I think. I’d never done anything that wasn’t prescribed. And SSRIs weren’t exactly party drugs.
Wasthiswhat party drugs felt like?
“Tell him what you want.”
Gideon’s voice yanked me out of the druggy kiss.
“Let him know what he needs to do to make you feel good.”
Oh.
A brutal awkwardness shoved the warm, buzzy feelings aside.
“I… I don’t actually know what I want,” I admitted—technically, to both of them. But I extra-couldn’t look at Gideon as I answered his question. “Long story, but…”
Excruciating much?I rushed my explanation out as fast as I could. “Up until last Christmas—real Christmas, not the July version—I was in a big D, little s, dominant/submissive relationship, and before that, I only had sex once in college to see what all the fuss was about. And my sex life with my ex-dom revolved around role-plays that he designed, with some occasional dollification. So…”
I kept my eyes glued to their stone floor, but I could feel theirs on me.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever been this embarrassed. Not even when I had to muster up the courage to ask Mr. Good Time for a breeding scene. But I made myself finish, returning to my original thesis—like one of my sixth graders clinging to a five-paragraph essay format—for my concluding statement.
“I don’t actually know what I want… or what I like. Other than role-play, which wouldn’t be goal appropriate here. So…” I took a breath and pushed through. “I guess you two can just do whatever. I’m fine.”
Silence. Tons and tons of excruciating silence. And I felt, rather than saw, Callum exchange a look with his brother over my bowed head.
Then Gideon spoke. “Tell us. Tell us what he didn’t do for you, and Cal will do that.”
“My…” I struggled to catch up. “My dom?”
“I’m not going to call him that, but yeah, I’m asking about the list of things he never did for you. Did he kiss you like Cal? You had a big response to that.”
I did, actually. “Yes, I liked that. A lot.”
I raised my head to throw Callum a quick smile of appreciation. “My dom had a no kissing rule—that kind of extended to everywhere.”
A shocked beat met my statement.
“Are you saying he never put his mouth on you?”
Gideon used that same tone I did when teaching my sixth graders about the dark history that sparked the Indigenous Rights Movement here in Canada.
I wouldn’t call my sex life with Mr. Good Time a travesty, but I had to admit, “No, he didn’t. Only his fingers.”
“Fuck, then. Cal,” Gideon gritted out.
He didn’t actually give an order, but I guess he did?
Callum immediately started stripping us out of our clothes, and the next thing I knew, we were down to nothing but our underwear—me in my full-coverage, front-closure posture bra and cotton panties, him in white briefs with a heavy ridge imprinted against the front. A really large ridge…
Exactly how big is his?—?
“Show him,” Gideon bit out, interrupting that thought. “Show Cal where he never went.”
My fairness reflex flared. “To be clear, no one’s ever kissed me anywhere but on my lip?—”
The word wasn’t fully out of my mouth before Callum was all over me, kissing down my neck and unhooking the front clasps of my posture bra.
Not exactly the lingerie Mr. Good Time had gifted me for our scenes. But I felt like a sex goddess when Callum hunched over like a man starved and took my breast into his mouth—lathing and worshiping with greedy focus.
