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Clients in the fetish club didn’t do that: they called him, Sir. His one-night stands hardly remembered his name, and they certainly never called it in moments of passion.

  As she climaxed, Candy screamed my name.

  The feel of her spasms bearing down hard on his cock, the smell of her arousal, the sensations and her audible surrender. Candy… calling out. For him. The incredible intimacy of it shattered his control.

  Helpless before such burning need, Paul’s head flew back, and his hips thrust forward. He hammered into her, holding nothing back. The slap of flesh on flesh only added to his ecstasy. Pounding himself deeply into her tight, swollen sheath, he thrust so savagely that she rose up on her toes.

  Again and again, with massive volume and velocity, he ejaculated. A hard shudder wracked him as his entire body continued to pump and spasm.

  Electric heat exploded through his thighs, buttocks, back, shoulders, waist and abdominals. His orgasm was so extreme that the exquisite pleasure registered almost as pain. He sagged forward on to her.

  For a long time, Paul lay heavily upon Candy’s back, unable to move his body. He kissed and nuzzled her neck and shoulders, pulling her fingers away from her sore nipples, murmuring his praise. Softly stroking her, he smoothed his hands caressingly over her for some time. Finally, he stood up and disposed of the condom. Then he picked Candy up and carried her to the bed where they curled up together.

  Paul continued to stroke her face and hair with both hands, while peppering her eyes, nose, and cheeks with kisses and soft touches. She was still shaking, dazed and out of it. Seeing her in this state fired his blood. God, he wanted to tie her up, wrists to ankles, ass in the air, and fuck her again.

  He smiled, knowing that he wasn’t quite up for that yet, and knowing that she wasn’t either. If her sweet little pussy was this snug, how amazing would that tight, little, virgin ass of hers be to fuck?

  It took some time, but Candy finally opened her eyes. They were blank and unseeing with dark and dilated pupils. Her mind and body was still in free fall. It took her a long moment for her eyes to focus, but he saw when they did, the instant she came back to him.

  Looking up at him, she gave him a slow, sexy smile. Paul watched her. An unexpected stab of curiosity hit him as he wondered what she was thinking. Wondered what she might say.

  “Hey,” she said, with an odd, sort of shy smile. Her voice was a whisper, husky and raw from screaming and calling out.

  How can she be shy after that?

  Paul studied her with lazy interest. Her lips were swollen, body flushed, and hair mussed. Those heavy-lidded brown eyes of hers were sex glazed. That blissful look of rapture, and the erotic smell of her arousal, combining with his own musk was perfect.

  Well content, Paul smiled, enjoying his post coital buzz. Seeing the pleasure he’d wrought in her made him feel smug and incredibly self-satisfied.

  “Hey, yourself,” he murmured. In an unconscious, affectionate gesture, Paul brushed his fingers down her face.

  Languid from spent pleasure, Candy gave a contented sigh, and moved into his touch. Her open warmth and trust made his chest tighten. Why was she so incredibly giving? It was heady stuff. I don’t want to let her go.

  Paul studied her while patiently waiting for a flood of words. He knew that she’d say more, all women did. Sex brought out a woman’s happy hormones: good sex brought out even more. He had no doubt that Candy, after finally getting fucked, would be chatty and uninhibited.

  She’d just had another amazing orgasm. This one had been best of all. Her entire body had tightened in a convulsion. That taut muscular channel of hers had clamped down on him so damned hard. For a second Paul thought he might have accidentally been fucking her ass.

  Even now, her body trembled from an occasional aftershock.

  Intrigued, he waited to see what interesting statement might fall from her lips. Her mischievous observations had amused him so far. There was a playful streak in her that he suspected even twice daily spankings wouldn’t eliminate.

  Paul grinned. He didn’t want to get rid of that mischievousness anyway. With her, he felt lighthearted. Funny and teasing, she made him laugh.

  What exactly would Candy, who had just experienced such a mind-blowing orgasm, say? Thank you? You’re a god? Let’s do it again? Holy fuck?

  In the end, she surprised him.

