Page 73 of For Her Own Good

Jade opens the door to her apartment and I follow the women inside. It’s a nice place, homey but sophisticated. Dark wood on the floors and fancy wallpaper surround solid, graceful furniture. Jade fits in this place like she came out of central casting and I’ve a bit of a pang that my home isn’t as well-suited to my tastes. That’s what you get when you rent a generic apartment, unsure of how long it will take for you to settle, or if you’ll settle at all.

“Let’s do your hair, lovey.”

Starla’s lips part and she looks over her shoulder at me, that nervous pallor stealing over her cheeks.

“Ah.” Jade catches Starla by the point of her chin and turns Starla’s head so their gazes meet. “Don’t worry. We’ll get to him soon, but this part is for us. We’ll do as we’ve always done and he can watch if he likes. Do you understand?”

Starla rolls her lips between her teeth before she answers, but it’s a yes, as I knew it would be.

This isn’t how I pictured a session with a domme. Whips and chains and leather and crawling and her insisting on being called Mistress would be more like it. But I suppose the trappings don’t matter as much as the feelings do, and it’s clear Jade is in charge here and that we’ll do as she says. Me because I’m not in a hurry to make enemies with this woman, and Starla because… Well, I think A) she likes it, but also, B) it’s perhaps a relief for her.

Jade tugs Starla down the hallway and I trail after them into a room that’s decorated much like the rest of the house, though this one has a bed, an armchair, and a bureau. And there’s a dressing table where Starla sits. I park myself in the armchair and try to be invisible. A fly on the wall.

Jade removes the tie from Starla’s pert ponytail and runs her fingers through the long, dark locks she loosed before picking up a hairbrush from the vanity.

When Jade starts brushing her hair, I swear to God Starla purrs. As when I petted her—not patted—her eyelids fall closed, lashes fanning over her cheeks, and she tips her head to the side. Jade takes her time and it makes my fingers itch. I’ve never had a strong desire to brush a woman’s hair, and for the life of me I can’t imagine why not. Starla looks so dreamy and pleased, like a kitten in the sun. I want to be her sun, something that gives her light and warmth and happiness.

After a few minutes, Jade murmurs something in her ear and a slow smile curls up the corner of Starla’s mouth. Is this what angels look like? I think it must be. And then Jade is taking up a comb, moving more purposefully than her relaxed and soothing strokes of the brush that she was making before. When she’s done, Starla has a straight part down the center of her scalp, her waves of hair separated into pigtails, and when she notices my reflection in the mirror, she gets that apprehensive look again.

My hand’s been resting on my chin, fingers in front of my mouth, and I’m surprised she can’t feel the weight of my regard. I’ve been staring, shamelessly, but there’s no way for her to know that I like what I see. Very much. I’ve become so practiced at having a blank expression sometimes I have to remind myself a flat affect isn’t always appropriate. Starla doesn’t need equanimity from me right now. She doesn’t need neutrality, a blank canvas to project her own feelings onto. She knows her feelings about this, rather well, and she needs to know mine.

Holding her gaze, I let my fingers slip to beneath my mouth, and stroke the growth of beard at my chin. Give her a smile. One I hope conveys just how okay this is with me, precisely how lovely I think she is, and exactly how badly I’d like to wrap one of those pigtails around my fist and pull her toward me to kiss.

* * *

Starla

I’ve heard the expressioneye-fuckingbefore, but I didn’t know what it meant until now. Because that’s what Lowry is doing. His gaze hot on mine, his knuckles skimming the scruff below his lip, as though he’d like to be touching something else, but that not being available, an absentminded stroke of his coarse facial hair will do for now. He wants me. And I want him.

It’s such a relief to have brought him here, to have seen so far how he feels about the things I enjoy. Yes, we’ve done some daddy play and he seemed to enjoy it a lot, but this isn’t a passing thing for me, and he needs to understand that.

