The Spur Ch. 07

"Just like the Arabian Nights!", I said.

"So I was doing a Tarot reading for a woman whom, in a less enlightened age, one might have described as a 'brassy broad.' Not born yesterday, business executive, confident and self-sufficient, with a palpably self-possessed sexuality rolling off her like fog off an iceberg. Can you picture that?"

"Oh, yeah--for sure."

"Then I'll bet you can already guess where this is leading."

"I think so--but tell me."

"Well, she was looking for a relationship, but not an all-consuming romance; she was too independent and happy with her life as it was for that. She just wanted, as she put it, a 'cherry for the sundae of her life.'"

"Seriously?" I said.

"That's what I thought! And when I asked her skeptically if she'd want to be the cherry on someone's else's sundae, she said, 'Absolutely!' So I asked if there were any attractive prospects on her horizon. She said there were a couple of guys at work she found kind of attractive, but not enough to galvanize her into making a move.

"OK," I said, "so you're not looking for a soulmate--just a banana for your split."

"Very clever."

"Thank you. She laughed and said yes, and I took another look at the big-ol' King of Coins right in the middle of the spread."

"What does he mean?"

"A man of means, often a little older, extravagant and sensuous, given to luxury, perhaps a little indolent, often domineering. Cautiously, I asked if I were right in thinking she was looking for someone to take her in hand, sexually--to take charge of her. You can guess what she said?"

"Hell, yes; she was tired of always being in charge, and wanted someone else to take over, at least in the bedroom."

"Precisely. So, describing the King of Coins type, I asked if she had ever met anyone of that stripe before. She had, and had found them off-putting. I suggested that the next time she met a King of Coins, instead of dismissing him as a douchebag, she give some serious thought to the possibility that he might be exactly what she was looking for. She obviously regarded the men she thought of as her type as ineffectual, so why keep doing the doing the same thing, expecting a different result?"

"How did she respond to that?"

"She was very receptive to it. Of course, I don't know what happened after our session was over, but I'd like to think she found a rich older dude to tie her to the bedposts now and again.

"So all this time, Lana had been listening, while the clamps did their work. And when my story was finished, I said, 'You say you're not sure you're submissive--but take a look at yourself right now! You are submissive--and it's OK! It's who you are! So the next time you are in conflict with someone, don't tell yourself, 'I am a strong, intelligent, educated, capable woman and I am not submissive!'', because fighting it will only distract you and drain your energy. Instead, remind yourself that you are submissive, and give your submission to me. Let me be your dom in those times. Then you can stop worrying about being a sub and start taking up your own space in the world. Do you think you can do that?'

'Yes,' she answered--and I could hear tears in her voice.

"OK; now let's start taking off those clothespins. Do you remember what order you clamped them on in? 'I think so,' she answered. 'Then name the blocks to your happiness in the same order in which you named them before, removing the corresponding clothespins as you do so. And remember, they are going to hurt a lot more coming off than they did going on.' And as she named her struggles and removed the pins, I asked if she could feel me kissing the pain away from each place the clamps had bitten into her, and she said she could. I could hear her whimper with pleasure as I described the long, tender, soothing kiss on each nipple. Then I asked if she could feel me stroking her hair, and she whispered that she could." He fell silent.

"Don't stop now!" I said. "What happened next?"

"Grasshopper, it was beautiful. She cried, and thanked me so sweetly, I teared up myself. She told me later that 'It was more like therapy than anything I had experienced before.' She later told me the effects were lasting. And that's when I realized that therapy was my calling."

"So you do kink therapy?" I asked, shocked at the idea but not knowing what else to think.

"Oh, no," he said. "People aren't ready for that yet. But I believe they will be some day."

There was a long silence while I finished his second hand. Then I said,

"That was amazing; thank you so much for telling me that."

"Least I could do, Grasshopper; you have put me back together with those magical hands of yours."

He did gag me that night--before tying me spread-eagle to the bed and dripping hot candle wax all over me--and my yelps of pain were lost in the hankie and tape. And honestly--being whipped, tickled, clamped, hog-tied--none of it had ever driven me as wild as being rendered unable to speak. It was like giving away my final defense. At least I could still glare at him.

STEVE'S JOURNAL

Stepping out of the office for lunch, I ran into Anaïs and Jamila lunching at a sushi place that had sidewalk seating. (Ten points from Gryffindor for my not having seen *that* coming.) Treading carefully on the crowded sidewalk because my balance has been so wonky lately, I maneuvered my way over to the table to say hi. Two things happened I have never experienced before: first, my voice began quavering like some amateur-theater old man's--which was embarrassing enough--but even worse was that, despite having met this stunning six-foot, blonde Valkyrie literally the night before, and having spent a considerable portion of the evening flirting with her, I could not remember Anaïs's name. After exchanging awkward pleasantries, I limped down the sidewalk, praying to find a crack big enough to swallow me up forever.