Chapter Four
I invited him over again a few weeks after our first rendezvous. Wanting to give him something new again. I’d been practicing self-ties– clumsily but without injury or damage. Doing a very basic shibari harness for myself. When he told me he was heading up, I unlocked the door and then knelt in the front hallway, back to him. Giving him the opportunity to rush me and manhandle me the way he had previously.
He knocked and I called that it was open. He definitely saw me because I heard him pause in swinging the door shut.
“What are you doing in here, you literally knotty thing?” he asked, definitely playfully.
“Doing yoga,” I answered, sarcastically. Not expecting his response.
He laughed, and then I heard him rushing across the floor. Reaching down, he grabbed handfuls of the rope laid along my spine. A knot between my shoulders, another over my lower back. Lifting me squealing into the air like a package. Fighting without effect, able to touch him with my fingertips, or at least his calf closest to me. Kicking uselessly in the air. Feeling like a bakery package held before him.
“Thanks for making it easy, little girl,” he said, still laughing.
I could kind of hear that his breath was heavier with the exertion, but barely.
When we entered my bedroom he let me fall to the floor and I felt my knees bruising even on the carpeting. Once more, surprised but happy that he was willing to play so hard. I’d told him after our first hook up that I had fabric burn from the seat of my armchair. And that I liked it. Looking at the rubbed raw spot and getting turned-on by it. Very gently, with his fingertips under my chin, he tipped my face up. Shocking me when in the same move he slapped me across first my left, then my right cheek.
“You made me forget we’re on the second floor. Your neighbors probably hate you for that,” he said, gesturing toward my floor.
Yes, probably the sound of a full woman hitting the ceiling had been jarring. I was still breathing through the flush in my cheeks though.
“Teach me to not be noisy,” I said, wriggling a little on the floor.
“Mmm,” he murmured, seeming to agree. Sitting on the edge of my bed he leaned forward again, grabbing handfuls of rope and hauling me into his lap.
I wondered if he knew how simultaneously aroused and frustrated I became with him when he remained clothed. The feeling of his clothing on me was more irritating than was rational. Skin feeling burnt and tender against linen and cotton. But I liked the humiliation of being fully nude and obvious, too. Settling me over a knee, I tried to get into position to be spanked. Slithering happily into that position. But he pushed my shoulders down between his legs. My face almost to the floor, my hips over one of his thighs.
Grunting, he tossed one of my pillows to the floor.
“Muffle yourself in that,” he directed.
I tugged it under my face. More comfortable now, rather than hovering with my forehead a few inches from the floor. As I started to get comfortable he surprised me again though. Resting his socked instep on the back of my head. Rolling my face deeper into the pillow. I reached up, grasping his ankle over my head. I felt the weight of his foot start to recede, and I tugged him back into place. Letting him know that while startled, I liked it.
Keeping one hand at the ropes on my back, he reached between my legs. I moaned, already backing into his fingers. Already on edge because I liked this dizzying position. The shameful ass-up vulnerability. But he just teased me.
It felt like a long time of just that. Panting and moaning into the pillow. Really only hearing my own struggle. Of course, he wasn’t breathing heavily. He was entirely relaxed.
Finally, I shook my head. Turning my cheek instead of my face into the pillow. His foot now on the side of my face instead of the back of my head.
“I’m not being noisy any more,” I said, wagging my hips shamelessly. “So don’t I deserve a treat?”
“What kind of a treat, little girl?” he asked, not changing his rhythm or lack of pressure.
“An orgasm,” I said, almost drooling. Mouth askew from the pressure of his foot on the side of my face.
“You will probably orgasm… Eventually,” he said, taunting.
“Don’t do it to me like this!” I cried.
He shifted me further downward, hand on the rope like a handle at the small of my back. Dumping me further into the floor, ass pointed straight at the ceiling.
“Noisy,” he said, pushing my thighs open wider. Quite suddenly and explosively slapping directly between my legs.
