Domino (The Domino Trilogy) (24 page)

And to think, ju
st forty-eight hours ago, I believed that I had plenty of self-control. I’d resisted scores of male advances, whether at my cocktail job or on campus. I’d achieved high grades, I’d even managed to squirrel away a savings account when all the other young women my age were more likely to run up credit card debt and scrape by with Cs. To me, that was what discipline meant. How wrong I had been. How naïve, how silly! Peter Rostovich was discipline, personified.

He held the fifth and final belt in his right hand. It was different from the others, I noticed. Narrower where they were wide, thinner where they were thick, and a far finer grade of leather. I noticed then that while the four straps binding me to the bed were just average ord
inary belts with chrome buckles meant for holding up trousers, this one seemed designed for another purpose.

“I had this custom-made in Italy,” Peter said, again with that uncanny ability to know my thoughts before I spoke them aloud. “Although I can wear it if I like, I seldom do. I use it for
something else, something far superior to just lacing through belt loops.” He slapped a section of it against his left palm. A resounding
crack
rang through the room. 

“Do you hear that, Nancy? Do you know what it means when a belt cracks? It mean
s that in the space of air surrounding the moving belt, the sound barrier has been broken. Good leather moves at supersonic speed.” He held up his palm to show me. There was a bright red line crisscrossing its surface. “This is the result of a good whipping. You want redness, not welts. A touch of pain, not permanent injury. It’s like walking a tightrope. Death-defying, but disastrous if you take a step in the wrong direction.”

I felt my toes curl under as he s
poke. He had bound me up tight, answering my prayers. But this---oh, I had not expected this. A cracking leather belt---or whip, or whatever it was---that was above and beyond. My whole body quivered in anticipation. Would he bestow the fine leather strap’s caresses onto my body? Or would he just hold it out at arm’s length, teasing me with it? Would I never be satisfied?

This was torture. Sweet, sweet torture.
I recoiled from it, yet I didn’t want it to end.

He dangled the end of the belt over my belly, which by now was covered with a fine mist of sweat. “Do you want to feel this, Nancy? Nod once if you do. I’ll start slow. You can tell me to stop at any time with your
safeword.”

I nodded once.

The belt tip hovered half an inch above my belly button. I tried to rise up, to join with it somehow, but the restraints held me back. I could feel the deepest parts of my flesh begin to tingle and clench, hoping for some kind of release. I knew not what was in store for me---I felt as if I were standing on the edge of an abyss. There was something waiting for me on the other side, but did I really want to know what that something was. What would happen to me when I found out? Would it be too much for me to bear? All the unknowns terrified me, and yet sparked my curiosity at the same time. How was it possible for the two feelings to occupy the same space at once? Is this really what made masochists tick? The unknown? The fear? The cognitive dissonance between two points that should never coexist, and yet did?

“Those of us who live this lifestyle do it because we want something more out of life,” Peter said, tickling me with the tip of the belt, dragging it back and forth across my skin, making invisible lacy patterns. “We are not content with the ordinary. We constantly seek what is just beyond our reac
h. We seek new horizons. We seek to expand our consciousness. Whether you dominate or submit---or do both---to participate requires that you have an artist’s mind. And you do have an artist’s mind, Nancy. You’ve already proven that to me ten times over. Now prove it to yourself.”

Crack.

The belt snapped against my belly once, twice. I screamed. There was pain. Oh yes, there was pain. Delightful pain. Delicious. Like eating a hot tamale smothered in Tabasco and chili peppers that burned so hot it made your eyes water.
That
kind of pain.

Oh. Yes.

My body tightened up, clenched down hard, harder. Every inch of me began to tingle and spark, from my scalp to my fingertips to the underside of my toes. But there was no satisfaction, no release. And there wouldn’t be, not yet. Not until he took me, and took me hard.

But first, the prelude. Before I could be saved, I had to be baptized first. And Peter would do that for me.

Crack.

“Oh, God,
” I heard a deep, raspy female voice bleat out as if from far away. Not my voice, oh no----it had to be someone else’s, someone I’d never met before, and perhaps never would, at least not face-to-face.

Crack. Crack. Crack.
The belt danced its way across my belly, my thighs, even between my legs just out of reach of my sex. It left a trail of red behind, a lacy pleasure painting. My skin broke out into a thousand delectable sensations, my whole body vibrated and sang like a plucked bowstring. Oh, dear God, it was beyond description. I had to have more. But it was not to be.

“That’s enough of that,” Peter said between heaving gasps. He was gripping his cock, rubbing it up and down the shaft as he snaked the strap softly down my body one final time.

I whimpered in protest. I didn’t want him to stop. We’d barely scratched the surface. “It’s your first time, remember, Nancy. We have to leave something in the can for next time. I don’t want things to be too intense for you too quickly.” He stroked himself faster, then moaned. “Let’s go.”

He reached over to the bedside table for a condom, slipped it on, then slipped right into me.

His entry was soft and slow, but he soon picked up speed. I was so ready for him. Every shred of soreness from my breaking-in just a few short hours before had vanished, replaced by the dull ache of unfulfilled desire.

His thrusts picked up in speed and power, and soon he was pounding into me hard, harder, harder. I could feel his tip banging against my deepest point,
and cried out as my body gripped him tighter and tighter, willing him to stay inside me always. But no sooner would he thrust in, he would disappear, then back in again. In, out, in, out. Give, take, give, take. Full, empty, full, empty. I wanted to meet his every thrust, to keep him deep and far inside me, but the restraints made it hard. I could still move my hips, but not enough to sate what my body wanted---
needed---
from him.

Oh. Ah.
So this was part of the game, too. Keeping me still. Holding me back. Denying me what I wanted, when I wanted it.

