Isn't Vanilla a Spice? Ch. 01

This story features characters and places mentioned in other series of mine: A Dom's Best Friend; A Reluctant Sadist's Painslut; and Her Daddy, Dom, and Neighbor in One. The drink descriptions mentioned in this series have not been tested in a kitchen; please keep that under advisement. Enjoy!

* * *

Two years before the present time...

"You're dry. Why haven't you safeworded?" Ryan's fingers, previously stuffed up my cunt, slid limply from between my pussy lips. Confusion gave way to disappointment, and the leaden eyes that saw too much stared through my own green ones, unblinking.

Physically, I tore myself away from his gaze. "I was hoping if I didn't, that--"

"That you would magically, suddenly, be a submissive, or at least someone who could get off on being dominated for a scene or two?" His humorless voice shredded the protest I was going to make.

I remained mute, in intricate bondage, for several minutes as my heart pounded. Finally, I could ignore the cramping of various muscles in my legs and arms no longer. "Fine. Pancake," I muttered to my chest.

Hands that I had watched as they learned to make complex fruity libations under my tutelage now dispassionately began removing the evidence of his artistry. Shibari, he had called it. Restrained by those elaborate bonds, I felt beautiful.

But I also felt terrified. Trapped.

Those same hands had undressed me with a reverent wonder, had knotted the colorful strands in an incomprehensible pattern, suspending me from the ceiling in a graceful cocoon.

And I had failed him.

"I'm sorry, Ryan." No Sir. No Master. However much hope had imbued the beginning of the scene, there was no such optimism now.

A sharp shake of his head silenced me again. Steady hands guided me down until I stood on my own two feet. "It's my fault," he spoke, mostly to himself. Then, with a more brisk inflection, he asked, "Are you okay?"

Somehow I was able to discern what he was really asking. Physically, I was fine, so I answered a small, "Yes." Emotionally? I was gutted.

"Then, I think you should leave." He stepped back and took the warmth with him. The arctic blast of air in the innocuously-appointed hotel room hardened my nipples to uncomfortably tight bumps and caused me to instantly shiver. An armful of clothes were pressed against my stomach and I vacantly wrapped my hands around them, catching them.

"Leave?" I echoed.

With an adroit turn, my best friend since seventh grade turned on his heel and walked to the door, pausing only to answer, "Yes, leave. I think it would also be best if we don't work together anymore."

**********

Four years before that...

"No, you can't put vodka in a margarita, Ryan! It just doesn't work out that way!" My voice sounded shrill to my own ears, so I thought I would dial it back a bit. We had been sampling my efforts for the past hour in an attempt to teach him how to properly make a margarita.

He laughed, and I joined in. It was obvious that we were more than a bit buzzed, far beyond tipsy. The full bottle of tequila from an hour ago had become a bottle that was only a quarter full. "It could be the next big thing," he sputtered, "a Russian margarita."

Our two weeks of mixology lessons had not really paid off. I had learned how to mix like the bartender I hoped to be; Ryan ended each class with his hair in disarray from nearly pulling it out at the roots. It was obvious to everyone, including our teacher, that his expertise would be in running a bar or restaurant, not mixing the drinks.

"Noooooooo," I exhaled as I slipped on a patch of lime juice on the floor. Hands that belied his drunkenness grasped me by my upper arms and hauled me to the granite wall of his chest.

"Whoa, there," he said, sizing up whether I was injured or not.

Inexplicably, his eyes darkened as they caught mine. I rocked back on my heels, ducking my head and swaying as the room spun. We were in his apartment, and I was trying to tutor him in the art of making a cocktail. Yup. That's what I was here for.

Gentling hands slowly massaged my shoulders. One slid slowly up the curve of my neck, then around to the point of my chin lifting my head slightly to meet his gaze again. Turbulent grey eyes held me in thrall until my eyes saw his lips growing closer, parting. "I've wanted to do this forever," he breathed against my lips.

I parted my lips, to protest I think, but then lost all stream of thought as I simply felt his kiss. I've been kissed before; hell, I've fucked before. But this was Ryan, my old lab partner from high school.

Somehow, my body was doing fine to forget that this was my best friend. Instead, my body curled into his, my hands smoothing down his chest to tug his T-shirt up to help him get rid of his clothes. He was equally helpful, tugging my tank top up, breaking our kiss only long enough to pull it up and over my head and toss it...somewhere.

