Divine Solace: 8 (30 page)

After Lyda ensured Gen’s arms were wound securely around his
chest again, she released Noah’s wrists. She brought his arms down one at a
time, ensuring he kept his movements gradual. She directed him to hold onto the
side pieces of the frame. “Stay in this position until I get her moved.”

Putting her hands on Gen’s hips, Lyda eased her back,
bringing the strap-on out of Noah’s ass together. “Easy. Take everything slow.”

The internal muscles released. Gen heard Noah’s grunt at the
stimulation, then the phallus was out. After Lyda removed the strap-on, she let
Gen collapse against his back, her damp pussy pressed against his ass. She
didn’t want to think or feel beyond the simple bulwark of his body.

But Lyda insisted on moving her once more, guiding her down
into the chair she’d slid up behind them. Gen blinked. The world was spinning.
Though her butt was in the chair, the rest of her wanted to go topsy-turvy,
like a rag doll with no bones.

While Lyda was steadying her, Noah bent and unlatched the
boots. He stripped the condom off his cock, tossed it in the trash. “Let me
help, Mistress,” he said.

Though Lyda made a mildly annoyed sound at his disobedience,
she nodded. Noah scooped Gen off the chair. Her arms circled his neck, hiding
her face. When he slid down the wall of the cubicle, seating them on the floor,
she realized he’d picked the side partially beneath the mezzanine, sheltering
her from the watching faces above. He understood so much without being asked.
No wonder Doms liked using him as an “aftercare nanny”. Did Lyda ever do that,
so she didn’t have to do it herself? It made Gen sad to think so.

Just as before, she had a mix of desolate feelings warring
with post-orgasmic euphoria. Distantly, Gen was aware of Lyda stripping the
condoms from the strap-ons and putting everything they’d used into a used toy
bin for sterilizing. Mess all cleaned up, at least on the outside. She needed
to go home. She wanted to go home.

“You said he could go home with me.” She spoke against his
throat.

“Yes, I did.” Lyda’s voice told Gen she was across the
cubicle.

“I want to go home.”

“All right. We’ll get you dressed—”

“I don’t care. I just want to go home.” Gen pushed herself
up, rising on unsteady legs. Way unsteady.

“Whoa.” Noah, somehow far more recovered than she was, was
on his feet. He had her on one side as Lyda caught the other. “Take it slow,
Gen. You need to—”

“Let go of me. I need to go home. I…stop…”

She pushed away from them, never mind how disoriented she
was. She couldn’t find the exit to the cubicle. It was a fucking maze. A
labyrinth, just like her feelings, this sudden panic. “I’m going.” She bumped
into the wall like a beetle in a bottle, but started moving along it. The wall
should give way to an opening.

“Gen.” Lyda’s snap was effective as the touch of a whip,
jerking Gen around. She was pushed into a chair. “Sit until you’re steadier.
Sit. Down.” Lyda’s unshakable grip stayed on Gen’s shoulders until the words
penetrated. She met Lyda’s silver eyes. In control. Lyda was in control.

Gen shivered. “I can’t…what is this?”

“It’s kind of subspace and sub-drop, all at the same time.”

“Sundrop? Like the soda.” A hysterical laugh bubbled up.
Noah was squatting by the chair, his hand on her knee. She gripped it as if she
thought she might fall off a real cliff if she let go of him. She wanted to
seize Lyda’s other hand, but Lyda had straightened. As a result, Gen’s hand
landed on the soft linen of her shirt, Gen’s fingers curling into the waistband
of the riding breeches, thumb fingering the zippered side. Lyda was beneath,
cool flesh, a bare hip bone. No underwear. Would she ever see Lyda naked…and
not just physically?

“Sub-drop, dopey. Not sundrop.” Lyda stroked her hair from
her cheek, then took a firm hold on her chin. “Sessions bring up a lot of shit
in a submissive’s subconscious, things that can overwhelm you, because you’re
too emotionally drained to process them. No shields to contain them. That means
it’s working the way it’s supposed to work. Don’t fight it. Just ride it out.
We’re here to watch over you.”

Easy for Lyda to say. She’d caused that earthquake inside
Gen, yet she looked unfazed, steady as a mountain. Detached. It hurt. Gen drew
away, closer to Noah. She clenched his hand. “You said…I could keep him
tonight.”

