I stand too, but she backs away. This is like a scene gone wrong, but I can’t release my ropes and cuddle her to make it better.
She’s nearly at the stairs when I call out. “Bring your questions this weekend. Everyone will be in the car and you can get more than just my stupid country-ass opinion.”
She pauses mid-step, one foot on the stair, hand on the rail. Her gaze pins me in place. “You’re far from stupid, Alex. And I love the country.”
Her words pierce through a protective layer around my heart I wasn’t aware was there until she busted it wide open. Drawn to her, I rush around the sofa, but by the time I clear the open living room to get to the stairs, I only catch the briefest glimpse of her as she darts down the hallway. I swear I hear a sobbing noise. What the fuck did I do?
The stairs slow me down because I don’t want to break my neck on the Victorian era treads. Not designed for my big ole feet. One of which I must have shoved in my mouth back there. She’s almost to her room. “SJ?”
My call doesn’t slow her. She’s in the room, door closed, lock snicking into place. I grip the frame and lean my forehead against the door. “I’m sorry,” I say in a low whisper.
I have no clue what I did, but I hurt her and I don’t know how to fix it.
The bigger issue is I want to.
Ten
SJ
The question and answer session with Alex last night wasn’t a total waste despite my losing my shit when he mentioned pictures. Up until that moment, the sore spot had been hidden. Even his gentle reference, tore me open and grief ripped through me. The loss of my innocence. The humiliating exposure of my uncle seeing me like that. The morally gray situation I find myself in. I like Alex. He’s a genuinely nice person, and I’m supposed to help ruin his life?
He’s already gone when I finally dragged myself to breakfast. Amy, so super sweet, only adds to my guilt with her offers of fresh pots of coffee and fresh cooked eggs. I can’t fake that I’m here just an author now, so I choose to hide in my room and work on writing as if doing the writing will erase the fact I’m supposed to hurt Alex. Thankfully, the wording for the website comes together easily. At least phrases.
Sail into your dream vacation. Cruise into elegance. Take a banyan from the everyday. Your fantasy is dead ahead. You can’t fathom how good life can be until you stay at the Yacht Club.
I could keep writing these phrases for days, playing with the words, but I’m distracted by the characters of my book that calls to me.
Shelly sailed into the dungeon, searching for the Dom that had captured her in his web. She wasn’t a submissive, swore she’d never be caught in his net again, but his wry smile and blue-eyed gaze destroyed her resistance. The club called to her like a siren seduced the unwary sailors. The rocks loomed, but she couldn’t protect herself. There. Onstage. Rope in his hand, he wound it around and around the black haired beauty, each tightly controlled wrap squeezing the air from Shelly’s chest, slicing into her heart.
The muscles of his bare back rippled with intensity. The dark leather of his pants showcased the line of his ass, the lean tension in his thighs. She moved closer as he caressed the naked woman’s nipple. The touch shot through Shelly’s body like a harpoon, as if she was the one in his embrace. Tears pricked her eyes.
Yes, she’d stayed away. Told him she would never return. But he had to know she was a liar. Had to know she could never live without him. He glanced up. Caught her eye and dropped his line. Her heartbeat stuttered as he fumbled to regain control. For a moment, they were both frozen, connected but unable to bridge the distance that gaped between their bodies. He turned, whispered in the ear of his bunny. Shelly couldn’t watch any more. She should never have come back there, to his lair. She spun and raced up the stairs, away from the dungeon and what was left of her ability to love.
I think it’s good. Maybe a bit over written, but the dark moment is supposed to be dark. There are too many nautical references, I’ve been distracted by the copy for the club. Or not distracted, but infused. If I want this book to be something worth publishing, I should focus on the bondage aspect, not sirens and sailors. Although, that’d be a great name for the bar at the club. I write it down in my notebook before I shift my attention back to my laptop and the Shibari sites I’ve bookmarked.
I stumble onto rope videos on a free porn site. Most of them are too harsh for me, and I quickly click away. But this guy. He’s not attractive to me, too skinny. But the more I watch, the deeper I’m pulled. There are dozens of films. Each with a different woman of all shapes and sizes. He adores them, the ropes are like paintbrushes in the hands of an artist, he wraps their bodies up safely so they can let go completely and he can pleasure them. This bondage lights me up. He slides his cock slowly into one of his partners, its long length disappearing into the V of her bound thighs. Her eyes go soft and heavy, and her breath catches as he fills her completely. My body craves that feeling, I sneak my fingers inside my pants, underneath the elastic of the panties.
I’m wet.
My fingers slip along my lips easily, teasing my clit.
He moves faster, his narrow hips bucking into the softness of her. He grasps the the coils of his rope around her body, securing her in place so that he can fuck her to orgasm. The image blurs, and it’s Alex’s arms, holding the ropes, riding the woman I imagine is me.
I follow his pace, teasing my clit, fucking my pussy.
Her mouth opens in a silent scream and her back arches. He slides his hand to the front of her pussy and works her clit like I’m working mine. The other hand still holding her close, her position exactly what he designed. His pace quickens, jutting into her, his glistening length making teasing appearances. I can almost imagine my fingers are his cock. One last thrust and his body goes rigid, arcing deep into his partner. I let go with him, shaking and coming. Clenching my jaw to keep form calling out his name.
As my panting slows and I can finally breathe again, I close the browser window into the strangers’ intimacy. I glance at the door. Did I make noise? Did Alex hear me? Did I lock the door? Alex could be right outside, listening to me get myself off. He could open the door and catch me watching porn and fingering myself. He could tie me up, wrapping me in his ropes, and fucking me senseless.
It’s a fantasy and it needs to stay that way. Remain research for the website—for my book. But to write the story, I have to understand what it means to be bound willingly on every level: physically, emotionally, sexually. Several videos give instruction on how to self-tie, I have them bookmarked.
I need rope.
Now.
I wash my hands and straighten my clothes, pulling my wild hair into a ponytail. My skin has a healthy glow from the pleasure I gave myself. I want more.
Minutes later, I’m pulling my rental car into a parking spot in front of a block of store fronts. They remind me of a postcard from the 1950s, all picture glass windows framed in brick with store names in gold or red or blue vinyl stickers. The hardware store I found online is in the middle of the cluster and the sign on the door is turned to “Open.” A bell that’s tied to the handle inside rings as I push it open. An elderly man behind a green formica counter with a cash register sitting on top calls out a greeting despite being busy ringing up items for a man in overalls.
