I didn’t take it. “Oh, Logan and I don’t have that type of relationship.”
She shoved it toward me this time. “Trust me, Elle, all men like a woman to be submissive once in a while. I doubt Logan is any different.”
I took the card and stared at it.
Did I want him to spank me?
Did he want to?
I remembered what he’d said to me the first day we’d met with a gleam in his eyes when we talked about the sex toys I was selling, “My friends from New York would love these,” or something like that.
She picked up another card, this one of a woman’s arms and legs bound to a bed frame and a man’s head between her legs.
My face must have registered my unease. Too many ghosts from the past.
She looked at me and simply said, “The best orgasms come when you give up control. I was never submissive with a man until James.”
Inserting my card back into its sleeve, I was interested as to what changed her. “What made you decide to be submissive with him, then?”
She set her card down and picked up another. “It’s what makes us work. It was what I needed and what he needed. I had a mother whom I always had to take care of and my entire childhood and teen years were full of decisions she should have made for me, but instead I was the one making them for her. James, on the other hand, had a very controlling mother and I think because of that, he needs to feel in control himself. It just happened naturally between us.”
“And you’re happy?”
“More happy than I’ve ever been in my life. I like that someone else makes the decisions for me. With the hecticness of my job, it’s so much less stressful for me. I ask permission and he decides if I should receive it. I need something and he takes care of it. Sometimes, I let him bind me and he gives me earth-shattering sex. And once in a while, I misbehave just so he can punish me.”
Her honesty didn’t shock me but it did surprise me. I was glad she felt comfortable enough around me to admit her feelings. Before I could say anything, her phone started to ring.
“Here, hold this,” she said, and handed me the card she had just picked up so she could dig in her purse. On the front was a picture of man holding his erection, and the caption read, “Talk dirty to me, baby. I need to get off.”
I stared at it and an unwanted memory flashed before me.
The surgery had been arranged.
My sister had reluctantly agreed to donate one of her kidneys to my mother. They were a perfect match. I was a match, but not as well matched as my sister.
Both my sister and mother were to arrive at the hospital early in the morning. It was the night before and I was sitting at the kitchen table, doing my homework. My mother was sitting beside me, watching me. She was weak, feeble, but optimistic she would get better.
My sister was supposed to have come home for dinner but never did.
It was just after ten when the door opened. Boots clunked inside and my heart fell. It wasn’t my sister.
My mother scurried from her chair to get my father’s dinner.
“I’ll get it, Mom. You sit down.”
She smiled at me. She had allowed me to do more and more for her over the past year. Grocery shopping, dinner, dishes, cleaning. All of her duties that my father expected but she had a hard time keeping up with.
He came into the room and set his gun on the counter before he looked around.
“Where’s Elizabeth?”
“She’s not home yet,” I answered quickly.
Anger flared in his eyes. He turned around and went back toward the door. I heard him lock it and latch the chain. Lizzy would have to call and apologize before he’d let her in. I hated nights like this.
His steps were louder this time as he came back into the kitchen. “What are you still doing up, Gabrielle?” he asked, his tone stern.
“I had to finish my homework, sir,” I answered, as I removed the foil from his carefully covered plate.
“Leave it. I already ate. I need to talk to your mother. Go on to bed.”
I couldn’t tell if he’d been drinking.
My eyes shot to my mother.
She nodded.
With that, I covered the plate and put it back in the refrigerator before I went to my room.
When he locked my door, it was a surprise. It had been a while since he’d done that.
“Susan,” he called.
Her steps were feeble as she came down the hall.
“I’m going to take a shower and then I want to talk to you.”
Doors opened. Closed. And then silence.
I lay on my bed, squeezing my eyes shut, hoping, praying, he was going to leave her alone tonight. All I heard was silence. I must have fallen asleep because I awoke to that god-awful thudding of the headboard more than an hour later.
“Talk to me, Susan. Tell me you like what you see.”
If my mother was responding, I couldn’t hear her.
“That’s it. Keep talking. Tell me you like to see my hands on my own cock. Tell me it turns you on. Gets you wet.”
Again, if my mother was talking, I couldn’t hear her.