Chapter 9

Kathleen

"Fuck, Kathleen…."

That echo in my head has been tearing me apart since Friday. At first, I ignored it. Now it's Wednesday night, and I've given up. Her voice is in my head, whispering, groaning my name as I imagine her rocking on top of me.

My bed creaks beneath me as I go for it. My vibrator is inside me, and of course, I imagine it's Ira, raw, strong, and pleasuring me until I can barely take it anymore. My hand grabs my comforter and squeezes it half to death. My chest constricts. I'm having an orgasm, but I feel so detached from it all that I might as well be watching someone else.

Then it hits me. Gently, at first, and then I'm struck by a fucking truck.

It's just a little shriek purging the thoughts from my head. All from a stupid vibrator.

I don't care. I'm propped up on one arm, shoving that thing deep inside and wishing it was Ira grabbing my hips and holding me close to her as she bites my flesh, pinches my nipple, and fucks me harder than I knew anyone could.

It's over. I collapse. Right away, my fantasy is replaced with overbearing disgrace.

"I can't believe I jilled off to that woman." There's no way. I have a hard time believing that Ira would be anything like in my fantasy. I know her too well. Know of her too well. Absolutely nothing would play out like I wanted it to in my head.

It would be the Ira Mathison show from beginning to end. Some find that hot… but I'm not interested. I want to feel like a queen, not a servant. Man, woman, genderless… I am not your breathing Fleshlight, whatever you've got in your pants.

Ten minutes later, I convince myself to get up and shower. Afterward, I towel off in my bedroom, sexually sated, but still frustrated for other reasons. The pressure of the presentation next Friday. How I feel every time I'm around Ira. The fact that I've called Eve to bitch at her, but she's drowning in schoolwork and keeps texting that she'll "get back to me" and never does.

My dad calls when I'm halfway into bed.

"How's the project coming?" he asks, and it's all I can do to keep from screaming "I'm the one not coming and that's a problem!" I mean, if it were anyone else… but it's my dad. "I hear from Donovan that you and his kid are hitting the office every day. Any snags?"

He has no idea.

Of course, I don't share that. Besides, my dad and I don't have that kind of relationship. He was never a man I went to when I had romance problems. Neither was my mom. Hell, she was worse! My mom was as interested in me as I was in getting spanked by someone else.

I tell him my plans to keep another fuck up from happening. I have the first draft of my presentation finished and would like him to take a look at it this weekend – oh, and I have an idea regarding the museum part of the project.

When he hangs up, I'm too awake to go to bed. I sit in front of my vanity and start brushing my hair for the second time tonight. Somehow, more snarls have crept in. This is why I wear it up when I can. I am a master of the French twist. Works great in the summer when it's five hundred degrees.

Except it's about seventy in here, so I wear it down, covering my shoulders and framing my face. The mirror says that I'm not wearing any makeup, but I pretend that I am so I don't shriek in horror. Okay, I'm pretty average-looking. But if someone like Ira saw me without makeup, she'd probably laugh. I don't know why I assume that.

You know what happened after that incident when we were teens? I never heard from her for years. When we reconnected, we never brought it up. Pretended it didn't happen. It was a ten-minute event in our lives. We had kissed. We had made out. She had squeezed my breasts and I had brushed my hand against her crotch. For fuck's sake, I felt her menstrual blood on my hand. There's almost nothing sacred between us, and yet it's like we're strangers.

I'm being mind-fucked by Ira Mathison. I don't think she knows it. I don't think she cares.

One, two, three more brushstrokes. I'm done. With everything.

There's a reason "Friday" and "frazzled" start with the same damned letters. It's because by the end of the work week, no matter what I am doing, I only care about pulling my hair out.

These past two days have been crunch time. Donovan Mathison stopped by the office early Thursday and kindly informed us that the Anderssens would be by for a mock presentation. This meant the two of us hustling to get our shit together, which was not limited to us forcing speeches into our heads. Speeches we were going to memorize this weekend.

Let me tell you, that couple is not easy to please. I've heard from subs around the club that the Anderssens are hard lovers. That's why they have their favorite mistress that they pay to keep happy because she gives them exactly what they want. Usually, I find stories like that amusing, but now I'm understanding how those professional subs feel. Because for the past two days, the Anderssens have had me under their shoes and refuse to let me go until they like what they see.

