Even Deeper (6 page)

Do you get it?

Do you understand?

It didn’t matter what had happened while Jack was away. Didn’t matter what Alex told me, or what we did together. Jack was going to come back into our world like a whirlwind and take charge. We could have spent the previous evening doing anything. We could have fucked ourselves silly on the banks of the Seine. We could have gone to see a sex show or hired a couple of prostitutes.

All Jack cared about was now.

What happened now.

And somehow he was able to see inside of me. Somehow he was able to climb into my head and grasp what I needed.

I was guilty. That was the most intense emotion I felt. Guilty for trying to go behind him to learn his secrets. Guilty for actually pretending to be dominant when that role didn’t come naturally to me. He’d given me Alex for the night. But that could have meant anything. I could have taken the instruction to mean that I should submit to Jack’s right-hand man, to the budding power of Jack’s baby Dom.

What had Jack said on the phone? He’d told me that Alex was my toy. But he hadn’t told me to whip him, had he? He’d told me to be strong, to be in charge. He’d warned me that tonight I would be his. What would he have thought if I’d taken off the towel, if marks had adorned my body instead of Alex’s?

My head was spinning.

Jack saved me from my thoughts by beginning the cropping. In seconds, everything disappeared in a burst of violet haze. Pain brought me back. To the center of the bed. To the center of Jack’s world. Pain brought me to my senses.

I’d made Alex count. Jack took pity on me, in a way, and counted for me. So I could just grit my teeth and steel the muscles in my back and take each blow. He didn’t make me keep track. He didn’t warn me that he’d start at the beginning if I stumbled over a number. He simply worked me, with the power that he held. With the majesty that was Jack.

Because I get off on being a sub, because pain turns me on, doesn’t mean that discipline like this is easy to accept. Don’t think that craving pain makes punishment less jarring. Every time the crop landed, I told myself I didn’t need any more. But that would have been a lie.

Jack landed the blows, one after another, until he’d racked up forty total. I might not have had to count them verbally, but I kept silent score in my head. And then he climbed onto the bed with me and fucked me. I was naked, he was clothed, and he fucked me as if we hadn’t had sex in months.

Alex stayed in the room, but far away. I knew he was there. I heard the click of his lighter and understood he was off in one corner, smoking. Watching us as if we were a silent movie and letting the cigarette smoke rise up to the ceiling.

Jack fucked me. And I want you to know what that felt like. Not given a single second to recover. Shown with his cock how turned on I was. The fact that I was slippery wet. The fact that he slid right in, no foreplay. Fucking hard from the start.

How far was too far? Where were my boundaries?

If I’d asked Jack those questions, he would have laughed. He would have spread open my pussy lips and said, “This tells me everything. Look how wet you are. Look how turned on you are. You don’t want me to stop. Do you? You don’t want me to stop. Not ever.”

And he was right.

But there was something else in the hotel room on this day. Something else between us. He knew I’d been probing. He knew what I’d asked Alex.

And I understood that those questions would come back.

If not to haunt me, then, perhaps, to set me free.

I know what the afternoon sunlight looked like when Jack climbed off me. I know Alex’s expression—hard, closed—as he stubbed out his cigarette with trembling fingers. I know the pain in my wrists from pulling on the cuffs and the slick wetness between my legs.

If I tried, I think I could write pages about one single breath. Lose myself in the touch of Jack’s fingertips stroking down my spine. In the sheer relief of having him back with us. Of having him understand me without me needing to speak.

He knew all my secrets.

Yet I’ve failed. In a way, I have to fail. Because I can’t capture every minute. I can’t remember every conversation. I can’t relive each second in real time.

Jack didn’t strike me forty times in anger. Each blow didn’t carry the same weight, the same substance. No, he was a true master. He teased me. He struck quickly, and wickedly, so that I shook with the power behind the pain. And then he hit soft, undoing me, showing me with the very arch of my back, with the subtle shift of my hips, exactly what I really craved. Letting me know that he understood—letting me know that he accepted all of the sinful desires within me. That he loved me for those very dark cravings.

What had I asked Alex? What had been so fucking important to me?

Does he touch you gently, or does he only touch you rough?

What the fuck had caused that refrain to echo in my brain? Why did I care?

Because the image of Jack taking Alex, of Jack touching Alex the way he touched me—those were visions that hurt. Images I returned to, gently circling, as if trying to see if I dared rip off the bandage and view the wound beneath.

When Jack fucked me afterwards—with Alex right there, present, but separate—that should have been some amazing prize. I came from it. Being watched, being used. But after, when Jack pulled out, when he sat on the edge of the bed at my side, my emotions went wild.

Was Jack going to answer my questions after all? When he undid the cuffs, when he motioned for Alex to undress, I thought perhaps he would. Yet no words were spoken. I was the one to back up against the wall then. It was my turn. Without any instruction from Jack, I reached for Alex’s shirt, slipping it over my body, reveling in the warmth left by his skin. I didn’t have the balls to light a cigarette. But I did perch off in the corner, watching. Watching as Jack kissed his assistant. Kissed him in a way that made my heart race.

