Obsessive Compulsion

  Brandon can smell bullshit a mile away. It’s one of the reasons I respect him so much and trust him with Emma. So, I’d eaten my sopapillas in silence, pushed all the easy, acceptable answers aside, then I simply said the first word that came to mind.

  Ian.

  That’s when I got the talk. Not just the BDSM 101 talk, but a real, no holding back talk from Brandon about just how bad Ian’s OCD is. It’s seriously bad. The only way this man is functioning in the everyday world, as well as he is, is through a volatile cocktail of medication and with emersion therapy twice a week.

  Once the talking was done, Brandon gave me the opportunity to back out, no judgment given.

  Instead of it making me want to run, it made me want to try. I like to think Brandon knew I’d be like that. I think he understands that side of me, because of our shared relationship with Emma. Emma’s a special case too, and I have never and will never run from her. Sure, I keep fucking up with her, but it’s never been her fault.

  Ian deserves that kind of chance. He deserves for someone to at least try for him. He didn’t even know me and yet he dried my tears and did what he could to provide a complete stranger comfort. He gave Emma a chance, too. So, I’m gonna give him one back and try not to screw it up.

  “Twitch, are you alright?” I repeat patiently, raising my gaze up from his bandaged hand to his eyes. His strange hazel eyes captivate me, once again giving me the urge to grab my watercolors.

  “Yes, Miss Scarlet,” he whispers.

  The soft bow of his lips as he forms the words changes my urge from watercolors to pastels. Or maybe clay. I haven’t touched clay in years. “Does it feel alright?”

  He pulls his hand from mine and flexes it against the gauze. “Yes, thank you.”

  I pull off the latex gloves and wipe the powder from my hands, a little unsure what to say next. I know what I want to do, but I shouldn’t yet. I should go slow. Slow isn’t exactly a speed I do very well.

  I almost sit on my hands to keep them from touching him. “Were you surprised? About my debut, I mean.”

  “I was,” he nods. “I knew you were interested in the possibility, for Emma, but I am surprised I wasn’t informed. I typically handle the paperwork.”

  He has that businessman tone, all straight and narrow. It makes me want to tussle his hair. Instead, I simply nod. “It was decided late last night. I guess I finally worked up the courage to give it all a whirl.”

  The corner of his mouth ticks. “What do you think so far?”

  “Well,” I lean back a bit, trying to loosen up. “This storeroom sure is something.”

  He snorts. I’m really getting addicted to the way he does that. “And this bench,” I continue, trying to steer the momentum of the conversation, “is interesting. I saw more of them out in the club room.”

  His eyes focus on my fingers as they toy with one of the metal loops anchored to the front. “We also have one in every guest room,” he says. “It’s called a restraining bench. The loop in your fingers, for example, is used to restrain someone with rope or chain. The bench is wide enough to accommodate someone laying down or kneeling, and the back rest is at a particular height that enables being bent over.”

  “I see,” and I do.

  I can suddenly picture several scenarios with Ian, rope and my sketch pad. Why do I want to draw this man so badly? The outfit he’s wearing isn’t helping to temper my imagination. Black boots, black leather pants, a black vest and a black collar. No shirt, giving me a full visual of his lean muscles. He’s still wearing one leather glove.

  “Twitch,” I start, then stop. I shouldn’t.

  “Yes, Miss Scarlet?”

  I swallow. I really shouldn’t. “I want you to close your eyes.”

  His eyes go wide and I think about laughing off my request, then he nods once and complies. I stare at him for a long moment, watching him breathe. His chest moves, his jaw twitches and his lips spread minutely apart.

  I lean in, kiss those gentle lips for a split second then back away. He inhales sharply but doesn’t move. Just when I’m about to apologize, his lips form words that make me smile.

  “Thank you, Miss Scarlet.”

  His eyes remain closed, so I lean in and do it again. I linger my lips against his a little bit longer this time then pull away and wait. Again, he goes quiet for a moment then thanks me. We repeat this dance more times than I care to count. Sometimes my kiss is as quick as I can make it, no more than a tiny peck. Other times, I hold my lips against his, waiting for a reaction.