I squealed, bucking. Feeling my clit swell instantly under the slap. I tried to close my legs, protecting myself. He pinched the back of my thigh and I kicked them wide again. Rewarded with another stinging slap right against my lips. Another pinch and slap. I kicked wildly, squeaking the whole time. I didn’t keep track of the blows, but when I reached up and grabbed his leg again he stopped. Gently rolling my clit against one fingertip and I squealed again. It seemed that I was doubled in size, feeling fire-red.
“Lesson learned?” he asked, still doing a soft circle while I tried to close my legs.
“No…” I said, turning my head. “Maybe if you gave me some way to stay quiet…”
Knew I was baiting him. Didn’t have any clear idea of what he’d do. But curious as to how he’d take it.
“Hmm,” he murmured thoughtfully. Under his finger I could feel pain receding and arousal returning.
“Take off my sock,” he said.
I reached up, fingers under the ankle and started rolling it down blindly.
“If you want,” he said, very gently. “Put that in your mouth. That ought to keep you quiet.”
I paused, but only for a second or less. Stuffing a few inches of his dark dress sock onto my tongue. Seeing how I felt about that. Liking it a lot. Knowing he felt a sudden gush over his finger because he chuckled, stroking my back with his free hand.
“You’re still very swollen,” he said, right back to gentleness again. “Can you feel anything at all?”
I spread my legs wide and nodded, hoping he’d know the movement under his foot.
“I still think you need it a different way,” he said, thoughtfully. Shifting his leg so I fell to the floor unceremoniously. He slid down to the floor, his back against the side of my bed.
“Stand up,” he said.
I did, legs shaking wildly, barely able to stay upright. His hand on my waist, he urged me forward.
“Get on my face,” he said, nearing impatience now.
I leaned into him, letting him lick me. Glad for the gag, especially now. He was right, his tongue felt better than his finger. Almost cool and soothing. Reaching down, I grabbed a handful of his hair, something to anchor me when I came on his tongue. Collapsing into his lap after that.
He embraced me, but just to tip me onto the floor onto my back. Just unbuckling his belt and unzipping himself. I groaned, trying to scramble away from him, but was slow and weak. He penetrated me quickly. Sealing his palm over the gag still in my mouth, covering the whole bottom half of my face in his hand. Breathing heavily through my nose, thinking I was going to have a heart attack. Crying out but still muffled when I came again.
After that, I went limp– in love with how hard he was still thrusting into me. That the buttons on his shirt were imprinting onto my torso because he was holding us so close. The side of his face against mine. How out of control he sounded. Finally coming with a long, low moan.
Drawing the gag out of my mouth, he tossed it away and tried to kiss me. I turned my head and he awkwardly kissed my jaw.
“Nika,” he said, sounding hurt.
“It’s just–” I said.
“It’s my sock,” he said, beginning to sit up. “Or is it the oral sex?”
“It’s the um–” I said, biting my lip.
It wasn’t either. It was the kiss right after us orgasming. How close he was still holding me. Too in-love action. Too relationship-sex. He sighed, levering himself off me.
“Can I untie you?” he asked.
“Uh-huh,” I said, nervously.
Sitting up myself. He knelt behind me and started undoing knots. Quite deftly and staying quiet.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I can’t keep doing this if we don’t talk,” he said. “And if you’re just ashamed about talking about sex, fine, but you have to find some way to communicate to me–”
I interrupted him, standing up as he finished and letting the ropes coil down onto the floor.
“No, it’s not that. It felt too intimate to kiss you. And we did talk about that. That this wasn’t going to be serious. And I’m sorry, but that felt serious to me,” I said.
“Oh,” he said, sounding relieved and then sighing. “That’s fine then, I suppose. No, we’re still not serious. But I will say, after playing rough the way we do I need… I need something… I don’t know what… Reassurance? Or something?”
“Oh!” I said, almost mirroring his relief. “Aftercare, Killian.”
