Read Online The Drazen World: The Lesson (Kindle Worlds Novella) by Milana Raziel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Milana Raziel
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academically ineligible to play. Tutoring him was a minefield, not a cakewalk, which was yet another reason why I was sitting on a stool at Kovac’s Tavern on Saturday night, nursing a lovely glass of bourbon, a luxury I could ill afford for a myriad of reasons.
I loved Kovac’s because it wasn't beautiful. Its dingy patina, 70s knotty pine paneling, and 30s-era bar back reminded me of every neighborhood bar in Chicago where working-class guys like my dad would knock back a few after a shift. The decor consisted of decades’ worth of signs, clocks, lights, and whatever else a beer distributor might decide to slap a logo on and hand out to its customers. Unlike most dive bar owners, Big Mike kept the place spotless for his shot and beer regulars, and he had a real honest-to-God jukebox packed full of the good stuff from the 80s and 90s—no pop drivel—which cast a magical glow on the highly polished bar. He took the division of town and gown very seriously. Penn students were not welcome. At. All. It was a true townie bar. Being a blue collar girl from Chicago and a friend of Lucius' negated my student status and, as long as I didn't bring up the Blackhawks I was welcome. Kovac's also served as a cautionary tale because it reminded me of everything I was trying to escape. I wanted to travel and see the world rather than return to Chicago and my old life path, which led directly to marriage, constant pregnancy, and cooking Sunday gravy every week.
At that moment, I was sitting on this stool because I had to. Lucius Montclair—Wall Street titan, visiting professor, and my introduction to the dark comfort of dominance and submission—had left me with a command for my final semester. "Get out of your head and relax. More specifically, be social. Maybe even go on a date." He’d also confiscated my vibrator with the admonition, "This isn't an exercise in orgasm denial. There's a world of alternatives. You're a smart girl. Meet one and figure it out."
I’d thought about safe-wording him, but in the end, he was right. I had to get my nose out of a book and into the world.
To be honest, Lucius was my only semblance of a college social life period—if you can call getting picked up by a faculty member and caught in a whirlwind of sexual experimentation and exploration of so-called deviant sex a social life. He’d plucked me out of the crowd at department mixer, discreetly of course, and basically appointed himself my training Dom. Thankfully, none of this happened in earshot of the dean, because—awkward.
Lucius was perceptive, shrewd, and to my great surprise, kind, especially when he sensed my hidden unrest over my tendencies and beat the turmoil right out of me. He gave me a sense of serenity and insight into ways I could channel my submissive energy to my advantage. I would be forever grateful to him for that. I’d grown up fighting my nature because I thought that it meant I was weak; submissiveness a vulnerability that I thought would condemn me to being the nice, people-pleasing girl that got married at eighteen and stuck close to home to take care of her widowed father. I overcompensated by burying the urge to please, and all my defiance got me was a reputation of being a standoffish, cold, competitive bitch. I'd been fending for myself since my mother died, and it was nice to feel as though someone had my back—even if it was inside a sexually charged, highly artificial, contractual relationship.
When Lucius left, I thought that the only difference between this semester of celibacy and the other six would be missing the sex. That absence was quickly followed by missing the connectedness I felt with Lucius in a scene and, truth be told, the pain. That man made spanking an art form, and I was his canvas.
I hadn’t been a virgin when Lucius and I met—at least, not technically—but the man awakened something in me that refused to go down for its nap when he returned to New York.
I loved Kovac’s because it wasn't beautiful. Its dingy patina, 70s knotty pine paneling, and 30s-era bar back reminded me of every neighborhood bar in Chicago where working-class guys like my dad would knock back a few after a shift. The decor consisted of decades’ worth of signs, clocks, lights, and whatever else a beer distributor might decide to slap a logo on and hand out to its customers. Unlike most dive bar owners, Big Mike kept the place spotless for his shot and beer regulars, and he had a real honest-to-God jukebox packed full of the good stuff from the 80s and 90s—no pop drivel—which cast a magical glow on the highly polished bar. He took the division of town and gown very seriously. Penn students were not welcome. At. All. It was a true townie bar. Being a blue collar girl from Chicago and a friend of Lucius' negated my student status and, as long as I didn't bring up the Blackhawks I was welcome. Kovac's also served as a cautionary tale because it reminded me of everything I was trying to escape. I wanted to travel and see the world rather than return to Chicago and my old life path, which led directly to marriage, constant pregnancy, and cooking Sunday gravy every week.
At that moment, I was sitting on this stool because I had to. Lucius Montclair—Wall Street titan, visiting professor, and my introduction to the dark comfort of dominance and submission—had left me with a command for my final semester. "Get out of your head and relax. More specifically, be social. Maybe even go on a date." He’d also confiscated my vibrator with the admonition, "This isn't an exercise in orgasm denial. There's a world of alternatives. You're a smart girl. Meet one and figure it out."
I’d thought about safe-wording him, but in the end, he was right. I had to get my nose out of a book and into the world.
To be honest, Lucius was my only semblance of a college social life period—if you can call getting picked up by a faculty member and caught in a whirlwind of sexual experimentation and exploration of so-called deviant sex a social life. He’d plucked me out of the crowd at department mixer, discreetly of course, and basically appointed himself my training Dom. Thankfully, none of this happened in earshot of the dean, because—awkward.
Lucius was perceptive, shrewd, and to my great surprise, kind, especially when he sensed my hidden unrest over my tendencies and beat the turmoil right out of me. He gave me a sense of serenity and insight into ways I could channel my submissive energy to my advantage. I would be forever grateful to him for that. I’d grown up fighting my nature because I thought that it meant I was weak; submissiveness a vulnerability that I thought would condemn me to being the nice, people-pleasing girl that got married at eighteen and stuck close to home to take care of her widowed father. I overcompensated by burying the urge to please, and all my defiance got me was a reputation of being a standoffish, cold, competitive bitch. I'd been fending for myself since my mother died, and it was nice to feel as though someone had my back—even if it was inside a sexually charged, highly artificial, contractual relationship.
When Lucius left, I thought that the only difference between this semester of celibacy and the other six would be missing the sex. That absence was quickly followed by missing the connectedness I felt with Lucius in a scene and, truth be told, the pain. That man made spanking an art form, and I was his canvas.
I hadn’t been a virgin when Lucius and I met—at least, not technically—but the man awakened something in me that refused to go down for its nap when he returned to New York.
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