Dinner
She was mine, but she didn't completely trust me. Not yet.
That was apparent from the uneasy way she sat across from me, and it made me partly frustrated and partly horny. She feared me. It turned me on.
But I wanted her to like me too.
Why? I always wanted them to like me, against my better judgment. This heady new-relationship tension, it was incredible, an erotic shot in the arm.
And she was simply spectacular, everything I loved in a woman. Petite. Pretty. Complicated. Sassy, although she tried to subdue it. And scared, although she pretended to be self-assured.
Best of all, she wasn't a pain whore; she wasn't even a masochist.
She was afraid of pain
. When she'd made that little confession in the meeting, I'd almost come in my pants. It was luck, sheer luck, that Kyle had found her. I'd sent him out with the usual general instructions. Find a small, reserved submissive with nice, real tits and a spectacular ass. Make sure she does it all, takes punishment, does oral, and accepts anal with adequate skill.
But uncovering a true submissive versus a self-occupied pain whore—Kyle wouldn't have had the knowledge and experience to judge it. Even I couldn't intuit it sometimes until it was too late. My last girl had turned out to be the worst kind of self-involved submissive, and I'd put up with her because it seemed easier than starting over again.
But Nell wasn't like her. She wasn't one of the ones who actually wanted to be hurt, who craved it, who could be absolutely spoiled by it. She was one of the ones who feared the pain.
The ones who liked it could be depended on to fake the requisite fear and distress, usually badly, but the ones who feared it and submitted to it anyway were rare and wonderful to possess. So she didn't want the cane; she couldn't take it. I could live with that for now, just to have everything else she offered.
Little Nell. She was little all right. Little and curvy and sexy, and as complicated as the academics she pursued. Comparative cultural mythology? I hadn't known whether to laugh or stare. I'd laughed, but at the same time, her hidden intellectual streak fascinated me. As did her ass.
“How is it?” I asked her, gesturing to the barely touched entrée in front of her, some kind of baked Italian chicken with green beans on the side. I knew she'd eaten some of the green beans—I'd watched her little teeth biting into them—but I hadn't seen her eat any of the chicken, although a tiny bit of it was gone.
“It's delicious,” she murmured.
“You should eat more of it, then.”
She picked up her fork.
“If you want to,” I amended. God forbid I'd force her to eat. I'd force her to do many things, yes, by agreement, but I really didn't care to control everything about her like some Doms would. She didn't know that yet, but she would eventually figure it out. She put her fork down and sneaked a look at me. So nervous.
I'd ordered chicken parmigiana myself, just to make her smile, and she had smiled. Not quite the real smile I'd hoped for, though. She was still so guarded, and perhaps she was tired. It had been a long day of trials and tribulations for poor Nell. I didn't think I could leave her alone tonight either, so her day wasn't nearly through.
But perhaps I would leave her alone. It would be the kind thing to do. And possibly a savvy thing to do as her new Dom. Let her know that she was
so
mine that I didn't have to fall on her right away, that I could make her wait for me, at my beck and call.
I did, though, desperately want to fall on her. I didn't think I could wait.
“You look lovely,” I said, stroking the stem of my wineglass. “How do you feel?”
She looked at me briefly, then shrugged.
“Don't shrug, please. Answer. If we were really on a date, you wouldn't act this way. Like this is your last meal before you go before a firing squad.”
She fidgeted and attempted another smile, this one not at all real.
“Does your ass hurt, darling?”
That finally brought a true laugh. She'd been a pleasure to paddle, and a pleasure to watch as she'd sucked off Martin too. I'd almost given her to Kyle just for a replay, but by the time I'd watched that I would have had to take her myself, and I didn't want to do that yet.
And she hadn't lied; she'd felt the paddle, really felt it. Her pained reactions hadn't been faked. It had been a test of sorts, and she'd passed it. She didn't crave it, being punished. For her, it really did hurt.
But she'd become aroused by our little scene; that had been obvious. I was fairly certain she got off on being exposed, bent over, spread, studied, stared at. She would get plenty of that kind of exposure at my hands, both mentally and physically.
And she'd get exposure of an entirely different kind also, for better or worse. As we entered the restaurant, the paparazzi had snapped our photograph like sharks fighting over chum. I'd purposely brought her to one of the paparazzi's favorite Hollywood haunts to introduce her as my new love, my new girlfriend. Jeremy Gray having a new love interest was a tabloid cover item, and great PR for me.