I pushed him toward the bed, hand on the flat of his chest until he fell back on it. Joining him, unbuttoning the top button on his shirt. Kissing him. Talking about aftercare with him. Knowing I should have already guessed or maybe assumed some of his needs just from him telling me he had to cuddle afterward.
“Right,” he sighed. Tugging my quilt up from the bottom on my bed and covering me up. I kissed his forehead and across his cheekbones. Loving the broadness of his face. And we settled the way we had before. Just kind of dozing in bed for a while.
I let him decide when it was that we would leave the bed and each other’s arms. Not cutting short the time he needed after sex. He sat up first, swinging his legs off the side of the bed.
“Water?” he asked me.
I laughed, getting up myself.
“Let’s just go out for pizza,” I said.
I got dressed lazily, all sprung and pleasantly exhausted.
“Come here, come here, come here,” he said as I was wandering toward the door. I stood in front of him, tipping my chin up. Swiping under my eyes, turning my face this way and that.
“You’ve melted, just a bit,” he said, laughing.
I returned it, realizing just then I was likely a mess. Taking his hand and walking him to my favorite pizza joint. Lecturing about who the streets were named after. The father who owned the pizza shop before the daughter took it over. Where a miniskirt protest took place– in favor of, of course.
And I liked it. Liked sitting outside with him and eating our half pizza at a sticky table. Watching the strong sunset together. Giving him the history and the contemporary. Listening to him telling me the old town gossip from where he grew up. I was glad for this thing that had become a pattern– sliding into ease. And how every time we did it was faster and easier. And I knew at some point we’d just be there right away. Every moment of miscommunication or unintentional hurt, we’d walk our way back to this. Just talking.
The afternoon before my little interview he and I practiced. I had asked for and was given a list of questions they were planning to ask. Citing my near-terminal stage fright. We just practiced on the phone. He pointed out that I needed to speak far slower. Oddly intense to practice breathing with him. Listening to his cycle in my ear and trying to match it.
And the interview went fine. It still felt weird. I still sensed I was awkward to the point of the poor professionals cringing. But I breathed. I took my time speaking. When they introduced themselves I told them up front that I was incredibly nervous and to bear with me. They laughed, said it was fine. And honestly did their best to set me at ease and were kind about it.
I called him again, after the fact, to say that I think that it went fine. He invited me over after we both finished work. I clapped my hands.
“Am I being rewarded for my good performance?” I asked.
“You were indeed a brave little girl, so yes,” he said, chuckling.
I didn’t want to tell him how instantly that turned me on.
I walked to his place in the evening with a little tote of groceries. He said he liked to cook and missed doing it for others. But I figured the least I could do is bring some desserts, good and useful basics for his pantry and sparkling water at least, if he was going to make dinner.
When I knocked, he called to say that the door was open. He just had a little studio, rather like mine. But in far better repair in a better maintained building. Not all that surprising– he was definitely more financially stable than I. I wandered into his kitchen, where he stood at the stove, towel slung over his left shoulder.
“Hey baby, go pour yourself a drink and sit,” he said.
He had a nice little two-person table out in his front room. Already set. Kettle on the table waiting for me. I smiled over that. I poured myself some green tea. Listening to him hum, something sizzling. Some good smell.
Coming in with two shallow bowls of pasta and vegetables for us.
“So how was your day, dear?” he asked while snapping open a napkin for me.
I took a big bite first, murmuring with pleasure.
“Not bad, actually,” I said. “I mean the day. The dinner is perfection. Thank you.”
He laughed, coloring a little.
“Just vegetables and penne,” he said.
“Exactly,” I agreed, spearing up asparagus and tiny candy-sweet peas. “Perfection.”
We ate and talked about work. His and mine. Went back to talking about the most recent chapter. Pitching places the little dog might go and what he might eat on his journeys.
