The band’s performance raged to a climax as I felt around in my bag for the handcuffs.
I hummed with satisfaction when my fingers finally made contact, my mind soothed by the feel of cold metal. I knew the cuffs were in there, but sometimes my compulsions needed to be sated before I made my move.
My ears throbbed from the barrage of guitar solos, and I knew they would be ringing later, but I didn’t care. Eightiesfest played in Portsmouth every year to sellout crowds, and this year’s lineup was the best yet—only half the rockers had been on reality TV shows or in rehab, so the music was pure and unadulterated. I had been listening to my retro playlist for weeks in preparation for tonight’s pleasure.
I felt a vibration in my back pocket, signaling an incoming text. I smirked and slid out the phone, anticipating what was about to go down.
DRESSING ROOM THREE, it read.
I pushed my way through the crowd and headed toward security. The sweaty man crossed his meaty arms in front of himself, guarding his precious backstage. I flashed my all-access pass, and the stoic guard waved me through with a bored look on his face.
The musty hallway looked empty, probably because the opening act hadn’t finished yet. There would be forty minutes until the headliner’s performance.
Just enough time.
I looked over my shoulder and pushed through the door of dressing room three.
The room smelled like hairspray, sweat, and whiskey.
Perfect, so far.
It was carefully trashed—empty bottles of Jack Daniel’s littered the floor, cigarette smoke diffused throughout the room, and a few electric signs illuminated Alex’s muscular pecs in coordinating neon colors. He was sprawled out on the leather couch, palming his crotch in preparation for my clandestine visit.
“Hey, Blondie,” he cooed.
I popped my grape bubblegum loudly and pulled off my ID, spinning it on my finger. “So,” I began, scrunching my crispy frizz and fluffing my temporarily outrageous bangs, “your band won’t be wondering where you are?” I reached behind me and bolted the door with a loud thunk.
He took a long pull from the nearly empty whiskey bottle at his side and grimaced from the burn. “I’ve got it covered, you bodacious babe,” he said, twirling an errant drumstick clumsily between his fingers.
“Watch your grip,” I replied, commenting on the poor handling of his drumstick. I strode confidently toward the couch where he was perched and straddled him. “You ready?”
He tossed his head back and bit his smirking, full bottom lip. “What are you going to do to me? Damn, you look . . . tubular,” he moaned, grinding his leather pants into my miniskirt, trying to properly illustrate the effect I was having on him. I spat out my gum with a wet squirt.
My hot-pink heels dug into the leather couch as I appraised him. He was very attractive—tan skin, big brown eyes, and a very muscular body. My mind was already filing away all the little details of the scene.
“Wouldn’t you like to know. For now, I’d like you and that radical body to stay perfectly still,” I murmured, snatching my handcuffs and flogger from my bag and placing them within arm’s reach. I pulled him close. “Kiss me.”
He licked his lips as I leaned in and tongued his mouth. It was wet and sharp tasting from the alcohol, but soft and pliant enough to keep me turned on. He groaned and craned backward, stretching his arms above his head submissively.
I sneered. “Didn’t I tell you not to move?”
His face fell immediately. “I . . . ,” he stammered. “I just saw the handcuffs and thought . . .”
I lowered my voice and hovered over him. “Don’t think. Just do as you’re told.”
He relaxed slightly and put his hands by his sides and waited for directions.
That’s better, I thought.
“On your knees.”
He complied, and I watched his posture relax into the pose with ease. He was obviously quite used to submission.
“Pull your pants down around your thighs.”
He wiggled out of his rock-star leathers and resumed his position.
“Do traditional safe words work for you?” I asked.
He laughed gruffly. “Green.”
That meant go. I brought my flogger down hard on his ass and he flinched.
“I never assumed you were the kind who liked to be spanked, Mr. Rock Star,” I moaned, immediately regretting how cheesy that sounded. I could hear the opening act’s music pulse through the thick steel doors. I slapped to the beat of the tune.
He grunted. “You have no idea.”
I gave him a few more quick slaps on each cheek, then flipped him over and began to undo his already half-unbuttoned shirt. A fluorescent green number that matched his bandana. I grabbed the handcuffs and bound his wrists together above his head, like he had hinted earlier. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to cuff him then, it’s just that I wanted to do it at my pace.
I don’t take suggestions from submissives, I wanted to tell him, but that would break the scene. I flicked his nipples and he gasped.
“Strum my strings, baby,” he laughed.
Fuck, not again.
I dropped the flogger and stood up.
“End of scene.”
The handcuffed man protested.
“What, just like that? It’s over?”
I fumed and considered picking up the flogger to actually punish him.
“Do you even have to ask?!”
His long spiky wig shifted to the left and he went from looking insanely sexy to incredibly pathetic. Plus, his eye makeup was starting to smudge.