They're not overt about it. They're coy real estate agents who speak in code. "That's a quaint picture," means "Step it the fuck up, Kathleen." Oh, and, "These figures add up well for me. I got an F in algebra, by the way," means "Check your figures again, Ira."

Did you know we forgot to contact an important member of the Historical Society for their input? Did you know that Annie lost another phone number that I have to take the fall for? Did you know that Ira's ass is grass if Kennedy Anderssen gets word from one of her old real estate buddies that some snot-nosed billionaire is sniffing around public records… but those records would only interest someone wanting to demolish a cornerstone of a community?

I'm sick with worry.

Okay, you know what? We will be fine. They're all leaving now. It's Friday evening, even though Ira and I will be staying a few extra hours to completely overhaul our outlines – together. We will get them done. She's ordering us take-out to beat the sting of the week.

Over Styrofoam boxes of Italian food, Ira reveals that she's also ordered us a small bottle of wine because she needs alcohol, or so she says. Something about Kennedy and Lara continuing to flirt with her. Well, they don't flirt with me….

"I'm not saying threesomes are a bad thing," she says, pouring me some wine in a plastic cup because we are such classy people. "Just, you know, not with them."

The wine isn't the best I've ever had, but it works in taking the edge off. A few more sips later, I've already forgotten what I was so frazzled about. Something about speeches. Pfft. Whatever. I can kick a speech's ass. Let me at ‘em. Some sort of council? I ain't afraid of them. I'll charm their pants off.

The food is gone, the trash taken away, but the wine is still there as I go over my outline and Ira diligently makes notes on hers. One week from today we will be in front of the council talking about our beautiful plans for The Ace. Assuming they like them enough, the Anderssens will throw a number our way. Then the negotiations begin. Then we get to work.

See? It'll be fine.

It's ten. The building is completely dark and empty. I sent Annie home. Security occasionally wanders by, but they know we're here and don't disturb us. Ira makes sure of that.

I'm on my third tiny plastic cup of wine. The bitterness burns, but I'm relaxed enough to get through my work and start thinking about going home. I usually take a cab, but since Ira's here, maybe I can convince her to drive me home.

"I like your blouse."

My eyes tear off my tablet and look at Ira across from me. Her jacket's off again. Sleeves rolled up. Face is relaxed from the wine, but I can see the dark circles under her eyes. Why is she looking at my blouse?

"Thanks. I'd say I like your tie, but you're not wearing one."

"I avoid those things."

"Funny. I'd think someone like you revels in having an available restraint."

"Is that why you wear so many scarves?"

I happen to have one draped over the back of my chair. Only another Domme would think of that. And only I would think of tying Ira's hands behind her back with my scarf. I'd tie those wrists together so she couldn't do a damn thing as I tease her slit with my…

No. Stop it. Girl, you're drinking wine. Last thing you need to think about is how hot this woman is, and how much hotter she would be with her hands tied and her clothes coming off, one by one. Fuck it. I'm going to be drilling myself with the vibrator again tonight, aren't I?

Ira waves her hand in front of my face. "I see I've sent you to fantasy land. That's nice, but I need you here, working."

"I am working!"

"Uh-huh. I can only imagine how great that outline is after three cups of wine."

"You wanna see?" I turn my laptop around. "It's perfect."

She gives it a cursory glance, but I can tell she doesn't give a fuck. "It'll be as good as it gets by next Friday, I'm sure."

"Aren't you worried about it?"

Ira shrugs. So lackadaisical. Devil may care. It shouldn't be so attractive. "The Anderssens want to sell. If the council isn't happy, we make changes. The worst that happens is this gets dragged out until we've bent over backward so many times our spines permanently curl. I've got a good chiropractor, though." She dumps the last of the bottle into her cup.

"Seems like we should be able to do whatever we want to the property we own."

She snorts. "We?"

"You know what I mean."

"Sure."

We're silent again. This happens every time we start to talk. It's gotten worse these past few days, too. Used to be that she would give me a backhanded compliment, I would throw one back at her, and we went on our merry ways. Now that we're forced together, however, we're discovering that it's difficult to talk about anything but the work at hand.

There are only two things we have in common. The first is that we're both Dommes, but that's inappropriate to talk about.

And then there's that huge elephant in the room that's been destroying the furniture and shitting all over the desk for about a week now.

She catches a look from me. Does she know what I'm thinking about? "Kathleen…"

"Yeah?"

