Tesslyn and Mr. Grey, Sir
Chapter 2 The Conversation
The desire to spank her, I try to suppress.
It's a powerful need I honestly profess.
Her actions are subtle; she's all control.
Next time I'll flog her and use the blindfold.
She's hard to please and difficult to read,
every body movement designed to deceive.
She will succumb; and I will dominate,
then only on me will she fixate.
It has been several minutes.
Several minutes since I had the most dizzying climax with the most beautiful African-American woman I've ever laid eyes on. She is very petite. Five feet tall, and what, ninety-eight, maybe one-hundred pounds, if that much. Skin dark and shimmery like black pearls. Deep brown, extremely short, wavy hair.
But, it's not just her physical beauty – damn, I don't know. Is it her aura? Her strength, composure, her predatory feminine allure?
I rise up on my elbows and glance at her lying across my lap. Her body intermittently stills as she comes down from a series of spanking-induced orgasms. She took all twenty smacks. I wanted to stop sooner, not because I feared she couldn't take it, but because my hand was actually stinging. But, I kept going. Everything about her reaction, or lack thereof, told me, I THINK, that she enjoyed it, and I was giving her what she wanted.
She didn't use the safe word. My brave, strong Submissive. Brave. Strong. Submissive. Could this be a contradiction in itself? Tess just proved it is not. So, I am convinced.
I am convinced, because she took my every stroke, spank, thrust, every breath. And, she will be, is mine. My Submissive. Right then and there, I decide it is she that I want. To take me through this journey … my training, that is. It would be unusual for me to engage her otherwise, outside of the club. There is no hard rule; just an unspoken knowing that the club life and your private life are kept separate. That is, of course, unless you become a couple.
My attention is drawn back to her. I notice she is motionless. Arms hanging languidly towards the floor. I sit up and instinctively wrap my arms around her and pull her close to me, sitting her up on my lap. I lightly brush a hand through her hair. It is so soft, sweet smelling and damp from sweat, curls starting to unfurl and hang limp. Limp like her little body.
"OK?" I ask.
"Yep," she affirms. Quickly, self-assuredly, not looking at me. Sometimes aftercare is in order, but she appears unmarked from the spanking.
I place a finger under her chin and nudge her face up to mine. At first glance, I still see only the calm. But, as my eyes linger on her countenance, I see the raw passion. The sleepy eyelids, the right side of her lips conformed into a half-smile, the slightly leaned head, inviting curvature of the neck. It is the face of a woman so completely satisfied, so sexually fulfilled. It pleases me. She's not expressive and was difficult to read. I need her to be more responsive next time.
"Do you want to talk?" It is imperative for me to understand where her head is at.
"Sir, what do …?"
"This is not a scene, Tess," I cut her off. "We're just two people talking about what just transpired. "Call me Christian."
"Call me Tesslyn," she asserts, establishing us as equals. "Talking would be appropriate at this juncture. After all, it is our first session together. I'd like to know how I made you feel. If there is something you liked or did not like. Could I have done something differently? I never have sex with clients, but …"
Again, stopping her before she ticked off too many questions and started doubting herself, I answer honestly, "You were heaven. I have no other desires, at least not tonight." Then I remember. "The knowledge of the knife had a slightly chilling effect, but you helped me get over it rather quickly."
She giggles softly, cupping her hands over her mouth. "I'm sorry. Sometimes, I get caught up in play. Trust me; you are not the first to become rattled."
Not the first. I do not like the sound of those words and force myself not to think about her with another man, or a woman, for that matter. The images playing out in my mind are unsettling. Another man licking and sucking her pussy. Playing with her breast, which just moments ago were responding to my mouth. Another man putting his dick in her, holding her down in positions and fucking her to the outer edges of passion. Her small body jerking uncontrollably as she has orgasm after orgasm. I close my eyes for a few seconds as if to erase the unwanted scenarios playing out in front of my eyes and strain to focus on the present.
I move my hand from her hair and caress her back. Her body is still warm. She is just a little ball of energy, emitting heat. Raw, female heat mixed with aromas of citrusy sweat, flowers and coconut oil. It is drawing me in. In, to her, once more. I can feel myself harden underneath her buttocks. I squirm gently to get relief from the pressure.
"Tesslyn, I'm curious." She stares at me sideways. "You are difficult." She frowns. I continue quickly. "You are difficult to read. I could not gauge how you felt during play. I felt lost at times. Like I was driving down an unfamiliar road without GPS."
"I know. I don't give much away. It's the Domme in me. The need to be in control. It is good we are talking. We never made that clear upfront, and I was fractionally concerned."
"No. That's how I wanted it. I wanted to experience the genuine you, without rules. While I thoroughly enjoyed it, moving forward, I need to be able to know where you are at all times during a scene. I need you to be responsive to me. My touch. Mouth. Words. When I breathe on you. When I look at you. I need you to show me how I make you feel. I need you to let go of that control and give me your total trust. Can you do that for me?"
