“You must really need to know someone before you try that,” she murmured. Strangely, she found herself thinking, I could trust you. But why was that? She’d only just met him—objectively there was no reason for her to trust him, other than that he seemed to be, well, trustworthy. But unlike her parents, he didn’t make her feel like an idiot, he didn’t twist her words to mean what she clearly didn’t—he respected her enough to take her opinions seriously, even if they didn’t always agree. As a case in point: another bottle of wine and another plate of tapas floated by—crispy eggplant, covered in aioli sauce.
What the hell, she was thinking. It wasn’t as if she would ever model again—at nineteen, she was officially “middle-aged” as a model, and if she reached twenty-one without obtaining supermodel status the most modeling she’d ever do would be as one of the nudes for the art department at Montco. And what the hell, too: her parents would be furious with her anyway for going on a date like this—she might as well give them a reason to be infuriated. It was a shitty reason to have sex for the first time—but at least he would know what he was doing, which was more than she could say for any of her other dates.
He sighed and continued, “And then there are people who aren’t wired that way—for them, pain is just pain. There’s no pleasure in it, and no matter how much they want it they just can’t feel it, you know? My ex was one of those. We tried for six months—and then she filed for divorce, and the rumors began. I spent a small fortune settling that—and, well, my reputation has never recovered.”
“That’s hardly fair,” she said, sympathetically.
“It is what it is,” he said, popping a crumb-covered fried mushroom into his mouth. “But that’s why your parents don’t like me, and truth be told, I wouldn’t approve of you dating me, either. I’m quite the disreputable charmer, according to those who know.”
“So charm me,” she said, “if you can.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. “The kinds of role-play I like aren’t for virgins who have yet to discover what turns them on.”
“I haven’t had sex yet,” she said, evenly. “That doesn’t mean I don’t know what turns me on.” It was a lie—she didn’t know what she wanted just yet—but she did know that his description of pain and pleasure had excited her curiosity like nothing else.
He frowned at her, studying her. “You have to want it because it’s what makes you happy,” he said. “I can’t give you that.”
“Then teach me,” she said.
“All right.” He reached under the table and rested his hand on her thigh, tracing his thumb back and forth across the tender skin on the inside of her thighs. A shiver ran through her, and from it, came a tiny little spark of anticipation.
His hand moved slightly higher up her thighs, but his thumb was still making that slow sweep back and forth, back and forth, setting off tremors of anticipation all over her skin—but just when she was getting turned on by it—just when she could feel herself getting wet and hot—he stopped.
“What—” she began, her voice hardly more than a whisper.
“Rule number one,” he said, softly. “You can always say ‘stop’. It won’t always be that word, exactly—but when we get to my house we can pick a safe word. Until then, though—if it ever gets to be too much, you can always say ‘stop’, and I will stop, and I’ll bring you home, and we’ll never speak of it again.”
“Got it,” she said, wishing he would resume.
“Rule number two,” he continued, “total honesty. I will always tell you what I’m going to do to you—but it is up to you to tell me what you think is all right.”
“I can live with that,” she said, and then she felt his hand work her skirt up all the way. She gasped—not at the embarrassment of being exposed like that—there was nobody to see, not where they were sitting—but at the suddenness of it, the audacity the man had. And what she felt was glee.
“Rule number three,” he said. “Complete submission. As long as I tell you what I’m going to do and as long as you say it’s all right, you must obey me. Even if it means getting down on your hands and knees, right here and now, and blowing me in front of the entire restaurant.”
“Do you really want that?” she asked.
“No, but I do want to cut those spaghetti straps, so that the only thing between you and a public indecency charge is that bolero that doesn’t quite close all the way.”
She looked at him, feeling as though it was some kind of test. She had no compunctions about showing off her breasts—she’d modeled half-naked before, and between the lighting guys and the cameras and the makeup crew modesty was one of the first things to go on set. But here—this was a restaurant. He was right that the bolero would keep her breasts covered, but neither did she want to spend the entire night worrying about a nipple accidentally popping out.
“Not here,” she said, finally. “The company’s too nice.”
“But elsewhere?”
She nodded. He raised his hand for the check—and then she wondered what she’d gotten herself into.
He took her to a movie theater. It was pretty crowded, being Friday night, and the movie wasn’t anything remarkable, something about a boy and his dog. But no sooner had they taken their seats when he leaned over and whispered, “Now, I want to cut the straps of your top.”
She nodded, feeling a tightness coiling in the pit of her stomach. He pulled out his pocketknife and sliced through the straps, and reached through her bolero and pulled the sequined top down to her waist. Nobody seemed to notice—the seat backs were relatively high and when she threw a discreet glance sideways the young couples on either side were too busy kissing and making out to notice. As soon as the cold air kissed her breasts, she shuddered—and realized that she was completely at his mercy. All it would take was a single flick and she would be exposed.
“Put your head on my chest,” he whispered, as the movie started.
She did as he told her. It felt nice, to have his heartbeat in her ear while the movie began—and then his hands began toying with her breasts, his fingers gently squeezing her nipples, nearly making her cry out with an odd sensation of pain and curiously intense anticipation. She felt her hips begin to grind into the seat, almost of their own accord, and then he whispered, “I want to touch you. I want to feel that moment you become wet, when you become a woman under my hands.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
She could feel his arm snaking around her body, and his hand snaked its way down her skirt and cupped her pussy. “So smooth,” he breathed, “so soft.”
And then his fingers resumed squeezing her nipples, extracting little bolts of lust from her and all of a sudden one of them went straight into her crotch and it took everything she had not to cry out as she felt wetness soak his hand, her panties, her skirt. “Taste yourself,” he said, now, moving his fingers to her mouth. “One at a time, don’t get greedy, now—yes, just like that—”
Salty-sour-sweet—and the skin on his hands were so soft, she’d give anything to be touched with those hands again. “Silent,” he whispered, as a whimper rose in her throat. “If I hear a sound out of you I strip you naked right here.”
She clenched her teeth as he touched her pussy again, this time reaching between the folds until he found the little swollen bud of her clit. Her entire body clenched and coiled as the need built up, like water building up behind a close hose. If he didn’t let her go it would explode out of her—
“Yes,” he whispered. “You want to cry out, don’t you?”
She could only nod, the tears in her eyes blurring the image on the screen—she thought she could hear people snickering at her but in the darkness of the theater she could see nothing. Then he whispered, “Do you want to come?”
She had only a vague idea of what was meant by “coming”—something with a lot of screaming—but it was exactly what she wanted to do. She nodded.
“Then come with me, let’s go home.”
***
She’d thought he meant back to her home, but at some point in the dark she realized that he’d taken a turn into the rural countryside; that part of the East Coast had some houses dating back to the colonial days, and she soon found herself outside an old-fashioned colonial house, three stories, with a wraparound porch. It looked like a smaller version of a plantation house, and before she could say anything he said, “I wish I could say it dates from the Civil War. As it is, I just paid a very good designer very much money to make a very good mock-up.”
She stepped out, aware that her tits were flopping about all over the place, wondering if he’d meant for her to cover herself up. The fabric brushing against her nipples would not allow her to forget that she was nearly half-naked. And you’ve only just met Jack and you know he’s into BDSM and you’re going into his house. How does this end well, again?