We finished and lingered at the table. Drinking more green tea. Snacking on fruit and honey and whipped cream that he brought out. Freshening the water in the kettle, pouring more honey into my cup. Finally, we got up and started cleaning up. Doing the dishes, putting things away. After that was done, I started unbuttoning my top, backing into his front room.
“Is my only reward dinner? Or do I get a little more?” I asked.
“Interestingly…” he said, holding up a wait-a-moment finger and going back out of the room.
“I bought you a treat today,” he said, coming back in. Unbuttoning his shirt with one hand. His other was holding whatever the treat was behind his back.
Letting it dangle from a finger he showed off what looked like a black leather collar.
“I liked gagging you, but I want to be able to hear you,” he said, showing it off a little better between his thumb and pinkie. A steel ring in the center of a wide piece of black leather.
“Oh,” I said, grinning. Going to my hands and knees and crawling to him. Loving crawling, unsure of how I felt to be even smaller than usual compared to him.
He leaned forward once I was kneeling in front of him. I tipped my face up, resting my hands on the top of his shoe. Pressing the ring into my mouth gently. Lifting my hair from off the back of my neck and letting it drape over my right shoulder as he buckled the strap behind my head.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Un-huh,” I said.
“Good?” he asked.
I nodded vigorously.
“Good girl,” he said, winding up hanks of my hair around his fingers. He lifted me up, bringing me close to his face. Kissing all along the edges of the gag, making both of us heavily aware of it. Just then I heard a rattling of the doorknob, making me spring from him. Sure we were being broken in on. That we were about to be raided for some reason.
The more pressing issue, I decided, was the ring gag. Struggling to undo it. Getting hooks and buckles tangled in my hair. Fingers stupid behind my head.
“Dad, what the fuck,” rang out across his front room.
Presumably, Jonas stood, keys still hanging from a ring on his wrist.
I giggled, more hysterically close to tears than amusement, and held up my own “one-moment” finger and raced back to the kitchen. Buttoning my shirt back up willy-nilly. Knowing I’d missed a button. Listening to Jonas’ hectoring tone and Killian talking soft and slow.
I walked back into the room and held out my hand to Jonas.
“Hi, I’m–” I tried to introduce myself.
He cocked an eyebrow at me, nose curling up. He had his father’s coloring, but his face was finer and prettier. And Killian didn’t seem capable of having that level of disgust on his face.
“No, no, no, Ms. Tits-Out, don’t even bother,” Jonas said. At least he hadn’t seen the gag. And he hadn’t actually seen anything besides a mostly open shirt. And me kissing his father.
“Hey, come on,” I said, getting offended. “This sucks, but we can be civil–”
“How old are you even?” Jonas cried. “How old is she?” He turned to his father accusingly.
“Does it really matter?” I asked witheringly. “This whole evening would be terrible no matter whose tits you saw.”
I knew I was being vulgar, but he was being rude.
“I would think it matters a little,” Jonas said, turning back on me with fury.
Killian was trying to step between us.
“If I popped a baby into someone, he’d be a grandfather, how does that make you feel?” Jonas asked.
“This is Nika,” Killian was trying to say, trying to keep the peace.
“Rather surprised that your father didn’t teach you how to use a condom,” I shot back. “He’s a father, and I’m not terribly upset about that… Well, except the fact that you’re a little asshole. At least a new infant wouldn’t be able to talk back.”
“Hush!” Killian finally cried, obviously aimed at both of us.
“It smells like pasta primavera in here,” Jonas said, nose tipped upward. “Are you fucking dating?”
“Is that such a problem?” Killian asked.
“Think I’m just gonna–” I said, walking and pointing toward the front door. Realizing I’d just shoved my gag into the cabinet beside Killian’s sink. I’d managed to get it off before Jonas saw it. And palm it. But unsure of what to do with it I’d simply whipped it under the sink. Deciding that was a problem for another day.
“Don’t,” Killian said, warningly.
I went stock-still.
“Do you need some dinner?” Killian asked his son.