Lyda’s beautiful face became expressionless. “Yes I did.
He’s yours.”

The way the skin pulled tight over Lyda’s cheekbones bugged
Gen, but her fuzzy brain couldn’t process that. Lyda’s gaze shifted to Noah.
“Take her home, Noah. Care for her properly. I’m done with you both for the
night.”

Noah began to say something, but Lyda put a quelling hand on
his shoulder. “Do as I say. Take care of her. That’s what she needs tonight.
We’ll deal with the rest later.”

Done for the night. That described Gen as well. She wasn’t
aware of the ride home, though she didn’t ever let go of Noah. She kept her
arms wrapped around him while he drove, his own arm circling her as he stroked
her hip. He even carried her to her front door, only letting her down to unlock
and open her door. When he took her into her bedroom, he undressed her, his
touch a misty memory of pleasant caresses. But her bedroom, her solitary place
of retreat, to think and dream, to find her center, brought some sanity back to
her.

“I want you to stay, but in the guestroom. Close, but not in
here. Please…” She cleared her throat, looked up at him in the direct way Lyda
did, so he knew it wasn’t a request. “Don’t come in unless I tell you to.”

Her voice quavered, draining any real authority from it, but
Noah simply nodded. Brushing a kiss over her forehead, he tugged on the
oversized sleeve of the Snoopy nightshirt she’d wanted to wear. “I’ll be
close.”

The need to feel in control was overriding the euphoria.
Ordering him away from her, which was against what she was sure they both
wanted, felt right. She had to be sure she still had a brain, a will of her
own. The things she’d done tonight were beyond what she’d ever thought herself
capable of wanting, let alone experiencing, yet she’d embraced so much of it.
And she wanted more, even with no idea of what lay beyond the curtain, or the
end destination. She wasn’t the type who took the unmarked path.

Not anymore, because when she had been that kind of person,
she’d always chosen the one that had the hidden sign screaming “path of sure
self-destruction”.

Sliding into the bed, she burrowed herself under the covers.
Her gaze slid toward the nightstand, where she had a small vase of dried
flowers and a little plaque she’d bought from a secondhand store. The simple
mantra
Be true to yourself
was printed on it. Had she done that tonight?

Commanding Noah under Lyda’s direction had been amazing,
incredible. His responses, her own. Lyda, commanding both of them.
I can’t
get enough.
Gen remembered Noah quivering, just the way she had, when their
Mistress had said that. Lyda’s desire for them had been so clear, no conflict.
So why was Gen now curled up in a ball, wishing Noah was here beside her and
afraid to think too much about Lyda?

She couldn’t succeed at a normal guy-girl relationship.
She’d picked two wrong men. They’d reduced her to poverty, stripped her
self-esteem, and made her doubt her ability to find love. She’d watched
Marguerite, followed by Chloe, find an amazing man any woman would want. As a
result, Gen had concluded finding love wasn’t magic, no
presto, I’m here
.
It was something certain people had mapped in their destiny, like DNA. The rest
were doomed to spend their lives seeking it like a drug, exhibiting all the
irrational behavior of addicts to get and keep it. Or they compromised
themselves to have merely a shadow of it. The alternative was figuring out how
to be happy and enough by yourself. She’d settled on that course, hence the
plaque.

Why did she keep falling into the trap of thinking she could
step back, treat this as a kinky, fun adventure, no harm done? She wasn’t built
that way.

Lyda represented the greater risk of the two. Elusive,
remote and mesmerizing, she was fully capable of destroying Gen’s heart. The
more she wanted Lyda, the more frightened she was of wanting her. But she
couldn’t discount the peril of Noah. He’d stepped into her heart the first
weekend and yet, as accessible as he seemed, he was as elusive to define, in
terms of a relationship, as Lyda. Gen had no doubt the two came as a package. Even
if they hadn’t figured that out between them yet, she could see it, feel it,
whenever she was around one or both of them.

Long and short, she was a vanilla girl who was in way over
her head. Wrapping her arms around herself, she started rocking. She wasn’t
going to call Noah to do it. She had enough respect for herself and him not to
use him that way. The decision made her resent her conscience like hell. It
took a long while to fall asleep.