Reaching around behind me, he efficiently removed my bra. Drunken fumble-fingers he did not have. Reverential hands palmed my breasts, squeezing gently, eliciting a soft moan before plucking each of my nipples in turn.

"Ryan, we can't." I cursed my ethical core. "We are both too druunnnk," I slurred, swaying in his grasp.

He pulled back from me, his silvery eyes piercing. I knew that I, Emma Landry, would regret this moment for the rest of my life. The moment when I had the chance to tell Ryan Smith exactly how I felt about him, how I dreamed about him. And how I gave it all up to continue to be the goody-two-shoes of my gregarious, barkeeping family.

My best friend and protector inhaled deep, cleansing breaths, and I saw his eyes return to their usual affability. One bronzed hand scraping over his face, he muttered, "You're right, Em. I don't know what came over me."

"Over half of a bottle of Cuervo," I explained, glad that he did not seem offended by me putting a halt to things.

"That I couldn't even mix properly," he added, hiccuping. Ryan held up his hand for a high five. Relieved, I slapped my hand against his.

Shrugging, I offered, "It will come with time and practice. Most of my family...all they are good at is mixing drinks. If they can, you surely can," I declared, thinking of my older brothers.

* * * * * * * * *

Two years before the present time (again)...

I would not cry.

Just because Ryan had decided that I was disgusting to him because I was not aroused by what he dished out did not mean that the world was over. Just because he was kicking me out of his hotel room in a hotel that his family owned--albeit to give him a place to learn the hotel management industry--did not mean that I had to leave the city.

I stepped out into the blended miasma of piss, stale alcohol, pot, unwashed bodies, cheap perfume, and desperation. The ubiquitous aroma of the French Quarter. Maybe I would do better to return to the bayou where I had been raised to work at the family bar--or at least to one of the bars that my family owned that didn't happen to sit in the hotel that Ryan just told me to vacate.

Mentally, I added "unemployed" to the list of humiliations tonight had heaped on my head. Muttering to myself, I snagged my phone from my pocket and waited for the next trolley that would take me to my cousin's house.

Tourists gave me a wide berth, this woman with hair deranged speaking, muttering to herself. I saw the familiar car gliding to its stop and I surged forward, my QR code already visible.

Rufus, one of said cousin's clients, was the conductor this evening. I smiled, or, rather, grimaced, in his direction, and he shook his head. He was used to seeing Emma Landry, black sheep of the Landry family, in disarray.

Clunking back to the back of the trolley I collapsed in the seat, then hunched over to hide the tears as the full ramifications set in.

When my stop arrived, I scuffled off at the back, trying to ensure that I did not have to face questions from Rufus.

Trudging down the block, I stopped, wavering a bit, at my cousin's townhouse. Huffing a sigh, I slumped forward. I knocked tentatively on the black glossy door. What if he and Celine were not at home? Or, more likely, what if they were asleep? My mental voice refused to do me any favors this evening.

The light over the door snapped on, and I heard slight scuffling on the inside of the house. Within seconds, the door opened, revealing the statuesque brunette beauty, my cousin Beau's wife, Celine Thibodaux Landry, on the other side.

"Emma, cher! What are you doing here at this time of night?" Peach silk-encased arms reached for me and I stepped forward into her hug.

"I...um...seem to find myself without a job. Or a home. Or a best friend."

* * * * * * * * * *

A few weeks passed, and I heard that Ryan had returned to Dallas full-time to helm his family's flagship hotel in the city. One of his cousins had taken over the New Orleans boutique hotel where I had found such happiness as the bartender.

Of course, I did not hear this from Ryan himself. A few times I had reached out and texted him, my oldest friend, but had received only radio silence in return. My belongings were carefully boxed up from the property and returned to Beau's townhouse where I was now staying pending...future employment?

My job prospects were not bleak. I had been the rising star mixologist for one of the most trendy bars in one of the most cocktail-heavy cities in the world. Sure enough, three weeks after being told to leave Chateau Valois, another up-and-coming bar contacted me.

Within two weeks, I was again mixing and melding the cocktails that existed in my head, bubbling to get out and be enjoyed.

Reger, my boss, did not lavish praise as Ryan had. While Ryan could make a passable simple mixed drink of the old classics, he lacked the panache and artistry that today's mixology required. That was why we had worked so well together. He had handled the business end of the hotel and left me to my own devices in the bar. Reger, on the other hand, was no slouch in the mixology department. Under his exacting tutelage, my repertoire expanded. Bars from around the country started to headhunt for me.

