Working Out the Kinks (Chain) Page 13

  “Lay across the table and spread yourself,” he told me. I slipped away from him and kept my gaze on his as long as I could. He watched me intently while I leaned over his low table and splayed myself across it. I parted my legs wide enough for his view and then placed each hand on the sides of my ass, spreading myself more. The wetness caused by our earlier activities was still visible to him.

  Eric dropped to his knees and leaned down behind me, low enough that I couldn’t watch him anymore. I gasped when I felt his mouth on my center, lapping at my folds. Every instinct I had told me to grab hold of his head, but I couldn’t move my hands. I hadn’t been given permission to move. He moved his mouth up higher to wet every part of me. The feeling was strange, but not unwelcome.

  “Wider,” he said with a growl and I pulled further apart. A cold object touched my inner lips and rubbed slowly against me–the plug. I closed my eyes and took in a breath. As I exhaled, the toy slid inside my ass. I moaned from the pressure, my fingers tightening against my skin. He pressed a kiss to one cheek and pushed it in fully. I didn’t need long to adjust to it, since this hadn’t been my first butt plug.

  “A perfect match,” Eric chuckled. I closed my eyes and smiled, finally relaxing.

  “You’ll wear this for school on Mondays, just to be a friendly reminder of my presence.”

  Eric moved away from me and took his seat back on his chair. I could see the lines of his cock, hard and pressing against his pants, and causing my mouth to water. The pride I felt, displaying myself for him that night, and knowing I had pleased him, made me feel powerful. I was truly his, as he was mine.

  “Now, come over here and thank me for your gift,” Eric said, lowering the zipper of his pants.

  I smiled and obeyed, happy to please my Master in any way I could.

  About Kara Winters

  Kara Winters enjoys the darker sides of relationships. The parts that leave you with a curiosity for more. She contributes her kinkier mind to living in Los Angeles, where nothing is strange, and everything is beautiful. Even pain. The Chain Series reflects her inspiration from little bits of her personal life, as well as the world she encounters within the BDSM Community. When she finally does put the ropes and chains away, she enjoys a quiet life with her husband and their only child, a spoiled Jack Russell Terrier named Cleo.

  Working Out the Kinks

  9781616504922

  Copyright © November 2013, Kara Winters

  Edited by Antonia Tiranth

  Book design by Lyrical Press, Inc.

  Cover Art by Renee Rocco

  Photography by Palo Alfante

  First Lyrical Press, Inc. electronic publication: November, 2013

  Lyrical Press, Incorporated

  http://www.lyricalpress.com

  eBooks are not transferable. All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE:

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  Published in the United States of America by Lyrical Press, Incorporated

  Sample

  Friday Afternoon

  by Sylvia Ryan

  http://lyricalpress.com/friday-afternoon/

  BDSM never gets old.

  Before kids and the responsibility of life, Levi and I shared a spontaneous, erotic, and deliciously deviant marriage. Years transformed what we had into something comfortable and worn. It hurts me to think his desire for me has cooled. I miss that look of his. Slightly evil and totally hot, like he wanted to devour me. Haven’t seen it in ages.

  When I first married Mia, she submitted to every one of my erotic needs. Then came the children. With little complaint, I abandoned my pursuit of kink, content to be married to a beautiful, intelligent woman who’s a great mother to our twins. Out of the blue, Mia confesses she misses the intimacy in our marriage, misses the sex. After this enticing revelation, my plan to reconnect with her unfolds.

  In our secret, kinky, Friday afternoon meetings I’m going to give her everything she wants and take everything I need. Will this be the answer to fixing our marriage?

  CONTENT WARNING: This book contains explicit sex, graphic language, and strong elements of BDSM including the use of toys, bondage, and pain.

  A Lyrical Press Erotic Romance

  Chapter 1

  Mia

  I slip out of bed quietly and enter the large walk-through closet and dressing anteroom to the master bathroom space, locking the door behind me. An anguished huff of air rushes out as I sit on the tiny stool in front of my vanity and twirl a half circle, facing myself in the mirror. The overhead lighting is stark and unforgiving. I’m not the young woman I was a year, or five, ago. I’ve tried as hard as I can to forget I’m closer to forty than I am to thirty.

  When I linger long enough to take inventory of myself, like now, I discern more of the slight lines making their home on my skin. I never notice them when I float through mornings, functioning on nothing but my first sips of caffeine. But now, at this moment, I see them as clear as day. I’m older, not sexy anymore, I suppose.

  I swallow down the hurt. Levi used to look at me with hungry eyes, even when I was pregnant with twins and fat as a cow. Now the sight of me naked, whether it be coming out of the shower or spreading my legs beneath him, no longer draws interest from his cock. Tonight brought any speculation, any hope he’s still attracted to me, to an end.

  I’m angry first and then sad as I realize I’ll never experience the twirl of excitement and shiver of anticipation from the expression of hunger on my husband’s face. That hasn’t happened for quite a while, and now I know for sure nobody will look at me with similar hunger again. I’m stunned, aware those intense desires go hand in hand with youth, new possibilities and new passions, and I’m faced with a blatant fact. That part of my relationship with Levi is long past.

