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CHAPTER THREE: PUSS 'N’ BOOTS - PART ONE
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Sam could not believe it. They’d sent her to her room. To her room!
All afternoon at school, she’d been carefully crafting what to say. She had an answer to every question, a response to every protest.
What did she think she was doing?
Experimenting and exploring her sexual interests with someone with plenty of past experience and who was willing to go slowly with her. And she was doing it safely and during a time in life where the risks were lower—seeing as she didn’t have a job she could lose or a social circle where her regular life and experimentation collided.
But he was married!
Yes, and she knew that going in. That didn’t mean that he couldn’t have meaningful relationships beyond that one very significant but by no means all-encompassing relationship. People were capable of a broad range of connections. Just because a person loved their mother didn’t mean they loved their friends any less.
But he was so much older than her!
Yes, because the boys her age weren’t interested in the same things as she was. Weren’t on the same level as she was. Not intellectually. Not emotionally. And certainly not sexually. From what she’d heard from her friends, most of the boys they dated didn’t even know how to bring a woman to orgasm, much less how to please them in less traditional ways.
Her uncle and mother had always encouraged her to engage on an adult level; why couldn’t they understand that applied to all aspects, not just the ones they approved of?
She’d thought of everything. Knew exactly how to convince them. If they’d just given her half a chance.
Instead they’d put her in timeout, like she was five years old again.
Sam huffed and plopped down on her bed sulkily. She rolled onto her stomach, kicking her heels in the air. She stared out her window at the rapidly darkening skies. She was eighteen years old; why couldn’t anyone treat her like an adult?
The only person who even remotely seemed to listen to her—to even try to get and understand her side—was Fischer. He talked to her like a peer. They talked about art and politics and current events. He didn’t just dismiss her thoughts and opinions simply because of her age. Didn’t just fall back on the same old, tired line about how she was so young and would understand when she was older.
She was old enough to make decisions about her own life.
Her mom and uncle didn’t understand how good they had it with her. She knew kids her age who did and dealt drugs in the nooks and crannies of her school. Knew others who bought and sold test scores and ready-wrote papers like some amateur academic black market. Knew others still who had indiscriminate and unsafe sex, for whom pregnancy scares were common and STI statuses weren’t even a registered concern.
All that made what she was doing seem so tame—so sane and normal—in comparison. It wasn’t as if BDSM was even all that taboo anymore. Everyone knew about it now.
According to Pip, there’d even been studies claiming that something like forty percent of people had tried it. Hell, Steele’s Edge had been at the top of almost every literary sales list for more than a year now.
They were just being paranoid, overprotective, and overactive about the whole thing. Instead of talking to her about her life, they were content to send her off while they discussed something that was none of their business.
What did they even think was going to happen? That they would forbid her from seeing Fischer? That they could just ground her and that would be that? That she would just bow her head and obey, like the good, little girl they still thought she was?
Pip was always talking about the fact that, just because a person was submissive, it didn’t mean that they were supposed to just sit back and take it when people tried to push them around. Kink was all about choice and Sam was choosing it.
She reached under her bed for her laptop. Opening it up, she messaged Fischer, apologizing again for this morning and asking if he wanted to get together when he came back.
There, she thought.
She loved her family—she really did—but she wasn’t about to live her life for them. It was her life and she was going to go after what she wanted.
———
Pip shoved her apartment door open with her hip, juggling her keys and groceries in her overburdened grasp. With a sigh, she looked around her apartment. It was messier than she remembered; it wasn’t as if she’d really been in the mood to clean in a while.
On a sigh, she kicked the door closed behind her, throwing the lock with her elbow, before heading to the kitchen. She unpacked twist-tied bags of vegetables, sealed cartons of pre-washed herbs and greens, and fancily labeled bottles of vinaigrettes.
She had friends who thought she ate things like salads and fruit to stay thin. Nah, she was naturally skinny—always had been—and it didn’t much matter what she ate. God knew, her Paula Deen-loving mother—even after the whole racial slur controversy—had fed Pip plenty growing up.
No, it was just that washing and cutting up produce was easier than actually cooking for a single person living alone. It made her feel less lonely somehow. Like they weren’t really meals, more like large on-the-go snacks. Without the mess of cooking or clean-up—without the effort or time put into it—she didn’t have to think about the fact that, most nights, she ate alone.
Sure, for her job—and, yeah, for pride—she played up the persona of the party girl. And, sometimes, that story was true. She had friends. Had a community. Even had play partners and friends with benefits whom she casually saw on occasion.
If she wanted, she had people she could call. Friends she could grab dinner or a drink—or more—with. She could always head downtown to Donovan’s and find herself some fun. It wasn’t as if she was without options.
But, with her last serious partner, Hayato, busy with his new relationship, he didn’t really have time for Pip or anyone else anymore. And there just wasn’t anyone that she really wanted to play with aside from him right now.
It was sad and didn’t make any sense. She was, in all humility, a pretty amazing catch. Attractive. Successful. Funny and a good time. She was pansexual and moved well in the poly and kink circles. One would think she’d never be in want for some company.
But, for all her options, if she wanted something, she had to be the one to go out and get it. Which usually suited her just fine. She was assertive—maybe even a little aggressive—when it came to the things she wanted. She had no problem being the one who chased down her own good time.
But, sometimes she thought, it would be nice to be pursued. To have someone else doing all the chasing.
And, sure, she got it; when you were the person who always did the chasing, it never occurred to the people you pursued to chase you. It became the default assumption that, if you wanted to see them, you’d come to them. And, if you didn’t, they assumed you were off chasing something—or someone—else.
Pip’s lip curled in a humorless smirk. If they only knew the truth. She sighed and tossed almonds over her salad made-for-one. Chasing took a lot of energy. And she could never be sure who would be free or interested. She’d spent nights calling up and down her contact list, only to end up staying in, still alone.
And, even if she were able to set up a date or a scene or a hookup, it was usually assumed that she would plan the evening’s events. Figure out the time, the place, the activity—to say nothing about the obligatory food and drink that her mother had brought her up to see as simple common courtesy. And then there was also the time and effort it took to get ready—to look and dress just right, to tidy her home and lay out condoms, lube, toys, and whatever else she might need for a night of fun.
And, yes, most of the time, she thought the whole thing—all things considered—well worth the effort. But, some nights, it was just easier to be alone.
So, Pip settled down on her huge, overstuffed, leather couch and ate, shoveling huge mouthfuls of food with one hand while the other navigated through research on her laptop.
She was just finishing up an article about scientists who examined the fMRI scans of a couple having sex, so they could see actual images of what sex really looked like internally, when her apartment manager called her to tell her about a package that arrived earlier that afternoon.
After putting her dishes in the sink, she went down to her manager’s apartment to pick up a fairly large package from Puss ‘n Boots, one of her favorite sponsors. Owned by her oh-so erotically entrepreneurial friend, Hallie Hannings, Puss ‘n Boots offered a place for smaller manufacturers and local artisans to sell their wares, which Pip absolutely loved. But what she selfishly loved most was that, in exchange for reviews of their products on her site, the local adult toy boutique sent Pip a wide array of free samples.
Once back in her apartment, she opened the box and saw an absolutely beautifully made wood-handled flogger, a pair of decorative nipple clamps, and a thick, hand-crafted, glass dildo.
It felt like Christmas.
Pip reached out and grabbed her phone. A girl who firmly believed in sharing her riches, she really ought to call someone.
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