Safeword: Davenport (7 page)

"You never got to give her the gift."

"No. She'd bought me a pair of unique sandals; she had a knack for finding things I'd love. I got her earrings and a painting. I wore the sandals for weeks, only taking them off at night. Your turn,” he said, his hand trailing a comforting path down her back. “I know Garnet had food poisoning; are you comfortable talking about it?"

She'd talked about it during therapy for hours; she could do so now with Zach, so she dove right in. “We were vacationing on an island resort in Thailand when he got sick. We'd been deep sea diving and he'd fallen on the boat in rough waters on the way back to the resort. He started feeling bad that evening and we went to the resort's clinic, the only medical facility on the island. He had a headache, nausea, sensitivity to light, and was a little confused—we assumed he'd gotten a slight concussion from the fall. They kept him under observation the rest of the night, and he felt better the next day. The doctor released him, said he was fine, and we sat on the beach and talked after a light dinner, since he didn't have much of an appetite. But when he woke the following morning, he was worse again and was weak and his balance was off."

She stopped to take a sip, focusing on the burn of the Jack Daniels instead of the ache in her heart. “The doctor was still saying concussion, but I wanted a second opinion. I got plane tickets for us to leave the island that afternoon, researched the best hospital for brain injuries, arranged for a driver and translator to meet us at the airport. Two hours before we were to leave, he had a seizure and began losing hand-eye coordination. The clinic staff finally agreed it was more than a concussion and helped arrange for an emergency medical evacuation. He was in a state of the art hospital within an hour and a half of the seizure, but he lost consciousness en route to the hospital and never woke again. He died a few days later. The autopsy said it had nothing to do with the fall—the cause of death was listed as food poisoning. Something he ate created a form of meningitis, and if not diagnosed and treated right away, antibiotics can't help after a certain point. If he hadn't fallen on the boat, if we didn't assume head injury...” She stopped, remembering only madness lay down the
what if
line of thought.

He rubbed her back, his voice raspy as he said, “I got so mad at the people who said
I'm sorry
after Bethany died. They didn't do anything, why were they apologizing? Eventually I realized it was a way to try to express they wished it hadn't happened. It's hard to know what to say after hearing such a sad story, when someone so important was taken away unexpectedly."

Dana nodded; she'd had the same thoughts, come to the same conclusions. “I'm guessing if the two of us end up together there won't be any vacations in our future."

His hand moved to her arm, still rubbing, and she wondered if he were comforting himself, or her. He adjusted them so he could look into her eyes. “That'd be sad, don't you think? To live our life in fear?"

"Maybe, but I couldn't relax and enjoy myself, so it'd be pointless take a trip that'd only stress me out."

"Have you gone on a vacation since he passed?"

She shook her head. “No. I live in one of the top twenty-five vacation destinations in the US. Why do I need to go anywhere?"

"What if we visited a large city with excellent medical facilities, where they drive on the right side of the road?"

She sighed, aggravated at his doggedness. “I spent a week in Los Angeles a few months ago for a design convention. It wasn't recreational, it was work, but still, I'm capable of travel. Last year I went to Chicago for a convention. I don't know what I'll be comfortable with in ten or fifteen years, but right now I get plenty of R&R at home and don't need to go gallivanting around the globe in search of it."

"Okay."

There were several moments of silence, as she waited for him to expound on his single word answer. When he didn't she said, “That's it? Just,
okay
?"

"Yep. We're both familiar with therapy. If I think we're allowing our pasts to dictate our future I'll ask that we talk about it with Kirsten. I understand where you are now and trust we'll find a way to move forward together."

The realization he assumed this would be a long-term thing between them both thrilled and terrified her. “Oh. Well. Alrighty then. Tell me what you expect from a submissive?"

He chuckled. “Talk about doing a one-eighty. I'm not sure I understand the question, but I guess I expect a submissive to submit, to show respect, to follow orders. Is that what you mean?"

"Not exactly. If you had me, hypothetically speaking, for twenty-four hours, what rules would you give me? What rights would you want to negotiate for the agreed upon duration?"