  Yet to my mind, there’s a lot of middle ground between being hungry with young love and being so indifferent you don’t get off anymore. It’s taken us exactly fifteen years to span from one end of the you-turn-me-on spectrum to the other. During the last decade, the progression of our sex life from brilliant to bland has been so infinitesimally small, it went mostly unnoticed until now.

  I’m shaken. The sudden realization I’m not sexually exciting to my husband anymore and probably never will be again knocks me off my rails. I feel ill and wrap my arms around my waist and duck my head between my knees. I breathe deep and swallow repeatedly trying to allay the bile creeping up my esophagus. The repeated gulps also push the hurt away, staying the tears, leaving me whole enough to wonder how–when–this happened.

  In the beginning, when we were newly married, the passion between us burned at the speed of light, carrying us headlong into the deliciously forbidden.

  From the first, Levi owned me. The raw masculinity and power he possessed weakened my knees to the point I wanted to bow before him. He was larger than life, and he took my breath away.

  There was an intrinsic element of deviance that defined the moments he chose to sate our sexual needs. To him, it didn’t matter where we were or what we were supposed to be doing instead. I think those scandalous acts of passion were the reason I fell so madly in love with him in the first place.

  God, just thinking back on them makes me catch my breath.

  My gaze shifts from my mind’s eye back to the mirror. I find myself smiling ear to ear.

  He was fun.

  We were fun.


  Levi perfected the art of ambush early in our marriage. I’d be washing dishes or folding clothes and he would stalk me. He was good at it, and I rarely caught him before he descended upon me from behind. He’d pounce with a raging hard-on, reaching around to cup my mound and press me more firmly against him. It usually took less than a minute for him to rip my clothes off and sink inside me. It was so damn hot.

  I sigh, sadly surveying the woman with the wistful smile looking back at me before turning away from the mirror.

  It’s quiet on the other side of the door. He’s probably fallen asleep. I turn off the room’s overhead light and feel comforted by the familiar yellow glow of the night light.

  How can he be so oblivious to the fact I’m sitting in this locked room devastated because I’m no longer able to get him off? That this slightly used body can’t excite him to orgasm anymore? I’m left reeling at the confirmation of my faded youth and angry at him for being so insensitive that he doesn’t even realize how affected I am.

  But I don’t want to fight, and I don’t want to cry, so I stay locked in here, hiding. I lie down on the fluffy, round rug in the middle of the floor in the dressing area to gain the thin cushion of it under my back as I stare up at the ceiling. I slide my hands between the hard tile floor and my head.

  I smile again as I close my eyes and comfort myself by shuffling through my memories. God, it used to be so good between us, spontaneous, almost primitive. How did we end up here with everything so changed I barely recognize us anymore?

  I’ve never even been tempted by morning fucking, probably because I have way too many concerns about what my breath smells like and if I’m “fresh” enough downstairs to even want to use the equipment.

  And at night, well, with twins in the bedroom next door, it’s a near heroic feat to even think about sex, let alone actually manage to get any.

  We’ve always primarily been during-the-day fuckers. Since we turned into grown-ups with a family, it’s been pretty hard to get any during-the-day fucking in. On the rare occasions when we get a window of time, it’s a race. For as long as I can remember, fucking in our house is an extremely quiet race to our orgasms. When it’s over, it’s followed by a mad rush to put our clothes back on and pretend in front of our children that nothing happened.

  After doing this for over a decade, sex has become more trouble than it’s worth, I guess. I can’t lay a finger on any exact day or moment when our marriage turned into something worn and comfortable, but the process more than likely started with the birth of the twins, Ella and Luna.

  For me, their birth marks the threshold that took a deliriously happy, newly married me to a violent end, to a cessation of everything. My career, my marriage, who I’d always been as a person. It was like falling down while water-skiing, bone-jarring and suffocating. Despite the sheer joy of my new baby girls, their birth created the tiniest gap in what has subsequently grown into a rift between Levi and me.

  After that, the inevitable cascade of thousands of days, filled to the brim with the mundane matters of life, followed. Mostly, paying the mortgage and taking care of my girls have monopolized the years of our marriage. Every day is so similar to the last. It all blurs together now.

  Here I am fifteen years into this life I’ve built, lying on my bathroom floor, hiding and wondering what happened to this love of a lifetime I’d been blessed enough to find.

  I try to force myself to accept those days of my life were good ones, but they’re over now. I’m thirty-something, and I assure myself this is the normal progression of things, but it doesn’t help.

  I feel sad, needy and want my husband back. Not only the companion, but the man. Levi is the best lover I’ve ever had. He puts in the time and effort to make sure I come. But even that, over the years, has become rote. He’ll eat me to orgasm and then fuck me for the five minutes or so it takes him to come. It’s pretty much the same way every time.

