pectoral muscles under a fitted black t-shirt.
"M?" I crinkled my forehead, confused. Was that like a screen name or nom de plume?
And why was he distracting me by showing off that chest?
"Eh-m. Em. Just what I prefer to go by when I'm around the lifestyle and not in a scene. Keeps everything neat and in it's place."
"Oh... okay. I understand now. I'm... well, just Kate." I smiled with a shrug.
"But Katherine? Katie?"
"Oh... Katarina."
"Katarina? Beautiful name."
"We all have vaguely Russo-Finnish sounding names, but we're actually Karelian. It's a separate ethnic group within the original Finnish border -"
"Whose population was almost totally forcibly removed from their land in the Winter War with Russia prior to World War II."
"Wow, I'm impressed. "
"Me too," he said, raising his eyebrows. "That history minor was a long, long time ago."
We laughed easily together, smiling and looking into each other's eyes until weight began to gather behind our mutual regard. I'm not sure who looked away first.
"So Katarina-Kate, "
"Yes, Em -M?"
He laughed, which made me inexplicably proud. His thumbs tapped absently at his chest, and I fought the urge to blatantly stare... or compete with them for a touch.
"You've covered probably a good forty percent of the fetishists here tonight. "
His smile never wavered, but there was a minuscule shift of his eyes that made me wonder if he immediately regretted saying it. I played along, hoping to save him if, indeed, he felt awkward.
"How so?" I put on my best flirtatious smile; it felt utterly false. He leaned back, appraising me from toe to head.
"Heel fetishist, stocking fetishists, librarian fantasists..."
"Librarian?"
"You're dressed like a librarian." His smile stretched, and the shadow passed through his eyes again.
"I just... um, I was trying to look conservative, you know, blend in?"
"You could never blend, Katarina-Kate."
Did I just blush? Did that happen at my age?
"Witchcraft," he chuckled and turned away, starting for the sun porch.
"I'm sorry? "I asked, scurrying after him like a little puppy. He paused and looked over his shoulder at me.
"‘You have witchcraft in your lips, Kate. There is more eloquence in a sugar-touch of them than in the tongues of the French council,'." He turned again and walked on, clearly expecting me to follow.
"But that was Katherine," I said to myself, blinking at the odd reference.
He paused at a door and turned again, the smile faltered a bit. "Oops. You got me."
I did?
Then why is he walking away?