31 Flavors of Kink Read online

  “How long do I have to keep living with your trauma?” he asked.

  It was a valid question. One I had no answer to. I was just as tired of it as he was. The rape happened when I was thirteen, yet it felt as though I were living with it every day. The endless therapy sessions had helped me get on with life, but this, my sex life, was still in ruins.

  I give my head a shake, leaving those memories behind. He just told me my erotic bondage book was hot. I have to go with this while I can. I scoot closer to him.

  “You think it’s hot?” I ask.

  He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen when he answers casually, “Yeah.”

  “Well, what else do you think is hot? Do you have fantasies?” Maybe if I do one for him, he’ll do one for me. It’s a good strategy, I praise myself.

  He shrugs and looks down at me. “I don’t know.”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. He’s never been the creative type. Why did I expect him to divulge some dark, sensual fantasy?

  No, I’m the imaginative one, as evidenced by my habitual kinky dreams.

  Still, I urge, “Nothing? There’s absolutely nothing you’ve dreamed of that you’d like me to do?”

  He pauses the TV and turns to regard me quizzically. “I’d be happy if regular sex pleased you.”

  My gaze drops to my hands that are fumbling with the elastic on my Kindle cover. Regular sex. What does that even mean? But yeah, I’d be happy with that too. I have no answer for him. Again. But I’m desperate to please him. I’d do anything. Maybe if I tried harder.

  I sigh. I know these thoughts are useless. I can’t make myself enjoy something so carnal, so intimate, despite it being attached to what should be feelings of safety and love. But I’m not ready to give up. I recall my mother telling me men hit their sexual peak in their early twenties; women do in their early thirties. I turned thirty a few months ago. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.

  I put my Kindle down and snuggle in close to Nick. I bury my face in his chest, unable to look him in the eye. Inhaling a breath of courage, I mutter softly, “What if I want more?”

  I close my eyes and wait.

  He shifts underneath me. “More?”

  I nod.

  “Sit up so I can see you.”

  I shake my head.

  He sighs. “What do you want more of? Sex?”

  No, I want you to order me around, tie me up, and beat me. That will not go over well. One step at a time, I tell myself. “Well, maybe we could try some bondage?” It comes out as a meek question—strange for me because usually I don’t do meek.

  I wait with bated breath for his response. Worst-case scenario—he makes a noise of disgust and calls me a freak. But that’s not Nick. And I am kind of a freak.

  “Okay,” he says.

  My eyes fly open, and I look up at him. “Okay?”

  He shrugs. “Sure, we can try it.”

  Inside, I am grinning. Outside, I take his cue and shrug. “Okay.”

  Chapter Three

  Nothing happens for far too long. I’m impatient. I dream of my Nick turning into a fictitious Dom overnight. Even in my dream, I snort in disbelief. I’d be happy if he yanked on my hair once in a while. I have no expectation that he’ll become the knot-tying, whip-wielding, stern-talking quintessential dominant male. Does that person even exist outside of erotic novels?

  A week later, I bring it up again. He’s got his laptop in bed. It’s ten at night, but he’s most likely doing work. The man could challenge the president for a hardworking award. I’ve told him on more than one occasion that his job is his second wife. But he makes a good living as marketing manager for a corporation, and I’m grateful for his work ethic.

  I interrupt him. “So do you need some ideas? For the bondage? I can help you.” I start to ramble. “I’ve read a lot about—I mean, I’ve read some things, and I can get you started…”

  I trail off when he types “sex toys” into the Web browser. My stomach flutters like a butterfly, and my mouth drops open. We surf online for a while. It’s a good gauge for me to see what he’s into. I eye the ankle cuffs and the paddles. He eyes the vibrators and the cock rings.

  My heart sinks. We are into completely different things. This will never work. I have resolved myself to the fact that we are not sexually compatible. An optimist I am not.

  Why do I want kinky sex anyway? Being tied down, helpless, at the mercy of another. It doesn’t make logical sense for someone who’s been raped. But something deep inside me wants to be dominated. Controlled. And even more disturbing, I crave pain. I am a walking paradox of messed-up sexuality.

  But I will never tell him that. It’s my deepest, darkest secret.

