Vanilla On Top(20)

“Spill, Heather.” Carla smiles. “You’re five shades of red, right now. I want to know what off-color thoughts you’ve got spinning in that pretty little head of yours.”

“Tony came over to my place last night.”

Carla squeals with delight, leaping out of her chair to hug me. “Oh, my God. Tell me everything. Did he stay the night?” She hastily returns to her seat, eager eyes glued on me.

“No!” I laugh at her exuberance. “Come on, Carla. You know me better than that.”

She waves me off. “Yeah, yeah. A girl can hope. So, how did it go?”

I sigh, the deep breath spilling out of me and taking my tension with it. “Incredible. We talked and ate for hours.”

“And then?” Her eyes widen. “What happened for dessert?”

I squirm in my chair, unwilling to share too much in a public place, especially after she broadcasted my patio exploits over coffee. “I fed him chocolate covered strawberries…from my mouth.”

“Ooo…sexy. Nice touch.” She digs into her soup. “Then did he do you all night and you booted him out before morning?” Humor lights her eyes as she waggles her eyebrows.

“No…but we both had a satisfying evening, if you get my meaning.”

“Damn, hon, I’ve known you for years. Of course, I get your meaning. I just want to know the how.”

I look out the window, uncomfortable with revealing the intimate details and my actions of the evening. “Not much to tell, really.”

“Oh come on, did you tell him what to do again? Order him around like some dominatrix?”

Anger lights inside me, swift and sure over her belittling question. What Tony and I shared last night was intimate, not some power play enacted for a man who wants to be told he’s a bad boy and needs to be whipped and humiliated to reach orgasm.

“It’s nothing like that, Carla.” I put down my spoon, no longer hungry. “I don’t dominate him or humiliate him, for crying out loud. It’s just good, clean fun.”

Carla’s demeanor changes when she sees I’ve taken offense. “Okay, relax. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to piss you off. Geesh, you’re sensitive today.”

My mouth opens to apologize and I snap it shut. She says something crappy and I’m the one who needs to say I’m sorry? The old Heather would have bent over backward, accepting fault for a misunderstanding, but the new me is saying not today, dammit.

“I’m sensitive because you implied what I’m doing makes me a dominatrix?”

Carla’s hands fly up in a stop motion, palms facing me. “Whoa. You’re right. It was the wrong choice of words.” She smiles, possibly hoping to put us back on firmer ground. “Besides, if we were going to get technical,” she winks to show she’s kidding, “I bet you’d fall under the category of a ‘vanilla dom.’”

My anger deflates as I think about her words. I may not be ready for whips, chains, humiliation, and name-calling…but I do like the sound of vanilla. “Is that a real term? Vanilla dom?”

“Nah.” She relaxes, sitting back in her chair now that the tension has drained between us. “But if it was, you’d be it.”

We finish our meal in companionable silence, talking about our own up-coming weeks every now and then. She’s traveling to Philly and we won’t get to hook up again until at least Friday. We leave and go our separate ways, my invitation to have her join me for shopping turned down once she complained about laundry and packing. I’ve got several hours before meeting Tony and decide to shop on my own.

I catch sight of my reflection in a passing mirror, pleased anew with my bouncy curls. More male eyes seem to be drawn toward me, and I’m not sure if it’s the hair or my attitude.

Strolling toward my destination, the indoor mall on Broadway, I spot a black corset in a shop window. A quick glance at the leather shop’s signage has me smiling. I may not be a biker chick, but I bet I’ll find some fun stuff in here.

The rich smell of new leather fills my senses as I enter. The muted lighting and loud music almost feel at odds with one another, each giving off a separate and distinct vibe. Coats, chaps, boots, shirts, pants—dozens of colors and textures hang on racks and wall displays. You name it, it’s here and made of leather.

A rugged man in his late thirties with sideburns and a wickedly sexy grin approaches me. “Can I help you find something today?”

I try my best not to stare at the swirl of colorful tattoos over his chest and arms peeking behind his skimpy black leather vest. “Yes. I like the black corset in the window.”