Ira flicks a pencil against the table, occasionally tapping the edge of her laptop. "Are we ever gonna talk about it?"

I feign ignorance, although my cheeks redden and my throat goes dry. "About what?" Shit. My smile is too fake.

Her eyes narrow at me. "You know what."

My smile fades. "Ira…"

"I know. It's embarrassing."

I sit back in my seat and try not to flinch. "Why would you bring that up?"

She doesn't respond. No look. No shrug. Nothing but that pencil tapping. Faster now. Ritta-ritta-ritta. Smacking me right on my nerves.

Teeth chomp my lip before I speak again. "Hey, that was a long time ago. We were kids."

One eyebrow goes up. I hate it when she does that.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Ira."

Sighing, she sits up in her seat, hand rubbing her jaw and sending out a new wave of cologne in my direction. Fuck me, it's so musky. Bit spicy. Every time I've smelled it this week, I've gotten tingles. Asshole.

"You're right. We were kids. End of story."

Yeah, kids who instantly started boning after five minutes. Kids get horny, but sheesh. That's fast even for me. Probably for her, too.

That pencil is flicking against the table again. Ritta. Tatta. Ritta-tatta. Before I know it, I snatch my hand across the table and stifle her hand with mine.

It's warm.

The tapping stops, but now we're looking at each other, my heart stilling in my chest and her breath snapping through her nostrils. Just now, I feel something. Like a crack of static electricity piercing us both.

Is that what they call a spark?

Fuck, I'm drunk. Except I'm not. I had three small cups of wine. I'm relaxed, but I'm barely tipsy. I have complete cognitive control. I have no right to blame anything on alcohol. I could drive home. Or I could keep my hand on Ira's, fingers pressing into her stiff knuckles.

I had no idea her hands were so strong and sturdy. They don't really look it. The big picture of "Ira Mathison" is a woman whom you're not entirely sure identifies as a woman. She often binds, I have deduced. I hear she packs every other day, and evidence from the club says as much. She's always in men's clothing, be they tailored suits or jeans and a collared suit. She makes the media call her they/them, but people she knows, like me, continue to use feminine pronouns and she's fine with it. Her father calls her "him" in front of others. She hangs out with her father's buddies in their exclusive fraternity club. Even as close as I am to Ira now, I still don't understand entirely what's going on. But I want to. I have a million questions, all in a quest to get to know her better.

Yet is that how I see it? The female parts of her that she continues to embrace, even when she's confusing the rest of the world? Because she's certainly not confused.

Her fingers are delicate, but her hands are strong. Someone like me, who has been with her every day this week, can see the signs if she's packing or not based on how she stands or sits. Something you only notice after a few days of actively looking. How do I even feel about that? Why do I feel anything about that? It's none of my business. God knows I've done enough charity and grant-writing work for the LGBT+ nonprofits in my region. Absolutely no form of gender expression – or lack thereof – surprises me anymore. People are just people. Ira is just… Ira. The one time she expressed any kind of hard identity was at a Pride event when she stuck a non-binary flag behind one ear and a lesbian flag behind the other. For a photo-op that made the local FaceSpace comment section look totally normal. (You know exactly what I mean.) And Ira didn't care one bit. The mean-spirited and dehumanizing comments rolled right off her back, and I was simultaneously impressed and felt bad for her.

But it's moments like these when I'm very well aware that the person across from me understands womanhood quite well. Like me, she was raised a certain way. Our paths diverged at puberty, but she gets it. The conditioning. The insults. The weird expectations even the most well-intentioned parents put on you. Most of my romantic partners have been men, simply because I am far more attracted to masculine energy than feminine. So Ira Mathison really fucks me up. I feel it now. She gets me on a level most men could not. Like my anxiety… what exactly I'm anxious about.

Yet that is very much a masculine way of assertively squeezing my hand.

"Sorry," she says but doesn't move. Instead, she drops the pencil and lets it roll onto the floor. Her eyes don't leave mine. "Kathleen."

I don't know why she's said my name, but I'm glad she has. It makes me think of what I heard that night at the club…

Oh my God. My heart is racing. It's slamming against my chest, and the color! It drains from my face! Meanwhile, she looks like a perfect prince, neither judging nor begging for anything.

Then her fingers poke up through mine, and the next thing I know, our hands are clutched together on top of the table. She closes the lid of her laptop, then mine.