Does he touch you gentle?

Yeah, he did.

Jack stroked one hand along Alex’s jaw, then gripped the back of his hair and tightened his fingers. Jack made Alex sigh. I was right there, watching, splitting open my legs so that I could touch myself. Fingers wet with the mixture of my own juices and Jack’s. Nether lips slick as I stroked myself, unable not to. Uncaring of what Jack might say, what he might do.

Alex seemed as unsure of Jack’s mood as I was. But he didn’t have any hesitation when Jack spread him out on the bed. When Jack said, “It’s better to show than to tell.”

I knew he was talking to me. He was letting me in. I could watch them, fly-on-the-wall style, watch what Jack did with Alex when I wasn’t around. How had we gotten here, in this luxurious Parisian suite? How had we gotten here, with me across the room, as locked into place as if I were an exotic butterfly pinned down to a sheet of black velvet. Watching Alex grip his hands together over his head. Watching Jack lift the crop once more.

I couldn’t move.

I couldn’t think.

I couldn’t breathe.

Why was Jack doing this? What was the point?

Does he touch you gentle? Or does he only touch you rough?

That’s why. To answer a simple, meaningless query. One I’d felt that I needed to have answered. One that Jack felt could be answered better with actions than words.

This was Paris.

And never once on our trip did I ever feel in control. Never once did I expect what was going to happen next…

I’ve been a voyeur forever. I am always watching.

Memorizing.

Capturing.

I pay attention to everyone around me, growing silent sometimes in crowds so that I can be sure I haven’t missed something important. I eavesdrop. I spy. Can’t help myself. Don’t even bother to try.

Certain moments in my life I will own forever. Frozen in time, crystallized. Then there are huge stretches of time that are gone. I remember so little about the years I spent with Byron. I don’t recall what he looked like when he smiled. I don’t remember what he looked like coming out of the shower.

I don’t have any mental vision of his cock.

Yet I can see the sweat on Alex’s upper lip when he was on the bed, wrists over his head. I can see the muscles shift and dance beneath his fine pale skin. I am as close to him as if I’ve gone back in time, as if I’ve slid next to him in the bed—to give him the strength to relieve this moment.

Because he does relive it.

Over and over again.

Jack bound Alex’s wrists for the simple pleasure of doing so. I knew, as Jack must have known, that Alex would have stayed still with no bindings at all. Alex was like me. He could take anything. While I watched, Jack cropped him.

Why?

Simple. Because Jack had cropped me. There were times when he punished me for something I’d done, or some game we were playing in which I had failed, or some rule or infraction he’d listed that I’d broken. Then there were times like this when he simply seemed to need to inflict pain, the way that I always needed to envision the opposite scenario when touching myself solo.

I expected Jack to talk, to croon to Alex through the fire of the discipline session. But he remained eerily silent forcing me to maintain a running imaginary script in my head:

You need this, don’t you?

Yes, Jack.

Sir, today. I’m Sir.

Yes, Sir.

Tell me why you need this…

Wasn’t that Jack’s refrain? If mine was “Does he touch you gentle…” Then Jack’s was, “Tell me why you need this.” Not even really caring about the answer. Knowing that the question itself was all-important.

What was the difference between Alex and me? We both submitted to Jack’s needs. His urges. Yet I had a feeling that deep inside we were hardwired differently. I bowed down to Jack because he gave me exactly what I needed. Alex seemed to desire only to give Jack what Jack needed. To supplicate himself for Jack’s pleasure. He didn’t seem to sense any unfairness in the situation at hand.

Did Jack want to discipline him for no cause at all? Alex was willing. Always willing.

There was silence in the room. Me on the ledge, fingers pressed greedily to my clit. Jack, in motion, the crop dancing in his hand. And Alex, eyes shut, still and quiet except for the occasional tremor running through his body like an electric current. Until Jack dropped the crop and looked in my direction. Eyes blazing.

“What do you think?”

I hadn’t expected to be called upon. I’d been focused, but not prepared.

“What do you think, Samantha?”

Answering my previous question with actions rather than words. That’s what he’d done. That’s what he wanted me to acknowledge.
Does he touch you gentle, or does he always touch you rough?
What answer would have put my fears to rest? What did I want to hear?

I couldn’t say. I only understood now that there was no black and white. There was no gray, either. There was crimson behind my eyelids when I lowered my head to avoid Jack’s gaze. I tasted metal in my mouth from biting my bottom lip. The answer was both, of course. The answer was that Jack could be sweet, he could be kind. And he could be like this. Almost a machine. Hard again. Ready to fuck.

“What do you think? Get over here, Kid. Come closer.”

I had to stand up and pad across the room, to press myself now to the wall by the bed, watching as Jack got ready to take his boy.