“Mmm, leftover pussy primavera,” he said sarcastically.
“Apologize,” Killian said.
Jonas slumped into a seat and rolled his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He at least sounded sincere. But I figured that was just practice on his part.
Killian went back into the kitchen to make him a plate. Rather ungrateful of Jonas after we’d already cleaned up the kitchen.
I stood halfway between the kitchen and the table. Desperately aware of my mis-buttoned buttons.
“Sit,” Killian barked at me.
Helplessly, I did as I was told, even though my body had still been sidling toward the door. Jonas gave me another unkind down-up-down.
“So, who the fuck are you?” he asked, with sarcastic uptilt.
“Oh, do you not want to call me stepmama?” I asked, mirroring his shittiness.
“Guys!” Killian called.
I didn’t think he could make out our actual words– we were hissing more than speaking. But he could certainly discern cadence and tone.
Killian returned from the kitchen with a plate. Setting it carefully in front of Jonas. A large glass of juice as well. New napkin and a side of bread. We hadn’t had bread with dinner, so this was a specific addition for his son. I rolled my eyes– pampered little baby.
Killian dragged over his armchair. His dining room table only had two chairs. He sat, ankle propped on his knee, as Jonas started eating.
“Nika, this is my son, Jonas,” Killian said, trying to begin again. “Jonas, this is Nika. You may be interested to hear she just got interviewed by that creator podcast you like and–”
“Aw crap,” Jonas sighed, biting into his bread ferociously.
“Could you?” Killian said, frustration apparent, hands palm upward. “This was hardly my intention, nor how I wanted you two to meet.”
“You were planning on us meeting?” Jonas and I said simultaneously. Sharing a guilty and ungrateful glance between us while his father sighed.
“Yes, of course,” Killian said, eyebrows drawing down.
I felt him trying to catch my eye and I avoided his. The fact of his son was one thing. Trying to be friendly, or be introduced as a girlfriend or something, was another matter entirely. And I hardly wanted to be introduced as what I was– which was something like a friend with benefits. I had assumed we’d have fun until we didn’t. Jonas never even had to know about me.
“I’m not upset about you dating,” Jonas said, directed entirely at his father. And his tone was much kinder, at least toward him. “I just don’t see why you had to be fucking around where we eat.”
“Language, for fuck’s sake,” Killian said. “I wasn’t expecting you to come by to eat so–”
“Not tonight, maybe,” Jonas shot back. “But at some point I was going to eat here again, and was your grand plan to just not inform me if you got a blowy on the table?”
“I really don’t like that term,” Killian said.
I giggled. Still closer to a breakdown than amusement but still. Then Jonas snorted as well. Killian remained firmly unamused. Which made it worse. I bent forward, mouth into my palms, and breathlessly laughed into my hands. Jonas snorted again. Coughed on a bite of pasta. Put down his fork and started laughing in earnest.
“Well, don’t run me down in the streets,” I said to Jonas as I regained control. He let out a few more choking laughs and waved at me.
I walked by Killian. He reached out and grabbed my elbow. Tilting his face up at me as though asking for a kiss. I shallowly shook my head no at him. He didn’t look pleased. But I thought the unsure peace we’d made would surely be shattered if I kissed him.
“Just um… Have dinner, have dessert… I’ll uh… I’ll talk to you later,” I said. Hastily grabbing my bag and diving out of his front door.
On the elevator down to the first floor, I rebuttoned my blouse so it wouldn’t be staggered any more. Breathing deeply in relief to have escaped. I couldn’t and wouldn’t think about what I’d have to do after having made my ignominious retreat.
He texted me a few hours later.
-I think you left something here and sent a photo of my gag that he must have found under the sink. Of course, he would have had to reclean the kitchen after feeding Jonas. All his soap and sponges and the like in that same cabinet.
It seemed prudent to leave behind the unnecessary, I sent back.
And that felt better. But still, I was uneasy.