Author's Note: I'm posting this story in its entirety, so subsequent chapters should come out daily. I've tried to group shorter chapters together while managing breaks between submissions where they make sense. I haven't checked for sure, but I believe every segment includes at least one erotic scene.
This story does not contain hardcore BDSM elements that involve heavy humiliation. It is about an aspiring novelist named Grace and her first foray into the lifestyle. There will be bondage, spanking, paddling, whipping with a crop, role-playing, and a lot of sex. It is largely centered on the first time experience and overcoming anxieties. First and foremost, it is a love story.
I've written follow-on short stroke-stories using these characters but from the Dom/Top POV. The first of these stories will be entitled "Ethan's Grace -- The Flogging" and will be posted as soon as this entire series is available.
I welcome constructive feedback and comments, and genuinely appreciate your support. I sincerely hope you enjoy this story.
-Dakota Lynn
CHAPTER ONE
Author meets Dom
I can never quite tell, when I'm anxious, if it stems from fear or excitement. It's almost always a mix of the two, but in what proportion? It shouldn't matter but I can't keep myself from wondering. As I sat there waiting for my turn on the platform I wanted to know which one it was.
You see, it all feels the same to me. Whether I'm 100% excited with 0% fear, or just the opposite. Elevated heart rate, sweaty palms, twitchy stomach, a hitch in my breathing like my lungs have shrunk, and the total inability to hold a single thought in my head no matter how hard I try.
My eyes flitted across the crowd. I hadn't counted but there might've been twenty. Mostly couples. The spotlights cast serious shadows across the groupings from my vantage point so I could only detect dark outlines. In plain view behind them was a backdrop of every device known to the lifestyle. Or at least a fair sampling. It should be inspiring to me instead of intimidating. After all, it was partly my idea to hold the reading in that location in the first place.
About a month earlier I emailed the webmaster of one of the larger local BDSM clubs. I was looking for some inspiration for my next novel. I hadn't written anything since ... well, it had been months. I'd been dealing with other personal matters that just put me in the wrong mood for erotic prose. The group leader suggested I come read samples of my work at their next meeting. Since this was not appropriate at the public munch, a private location was secured. I might have suggested renting the dungeon, having researched it before with some interest, or I merely agreed enthusiastically to the suggestion; I'm not sure which. At any rate, I consented to reading aloud a collection of my written works.
It's a very different thing, reading aloud what you've written. Adding voice to the composition somehow makes it more personal. I was about to speak aloud words that just weren't used in every day speech. Pussy, for example. I seem to write that word a lot, but I can't recall the last time I used it in a casual sentence on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Cock. Ass fucking. Nipple, clit, cum. All of those words were present in my stories and so they were about to fall freely from my lips to a group of strangers, who in all likelihood, were about to get off to them in front of me.
Does that scare me or excite me?
I sucked a long breath into my constricted lungs in an effort to calm my nerves. The group leader was about to finish his announcements and relinquish the platform to me. I tried not to think of what that platform was usually used for, but with chains hanging overhead, it was difficult to ignore.
A lone figure in the crowd caught my attention. He was so still I had to look twice to determine whether he was a statue, or was real. I kept glancing in that direction to convince myself. The other statue, the suit of medieval armor that stood erect before a red backdrop, kept throwing me off, too. I honestly expected that statue to move first. It was possible for someone to be in that suit. Not very likely, but possible. Being the skittish person I was, and so easy to startle, it kept me on alert.
This is why I never visit haunted houses. Why are you even thinking about this? Concentrate.
I practiced at home several times throughout the month leading up to the event. At first I simply tried to get used to my own voice. Then I tried to get through a sex scene without feeling like my skin was on fire. At last, I worked up to doing it in front of a mirror. It was excellent training, I thought to myself as I nearly strained a muscle patting my own back. It hardly seemed like enough in those moments just before I began, but it paid off in the end.
In spades.
When at last I stepped up to the makeshift podium it was that preparation that wrapped me in my own suit of armor and gave me the courage to charge forward. And as I continued to relay the story I'd written, cocks and pussies, and whips and cages, and all, I reveled in the sea of writhing bodies before me. It was only then that I realized that my only fear was that they
wouldn't
get off on it. Or at least get revved up.
In what felt like a very brief time later, I was wrapping up the last chapter of my short story. I was more than mildly aware of my own arousal. I'd only heard the response of the crowd, not actually seen it, and that was enough to put me on the edge. With a light directly on me so that I could read, I could scarcely see beyond the platform. It wasn't until the last word on the page was read and I stepped out of the light that I could treat myself to the view.
The exposure of skin was immediately apparent. Nipple clamps were popular I could see, and that gave me a certain sense of pride because there'd been a few scenes centered around them in my story. I could hardly take credit, though, since the participants had to decide to bring them long before hearing my tale. Still, I was pleased. And relieved to be finished talking.
The mysterious dark form was still there, perched against a spanking bench, in nearly the same position as when I started. If it had been the exact same position I would've talked myself into believing it was a statue after all. I froze and stared at the immovable form. For way too long, it seemed because I slipped into some sort of stupor. It was the group leader's mention of my name that snapped me out of my reverie.
I'd offered to answer questions afterward about my novels, or about writing in general, or anything within reason, as long as it didn't include divulging my real name and occupation. They had the facility reserved for another fifteen minutes so the group was free to take advantage of that time in whatever way they wished. Many of the couples, being sexually charged from the reading, had no intention of spending their time talking to me, so I mostly sat and watched. There wasn't anything else to do.
