Vanilla

“How does it feel,” I demanded in a broken voice.

Esteban looked at me again. “It fills me up the way I want you to...”

“Oh...”

I’d tied men up. Blindfolded them. Spanked some, beaten a few with floggers, dressed more than one in frilly panties. But I’d never yet fucked one in the ass with a strap-on. The thought of that sent another thrill of pleasure through me.

And why? Because Esteban wanted it so much. Because he’d approached me on the subject of pegging so casually hopeful, so obviously afraid I would recoil in horror, or maybe mock him, that I couldn’t think about taking him that way without remembering how hard it had been for him to even ask me, and how beautifully grateful he’d been when my answer had been, “I would love to.”

It could’ve been about the domination—what makes a man more submissive than being the one getting fucked instead of the one doing the fucking? It could’ve been about control and power, because those were things that turned me on. But really, it was because my sweet boy wanted it, craved it, yearned and ached and burned for it, and I was the only one who would give it to him.

Because it made me something to him that nobody else had ever been.

I wasn’t touching myself, but it wouldn’t take more than a stroke or two to send me toppling toward orgasm. I almost slipped a hand between my legs, but a couple walking a dog was due to pass us in about a minute and a half, so I took my hand off his crotch. They’d see only two people in conversation. Nothing more.

“I want that,” I told him. “I want to be inside you. Fucking you. Taking you to the edge, over and over, until you beg me to let you come.”

“Please,” he breathed at once. His fingers had curled tight in the fabric of his pants, digging. He rocked his hips again, the tiniest amount. “Please, will you...?”

The dog-walking couple had just passed by, so I leaned close to nuzzle his neck and breathe into his ear as I pressed my hand to his cock again. “Yes, baby. I will. And I will love it.”

Esteban let out a low, gruff gasp. Under my touch, his cock throbbed. Heat spread against my palm. His entire body quaked as he turned his face toward me to press his cheek against mine. We were both breathing hard. My nipples ached; my clit throbbed. I wanted to rub myself all over him.

I sat back, instead. He blinked rapidly before he could focus on me. I wanted to touch his face. I wanted to kiss his mouth. Instead, I pulled a package of tissues from my center console and handed them to him without a word.

He laughed, embarrassed. “I am like a boy.”

“You’re my boy,” I told him. “And that was very sexy.”

“But you didn’t—”

“Next time,” I told him.

That’s when I finally understood why he was acting so strange. It took only a second or so to see the look on his face. To figure it out.

I should have known that his urgent desire to see me outside of our routine had to mean something bad. I should’ve guessed it, no matter how loving he’d been. I should’ve known better.

“Oh.” I sat back, surprised. Stunned, actually. And stung. “There is no next time?”

“Querida...”

I knew that word, at least. “Darling.” He’d called me that a couple times before. I’d always liked it, but this time it felt too much like an apology and not an endearment. I sat back.

“Don’t call me that,” I said in a cold, distant voice. I turned to face the windshield, my hands on the wheel.

Neither of us moved. I could hear his breathing quicken, but I didn’t look at him. I caught sight of his hand, reaching as though he meant to touch me, but in the end he must’ve decided against it because he let it settle again on his thigh. After another few moments, I heard him unzip, the crinkle of the tissue package, some shuffling. He cleared his throat.

I knew he was waiting for me to say something, but I didn’t know what. In the past, even before I’d learned him so well, I’d still never doubted what I wanted to say. How I wanted our scenes to go, the reactions I wanted to elicit. I’d been wrong a few times and missed the mark, but I’d adjusted. This time, I had no idea what Esteban needed from me.

“Please don’t hate me,” he said.

I swallowed a rush of emotion. “I don’t hate you. But you should get out of my car now.”

He didn’t, not at first. I thought I would have to face him, and I didn’t want to, not with my emotions printed all over my face the way I was sure they were. He was breaking up with me. I didn’t need to know why. I didn’t want to know. At the sound of him starting to speak, I cut him off.

“Out.”

And, as he always had, Esteban gave me what I wanted.

6 (#ulink_2d416dd2-8977-5d5d-a4de-1a787f3fda00)

“Put your hand on her hip. Lower.” The camera whirred and clicked. Scott paused to shake his blond hair out of his face and look at the picture he’d taken. He frowned. “Jack, I want you on your knees.”

Jack and I both laughed, and I said, “Woo!”

Scott, serious, smiled but put the camera back to his eye. “Head bent...okay, tell you what. Elise, you do whatever you’d...do.”

I put my hand on Jack’s dark hair. Thick and glossy, he wore it a bit longer in the front so it had a habit of falling over his eyes. I threaded my fingers through it from his forehead back, getting a good grip and tugging his face up to mine. The camera whirred.

I said in a low voice, “I won’t hurt you, but I’ll still need to know if you’re uncomfortable, okay?”

“Go ahead and hurt him,” Scott said.

My fingers tightened a little more, and Jack laughed. I glanced at Scott. “This is just for the pictures. I don’t really think we need to get a safe word or anything for the sake of art, do we?”

“If you don’t need a safe word for art,” Scott said, “it ain’t very good art.”

I looked back to Jack, and I let my smile fade. My fingers tugged the tiniest bit. “I’m still not going to hurt you on purpose. You tell me if I do.”

Jack grinned. “I’m good.”

I tipped his head back harder, watching to see if he winced. I really didn’t want to hurt him—even if this had been a real scene between us, I wasn’t particularly into causing pain. I liked the reactions to it more than giving the pain itself. For the sake of a picture I could make it look like I was being totally sadistic, though, if that was what the photographer wanted to see. With Scott’s murmured words of approval, I looked down at the man in front of me on his knees and waited to feel something. Anything. He was gorgeous, thick, dark hair, a killer smile, a lean athletic build and a very, very pretty half-hard cock that I wasn’t going to stare at, because that just wouldn’t be polite. I appreciated the package, but that was it. No spark of attraction.

Modeling is sometimes about acting as much as it is posing, so I put on my best resting bitch face and worked it. And I worked Jack, who was a good sport and an excellent partner. We didn’t fuck or anything like that, not even simulated. There was lots of skin to skin, though. He was totally naked, and I wore lingerie that was too small, a fact I’d pointed out when I put it on and had been told by a grinning Scott that the size was perfect. When we paused for a break, Jack did apologize for getting hard.

“Honey, I’d be insulted if you didn’t,” I told him. I shrugged into the silk robe I’d brought along. Jack had wrapped a towel around his lean hips. We were both drinking sodas that Scott’s assistant had brought up from the shop downstairs while the photographer himself pulled up the first set of shots onto his laptop to preview for editing.

Jack stretched out long legs on the chaise in one corner while I took a spot in a comfy armchair. We’d spent the past hour mostly naked and entangled. I’d met him only two hours ago. He felt like one of my oldest friends at this point.

“You work with Alex, right? Olivia’s husband,” Jack asked.

I sipped soda and rolled my head on my neck to crack it. “Yep.”

“Yeah, my girlfriend is like, her best friend.”

“Sarah?” I laughed. “Wow, small world.”

“Yeah, tiny.” Jack nodded.