In my offtime, I perused BDSM fiction. Ryan's dismissal continued to thunder in my ears, and I replayed the scene in my head on a loop whenever my mind was not focused on mixing cocktails. Was it possible to be able to scene as a submissive without being a submissive?

Luckily for me, I lived in one of the most depraved cities in the world with plenty of dark corners. With no risk of running into Ryan, I sought out clubs that specialized in bondage play and BDSM, trying to discover what made things tick. What made Ryan seek out that type of partner above all others.

I first met Jessa Kendrick, a Domme, at her club Magnolia. Her club catered to the tastes of the dominants and submissives of New Orleans. Ten years my senior, I know what she saw when she looked at me the first time we met: a petite, silver-haired, green-eyed misfit who did not fit in at her sophisticated club.

She had advertised for a bartender and had clearly been hoping for a male from her surprised reaction. "My clientele keeps odd hours," she attempted to dissuade me. "You will have to be on call for much of the time, and will have to live in the rooms upstairs." Madame Jessa mentioned a salary that caused my eyes to bug out. Even at Chateau Valois and with Reger, I was making nowhere close to that amount.

"I'll take it," I agreed, "but I would like to explore what happens here."

Her eyes scraped over me and found me lacking. "Emma, the dominants here would skin you alive and leave you to bleed out."

"I don't care, Madame Jessa. I want to learn," I whispered, mostly to myself.

For thirteen months, I worked for her establishment. During my odd days off, I sought out the Doms that had seemed the most patient in their public play. Frederick, Madame Jessa's older brother, was the first I approached.

"Sir Frederick," I addressed him respectfully, my eyes downcast as I had seen submissives do.

"Oh, hello, M." He flashed me an easy grin. Madame Jessa and her clients had taken to calling me M instead of Emma, and the further anonymity appealed to me somehow. "Want me to try one of your delicious libations?"

"Erm. Not exactly, Sir."

When I did not respond anymore, he looked up curiously from the spanking bench he worked to repair. "What, then?"

"I would like, if you approve, Sir, to explore--" I broke off, waving my hand vaguely at the direction of the implements and furniture arranged deliberately around the room.

"BDSM," he stated since it became apparent that I could not choke any more words out.

I felt my cheeks heat. "Erm. Yes. Sir."

"As a submissive." His green eyes bored into mine offering no aid to end my discomfort.

Nodding, I whispered, "Yes. Sir."

"Why?" He asked the obvious question.

"I need to know if I am one. A submissive, that is. I hurt someone very badly because I led him to think that I was, that I could be aroused by all of this." Even after working only a few weeks at Magnolia, I knew now that what I had done to Ryan was an egregious offense.

Sir Frederick's lips thinned and his eyes hardened. Wrong answer, I thought. "Please," I whispered.

"Why do I have a feeling that if I don't help you, you will continue to search for someone who will?"

I licked my lips. "Because I will. I need to know."

"Fine."

* * * * * * * * *

Present day. Dallas, Texas.

"Of course I will be careful, Sir Frederick," I assured him for the millionth time. Neither my foster Dom nor his sister, my former boss, approved of my decision to attend The Kinkster's Ball so soon after my arrival in Dallas.

Just being in Ryan's city gave me chills. I knew he would be at the ball, knew that it was organized by a friend of his and him, because they had held the ball for several years at his family's hotel. Tempting fate, Sir Frederick had warned me more than once.

No, I had not moved to Dallas to be near Ryan. The hottest new BDSM-themed nightclub, Lashesexxx, had opened in Dallas recently, and the management company had put out feelers for a mixologist to create themed cocktails. Having worked at such a club for well over a year, I had several cocktails that I had been perfecting. Jessa had graciously allowed me the freedom to bring those recipes with me to Dallas.

Today I was to meet with the head of the management company at Lashesexxx, and he (or she) was expecting to meet the Divine Miss M, mixologist extraordinaire, who would not bat an eye from all of the play going on around her. To that end, I wore the black vinyl catsuit that had been my uniform since Sir Frederick had agreed to take me under his wing.

My interview was set for 1:30, just after the lunch crowd should be finished, so I was surprised to see a bouncer facilitating a long line with ease as I approached the front doors of the new club. I had heard that the club was considered the hot spot in the metroplex right now, but this was a first even for me.

