The Spur Ch. 10

Overhearing the hail,

My old self sits again

In the new house,

Like an overgrown oak.

 Matsuo Basho

JILL

I lay naked on the dining table, a rose petal stuck to each nipple with two-sided tape, and a sawed-off sunflower poised delicately between my legs, spreading discreet petals over my new Brazilian wax. I was freshly pedicured, a pillow cushioned my head, and the white tablecloth was strewn with marigolds and more rose petals. There were about a dozen tealights as well; I could feel their warmth on my skin from several inches away.

From just above my knees, up to my pelvis, sat rows of chilled vegetarian sushi rolls, with more forming two concentric circles around my navel, which had a little mound of wasabi in it. A final double column of sushi marched up my sternum to between my tits, where they went single-file, ending at a little cup of dipping sauce balanced in the hollow of my throat beneath my collar. An extravagantly lush pink peony blossom lay in the hollow of each of my upturned hands. Steve had foregone the traditional leaves between the sushi and my skin, on the grounds that, since the rolls were vegetarian, a little of my body heat wouldn't hurt them, and besides, why lay me out nude only to cover me up with leaves?

To spare me the mortification of seeing his friends eating dinner off my naked skin, Steve had taped my eyes with little squares of white surgical tape, which he then hid under a familiar red silk blindfold.

Occasionally, someone less adept with chopsticks would drop a roll just after picking it up--or, in an attempt to get a firm grip, poke me with the sticks. My blindness exaggerated both sensations, the dropped rolls startling me, and the intrusive sticks momentarily bringing my entire attention to two tiny points on my skin. Steve replaced the sushi as the guests removed it.

How did I get here, you ask? I wish I knew. Or rather, I wish I fully understood it myself. Steve would look at me with that little smile that always meant he was about to pull a Gandalf on me ("I am looking for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging"), say "I want you to do something for me," and I would do it. That's it. In fact, I would want to do it; like good advertising, the mere fact of his wanting me to do something would make me believe I had always wanted to do that thing myself without realizing it--even if it was, in fact, something that made me nervous or uncomfortable. So this is the thing that's been missing from my life!, I'd think. That grin, the look in his eyes, the feel of his hands on my shoulders, turned my fear into excitement, and right up to the final 'What the fuck am I doing?', nothing could stop me from doing it.

I had counted three male voices, and three female, that I couldn't identify, and one female voice that, with a thrill that made my every nerve-ending dance, I definitely knew: Jamila's. 'My God,' I thought, awash in equal parts excitement and fascinated horror.' He's feeding me to his ex! That twisted son of a bitch!'

I also recognized Gerald's distinctive voice, and the chirpy voice of Jeannie with him. I had finally gotten to see him, first in his leather shop at the Renfaire, then in his house near Valley Forge. I was glad that, as during my birthday abduction, I couldn't see him--not while I lay there, naked and covered in sushi, unable to move without making a mess. He was tall and very muscular, with caramel-colored skin, liquid brown eyes with lashes most women would kill for, and the self-confidence to use eye-liner--which makes everyone--without exception--look sexier. And he could wear a kilt like a champion. He had obviously been disguising his deep, silky voice under the menacing growl I had heard him use in the rented cabin in the Bucks County woods, and he liked to boss me around without bondage, emphasizing my submission in a way I tried hard not to think about just then. I tried not to imagine what his huge hands would feel like as I lay sprawled naked across his lap, one holding me still by my hair and the other beating my bare ass fire-engine red.

While everybody talked about how pretty I was and how lucky Steve was--all very flattering, of course, in a surreal, thoroughly objectifying way--none of them, according to custom, spoke directly to me; no one, that is, but Jamila. Approaching the table alone during a lull, she said softly,

"Well, hello there, beautiful!" Her deep, strong speaking voice, sounding like it had once been silky but had mellowed over time into velvety, sent a flush into my face, neck and chest that she couldn't possibly have missed. "So you let him collar you," she purred, fingering my collar. "I was pretty sure you would." Almost unbearably self-conscious--even for a naked person on a table in a room full of clothed strangers--I didn't reply. I hoped the rose petals over my swelling nipples stayed put.

Obviously enjoying the effect she was having on me, she let out a low chuckle that sent a new and hotter flush washing over me, and slowly drew her chopsticks over my body from the sauce-bowl to the sunflower--a flagrant violation of nyotaimori protocol, but I wasn't complaining. Then she rejoined the others in the kitchen, leaving me to process a zillion feelings all by my blind, naked self.

Steve's dessert finale was sadistically surprising. After gently removing the dipping-sauce cup from my throat, and the last of the wasabi from my navel, he arranged, without warning, two dozen fresh-from-the-freezer mochis on my belly, ribs, and arms. I stifled a gasp, and felt goosebumps rising all over me as I willed myself not to squirm. Happily, the little ice-cream dumplings didn't stay long on my shivering torso.

Steve had hung a curtain between the dining table and the living room area, and when the guests had gulped down their mochis and gone to drink warm sake on the other side, he removed the sunflower, the rose-petals, and the peonies, and I suddenly felt the delicious warmth of a washcloth on my breasts. He slowly, soothingly wiped away the dribbles of dipping sauce from my chest, the sticky little circles of rice flour from my belly, and the remains of the veggie rolls from my thighs. Then, it seemed, he put the cloth down, picked up another, and did it all again. It felt so wonderful, I never wanted it to stop.

