Call me Scarlett. That’s the name my parents gave me. Scarlett Skye. Scarlet Olivia Skye, actually. I have nicknames, too: Essie, Carly, Lettie, Sky-o. But I’d rather you call me Scarlett. None of the other names make feel sexy, but when someone calls me Scarlett, I feel naughty, dangerous, ready.
Anyway, I told him my name was Scarlett Skye. “Him” is Brick Forrester, and I still think he’s hot even if he did say that my name sounded like a cheap calendar illustration. Maybe he was kidding? And even if he wasn’t kidding, he only said it once, and that was before he got to know me so I don’t count it as being mean.
What he did to me—what he made me do to him—that wasn’t mean either. It would have been if I hadn’t liked it so much.
This wasn’t the first time I’d been to one of Marla’s parties, and Brick said he’d known her for a long time, so I was surprised that I’d never met him before. I would have remembered because his name is like his body: hard.
Marla lives in a townhouse with three floors. On the first floor there’s a great room, with a kitchen in back looking out onto a garden and patio. On the second floor there’s another living room and two bedrooms. I’ve never been on the third floor, but I’m sure she’ll show it to me someday. The basement could be a rec-room but it isn’t. She keeps that locked most of the time—certainly during her parties. It’s odd because from what I’ve observed most of the people at her parties are into ominance and submission, some into bondage, but she explained that she didn’t want to open her dungeon to “just anyone.”
What does she mean, “just anyone”? Who’s at these parties anyway? I’ve seen two normal-looking people go into a bathroom together, and when they come out one of them has a collar on and is being led around by a leash.
Right after I met her, Marla kept me on a leash for one whole weekend. We didn’t leave her house, however, but she made me wear the collar even when I was sleeping. It had D rings on it so she could attach it to the leash. I thought she might keep me locked to the bed, but she said no, it would be dangerous if I turned wrong when I was sleeping. She said she wanted to take good care of me.
She did chain me to the bed that weekend, but only when I was awake. That was only for a few hours—and during that time, she teased me into orgasm after orgasm with her tongue and with g-spot vibrators. She put clips on my nipples, too.
She said my pussy would get wet when I heard her voice. And I’d go down on my knees for her, sit at her feet when she read or watched TV. Since then I’ve been back several times, and she always makes me come. It’s always best when she lets me call her “mistress.” I’m not sure what I like best, when she calls me “darling” or “slave” or “bitch” or “slut.”
The only times she’s called me “slut” was when she was praising me to another dom.
Anyway, I was at Marla’s party, and I had on my newest shoes, which makes sense, because I wanted to look sexy. And I wanted to feel sexy, too. Lots of things make me feel sexy. I’m lucky, I suppose. For example, when I got dressed for the party, I was so turned on that I knew I wanted to find someone to hook up with.
These shoes are black patent leather with five inch heels and straps that wind up my legs. I take my time putting them on, winding the straps around my legs. I start at the ankle, and I cross them over in the back. This pair goes up over my knees! I wasn’t sure I’d be able to sit wearing them—and, in fact, I can’t really sit comfortably when I wear them. Comfort isn’t the point. The straps cut into my legs and leave marks that stay for a while after I take the shoes off. But I like that.
Besides, I have pretty feet and why shouldn’t I show them off? For tonight I have matching nail polish on my toes and fingernails. It’s a dark red, almost black.
When I was winding the straps around my left ankle I hoped I’d meet someone at the party. When I got the straps around my left knee and onto my thigh, I imagined how tonight I could meet the right person who would know how to wrap the straps for me so they’d be just tight enough. Then I put on my right shoe. I was sitting in front of a full-length mirror and watched myself wrap the black patent leather around my leg. Watching myself wind those straps up my leg turned me on, and by the time I finished my pussy was wet.
I had on my skirt, a soft black leather mini. Commando! I pulled my sweater over my head. I’m glad I don’t need to wear a bra.
So what happened was that I was standing behind Brick. I spotted him from across the room. Marla’s friends look like anyone else on the street—I know because we’ve been in the supermarket together and she’s pointed them out to me, and we’ve gone over to talk to them. But when we’re at the parties, they look like they could be porn stars. The men have a way of standing so that I keep wondering whether they’re cut or uncut. And the women have an expression on their face like they’ve just had their pussy licked and they’re just waiting for someone to do it again.
Brick’s brown hair was slicked back and shiny, and I could see that it would curl if it hadn’t been held down by the hair spray or gel that kept it where he wanted it to be. It was long enough so that I wanted to run my fingers through it. But I wouldn’t dare, not when his hair style said “Don’t fuck with my hair. Don’t fuck with me. Period.” His eyes I could tell were those hazel eyes like mine that turned color depending on what he wore. He had an Elvis kind of mouth that looked like it was made for kissing.
Brick wore a royal blue tee with a black leather vest that was unbuttoned. So with my black leather skirt we kind of matched. He had on jeans and snakeskin cowboy boots. I notice shoes.
