Vanilla

  That I was different.

  That I was special.

  I hadn’t kept all of his early messages, but there were a few I’d saved. Nostalgic, I opened the email folder to look at some of our first conversations. I opened the first picture he’d sent me of his dear face. He was nothing like anything I ever would have said I wanted. Slight. Dark haired, big brown eyes. Physically, not at all my type. Yet willing to give up to me, to be my toy. His worship was sincere, and he got off on it as much as I did, which was more important to me than the lines and curves of his face.

  Esteban had wanted to see me tonight because he missed me.

  I didn’t want to think too much about this. We’d never discussed turning our monthly dates into something more serious. His profile had, in fact, indicated he was only interested in a cyber connection, nothing in real time, while mine had stated specifically that I was into multiple partners and short-term arrangements. Both of us had changed our minds about what we wanted, I guess.

  Esteban missed me, and I had to admit that the times between our dates had been getting longer and longer in feeling, if not the actual passing of hours. My sweet, submissive boy had settled into a place somewhere close to my heart. I wasn’t sure I liked that. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure I didn’t.

  Restless, bored, unable to sleep, I clicked through a few games on my phone I hadn’t played in forever. I lost one round of Bubble Burst and quit. I sent a small poking “hi” Esteban’s way, but as I’d expected, the small S next to my message meant he wasn’t logged in to the texting app we favored.

  It had been months since I’d logged in to my old instant message app, but insomnia breeds desperation. Seeing the list of screen names made me glad I’d logged on as invisible. I’d used this account a lot before meeting Esteban. Some of those people had been relentless in their pursuit of a mistress, and I’d been occasionally foolish enough to engage even when I knew I had no interest in continuing anything serious with them.

  And then. There. Halfway down the list, another name stood out to me. Not a name, actually; I’d changed it a while back to a small picture of a bunny because looking at his name had made me feel sick to my stomach.

  There it was now, standing out in the list of words, that one single emoticon. Seeing it forced my heart into my throat, and my fingers twitched so fiercely that I dropped my phone. It hit me in the face hard enough to send sparks flying in my vision, and that pain was enhanced by the fact I’d stupidly and reflexively also bitten my tongue.

  “Fuck, shit, dammit,” I cursed, struggling to sit up in the tangle of my sheets. I tasted blood. My phone had fallen into the mess of my blankets, the lighted screen dimming and going out before I could grab it. I swept the bed, but found only more soft fabric.

  By the time I found the phone and sat up, opening my IM app again, the bunny had hopped away.

  I clutched the phone to my heart, hating that I still cared enough to cry over simply seeing him online. I pressed my fingers to my eyelids, willing away the burning slide of tears, but all I managed to do was gasp out a strangled sob. No, I told myself. Do not. Don’t open that app, don’t look for his profile, don’t send him a message.

  Don’t do it, Elise.

  You’ll be sorry.

  And I was sorry, but I did it anyway.

  * * *

  Once you told me I was strong, but lately, the strongest thing I seem to do is not message you at three in morning when I can’t catch my breath because of the weight crushing my chest that comes from missing you. And oh, shit, look, here I go, sending you this message when I know you will read it and not answer me. So I guess I’m not so strong, after all.

  Not when it comes to you.

  5

  The Morningstar Mocha was super busy. I dropped off William and circled the block twice before I found a spot a block up the street. The extra time I took parking meant I was a few minutes late, but I still paused to look through the front window before going in. I saw Esteban at a table in the corner, a mug in front of him. He wasn’t looking my way, so I studied him for half a minute.

  We had met once or twice for lunch. Every time had been before we’d ever met in a hotel room, when we were still deciding if we wanted to go to that next step. Since we’d begun that, we’d never met again in public.

  He looked so different with his clothes on.

  This wasn’t what we were supposed to be. Coffee shop pals who chatted about muffins and maybe played footsie under the table or held hands? No. We were dim hotel rooms and commands and fantasies, not reality. Weren’t we? I was on the verge of walking away when a man in a long black coat came up behind me wanting to go inside, and I let myself be swept up along with him as though I had no other choice.

