CHAPTER EIGHT
Grant
IGET HOME, STILLthinking about the way my little sub took off into the night like a kinky Cinderella.
The abrupt ending to our scene doesn’t sit well with me. I get pleasure from giving pleasure, and that didn’t happen the way I’d have liked. Nothing irritates me more than sending off a play partner without a happy ending. Then there’s the issue of aftercare. It wasn’t a particularly intense scene, but it was her first play session. I would have liked to at least provide a check-in. A water. A seat. Time to get her emotions, adrenaline, and hormones in order.
I’m antsy as I trudge up my porch steps, trying to let it go, when every one of my dominant instincts tells me to finish what I started.
Which is why I pull out my phone and shoot a text off to Harlow.
Me: Could you please send my number to one of tonight’s new subs? She took off quickly. I want to check up on her.
Harlow: You couldn’t possibly mean the cute redhead, could you?
Shit. What am I doing? They’ll never let me live it down if I show any interest at all in this woman. Which I’m not. This is about providing her with a safe experience.
Me: Never mind. Forget I asked.
Harlow: Sorry. Just got her number from Daff. I’m texting her.
Me: Please don’t.
Harlow: Too late.
Me: FFS
Harlow:
I stomp down the long hall to my kitchen, chuck my phone onto the island, and pull a beer from the fridge, so irritated that the bottle cap goes flying when I smack it off on the counter’s edge. I spot the damn thing halfway under the butcher’s block, bend to retrieve it, then bash my head when my phone vibrates with a new text.
Cursing, I stand. It’s an unknown number.
Sunny: Hi. Thanks for checking in. I had an amazing time tonight.
Me: Good.
Sunny: Thanks to you.
Me: You get home safe?
Immediately, my mind spins up a cute little house in the suburbs. No. Maybe she’s got an apartment. Hell, maybe she’s in college? A dorm room? I hope not. Actually, that could be a good thing. I don’t do college girls, so that would put an automatic stop to this.
Sunny: Yep. Thanks. So, I was thinking I’d go back. To the club. Maybe next week.
I sink onto a stool and picture her sitting beside me. I’d make her hold on to the edges of her seat while I drag that dress up to reveal her panties. Lace. No, cotton. Pink or white or, fuck, with little flowers on them. I resist the urge to ask for confirmation and instead gather myself together, and type.
Me: You should.
Just looking at those words makes me go hard. I shut my eyes and take another slug of beer, imagining how she’d taste. How she’d feel as she came against my tongue.
Sunny: I will.
Me: Good.
Sunny: I’d love to play again sometime.
It’s a terrible idea. Which doesn’t stop me from imagining her strapped up on the St. Andrews Cross, arms and legs splayed wide, leather straps striping her body, just tight enough to press her breasts out and highlight those generous curves. Thighs and belly outlined, her pussy perfectly framed for my mouth. I’d makeher come so many times, she wouldn’t be able to walk out on her own two feet.
