EX-CON, Page 2

  As his strong hand clutched my neck, my knees went weak and I almost dropped my purse. I had never had a man wrap his hand around my neck, and although I had no idea what point he was trying to make, I enjoyed what he was doing. I closed my eyes and relaxed into his hand.

  “You like that?” he breathed into my ear.

  I nodded my head as I attempted to swallow.

  “When I ask you a question, I’ll need you to respond, Emily. I’ll ask you again,” he whispered into my ear.

  He remembered my name.

  I swallowed again as my knees wobbled beneath me.

  He inhaled, held his breath for a few seconds, and exhaled into my ear. Goosebumps rose along the length of my arm. He massaged the tips of his fingers into my neck, gripping fractionally tighter with each passing second. He was far from choking me, obviously knew exactly what he was doing, and he left no doubt in my mind he was in charge of the situation. I opened my eyes and gazed blankly at the dark asphalt parking lot. Whatever he had done to me was apparent. I was sexually aroused so deeply I had become uncomfortably wet.

  “Do you like my hand on your neck?” he asked through his teeth, enunciating each word as he spoke.

  His warm breath against my jaw caused the hair on my neck to stand, and a tingle shot along my spine.

  The response barely escaped my lungs.

  “Yes,” I murmured.

  His grip tightened slightly. He pressed his mouth to my ear and held himself there for what seemed like a lifetime.

  “Close your eyes,” he whispered.

  “Okay,” I squeaked.

  “For the sake of this experiment, imagine being naked, Emily. Imagine me tying you up and binding your hands behind your back with a rope. Imagine me securing your bound hands to a steel post in a room, preventing you from escaping. Imagine me having my way with you sexually - for as long as I want. I would do as I wished, and you would allow me to do so, willingly. Imagine that, Emily,” he breathed into my ear.

  And he released my neck.

  I fell forward, stumbled, and almost dropped to the ground. He steadied me in his arms and grinned as he waited for me to either accept or reject his demonstration.

  My mind spinning, and aroused beyond the explanation of words, I stared at him in disbelief and blinked my eyes repeatedly.

  “Turn on? Or turn off?” he asked.

  I glanced down at my crotch. I wanted to tell him to stick his hand in my shorts and find out, but I was too much of a lady to make the offer. Instead, I fixed my gaze on his boots, sighed, and slowly shifted my eyes up and along the length of his muscular body until I reached his face.

  “On,” I said as our eyes met.

  Okay, Jackson the biker, you’ve got my attention, now what?

  “On a scale of one to ten, how much of a turn on?” he asked.

  The sound of motorcycles pulling into the parking lot diverted my attention toward the entrance. Motorcycle after motorcycle came into the lot, one after another, all ridden by men who could have doubled as Jackson’s brothers. The rumbling of their exhaust echoed through the alley alongside the bar and caused goosebumps to rise along the backs of both of my arms.

  “Your friends?” I asked as I tossed my head in the direction of the motorcycles.

  “I asked you a question,” he said as he raised his index finger in the air.

  “I don’t like repeating myself, Emily, remember that,” he said.

  His voice was stern, but not in an angry sense. My mouth went immediately dry. In anticipation of at least attempting to respond, I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded my head.

  “On a scale of one to ten, how much of a turn on,” he asked again.

  “Twelve,” I managed to respond.

  “God damn, Killer. We got tied up at the DUI checkpoint. Fucking cops made us all blow in one of those breathalyzer things. Fucking pricks,” a man said as he walked up beside us.

  He was big, the kind of big that made people stare. He had a shaved head and a long dark beard that was sprinkled with gray hairs. His head was covered in various tattoos, and he looked like a pretty serious criminal. As he opened his arms and laughed, I noticed his hand, fingers, and at least one wrist were all heavily tattooed.

  Jackson hugged him as they shook hands.

  “Ready for a drink?” the man asked.

  I shifted my eyes to Jackson.

