Текст книги "Indecent Cravings: Part Two"
Автор книги: S. K. Cross
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Indecent Cravings
Part Two
of
a super-dirty Coming of Age tale
with lots of
kinky submissive fun
By
S.K. Cross
(WARNING: If you are a prude, or even remotely prudish, delete this book right now! It’s not for you. You’d better be 18+ too. Not to mention open-minded.)
Copyright 2015 D2Rev Publishing / S.K. Cross
First Edition
July 30, 2015
Editing: Missy Borucki (missyborucki.com)
Cover design: Letitia Hasser at Romantic Book Affairs (designs.romanticbookaffairs.com)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
All characters depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The actions the characters sometimes take are often based on very bad decisions and should never be applied to real-life situations. Be safe.
Dear Readers
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Chapter 1
It doesn’t fucking exist!
I wasted all that energy and fear walking here, heart pounding out of my chest, for nothing. This is the address on the Backpage ad, but there’s nothing but four corners of buildings and no people.
All the ad said was:
Submission training and placement.
With this fucking address! The exact same address of the publishing company in the front matter of Lukas Thorn’s book.
The sun beats down on me as I desperately look around. I’m on Ocean Court, which is not really a court. It’s a long narrow street that runs behind Ocean Drive. Kinda lonely and scary, actually.
So what am I, a semi-sort-of-but-could-be-more-attractive girl doing drifting around back alleys in the middle of the day in South Beach?
I’m looking for a submission school.
Yeah, that kind of school. You know. Fifty Shades and all that.
All I know is that it’s somehow related to Lukas Thorn. He’s been here . . . well, maybe. Maybe not. He’s part of this, somehow.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I swear I can smell his musky pine scent from the airplane. For a quick moment, I’m back there. Spread-eagle on his leg over those dark jeans.
Those eyes under the Ray-Bans.
Oh, God!
I can’t believe I really came here. I mean really, who does that?
Well, I guess I do.
Me. Abigail Trowbridge. No, sorry. Jayden Raye. That’s my new name here in Miami Beach.
I wait a minute longer, then decide to go.
I’m early for work, but thunderheads are rolling in so I may as well just go into work early. I turn and head back toward the corner.
No, I’m not normal. We already established that. Haven’t you been reading? Jeez.
Oh wait.
I’m way ahead of you, aren’t I?
My bad. Let me get you caught up.
The last time we talked I had just woken up the morning after a horrible night during which I embarrassed myself to death at a restaurant called Bogart on South Beach. Bad hangover. Very bad.
Karissa went out to the store, I Googled Lukas Thorn, and found his book The Regimen: A Suggested Routine for the Proper Training of Submissive Women on Kindle.
Naturally, I one-clicked it and began to read voraciously.
Karissa returned, reminding me that we were going to go find me a job. So I showered and we left, my head still groggy from my hangover.
I was all set to apply at the local Applebee’s around the corner from Karissa’s apartment but she talked me out of it.
“May I make a suggestion, sugar?” she said that day as she put her VW held together by duct tape into gear.
“Yeah.”
“Sell your body.”
I laughed. “Oh, shut up!”
“I know you won’t even consider that because you’ve still got that icy cold stuff from Canker still in you.”
“Concord.”
“Whatever. But at least apply at a high-end place, like the one we ate at last night. You’d make a lot more money than at some rinky-dink Applebee’s with all those cheap old folks who don’t tip. Might even make enough to get a car real quick.”
“Good point.”
“Then, once your confidence is up, sell your body.” I play-hit her. “I’m serious, hun. It’s good money.”
“Like you’d know.”
Karissa gave me a weird look that I can’t figure out. “Money is money, girl.”
Fernando, the manager at Bogart on Ocean Drive, hired me on the spot. It was funny because he thought I was coming in to complain about the choking incident, which was the previous night.
But it turns out he’s short-staffed and needs the help desperately.
“Double hot damn,” said Karissa on the ride back. “You shake your thang and you in, just like that. Still less than twenty-four hours since you got here. I told you, sell your body.”
And so began my new life in Florida. Working double-shifts at Bogart, getting out to the “Beach” by bus from the oh-so-elegant Clarion Towers. (Count ‘em. Two. Two don’t make a tower.)
Little did I know then the strange twists and turns that would flip my world upside down (not to mention bent over sideways and backwards) over the next few weeks.
I pulled seven shifts at Bogart that first week, three of them doubles. I even skipped training. Didn’t matter. I was the best server at Applebee’s back home and in three days I was far and away the top earner here, except for Javier, our waiter from that first night.
I’ve adapted to life with Karissa and Jaxon. He doesn’t stay all the time. He takes care of his dad up in some town with a weird name that I can’t remember.