As he ran the warm cloth between my legs, I bit my lip to keep from moaning, and immediately felt the sting of his finger flicking my left nipple. "Stop that right now, you!" he growled, and I grinned, struck once again by how unstoppable the drive to find a little power is for us brats; like the bee-balm plant I once found growing between the blacktop and the curb on my street, we seek, even at our most surrendered, the faintest whiff of power like a plant seeks the sun. Even when entirely at his mercy, I could still drive him crazy just by biting my lip.

He dried me off with a warm towel, blew out the candles, and took my hand to help me off the table. Taking my face between his hands, he kissed me so gently I forgot, for a moment, to breathe.

"You were wonderful," he whispered into my ear, stroking my hair as softly as a rose petal. "Absolutely perfect!" Releasing my face, he stepped away for a moment, leaving me slightly panicky, and moved behind me. "Hold out your arms a little," he said softly, and then there was silk sliding up my arms onto my shoulders, wrapping sensuously around me. He turned me to face him, untied the blindfold and carefully removed the tape from my eyes, kissing each of them tenderly. Opening them, I saw that I was wearing the white robe with the black bamboo print I had tried on in that Chinatown shop on our first date. He had surreptitiously bought it for me while chatting with the owner, he said, and gone back later to pick it up. (I was poised somewhere between teary gratitude for his thoughtfulness and pointless annoyance at his cockiness.)

"You look incredible," he said, positively beaming. He handed me a pair of knickers--it was a very short robe--waited while I slid them on, took my hand, and led me toward the curtain to join the guests.

When we parted the curtain, Jamila handed me a plate of food, returned to the couch, and patted the empty space next to her. A steaming cup of sake was waiting for me on the cage-coffee table.

Steve introduced me to the guests--people he'd met on at BDSM events, mostly. I blushed like a schoolgirl at Gerald's wink, and Jeannie barely stifled a laugh when she saw that, so of course I blushed even harder.

The strangest thing about the rest of the evening was how normal it was; we all just sat in the living room, drinking sake and talking about this and that. Anyone hearing an audio recording of the conversation would have no reason to suspect that one of the participants was wearing a very short silk robe, and all the others had just eaten dinner off her naked body. This was, of course, a relief; I was dreading being leered at, people making suggestive remarks, and just generally continuing to be the center of attention. (Strangely, I also felt a little let down; I believed I had earned a leer or two, even if I didn't particularly want them.)

The guests thanked me as they took their leave--which was the appropriate thing to do, I guess. It made me feel as though I had done something generous for them, which, upon reflection, I supposed I had.

Finally, it was just Steve, Jamila, and me. Steve, who had been standing behind the couch massaging my shoulders, came and sat next to me. He took me by both hands and looked at me with that familiar, I'm-about-to-test-your-limits grin, but with a more sober, weighty mood this time. I heard the expected words--"I want you to do something for me"--but what followed was anything but expected.

"I want you to go home with Jamila tonight, and spend the rest of the weekend with her." (It was Friday of Columbus Day weekend, so that meant three days and three nights.) "Obey her as you would me." After a pause, he added, "Will you do that that for me?" He had never said that before.

Struggling to get my breathing under control through the whirlwind of emotions, I thought, 'Why would he ask me to do this? Why would want to loan me out, like a lawnmower or a library book? Doesn't he want me around anymore? Does he think I'm transferable?' But my first indignant feelings were soon overwhelmed like a buzzing fly in a hurricane, because I knew: I did want to do this. Not just in the usual way, when Steve charmed away my apprehensions and made me believe I had wanted to do what he asked all along. No; this time, I wanted it badly, and knew that I had for a long time. Steve was my Master and my love, Gerald was yummy--but Jamila was both Scylla and dire Charybdis, and I ached for her to drown and devour me.

I looked over at Jamila, who smiled at me kindly, if faintly possessively. I looked back at Steve, and nodded my head.

"I need you to say it out loud, sweetie."

"Yes, Sir," I said. "I will go with Jamila."

"Are you sure?" he asked, searching my face intently. I didn't hesitate.

"I'm sure." Happy and visibly relieved, Steve exhaled, gave my hands a squeeze, and said, simply,

"Thank you, Grasshopper."

I must have entered some kind of dissociative fugue state or something at this point, because I remember nothing from that moment until I heard the door close behind us in Jamila's apartment.

STEVE'S JOURNAL

Well, she's gone. And Jamila will work her over proper.

It was harder letting her go than I thought it would be. Jill is unquestionably the most perfect sub I've ever had, and I adore her--but I don't know if I'll ever be able to say "no" to Jamila. Fortunately, Jill is obviously stoked to be going; if it had come to a choice between pressuring Jill and refusing Jamila, I would, of course, have had to risk the wrath by doing the latter. As it is, I'm a lot more jealous than I expected to be.

Fuck, speaking of risk--what the hell is up with these sudden bowel and bladder urgencies? I was in no hurry to say good night to either of them, but it's a good thing they left when they did.