31 Flavors of Kink (3 page)

Again my stupid brain kicks at me. Even though my clit is swelling and begging for more, should I like this? “Nick, I—”

He shoves the vibrator between my legs. It’s over my pants, but that doesn’t stop its effect. If it keeps up, something down there will turn to jelly. I gasp and wriggle, but his grasp is firm. Way too firm, like a beast has hold of me and wants to do naughty things to my body. My kind of beast. As I stare up at him, I’m hyperaware of his fist in my hair, my body stretched out under him, and the rise and fall of my breasts. The vibrator hums deeper into my flesh. My breathing betrays my arousal.

I’ve never wished to be rid of my aversions so badly.

Chapter Four

Nick is away on business. He’ll be gone for five days. By the time my period was over, he had one night to pack, and he didn’t get the chance to follow through on his promise. But I use this time wisely. I research BDSM. First the acronym. I discover it has three parts.

Bondage and discipline.

Dominance and submission.

Sadomasochism.

I’m mainly interested in the B and D. Discipline. Just the word sends a shiver up my spine. But why? Did I not receive as much as I needed when I was a child? Do I have daddy issues? I shudder. No, let’s take that out of the equation. I’ll role-play naughty schoolgirl, but I’m not going down the dirty daddy road.

Besides, I had a normal childhood filled with Shrinky Dinks, climbing trees, and skinned knees. Well, almost normal. My dad left for another woman when I was four and never came back. Though most of my childhood memories are fond ones, there were parts that were bumpy. I was a latchkey kid. My mom had to work long hours to support us. Even with a decent job, we had to shop secondhand. We moved from apartment to apartment as rent grew steeper in the nice neighborhoods. By grammar school we were living paycheck to paycheck in a rough part of town. My neighborhood friends were from broken homes, most of them abusive. I saw it firsthand.

But I was a smart kid. I knew things were tough for my mom. Worry plagued me, and I lay awake late at night thinking about it just as often as my mother did. My mind was on constant overdrive. I was insecure, a product of chaos. The school reports said I was highly intelligent but a daydreamer. “Sidney can’t sit still. Sidney doesn’t follow directions.”

I started biting my fingernails obsessively. It’s a habit that stayed through adulthood. I look down at my sad excuse for fingernails. I never shook the pit of anxiety from my childhood, even all these years later. I chuckle. Daydreamer? Check. Doesn’t sit still? Check. I’m always bouncing my knees or tapping my hands. Even in my sleep. Nick is so used to it he tells me he can’t sleep when he’s away because it’s too still, too quiet.

When I married Nick, I considered myself a virgin. My horrible introduction to sex scared me away from intimacy through my teenage years. It was my friend’s older brother who raped me during a sleepover party. I didn’t tell anyone until adulthood because I thought it was my fault. I shouldn’t have gone into his room when he asked me to. I shouldn’t have sat next to him on the bed or let him kiss me. He said I was pretty. I was desperate for male attention. I needed acceptance. I wanted a man to love me.

In some ways, I still do. I fear rejection. Abandonment.

But I must move on. I’ve just entered my sexual prime, and I’m damn well going to take advantage of it. I firm my jaw and stare at the computer screen. The cursor points to the word that makes me squirm the most.

Sadomasochism. It sounds scary. How many crime show episodes have I watched that feature a killer they label a sadist? It’s an illness, the resident psychiatrist says. A sadist needs to hurt people to get sexual gratification.

I like pain. At least I think I do. Does that mean I’m a masochist? And if so, does Nick need to become a sadist? I can’t imagine him taking sexual pleasure in hurting anyone, least of all me. But that’s what I want, isn’t it? If not, why would I have these dreams? Why would the erotic books I read turn me on?

My head is whirling, and I feel like I’m entering some dark universe where I’m totally out of my element.

Maybe I need some input from real people—people who actually do this stuff. I join an online social group of men and women who “practice” BDSM. What a strange term. Is it a sport? A hobby?

I use a fake name and account in the group. I still battle a deep sense of shame. I know what I want—I think—but I’m still not sure it’s okay to want it.