  Esteban stood up when I walked in.

  Being greeted with a smile and a look almost of relief, as though you are, in that moment, the most important sight in the world to the person who’s been waiting for you...it’s heady stuff. I wove through the crowded tables to him and slung my bag over the back of the empty chair. I wondered if he would embrace me, and if I would allow it. He didn’t, though he ran a hand down from my shoulder to my wrist, squeezing gently before moving away.

  “I was thinking you would not come,” he said.

  “I would’ve messaged you, honey. I wouldn’t just stand you up.” I had considered doing just that, but Esteban would never know it. I sat. “What are you drinking?”

  “Coffee. Would you like?”

  I twisted to look at the menu board. “I’ll take a mocha latte. Oh, and a blueberry muffin.”

  He gave me another tiny, discreet squeeze as he passed me. It both amused and touched me emotionally. He touched me physically all the time, of course, but this had been different. Brief, but not hesitant. He was different outside the hotel room, but then, I guess so was I.

  Esteban returned in a few minutes with my drink and food and took the seat across from me. He grinned, his gaze searching my face, though I wasn’t sure what he was looking to find. He leaned forward.

  “You look beautiful.”

  I didn’t laugh. I had made an effort, of course, because who ever goes to meet a lover without looking their best? But unlike most of our meetings, which featured me in full makeup with carefully chosen outfits, this morning I’d pulled my dark curly hair into a messy bun and wore jeans with a tunic blouse suitable for taking my nephew to religious school. Put together? Sure. But beautiful?

  “You do,” he said, though I hadn’t protested.

  I leaned forward a little too, echoing his posture. “It’s good to see you.”

  He beamed, eyes not leaving mine. “It’s better to see you!”

  “You’re so good for my ego.” I did laugh then, and broke off a piece of my muffin. I pushed the plate toward him. “Have some.”

  He broke off a piece. Together, we ate the muffin and drank our coffee while tables emptied and filled again. We didn’t talk about anything that seemed important, which was the perfect sort of conversation to have on a bright, late-spring Sunday morning.

  “This was nice,” I told him when we’d stayed as long as we could before it would be time to order lunch.

  Esteban nodded. “Yes. Very nice.”

  I thought for a second or so that he was going to ask me if we could do it again, but he only looked at me with an expression I couldn’t read. Not quite sad. Reluctant. Resigned, maybe.

  “Walk me to my car,” I said. “I’m not ready to say goodbye just yet.”

  I could read that expression, at least. I’d made him happy. We didn’t hold hands while we walked, and the distance between us was enough that nobody would ever have guessed how many times his mouth had been between my legs. I watched him from the corner of my eye as we navigated the buckled sidewalk.

  At my car, I faced him. “What’s going on?”

  He might’ve been able to put me off on the phone, but not in person where I could see his face. He tried to cut his gaze, but I took his
chin gently in my palm and turned him until he had no choice but to look at me. Still, he didn’t answer me right away.

  “Esteban,” I said sternly.

  His shoulders sagged. To my immense surprise, he hugged me. Hard. His face pressed to the side of my neck, his skin hot. His breath tickled me.

  I hugged him back for a moment, before saying, “Get in the car.”

  Obediently, he went around to the passenger side. I got in my seat and twisted to face him. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I’m wearing it,” he said, which was not the answer to my question.

  Despite this unusual disobedience, a shiver tiptoed up and down my spine at the thought. “My gift?”

  He nodded. I swallowed, my gaze dropping to his lap for a moment before meeting his. He licked his mouth. Tension wove between us, fine and strong as a spider’s filament. All I had to do was run a fingertip across the back of his hand, placed on his thigh, to make him shudder. His soft moan made me clench my jaw to keep my own inside.

  “How does it feel?”

  “I feel...full. Of wanting. It makes me think of you.” His voice rasped, low.

  “Good. I like you to think of me when we aren’t together.” I circled my fingertips on his skin, my eyes never leaving his. “But what? It makes you uncomfortable? You’re worried about something? I want you to use my present to please me, but if it doesn’t make you happy, too—”

  He shook his head sharply. “No. No, it does. So much. Too much, maybe.”