His initial positive response doesn’t mean the rest will go smoothly, of course, but at least he’s—I don’t know, granted the premise? At a baseline level, he can see how these things I like to do could be sexy, fun. Not simply an indulgence. I’ve done that before, and I don’t want to do it again. If he can’t give me these things, it’s not a deal-breaker. That’s what I have Jade for. She understands my needs and she meets them. Without shaming and without judgment. With pleasure and I might even go so far as to say joy.

Speaking of Jade, there’s a tug to one of my pigtails, a sensation that runs straight to my core, which she knows.

“Shall we get started, kitten? A spanking to begin, hmm?”

Oh. The synapses in my brain misfire. Not in the way that becomes increasingly obvious when I’m too far out from a treatment and my depression starts to drag me down again, but in a way that’s caused by an overload of arousal and nerves. How many times have I told myself the story of Lowry taking me over his knee? For a punishment because I’ve been naughty and Daddy knows best what his little girl needs? Or because it turns us both on to have him warm my bottom with the palm of his large hand? Or perhaps because sometimes a person needs a good cry and I’m incapable of allowing myself to have one?

If it’s because of feelings, it’s not okay. If I cried because of feelings, it would mean I was weak, a failure, unworthy, and a mess. A disaster of a human being who can’t regulate herself. But if he spanked me? Spanked me hard? For a very long time? Maybe with a hairbrush or a paddle or some other kind of implement or perhaps with those wide hands of his… That would be hard enough to hurt, now, wouldn’t it? Physical pain is a completely acceptable reason to cry. Rational people do that all the time. And if we fucked afterward because I’d been writhing on his lap and I was soaked between my legs, then we would. Pleasurable side effect. Who couldn’t use some of those?

So, yes, the idea of Lowry spanking me has held a central place in my fantasies, but that doesn’t mean Lowry in the flesh will have this in common with Dream Lowry.

Regardless of how he feels about it, he’s not going to be a dick. But I don’t want that blank psychiatrist slate of a face, the one that is as unreadable as a chalkboard wiped clean. I want a human reaction. I don’t want Doctor Campbell, I want Lowry the man, and it’s terrifying to tell him so. To know the next couple of hours could change the way he feels about me forever. The thrill and the anxiety and the desire are almost overwhelming, but I swallow and shut my eyes, the image of Lowry still burned into my eyelids.

“Yes.”

I’m not sure how I’ve gotten from the dressing table over to the chaise where Jade is sitting already, looking stern with the hairbrush in her hand. It’s a special kind of twisted delight to be spanked with an implement that gave me such sweet pleasure a few minutes earlier. This too will be pleasure, but of a darker, more degenerate variety. Though who’s to say? Floating off into subspace and becoming wet between my legs because Jade is brushing my damn hair could probably be considered degenerate. I’m not going to concern myself with that overmuch right now. Instead, the tension in my belly ratchets up and squeezes my lungs when Jade beckons to Lowry and pats the chaise toward the end where the back rises in an elegant curve.

He’s been so very docile with her, which I like. He places a great deal of faith in expertise, and it would be the height of entitled male douchery for him to come in here, beating on his chest and insisting he be in charge because he has a dick. Jade is far more experienced than he is, and beyond that, this is our party—mine and Jade’s. He’s but a guest here. And if he’s rude, he’ll be asked to leave.

Like I knew he would, he goes over to the chaise and sits where Jade’s indicated. And then they’re both looking at me, and I think I might melt into a puddle on the floor.

Could this one day be a special treat? If I’ve been a very good girl, could this be something I ask for and receive? Two of my favorites, two of the people I hold in the highest regard, have the highest esteem for, topping me? Oh my. But that’s not what this is. More of an informational session, and also, for Lowry, a job interview of sorts. Jade has been very skeptical that he could possibly be good enough for me, so I’m curious to see if he’ll win her stamp of approval.

Jade curls a finger and I walk toward her until the rounded toes of my shoes nearly touch the pointed toes of her stilettos. Which is when she pats her lap.

This is always a fraught moment for me. Mmm, maybe fraught isn’t the right word. It’s a tipping point. The fulcrum of a seesaw, and which way am I going to tip? It’s a familiar place, though not without tension for that, and I’m nearly trembling when I climb onto the chaise.

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