Cuffing Kate by Alison Tyler Read Free Book Online Page B

Handcuffs.
    He said I was beautiful, but out of
control. The way I had to gesture when I spoke, pacing, like an animal. He
said he wanted to bind me down, so that I couldn’t move, and then he would
see— we would see—what I had to say.
    I put the book down. I knew the ending already. She hadn’t let
him bind her down. But I was aflutter at the thought that this man was so
attractive, so intelligent, so kinky, and yet so unable to read the fact that
Sonia was not the type of girl he was after.
    All year, I’d watched different men discover this fact for a
variety of reasons. Sonia was like a coveted chocolate from the center of a
scarlet, heart-shaped box—once you bit in, you found you’d made a disappointing
choice. Too much nougat. Too many nuts.
    I’m the opposite. My co-worker, Dan, described me as WYSIWYG:
What you see is what you get. Simple attire: well-worn Levi’s and an oxford
button-down. Simple hairstyle: long and straight to the middle of my back. No
frills, maybe, but simplicity can be sexy, too. Calvin Klein built his empire on
clean-cut lines, didn’t he? Not that I could compare myself with the models in
CK ads, but I have always striven for that sharp elegance. Black and white. No
gray.
    I reread the part about being bound again. And again.
Reluctantly I put her book back, exactly where she kept the journal, and went to
my own room to touch myself. This was a skill I excelled at. In seconds, my
hands were in routine motion—one stroking my breasts, the other making lazy
circles over my clit through my panties—slow, languorous circles that had my
breathing quickening immediately. But what to think about? What fairy tale to
display today? I stared up at the ceiling, mentally tracing a tiny crack in the
biscuit-hued plaster. Not sexy. I turned my head and took in the posters on my
wall: black-and-white photos of lovers kissing on the subway, kissing in a way
I’ve never been kissed. Sexy, but distant. I’d never experienced passion like
that before.
    I turned my head the other way, confronted by my own image in
the mirror over my dresser. Damn. Shy girl, with straight red hair, freckles, a
lost look on her face.
    I shut my eyes. It was safer this way.
    There is a specific routine that always gets me off. I stroke
myself gently at first, always through the barrier of whatever undergarments I
have on.
    Oh, like that. Yes, like that.
    Only as the pleasure begins to build do I give in to touching
myself skin to skin, fingers slipping underneath the waistband to taunt and
tease. Why? I need to make myself yearn for release. See, when I’m by myself I
have to play both Dom and sub.
    But did I?
    Suddenly I thought of Jules. He wouldn’t want me to touch
myself, would he? He’d want my hands tied, so that I couldn’t move, so that we
could see what would happen. Nice thought. But that presented an urgent problem:
Could I actually come without any touching at all? Was that possible? I’d read
about a porn star who could do this—a male, who would focus until he reached
that pinnacle of pleasure all by himself. But, then again, he was a pro.
    With my hands at my sides, I spread my legs wide on my
mattress. I thought of Jules, conjuring him up in my mind.
    When I draw, the pictures appear without thoughts. My hand
works almost independently from my brain. I fall into the zone. That’s the
easiest way for me to describe the sensation. Sometimes, when a picture is
complete, I have no true recollection of having put pen to paper—or in my case,
pencil to napkin. That’s where most of my art takes place. I draw all the time,
quick sketches or “doodles” as my co-worker Dan says, a hint of a feature here,
a line of an emotion there.
    Coming is like that for me. I lose myself in my fantasies. When
I emerge, I am dazed.
    This was different.
    At first, I felt nothing. I was aroused, but I couldn’t imagine
climaxing without actually touching myself, physically sliding one hand down my
body, pushing my