“Do your research before a scene. You’re pretending to be the drummer. Don’t talk about fucking guitars!”
He fidgeted in his restraints angrily. “Listen, give me another chance. Just let me please you, Mistress Cherry,” he sputtered, frustrated. “I mean, I thought things were going really well.”
I glanced down at his erection, and the fact that my panties were soaked. Yeah, things were going well. Too bad he blew it, I thought.
He continued to whine pleadingly, solidifying my decision. “Do you have any idea how much I bribed the owners of the club to use this room for our scene tonight? Couldn’t you just, I dunno, enjoy the moment instead of getting hung up on the details?”
I snatched the keys from my bag and unlocked the handcuffs with a sad clink.
“When it comes to role-play, it’s all about the details,” I explained, straightening my shoulders. “Dismissed.”
As soon as he was out the door, I grabbed an index card from my purse and began to scrawl out the facts and minutiae of today’s misadventure. When I got home, the scene would be filed away in my dirty little recipe box.
I pushed through the crowd on my way out, texting Erin the news:
“Is it possible you were overreacting?” Erin asked with a sardonic grumble, and blew into her tea.
I rolled my eyes. “It’s called having standards. And I’m tired of having this conversation.”
She leaned forward, drawing me in with her gravity. I straightened, sorry to have disappointed her. I immediately regretted the eye roll when she began to speak in her harsh Domme tone. “Dial down the scene stuff and maybe you’ll find a match.”
“It’s my fetish,” I scoffed, slightly cowed but strong in my conviction. “Why should I compromise?”
She took my hand gently. “Because you’re limiting your own happiness.”
I decided to try a new angle.
I leaned on my elbow, attempting to look casual and unruffled. “Aren’t we all thinning the herd, so to speak? I mean, we limit ourselves to submissive men. What if you met someone amazing, but he wasn’t into the scene?”
She shrugged. “I can be very convincing.”
“So can I. And I think if a man has submissive tendencies, he’d do anything to be with me. And that includes role-playing to my little heart’s content.”
I fidgeted uncomfortably under her iron gaze. She was one of the only people I knew who could unravel me, and that was why I kept her around.
It’s important to keep it real, I told myself.
“Why don’t you go pro? The girls at the dungeon would love to have you.”
I dismissed her suggestion with a wave of my hand. “I want a role-playing submissive, not a job. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, it just doesn’t do it for me.”
“Do you mind doing something for me?” she asked cryptically, snatching her phone out of her bag and texting.
I inhaled. “Sure.” I felt my abs contract with worry. She kept painfully silent for another minute while I waited.
“You’re going to play with one of my friends, Roy. He’s got a thing for green-eyed Dommes and I’ve been meaning to set you up for weeks.”
“This is a favor?” I asked.
She shook her head. “You’re technically doing yourself a favor. Because you’re not going to do a scene with him.”
I whined pathetically. “Not fair.”
She laughed loudly and the baristas behind the counter looked over at us. So much for discretion. “You are going to have some fun, Cerise, whether you like it or not.”
I threw my hands up, splashing some tea as I flailed. “I’m not just going to sleep with your friend because you say so. Or abandon my fetish!”
Now it was her turn to eye roll. “You don’t have to fuck him,” she deadpanned. “Just paddle him. Or tie him up and taunt him, I don’t know. Test out your toy collection if you want. All I’m saying is give it a shot and loosen up. You may just discover you’re a traditional Domme with role-play tendencies, and not the other way around.”
Again, she wore me down. “Fine.”
And then she changed the subject. A lot. She went on and on about her job, her family, and the dog she was thinking about buying. It didn’t dawn on me for a good half hour that she was stalling.
In fact, I didn’t realize she was killing time until a man approached our table. He was tall and skinny with a few piercings and tats. He looked more like the kind of musicians I liked rather than the typical men I was attracted to, but he was undeniably hot. Especially the collar around his neck. I felt my throat tighten nervously.
“I’m Roy,” he said, eyes downcast, bending slightly. Yup, he was a sub, all right.
“Mistress Cherry,” I said coolly.
Erin stood up with a satisfied smirk. “Well, then. I’ve done my job. You two have fun.”
I started to sweat. “Already?” I asked, my voice creaking.
She approached my still-seated form and clasped a hand on my shoulder. “Choke up on the bat, and don’t strike out.”
I giggled nervously. “I only have one strike against me.”
She laughed. “Then let the balls come your way.”
I buried my head in my hands as Roy silently watched our exchange and snickered. I raised my eyebrow at him and he promptly stopped being so amused by my embarrassment.
All I could think of while I was making out with Roy was the fact that his mouth tasted like cheap, jarred salsa. New York City–slicker stuff.