The bus isn’t as bad as Karissa described. Mostly middle-aged, Latina women commuting to their jobs. Besides, I barely notice them. On the daily ride, I whip out my Kindle and devour The Regimen: A Suggested Routine for the Proper Training of Submissive Women by Lukas Thorn.
Three fucking times.
I learn a lot about the BDSM world that I never knew before, all of it intriguing. Protocols, safe words, power exchange, respect for boundaries, negotiations. Some of it is a little strange, but I’m quite intrigued.
I’ve considered buying myself a car with the money on the debit card, but I focus on looking for an apartment instead. I answer a couple of ads and look at them but God, they’re expensive! Karissa wasn’t kidding.
We haven’t mentioned the kiss since that first night. Every once in a while, I get a flash of Karissa looking at me that way, but I hardly ever see her anyway seeing as she works most nights at T’s, which is a super-appropriate name for a transgender strip club.
My mom has called several times and we’ve gone through our usual routine. She nearly had a cow when I said I’m staying another week.
Shit, am I just going to keep telling her every week that I’m staying another week?
Truth is, I don’t know. I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I’m just feeling things out. I hate the heat down here. Not to mention the arrogance of some of the people. It’s a different kind of arrogance than back home. Up there, it’s a hoity-toity upper crusty arrogance. Down here, it’s a swarthy I’m-so-gorgeous-and-everybody-should-worship-me arrogance.
Bogart is actually a fun place to work, though. Decorated like Rick’s Café Américain from Casablanca, appropriately. My nametag reads Jayd. I’m no longer Abigail here. Abigail was a stuck-in-the-mud people pleaser. But Jayd is sexy. Jayd gets a job on the spot by “shaking her thang.”
Trevor has called to check up on me a couple of times, too. I love Trevor. He’s my family’s employee, an ex-Navy SEAL my dad hired when my sister was kidnapped for ransom when she was eight. He got Addison back, “disappeared” the kidnapper (or so the legend goes . . . he doesn’t like talking about it), and then stayed on as the family’s bodyguard/chauffeur/personal assistant. But in many ways it was Trevor who brought me up because my dad spent so much time at work. I swear I spent more time with him than either of my parents. He would always be the one who picked me up from school, drove me to band camp, and helped me with my homework.
Now, it’s two weeks since I arrived and I haven’t seen Lukas Thorn since. It’s like he doesn’t exist anymore. Did I imagine him?
I gotta admit, I’m getting a little desperate. I’ve thought about taking Karissa up on her offer to join her and Jaxon, but something keeps me from diving in. Maybe it’s hope that I’m going to run into Lukas Thorn.
I’ve had a few offers, but guys down here are lame. There are a lot of hot ones, but they’re either a) too scared to hit on me, which kills all sexual desire; or, b) they hit on everything that moves which makes me feel like a blow-up doll. Where are all the normal guys? Jeez.
I’ve even considered fucking Javier, who has become a good work friend. But that would make work weird, not to mention Javier has a jealous girlfriend and cheats on her constantly. Not cool at all. Yeah, Javier is out.
So, are we all caught up now? Um . . . yeah, I think so.
Let’s go back to today on Ocean Court looking for the submission school with the same address as the publishing company in the front of Lukas Thorn’s book.
I show up early for work. Fernando says I can start instead of just waiting around, so I log in and put on my apron.
It’s a rainy Wednesday as I take care of the early-evening crowd, which is sparse today. Way too sparse. One is a middle-aged man in a Panama hat who sits in the same spot every day by a corner so he can watch the skirts go by. He’s creepy because he only smiles, never says anything.
The other is Lorena. She’s the same old woman who was sitting alone in the restaurant the night Lukas Thorn Heimlich-ed the piece of meat from my throat, saving my life with his masculine hands, his solid muscular chest surrounding my back in a hard heat that I can still feel if I close my eyes.
The old woman seemed strange to me that night, because it seemed she paid way too much attention to the incident, but I’ve grown to like her. She comes in almost every day and orders a whiskey sour, sipping the one drink for two hours. Sometimes she returns for dinner.
I turn to see Javier counting out. I like Javier. He’s cool, fun, and flirty. We’ve become fast colleagues. I walk over to the table and plunk myself down in front of him.
“Hey, Javier.”
“Sí, the answer is sí. Right now. You and I. Let’s go. Supply closet.”
“Shut up! Listen, remember the first night I was in here and that guy saved my life.”
“Oh, the rich cabron, Señor Thorn. Ooh la la.”
“Yeah, does he come in here often?”
“He used to. Not so much since you started.”
“Figures.”
“What? The young chica has the hots for the dirty old man?”
I play-hit him with a menu, feeling my face flush. “Shut up!”
“Oh, she do like him. Sí, she do!”
“Why did you call him a dirty old man? I know he’s old, like twenty-eight, maybe thirty. But what do you mean dirty?”