  “I’ll be back in a bit. This girl’s friends left her here. I gotta give her a ride home,” Jackson said as he nodded his head toward me.

  I attempted to hide my excitement.

  “Worthless bitches,” I sighed.

  “Hurry the fuck up, we’re gonna close this fucker down, but it won’t be any fun without the Killer,” the man growled.

  “Don’t hold your breath, Sarge,” Jackson chuckled as he extended his elbow toward me.

  As if he’d somehow programmed me to do so, I reached for his arm and followed him to his motorcycle. I had no clue where we were going, and no idea what he had planned, but I really didn’t care. Something about him told me I would always be safe in his presence.

  As I stretched my leg over the back of his seat, the late evening breeze blowing into my shorts reminded me of what he’d done to me when he squeezed my neck. I really had no idea of what he meant by being dominant, but if what he had just done to me was any indication as to what would follow, I was ready to find out more.

  “I live at the corner of Thirty-third and…” I whispered.

  “Not going to your house. We’re going somewhere to talk,” he said as he started the motorcycle.

  “Okay,” I responded, disappointed slightly, but attempting not to show it.

  “You ready?” he asked as he reached for the levers on the handlebars.

  And, as strange as it seemed to respond as such, I was. I was ready for whatever he wanted to ask me, tell me, or show me.

  “Yes,” I responded as I leaned forward, pressing my boobs into his back, “I sure am.”

  JACK

  June 6, 2006

  “And, if you aren’t able to do that, there’s no sense in taking a single step in the direction of even going on the first date,” I explained.

  She gazed at me blankly as if she was thoroughly confused by my question. After a few seconds of silence, she blinked her eyes a few times and spoke.

  “So, what exactly does ‘submit to you sexually’ mean? I’ll need you to explain it, like I mean really explain it,” she said.

  I nodded my head as I lifted my coffee cup from the table.

  “You make a conscious decision to surrender yourself to me sexually. For my personal taste, outside of the bedroom, you and I are equal. Well, pretty damned close to it, anyway. Not many dominant men would agree with me in this regard, but I suppose I’m different than most. So, you make a decision to give me control of you - sexually. You submit yourself to me. Some men prefer that control to be twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I prefer it to be sexually, and depending on your personality and needs outside the bedroom, I’d consider taking more control. If you were willing to consider submitting, we would discuss what each of us expected, agree on specific limits, establish boundaries, and proceed slowly,” I explained.

  She leaned onto the edge of the table, rested her elbows on the surface, and peered upward. The excitement in her eyes was obvious as she spoke.

  “So, during sex, you would call the shots? Doggy style, missionary, reverse cowgirl, stuff like that?” she asked.

  I took a slow drink of coffee as I studied her, pushed my cup to the side, and shook my head. “It’s not that easy. So, let’s say one night we may have casual sex. On another, I decide to tie you up, and have sex with you, but not allow you to touch me or maybe even deprive you of seeing me during the encounter. On another night, I may require you withhold your orgasms for all or most of the sexual act. Blindfolded, bound, the position, length of time, everything is up to me. It’s as much of a psychological surrender as a sexual surre
nder.”

  “Oh wow,” she gasped as she leaned into her chair, “No orgasms, really?”

  “Really,” I chuckled as I reached for my cup of coffee.

  I raised the cup to my mouth and sipped the warm coffee as I waited for her to consider what I had provided her as an explanation.

  “Okay, fuck it, I want to give it a try,” she said as she leaned forward.

  I laughed so hard I choked on my coffee. After coughing and hacking as if on my death bed for five solid minutes, I finally regained my breath, took a drink of water, and wagged my finger in the air.

  “It doesn’t work like that,” I assured her.

  “If we agreed this was what we both wanted, it would be a long, and I mean long time before we had sex,” I explained as I reached for a napkin.

  She wrinkled her nose and stared.

  “Why?” she asked.

  I raised my hand in the air, extended my index and forefinger, and spread them wide.