I wound my fingers in his hair, pulled his head back, and licked his neck slowly. No more kissing. My tongue swiped over his Adam’s apple, which I felt bob at my touch as he groaned.
He was tied to the chair, and I was grinding myself against him, sprawled across his lap. My fingers traced the tattoos on his collarbone as I desperately tried to forget about the cilantro-laced assault on my nostrils.
Finally I had enough. “Listerine.”
He opened his eyes and looked at me quizzically. “Is that your safe word?”
“No,” I replied, getting up, “you’re going to gargle with it. Your breath smells like leftover chalupas.”
He snickered. “Close. Bean burrito supreme from Whole Foods.”
I gagged and headed toward the bathroom and grabbed a little Dixie of the sharp-smelling green fluid.
“Drink,” I said, shoving it in his face.
He wrinkled his nose as I tipped the cup to his mouth. “Um, do you have anything more organic?”
My teeth clenched so hard, I got lockjaw. “Excuse me?”
“I try to put as few artificial things in my body as possible.”
You can’t really hover over someone when you’re a five-foot Domme, but I tried my best to stand over him menacingly as I berated him and his hippie tendencies. “So, you must use organic ink and metal for your tats and piercings, huh?”
He just stared ahead as I pushed the cup closer to his face. “I guess since I’m not swallowing it, sure, I’ll swish it around.”
I brought my hand back to his mouth forcefully and nudged the little paper cup past his lips. I guess I let the Listerine flow a bit too fast, because before I got to the bottom of the cup, he was spewing it everywhere. My face dripped the minty antiseptic and it pooled on his now not-that-interested crotch.
He left without a word, just waggling his middle finger behind him.
“How dare you!” I barked.
He snorted. “Fuck you, pip-squeak.”
I scampered up to the doorway and pulled on his collar, trying to spin him toward me. “Excuse me?!”
He contorted his mouth into a sneer. “You’re probably the least intimidating Domme I’ve ever seen. Maybe you should invest in some platforms,” he snickered. “Or stilts.”
I stomped my apparently pathetic two-inch heels into the kitchen and scribbled his entry onto a note card, poking through the paper in three places. I put an asterisk at the bottom with a note regarding freshness of breath as a requirement for future submissives.
I felt the immediate need to text Erin, but restrained myself. Which is funny, I thought, because I’m used to restraining others.
I slumped down at my computer and turned it on. Lots of my buddies in the local BDSM community blogged, so I figured I’d peruse some of their websites and maybe find a man that way.
Hey, I had two strikes against me now. Any port in a storm.
Granted, the three-strike rule is self-imposed. I had enough of crappy subs and historically inaccurate scenes. I wanted the real fucking deal, but if I didn’t get it soon, I’d just give up and become a hermit. Meaning I’d date regular guys.
The keys clicked wildly as I explored the blogosphere, which—by the way—was the stupidest term ever. There really wasn’t much of interest. A website about a Portsmouth guy who made custom strap-ons. No thanks. A forum dedicated to the local chapter of Furries. Also gonna opt out of that.
Then I found something on Flog Blog that sounded interesting. A local hotel was hosting a BDSM mixer where you got to meet between fifteen and eighteen potential matches in one sitting.
I leaned back in my chair and mused for a bit. It was tomorrow night. Should I not tell Erin about my most recent failure and just go?
Just then, Bizzy awoke from her slumber. She was the one who begged me to go. I silenced her momentarily with a vibrator and steeled myself for the mixer, ready for anything.
How to Discipline Your Vampire
Cerise Norrell, Type A substitute teacher by day, is ready to quit being a domme. Despite her best intentions, none of her partners can keep up with her scene fetish and attention to detail—let alone her demand that they have a costume and set waiting every afternoon by the time she’s home from school.
Over a dozen potential subs have left her in the past year, but just when Cerise thinks it’s impossible—that she’ll have to go back to vanilla relationships, or be alone forever—she meets William, who wants to make all her fantasies come true. He turns her home into a geisha’s dream apartment, a concert hall with a grand piano (which he uses to play an original composition while wearing a tuxedo), and even rents an abandoned loft for a zombie apocalypse scene—complete with canned goods.
But there’s something strange about William. Well, a lot of strange things. He must be absurdly rich, since he can afford to provide extravagant costumes and props on a daily basis without having to leave work early. He must be insane, since he puts up with Cerise’s over-the-top demands. And most importantly, he doesn’t redden when he’s spanked, and his skin is as cool as satin sheets. When Cerise discovers she’s become dome to the infamous “Chilly Willy,” as he’s known throughout the BDSM urban lore, she begins to find out there’s a whole lot more to her handsome submissive than a creative mind and a hard body.
And when it’s William, ironically, who starts pressing Cerise to give him the kind of commitment she’s never given anyone, it’ll take everything she has to work through her issues, confront her past, and learn to be vulnerable.
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