"And now I awaken, for I am both yours and mine."
- Novalis
It had taken months, but Lacey Tucker finally confronted her fantasy and made a decision. Her fantasy -- it had become an obsession lately -- involved kinky sex. Though it was embarrassing if she analyzed it too closely, she wanted (or at least was pretty sure she wanted) to be restrained and penetrated. Specifically, she fantasized about being stripped, either before or after being bound, spread open and taken roughly, preferably from behind. Her mental images of the scene were vivid and detailed, stimulated not primarily by porn, though she had seen some, but rather by Lacey's more-than-adequate imagination and some recent experience. Indeed, she understood what she wanted well enough to have labeled it, with characteristic bluntness, Tied Down and Fucked; or, as she mentally abbreviated it, TD&F.
The seed of her obsession was planted when she and a lesbian friend, Olivia, began fooling around about 18 months earlier. Liv was more adventurous than Lacey and also liked to drink. Loopy kissing and petting were followed by dares, tipsy strip games, and steamy mutual masturbation. All in good fun. Olivia called it gooning, a term Lacey had not heard, and Olivia was very good at it. Eventually Olivia brought out her collection of bondage paraphernalia, which included cuffs and blindfolds, nipple clamps and paddles, vibrators and harnesses -- really, Lacey couldn't believe how much kinky stuff she had. Together they (mostly Olivia) dreamed up BDSM scenes and then roleplayed tamer versions of them. Tamer, except that Liv insisted on cameras.
It was the headiest sex Lacey had ever experienced, and loads of fun, but it soon became complicated. First, Lacey discovered that Olivia was secretly blogging about it. Her blog featured explicit photos and gifs along with jaunty text describing the scene and teasers about upcoming adventures. Olivia was an experienced blogger and had cultivated a loyal, almost entirely female following. Upon inspecting the blog, Lacey discovered that some of the scenes they had 'invented' were in fact based on followers' requests. She was shocked to realize she had become a porn actress of sorts, and furious, initially, that Olivia had hidden it from her. Her initial fury dissipated with time and, it must be said, with her enjoyment of the attention and escalation that the blog represented. In truth, Lacey was flattered when followers in various parts of the world found her 'hot' or 'geil' or 'canon.' She blushed but relished the digital wolf whistles.
The second problem was that Olivia was the only one being tied up. When they fooled around spontaneously, they were equals and Lacey got her share of attention. But when the ropes and restraints came out and the cameras rolled, it was Olivia who was bound and the center of sexual attention. Lacey got to tease her, tickle her, and diddle her, which was fun, but it was Olivia who got teased, tickled and diddled. Pangs of jealousy made Lacey wish they could swap places. They talked about it, but in the end Olivia was unmoved; it was, in effect, her blog.
Third, Liv was a committed lesbian and Lacey simply wasn't. Perhaps she was bi, though she'd never thought so before Olivia came along. Lacey enjoyed sex with men and, though she'd had none lately, wasn't prepared to give it up. Several followers had suggested scenes involving men, but Olivia found this heretical -- practically nauseating. "Sex has nothing to do with men!" she spat. "They don't know a goddamn thing about it." When Lacey objected, Liv would rant about danger. "Are you nuts?! Trust me Lace, if you're tied up naked, the last thing you want is a dick in the room. You won't get laid, you'll get raped! Or fucking killed. No way."
So the blog, 'Tying Up Tammy,' was euthanized. Olivia had enough material for another month or so, which would give her time to find a new gig and, she expected, a new partner. Lacey was done. They agreed to split up. Lacey obtained a verbal agreement that images of her from Tying Up Tammy would never appear anywhere else. She knew this was laughably inadequate but shrugged and let it go.
Though she was relieved to cut ties with Olivia, she missed the BDSM drug she had accidentally discovered. Over the ensuing three months, Lacey's desire for TD&F grew, but Olivia's safety warning haunted her. How could she experiment without getting 'fucking killed'? It was mortifying to approach someone she knew and terrifying to approach someone she didn't. Ultimately, she decided to get back in touch with Ketch.
Years earlier, when Lacey came out of school, she'd intended to become a journalist. She lacked a journalism degree, but at least she'd had an internship, and figured she would freelance as a reporter. That proved difficult for someone with no experience and in less than two years Lacey gave up and joined a university-owned publishing company that at least paid a salary and modest benefits. At the Press, Lacey re-aimed herself professionally, intending to become an editor or agent someday rather than a reporter. That was where she met Ernest E. Ketchum, a taciturn divorcé who had just turned 40 and whom everyone called 'Ern' or 'Ketch' (he cheekily initialed office memos 'EEK!'). Lacey was assigned to a project aimed at repurposing ageing works from the backlist into fresher digital content. When her original boss was promoted, Ketch took over. He was advised by the departing manager that Lacey's project was likely to fail and that he'd probably have to let half the team go within six months. Lacey in particular was regarded as expendable. The Press prized creativity and while Lacey was a competent project manager, she was green and clearly not the creative engine of the team.