  Before tonight, it had been weeks since Levi and I had sex. I have no doubt it’s the longest we’ve ever gone without some kind of sexual gratification between us. Even right after the twins were born, we still got each other off.

  I shake my head, feeling the hard weight of it rolling over my laced fingers. Even when we’re intimate, we’re not. Not anymore. I feel lonely and disconnected from him more than usual. We’ve grown apart, and the expanse between us widens a little more every day. The sense of deep intimacy that once sustained us has been squandered, unappreciated until now there’s little, if any, left.

  This thought brings about the niggling worry that’s been growing exponentially since I locked myself in here. Is he seeing another woman? Does he have someone more beautiful to put his dick into? It’s either that or he’s jerking off. I know all men jerk off, but it shouldn’t be their go-to move, right?

  I deflate. He’d rather jerk off on the sly, like a perv at a peepshow, than fuck me. I swallow down the tight knot forming in my throat. It’s like fucking me is a chore.

  The thought cuts deep and makes the insecurities within me flourish. I don’t like the feeling. I’ve had it before once or twice. It hangs on to my subconscious, throwing darts of doubt and fear at unwanted times.

  I have gotten a little mommyish. It beats the hell out of me how and when it happened, but I’m going to have to take steps to correct it. I’m part of the problem too.

  My thoughts wander to the items in my wardrobe I’m going to toss in an effort to fight the bore I’ve become. Eventually my thoughts drift as sleep envelopes me.

  * * * *

  I make a beeline through the snowy parking lot of my office building to my car, my black leather pumps sloshing through the wet snow. When I slam the driver’s door closed, the cold, silent twilight inside the car feels bleak and increases my anxiety. I make my way home on autopilot. As I drive, the sky darkens, turning to night, and the colors from the lighted signs identifying the fast food restaurants and stores in the middle of town reflect off the wet streets.

  Tears fill my eyelids to the brim. I’ve wallowed in the events of last night all day. As a result, I’m walking an emotional high wire, just a breeze away from losing it. I tell myself I’m lucky. My life is perfect. Everybody is happy and healthy. Why can’t I be satisfied with that? No matter how many times I convince myself I’m not going to say or do anything to let him know how upset I am, I know this is not going to end well.

  “God, please, please don’t let me find out he’s seeing someone else,” I whisper into the emptiness. I’m terrified because there’s no possible positive outcome for the discussion I want to have. It’s all bad, but to what degree? Is it I-don’t-find-you-sexy-anymore bad? Or is it I’ve-had-a-mistress-for-the last-five-years bad?

  The thought of living the rest of my life without Levi by my side is debilitating. And that’s exactly what I would be forced to do if he has someone else. I make a quick right turn onto a side street and pull over. I cover my face with my hands and the tears finally burst out of me. Shit. I’m in a sinkhole. Feelings of rejection and self-doubt have sucked me in all day, submerging me slowly, until this issue is the only topic in my head.

  When I finally finish with the pathetic blubbering, I wipe my tears and straighten myself so I can walk in the door and be Mom. As I pull myself together, a whisper of a feeling tingles down the back of my neck. I shudder. The immediate knowledge I’m at a crossroads right here, right now, assaults me like a slap to the face. It doesn’t matter what the details are, what answers he gives me to my questions, because my first instinct is to fight. No matter what is happening between us, I’m going to fight for my marriage. I’m not willing to settle for what’s left after the business of building a career, settling into a home and raising kids has pillaged it. If he doesn’t want me anymore, I’ll accept it. But if it’s anything else, I’m going to fight for us. I’m ready to start living again. It’s time for me and Levi to start living again. A quick swirl of determination breezes through me at the thought.

&nb
sp; I can fix this…I think. Is it even possible to feel passionately in love and sexually exhilarated by someone I’ve been sleeping with for over fifteen years? There’s no reason why the two of us can’t pick up where we left off so many years ago, right?

  I know what I have to do. The deafening silence between us has to be obliterated.

  I move through my evening, cooking and discussing school with my daughters as if my life isn’t teetering on the edge of the unknown.

  Later, after the girls leave the dinner table and I’ve finished doing dishes, I gather up my courage to open up this potential Pandora’s box of a conversation. Suddenly, opening my mouth is tantamount to cracking open a Tupperware from my fridge. It’s chancy because once revealed for my inspection, I’m not sure I want to know what’s inside.

  “We need to talk,” I say to Levi, looking over my shoulder, making sure Ella and Luna are off somewhere else in the house.

  He looks up from his laptop. “About?”

  His deep brown eyes have the beginnings of laugh lines at the outside corners. He’s still so handsome. The years have been good to him, too good, maybe. Mature men can still be so gorgeous. Mature women? Not so much.

  I clear my throat. Now that I have his undivided attention, I falter on how to start. I’m afraid to ask the questions wreaking havoc in my mind. I’m still not sure I want to know the answers. He sits back in his chair and waits, looking at me with his patient consideration. But his expression changes to concern as the silence stretches. He knows the longer it takes me to talk, the more serious the topic.