Domino (The Domino Trilogy) (19 page)

Who knew? Who cared? All I knew is I wanted him inside me. I wanted to know, to feel, to understand what so many women before me had figured out long ago. I wanted to feel a man moving inside me, and like it.

My fingers could barely grip the
pulldown of his zipper. I was terrified and exhilarated and electrified all at the same time. But I finally got his fly open, and his cock broke through the opening in the silk boxers I found underneath. It wasn’t the first penis I’d seen up close----I’d given my prom date a blowjob, after all, though that had been in a pickup truck in a darkened parking lot. Plus there were those photos and videos I’d seen in Human Sexuality, and the back issues of
Playgirl
my high school best friend and I had swiped from her mother’s room. But it was the only cock I’d seen in bright light, up close and personal, the only one that I wanted to become thoroughly and completely a part of me. 

I’d given my prom date a blowjob more out of a sense of obligation and c
uriosity, and had found the experience thoroughly repulsive. It had turned me off cocks in general for years. But this was an entirely different ballgame. Peter Rostovich’s cock was a thing of beauty. A work of art, just like the rest of him.

And he was
huge
. Not that I had a lot to compare him to, but still----how was I going to take him into me?

“Oh my,” I breathed. “Oh
my.”

He looked up at me with those ice-blue pools of his and smiled. “Yes, I’m afraid Vladimir can be a bit intimidating.”

I giggled. “You named your penis Vladimir?”

“Yes. I find it gives him a certain, shall we say, character.” He grasped me by the waist, lifted me up, set me down on the edge of the table. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been with a man who name
d his dick. It’s rather common.”

“I w
ouldn’t know. I’ve never been with any man before.”

All the color drained from his face.
“What?”

“I
said, I haven’t been with any man before. Not really. I sort of made out with a boy once in high school, but that was it.”

He gripped the edge of the table for support. “You mean to tell me you’re a
virgin?”

“Yes
.”

He glanced down and seemed to notice his exposed, erect cock for the first time. He reddened, and immediately stuffed it back inside his pants, then struggled to pull his zipper closed over its thickness. “Oh dear God. Holy fuck. Holy fucking shit.” Then he began to pace back and forth, muttering in a language I didn’t understand. Ukrainian? Russian? I had no idea.

“What’s the matter?”

He stopped short. “What’s the matter?
What’s the matter?
You’re a fucking
virgin,
that’s what’s the matter!”

“So?”

“Good God, Nancy, I cannot possibly take your virginity! Not now! Not---not like this!”

“Why not?”

“Because---because---“ He trailed off and began to pace again.

“Because why? You know, everybody has to lose their virginity sometime. And I’m way past due.”

He walked over to the window and drew open the curtains, revealing the sunset over the Cleveland skyline. The Cuyahoga River usually looked dingy and gray, but in the growing twilight it took on a jewel-like quality. “That’s true,” he said. “But Nancy, I’ve already warned you to stay away from me. It was bad enough when I just thought you were too young and naïve to get involved with me. Knowing you’re a virgin just makes it even worse.”

“Makes what worse?”

“Everything. I tied you up ten seconds after meeting you, for Chrissakes. I’d never have done that if I’d known you were a virgin. It’s just wrong on so many levels.”

“I didn’t think it was wrong. Well, maybe at first I did, but honestly, I kind of liked it.”

He turned to face me. I noticed his eyes had gone dark, almost black. I wondered how he did that---if it was something that happened when he was angry or frightened, or maybe just a trick of the light. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Nancy, I think we should just end this now, before either of us does something we’ll regret.”

“I think I’ll regret it a lot more if I leave than if I stay.” I walked over to where he stood and wrapped my arms around his waist. “I want you, Peter. I want this.”
“You don’t even know me.”

“I know you enough to want to get to know you better.” Not just for myself, either. Even if I did feel a strong physical attraction for him----perhaps even something more----I was also a journalist after a scoop, and I wasn’t about to let it---or him---get away.

He caressed my cheek, planted a soft, almost chaste kiss on my cheekbone. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Yes. More than anything in the world. I’ve waited a long time for this, and I want my first time to be with you. Right here, right now.”

He took a deep breath, blew it out. “All right. But we’ll at least retire to the bedroom. You deserve to have your first time in a proper bed, with good sheets and soft pillows.” He took me by the hand and started to lead me towards the hallway.

I kept my feet planted right where they were. There was something I needed to address first.
“I want you to tie me up.”

His eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“I said, I want you to tie me up. Like you did in the gallery yesterday. You know, when we, um, do it.”

He seemed to lose his balance. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Why?” I was surprised at my tone of voice. I sounded like a petulant child.

“Because---oh good Christ, I don’t even want to discuss the matter.” With that, he scooped me up and carried me over the threshold, down the hall, and into the suite’s master bedroom.
He deposited me on the bed, gazed down at me as if surveying a lush English garden. “If you really want me to take your virginity, Nancy Delaney, at least allow me to do it like a gentleman. We can always explore bondage later. But not now. Not this time. Your first time only comes once, and I won’t spoil it for you.”

“Tie me up next time, then. We can do it more than once, can’t we?”

He closed his eyes, seemed to restrain himself. “Only if you want to. Only if you like it enough to want to.”

“I
will
want to.”

He held a finger to my lips. “Hush,” he said. “Hush.”

He began to remove my clothing then. He started with my bolero jacket, which he tugged so hard as he pulled it off that the left sleeve ripped. I winced; it was Hannah’s jacket, and very expensive. How was I going to explain that to her?

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he whispered, as if reading my thoughts. “I’ll buy you twenty new ones. Anything you want.”