  Candy’s gaze met his and her faint smile broadened. There was an impish flash in her dark brown eyes. “Do you know what, Paul? I think I’m in love.”

  Chapter 9. Liar

  Snapping out of the memory, Paul looked down at Candy with a grin. The little minx had a wicked sense of humor. It was easy to let his guard down with her, when she constantly made him laugh. Worn out and sated, she hadn’t moved. Maybe if he got up and made coffee, the smell might wake her.

  Paul was well aware that Candy was not what she seemed. She dressed and acted hard core and practiced, but compared to him, she was an inexperienced innocent. And what an innocent! She gave herself to him completely. She didn’t fight, question or disagree.

  Maybe that was it. The way she trusted him so completely. Why? Was she simply a natural submissive or was this just some sort of unique inexplicable bond? What was this heat, this connection between them? Because it was much more than just sexual chemistry.

  Plain round face, and short in stature, Candy reminded him so much of his childhood best friend’s little sister, Emily. Reese had been intolerant of his younger sibling, but Paul, an only child, had enjoyed her company. Emily was shy and quiet, and always had a book in her hand. The little girl had followed him around like a devoted puppy.

  Paul studied the sleeping form of the woman beside him. What was it about her? She didn’t really look like Emily. Candy didn’t wear glasses, and had a much fuller figure, yet there was something about her that made him think of Emily.

  Paul smiled, recalling how he had nicknamed Emily, ‘little rabbit.’

  His mind went back to that momentous time… the time he’d saved Emily’s life. The two families had been on vacation in California. Ten year old Emily was badly winded and drowning, hit and forced under by a wave. Paul had seen the whole thing. When she hadn’t come up, he even didn’t think of telling anyone, he just dove right in. Everyone praised him, but he’d simply been in the right place at the right time.

  Emily, terrified and traumatized by the experience, had become even more solemn and quiet. After that, she’d followed him and Reese around for weeks. Apparently, Emily only felt safe when she was with them, or in the always-with-her-nose-in-a-book, dark-rabbit-hole of her bedroom. Paul had given her the nickname rabbit, and it stuck. The little rabbit had become afraid of pretty well everything for months after that near death experience.

  Remembering Emily made him think of where he was raised. Paul’s childhood home was right on the water, near Lincoln City on the Oregon coast. Devil’s Lake was a 680-acre freshwater state recreational area. It had been a magnificent place to grow up in. Three doors down from him was where his best friend, Reese, had lived.

  Paul’s parents (the Jarmans) and Reese’s parents (the Malones) were also best friends. Both families lived in each other’s pockets, and did everything together: BBQ’s, card games (‘go fish’ and ‘crazy eights”), tramping around the lake, water-skiing, boating and fishing. There were endless activities available to a boy like him. It would’ve been an idyllic childhood, except for his father.

  Paul’s father was an angry, disagreeable man who had only become more difficult to live with as he got older. The tight ass now lived alone in the family home, ate take-out, was more than a few pounds overweight, drove a seven year old Volvo, and smoked cheap cigarettes.

  Paul was surprised that the man didn’t roll his own tobacco to save money. While not an alcoholic, his dad sure could drink. But he wasn’t supposed to drink because he was diabetic. Why was he such a cheapskate? His dad had spent a lifetime of hardship when he had plenty of money.

  Paul�
��s father owned the local supermarket, an enterprise that brought in excellent profit and always had. The extensive property alone had been valued at over a million dollars. Paul knew everything about the retail supermarket industry. He liked arranging promotions, managing staff, and he enjoyed customer interaction. To him, the work was fun.

  It was always a given that he’d take over the family business someday. Except that now he never would.

  Now, he didn’t give a shit. He didn’t want anything to do with his father anymore.

  Paul recalled the last time he’d seen Tom, three years before. Their argument had been out of control, with terrible things said on both sides. Hurtful words that couldn’t be taken back. Paul remembered all of the years the years he wasted, attempting to gain the man’s approval. So stupid. Why had he tried to live up to his father’s expectations?

  When he was a child, his dad had been fun. Then everything seem to change.