  “I can count on these two fingers how many women I have had sex with. One I was in a relationship with for four years, and the other was almost five years long. I’m damned near thirty, you do the math,” I said.

  Her eyes widened as she continued to stare.

  I maintained eye contact with her as I continued, “I’m not going to accept you without knowing, and I mean knowing you’re a match for me. And casual sex isn’t an option. Never has been, and it never will be. So if you want to give this a try, I’m game. And just so we’re in agreement this means we’d get to know each other, not start fucking. You’ve got a good attitude, you’re attractive, and you’re willing as fuck. For me, it’s pretty damned difficult to find someone who meets my needs, so bumping into you tonight is pretty god damned exciting.”

  “I’m going to ask you a few questions, okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah, you don’t even want to know how many guys I’ve…yeah…questions, fire away,” she chuckled.

  “First, I have a few personal things. Try not to ever interrupt me. And remember, I hate repeating myself. Understood?” I asked.

  She nodded her head as she tapped her temple with her fingertip, “Got it.”

  Emily was an extremely attractive woman. She had dark brown hair which could pass for black in the dim light of the diner and the darkest brown eyes I had ever seen. Her complexion was clear, and her little button nose was the perfect complement to her narrow face and high cheeks. Her lips were full, but not to a point she had what I would have described as pouty lips. She was tall, roughly five foot six or five foot seven, and I guessed her weight at about one hundred twenty pounds. Based on the muscle tone in her arms, she seemed to be athletic, and I suspected she was disciplined in that regard. Her only downfall was her age. She was in a club drinking alcohol, so I hoped she was of legal age to drink, but she sure didn’t look it.

  “Age?” I asked.

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Parents? Alive or dead? And if alive, is your relationship with them good or bad?”

  “Alive, and I’d say pretty good,” she said as she shrugged her shoulders slightly.

  “Graduate high school?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “College?”

  “No.”

  I leaned forward, rested my forearms on the edge of the table, and studied her. As she began to outwardly express signs of being uncomfortable, I continued.

  “If we were in a relationship, and you did something…I don’t know…say, disobeyed me…or maybe made a decision that really upset me, and I was disappointed in you - and not just disappointed - but so disappointed that I expressed my disappointment to you,” I paused and studied her reaction.

  While I spoke, her eyes widened drastically, as if she was horrified at the thought of what I asked. Satisfied her answer was going to be favorable, I continued.

  “How would that make you feel? That you’d done something to disappoint me?” I asked, maintaining focus on her eyes as I spoke.

  She gazed down at the table as if ashamed. After a long hesitation, she glanced upward, but didn’t maintain eye contact for very long.

  “I wouldn’t like that. I wouldn’t want to disappoint you,” she said under her breath.

  I realized fully that I didn’t expect her to cook, clean, and wash and fold my clothes, but most naturally submissive women loved to feel as if they were providing for their Dom. Cooking and baking was truly satisfying to them; it provided a feeling of purpose, and also gave a manner for them to measure their own successes, based on their respective Dom’s praise or rejection of the meals. I decided to test the waters.

  “Would it satisfy you to cook for me? Say, cook me a meal and have me enjoy eating it?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah. I’d love that,” she responded with a huge grin.

  I glanced at my watch, studied it for a few seconds, and shifted my eyes across the table. “It’s still pretty early, want to go somewhere and grab something to eat?”

  She grinned and nodded her head eagerly.

  “Sure,” she responded.

  “Where do you want to go?” I asked.

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t care. Where do you want to go?”

  “Pizza, sound good?” I asked as I leaned back in the booth.

  “Sure,” she grinned.

  I gazed down at the table for a moment, glanced up, and acted as if I’d had a revelation. “How about Mexican?”

  “Sounds good to me,” she responded.

  “Chinese?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Fuck it. You decide. Where do you want to go?” I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Wherever you want to go,” she responded.