"I'd ask you to arrive at my house at ten o'clock tomorrow morning and expect to belong to me through six o'clock Sunday evening... no, until Sunday at noon for our first time, with a few hours after for us to talk. Maybe go out to dinner. Whether you stay the night with me Sunday night outside of a scene will be entirely up to you."

She did the math—twenty-six hours of submission, with probably six to eight hours of sleep thrown in. Her insides flittered as she said, “We need to discuss limits, especially before such a long scene, but...” She sat up, met his gaze. “If I were to consent—what rules would there be?"

"Do not eat breakfast. A garage door will be open when you arrive, and you'll pull in and the door will close. Step out of your car and undress, and lock your clothes, shoes, and purse into your trunk. Bring only your keys into the house, and place them on the hook by the door as you enter the kitchen. You'll see wrist cuffs, pick them up and bring them to me."

They talked for two hours before he kissed her goodnight and left. Dana had three orgasms before she went to sleep, and awoke feeling as if she'd had more in her dreams.

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Dana stood naked in the garage, her bare feet on the cool brick steps, her fingers hovering over the brushed nickel doorknob.

She pulled her hand away from the door, telling herself it was ridiculous to be so nervous about taking this last step, but her knees were weak, and her stomach had swarms of butterflies battling hordes of yellow-jackets. On the plus side, her pussy was tingling and her clit remembered this was the place it'd finally been played with properly again. But she didn't feel submissive. She felt a little silly, actually.

Last night, she'd asked if he'd start off with something to help her get into the right headspace. She was afraid she'd only be able to feel submissive if he was giving her pain, and it was obvious he needed a woman who'd submit to him outside of a scene.

Reminding herself she'd have to trust him to help her get there, she took a deep breath, twisted the knob, and pushed the door open. The hook was where he'd said it would be, and she hung her keys and reached for the soft leather cuffs before walking across the kitchen to him—the hardwood floor warm under her feet. The symbolism of her bringing the cuffs to him wasn't lost on her—he wanted it to be clear she was offering herself to him.

Zach had been working at the counter when she entered, but turned to watch her walk to him. Their eyes met and she calmed inside, his expression conveying he was happy to see her, and his confidence assuring her he'd know what to do.

He wiped his hands on a towel and took the cuffs from her. “Very good, pet."

They'd discussed at length the night before what they'd call each other, and had agreed on pet and Sir for now. Hearing him use the term was disconcerting, but it succeeded in helping her slide the first inch towards the right headspace.

She'd be a human pet today. Not an animal, submissive, or slave: A pet, who'd be catered to, taken care of, put away when not in use. Pets live at the whim of their masters; even human ones. Especially human pets.

She'd been Garnet's submissive, but she'd be Zach's pet. It wasn't a competition. Kirsten was right; one didn't take away from the other.

Her rules stated she wasn't to speak unless specifically ordered, and he'd explained he wanted to deny her speech from the start to help her get into the right headspace. He was right, enforced silence had a way of objectifying—a constant reminder she didn't have a voice in things, literally.

Deft fingers fastened the ultra-soft leather cuffs, checking the fit as he worked, the baby suede conforming to her wrists comfortably. He raised a hand to her shoulder, a gentle but firm grip, turning her towards the table and connecting her wrists behind her. She felt safe, taken care of... but not as if she was his, and she worried she may not be able to give him her submission without pain as a trigger.

Lightly gripping her upper arm, he walked her to the kitchen table, urging her down onto a cushion. She was grateful he steadied her—she wasn't used to kneeling anymore and it felt awkward, especially with her hands restrained. She kept her eyes on the floor, using her peripheral vision to watch him make two trips to the counter before claiming the seat beside her. She could feel the weight of his gaze, but didn't look up.

"Sit pretty for me, arch your back so your nipples point up."

She settled into the position—her weight on her feet, and arching her spine—working to find a balance she could hold.

