October 09, 2015

What Time Is It?


Back in the day, I humorously (wickedly? wantonly?) owned a watch that featured a white face with white hands and no numbers. I remember a stranger asking me what time it was once, and I flipped my wrist to show him without thinking. He was, in a word, nonplussed. (It was a bit like this one—but I don't even think there were hatch marks!)

Time doesn't mean much to me. Sleep doesn't either for that matter. But damn—2 a.m.—yes, 2 a.m.—came fucking early today. I woke up thinking about crushed peaches. In my dreams, crushed peaches 1) enhanced the libido and b) cured stage fright. Who knew?

Clearly, I'm going through one of those "I'll sleep someday" phases. It's not that I never sleep. It's more that I hardly sleep. Rarely sleep?

That's okay. I'm getting work done. Right now, in the midst of the rest of the projects, I'm copy editing the next installment of my Jack, Sam, and Alex story. When the first book came out (I think it had been in print for about about month), my publisher told me the novel had received some of the best reviews of any of their books. Ever. I was especially proud because I honed those words intensely.

But I wasn't done.

The first three portions were simply the tip of what I have in my files. And so now I'm polishing the shaft. (Oh, my gosh. I hope that's half as funny as I think it is.) I plan to have the next installment up by November 1st.

Until then—please admire this new review Even Deeper received. My favorite line: "Jack ruined so many other book Doms for me because he came first." Entire review is right here.

Here is a snippet of what I'm whipping into shape:


Weren’t we supposed to be going somewhere?

Day-tripping? Sightseeing?

            That’s what I’d thought, but Jack didn’t seem to be in any sort of a hurry. Would we spend all afternoon in the hotel room, playing twisted mind-fuck games to pass the hours before nightfall?

            Ask the 8 Ball, baby. I think it’s going to say “yes.”

            Cast the picture in your mind: There was Alex, on the bed, not daring to pull up his slacks. Or not wanting to. There was me, still holding his hands, still looking into his eyes, feeling the connection between us. That rare emotional wire that every so often made me realize that I was as firmly bound to him as I was to Jack. In a different way, yes, but bound just the same.

            And then, there was Jack, belt in hand, regarding us almost as if he’d never seen us before.

            Who were these two subs on his bed?
            What was this leather belt doing in his hand?

            No, I’m playing. He never looked like that. He always appeared in control. Just about always, anyway. Now, he did watch us, but not with curiosity, simply with an expression of consideration. A “where do we go from here?” sort of look. Or maybe that’s how I chose to decipher the expression on his handsome face. Maybe Jack had this entire scenario all planned from the start, despite what sort of outfit I'd chosen, despite what time Alex had decided to stumble back into our lair. Our den. Our own private haven.

            If I’d been in a suit, or in jeans, or in some primly proper pink dress, would the same situation have unfolded so neatly?

            Ask the 8 Ball, baby. I think it’s going to say, “yes.”

            “Take off your clothes,” Jack murmured, voice soft but commanding as ever, and both Alex and I looked at him, Alex turning to glance over his shoulder. Who did he mean? Who was he talking to?

            There were no further instructions, and so we both—nervously I’ll say—stripped. Took me a bit longer than Alex, with my garters and my buckled boots, and the bra under my T-shirt. Alex was down to the bare in no time at all. Waiting, watching me. He seemed different than he had when he’d wandered in. Adrenaline from the thrashing had clearly woken him up. But the circles, violet smudges of fatigue were still under his eyes, and the rumpled quality hadn’t left him. That just-been-fucked, up-all-night quality that I still find so unnervingly appealing. Even in myself.

            Jack appraised us for a moment in silence. Almost as if he were a customer planning on  making a purchase. Which sex did he want today? Male or female? But no, that was only my initial reaction. A flawed one. Jack wasn’t choosing between us. He wasn’t like a customer at all. He already owned us, after all. In truth, he was more like a director, deciding how to position his actors. Or a sculptor, and we were his clay.

            He’d asked Alex what the boy had needed. Now, he took a step closer, gripped him by the nape of the neck and kissed him, as if he’d known all along exactly what Alex needed. As if he knew better than the boy knew, himself. I watched, standing there. An audience member? No, because I was naked, as naked as Alex. But I was not a player, either. Not yet.

            Jack kissed Alex firmly, sweetly, then broke off and took a step back once more.

            Was Alex hard?

            Ask the 8 Ball, baby. You bet your fucking life, he was.

            He’d been hard since he’d walked in the room. That was my guess. Replaying the images of the previous evening on loop in his mind. He was like me in that way, I think. He relived his fantasies-turned-realities in an endless manner, almost as if mentally checking to see if they’d really happened. Because wasn’t our whole life like a fantasy-turned-reality? Wasn’t our whole world the stuff of dreams?

            I wished we could trade films. I’d love to have viewed the behind-the-scenes visions that Alex owned. What had happened in the club when we weren’t with him? Where had he gone afterwards?

            Jack must have realized that he was losing me, losing me to my own thoughts, which was a dangerous concept. He couldn’t allow that. Couldn’t allow me to slip away. In a flash, he walked to my side, kissed me the same way he’d just kissed his boy. Powerfully, his hand on the back of my neck, his lips so firm, so hot on mine. I shuddered when he released me, feeling his hand trail down  my back to rest on my naked ass.

            My rear was still cherry-colored from the spanking, as Alex’s bore the stripes from his own belt. Almost nothing sexier than that in my opinion. Having to bend over for your own damn belt.

            Jack let his hand rest there, a warning or a reminder? I didn’t know. I stayed as still as possible, but my eyes met Alex’s. And I found safety in his gaze, as he must have found strength in my hands on his moments before. We were partners, in a way. Travelers on the same ride.
          
  What was next, though? What did Jack have planned?

            Ask the 8 ball, baby.
            Ah, it won’t work this time. Only yes or no questions are accepted.

###


Please don't forget my contest is still rolling... and have a spectacular Friday!

XXX,
Alison

1 comment:

Vida said...

Oh, I c an't wait. And the fact that we're getting closer to new territory makes it all the more exciting.