So far, I’ve only revealed to Nick that I might like a little rough sex. A little spice in the bedroom. Nothing wrong with that, I tell myself. No big deal. Lots of couples do that. Normal couples who have regular sex. No, not regular. I’ve learned the right term now. Vanilla.

I’m not shy in this group. Why should I be? I feel safe with my fake name. I ask many questions. I’m shocked by most of the answers. Have I been living under a rock? I’ve never thought of myself as sheltered, but this group makes me feel like I’ve just tumbled down a rabbit hole. And I have no idea if I want to clamber my way back up or continue to explore Wonderland. But something keeps me there. Outside, I stare wide-eyed at the stories, but inside, the deep place in my soul I’ve kept hidden is doing a happy dance.

I find an article called “The Beginner’s Guide to Being a Dom.” I don’t know if I want a Dom. Or if Nick could even be a Dom. I think of our relationship. It’s always been based on a deep-rooted respect for one another. We’re equals, partners in everything. He doesn’t have a dominant bone in his body—and I’m no shrinking violet.

But something about submission appeals to me. The letting go—of worry, of stress, of control. Just for a short time and only inside the bedroom. Outside, I value my independence. And it isn’t fair to leave Nick with the burden of all of the responsibility. But sometimes…sometimes I want to not have to think. I just want to feel. Just be.

BDSM is about trust, the reading material exclaims. That makes sense. I wouldn’t let just anyone tie me up for sexual pleasure. I know that Nick won’t hurt me. The paddle from my dream flashes in my mind. Well, not more than I want him to anyway.

I e-mail Nick the article and tell him it’s just a little help to get started. The article explains all the dominant essentials. He is in charge. He should remain stern. He should keep in mind my needs and responses.

I learn lots of new terms while he’s away. A safe word is an agreed-upon word, out of context of the situation, that puts an end to all activities. It’s an out, if things get too intense. Most people use “red.” We may be starting slow, but the concept of a safe word calms me. I halt my research and take time to reflect. I trust Nick more than I trust anyone, but is it enough?

On the surface, I can say easily he won’t hurt me, but when I think of being physically exposed and helpless, a small part deep down, in the darkness of my soul, panics. It turns me on, yes, but I can’t stop that tiny thirteen-year-old voice whimpering, what if he does hurt me? What if he betrays me? Nick, the one stable influence in my life. My rock. My one and only love. If I test his trustworthiness and he fails, I think it would kill me.

* * * *

It’s been two days since I sent Nick the article about being a Dom. I try not to nag him to read it. I try not to push for his thoughts. But really, the man can challenge a monk in terms of conversation. Finally the agony of waiting wears me down, and I text him that night, lying in lamp-lit darkness.

Have you read the article?

His response is immediate. The idea that he’s lying in bed too, texting me back, makes me smile.

Yes.

I roll my eyes. Not going to make this easy, is he? I text him again.

Thoughts?

Only a minute later, he responds.
Basically you want me to take control?

Now he’s getting it. But I should clarify.

In the bedroom, yes.

His text comes faster this time.
I can do that.

My heart leaps, and I grin like an idiot. Another text comes through.

But I’m gonna make you regret saying that.

My stomach drops. This sounds nothing like my Nick. His next text is a winking emoticon. I giggle. I must encourage this new version of him. I text him back.

Can’t wait
, with a wink.

This is good sign, I decide. And I fall asleep with thoughts of Nick and his wicked promises.

* * * *

I decide a surprise is in order for when Nick comes home tomorrow. There are two adult stores within driving distance. The closest is a brick building with no windows in a shoddy part of town and a sign that says ADULT STORE. I grimace when I drive by. I feel like I could get an STD just by stepping through the door.

The other option is forty minutes away but well worth the drive. Huge, classy, and welcoming with its window display of mannequins dressed in tasteful lingerie. I take a deep breath before entering and pray I don’t run into anyone I know. How awkward would it be to bump into my third-grade teacher in here? Or even worse, the pastor of the church in which I grew up. I chuckle at my inappropriate thoughts and walk through the doors.