  “Read me a scene from one of your books,” he says after we’ve purchased a vibrator.

  I blanch. “What?”

  “Read me something. I wanna know what turns you on. Because what turns you on turns me on.”

  I’m horrified by the thought. “No.”

  He gives me his megawatt, four-hundred-thousand-dollar smile, and my will melts away. It’s just not fair.

  I think through my list of books and find one that’s relatively tame. An alpha werewolf ties his mate to his bed with silk ties. Then he punishes her by bringing her to the brink of climax but not letting her come. It’s a delicious power play that has me hot and bothered. I realize the word “punishment” is used a ridiculous number of times. I flush at each one. By the end of the passage, a shirtless Fabio-type has threatened to spank the feisty heroine before she submits; then he takes her roughly from behind as he bites her shoulder and declares that she’s his. My voice is tight by the time I’m through.

  I look at Nick. Are his eyes glittering? Even more telling, I look down and see his erection straining against his boxer shorts. He’s turned on?

  I’m perplexed. I thought men were turned on by visuals—porn and strip clubs. His mouth turns up at the corners; then he pounces, pinning me beneath him. His hands thrust mine over my head and hold them there. He is strong. He is powerful. I am in heaven.

  He looks down at me with lust-filled eyes. “So you like this?”

  My heart is thudding so loud I know he must hear it. I swallow hard, then answer, breathless, “Yes.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Hmm. I can work with this.” He bends down and sucks one nipple, then the other through my shirt. They harden. The wet heat from his mouth engulfs them. As he keeps sucking, the heat seems to swirl up into his mouth, then shimmy deliciously down to my core. I gasp and arch and try to squirm away. He adjusts his hold on my wrists and keeps me pinned.

  Mmm…

  I should be in a panic. I’m trapped, and I hate my nipples being sucked. When I tug to free my hands, testing his grip, I realize he isn’t letting me go. I have no choice but to accept it. The thought makes me shudder, and liquid floods my underwear. I shouldn’t want these things. My mind knows this, but my libido is screaming, Bite me, spank me, pull my hair! More, more, more!

  I tell my libido to shut the hell up.

  He kisses me hard, distracting me from my contrary thoughts. Then he releases me far too soon. This time, I’m sure it’s my eyes that are glittering.

  His grin makes me smile. “This has definite possibilities.”

  Joy bubbles up in my chest, and suddenly I’m the one with the megawatt four-thousand-dollar grin.

  * * * *

  The day my new vibrator comes in the mail, I have my period. Bloody sex is off the table for me. I have a lot of aversions, I am told. My mind rebels at this thought. Surely refusing anal and oral isn’t uncommon either? Maybe one day I’ll work on this. Not today.

  Nick is beyond excited that our package came. His grin is infectious as he walks into the living room and snatches the laptop, where I surf for new books, from my hands. The pink penis-shaped rubber device is daunting, considering I have a hard enough time accepting his actual penis.

  This must be evident on my face, because he says, “Relax. We ca
n play with it outside first.”

  I know he doesn’t mean outside the house. My clit tingles at the idea. He switches it on. It has three settings. Shaky, really shaky, and whoa-hold-on-tight.

  His attack catches me completely off guard. One moment I am admiring our purchase, and the next he is on top of me, his hand in my hair, pinning me in place on the couch. The vibrator touches my nipple, and I whimper.

  His voice is at my ear. “Later this week, I’m gonna tie you up and torture you with this until you scream my name.”

  Again my stupid brain kicks at me. Even though my clit is swelling and begging for more, should I like this? “Nick, I—”

  He shoves the vibrator between my legs. It’s over my pants, but that doesn’t stop its effect. If it keeps up, something down there will turn to jelly. I gasp and wriggle, but his grasp is firm. Way too firm, like a beast has hold of me and wants to do naughty things to my body. My kind of beast. As I stare up at him, I’m hyperaware of his fist in my hair, my body stretched out under him, and the rise and fall of my breasts. The vibrator hums deeper into my flesh. My breathing betrays my arousal.

  I’ve never wished to be rid of my aversions so badly.

