House Rules: The Jack Gordon Story (9 page)

* * * *

By
the time he hit the final summer of college with an acceptance letter to
Northwestern Law School in hand, he anticipated a few months of hard work and
nothing more. Looking back, Jack realized it was a pivotal set of weeks for
many reasons.

Having
worked his way up to job foreman for his father’s construction company, he was
in the best physical shape of his life. Never more than a single phone call
from getting laid—and two calls from a threesome if he wanted it. As he settled
into his room in the house on Church Street in May he truly should have been on
top of the world. But something remained just out of his grasp, an
elusive…not-quite-there-thing that made him antsier and more prone to bouts of
temper than ever before.

His
body thrummed with residual energy. No matter what he did—no matter how many
hours of work he put in, how many miles he ran, or how strong he got, he still
felt his own restlessness choking him. Even after the first weekend of parties
that ended with the usual tangle of naked bodies, he got up and would swear he
could fuck a thousand women, right then and there. He could by God bench press
them after that and then run a marathon. It was maddening. Making him a pain in
the ass to be around, he knew for a fact.

“You
are a pain in the ass, Gordon,” Brandis confirmed for him that first Sunday
afternoon. “Truly, what the fuck is your issue?” They were washing cars in the
bright sunlight of a warm Michigan summer day and had nearly come to blows over
who had left a few empty beer cans rolling around on the kitchen floor. Jack frowned
and concentrated on the rainbow reflected in the spray against the bright red
of Brandis’ car door.

“I
know. Sorry,” he muttered, tossing the thing down and flopping into a ratty
lawn chair. His head pounded, while the rest of him seemed to shimmer with a
sort of barely repressed anxiety. He felt as if his control was slipping. The
more wild sex he had, the more he required. It was either exercise, push
himself to exhaustion at work, fuck his goddamned brains out, or go bat-shit
insane.

After
stumbling inside to grab a couple of beers for them, he waited for his eyes to
adjust. They found a scrap of paper one of the girls had left last night—one
who had been especially amenable to his preference for rougher play, he
recalled with a grin.

He
wouldn’t deny that going hard, tugging hair, smacking asses was something that
truly revved his engine. Any girl who encouraged it usually got the benefit of
an actual phone call the morning after, if he thought he could get a little
more from her. He ran his finger over the phone number and address she’d left.
It was a downtown Detroit one, new to him, but suddenly he remembered what
she’d said.

“Baby,
you need to come to this club. I could show you how real men play with girls
like me.”

He
shivered, his entire body breaking into chills at the memory. Gulping down a
few slugs of the beer, he sat, held onto the phone a moment, then dialed her
number.

* * * *

The moment was one Jack would never
forget. The sights, sounds, smells of the place would forever be imprinted on
him, drawing him back to that exact space and time.

His body was on fire, heart pounding,
pulse racing. A strange buzzing sound rose in his ears, deafening him, lending
a yet more surreal cast to the scene. He stood and watched, ever more amazed
that he’d discovered such a perfect outlet.

The woman was bound to a sort of “X”
or cross. She was naked but for a blindfold. Her perfect body was spread-eagled
and she exuded a calm vibe that he misinterpreted at first to be resignation.
He’d later come to realize it for what it was—the sensory rabbit hole of “sub
space.”

She was in it already, put there by
the show he’d watched that had made him hornier than he’d ever been in his
life. But there was more to it than just a visceral need to connect, to put his
cock in something, to gain release.  No, he had a role here, a purpose. And
that fact hit him hard in his chest.

He was needed. And that was more of a turn-on than anything he
had ever experienced. This woman required something specific of him — more
than a simple fuck. He got to his feet, beckoned by the leather-clad dude who’d
been teasing the bound girl, bringing her to the brink of orgasm while
demanding that she not allow herself to come. Then using a whip, some candle
wax and a set of evil-looking nipple clamps to rev her up all over again.

Jack ran a hand through his hair. His body was on super high
alert, but his brain was quiet, free of the incessant clamoring he’d been
experiencing for the past weeks and months. This…this must be what he required.
He would rise to this occasion and be all he could for the woman who trusted
him enough to allow him to take over from the older, more experienced guy.

He held out a hand, and palmed the well-worn handle of a leather
flogger. Grinning and ready to jump out of his own skin, yet at the same time
sensing a familiar lick of power he nestled down in it, owned it, and at that
moment found peace.

Chapter Nine

“Law
school sucks,” the girl claimed as she flopped onto the couch nearby. Jack
glanced up from his perusal of that very fact via mounds of torts and other
random legal bullshit.

His
shoulders ached as he stretched his arms up, not really paying that much
attention to her. He allowed that that he may well have met his limit: being a
full-time law school student at a premiere school and trying to fulfill his
every sexual fantasy at a club he’d been invited to join not that far from the
center of downtown Chicago.

The
house he’d rented was a rattletrap piece of shit. The one roommate he’d found
had bailed, and he was fast realizing something else important about himself—he
did not like living alone.

He
was lonely. And a little intimidated by how deep into the BDSM scene he seemed
to be going. Plus flat out exhausted by all the flipping bookwork he had to do
just to get through his classes.

