I don’t want to be submissive. Even the word pisses me off. Centuries of subjugation will do that to a girl: women are kind of sensitive about any show of weakness, or any masculine show of force. Well, most of us anyway, but certainly not all those women in scanty clothes at the club.
Okay, I don’t get that at all. Maybe it’s because I’m sexually naïve? Or maybe I’m just built differently… but I just don’t find pain erotic and I don’t understand anyone who does. But damn: that club was sure jam-packed Friday night with people who do.
I must accordingly concede one point to him: sexually, I like his being in control—at least my body likes it, responding instantly to his commands. Matter of fact, it’s damn irritating how my body betrays my mind—he’ll do something and I’ll tell him I don’t like it and then he touches me—you know where—and instantly knows otherwise. So unfair.
So here we sit, in his beautiful new living room on his beautiful new houseboat, watching a silly British comedy, of all things. So not Ian Blackmon. He’s laughing at the show—a sketch about an overweight support group. He must feel my eyes on him because he swivels his attention from the television and looks over, catching me staring.
For a long minute he just looks into my eyes and I try like hell not to break first. But I do. Of course.
He suddenly stands and holds out his hand. “Come.”
“Where are we going?”
“I thought a steam shower would be nice.”
“First give me the unabbreviated house tour.” I place my hand in his and he pulls me to my feet. Smiling, he leads me first to the kitchen.
His new houseboat is charming and relatively simple, though luxurious. The floors are a dark gleaming wood throughout. The walls are all done in Venetian plaster, with bronze old-world style fixtures. The kitchen is state of the art, naturally, since he does so much cooking—not.
Upstairs, each bedroom—and there are three—has its own en suite bath. The guest rooms are not large but comfortable, however, the master is sumptuous, and leads to the balcony I spied from outside. Inside the room, across from the sleigh bed, are a wood-burning fireplace and a magnificent Persian rug gracing the wood floor. The bath is done in Carrera marble subway tile from floor to ceiling and the furnishings are all dark wood with brushed nickel fixtures. There’s a huge double steam shower and a big, rectangular whirlpool tub. Very masculine but the height of luxury as far as baths go.
“Bath or shower?” he asks.
“I’d prefer a shower, if you don’t mind.”
“A shower it is then.” He reaches in and turns on multiple sets of showerheads that protrude all the way down each wall. “After you, Madame.”
I slip off the robe and step into the shower. The water is steaming hot, too hot for me, and as I move to retreat a step, I run into a wall. Of man.
“Not so fast.”
I can feel his enormous erection pressing into my back and it stops me dead in my tracks. “It’s too hot, Ian.”
“Give it a moment. You’ll get used to it.”
Reaching for the shower gel, he soaps up his hands and begins to wash my back… and everything else.
The water is still hot enough to scald but I am getting used to it. Why do men like such hot water? My father is like that, too. The thought of my father right now where I am is disturbing so I banish him from my brain. It’s my turn to wash Ian and as I do, I once again marvel at his physique. “How many hours a week do you spend working out?” I finally ask.
“Generally, two to three hours about four times a week.”
“That’s a lot. When do you find time?”
He shrugs dismissively. “My trainer comes to me at the office during the week and we get together one weekend day every other week.”
“Hmmm. What kind of work-out?”
“Kickboxing, running, some weight training. I don’t want to bulk up too much—just keep my stamina high and the fat off.” He grins. “So far, so good.”
“Not bad,” I say with a smirk, as my hands travel from his throat down, washing him slowly and thoroughly and seeing evidence of his enjoyment grow bigger before my eyes.
We make love twice more before we fall asleep. Ian has mostly kept the kink out of the bedroom tonight—I suppose the whipping is ever-present in both of our minds. Still, with his overpowering personality, he yet manages to exert control over me in some measure and I find I don’t mind it. The last time we were together I felt I was tolerating the whole thing. Now, for whatever reason, I actively like it. The idea of submitting to him turns me on, makes everything seem hotter. This night has been one of the best of my life and I don’t want it to end.