  Each time, he thanks me. It drives me to keep trying, to be patient and to give him a chance to respond. I want to feel him kissing me back.

  Finally, just as I’m about to pull away again, his lips move against mine. We both inhale at the same time, as if it surprises us both. I think, maybe, it does.

  This time, as I pull away, I say it first. “Thank you, Twitch.”

  The corners of his mouth curl into a smile as his long eyelashes flutter open. This man is so beautiful. He stares at me and I can’t help but want to go further.

  I’m not a complete innocent when it comes to BDSM and concepts like safe-words, but I’ve never done it in this kind of organized, lifestyle-club environment. I’ve been tied up before, and I’ve also done the tying, but it was innocent play. This is the real deal.

  I want something real – the real trust that Brandon and Victoria both said was the most important thing. I want to be trusted. I want Ian to trust me. “What’s your word, sweetie?”

  He blinks at me then inhales deeply as understanding sets in. “I don’t have one of my own, Miss Scarlet…”

  As his words trail off, I force myself not to frown. I don’t want to give him some sympathetic look. I don’t want him to think this is being done out of pity.

  Brandon told me Ian never really participates, and Victoria gave me warnings, too. Warnings that were now whispering in the back of my head. It’s too soon. You shouldn’t. But damn me, he’s looking at me with an unhidden appreciation in his watercolor eyes, and I can’t resist.

  “Fresco will be our word,” I offer. “Yours and mine.”

  “Fresco,” he whispers, testing out the word.

  I hope he doesn’t ask why I chose that word. I’m a bit shocked it came out, but I know it fits.

  Frescos, like the ones I help restore in Italy, hold a special place in my heart. They’re beautiful works of art, often hidden under layers caused by years of neglect. I love scraping away each layer, delicately revealing the masterpieces underneath. Joyful awe often lingers in my heart at the hidden treasure I find. My brain has associated that word with Ian and there’s no taking it back now.

  “Fresco,” he repeats again. “I like it, Miss Scarlet.”

  I stand, his eyes following me. I make a small circuit around the store room, surveying the open boxes of equipment, contraceptives, and rope. My eyes linger on the box of black nylon rope.

  I should get us out of this storeroom. “Would you like to go back to the club?”

  “Not really, Miss Scarlet,” his response makes me smile.

  “You like it in here, away from the crowd?” I ask, my hand now inside the box, fingering the rope. The texture calls to me, filling my head with ideas.

  “I like it in here, with you, Miss Scarlet.”

  My head snaps up and I stare at him, my fingers curling around a bundle of rope. I should be getting us both out of here, now. Damn my lack of restraint.

  Pulling the rope from the box, I watch as his gaze flicks to it and widens. His hazel eyes are big and round, the vivid colors in them stunning me. I need to get this man into my art studio.

  I want this man.

  The thought chokes my breath and empowers my movements at the same time. Standing in front of him, I present the rope and ask a question I’m hoping he’ll say yes to, while that voice in the back of my head is begging him to say no because it’s all happening way too soon.

  “Would you like to pla
y a game, Twitch?”

  Ian

  Yes. God, yes!

  This can’t possibly be happening. I’m still recovering from the kissing, and now she’s presenting rope to me? Those kisses… that was incredible.

  She was so patient. It was like she knew exactly what I needed. Patience. Persistence. And now she wants to play a game? I think I might implode.

  “Yes, Miss Scarlet. I’d like that very much.” It surprises me how calmly that comes out.

  Her lips smile, and all my nerves are at full attention. Please, just let me keep it together enough to enjoy this. How long has it been since I’ve been able to enjoy anything? What does she have in mind? Can I really do this? Why is that box over there sideways?

  Fuck. Focus, Rider.

  “I’m gonna tie your ankles, okay?” her question regains my attention, the hint of her sweet country accent sending my heart spiraling.

  Is that okay? Are you kidding me? Fuck yes! I swallow and force air into my lungs. “Yes, Miss Scarlet.”