I'm not sure why I did things this way, why I didn't just find a real girlfriend, maintain a true relationship. It probably involved issues like time, stress, selfishness, and basic shallow tendencies. And probably, even deeper than that, basic mind-numbing, bloodcurdling fear. Fake relationships were easier and less potentially devastating. Emotional entanglements were just far too stressful for me.
The upside of fake relationships was that they could be arranged to be everything you want and desire, and none of the things you don't. The downside was that the fake girlfriends always left.
I looked at Nell.
How long until you leave me?
I hoped she would at least last until the end of the upcoming shoot, because it would be a long, complicated, grueling one, and I didn't want to slog through it alone. I grasped for some topic of conversation, something to put her at ease.
“Your name—it's unusual.”
“Is it?” She shrugged. “It's not my real name.”
I don't know why I found that so alarming. I waited for her to elaborate. She didn't.
“So what is your real name?”
“I mean, Nell's my name, but it's just a nickname. I don't like my real name, and I don't particularly want to share it.” That frown again. Damn. Subject change.
“Have you traveled much?”
“No, not much. Now and again.”
“I'd be happy to help with anything you'll need for the trip. We can shop tomorrow or Sunday. Just let me know.”
“I… What…what will I need?”
“Do you have an MP3 player to listen to on the plane? A laptop? Books to read? You'll be spending a lot more time on your own than you probably suspect.”
“Oh.”
“And you'll need comfortable clothes for traveling, nothing too high maintenance. Some of the flights will be long. And you'll need some high-quality, really durable luggage,” I added as an afterthought, remembering her well-worn suitcases from the stairwell.
“Where will we be going?”
“Thailand, for starters. That's a ridiculously long flight. From there we'll go to Turkey, Bulgaria, a month and a half in Portugal, and then Italy and Greece, I believe. It's an action flick, lots of chasing bad guys around the globe, past striking and recognizable points of interest.”
“All in a day's work,” she said.
“Yes. And there will be some very, very long days, for me and for you too. But you might enjoy traveling to these locations if you're into history and mythology and all that. If there's anything you'd like to do or see while we're traveling, just let me know, and I can try to make it happen. I can't always, but sometimes I can.”
Why was I trying so hard to win her over?
“Anyway, whatever you need, just tell me.”
She shifted again. Ah, the sore-bottomed submissive, so fun to watch. She looked up at me with wide green eyes.
“I'm not sure—I'm a little worried about what to wear.”
I shrugged. “You can wear jeans and T-shirts most of the time, if you like. As long as they're tight, and you're naked underneath.”
No response.
“It was a joke, Nell. Wear what you like. Whatever makes you feel comfortable and sexy. If I don't like it, I'll tell you to change.”
“I just don't want to reflect badly on you. Will they be taking our picture like that all the time?”
“Yes, pretty much. You can't get obsessed about it, though; you just have to be yourself. Let your beauty and personal style be your sword and your shield, and just take the cameras for what they are, an intrusion of privacy and an irritant of the business. They will get on your nerves, and trust me, the gossip sites will say unflattering things about you. You have to ignore it; you have to blow it off.”
“This is all just so new,” she said.
“I know you're worried. I also know you'll do fine. It's good that we've already started, the sooner you're used to things, the sooner you'll settle down.” I reached out to run my fingertips down the side of her face. “You're skittish now, but you'll be a jaded, world-weary traveler in no time.”
“Like you?”
“Like me. I'm incredibly jaded. Jaded enough to hire a girlfriend to go with me, instead of finding a real one.”
“I suppose relationships rarely survive travel anyway.”
“So you know more about travel than you're letting on.” I laughed. “Yes, there will be tedious and difficult times. Just like in a real relationship, but you are a very, very wise woman, because you'll be getting paid to put up with the stress.”
She smiled and dropped her gaze to her plate, then looked around. Anywhere but at me. It always took time for the girls to get over the money thing, to get over being paid. I hoped Nell might be different. She was the first one I'd hired who was already a professional. But I understood the difference between being paid for actual sex and just being paid for work.
Believe me, Nell. I get it, but it has to be this way.