I’d been wondering how to get his attention when Brick stepped back and bumped into me. I lost my balance and landed on the floor at his feet, behind him. My legs stuck straight out in front of me. That got his attention! He was all apologies, and he held his hand out to help me get up.
I just sat there, giggling. I’d fallen for him all right. I hadn’t gotten hurt, not even my pride. He bent over, put his hands on my waist—on my bare skin!—and lifted me to my feet. “Nice shoes,” he said.
I blushed and that’s when I told him my name and he made that crack about the calendar.
“You’re alone,” he said.
He didn’t ask. He didn’t have to.
“You shouldn’t be,” he said.
I looked at the floor, but my gaze started with his eyes, then to his lips, and down his body, stopping along the way. And then back up. When I reached his face, he wasn’t smiling.
“I didn’t give you permission to look at my face,” he said.
I recognized the tone in his voice. It had been too long since I’d heard it. “Yes,” I said. I wanted to say, “Yes, Master,” but I didn’t want to presume.
“Follow me,” he said, “and stay behind me. You may watch my feet. Don’t look higher than my feet. Do you understand?”
I understood. I wondered where we’d be going, whether I’d be leaving without saying anything to Marla. I almost didn’t care. I just wanted to hear his voice again, telling me what to do. What I could do.
I kept my eyes on the floor, on Brick’s feet as he made his way through the crowd. Trance music bounced from the walls to the ceiling to the floor. For one awful minute I was afraid I’d lost sight of him. So many black shoes!
“Scarlett, darling!” It was Marla, her voice, dark honey. She got her way. Whenever I hear her voice my pussy gets wet. Sometimes it’s embarrassing when she phones me at work and I have a co-worker at my desk. She says, “Scarlett, darling,” and boing-boing bing I have hard nipples and a hot pussy. “Brick, I see you’ve met my Scarlett.”
“Is she yours?” No irritation in his voice. Only confusion. Or was he amused? I searched his face for a clue. His mouth was even more kissable. If he’d let me kiss his mouth.
If I still belonged to Marla? I guess I still do, judging by how hot she gets me without even seeming to try. When I come to these parties I go home aching to make love to her. I punch my pillow this way and that, and even after I’ve let myself come, which is easy when I think about what she’s done to me, I still don’t sleep well. That’s not to say that I don’t want to have sex with anyone else. After everything Marla taught me, a day without sex seems like a wasted day. It’s great to have a partner to share it, but Marla showed me how I can come really hard all by myself. So I owe her a lot. In that sense, I suppose I do belong to her.
Marla laughed. I kept my gaze on the floor. “You’ll find her satisfactory,” she said.
“We’ll see,” Brick said. “I’m not sure.”
“I am,” Marla said. She had that “don’t argue” tone.
Did I hear affection too? After all, she had called me “Darling.”
She took my hand. I was confused. Whose directions was I supposed to follow?
“Don’t fret, Scarlett,” she whispered. “I’ll be watching to make sure you’re perfect.”
And then she let go of my hand. I followed Brick’s feet down the hall into Marla’s bedroom. The door closed behind us.
Marla’s bedroom smelled like jasmine. Marla smelled like jasmine, too. I tried wearing her perfume once, but that’s another story. The scented candles on the bureau and bedside table flickered in their crystal jars.
“Safe word?” Brick asked.
“Darkling,” I said.
“Good girl,” Marla said, “to choose another.”
“Copa,” was the safe word I always use with her. There’s a history with that, and maybe some day I’ll explain.
I was glad that the bed was not covered with coats. I stood by the bedside, my heels sinking into the soft carpet.
“Hold your hands over your head,” Brick said.
I did, and he pulled off my top. “Very nice,” Brick said.
I knew he was looking at my breasts. My nipples got even harder because I knew he liked them. I wanted him to lick them or at least run his fingers over them. But he didn’t so I stood there, arms raised, with my nipples tingling with anticipation.
“May I put my arms down now?” I asked. Master? Mistress? I was confused.
“Master,” Marla said. I loved her then.
“Master,” I repeated.
“Keep them in the air,” Brick said.
“You might find this useful,” she said. She was talking to Brick, but it would be for me.
“Nice,” he said.
Marla’s leather tails of the little cat’o-nine teased my hardened nipples. He flicked the cat. I flinched, but kept my hands in the air.
“She’s proud,” Marla said.
“Tell me how you’d suck my cock.”
If I had to keep my hands in the air, I’d make sure I do a good job with my tongue and lips. First I’d lick your balls, I thought, then go straight up the shaft of your cock with the tip of my tongue. I’d go around the rim, with a flutter, then take the head into my mouth, my lips tight, tight, tight. And maybe, because my arms are straight up, they might brush against your chest almost by accident, and if I lean forward, again looking like it’s not on purpose, I can brush my nipples against your hairy thighs.
That would be for me, but you’d probably like it too, especially since all the time I’ll be taking good care of your cock. I’d move my head down so I have all of your cock in my mouth, my tongue flat, circling, while I sucked until you come. “Darkling,” I said, looking into his astonished face.
Behind me, Marla laughed.