  They had nothing in common. No shared interests, no happy memories, no recent happy memories anyway. None that he could recall. Paul had been an only child in a house that was full of anger and uncomfortable silences between his mother, his father, and himself.

  Why hadn’t they had more children? A sibling would have been good. A brother or sister. At least he would’ve had somebody to share the burden of hostility and parental disappointment.

  When they went out, they all pretended quite easily. Father, mother, son – a wholesome and loving family. It was when they were home, when appearances weren’t important, that their cheerful masks came off. The air was thick with tension.

  Playing happy family seemed normal. They’d just slip into their roles. It was such a lie, a deception that he had grown up with. He pretended that all was well all his life. Not just well – that all was perfect.

  Liar. The worst part of it was that Paul was as guilty as they were.

  At one time, Paul used to call his father dad. Now ‘father’ wasn’t even formal enough. Why had the idiot always been such a jerk? Paul continuously warned him that mom would leave him, and hadn’t been surprised when she did. Asshole.

  Just the thought of his father still had the ability to make him angry. For some unknown reason, the man was unable to love him, no matter what Paul did to try to earn his approval.

  That final fight had been amazing. It was such a relief to drop everything, to scream “I hate you,” and to tell his father to fuck off, slam the door, and walk out. He had never looked back. He was done. Done trying. Done wasting his time.

  Naive, slow and stupid. How had he been so pathetic for all those years? High school quarterback, perfect grades, and voted ‘Most likely to Succeed.’ He’d tried so hard, working to earn his father’s love. Wanting affection from an angry man who barely tolerated him.

  Paul had finally achieved teenage rebellion at the age of twenty-three. Now he was twenty-six and he still hadn’t written or talked to his father. He hadn’t even seen his mother, although they had corresponded a little via email. Paul refused to forgive his parents.

  I hate liars. I never want to see either one of them again.

  Chapter 10. Addiction

  How could I have been so blind for so long? Paul wondered.

  Paul had been sheltered and naive. He’d felt betrayed, confused, and angry because the blinders had suddenly been torn away. His mother leaving had been the catalyst. It was then, that he understood that his whole life had been a lie. That all that he’d worked for was worthless goals. A stupid waste of his time.

  That was the problem, of course.

  When he first left home, he’d gone straight to San Francisco. Luckily, he walked right into a fetish club. What had started as his salvation had become an addiction. For over a year, he played full time, pushing the boundaries, joining in the most outrageous of limit-pushing scenes. The trust fund his grandmother had left him was intact, he’d never touched it before he left home. It supported him through his year-long habit.

  Being a Dom had put him in control of his life. It was a kink, but it was more. It had become a lifeline for Paul, after leaving behind everything he knew. With his life a lie, and himself an angry mess, BDSM had been his one constant. It was something honest he believed, in a world of falsehood, pretense and social masks.

  Paul’s training was based on genuine responses, things that were difficult or impossible to fake. Ironically, something that most considered ‘dirty’ was seen as pure by Paul.

  Working under a no-bullshit Dom had diverted his attention and helped him gain perspective. It had also taught him how to manage his uncontrollable temper. He learned how to funnel and release his rage, hurt and frustration in a controlled way. A way in which he and others could obtain pleasure.

  Paul had finally been able to set aside his anger issues.

  Yet what was the saying he’d finally discovered? That one cathartic truth? Be careful when solving a problem. Because the wrong solution to a problem will become the problem.

  In his case, engaging in a Dominance and submission lifestyle had become a problem. It was seductive, exciting, and diverting. But he’d been too young, and too inexperienced. He also had too much money, and all the time in the world.

  Paul took one sub after another. He pushed too many boundaries and indulged in every hedonistic pleasure. The club had been a place where he regained his sanity, but then fell into a different sort of madness.

  It wasn’t sexual addition, it was Dom addiction, or perhaps, Dom fever. Paul didn’t have a life outside anymore, he had a deep need to only experience life through BDSM games.

