Trust Me (Rough Love 3)

As soon as the door shut behind him, Andrew burst into laughter. When I frowned at him, he laughed louder and leaned his forehead down to the table, like he was bowed under the weight of all the fuckupedness.

“It’s not funny,” I said. “Not that funny, anyway.”

Especially for me, because I’d have to tell Price about our random run-in. I didn’t tell Andrew that, because I didn’t want him to start going off again about Price’s possessiveness and his crazy rules. I knew. I lived by them. My ass died by them. It wasn’t funny at all.

“He still wants you,” Andrew said when he caught his breath.

“He’s an old horn dog professor. Whatever.”

“He’s the same age as your horn dog Master, and you don’t think he’s old.”

“You’re barely legal, so what do you know?” I said, flicking a finger at him. “And you’re with an older guy too.”

“Craig is your age, honey, so don’t call him old.”

“How is Craig?” I asked, to move the conversation along from Cantor. Andrew indulged me by launching into a recitation of their divine life together, with all Craig’s wonderful qualities, and all the things they’d done in bed the night before. I was glad they were so happy. I was happy too. I was.

I had a ring, and poetry. Yes, there were a lot of rules, but for now, for Price, that was the way things had to be.

To play it safe, I texted Price that I’d talked to Cantor before I even left the diner. I figured that way he could get over his initial irritation and maybe forget about it altogether before I saw him again.

He texted back right away. What did you talk about?

Nothing. We just said hello. He asked what I’ve been doing. He talked to Andrew too.

How is Andrew?

I breathed a sigh of relief. He’s fine.

Then, a moment later, he texted, Did you feel anything for him?

I knew he didn’t mean Andrew. Did I feel something for Cantor? Hell no. He actually made me uncomfortable, I texted. He asked about you. About us.

What did you say?

That everything was great. I didn’t feel anything for him, I swear. I never did.

That was mostly true. The only reason I’d considered getting into a relationship with Cantor was the crushing loneliness I’d felt while Price was away. I thought a moment and added, I only love you.

Too risky to say that. Too effusive. Price got freaked out about love, even though he claimed to love me. There was no reply for a while. Then: Be a good girl. Busy afternoon. I’ll see you tonight.

* * * * *

We had Chinese takeout for dinner. Price asked them to throw in two extra pairs of chopsticks, and then set them aside until we went to the dungeon. Now the chopsticks were rubberbanded onto my breasts, with a nipple pinched between each set.

He’d warned me I wouldn’t always like belonging to him. He’d warned me there would be days I’d hate the dungeon. I hated it right now. My nipples burned and my shoulders ached from the rope harness holding my bent arms behind my back. My ass clenched on a huge glass plug that had only made it into my ass with copious amounts of ginger-infused lube. My knees hurt from the hard floor as I tried to focus on my Master. His hand twisted more tightly in my hair.

“Keep your mouth open,” he demanded. “When you’re on your knees, your mouth is open and your attention is on my cock.”

I knew that. He’d taught me that, but sometimes I forgot, and sometimes I just freaking had to take a moment to swallow. My eyes streamed with tears, not from the chopsticks or the ass plug or the sharp, hair-pulling scolding, but from the sheer physical trauma of having his cock shoved into my throat again and again. I sucked in air through my open mouth, and breathed through my nose when he plunged forward.

I couldn’t remember anymore how it felt to give a relaxed, sensual blowjob. With Price, they always involved violence, and a terrifying lack of control. I opened my mouth as wide as I could, teetering on my knees, trying to seem hungry. No one ever said being a sex slave was easy. I desperately wanted a washcloth to wipe my face.

“Get up,” he said, yanking me by the hair.

I wouldn’t say he was being any rougher tonight than he normally was, but there was some added tension in his gaze, and his grip. Because I’d spoken to Cantor? Maybe he thought I was lying when I said I didn’t feel anything for the man. Maybe when I told him I loved him, he thought I was overcompensating out of guilt. Again, the angst between us came down to a simple lack of trust.