“Please,” I moaned. “Please, give it to me, hard, now.” Again, I didn’t recognize this voice
, this voice that couldn’t possibly be mine. It seemed to come from somewhere out in the ether. The very words were something I’d never imagined saying, not now, not ever. I wanted to be fucked, hard and fast, until I came. That was all. It was so simple, so primal, and yet it seemed as if it would never, ever happen. He was dangling me over a precipice, holding me between his fingertips. All I wanted was to go over the edge, but he refused to let me drop.

On and on it went, like a strange tribal dance.
In, out. In, out. Hard, soft. Hard, soft. Give, take. Give, take. Then---

His pace quickened. He reached underneath my buttocks, palmed them, raised me up so that I met his thrusts at a steep angle.
His cock penetrated me deeply then, and he timed his thrusts in perfect sync with my racing pulse. I could feel both him and my own body’s reaction ringing in my ears, threatening to shatter my very existence.

In. Out. In. Out. In
In In. Out Out Out. Hard.

Oh, God.

He rammed me one final time, and the whole world split apart.

Everything went black. I was free-fl
oating in space, suspended as if I were captive prey on a spiderweb. My body throbbed, clenched, throbbed again, then exploded outward. I had a deep urge to clutch something, anything to stop my endless freefall down, down, down into the abyss----the very place I had longed for, begged for. But now that I was there, I scrambled for purchase along the edges, trying to stop my descent before I went mad. But it was futile. I was bound and tied, immobilized. All I could do was surrender to the forces that now gripped me and wouldn’t let me go.

And, at long last, I understood.

This was why people tied each other up in bed. This was why my body begged for restraints from the very first second Peter Rostovich ever laid eyes on me, and I him. He hadn’t slapped those cable ties on me to frighten me, or as part of a self-important art installation, or just because he was a pompous ass. He’d done it because he’d known instinctively it was what I wanted and needed. He’d given me what I wanted and needed before I’d understood exactly what that was. He knew me better than I knew myself.

This freefalling into the deep, this world-splitting madness, these primal urges, they all had a name.

Surrender.
And surrender was bliss.

Time passed, I knew not how long. It could have been minutes, or hours. The world slowly reassembled itself, like confetti sprinkling its way down to the ground. I was vaguely aware that Peter’s naked body rested on top of my own, caught in his own abyss. He had not yet returned, so I just waited, noticing the pins-and-needles sensations in my bound wrists and ankles, feeling the slight aches in my spread-eagled limbs. I wanted to wrap myself around Peter, who still remained deep inside me, to embrace him and show him just how much I loved everything he had done for
me. But alas, I was still bound and could do nothing of the sort. I was still at his beck and call, waiting for him to release me.

The last spasms of my orgasm subsided. It surprised me that my sex could still expand and contract
for minutes---or hours---after the initial onslaught that tore the world asunder. It was a soft, gentle, and comforting sensation, like a baby rocking to sleep in its mother’s arms. A reminder that this had really happened, it had not been an illusion.

Sex was real, even if it did send you into another dimension for a time. It was of this world, and our bodies were both the key and the door.

Eventually Peter stirred. He kissed the spot where my neck met my shoulder, nuzzled me a bit with the top of his nose. I could feel his overnight growth of beard scratching against my
still-sensitive skin hard enough to leave a mark. “Still alive, are you?” he whispered.

“Barely.” It was the truth. I was still having a hard time understanding how some people managed to have sex every day, or multiple times a day. If my body’s reaction was any indication, people who did that probably would have to spend their entire lives in bed, either
fucking or recovering from fucking. Nobody would ever eat, or go to school, or have a job. The world should have come to a complete standstill a long time ago.

“That’s a good sign,” he said, and pulled away from me. He clutched the condom at its base, stripped it off, knotted it, tossed it into a wastebasket. “If you were capable of doing anything besides lie flat on your back and not move for several hours, then I haven’t done my job.”

“I’d say you’ve done your job and then some,” I murmured back. I had found my voice again, but I was plenty thirsty, and talking required considerable effort. To say nothing of the fact I was still tied down and spread-eagled. “I could use a glass of water, though. And eventually, a trip to the bathroom, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” He unbuckled my restraints one by one, unwound them, set each of my limbs free.
“Take your time,” he cautioned as he released my right ankle, the last part of me to be untied. “Don’t rush. You’ve been through quite a lot tonight.”

I tried to ignore him and just sit bolt upright, but my body refused to cooperate. I managed to lift my head an inch or two off the pillow, but that was all.

Peter chuckled. “See? You didn’t believe me. Let me get you that glass of water. You should probably eat something, too. When was the last time you ate?”

I thought back for a moment and couldn’t quite remember. I supposed it had to have been the pizza
margherita at lunch yesterday, which was at least twelve hours ago now. I’d skipped dinner, of course. Peter and I had become each other’s main course instead.

He didn’t
wait for me to respond. “You’re probably dehydrated, and by the looks of your complexion I’m guessing your blood sugar is low. Sex takes a lot out of you. Especially when you have it with me.” He disappeared down the hallway for a moment----stark naked, of course----and returned shortly thereafter with a glass of ice water and a croissant. “Start with this. Eat and drink slowly. I’ll bring you the room service menu. You really should have a full meal.”

I glanced at the clock. Four-thirty in the a.m. “Are you sure they have room service this time of night?”

“They do for me.” He found his discarded pajama bottoms somewhere near the foot of the bed and tugged them on. “Staying in the presidential suite has its privileges.”

“How do you afford all of this, anyway?” I asked between bites of croissant. It was slightly stale, but I was so ravenous I didn’t care. “I always thought artists were, you know, starving.”

“Only the unsuccessful ones.”