And I became immensely aware that I, too was being watched.
It didn't feel exactly like they describe in books, with hair standing on end, prickling the scalp, it was more like a tingling sensation at the base of my skull that traveled down my body alerting every nerve ending. I was suddenly conscious of every breath I took, every minute movement of my shoulders, the way my tongue couldn't seem to stop licking my lips. I finally held my bottom lip between my teeth to stop it before I went mad. It was downright unsettling for someone who wasn't exactly in the best frame of mind at that point in time. For someone who'd just lost their husband.
I tried not to think of it like that. It wasn't my husband's sudden death that was affecting my overall sense of self-worth. It was what I discovered after he'd died; the life he'd so artfully hidden from me while he was still alive and promising to be faithful.
Her.
I would've never guessed that one breach of contract could break me as completely as it had. Even if the contract in question was our marriage vow; our commitment to fidelity until death us do part. And how ironic it felt that only after the term of contract, after he'd passed away and was buried beneath the soil did I learn of the betrayal. It was this and not his death that devastated me the most.
If I'd just found out sooner I would've had the opportunity to revolt. To say my peace in absolute righteousness without the tiniest speck of guilt. But his death had denied me that. I had no choice now but to suppress my outrage. Go on as if nothing had happened. As if I'd not been made a fool of for the last two years of my marriage.
It's difficult to blame something, anything, on a deceased person. Once they're gone, all guilt goes with them, except of course the guilt that you feel for still being alive. That guilt continues to thrive inside you and spread like a virus until eventually it evolves from an affliction to a disability. Until it becomes apparent that there is only one person left to blame on this earth. Yourself.
The general sounds of departure caught my attention. Low murmurs, hugs and handshakes. Another span of time had slipped from my grasp. It seemed to happen frequently, although it was getting slightly better. Rather than dazing through hour-long chunks of time, I was only skipping over five and ten minutes at a time. A definite improvement.
"Thanks for coming today." The group leader was a very warm individual; a good choice for that position.
"It was fun. Thanks for having me."
"A few members have already asked if you could come back. What do you think?"
"I...sure. That'd be great. About the same amount of time?"
"I think so. Ethan is checking on availability for two weeks from today. Same time."
I wasn't sure who Ethan was as I glanced around the room. No one was making their way toward us so I just nodded and shrugged. "Okay."
My gaze automatically locked onto the spanking bench. My motionless admirer had left his perch. I scanned the group for anyone resembling his shape. It was difficult to tell. That is, until he was walking straight for me.
I held my breath and froze in place. My mind reeled with possible explanations for his odd behavior.
Was he bored with the story? Does he recognize me from somewhere? Work, maybe? God, that would be awkward.
"It's all yours, John."
"Thanks, Ethan. Did you have a chance to meet our author? Kimber Lee, this is Ethan, or more affectionately referred to as Master E."
I extended my shaky right palm in greeting. "Nice to meet you."
His hand sent a wave of static electricity to mine as he touched me and I flinched. Ethan tilted his head to the side with a half smile as he gripped my hand and nodded his greeting. A moment later he released my hand.
It wasn't unfriendly, exactly, but it left me feeling even more uneasy. I was growing more certain by the second that he didn't approve of me for some reason. Although, I was also sure after seeing him beneath the light that I'd never laid eyes on him before. Because I'd remember that face.
To categorize his face as handsome wouldn't be right, although it would be close. It was an interesting face. Bright green eyes that could penetrate steel with one determined look, and brows set low and straight so as to make him appear to be scowling at everything and everyone. I doubted he ever smiled; or if he did, the smile never reached his severe forehead. His nose was slightly crooked, with a dimple at the tip that matched the one in his chin. He had more than a few days of stubble along his chin and jawline and a fashionably sparse mustache. I surmised that it not only made him look rugged, but older as well. He very well may have been ten years my junior, but you'd never know it by his appearance. Or the way he carried himself.
Overall, he was definitely attractive.
Out of your league, Grace Kimberly Davis.
It wasn't difficult to automatically categorize his acquaintance as 'never gonna talk to him again'. I mean, let's face it, we can usually tell in the first few seconds of meeting someone whether or not they're on the menu. He wasn't even in the same restaurant as me. Now, I'm not downright offensive looking or anything, but I was not the level of beautiful that I was sure adorned his arm on a weekly basis. He just had that sort of unspoken charm. The one that ladies flocked toward. In shameless hordes.
"I'm hoping Miss Lee here will consider joining our club. I think she'd make an interesting addition to our group, don't you Ethan?"
I reluctantly glanced up at Ethan. A deep crease had formed down the center of his forehead as if he was forcing himself to remain serious after John's suggestion. He nodded and tilted his head to regard me sideways. "Is that what you want?"
I was stunned that he was speaking directly to me. And then a little miffed by his question.
What is he suggesting?
"I haven't really given it much thought, yet."
The truth of the matter was that I hadn't given it any thought, whatsoever. This visit wasn't social for me. It was business.
Ethan straightened up. A tiny smug grin settled on his lips. Something about it just made my blood boil.
"I think it would be a good way to meet people. I might just do that, John."
I could feel Ethan's emerald stare heating up the side of my face as I locked my attention on John.
"That's great. If you decide that's what you want to do, I'll make the announcement at our next meeting. Oh, that reminds me..."