Law
school had occurred to him almost as a whim during his junior year at Michigan
State. His roommate and new buddy, Rob, had been headed to medical school. As
was Suzanne, whom he had managed to avoid more than he liked for the last years
of undergrad.

He
had no real idea what he wanted to do but was not about to join the “be a
doctor” bandwagon, no way. Way too much blood and guts involved there. He could
get his M.B.A., as he would be emerging with a Bachelor of Science in Business,
but that sounded like more boring theory and stats.

He’d
been messing around with a girl then who’d been preparing for the LSAT. One
morning while she slept off an epic fuck session, he picked up her study guide
and settled down with it. By the time she woke up and booted him out of her
place, he was convinced that should be his next step. The act of “practicing
law” was not the draw but rather the challenge of taking that damn test. His
interest was piqued so he got his own prep books and, in typical fashion,
devoted hours to the goal.

Now,
here he was at a very expensive school of The Law, while Rob had tossed his med
school admissions letters and was in France, studying to be a chef. Suzanne had
headed south and the last he heard had a serious future-doctor boyfriend to go
with her own M.D.

After
stumbling inside to grab a couple of beers for them, he waited for his eyes to
adjust. No, he just was not the kind of guy who found isolation enjoyable. He
liked waking up and having someone to talk to over coffee or to share a beer
with while he studied.

The
girl he’d been ignoring made a funny, exasperated sound somewhere between a
snort and a sigh, breaking his reverie. He glanced at her again and did a
double take.

She
was curled up on the crappy student lounge couch in a corner of the main law
building basement—a place he’d found and scoped out as his own for getting some
work done between classes a few weeks ago.

“Yeah,”
he said, raking his gaze over her near-perfect form. She had big tits, which were
a bonus, but since he was an ass and legs man he waited her out. His newfound
inner radar started pinging the second her dark blue eyes met his. “I’m Jack.”

“Hi,
Jack. Jenna.” She proceeded to ignore him for a solid hour, and he let her.
Because he had already figured something out about Jenna. And knew she’d stick
around and chat some more. He smiled when he sensed her nearby, hovering over
him. “Um, can you make heads or tails of this?” She pointed to an open passage
in her book.

“Maybe.
I think I need coffee first. Join me?” He got to his feet and gathered all of
his papers. She watched, her eyes widening, then met his smile with one of her
own.

“Yeah,
sure, Jack,” she said, lingering over his name in a way that made him gulp as
she stuffed her book in her backpack and shouldered it. The look on her face
confused him some, but her body was sending clear signals that he intercepted
and translated.

They
walked, chatting about nothing in particular, and Jack got his first full look
at her. She was about five foot four in flat shoes, with a curvy form, packed
into nondescript dark denim jeans and red sweater that dipped into her
impressive cleavage nicely. Her dark brown hair tumbled around her shoulders
and her laugh was low, sexy. It rumbled around in his libido in a way that he
recognized.

He’d
spent last summer learning something about himself that shocked him at first.
Then had settled into his new reality as a sexual Dom with an eagerness that
made that first girl who’d invited him to club a very happy camper.

The
owner of the small place in downtown Detroit was an older guy, good-looking
still, and content to show him the ropes…and the handcuffs…the floggers… the
whips and ball gags.  He’d made a project of Jack actually, grooming him, he
claimed, for greatness.

He
grinned and took a step closer to the alluring, sexy Jenna as they stood in
line for coffee. He could smell it on her like lingering smoke—her plain-as-day
willingness to submit to him. She looked up and met his gaze.

The
moment that should have been awkward made his cock slam into the back of his
zipper. He smiled at the sensation. A corner of her full lips tilted up in a
way he thought he understood. He figured that was the final sign. He was no
expert yet but well on his way. While sensing the sexual energy of every female
in a room was sometimes tiring, now that he could channel it, figure out which
of them would actually provide him the outlet he required, it seemed that it
all led him to this precise moment. And to Jenna.

She
leaned closer to him in a way entirely inappropriate for having just met. Yet
it was perfect. “I don’t want coffee, really. I’ve been watching you all
semester. Let’s go to your place.”

He
swallowed hard. Something was off, or shifted to the left, just far enough for
him to sense it and hesitate. He looked down into her deep blue eyes. Saw the
way her breathing had ramped up. The pulse in her throat caught his gaze,
beating, beating. And those lips…dear god they were tempting.

He
forced himself to smile in a friendly, non-committal way. “I don’t know, Jenna.
Maybe I’m not ready.” He raised an eyebrow. This was his scene. He was not
about to let her call the shots.

“Oh
I think you are.” She turned just enough to shield her hand, the one she put
right on his crotch.

He
didn’t move or shift away. He did, however, narrow his eyes at her on purpose,
making sure she got the gist of his displeasure. “I’m not sure I said you could
touch me yet, Jenna.” He kept his voice low and slow, but his brain was
starting to hum with a familiar sense of rightness. She lowered her gaze,
tucked the offending hand back into her jacket pocket, and started to step
back.

He
gripped her arm, loving the way the heat transferred from her to him, and shot
down his spine. “Don’t move.” He glanced around then, and put his mouth near
her ear, taking in a fresh breath of horny female. “I can sense that you know
what I like…Jenna….” Her name felt exotic, unique, on his lips. “But just
because you want it does not mean I’m giving it to you. Are we clear?”