Javier stops counting. “Ay, díos mío. I not know how to tell you.” He laughs.
“What? Come on!”
“He into some sick shit.”
I decide to play along. “Like what?”
“I mean some really sick shit. A girl I know met him at a club one night. You better stay away from him seriously.”
“Tell me!”
“He bad news. He wanted her to take lessons from him.”
“Lessons?”
“Yeah, sick twisted shit. Like what’s that book all the girls love? The one that was just made into a movie? I can’t think of the name of it.”
“Fifty Shades of Grey.”
“Yeah, that one. He into sick shit like that. Bad news. Stay away.”
“Oh my God, really?” I try to put on a disgusted look, but my pussy quivers. “You said he wanted to give her lessons?”
“Sí.”
“What, did he just blurt out, ‘I want to give you lessons?’”
“I don’t know. Look, I gotta finish counting out.”
“What club was this?”
“I don’t know, okay? Jeez.”
“Okay.”
I’m dying to ask who Javier’s friend is. Maybe she could give me the deets, but Javier seems to be getting annoyed.
“Your old bat wants you,” he says, glancing behind me.
I turn to see Lorena waving at me. I get up and walk over.
Lorena looks like a movie star from a bygone era. She could be sixty, or she could be a hundred. Always dressed in black flowing outfits that look expensive. Always with a ridiculous long black cigarette holder with no cigarette. Weird.
“How’s it going, Lorena?” I say.
She stares at me as she takes a puff of nothing, igniting a dramatic pause. “That’s a beautiful name you have. Jayd with a y. Is it short for Jayden?” Her voice is deep, the sound of a million cigarettes inhaled over many years clearly audible.
I stifle a giggle. “Yes.”
Her eyes flicker and her nostrils flare. “Like Jayden James.”
I feel my mouth open a little.
How the fuck does such an old woman know who Jayden James is?
She smiles a knowing smile. “What’s your real name, dear?”
I’m not sure that I should answer but I hear myself say it anyway. “Uhm, Abigail. How did you–”
“I know many things, dear. I’ve noticed you around here. You’re new to this place. You’ve run away from something. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not psychic or anything. I just recognize a fellow traveler when I see one. See, the thing is, I know you, Abigail. I know you from a previous life.”
“Okayyyyy.” A chill dances up my spine and I back up a little.
“Oh, don’t be alarmed, dear. Not in a spirit or reincarnation way. I don’t believe in any of that bullshit. All I mean is that I was once you. I once traveled a long distance and came here looking for answers, just as I believe you have done.”
God, how does she know that?
“You said you’re from Massachusetts, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve been here for two weeks and you got a job. I think this is more than a vacation now, isn’t it?”
I chuckle. “Probably.”
“You don’t have to wait tables, you know. In fact, I’d like to make you a job offer, something that would pay a lot more than this.”
Okay, officially weirded-out now. “Yeahhh. Lorena, I have to go check on that table. I’ll be right back.”
“Of course, dear.”
I check on Mr. Panama Hat, but he needs nothing. Javier went to cash out with Fernando, so the only other option is returning to Lorena or hiding out in the kitchen.
I pick the kitchen. I blast through the doors and lean on the garnish counter.
“‘Sup?” says Jerry, the skeevy head cook with a septum piercing, from behind the line. Shit.
“Hey,” I say, pulling out my phone to check Facebook, although it’s more to avoid conversation with Jerry.
What did Lorena mean she was once me? Oh shit, is she checking up on me? Did my mom hire her? No, Abigail, that’s impossible. She was here your first night. Stop over-thinking!
“You want me to make you a dinner to take home with you?” says Jerry with leering eyes under his tattooed forehead. “I can make you something special, my own creation.”
I’m about to say yes, but Jerry’s snarly stare makes me say, “No, but thank you.”
I careen out of the kitchen and back onto the floor. Jerry scares me a little. I think he spent time in prison.
I sit at an empty table and take out my phone. I go to the Kindle app and try to read some Lukas Thorn:
A true submissive wishes to serve. She experiences a thrill that goes beyond a typical orgasm from intercourse. The very act of pleasing her Dom ignites a torrent of blissful sensations that spread throughout her body. In this highly aroused state, a woman may achieve a full-body orgasm from the slightest touch or command.
A warm flow breaks out between my legs. I can’t read this here. I look at my watch. Almost four o’clock. We should be picking up soon. I need some tables to keep me busy, dammit!
I look over at Lorena, pretend smoking while gazing out at Ocean Drive. Okay, now my curiosity is piqued. Something about what she said is gnawing at me. I tuck my phone into my apron, get up, and walk over to her.
“So, did you find them?” I say.
“Them?” says Lorena.
“The answers you came here looking for.”
