weather, but was she a bit underdressed? He didn’t seem to mind. His quick survey of her body reminded her that the sweater was a bit tight.
She hadn’t been at all sure she was going to obey his request not to wear underwear. But she’d ducked into the bathroom at a McDonald’s a block away and tucked her panties into her purse. Her skirt was long enough—there was no chance anyone would see up it or that the heavy fabric would flutter too high in the light breeze—but nonetheless the fact that she knew she was bare beneath made her feel exposed. Something in Kent’s smile made her think he knew, too, that she had followed his wishes.
She smoothed her skirt beneath her and sat across from him. She regretted her choice of wool almost instantly. It was fairly smooth wool, and it normally didn’t bother her even if she went without pantyhose, but against her bare bottom it was decidedly itchy. She squirmed, trying to get comfortable. Then she met his eyes again. Did the man really know everything that was going on in her head, or did he just manage to look as if he did?
“It’s a very pretty skirt,” was all he said. “Very practical, at least as regards the weather.”
She blushed, not knowing whether he was referring to the texture that made her squirm, or if he meant that something shorter and easy to flip up would be more convenient. Yet he hadn’t made a move the previous evening to get inside her. Clearly he had enough patience to wrestle with a long skirt.
“So how did you know I like Indian?” Angela asked.
“I didn’t. I figured you’d say something if it didn’t suit your fancy. Just because I’m a Dom doesn’t mean that I have to have the upper hand in every decision. In fact, life gets pretty dull that way. When we’re not making love—and that encompasses a whole number of things—I’d like to you to speak up for yourself.” He smiled.
“As a matter of fact, I do like Indian, so you’re fine.”
“Lucky guess.”
They studied their menus for a while. “What would you like?” Kent asked.
“The beef vindaloo looks yummy.”
Kent raised an eyebrow. “Pretty spicy.”
She was about to retort that she knew, when she realized that he wasn’t warning her, just commenting. She’d liked her food spicy for a long time. When the waiter came, Kent ordered lamb korma for himself, and vindaloo for her. She smiled. He was doing the ordering, but asking for exactly what she wanted. He may think that he liked to be Dominant only in the bedroom, but that wasn’t quite all of it.
“Cooked for American tastes?” The waiter’s voice intruded on her musing.
“Oh, no,” replied Angela, recognizing the euphemism for cutting down on the spices.
The waiter looked doubtful, but Kent looked amused. Angela waited until the waiter was gone to ask, “What are you smiling about?”
“A lot of people think that people who do BDSM somehow have their wires crossed, that something isn’t quite right. But some people like their backrubs quite hard, a sensation I would interpret to be somewhat painful, but which others find pleasurable and even relaxing. One of the lighter floggers is actually less intense than a deep backrub. Some people prefer their Indian food a bit mild, and others…well, I suspect my brain would interpret the vindaloo as a bit painful, too. But your body—everyone’s body—responds to a whipping or a spicy dish the same way, by generating endorphins.”
“You’re saying that people who like spicy food are masochists?”
Kent shook his head. “I’m not trying to apply labels. Quite the opposite. I’m observing that everyone is different, and likes different things. One person’s pleasurably intense is another person’s unbearable pain. I have a friend who lives in a 24/7 master/slave relationship, and both he and his partner love it. I’d need a break from that pretty quickly, even though some people seem to think that sort of thing is the ideal that all
She hadn’t been at all sure she was going to obey his request not to wear underwear. But she’d ducked into the bathroom at a McDonald’s a block away and tucked her panties into her purse. Her skirt was long enough—there was no chance anyone would see up it or that the heavy fabric would flutter too high in the light breeze—but nonetheless the fact that she knew she was bare beneath made her feel exposed. Something in Kent’s smile made her think he knew, too, that she had followed his wishes.
She smoothed her skirt beneath her and sat across from him. She regretted her choice of wool almost instantly. It was fairly smooth wool, and it normally didn’t bother her even if she went without pantyhose, but against her bare bottom it was decidedly itchy. She squirmed, trying to get comfortable. Then she met his eyes again. Did the man really know everything that was going on in her head, or did he just manage to look as if he did?
“It’s a very pretty skirt,” was all he said. “Very practical, at least as regards the weather.”
She blushed, not knowing whether he was referring to the texture that made her squirm, or if he meant that something shorter and easy to flip up would be more convenient. Yet he hadn’t made a move the previous evening to get inside her. Clearly he had enough patience to wrestle with a long skirt.
“So how did you know I like Indian?” Angela asked.
“I didn’t. I figured you’d say something if it didn’t suit your fancy. Just because I’m a Dom doesn’t mean that I have to have the upper hand in every decision. In fact, life gets pretty dull that way. When we’re not making love—and that encompasses a whole number of things—I’d like to you to speak up for yourself.” He smiled.
“As a matter of fact, I do like Indian, so you’re fine.”
“Lucky guess.”
They studied their menus for a while. “What would you like?” Kent asked.
“The beef vindaloo looks yummy.”
Kent raised an eyebrow. “Pretty spicy.”
She was about to retort that she knew, when she realized that he wasn’t warning her, just commenting. She’d liked her food spicy for a long time. When the waiter came, Kent ordered lamb korma for himself, and vindaloo for her. She smiled. He was doing the ordering, but asking for exactly what she wanted. He may think that he liked to be Dominant only in the bedroom, but that wasn’t quite all of it.
“Cooked for American tastes?” The waiter’s voice intruded on her musing.
“Oh, no,” replied Angela, recognizing the euphemism for cutting down on the spices.
The waiter looked doubtful, but Kent looked amused. Angela waited until the waiter was gone to ask, “What are you smiling about?”
“A lot of people think that people who do BDSM somehow have their wires crossed, that something isn’t quite right. But some people like their backrubs quite hard, a sensation I would interpret to be somewhat painful, but which others find pleasurable and even relaxing. One of the lighter floggers is actually less intense than a deep backrub. Some people prefer their Indian food a bit mild, and others…well, I suspect my brain would interpret the vindaloo as a bit painful, too. But your body—everyone’s body—responds to a whipping or a spicy dish the same way, by generating endorphins.”
“You’re saying that people who like spicy food are masochists?”
Kent shook his head. “I’m not trying to apply labels. Quite the opposite. I’m observing that everyone is different, and likes different things. One person’s pleasurably intense is another person’s unbearable pain. I have a friend who lives in a 24/7 master/slave relationship, and both he and his partner love it. I’d need a break from that pretty quickly, even though some people seem to think that sort of thing is the ideal that all
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