  Chapter Four

  Nick is away on business. He’ll be gone for five days. By the time my period was over, he had one night to pack, and he didn’t get the chance to follow through on his promise. But I use this time wisely. I research BDSM. First the acronym. I discover it has three parts.

  Bondage and discipline.

  Dominance and submission.

  Sadomasochism.

  I’m mainly interested in the B and D. Discipline. Just the word sends a shiver up my spine. But why? Did I not receive as much as I needed when I was a child? Do I have daddy issues? I shudder. No, let’s take that out of the equation. I’ll role-play naughty schoolgirl, but I’m not going down the dirty daddy road.

  Besides, I had a normal childhood filled with Shrinky Dinks, climbing trees, and skinned knees. Well, almost normal. My dad left for another woman when I was four and never came back. Though most of my childhood memories are fond ones, there were parts that were bumpy. I was a latchkey kid. My mom had to work long hours to support us. Even with a decent job, we had to shop secondhand. We moved from apartment to apartment as rent grew steeper in the nice neighborhoods. By grammar school we were living paycheck to paycheck in a rough part of town. My neighborhood friends were from broken homes, most of them abusive. I saw it firsthand.

  But I was a smart kid. I knew things were tough for my mom. Worry plagued me, and I lay awake late at night thinking about it just as often as my mother did. My mind was on constant overdrive. I was insecure, a product of chaos. The school reports said I was highly intelligent but a daydreamer. “Sidney can’t sit still. Sidney doesn’t follow directions.”

  I started biting my fingernails obsessively. It’s a habit that stayed through adulthood. I look down at my sad excuse for fingernails. I never shook the pit of anxiety from my childhood, even all these years later. I chuckle. Daydreamer? Check. Doesn’t sit still? Check. I’m always bouncing my knees or tapping my hands. Even in my sleep. Nick is so used to it he tells me he can’t sleep when he’s away because it’s too still, too quiet.

  When I married Nick, I considered myself a virgin. My horrible introduction to sex scared me away from intimacy through my teenage years. It was my friend’s older brother who raped me during a sleepover party. I didn’t tell anyone until adulthood because I thought it was my fault. I shouldn’t have gone into his room when he asked me to. I shouldn’t have sat next to him on the bed or let him kiss me. He said I was pretty. I was desperate for male attention. I needed acceptance. I wanted a man to love me.

  In some ways, I still do. I fear rejection. Abandonment.

  But I must move on. I’ve just entered my sexual prime, and I’m damn well going to take advantage of it. I firm my jaw and stare at the computer screen. The cursor points to the word that makes me squirm the most.

  Sadomasochism. It sounds scary. How many crime show episodes have I watched that feature a killer they label a sadist? It’s an illness, the resident psychiatrist says. A sadist needs to hurt people to get sexual gratification.

  I like pain. At least I think I do. Does that mean I’m a masochist? And if so, does Nick need to become a sadist? I can’t imagine him taking sexual pleasure in hurting anyone, least of all me. But that’s what I want, isn’t it? If not, why would I have these dreams? Why would the erotic books I read turn me on?

  My head is whirling, and I feel like I’m entering some dark universe where I’m totally out of my element.

  Maybe I need some input from real people—people who actually do this stuff. I join an online social group of men and women who “practice” BDSM. What a strange term. Is it a sport? A hobby?

  I use a fake name and account in the group. I still battle a deep sense of shame. I know what I want—I think—but I’m still not sure it’s okay to want it.

  So far, I’ve only revealed to Nick that I might like a little rough sex. A little spice in the bedroom. Nothing wrong with that, I tell myself. No big deal. Lots of couples do that. Normal couples who have regular sex. No, not regular. I’ve learned the right term now. Vanilla.

  I’m not shy in this group. Why should I be? I feel safe with my fake name. I ask many questions. I’m shocked by most of the answers. Have I been living under a rock? I’ve never thought of myself as sheltered, but this group makes me feel like I’ve just tumbled down a rabbit hole. And I have no idea if I want to clamber my way back up or continue to explore Wonderland. But something keeps me there. Outside, I stare wide-eyed at the stories, but inside, the deep place in my soul I’ve kept hidden is doing a happy dance.