"You're beautiful, kneeling at my feet. I won't require your legs be spread wide at all times when you're my pet, but I do expect that your knees won't touch, nor will you cross your legs. I don't mind crossed ankles, just make sure access to your pussy isn't blocked. Look up please; I'd like your attention on me, not the floor."

She did as requested, watching him dip the spoon and take a bite, return it to the bowl and lower it to her mouth. Oatmeal. She opened, pleasantly surprised at the sweet vanilla and cinnamon taste.

As breakfast continued she fell into a comfortable rhythm; opening when he held food to her lips, accepting it, chewing, and swallowing. There were also scrambled eggs, and toast with cinnamon apple butter. Occasionally he lowered a cup with a straw.

Every bite her mouth accepted made her exposed pussy feel emptier. She had no choice in what came next; her job was to open and accept, to take the food into her body. It had been so long since she'd relinquished the right to decide basic things; it was almost like submitting for the first time all over again. The intensity of a simple meal taken on her knees at his feet caught her off guard.

His hand lowered with what she thought was a black napkin until she recognized the shape. She'd agreed to a blindfold, but hadn't imagined it would happen so soon, and eating was a different experience now—the warmth of the spoon on her bottom lip her cue to open.

As her senses awakened she smelled the food as he lowered it to her face, her mouth opening before feeling the touch of the spoon. There was the earthy scent of scrambled eggs, the yeasty aroma of apple cinnamon bread, and the vanilla cinnamon spice of oatmeal. The water sloshing in the cup as he lowered it.

She was beginning to think she'd had enough to eat when she heard him scooting his chair. She sensed him moving closer before his hand was on the back of her head, coaxing her forward. Something touched her lip again, warm but softer. She opened out of instinct, closed around the firm heat of him, and used her tongue to give him more sensation as she sucked him farther into her mouth.

"That's it. Let's see what you can do. I won't fuck your face right after you've eaten—making pets puke isn't my kink today. Pleasure me first, don't try to make me come yet."

Her jaw stretched around him, lips covering her teeth, and she swished her tongue around and under the velvet surface in slow strokes, breathing in his scent as her tongue followed the ridges and veins. He didn't touch her, let her go at her own pace, and she reveled in his noises, her power to please him. When she finally felt his hips move she worked to form a seal and pulled back, almost all the way, her cheeks sucking in as she did, and her tongue swirling around the ridge. He groaned. “Okay pet. I'm ready for you to make me come. Do your best."

She gave half a dozen long strokes, in and out, neither fast or slow, stopping at the entrance to her throat. Taking a deep breath through her nose, she paused as she neared the back of her mouth and relaxed to allow him in, pushing past the bone into the soft area and swallowing his length. She moved up and down on him until her body screamed for oxygen, keeping him in her throat, before pulling off to inhale and doing it again. And again, until his hand was at the back of her head, holding her, and he growled as his cock jerked in her throat.

By the time he finished, her lungs were burning and she sucked air in as he pulled out.

"Kneel and catch your breath while I clean up, pet. You did well."

She heard a few minutes of water running and dishes clanking, and his hand was back on her arm, helping her stand. Her legs were a little shaky at first, but he gave her time to stretch them out and find her balance before adjusting his grip and walking her quickly through the house.

Dana was no stranger to walking while blindfolded, having to trust she wouldn't be led into anything, but it'd been years and she didn't feel as if she were handling it gracefully.

Finally, she was turned and told to sit. She lowered herself and recognized the toilet under her.

He waited until he was sure she was stable to relax his hold on her arm. She heard the toilet tissue roll turn, the sound of the paper tearing, and felt him place what he'd torn off in her hand. “I'll be down the hall in another restroom. Call out if you need me, I won't be far. When I return, I'll wait to enter until I hear you say
Sir
. Don't get up until I come for you."

She nodded and heard him walk away.

She'd lost track of where in the house they were, probably by design, so when he walked her into the heat of the day it caught her off guard. She knew the area behind the living room was enclosed with a high wall encompassing the pool, a native plants garden, and a large section of lawn—no one would see her, but she still felt so much more naked
outside
.