Sure enough, the project was suspended and its budget zeroed out. In truth, it had not failed, but after some debate, the results were judged so-so and not worth continuing. By then, however, Ketchum viewed Lacey as the indispensable player. Despite having no formal authority, she had quietly, invisibly, miraculously ensured that the budget held and deadlines were met. Ketchum informed his boss that he planned to keep Lacey but was overruled. A hot argument ensued, which Ketchum lost, but not before snapping at his boss, "Yeah, well, without Tucker, we'd have lost our fucking shirt on that half-assed idea!" She left with Ketchum's respect, apologies, and a valuable reference. Soon she was making more money working for a competing house.
Three years later, Ketchum was still at the Press and Lacey had changed jobs twice; she was a rising editing talent. Both were single and a mutual friend fixed them up, not realizing they already knew each other. Each accepted the blind date, amused and slyly supposing the other had not yet put two and two together. When they met, they had a laugh at their friend's expense but enjoyed reconnecting. A few casual dates followed, including an awkward attempt at intimacy, before professional obligations sundered them again. Lacey accepted a three-month assignment in Ireland (home of her ancestors) and suddenly, so it seemed, was gone. Ern retreated into his divorced-single-guy routines.
Lacey returned to Boston from Dublin refreshed and jaded at the same time. She was happy and confident in her professional life, but at loose ends and uncertain in her personal life. To her chagrin, she'd met no one romantically interesting in Ireland. Hooking up with Olivia for a lesbian fling, only to leave it abruptly, left her as untethered as ever but now with TD&F as an added gnawing distraction. These circumstances led to her decision: she contacted Ketchum via text, not knowing what to expect -- he wasn't even an ex, really -- nor even knowing if he was still in the area.
Ketchum received Lacey's text with surprise and no small amount of skepticism. She'd tried to be casual but pointed. In effect: Hey-how-are-you...Sorry-to-be-out-of-touch...
Maybe-we-should-get-together
. Ketchum sat on the text grumpily for a day -- he had moved past Lacey -- but eventually allowed that yes, he was around. He told her he still ate at Scotty's most nights (Ketchum did not cook, whereas Scotty did). And most nights included (hint) this Friday. But he didn't greatly care whether she dropped in or not.
Scotty's was in Brighton and looked like a Boston Irish pub, except that its real name was Maclean's and it was Scottish. Scotty Maclean cooked and his large aunt Aileen tended bar. Her stepdaughter Zoe hosted and waited tables. On weeknights Zoe held a table for Ketch and he either ate there or texted to say he wouldn't. Weekends were busier, so he had to show up early or take his chances. By the time Lacey appeared that Friday, Ketch had finished half a dozen oysters and a plate of hash. He rose to greet her with a pat on the back but not a hug or kiss.
Lacey did not know what she expected. It cannot be simple to convey to an old acquaintance that you'd like to be tied up and stripped, please. Lacy did her best. She wore a short green dress, fairly low-cut, with heels (which she rarely tolerated), and light makeup. She'd had a fortifying drink before arriving. Ketchum was having his dessert -- Scotch, neat -- and ordered another for Lacey. They chatted to catch up and Lacey tried to keep the small talk flirtatious.
Lacey's dress aided the cause by reminding Ketchum that her tits were a wonder -- the finest he'd ever seen. He had met them uncovered once, briefly, as the two of them groped each other at her apartment one night. They were both topless when a fire alarm exploded in the hallway outside her door and they were forced to evacuate. In her haste, Lacey covered herself with Ern's shirt; he made do, sans shirt, with his jacket. The date was a bust. Though the alarm was false, they were embarrassed to be seen thus by her neighbors and never resumed the foreplay. Lacey departed for Ireland soon after. Ketchum moved on but never forgot her chest. Full silky breasts on a slight, slender frame. Nipples that strained up, as though to lift impossibly graceful tits. Large yet seemingly weightless, they jutted from her chest and gapped her bra straps. Exquisite, as the green dress reminded him.
Ketchum had had enough Scotch to become blunt. "You're trying to seduce me, Lace. What's it about?"
"You think I'm trying to seduce you?"
Ketch nodded. "What's it about?"
"Why do you think..." She stopped and started over, offering honesty. "We were pretty good together, Ketch. I thought maybe we could try again...try some things."
"You mean things in bed," he clarified. A pointed glance at her cleavage said he knew she was showing off.
Lacey blushed and her reply was tinged with mild defiance. "Yeah, okay, things in bed. What's wrong with that?"
"What things?" Ketchum had never expected to be asking Lacey Tucker such a question.
"I don't know. New things," she said, flustered. "You know, like one of us could be in charge."