  I thought I understood that, at least. How something could make you too happy. I leaned a little closer and let my hand slip down the inside of his thigh to press against the rising bulge of his cock. “Tell me how it feels, deep inside you.”

  “I thought it would be too much. A little too big,” he whispered. “It hurt a little, at first.”

  “And now?”

  He shook his head. “Not now. Now I feel it when I move. It hits the spot just right. And if I shift just right, if I clench...”

  I smiled.

  He shuddered. I didn’t stroke his cock, though by now I could feel it was thick and hard, compressed against the front of his jeans. Esteban moaned again, a little brokenly.

  “You want me to touch you,” I said in a low voice.

  His eyes, which had gone heavy-lidded, opened wider. “Oh, yes...please...”

  “It makes me very happy to know that you’re using my present,” I told him as my hand pressed against him. Withdrew. Pressed again. To anyone looking at us, we’d appear to be having a conversation, nothing more. Leaning a little closer, maybe, but not even kissing. Nothing outrageous...except that my sweet boy was pushing his cock against my palm. I imagined the press and tug of the plug in his ass, hitting him in the perfect spot. “I want you to feel it inside you. Do you?”

  He shuddered again. “Yes. It’s so good.”

  “Fuck, I want your fingers inside me,” I muttered, which sent another spasm through him. Urged another moan. My nipples had gone tight and hard. So had my clit. I clenched my own internal muscles, rocking a little, though I had no toy to help me out. “Look at me.”

  He did, though it took him an understandable few seconds to focus. A faint blush had painted his cheeks, and his brown eyes had gone darker from his dilated pupils. He licked his mouth again, and I thought of how good his tongue felt on my pussy, and I could not stop myself this time from moaning, too.

  “You are so beautiful...” Esteban’s words trailed off into a groan as he moved so slowly against me that he hardly seemed to move at all. Then he said other words I couldn’t understand in Spanish, a language so fluid and sexy that every word sounded like part of a poem.

  “How does it feel,” I demanded in a broken voice.

  Esteban looked at me again. “It fills me up the way I want you to...”

  “Oh...”

  I’d tied men up. Blindfolded them. Spanked some, beaten a few with floggers, dressed more than one in frilly panties. But I’d never yet fucked one in the ass with a strap-on. The thought of that sent another thrill of pleasure through me.

  And why? Because Esteban wanted it so much. Because he’d approached me on the subject of pegging so casually hopeful, so obviously afraid I would recoil in horror, or maybe mock him, that I couldn’t think about taking him that way without remembering how hard it had been for him to even ask me, and how beautifully grateful he’d been when my answer had been, “I would love to.”

  It could’ve been about the domination—what makes a man more submissive than being the one getting fucked instead of the one doing the fucking? It could’ve been about control and power, because those were things that turned me on. But really, it was because my sweet boy wanted it, craved it, yearned and ached and burned for it, and I was the only one who would give it to him.

  Because it made me something to him that nobody else had ever been.

  I wasn’t touching myself, but it wouldn’t take more than a stroke or two to send me toppling toward orgasm. I almost slipped a hand between my legs, but a couple walking a dog was due to pass us in about a minute and a half, so I took my hand off his crotch. They’d see only two people in conversation. Nothing more.

  “I want that,” I told him. “I want to be inside you. Fucking you. Taking you to the edge, over and over, until you beg me to let you come.”

  “Please,” he breathed at once. His fingers had curled tight in the fabric of his pants, digging. He rocked his hips again, the tiniest amount. “Please, will you...?”

  The dog-walking couple had just passed by, so I leaned close to nuzzle his neck and breathe into his ear as I pressed my hand to his cock again. “Yes, baby. I will. And I will love it.”

  Esteban let out a low, gruff gasp. Under my touch, his cock throbbed. Heat spread against my palm. His entire body quaked as he turned his face toward me to press his cheek against mine. We were both breathing hard. My nipples ached; my clit throbbed. I wanted to rub myself all over him.

