Fuck me.
I realized I was doing it again: self-sabotage. When it comes to S&M, I was both sides of the coin. I loved the feeling of slapping the ever-loving bejeezus out of someone with a leather whip, but I did the same shit to myself mentally. I was a sadistic masochist. What the hell was it about me that tried to undo any potential happiness that came my way?
I flipped through my recipe box. I didn’t really know why. Was it to remind myself why I had this fetish? To show myself all the fun I’d had over the years? Or was it to prove what a bitch I was—reminding myself of all the men whom I threw away?
I held on to one card a bit too long. The title simply read CHOCOLATE DECADENCE.
I fanned myself, remembering that day.
“Ms. Norrel,” Brent crooned, “I hope you’re hungry.”
I walked into my home, and the scent of chocolate and other indulgent sweets filled the air. I smirked, wondering what Brent had concocted for today’s scene. I didn’t eat all day in anticipation of this buffet.
Hot damn, I thought to myself as I walked into the kitchen. Brent was there, shirtless and collared as usual, licking cake batter off his fingers. He reached into the bowl for more and gave the remaining batter a good stir. I watched his tongue curl around the long length of the spoon and nearly fainted.
“Your usual pastry chef cancelled today, sadly, so the chef asked me to fill in,” he explained in a low voice, seemingly not noticing the chocolate dripping onto his abs.
I could barely control myself.
“Are we to have a tasting?” I asked, and bit my lip in anticipation.
He nodded, an impish grin creeping up his face. “Whatever you’d like.” He walked over to the table and I saw what he had been working on. Cupcakes, some parfaits, a whole array of desserts were placed in front of me.
All desserts, I noticed, that are lickable. Not bad, Brent.
“I think I know what I’d like,” I said, pulling him close to me by his dog collar. I could feel the heat off his chest as I yanked him near. I bent low and slowly licked the drip that had nearly reached his hips.
He groaned.
We “ate.”
I spent the next week getting chocolate out of my ropes.
I frowned at myself for reading any recipe cards having to do with Brent, especially that one. It was one of our best times together—before he got too clingy, too needy. I had always tried to keep a professional distance from my subs, and with good reason. They were to submit to me sexually—that is what they were there for. They were not in my home to be my friends or be my boyfriends. They were there for me to tie up and fuck.
But Brent wanted more, and subsequently, he got less. There were times in the last month when I pictured what it would have been like if I did allow him to be closer to me. What the hell would I do with him? I couldn’t imagine going to the movies with him, or out to dinner with him. He was so submissive that it would have bled into every crevice of our relationship. I bet he’d even cut up my steak for me.
Was this me talking, or was it the Unabomber inside me bent on blowing shit up? I needed a hoodie and sunglasses for that, though, right?
No, I decided, I didn’t need a boyfriend. I never imagined having kids, although I was sure I’d be great at bossing them around. What else were guys good for other than banging? I had people to talk to and hang out with. I had TV and movies for when I got bored. Boys were messy and smelly and entirely unnecessary.
What was the use of a man aside from being something to bounce up and down on?