"Sure. Whatever helps you, Christian." Her response is clinical, guarded; and I don't feel one hundred percent assured she is committed to this, our arrangement, as seriously as I am. After all, It is her job to do what I want; to say what I want to hear.
"But, you have to want it, too." I emphasize "you" because I need her to want to do it. Peel away the layers, drop the veil. And, when we are together, express all of herself to me without thought, doubt or hesitation. Complete trust. Unlike now.
There is silence.
She is thinking; and I am nervous.
Nervous, because I don't want it to end with just one session. I don't want to scare her off. I was on my best behavior, this encounter. I didn't want her to go all psychoanalytical on me. Not before I have her, all of her, in my red room. In my domain. There, she will succumb. She will become obedient, again. She will be responsive. She will do everything I demand of her. Just like Elena trained me. And she will enjoy it.
But with Elena, it was different. I was young, 15 years old. An angry, hot tempered, out of control teen with raging hormones. I didn't know what a sexual relationship was like. The emotions involved beyond the physical. The give and take. That balance of power. Dominant and Submissive. Hell, does any teenager? With her I did find focus. I learned control of my physical body; my emotions and actions.
Tesslyn is on a level with Elena and I am asking her to trust me and be my Submissive. Lacking though I am as a Dom in the skills area, I want her to give over control to me. Thereby, becoming my Submissive, she actually will be teaching me. I am asking her to be a switch, at all times, when with me.
I realize she is shaking, almost unperceptively, and her skin is cool. I wrap my arms around her, swallowing up her body in my embrace. Her arm and head rest on my chest. I am OK. Don't panic. As long as it's not her hands.
"I want it. I want to do it, not just for you, but for me, as well." Her delayed response jolts me back to the question I'd proposed some moments ago.
With that affirmation, I can now see her cuffed to the cross. Arms outstretched and legs open wide and inviting. That half-smile is on the right side of her lips. Baby, you are going to come so hard, it will wipe that little smirk right off your face. Forever!
We talk some more, and a sense of awareness and familiarity settles within me. I feel like I've known her forever. It is odd, but we come from similar dissimilar backgrounds. Similar dissimilar. Her words not mine. It must be the psychologist coming to the forefront.
Tess
Mr. Grey, Sir, I honestly speak.
We complement well for two control freaks.
Your fear of touch shows you're wounded deeply,
a physical trauma that's apparently deep seated.
Sociopathic tendencies and a need to inflict
pain on your women, in various ways you depict.
I've a need to know; was it pleasing to you?
I'm multi orgasmic; it's just what I do
"I want it. I want to do it, not just for you, but for me, as well." I can't believe I agreed to Mr. Grey's request. Well, Christian; he asked us to be on a first name basis. What the fuck was I thinking? I mean, this was our first scene together. He wants me to be in the scene, but be myself…the real me. I don't really know him other than what's in his profile. And, trust me; you can't believe everything you read. I'm surprised he actually used his real name.
I had to think about it long and hard. I'd promised myself I would never reveal my emotions, so bare and raw, to a man ever again. They use it to manipulate and you get burned every time. They convince you that it's all about you, your pleasure, you have all the power and then they emotionally fuck you up. They take your vulnerability, the feelings and needs, and turn them on you. I just didn't want to be that exposed to anyone ever again. I hate fucking passive aggressive men.
Now, here I am with this fine white boy and I am rattled to the core. He has me all off balance, agreeing to be transparent in feelings, thoughts, and actions. To be responsive to him. Trust him.
I find myself liking how that sounds despite it being so unlike how I choose to be. What I discover as I sit, held in his arms, talking mostly about our pasts, is that we have similar dissimilar backgrounds. Meaning the events in our lives though dissimilar—the effect of the outcomes are similar.
Before the age of five, he lived in abject poverty with his drug addicted mother who prostituted herself. Once a promising dancer, ballet, she got knocked up with Christian and was forced to move back home. After he was born, she fell on hard times, turning to prostitution and drugs. The crack whore, that's how he referred to her, was abused by her low-life pimp and almost every man she fucked. She died in front of him from a drug overdose. He was found days later in the cold Detroit apartment with no food, huddled up to her lifeless body. She was four months pregnant with a baby girl. He had not eaten in two days. I suspect the burn marks on his chest are from his negligent mother or some asshole in her life. He wouldn't talk about it. He was adopted by a well-to-do couple, the doctor who treated him in the hospital and her husband, an attorney. They eventually moved to Seattle and adopted two more children. He has a brother and a sister. He comes from a family of high achievers and wealth. All are successful, but he more so than any of them. He is the self-made billionaire and consummate philanthropist.
