February 18, 2013

Who are you?


Those Girls is the first part in a serial I'm writing for Go Deeper Press. The words tumbled into my mind one day. The opening, that is:

You know those girls. The “all about me” girls. The “don’t you dare come until I come first” girls. Vanessa was one of those girls. I spied her slinking into the type of dark New York club you need a password to get in. Money won’t buy the secret code. Influence won’t slide you past the bouncer. We are a small circle of BDSM practitioners, and we keep to ourselves. I wondered how she’d gotten in. Not that she wasn’t beautiful—because she was. Long curly red hair. A fit body in glossy leather. A pristine collar, tight around her slim neck.

I knew who Vanessa was before I knew who I was. If that makes sense. This happens to me every so often. The story I'm almost done with (I swear, I'm really wrapping this one up right now) developed the same way. I saw through the eyes of the narrator before I understood who the narrator really was.

My current WIP:

Let’s discuss the placement. Positions are extremely important. I’m not talking in bed—doggy-style, missionary, or otherwise—but positions in the bar.

The “Number One” girls always choose the preferred stool. Doesn’t look like much, I know. Scuffed black leather. Faded silver duct tape covering one deep scratch. Scars and dings on the wooden rungs from the many high heels that have been hooked there. But this is the spot they favor. When you walk in, the stool is the second on your left, at the corner of the bar. If you snag it, you have the perfect view of the whole place, and you can see anyone walking in without craning your neck simply by gazing in the mirror.

The girls sit there. And by girls, I mean the girls who are tapping the bartenders. Either one. Luke or Dave. The girls sit there and they purr. I’m the pussy that ate the canary, they say with their glittery eyes, and they arch and preen and lick their paws. They look around and you can hear them thinking, “This could be my bar. This could be my man.”

I don’t care much for that stool.


Originally, I thought my character was a woman. I really did. I was dead sure, in fact. My first inkling otherwise was here:

When Dave passes me, off to get a new bottle of merlot, he tilts his head and gives me a wink. I’m not the cat who ate the canary, but I’ve swallowed Dave’s sword before to the hilt. All eight inches of him, long and hard. I look at Lexi. She’s perched, she’s rubbing, ever so gently, her cunt on the barstool. It wasn’t so long ago that she learned her power. “I’ve got something here that the boys want,” she thought to herself. She doesn’t seem to realize that having a slit instead of a piston only means she uses the restroom on the right. There’s no tiara waiting for her here. There will be no ticker-tape parade.

But it wasn't until this moment that I got it:

The bar is bustling. Dave is hustling. Lexi perches and flirts and twitters. I enjoy the view, thinking of all those girls before her. Thinking of all those girls who will snag that seat in the future. I’m not jealous. I’m not the type. But when Dave refills my glass, he says, “You know what that girl needs?”

“An asswhooping,” I say, and he grins and nods. He’s got a shadow going. I love the way those whisper-whiskers feel when they graze my skin.

“You up for it?” he asks me, and my cock gets hard.


Ha ha! That's when I knew.

With Those Girls, I understood Vanessa first (we all know women like Vanessa, don't we?), and then I found Sandy. Right away, I got that he was bi, that the power exchange was far more important to him than who he was controlling. Domination was his ace in the hole:

When Vanessa left the club, she almost walked right past me. I had Jake up against the brick building, his slacks down, his ass revealed. I’d chosen the spot on purpose, and I felt Vanessa stop, feet away, and wait.

My body was pressed to Jake’s and I was whispering to him, “What did she promise you? Did she say she’d let you fuck her? Did she say she’d suck your cock?”

He was breathing hard. I pressed into him with force.

“No, really. She just asked me if she could…”

“What? Come see? Come spy?”

Vanessa took a step closer as I doubled my belt.

“You shouldn’t,” she said, and her voice was trembling. “I was the one…”

I gave her a look that ought to have made her run, scurry home to the safety of her high-end apartment, out of the alley, away from what she would undoubtedly describe using colorful five-dollar adjectives as the rundown, seedy side of town.

I sliced the belt against Jake’s ass, and he groaned and arched. The boy is a true switch, which is one of the best things about him.

Vanessa put out a hand and I shook her off. “There are repercussions in our world,” I spoke to both of them. “Jake knew this. You didn’t. You ought to go on your way, baby doll. Call me when you grow the fuck up.”

I expected her to leave then, and I was surprised when she took another step toward me. “Don’t,” she said. “Punish me instead.”

My eyes narrowed, and I striped Jake again. I was hardly hurting him. He’s got a pain tolerance that matches his craving to be used.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

She surprised me again. Dropping to her knees on the asphalt. “Please.”

I pressed up against Jake once more and I said in his ear, “I’ll take care of you next time.” He would have begged but he knew better. He raised his slacks and headed back to the club. He’d be walking with a hard-on like a steel beam for the rest of the night. I lifted Vanessa to her feet.

“What do you want from me?” I asked.


What's going to happen with Vanessa and Sandy? I'm unfolding their world slowly, novelette by novelette. I hope you'll be willing to take the ride.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. The Carbon Crusader is having a Presidents' Day Sale!

2 comments:

Tamsin said...

Hot damn! They're going on my reading list...

TeresaNoelleRoberts said...

Oh. My.