Watching as Jack’s hands roamed over Alex’s naked skin, stroking so damn softly that I wanted to cry.

It was such a mess we were all in. Such a tangled mess of emotions and heat. Of danger and pleasure. And I wouldn’t have been anywhere else. I wouldn’t have traded my lot with any person on the planet. Not even as Jack lubed Alex up with his own spit. Not even as Jack parted his fly, ready to fuck Alex as hard and fiercely as he had fucked me.

I’d gone to school for art history, to learn to appreciate images I didn’t fully understand. It was like that for me, now. My heart felt torn apart, and yet when Jack’s blue eyes met mine I was whole again.

I didn’t understand, but I could watch, and I could wait.

Knowing soon it would be my turn once more.

Europe transforms me.

I’ve been nearly a dozen times over the years, and on each trip, that magical transformation takes place almost as soon as I step off the airplane. I wear clothes in Paris that I’d never wear at home. I buy shoes that would seem ridiculous in my daily life. I have confidence like you wouldn’t believe.

My first trip to Europe was straight out of school, and I started two different love affairs on the journey. One with a handsome shoe salesman named Val, the other with a fruit seller from England.

I know what I was wearing when I met Val: a thin white tank top from Venice with the word ITALIA on the front. No bra. Indigo stovepipe jeans. Hair loose and long down my back. He was with two friends, and still he managed to pick me up, so that I sat at a table with three handsome French men, drinking stolen sips of his red wine and feeling his hand on my thigh under the table. Was that my first flirtation with a more-than-ménage? I think yes.

But being with Jack in Paris was something else. Safe to say that Jack transformed me far more than Europe did.

Jack gave us time to regroup. To shower and dress. To slide back into our selves after being so cleanly flayed by his show of force. Then the three of us went walking. With no real mission that I was aware of. We walked until we felt like stopping, and then we found a café and drank.

I was between the men at every moment, protected by them on the sidewalk, sandwiched by them at the outdoor café. We sat watching people pass, not speaking much, not needing to. Alex smoked more openly in Paris, lighting his cigarettes lazily, taking obvious pleasure in the ritual.

Looking back, the images are like dreams. But I remember feeling as if I were in a dream at the time. My head swam with what had just happened in the hotel room. My heart pounded every time Jack locked eyes with me. He had plans. I could tell. But when I would raise an eyebrow at him, or even say, “What? What are you thinking about?” he’d only smile back at me or tease me with his foot under the table.

There was no banter. No: “How was your flight, dear?” No: “Aren’t you tired?”

Jack was never visibly tired. I’ve known other men like him before. The type who don’t show weakness. Brock was like that. Even in pain, you’d never have known. And why am I drawn to that?

I don’t know how, but I sensed the mood Jack was in. Sensed it the way that some people can sniff the air and tell a storm is coming. I would have thought that we’d gotten through our hellos back in the hotel. But Jack was brewing. Yet there was no way to know what his plans were, or when he might reveal them. So I sat there at the café, drinking the tiny cups of espresso, vibrating with the caffeine and the electricity in the air.

“I need to walk,” Alex said after we’d been sitting for nearly an hour. “I’m restless.”

“Walk,” Jack said, nodding, as if this was some sort of cue. “We’ll meet you back at the hotel. Have a late dinner.”

Alex did something unusual then. He shook Jack’s hand, but he gave me a kiss. I wasn’t expecting the gesture, and it tugged on me. Jack and I watched together as Alex disappeared into the throng of people, the never-ending stream of humanity passing by the café.

“He won’t go with us tonight,” Jack said, gazing at me.

“But you just said…”

“I don’t mean dinner. We’ll all eat together. But he won’t go to the club with us.”

The club.

I didn’t know how to respond to that. I knew what I wanted to ask:
What club? Why? Why won’t Alex come?

I managed to sip my coffee in silence, waiting for Jack to continue.

“If you like the place, we’ll go back again,” Jack said next. “We’ll find someone for Alex to bring.”

None of this made any sort of sense to me. But I held my tongue. Jack seemed to appreciate that. “Good girl,” he grinned, trailing his fingertips along my face, the same way he’d touched Alex in the hotel. “You’re drunk with questions aren’t you?”

I nodded.

“And look at you. Sitting there. Waiting for me to explain. I’m impressed.”

A glow worked through me…

“But I’m not going to explain.”

…then instantly faded.

“You’ll see soon enough. You’ll understand right away. There’s no excitement in giving away all the surprises at once.”

He reached for me then, pulling me up and onto his lap. He kissed me, so different from Alex’s quick brush of his lips on mine. Jack kissed me fully, out there on the boulevard, with everyone watching. Where anyone could see. His tenderness was surprising, and I realized that he was still answering my question from the hotel room, with me in the starring role now:
Does he touch you gentle?

Oh, yes. Sometimes, yes. Desperately gentle.

But only as an appetizer. Only as a prelude of what was to come.