  I sat back, instead. He blinked rapidly before he could focus on me. I wanted to touch his face. I wanted to kiss his mouth. Instead, I pulled a package of tissues from my center console and handed them to him without a word.

  He laughed, embarrassed. “I am like a boy.”

  “You’re my boy,” I told him. “And that was very sexy.”

  “But you didn’t—”

  “Next time,” I told him.

  That’s when I finally understood why he was acting so strange. It took only a second or so to see the look on his face. To figure it out.

  I should have known that his urgent desire to see me outside of our routine had to mean something bad. I should’ve guessed it, no matter how loving he’d been. I should’ve known better.

  “Oh.” I sat back, surprised. Stunned, actually. And stung. “There is no next time?”

  “Querida...”

  I knew that word, at least. “Darling.” He’d called me that a couple times before. I’d always liked it, but this time it felt too much like an apology and not an endearment. I sat back.

  “Don’t call me that,” I said in a cold, distant voice. I turned to face the windshield, my hands on the wheel.

  Neither of us moved. I could hear his breathing quicken, but I didn’t look at him. I caught sight of his hand, reaching as though he meant to touch me, but in the end he must’ve decided against it because he let it settle again on his thigh. After another few moments, I heard him unzip, the crinkle of the tissue package, some shuffling. He cleared his throat.

  I knew he was waiting for me to say something, but I didn’t know what. In the past, even before I’d learned him so well, I’d still never doubted what I wanted to say. How I wanted our scenes to go, the reactions I wanted to elicit. I’d been wrong a few times and missed the mark, but I’d adjusted. This time, I had no idea what Esteban needed from me.

  “Please don’t hate me,” he said.

  I swallowed a rush of emotion. “I don’t hate you. But you should get out o
f my car now.”

  He didn’t, not at first. I thought I would have to face him, and I didn’t want to, not with my emotions printed all over my face the way I was sure they were. He was breaking up with me. I didn’t need to know why. I didn’t want to know. At the sound of him starting to speak, I cut him off.

  “Out.”

  And, as he always had, Esteban gave me what I wanted.

  6

  “Put your hand on her hip. Lower.” The camera whirred and clicked. Scott paused to shake his blond hair out of his face and look at the picture he’d taken. He frowned. “Jack, I want you on your knees.”

  Jack and I both laughed, and I said, “Woo!”

  Scott, serious, smiled but put the camera back to his eye. “Head bent...okay, tell you what. Elise, you do whatever you’d...do.”

  I put my hand on Jack’s dark hair. Thick and glossy, he wore it a bit longer in the front so it had a habit of falling over his eyes. I threaded my fingers through it from his forehead back, getting a good grip and tugging his face up to mine. The camera whirred.

  I said in a low voice, “I won’t hurt you, but I’ll still need to know if you’re uncomfortable, okay?”

  “Go ahead and hurt him,” Scott said.

  My fingers tightened a little more, and Jack laughed. I glanced at Scott. “This is just for the pictures. I don’t really think we need to get a safe word or anything for the sake of art, do we?”

  “If you don’t need a safe word for art,” Scott said, “it ain’t very good art.”

  I looked back to Jack, and I let my smile fade. My fingers tugged the tiniest bit. “I’m still not going to hurt you on purpose. You tell me if I do.”

  Jack grinned. “I’m good.”

  I tipped his head back harder, watching to see if he winced. I really didn’t want to hurt him—even if this had been a real scene between us, I wasn’t particularly into causing pain. I liked the reactions to it more than giving the pain itself. For the sake of a picture I could make it look like I was being totally sadistic, though, if that was what the photographer wanted to see. With Scott’s murmured words of approval, I looked down at the man in front of me on his knees and waited to feel something. Anything. He was gorgeous, thick, dark hair, a killer smile, a lean athletic build and a very, very pretty half-hard cock that I wasn’t going to stare at, because that just wouldn’t be polite. I appreciated the package, but that was it. No spark of attraction.