Chapter Twelve - Chella
I don’t know what to feel. I am angry because he made a copy of my key. He changed my alarm code. I’m angry at myself too. For being weak. For giving in to them. For putting my weakness in writing for anyone to see.
Because they know me. They understand why girls like me will agree to do the things they want.
And I hate it. I am filled with shame for what I am. A sick, sick woman with a sick, sick fetish. I am obsessed with sex and everyone will know.
I sigh. Everyone will know. How long did it take Bric and Smith to see through me? Minutes? In that closet the first night? The next night when Bric came to see me?
Is this why my family life fell apart so badly? Why I have no one?
I know it is.
But I don’t care. They’re right. I’m addicted to the dark. I want what they’re offering and I don’t care.
I kiss Smith back. I want more of him, even as I feel the repulsion inside me.
“Chella,” Smith says, trying to get my attention. Like he knows what I’m thinking.
And even that pisses me off. Why does he get to see through me? After all this time, after all the walls I’ve put up, after all the years of denial and self-deprivation, why now, when I have it well under control? Why now?
I know why.
Rochelle came to me. She slipped inside my life. Became my friend. She saw through me immediately, didn’t she? Just like Smith.
That book…
“Chella,” Smith repeats. He pulls out of the kiss and backs away one step. Two.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my words coming out in ragged gasps.
Smith smiles down at me. Places both hands flat against both my cheeks. “The toast is over, love.”
I look at the two glasses of champagne. Still full and sitting on the counter. “What?”
“I’m glad you’re here,” Smith says, stroking my cheek. He’s got the other hand on his cock, a thick outline beneath his trousers. I place my hand over his and then we switch places, his strong hand on mine, urging me once again to stroke him. “But I have a lot of rules.”
I’m watching our hands. The way he guides me to move the way he likes it. I memorize that movement so I can do it again later without his help.
“Look at me,” he says.
I do. I look up.
“Unzip my pants and take out my cock and my balls.”
I nod at him. Say, “Yes, OK.” And do just as he asks.
“Make me come.”
I keep eye contact as I cup his balls with one hand and stroke him with the other. Long strokes. Slow, then faster. I want to get down on my knees and put him in my mouth. But he’s got a hold on my hair. A hold so tight, it’s pulling on my scalp.
So I just open my mouth and lock my eyes with his as I keep going.
The smile he gives me might be worth all his bullshit. He has a dimple in one cheek that I’ve never seen before. Maybe because I’ve never seen a real smile from him.
“Do you want to know my rules, Chella?”
“Yes,” I say in a throaty whisper. “Tell me the rules. I can follow them, I promise.”
He lets go of my hair and pets my head. “I’m happy to hear that. Now open your legs wide and give me full access.” I comply. Willingly. Immediately. And then his hand slides back up under my dress and his fingers begin to play.
I close my eyes and drop my head back a little. Allowing myself to enjoy it.
“Does it feel good?”
“Mmmmm,” I manage.
He flattens his hand and begins to rub his fingertips across my clit in short, quick bursts. I’m on edge. I’m so close. I stroke him harder, wanting him to come with me when I can’t stand it any longer.
He’s moaning. I’m moaning. And then…
He steps away. His fingers pull out of my throbbing, wet pussy. My hand slips off his huge, fat cock.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “We’re so close.”
He pets my head again while his other hand tucks his cock away and zips up his pants. “I know, Chella. But the rules, love. I’m sorry, but the rules of Taking Turns say I’m… not allowed to fuck you. I’m not allowed to make you come. You’re not allowed to make me come.”
“What?” I ask. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
He laughs. “I’ll excuse that slip in language because I kinda set you up here.”
“Smith.” I breathe in short, quick pants. “What the hell?”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t talk about the other rules. I can only tell you mine. And rule number one of our relationship is no fucking and that also includes no touching.”
“That makes no sense,” I blurt.
“It does, love.” He pets my hair again, like I am a lost, sad dog. A very sick, lost and sad dog. “You’ll see that it does. Now be a good girl and go get ready for bed. It’s late now. We’re having an early breakfast with Quin and Bric so I can give them a report on how tonight went. And you have work after that. So go on. Go upstairs and take a shower.”
I.
Am.
Speechless.
“Chella,” Smith says, raising his voice. “I just told you to do something. When I give an order you will acknowledge me and then carry it out.”
I just stare at him. “Where are these rules?” I demand. “Were they in the contract?”
“The contract stated your role was to make us happy. And these rules make us happy. End of discussion. Go upstairs and get in the shower.”
I let out a long, disgusted sigh. Stand up. And walk away before I slap his fucking face.
It’s a game. It’s a game. It’s a game.
I run his words back in my head as I climb the stairs. The rules of Taking Turns say I’m not allowed to fuck you.
Or touch me. He said that too. What’s that mean? He can’t make me come? I can’t make him come? Which means… we masturbate a lot and then we leave each other hanging?
“That rule is fucking stupid,” I yell.
“Last time, Chella,” he yells back from below. “Last time I’ll let you get away with talking back. So be ready if you choose to do it again.”
“Fuck you,” I say. But I say it quietly.
When I get to the bedroom there’s lingerie laid out on my bed. Just a soft pink chemise. The bust is made of lace and it has a flirty skirt that drapes down to just above my hips. There’s also matching panties, same color.