  Everything she had done, said, and expressed indicated she was naturally submissive, even if she didn’t realize it. I had never taken the time to actually search for a woman; I fully realized my relationship needs prevented me from being in a relationship with anyone but a true submissive. In my opinion, converting an independent woman into a submissive was nothing short of impossible; so I had always believed sifting through the throngs of women in search of a perfect submissive was wasting my time. In the unlikely event that I encountering a submissive, however, deciding if she was an acceptable match for me was something I felt I must do…

  If presented the opportunity.

  And Emily, in her entirety, was presenting all the opportunity I needed.

  As I watched her admiringly, I decided our having met each other was not by chance. I intended to make every effort to see if she was exactly the woman I had been hoping to find since the loss of my former lover, and my quest for answers was going to begin immediately.

  “Do you prefer Em, or Emily?” I asked.

  “Em,” she responded, “But, I mean, you can call me Emily if you want to.”

  “Em, do you have to work tomorrow night?” I asked.

  She shook her head, “Nope. It’s Saturday, I’m always off on the weekends.”

  “I’m going to pick you up tomorrow night. If you’ve got plans, I’ll need you to cancel them. Wear something you’re comfortable riding with,” I said as I reached for my wallet.

  She grinned and nodded her head. “Okay, what time?”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven. Plan on being out late, real late,” I said as I tossed a twenty dollar bill on the table.

  “Okay. What are we doing now?” she asked.

  “We’re headed back to the bar, but you’re going to get in your car and go home,” I said as I pushed myself away from the booth.

  “You’re the boss,” she responded as she stood from her seat.

  I wish it was that easy, Em.

  I really do.

  EMILY

  June 7, 2006

  As a girl, or young lady as I liked to refer to myself, I longed for attention, affection, and ultimately…

  Sex.

  The attention I received at the beginning of a relationship was much more satisfying than what followed after the new
had worn off. I didn’t seem to desire a relationship per se, but the sex, physical attention, and the focus a newcomer provided caused me to bounce from one person to another; never taking the time to develop anything more than a long list of sexual partners.

  At one point, I wondered if I was addicted to the attention, praise, and remarks men made during the onset of a relationship, because the relationship in itself didn’t particularly satisfy me. I decided I was, and switched to alcohol, followed by coffee, and eventually sweets.

  I soon viewed myself as an addict of everything that provided me mental stimulation, and even reached a point I considered seeking treatment. I eventually dismissed my thoughts, however, convincing myself I was not an addict, but someone who simply needed to focus on my cravings until my passion changed.

  There was no doubt desire was the spice of my life, but I couldn’t help but wonder. What if my deepest desire was not for the object of my affection, but for the longing itself?

  I now longed for Jackson’s approval. He was a very intriguing man, and the thought of being his sexual interest consumed me. Considering what he shared with me regarding his sexual prowess, my desire to be included in his short list of sexual partners weighed on me quite heavily.

  “So what exactly is this?” I asked as I stirred the noodle dish with my chopsticks.

  “Malaysian rice noodles,” Jackson responded.

  The noodles were thin, orange in color, and were mixed with various vegetables, chicken, and an unidentifiable spice which all but took my breath away with each bite. In short, it was repulsive.

  He paused. With his elbow resting on the table, noodles dangled from the tips of his chopsticks. “Do you like it?” he asked.

  I nodded my head and forced another bite into my mouth.

  “It’s good,” I lied.

  I wasn’t certain, but I suspected everything he was doing with me was a test of some sort. As I forced myself to consume the fiery noodles of Malaysian origin, I imagined him sitting at a computer, Googling ‘ten most repulsive dishes of all time’ - only to find Malaysian rice noodles at the top of the list. Upon determining the food was impossible to enjoy, he searched for a restaurant that was willing to risk their reputation, the lives of customers, and a few million respective taste buds by serving the dish to the unknowing - or the occasional innocent woman who desperately desired to be accepted - all the while hoping the acceptance would allow her to submit sexually to a handsome biker with quick fists, a soothing voice, and an iron stomach.