When she did, it was a sleep punctuated by distorted
memories from her past. A fist raised, hitting her in the face. It had hurt,
but the shock of it, the utter betrayal of love it represented, was the true
horror. She rolled away from the blow, but found herself standing, bound to the
frame the way Noah had been, her feet in the boots, arms stretched up, so she
had no defense as her first husband came at her again. He hit her in the face,
bouncing on the balls of his feet like a boxer practicing at one of those
balloon-like punching bags. Her other husband sat on the floor, tossing
handfuls of money in the air and laughing like a child. God, dreams sucked.

She’d been a tool, a means to an end. No, worse. Betrayal
meant you were nothing to the betrayer. Insignificant, unworthy of love. No
matter how horrible the betrayer was, that was the poisonous seed they embedded
in a soul, never to be dug out again.

She saw Lyda watching from the corner. She begged her for
help, but why should Lyda help? Gen had turned away from her. Suddenly Gen was
standing beside her, but Gen was locked in a box, invisible. Noah was chained
to the frame, and Gen’s first husband was hitting him. Her other ex approached,
bat in hand. Though she screamed in protest inside that soundproof box, he
brought it down on Noah’s fingers. She heard the crunch of bone. Blood drained
from Noah’s face, body giving way before the blows, but his burning eyes
remained on Gen and Lyda. Not asking for rescue, not asking for anything. But
needing everything.

Gen kept screaming, wondering why Lyda did nothing. She was
a statue, made of smooth concrete. All except her eyes. Gen saw pain there.
Now, instead of being right beside Gen, Lyda was watching from a remote
mountain, far away from Gen and Noah. Yet Gen could still see that pain in her
face, and she wanted to ease it, take it into herself. But the only way she
could help either one of them was if she could get out of the box. If she could
touch them both, she’d break this nightmare, the solitary confinement into
which they’d placed themselves, fighting their own personal demons alone. But
she needed their help to do it.

“Help…help me…please…”

Just as she was despairing, she began to hear music. A
guitar, strumming out an aimless, wistful ballad. Slowly, too slowly, it
started drawing her away from the nightmare, coaxing her on a short drift
through dark clouds of sleep, and floating her down into fantasy. She was in a
stable. A bard sat on a hay bale in front of a horse stall. He’d been given
this place to sleep, after playing for his supper in the great hall. Now his music
had a much smaller audience. It had wooed the attentions of a kitchen wench and
the lady of the house.

The kitchen wench sat on another bale close to him, the lady
of the house in the shadows, watching. He played to their hearts, making them
both long for him. Gen stared at Noah’s beautiful, unbroken hands, his long
fingers plucking and stroking the strings. He had the musician’s irresistible
lure, as if the way he sang or played telegraphed what kind of lover he would
be, his ability to make music with one’s body the same way.

Gen realized then she was in a hazy half-sleep, banishing
the nightmare by consciously weaving more details around this preferred stage.
As a teenager, she’d attended a heavy metal concert, and the tickets had put
her close enough to the stage to watch the visceral way the guitarist pounded
on his instrument, cradled against his leather-clad pelvis. The ultimate bad
boy, who’d pound into her in the same wild, untamed way.

The bard’s music was a different, spiraling, clouds-in-the-sky
feeling, but no less seductive. She was the kitchen wench, in a peasant smock
that barely held her breasts, pushed up by the waist cincher she wore. The
bard’s gaze slid over them. Often.

He’d had his supper, and was now playing for dessert. That
undercurrent of male interest dampened her cunt, made her breasts ache for
touch. The lady of the house came and sat next to her. When she stretched out
an arm behind Gen, Gen leaned into her body, the side of her breast pressed
against her Mistress’s as they both listened. Her lady’s long hair was already
unbound for the night. She wore a velvet robe over her nightrail, which made
her no less imperious yet so sexually mesmerizing it was impossible not to be
drawn to her. She stroked Gen’s hair, the bare line of her shoulder, as they
both watched him. His eyes, the color of a dark ale, followed the movement,
intensified at the implication.

Gen remembered her station then, giving her lady the hay
bale, sinking down to the floor at her lady’s knee. Yet her Mistress kept her
hand on her. She stroked Gen’s throat so she lifted her head, met her lady’s
mouth for a long, sweet kiss. Her slender hand caressed Gen’s breast, so
accessible in the blouse. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d shared her lady’s
bed, for her Mistress had appetites as strong as any man’s, but tonight it
would be a threesome. The bard missed a chord. Her lady smiled against Gen’s
lips.