  My response pleases her, causing her smile to widen and display a set a perfectly straight, white teeth between her darkly painted crimson lips. Wait, do I have lipstick on my lips now? Shit.

  My hand fidgets against an urge to reach for a wetnap, my jaw ticking as I fight it. Lipstick and wetnap are forgotten the moment she grabs another bundle of rope from the box, sets them on the floor next to my feet and then uses her hands to slowly ease my knees apart. Oh, dear God, please be what I’m thinking.

  Not that the box behind her is most definitely sideways and mislabeled. The other thing. The idea where she’s spreading my legs to get at what’s between them.

  Whoa there, Rider. This is Charlie. Yes, she’s Miss Scarlet right now, but under that shiny leather, she’s still Emma’s best friend. A friend that you were swearing off touching not even two days ago. What happens when you leave this room? What happens tomorrow? What happens if… no, when you mess this up?

  She’s still a Miss, not a trained Mistress. I should be leading this.

  Correction. I should be ending this and getting an Assist, like Victoria or Brandon. I should be…

  The rope pulls one ankle taught. My thighs flex against it, testing the barrier, and she’s moving on to the other ankle. It feels like we’re standing on the cusp of something perfect.

  I don’t want an Assist. I want this moment to be ours and ours alone. Something we can share and experience together. An experience that might build into something beyond Friday night and beyond the walls of this club.

  I listen to the sounds of tightening nylon rope and the clacking metal restraining brackets, focusing my efforts on keeping my breathing normal and my anxiety at a manageable level. My other ankle becomes immobile, sending a spark of panicked euphoria over my body. I can do this.

  “Stand, please,” she requests and I comply, my feet a little more than shoulder width apart. She’s left a little slack in the ropes and I wonder if that’s due to design or inexperience.

  Rider, she has no experience! You should be stopping this now.

  I open my mouth, but the words catch in my throat as she approaches me with a third bundle of rope. Maybe I can teach her? I’m breaking so many of Brandon’s rules right now, but Charlie is standing there with black nylon in her hands and a smile on her lips. How could he expect me to deny this woman? How could I possibly ask her to stop?

  “Hands behind your back, please.”

  “Yes, Miss Scarlet,” I reply immediately and cross my wrists behind my back.

  As she slowly binds my wrists with the rope, I realize she hasn’t actually touched me once. She’s being very careful to avoid skin to skin contact. She’s being so very accommodating and I haven’t even had to tell her how or why.

  Brandon and Emma must have had the full talk with her. I’m both grateful and ashamed. I’m ashamed because if I was normal, such a talk wouldn’t be necessary.

  She finishes tying my wrists and steps away, examining me. “Are you good, Twitch?”

  I test the tension against my wrists. It’s a little tight, but it’s not uncomfortable. Technically, I should ask her to retie it, but technicality has flown out the storeroom’s non-existent window. “Yes. Thank you, Miss Scarlet.”

  “Please sit,” she requests and my knees buckle automatically, like I’m a puppet to her voice.

  Who am I kidding? I’m totally her puppet, and I like it. I’m sure I’d get up and do a damn jig right now if she asked me to, with ankles and wrists still tied.

  I’m keeping my calm expression while my insides explode. Saul told me once that I’m like a volcano. You only get to see the small bit that forms a gentle looking mountain. It’s the hidden part below that you have to watch out for – the part that’s brewing a cauldron of emotions. The part that has the potential to take out an entire village when it erupts.

  It’s happened maybe five times in my life – where I reached the eruption point. Saul and the others were there the last time. I was afraid it would end our friendship. I didn’t tell them it had only been a minor blow out.

  “I’m gonna blindfold you,” Charlie’s voice rolls over me, and the lava stirs.

  “Yes, Miss Scarlet,” I whisper past my simmering emotions. I’m anxious, like the jitters you may experience before jumping off a building. You’re anticipating the fall and the landing, but part of you is looking forward to the way down. The freedom. The peace. Flying.