  I find an article called “The Beginner’s Guide to Being a Dom.” I don’t know if I want a Dom. Or if Nick could even be a Dom. I think of our relationship. It’s always been based on a deep-rooted respect for one another. We’re equals, partners in everything. He doesn’t have a dominant bone in his body—and I’m no shrinking violet.

  But something about submission appeals to me. The letting go—of worry, of stress, of control. Just for a short time and only inside the bedroom. Outside, I value my independence. And it isn’t fair to leave Nick with the burden of all of the responsibility. But sometimes…sometimes I want to not have to think. I just want to feel. Just be.

  BDSM is about trust, the reading material exclaims. That makes sense. I wouldn’t let just anyone tie me up for sexual pleasure. I know that Nick won’t hurt me. The paddle from my dream flashes in my mind. Well, not more than I want him to anyway.

  I e-mail Nick the article and tell him it’s just a little help to get started. The article explains all the dominant essentials. He is in charge. He should remain stern. He should keep in mind my needs and responses.

  I learn lots of new terms while he’s away. A safe word is an agreed-upon word, out of context of the situation, that puts an end to all activities. It’s an out, if things get too intense. Most people use “red.” We may be starting slow, but the concept of a safe word calms me. I halt my research and take time to reflect. I trust Nick more than I trust anyone, but is it enough?

  On the surface, I can say easily he won’t hurt me, but when I think of being physically exposed and helpless, a small part deep down, in the darkness of my soul, panics. It turns me on, yes, but I can’t stop that tiny thirteen-year-old voice whimpering, what if he does hurt me? What if he betrays me? Nick, the one stable influence in my life. My rock. My one and only love. If I test his trustworthiness and he fails, I think it would kill me.

  * * * *

  It’s been two days since I sent Nick the article about being a Dom. I try not to nag him to read it. I try not to push for his thoughts. But really, the man can challenge a monk in terms of conversation. Finally the agony of waiting wears me down, and I text him that night, lying in lamp-lit darkness.

  Have you read the article?

  His response is i
mmediate. The idea that he’s lying in bed too, texting me back, makes me smile.

  Yes.

  I roll my eyes. Not going to make this easy, is he? I text him again.

  Thoughts?

  Only a minute later, he responds. Basically you want me to take control?

  Now he’s getting it. But I should clarify.

  In the bedroom, yes.

  His text comes faster this time. I can do that.

  My heart leaps, and I grin like an idiot. Another text comes through.

  But I’m gonna make you regret saying that.

  My stomach drops. This sounds nothing like my Nick. His next text is a winking emoticon. I giggle. I must encourage this new version of him. I text him back.

  Can’t wait, with a wink.

  This is good sign, I decide. And I fall asleep with thoughts of Nick and his wicked promises.

  * * * *

  I decide a surprise is in order for when Nick comes home tomorrow. There are two adult stores within driving distance. The closest is a brick building with no windows in a shoddy part of town and a sign that says ADULT STORE. I grimace when I drive by. I feel like I could get an STD just by stepping through the door.

  The other option is forty minutes away but well worth the drive. Huge, classy, and welcoming with its window display of mannequins dressed in tasteful lingerie. I take a deep breath before entering and pray I don’t run into anyone I know. How awkward would it be to bump into my third-grade teacher in here? Or even worse, the pastor of the church in which I grew up. I chuckle at my inappropriate thoughts and walk through the doors.

  Immediately I’m inundated with sex. But I guess that’s the point. In front of me, more mannequins sport revealing costumes and night wear. Less classy than the window display, I notice. Something called “Bondage Wear” catches my eye. Black strips of what looks like utility tape run up, down, and around the mannequin’s body like a child’s art project—only they cover certain bits while leaving others wide open. Seems like the opposite bits to me. What’s the point of wearing lingerie that binds the belly and thighs but doesn’t cover the breasts and…other parts? Even if I could figure out how to arrange the damn thing on my body, I’m not sure Nick would have the patience to resist tearing it off. And paying—I look at the price tag—holy shit! Ninety dollars for some strategically placed duct tape is bound to send me to bargain shopper hell. So as intriguing as it sounds, there will be no bondage wear for me.