His hands were all over me then, stroking, exploring, caressing. I writhed and moaned underneath his touch, completely taken aback at the sensations. I was still almost fully clothed, yet I already felt as naked as the day of my birth, every molecule in my skin singing. I could feel the very particles of the air moving against my body, I was so sensitized now. Oh, the feeling. Oh, the warmth, the touch, as if a million tiny feathers were flicking and fluttering against me.

Was it always like this? Was this what made poets compose verse, made songwriters create melodies? No wonder all my girlfriends went silly and half-witted over
their goofy fratboys and study-partners-with-benefits. This was beyond description. And we’d hardly even begun.

Peter began exploring
underneath my cocktail dress, searching for where it unfastened. He located the zipper that started at the nape of my neck, and began to lower it while simultaneously pushing the dress’ hemline upward. He seemed too impatient to actually remove the garment, so he started looking for easier means to access my insides. His hand disappeared underneath the skirt and found its way between my legs, stroking me through the layers of nylon stockings and panties.

That was almost too much for me to bear. My back arched involuntarily, and I emitted a little squeal, followed by a stifled scream. Everything in my body seemed to concentrate itself in the one spot where Peter
Rostovich’s nimble fingers scattered and danced---then everything exploded. The whole world seemed to shatter into a thousand pieces. I saw stars. I bit down hard on the back of my hand to keep from losing all control.

“Oh, Nancy, we’ve hardly begun, and you’ve come already? My dear girl, what shall I do with you?” Peter’s voice cut into my reverie. I’d come? Is that what he said? As in, an orgasm? Was that really what orgasms felt like? I’d never had one. I’d never even tried to give myself one. Not even when my Human Sexuality professor told us to masturbate and then write about how it felt as a homework assignment. (I’d just made something up based on what I’d read in
Tropic of Cancer
. I’d gotten a B-minus on the paper, which I made up for on the final exam.)

“Does it get better than this?” I heard myself say. My voice didn’t sound like my own. It was deep, husky, breathless----almost as if I were speaking from the other side of the moon.

“Oh yes,” he replied, kissing my neck where it met my shoulder. I writhed and moaned some more, unable to contain myself. “Oh yes, it does. Now be still, Nancy, so I can get the rest of these clothes off you. Otherwise you’ll never know just how much better it can get.”

“I can’t keep still,” I whispered back. “I can’t keep still unless you tie me down. Tie me. Please.”

He pushed himself up on his hands, raking his eyes over my body. He slipped off the dress, then traced a gentle caress down my cleavage with a fingertip, drawing a delicate map between my breasts, which were still encased in the black lace La Perla bra I wore---yet another loan from Hannah. My nipples went rock-hard and threatened to tear through the fabric, and my body nearly went into convulsions. “Are you sure?”
By then I was no longer able to speak. I nodded my head vigorously, and begged him with my eyes. My whole being cried out to be immobilized. I needed to be restrained. Because if I wasn’t, I was sure I would disintegrate, and I’d leave this world never knowing what it was like to have a man moving inside me.

“All right, sweet one,” he said, stroking my cheek. “But we’ll keep it simple and gentle this time.” He got up from the bed and
walked over to the intricately carved chest of drawers. Everything in the suite oozed money, expense, and status, reminding me yet again just how far apart Peter and I were in most ways. Worlds apart, really. I wanted to know him more, I wanted to enter his world.  And so did plenty of others, which is why I’d been hired to write about him. But now I was completely within his power, about to submit my will to him entirely. How could I accomplish what I’d set out to do if I rendered myself powerless underneath him?

And yet, how couldn’t I? I knew then I’d never know the real Peter
Rostovich unless I submitted to him. And my body already had. Whatever restraints he chose to apply, they would just serve as reinforcements for what I had already done instinctively anyway.

He came back to me, holding what appeared to be a length of filmy
white silk. “I brought this back from my last trip to Japan,” he said. “I’ve been saving it for a special occasion. I think this occasion is about as special as they come.” He took the fabric and caressed my cheek with it, then drew it down my neck, between my breasts, down to my waist, then dribbled it down the length of my legs, where it generated some electricity when it came in contact with my stockings. The sensation of the smooth, light fabric against my skin was more than I could bear.

“Please,” I begged. “Please.”

He snatched the fabric away. “Do we need to establish a safeword, Nancy?”

“A
safeword?” I knew what it was, in theory. I’d read about safewords in books. But I never thought I’d need to use one myself.

“Yes. You use it when you’ve reached your limit. Simply say it, and I’ll stop whatever I’m doing. I’ll stop now if you’ve already reached your limit.”

I gazed up at him with pleading eyes. I was a bit scared that we’d already gone too far. But I still wanted more. And I was afraid that if I didn’t go through with this now, I’d die a virgin. What had happened so far was very intense, but it could only be the tip of the iceberg. I wanted to know what else lay beneath the surface. “I don’t want you to stop,” I said.

“All right. But we’ll still need a
safeword if you want me to bind you. Any word you like, but only use it if you feel you’re reached your limit.”

I blurted the first word that came into my head. “Pizza,” I said.

He raised one eyebrow at me. “Pizza?”
“Yes. Pizza.”

“Pepperoni, sausage, or supreme?”
“Please don’t make fun of me.”

He smiled and kissed me on the forehead. “I wasn’t. On the contrary, I find your choice of
safeword adorable. Pizza it is. Shall we continue?”

“Yes. Please. Hurry.”

“All right, little one.” He gave my cheek another caress, softer and more slowly this time. My back arched in response. I felt my toes curl under and my legs involuntarily part underneath him, making space for him, preparing for what was to come. I was stunned and thrilled at how much my body seemed to know what to do without my even knowing or understanding it myself. I was relishing in the strange sensations and movements overtaking me when Peter began to restrain my body.