Immediately I’m inundated with sex. But I guess that’s the point. In front of me, more mannequins sport revealing costumes and night wear. Less classy than the window display, I notice. Something called “Bondage Wear” catches my eye. Black strips of what looks like utility tape run up, down, and around the mannequin’s body like a child’s art project—only they cover certain bits while leaving others wide open. Seems like the opposite bits to me. What’s the point of wearing lingerie that binds the belly and thighs but doesn’t cover the breasts and…other parts? Even if I could figure out how to arrange the damn thing on my body, I’m not sure Nick would have the patience to resist tearing it off. And paying—I look at the price tag—holy shit! Ninety dollars for some strategically placed duct tape is bound to send me to bargain shopper hell. So as intriguing as it sounds, there will be no bondage wear for me.

On the right, shelves are lined with gag gifts, novelty items for bachelorette parties, and things like that. On my left are rows and rows of—my God, I don’t even know. I squint my eyes and look closer. All sorts of packaged toys. Dildos, looks like. And anal plugs. And vibrators. That’s what I’m here for. My group tells me a bullet vibrator will change my life. I’m also in the market for rope.

My gaze wanders the large store, taking in everything I see—some I understand, most I don’t. In the far back, there’s an intriguing little nook with a sign above that reads S&M.

I duck into the vibrator aisle before my curiosity gets the better of me and forces my feet to wander into that nook. Vibrators are safe. Vibrators are “normal.” God, if anyone saw me in the S&M section, I think I might die of embarrassment.

My attention returns to my task. Find a bullet, some sexy rope and get the hell out of here. I stare at the shelves before me, frozen in place. Holy crap, there must be hundreds of options. Vibrators in every shape and size. Fat ones, skinny ones, and some so big they make me squirm just looking at them. Realistic-looking phalluses in every ethnic color. Something that looks disturbingly like a dolphin with whirly things coming off the side. My God. Do they light up and sing songs too? I’m picturing Marvin Gaye singing “Let’s Get It On” between my legs.

Focus, Sidney!
Right. A bullet. I browse the shelves, wincing and grimacing, and finally spot the bullet section. Not as many choices but still enough to overwhelm me. I finally choose one called “grape”—after staring at the package for five minutes trying to figure out if it’s actually grape-flavored. Final verdict: no, it’s just a gimmicky way to label the color. Then again, I’ve only been in one section of the store and learned so much. It could very well be a flavored vibrator.

An attendant appears out of nowhere and clears her throat. With a friendly smile, she asks, “Would you like to try that out?”

I can feel my eyes grow wide. My jaw drops. Suddenly I have the urge to drop the package on the floor and wash my hands.

She chuckles at my expression and clarifies. “I mean I could put batteries in it so you can feel how strong the vibration is.” When I continue to gape, she adds, “On your hand.”

Oh. That makes so much more sense. I wonder if she’d let me lick it. “Um. That’s not necessary. Thank you.”

“Okay. Can I help you find anything else?”

The exit?

No, Sidney! Finish what you came here for. Do it for Nick.
“Rope?”

“What kind of rope?”

What kind of question is that? “Uh…the braided kind with two ends?”

She gives me a patronizing smile. “Well, there’s hemp rope, nylon rope, silk rope. Are you doing Shibari?”

Shibari? Isn’t that the restaurant I had sushi in last month? “Just plain, ordinary rope.”

“What will it be used for?”

I feel my face heat, and I can’t look Super Smiley Helpful Lady in the eye. “Tying…things.”

She moves into my line of vision. “Bondage?”

I nod.

“We have some restraint systems that are quicker and easier to work with. Would you like to see those?”

Whatever makes you go away.
“Sure.”

Fifteen long minutes later, I walk out with an overpriced nylon piece of fabric that buckles around the mattress and has little silver hoops to attach clips to, ankle cuffs, handcuffs, and a possibly grape-flavored vibrator. Just the thought of my legs forced open wide, spread-eagled on the bed and the vibrator torturing my clit has my heart racing. What will Nick think?

As long as I don’t show him the price tags, I think he’ll be fine.

Chapter Five

When Nick comes back from his business trip, I am keen to try out all I’ve learned. He’s too tired the first day. I try not to pout. I’m thirty years old, not a toddler, I scold myself when I feel like pulling on his clothes and whining. The following day, I text him at work. The urge to send him a naughty picture is almost too strong to resist, but if his boss happened to see it, I would never forgive myself. So I go for conservative instead.