As I approached, the bouncer sized me up and found me lacking. "Go to the end of the line," was his laconic directive.

I cleared my throat. "I am M," I introduced myself. "I am here to apply for the mixologist position."

A chuckle, then, "Yeah, right," was his reply. The beefy brawn was not the first to mistake my appearance for someone sweet and fluffy. Sure, I could be as sweet as southern pecan pie, but, on the job, I had a spine of steel.

"I'm sorry," I oozed syrupy politeness, "but I have an appointment with the management at 1:30. It really would not do for me to be late."

The bouncer rolled his eyes, and I strove not to lambaste him with language that Ryan and my brothers had taught me. "Look here," I growled, but the meathead's phone rang.

"Yes, boss. There is a person claiming to be your 1:30 out here. No, no divinity in sight. Sure, I will let her in. She's playing at being a Domme, wearing pants as she is." With false courtesy, the bouncer genuflected before me and ushered me inside.

"Why, bless your heart," my attitude equally phony. Inwardly, I hoped that he correctly interpreted that to mean, as I intended, "fuck you."

Only after the door closed behind me did I consider what he said about my outfit. Had there been a dress code mentioned that I had ignored in the job description?

Soft jazz and equally buttery lighting infused the space. Magnolia was sophisticated, yes, but Lashesexxx, regardless of its bombastic name, cultivated a cultured vibe that I had not seen since my days at Chateau Valois.

A collared waitress scurried up to me. "Are you Miss M?" Her tone was frantically hopeful. I nodded. "The boss had to leave for a bit to handle an emergency with one of his friends. He said that you should look at this time as your trial run."

I nodded, my mind already thinking ahead to what cocktails I could whip up without knowing the full set up of the bar. Her aquamarine eyes huge in her face, the waitress continued, "Were you really the bartender at Magnolia in NOLA?"

At my distracted nod, she gushed, "My sister worked there! She said you were the absolute best!"

I smiled at her, calming slightly. "Lola, right? Lola's your sister?" Her frenzied nod reminded me so much of her sister. "And you are?"

"Katrina."

Noticing the lineup at the bar, I charged forward. "Good afternoon, Lashesexxx! What may I create for you this afternoon?"

Customers' drink orders bubbled forth, and I grinned, in my element at last. Smiling at the first to order, a blonde in a pale pink spaghetti strap sundress, I reviewed her order. "Something new?"

Her smile dazzled. "The owner said a new bartender would arrive today and that I should help evaluate her abilities."

Already making the other orders down the line, my hands working almost separate from my mind, I chuckled. "If you don't mind waiting a few moments, I can definitely offer up something new."

Sliding several cocktails down the bar to surprised patrons, I then deposited two on Katrina's tray, and she scuttled away.

"No problem," the woman responded, eyeing me.

I flashed her a grin as I sat a martini glass filled with ice on the bar. Fulfilling the other drink orders had allowed me to take stock of the spirits and garnishes available. Clucking my tongue, I realized I would have to dig deep into my treasure box to create a concoction that would truly be memorable. Snagging a bit of this and a lot of that, I went to work.

Passion fruit, vodka, Grand Marnier, and gold luster dust went into the ice filled shaker. I dusted cayenne over sugar to rim the glass I emptied of ice. At the last moment, I added a drop of cinnamon oil to the shaker. Humming as I shook the mixture, I cracked the seal and filled the glass with the hazy, sparkly liquid that I garnished with a chunk of Tajin-speckled mango on a skewer.

The blonde sipped, her eyes widening. "Wow! What do you call it?"

"The Painslut," I responded, sipping on a glass of seltzer.

Others who had seen me make it stepped up, clamoring for one of their own. Laughing, I complied.

After the blonde had drained the Painslut, I offered, "One more?"

"No," she said, shaking her head, "just a ginger ale on the rocks, please."

Nodding, I quickly filled the order. "So, what brings you here to Lashesexxx?"

"I'm a painslut," she explained, "just like the drink. The owner listened as I poured my heart out a couple of weeks ago, and I think I've been back every day. I'm Cami Larson, and you are...the Divine Miss M?"

"Yes, indeed. Lovely to meet you, Cami," I smiled. "I worked at a club in New Orleans. Magnolia."

Cami grinned, and her face softened. "New Orleans. I thought I detected a bit of the accent."

"Anyway, when I saw this position was available, I jumped at it."