  My heart is certainly flying, beating a million miles a minute as I feel Charlie wrapping the roll of gauze around my closed eyes. My lip quirks up in a smirk at her inventive nature. She’s a true artist. Creative. I can’t help but wonder what she has planned for this game we’re playing.

  The blindfold, however, does something unexpected. I can’t see her anymore. I can’t focus on her eyes or her hair.

  I can, however, focus on the way the rope around my wrist is a little too tight and how the cut on my hand is stinging a bit. It’s too quiet, and now I’m back to thinking about my toaster which I most definitively left plugged in. Fuck. I’m going to arrive home tomorrow to a burnt down apartment, I just know it.

  I need to get up. I need to get out. I need to get home and unplug the toaster and make sure I locked my damn door!

  As she moves my leather vest back over my shoulders, her fingers brush my skin. It startles me and I pull away with a small shiver. “Mistress?” I slip the word out, knowing it’s wrong. But the thought of it, of her being mine, calms me.

  “It’s okay, Twitch,” her voice calms me further. “I’m here. I want to play a game, but you know the word to say when you don’t want to play anymore, right?”

  I swallow. Breathe in. Breathe out.

  Fuck my damn toaster. Let it burn. Let it all fucking burn.

  “Yes, Mistress,” I repeat my mistake, but I can’t take it back now. It’s implanted in my brain. Another obsession.

  I can’t see what her reaction is to that word, but I can hear a slight quiver in her voice that begs me to follow the rules and end this. “I’m gonna draw something on your skin, Twitch, and I want you to tell me what it is.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” I keep right on fucking things up, but the idea of her finger on my skin is a tempting demon. I involuntarily flinch at the first tap of her fingertip on the center of my chest, but I inhale against it and force myself to remain still. She draws a single, short line then stops and pulls away. “A line?”

  “Very good,” she confirms my answer then places a quick peck on my lips as a reward.

  God, I love this game. Next, she draws a cross and again rewards me with a simple kiss, barely a brush of her lips against mine. Her next tease is an ‘X’ that causes her fingers to drag lightly over each nipple. It makes me tremble and I almost moan. Her fingers are like fire on my skin, making my nerves scream in deliciously destructive delight.

  I hate it and I love it. I want to pull away from it and I want more of it. And when she kisses me for each correct answer? My who
le body erupts.

  With each round, she’s drawing increasingly complicated designs, like my chest is a blank canvas. Her reward kisses are lingering just as long as her fingers are against my skin. As she dots the ‘’i” on her latest sketch, I smile and whisper the word reverently. “Charlie.”

  Her reward kiss starts like all the others. A soft brush of her lips, a gentle pressure and a patient wait for me to respond. This time, however, the wet slide of her tongue over my bottom lip finally releases the moan I’d been fighting.

  I feel her hands grasp my knees then slowly move up along my spread thighs. Another pass of her tongue against my lip unhinges my twitching jaw as the continued advancement of her fingertips unhinge my mind.

  Breathe in. I can do this.

  A slight brushing pass over my groin. A teasing press between my thighs. It has my whole body, every single muscle, twitching in a cascading pass as my dick hardens. Oh, fuck, it’s been so long since that’s happened.

  I can do this.

  Rider, you’ve stopped breathing.

  I can do this.

  Her fingers are unbuttoning my pants as her tongue makes another sweep.

  I can do this.

  Breathe, dammit! Please. Please, just let me have this! Please…

  She kisses my lips again, then my chin, my chest and then leaves me shaking. It’s too much.

  I can. I can’t.

  Fuck. Fuck! Fuck my nature! Fuck everything!

  “Fresco!”

  Her sharp intake of breath precedes her departure and I want to cry. I’ve ruined everything. Again. Why can’t I just be normal?

  One ankle is untied and then the other. A brief pause lets me take in a breath as I lean forward. The rope around my wrists lets go. I hear her heels walk away then stop.

  With shaking fingers, I pull off the blindfold and regain my bearings. That God dammed, crooked-ass, mislabeled box is the first thing my eyes focus on. I hate myself. I hate myself so God damned much.