“I did, dear. But it was too late. I was fifty years old. My time had passed.”
“Why? Fifty’s not that old.”
“It isn’t twenty, dear.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say.
“Don’t be. See, I was sold a bill of goods. The perfect man, the perfect house, the perfect kids, the perfect life. And it was all bullshit. Which is not to say it can’t happen . . . nor doesn’t happen for some . . . but as women we are told we are not sexual. We are told by society that if we have a sexual thought . . . well . . . , we must be sluts, right?” I laugh. “I always believed it. And God, how much I missed! Do you know how many hot young studs wanted to fuck me when I was twenty years old?”
I giggle. It’s odd to hear an old woman use the word fuck in such a casual tone. “A lot, I bet.”
“Thousands. They practically lined up, dear. I could have had them all. Did have a few. One in particular taught me some very useful skills. But then I tossed it all away because everybody told me I needed to settle down, get married, and have babies. It’s what women were supposed to do back in those days. It ruined my career, made me an attendant to a house that needed to be scrubbed and vacuumed before I made dinner, and chained me to a man I didn’t love.”
As she speaks, I notice that her dramatic flair creates a strong presence around her. I can easily envision her dominating a room telling stories as people listen in rapt attention. “Did you have kids?”
“Two. Just like I was supposed to. I did everything properly. A boy and a girl, just like the manual says. When they were grown, I left the putrid sloth of a man I married and came here to start over. But like I said, it was too late.”
“Do you still see your kids?”
She frowns and looks away. “Truth is, dear, and it does pain me to say this, I was a bad mother. Some people aren’t meant to have children. I was one of them. I made some mistakes and I regret them. I’ve tried to make amends, but I’ve learned the hard way that sometimes in life that’s impossible.”
There is a long pause. I suddenly realize that I really like this woman. There is a spirit about her that is warm and nurturing, yet ballsy and defiant. Not to mention she’s sharper than anyone her age I’ve ever met.
“Anyhoo,” she says, “I’m sorry to bother you with all this, dear.” She takes out her purse and fingers through her money. I notice an iPhone in there. Nice.
“Oh, I haven’t gotten you your check yet. Let me go print it for you.”
“Don’t bother. Just subtract it from this. The rest is for you.” She hands me two one-hundred dollar bills. The total for her one drink was going to be seventeen dollars, so I’m confused.
“Um,” I say. “You gave me two. Take this back and I’ll get you change.”
“No, Jayd. I want you to have this.” She takes something else out of her purse and shoves it into my hand. It’s a business card. “My address is on there. I’m hosting a private party this Thursday. Eight p.m. I want you to come.”
“But I—”
“Sh. Don’t answer. I realize I was too forward in offering you that job. My apologies. I didn’t mean to alarm you. But don’t say no until you’ve seen what I have to offer. It’s better than this. If you don’t like it, then just enjoy yourself. I call it my ‘Sunset Chill’ party. I have one every Thursday. Bring some friends if you like. Dress sexy, not too elegant but not too casual, either. The password at the desk is ‘Whistle.’”
“Whistle?”
“Yes, you know how to whistle, don’t you, dear? You just put your lips together and blow.”
I laugh. “Um . . . okay.”
“Don’t make the same mistake I did, dear. An old woman once made a similar job offer to me. The only difference is that I said no to her. And then paid the price for it.”
She gets up slowly, her cane falling to her side. I bend down to pick it up, but she slaps my arm and says, “I’ll get that!” She snatches it up, and stands to face me with another pensive stare. “I can see it in your eyes, Jayd. You want to be free. Don’t let them dictate your life. You will regret it.”
Oh my God! Those were Zander’s exact same words before he . . .
Now I’m beyond weirded-out.
I put my hand up to my open mouth, trying to squelch a tear that wants to form in my eye.
“Thank you so much for the tip,” I say, dumbfounded as she shuffles out the door and to a waiting limousine. I watch as a tall bald man in a black suit with a goatee opens the door for her, closes it once she’s inside, gets in the driver’s side, and coasts away down Ocean Drive.
I look at the business card she handed me. All it says is:
Lorena MacCall
(305) 555-6976
. . . and her address on West Ave.
“Oooh, the old bat have a new amiga.”
I startle, Javier’s voice in my ear. I play-hit him. He’s out of uniform, carrying a backpack, headed for the door.
“Shut up, she’s nice! You know, Javier, when I first met you I liked you. Now I realize you’re a real prick.”
“A real prick who can make you moan and scream in delight. Anytime, chica, you just say the word.”
“I’m sure your girlfriend will love that.”
“She never know.”
I give him the finger and he leaves.
Two hundred dollars! That’s a one hundred and eighty three dollar tip! Holy shit!
My head is reeling from all this, but I don’t have time to think. Almost on time, the place fills up and I’m busier than hell.