Raised in Chicago, I share that I come from a dysfunctional family. Drugs. Alcoholism. Domestic violence. You name it, we had it in our family. I stop short of telling him about my years of sexual abuse by nearly every male relative that lived under our roof. At 17 I emancipated myself, graduated high school and got enough scholarships for a full ride to college. I was accepted by all my three choices of universities and chose Vanderbilt in Nashville. It has one of the best graduate programs in psychology and human development. I think I chose to major in psychology because I was raised around broken people. There was that curiosity, that seeker of motives in me that wanted to know why people act the way they do in any given situation. I thought if I could understand the human condition and the brain's response to adapt and normalize that existence, then I felt I could understand my reality. Understand why everyone who came into my life disappointed me. Well, almost everyone. Clearly my choice of career wasn't all for altruistic reasons; I wanted to heal myself in the process.
I admit Christian caught my eye the first time he came to the club. He is truly breathtakingly handsome. Inside I was all breathless and panicky, like I was having a text book anxiety attack.
But, the smart, shrewd businessman is what I found attractive about him. If given the opportunity, I want to know what motivates him, where his passions lie? What makes him so driven with his various business pursuits? Hopefully, there will be opportunity to explore this.
For now, the situation at hand is to become his Submissive and finish out his training. "Why would you request, specifically, a Domme for your Submissive?" I ask him because it is a rather unusual way to go about one's beginner training.
"I didn't request a Domme. I requested you." When he speaks, I feel his breath in my hair. It is warm and soothing.
"But, you know I am a Domme? Yes?" I pry further to know why me. A Domme is not who I am. It is what I am.
"I do." Sounds like a marriage vow. I'm waiting for more explanation, but nothing follows.
"And?" God, it's like pulling teeth with him.
"Look, Tesslyn, I've been here four times, and I know you are aware of that. The first time I saw you I was attracted to you."
"So, why didn't you come over and tell a girl, hello?"
"Old habits. Preferences."
"Habits? Preferences? What does that mean?"
He sighs, "I have, uuh had, a specific taste in women. They've all been Caucasian, brunettes, long haired."
"Jeez," I'm slightly miffed. "You think you could make me feel any more unlikable?"
"More unlikable." He arches an eyebrow. "Implying that you were already feeling unlikable to some degree."
"Stop trying to psy-cho," I'm emphasizing each syllable, but he flinches uncomfortably before I can finish. "Analyze me. Psychoanalyze me," I say quickly, in lieu of clarification.
"That's your area of expertise, Tesslyn. I chose you because I knew immediately that you could give me exactly what I need; what I want. Before then, I didn't know I wanted anything different, because I was used to what I was used to. My choices worked for me. I saw no need to digress.
"Then there was you. You're not even aware of the affect you have on men. And, I might add, quite a few women. For someone so tiny, you have a commanding presence. For someone whose demeanor is subtle and understated, you overpower with intellect, passion, charm, level headedness. You are such a contradiction. So guarded. So hard to read. I found myself drawn to you. Yes, I came here four times. Even though I wasn't with you…it was to see you. I was always thinking of you."
I was floored. Absolutely speechless. I didn't know what to make of this confession. I had to challenge him on his logic. "Are you sure it's not just a case of jungle fever?"
He seems pissed, but I don't give a shit. I need an honest answer. "I think what you said demeans what happened between us."
"What happened between us? Christian, you came in here for your training. You paid for it; I provided. When did it become something between us?" I raise my hands making air quotation marks, knowing at my core something special really did happen.
He appears crest fallen, but I do not back down. I repeat, "When? When did it become something between us?"
"The first time I saw you." His look is hot, intense. It has lit a flame within me, and I need to tamp it down.
"We've established that, Christian. The first time you saw me, yada, yada." I roll my eyes.
"The first time I saw you, at Vanderbilt." Is this a joke? I straighten and look up at his face, but, he's not laughing.
"V, v, vanderbilt? When? Why?" I'm stuttering and hyperventilating. There is uneasiness in my voice.
"The Institutional Review Board. Your Master's Thesis," he starts hesitantly.
"What are you saying?" I'm in growing disbelief. "I don't remember seeing you on the Review Board."
"I wasn't. I was part of a group of potential donors. We were seated in the rear of the room. Also, I have a personal interest in the behavioral sciences."
I scan quickly through my mind's memory. Hell, I don't remember seeing the group in the back of the room, let alone Christian's face among them. I was focused on my review and had steeled my resolve to thoroughly answer every question they would present to me, leaving them with no room for counter arguments.
"The next time I saw you was at the BDSM Club Ménage, where you'd worked during your last two years at Vanderbilt. It was just before graduation, and I was pleased to learn that you had accepted a position at Seattle Children's Hospital. But, something happened and you never started. Instead you went into private practice and I lost contact. I figured you'd resurface at one of the clubs in Seattle, and I was right."
I am momentarily dumbfounded! "Please tell me you haven't been stalking me all this time?"
"No. I have people for that."
Suddenly, I am freezing and grab one of the plush towels to wrap around me. I don't know if I should be angry or flattered that Christian Grey and his paid stalkers had tracked me down so relentlessly. It sounds kind of creepy and a little bit unhealthy, as in, is he mental? Perhaps he should be in counseling. I can certainly give him a referral.