We're done working. I don't know what the hell is happening, but I'm out of words, and all I want to do is experience her touching my hand.

I so don't feel in control right now. It's… exhilarating. I have no idea what to expect. I always know what to expect, because I drive the car. I know all the stops. I know the ultimate destination. I know what music we're going to play. Even when backseat driving, I know.

"Kathleen," she says again, softly. It's a far cry from the way she groaned it in Midnight, but it leaves an impression. My stomach churns. My groin is making a lot of suggestions right now. "Katie…"

I hold in a gasp. Nobody calls me Katie. Except for when…

For that short stint as a teen when I thought it sounded cute. "Please, call me Katie," I told Ira when we met at that gala. The same one we made out at. The same one where I felt her through her clothes and she put her mouth on my bare skin.

The same one where I learned how much we really have in common.

It's hard to believe I was so upset back then. What can I say? I was a selfish kid. Sex was all about my pleasure. I just wanted her body. I wanted her to tear me apart, yeah, but I didn't stick around after she called my name. I should have. I should have reassured her that it was okay and that we could try again later. Do something… anything other than run out on a hormonal and probably insecure teenager…

I mean, it doesn't seem like she was traumatized by the event, but if I've thought about it every time we've bumped into each other over the years… I'm sure she has too.

"Call me Katie…"

She remembered that?

"Nobody's called me that since high school."

"Did I offend you?"

Our hands are still interlocked on the table. Where is this going? "No. Don't call me that in front of other people, though."

"I wouldn't." Her voice is so soft and gentle. Yet firm. Definitely firm. The woman is still a Domme, after all. She makes you feel safe and secure. Like whatever happens is meant to happen, and you can put your trust in her. She'll take care of you. She'll make sure you feel good. She'll do things I normally don't want a woman to do to me.

"We should put all that behind us."

"What do you mean?" I'm only half ignorant.

"We've been rough on each other when we meet. It's because of what happened that day, right? We're both defensive about it. It's in our nature to react that way, especially as kids."

"Ira… don't worry about it. I don't hold it against you."

"Oh, I know you don't really care that I did something that happens to every girl at least once. Just like I don't really care that your reaction was to freak out and stomp out on me."

I decide to not hear the mild derision in her tone. "Sounds like we're both hung up on it."

"So let's put it behind us. From now on. We're adults, right?"

"Yeah."

Her hand squeezes mine. "Adults, you know… they are more experienced regarding certain things."

I swallow, and it feels like the lump is going to explode in my stomach. "Yeah."

Ira Mathison is leaning across the table. I am leaning across the table. I have no control over any of this… no control at all… what my body does, what she does… fuck, fuck, fuck! What is happening?

"That means you and I are a lot more experienced at certain things than we were, what was it, twelve years ago?"

"Okay."

"We're also better at forgiving. So, do you forgive me, Katie?"

I'm not sure what's happening. The room is spinning. Something that feels like fatigue infuses me. I'm awake, but… what's controlling me? "Forgive you for what?"

"For that day. I forgive you."

Another swallow. My lips are so dry. "Yeah. I forgive you."

"Kiss me."

"What?"

Ira's hand is squeezing mine so hard that I don't doubt she's bruising us both. It hurts. Oh, God, does it hurt. Everything. Everything hurts. My hand, my arm, my stupid heart.

"If you believe me, kiss me."

"And what will that solve?"

There's that shrug. That smug, I-don't-really-care shrug. Except I know she totally cares right now. "Let's find out."

It would be so easy to lean forward and kiss those lips. To know how much experience she now has. To express everything I've learned in the same amount of time.

Like how I've become a Domme.

Dommes don't do this.

They're not seduced by people like Ira. They don't have the control stripped from them, at any time…

Except. Except. Isn't she giving me some control right now? She's left the ball in my court. All I have to do is pick it up and toss it back.

I'm in control. Anything that happens from here is because I wanted it to happen.

No regrets. No fears.

I'm a Domme, which means I know what kind of person Ira is. No matter what happens, she'll take care of me. And I'll take care of her. Mostly that one, because I have control.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Next thing I know? Boom. My life has changed.

And my name is muttered on my lips, Ira Mathison's tongue slipping against mine. The pain in my hand is absolutely exquisite, and I slip far, far into the comfort of something so long ago and familiar.

She's as good a kisser as the girls at school said she was.