“We’ll have to punish him for that, won’t we, rabbit?”

Gen came out of the smoky fantasy. She had her hand between
her legs. The music hadn’t been part of fantasy or dream. She
was
hearing guitar music. Noah apparently had retrieved the instrument from her
craft room. He’d had more music lessons than her, enough to strum out the tune
that had guided her fantasy.

She wished Lyda was here, in bed with her. But it was hard
to envision Lyda in Gen’s simple bed. Seeing herself in Lyda’s opulent tester
bed was much easier. The Mistress would tie Gen’s hands to the rails, move down
her body, feasting on Gen’s cunt while she begged for mercy the woman would
wait a long time to give. Noah would be locked beneath the bed, listening to
Gen’s moans, his hands bound so he couldn’t touch himself. Lyda wanted him to
climax from nothing more than listening.

Was this part of subspace-subdrop as well, one’s libido
bouncing back faster than a boomerang? Gen turned on her side, listening. Just
as she’d ordered, he hadn’t come into her room. He was humming along with the
guitar tune, sitting in the hallway, perhaps leaning against the wall next to
her door. Had she cried out, such that he’d known she was having a nightmare?
No. If that had happened, he would have come to her, all bets off. Maybe he’d
just anticipated her sleep would be restless. As Chloe had said and Gen was learning
firsthand, he excelled at anticipating a woman’s needs.

She rose, padded across the floor. Opening the door to a
welcome touch of air from the A/C, she looked down at him. He didn’t stop the
song, or his humming, though he tilted his head, gazing at her through the
darkness. Sliding down the wall, she sat next to him, put her head on his bare
shoulder. He brushed the crown of her head with his jaw, kept playing. His
biceps flexed under her breast where it pressed against him.

“I’m not a Domme,” she said at last.

“No,” he agreed. “But you’re great at working with one.”

“You’re like that too, aren’t you?”

“Sometimes. I like feeling in control, under direction, if
that makes sense.”

It did. “Is it because it feels safer that way? Like you
can’t screw up or take responsibility for anything that goes wrong? Puts it all
on her?”

His fingers stilled a moment, then resumed. A different tune
now, but still pleasant to the ears. “No. Don’t try to work it out in words. It
doesn’t work.”

“I screwed up with her tonight, didn’t I? At the end.”

“You can’t screw up something like that, Gen.” He touched
her knee, a brief caress. “She knows how crazy it gets after she scrambles your
brain. It takes time to process it all, especially at first.”

“But you knew. You tried to talk to her about it, and she
told you to take me home, that we’d ‘deal with the rest later’.”

“Yeah. That’s Lyda.”

Now that her eyes were adjusted to the dim illumination in
the hallway, she could see his hair was tousled enough to suggest he might have
slept some. He wore jeans, but when her hand crept beneath his arm, slid across
his rib cage and down, her questing fingers found the top button had been left
open and he was bare beneath. She played with the metal disk, brushing the firm
flesh beneath.

“I was dreaming about rock bands. A girl can’t help thinking
about guitars like phallic symbols, the way they play with them in front of a
crowd.”

He chuckled, and she imagined the light in his sleepy brown
eyes. Then he sobered. “You were dreaming about other things too. I was about
to say fuck it and come in, wake you up. But the music seemed to calm you down.
At least, I hope it did.”

“It did.” She propped her chin on his shoulder and stared
down the pleasing terrain of his body, to where he cradled the guitar in his
lap. “What should I do, Noah?”

“Go see her tomorrow,” he said simply. “The more you want to
avoid her, the better it is when you go see her. Doesn’t make sense, but that’s
the way she works.”

“I dreamed about you too,” she said. “You were being hurt,
and I couldn’t stop it. Neither could she. And she stood on this mountain, and
she looked so alone. It frightened me, seeing her like that, and you… It was
like I was the one who could fix it all, but I couldn’t move.”

He slid an arm around her, resting his other hand on the
guitar’s face. He didn’t say anything. She gazed at his profile. “Noah, why do
you have that tattoo? The one that says
Yours Unconditionally
?”

“It was a promise.”

“Made to whom?”

“Someone.” His expression reminded her of the wistful tune
the bard played in her dreams. “I put it there when I didn’t belong to anyone,
thinking it was a call to the universe. You know, fishing.”