  BDSM became a distraction for him. He didn’t have to deal with any internal struggles or pain. He didn’t have to build a life for himself. Paul used BDSM as an escape. He became too immersed. He lived for it. It wasn’t an interest, or a hobby. Kink was everything.

  Master Matthew, his mentor at the San Francisco fetish club, was the smartest man he knew. He trained Paul by making him submit first, to intimately know what it was to be a sub. He’d also warned him to understand that just because a Dom was experienced, it didn’t mean that he or she knew everything.

  A Dom wasn’t a god. A good Dom had humility and was always learning, very often from his submissives.

  Matthew knew that Paul had a problem. Paul remembered Matt’s words to him the day before he left the club.

  “You’re a good Dom, Paul,” Master Matthew said. “You have heart. You’re proud, but not completely arrogant.” Both men laughed at that. “I’ve enjoyed teaching you, because you listen. You also accept submission for what it is: a gift. And you’re careful with your subs. You never take anything unless it’s freely given.”

  Paul frowned. “That all sounds good, yet I’m sensing a ‘but’ in here somewhere.”

  “Yeah, you’re intuitive, too.” Matthew smirked.

  “Shit,” Paul said with a scowl, knowing that something really bad was coming.

  Shifting, Matthew gazed at him with wise and sympathetic grey eyes. “’Shit’ is right. What do you think I’m going to say?”

  “I have to leave the club.”

  Matt nodded. “I think so. Do you know why?”

  “I’m too young? I need more life experience? I’m too absorbed in the lifestyle, and have lost all sense of perspective?”

  Matt burst out laughing once more, and put a comforting hand on Paul’s shoulder. His mentor at five foot nine, was shorter by a good three inches, but Paul had always looked up to the older man. Maybe it was Paul’s need for an actual father figure in his life one who could accept and support him. A man who could give him what his own father wouldn’t.

  Maybe it was just because of the trust and admiration Paul had for him.

  “You can really look objectively at yourself, can’t you, Paul? That’s an ability that most people find difficult.” Matt’s brows drew down as he studied him thoughtfully. Paul realized that Matthew was formulating the exact words that he wanted to say. “There’s a lack of balance and propo
rtion. A Dom must be able to control himself, before he can truly control another,” Matthew said. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  Paul found himself slowly nodding. Control wasn’t just about discipline of the body. It was about managing the focus of ones’ mind.

  When he wasn’t working a scene, Paul was imagining a scene. What he might do, what he would do, every minute, every moment, and every second of every day. It was an obsession, leaving no room for anything else in Paul’s life.

  He was like a smoker at an extravagant, prestigious annual event where he wasn’t allowed to smoke. Was the smoker enjoying the party? Was he listening to the intricate melody of the orchestra, watching the dancers, or engaging in conversation with witty, intelligent, people? No. He might seem to be doing all these things. If someone observed the smoker, they would see a man that appeared to be actively participating.

  Yet it would all be a lie. The smoker wasn’t really “there” in the moment. Instead he was constantly strategizing and planning just where, when and how he’d would get his next smoke.

  “What is your attention on, right now?” was a question Paul often asked a sub. In the case of the smoker, the answer would be a resounding, “Exactly when I can have my next smoke.”

  What kind of life was that? With an out of control addiction constantly dogging one’s thoughts and actions? The control he had as an obsessed Dom was an illusion. He was able to control his subs, not himself.

  “The first and best victory is to conquer self,” Plato wrote. Matthew had told him that, and Paul suddenly genuinely understood why his mentor had said it. How did the twelve steps of addiction go? First, admit that there’s a problem?

  Well. At least I have the insight to know that Matthew is right. I have a problem.

  Paul met his friend, Jai at the club. Jai, also lost and alone, had come to the same crossroad in his life, and a similar conclusion. They were both unable to gain temperance, so they had to quit cold turkey.

  Together, that’s what they’d done. They left the club and went to Canada, working in lumber yards, counting and marking logs. Moving them down river. They also worked as laborers, picked fruit, crewed on yachts as well as other odd jobs. There was very little they hadn’t tried, over the last two years. They had traveled, escaped and recovered.