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Pen Your Pride

Part 8: Of Tops and Bottoms

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I clutched the evidence bag of plastic handcuffs as we pulled into the curve in front of Robert’s house.

In the summer, Robert kept the lawn in front of the 1950s style ranch house looking like thick, spongy astroturf.  There was never a stray dandelion or a sprig of clover.  It had to be unnaturally maintained, but since he didn’t expect my help, I couldn’t complain.  He’d recently trimmed the yews on either side of the door into perfect rectangular cubes.  In the planters on either side of the window, he kept such cheerful begonia that I often mistook them for plastic. The whole place was vaguely Stepford, but it was home. 

More importantly, we had it to ourselves until five o’clock.

I’d like to say I didn’t dash up the sidewalk like a giggling schoolgirl, but I’d be a liar.


Even though Robert wasn’t there, we snuck through the darkened house to our bedroom.  Valentine held my hand as we tiptoed over the white carpeting, around the antique dining room set, and into our cramped bedroom. 

It really wasn’t big enough for two people.  The white veneer-coated sliding door of the wall-to-wall closet had jumped its track.  It hung open at one end and Valentine’s clothes spilled out into a pile on the floor and trailed over to the chair in the corner of the room.  There were two windows, one on each wall.  They were both open to the air, but the curtains were pulled down.

The light was muted and murky, like a cave.

I could see a smattering of coins shimmering in the shag carpeting, but Valentine had changed the sheets.  When he sat down on the mattress, coins clinked undereath his weight.

Seeing my curious expression, he smiled, “I thought perhaps they would bother you less under the sheets.”

Not a bad compromise. 

I tossed the baggie of cuffs onto the bd.  Valentine took my other hand and pulled me close.  Opening his legs for me, I stood over him.  He looked up at me in the semi-darkness of the curtained room, his eyes glittering. 

As excited as I was about this, I was nervous, too.  What if I sucked at being on top?

Leaning down, I kissed him.  Experimenting with being the aggressor, I nudged out clasped hands behind his back.  He smiled against my lips, a deep growl rumbling in the back of his throat.

My knees trembled a little at that sound.  Yep, I was going to be the worst dom in the history of ever.

Determined to give it a try, I deepened our kiss.  I took the time to chase his tongue playfully.  My back was hunched in this position—so I let go of his hands and trailed my fingers up the length of his arms.  Through the light short-sleeved shirt he wore, I could feel the steely cords of muscles jumping.  I left goose bumps in the wake of my touch.

He sighed contentedly against my teeth.  It was a sexy sound, but I wanted to hear his breath hitch.  I needed to figure out how to get him naked and tied to the bed.  My kiss faltered sloppily.  I wasn’t used to multi-tasking like this.

Pulling from our kiss, I started unbuttoning his shirt.

Leaning into me, he nibbled my throat.  His hands were on my hips, warm, even through the fabric of the cut off jeans.  When his teeth grazed my skin, I sucked in a breath, my heart rate jumping.  My chest heaved.  The space between my legs grew heavy and moist with desire and the sensation of his breath and tongue on my body. Stiffening nipples rubbed against my t-shirt.  I groaned.  His buttons slipped from my shaking fingers.  Forget him; it was me that need to get naked right now, or my own clothes would distract me too much.

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