I hold it up and look at it. Kinda sweet. Not what I expected from this freak, that’s for sure.
“Why aren’t you in the shower?” Smith asks.
He’s standing in the doorway and I take a moment to appreciate him. He’s fucking handsome. Tall with those broad shoulders. I can’t see the muscles in his upper arms or back, but I know they’re there. He has a shadow of stubble across his perfectly square jaw that wasn’t there earlier in the day. I watch him watch me.
“I asked you a question.” he says.
I look back at the lingerie in my hands. “I was looking at it.”
“You don’t get an opinion,” he says. “So you don’t need to look so hard.”
“Can we talk about these rules?” I ask.
“No.”
“Then how will I know what to expect?”
“We’ll let you know.”
“Don’t you think that sets me up for failure?”
“The failure is half the fun, Chella. Now get your ass in the goddamned shower.”
“What will you do if I don’t obey you?”
Smith smiles. A crooked, devious, devilish smile. “I’ll have Bric handle it. You can’t get your way with me by ignoring my rules.”
“And what will Bric do?” I’m genuinely curious. I’m not even trying to piss him off.
“You’ll have that discussion with him, should you ever find yourself in that position.”
I put the lingerie back on the bed and go into the closet to undress. Smith follows me, cocks a hip against the doorjamb and watches my every move.
I slip the dress down and his eyes follow it to the floor. That’s pretty much all I’m wearing, so I place both hands on his chest as I try to maneuver past, through the door, but he slaps them away.
“Don’t fucking touch me again, Chella. I’m very serious about this.”
I let it go. I am tired, I realize. Tired of this game, tired of this day, and I need that hot shower more than he knows.
I start the water and when I look over my shoulder, he’s there again. Watching. Silent. Arms crossed over his chest. Frown on his face.
“Am I not making you happy?”
“Not even a little bit,” he growls.
I let that go too. Maybe when we have breakfast tomorrow he will tell Bric and Quin I’m not worth it. I can’t make them happy. And maybe they will cut me loose.
If that happens… will I fight it? Or will I let it go? Walk out and never look back?
I wish I didn’t know the answer. I wish the answer was walk out. Be strong. Leave this darkness behind before it’s too late.
But I won’t. If they decide I’m not their type or not good enough for whatever reason, I will fight it. I will prove it to them.
“Chella,” Smith snaps. “Stop daydreaming and get in the shower.”
I step into the shower and get my hair wet. The heat feels so good. But when I open my eyes, Smith is dropping his pants just outside the glass door. “What are you doing now?”
He takes off his shirt, throws it on the floor, then opens the door and I step aside to let him pass. “What the fuck does it look like?”
“I thought we can’t touch.”
“I won’t be touching you. You’ve got a big shower.”
Whatever. I give up. We trade places. I rinse my hair and apply conditioner as he soaps up his body. And even though I tell myself I’m not interested in those shoulders, or those arms, or that fat fucking cock of his—which is so hard, it’s climbing up his stomach—I am. I can’t stop watching him.
I think he feels the same way about me. His eyes linger on the thick, frothy bubbles as they fall over my breasts. He stares at my shaved pussy like he wants me.
If he wants me, why does he allow Bric and Quin to dictate his behavior with me?
“Are you done with the water?” he asks.
“I have two shower heads,” I say, pointing to the one that’s not in use.
“I can see that.”
“Go ahead.” I sigh, stepping aside as I go looking for my razor. I put my foot up on the stone bench in the corner and apply shaving gel to my leg. But before I can start shaving, Smith takes the razor. “What are you doing?”
“I’ll do it.”
“But you can’t—”
“I’m not touching you, Chella. The razor is.”
Clarity ensues and I smile.
“Don’t get excited,” he says, smiling back. A big enough smile to make that dimple appear. “I take the rules pretty seriously.”
I press my lips together to stop the grin. “Mmmm-hmm.”
He shaves my leg so carefully, I want to die. He crouches down so his cock is hanging between his legs. Those shoulders are right in front of me. Begging for my attention. I want to touch him so bad, but I stop myself. I’m enjoying his attention too much to fuck it up.
And he is paying very close attention to my leg. It’s not even like there’s much stubble because I just shaved two days ago. But he is careful and deliberate as he drags the razor down every curve of my calf.
When he’s done, he looks up at me and says, “Next.”
I repeat the process with the gel and I have to bite my lip to stop imagining how good it would feel if he’d do this part too.
“It’s supposed to be fun, Chella,” he says, still working.
“This is fun.”
He looks up and smiles. “We have these rules for a reason. They heighten the pleasure. Everyone’s pleasure. You’ll have a better time if you give in. I promise.”
I believe him. Because it’s already working. But I still have questions. “So you’re never going to fuck me?”
“What did I say about that word?”
“What? It wasn’t an adjective. It’s a verb. To fuck.”
He scowls.
“You’re never going to have sex with me?” I amend.
“I didn’t say never. I just said for now.”
“But when Quin comes on Sunday night—or Monday, if he’s not that into me and can’t stand the thought of that extra time—then he can fu—have sex with me? What’s his rule?”
“You’ll talk it out with him.” Smith looks up at me and then stands up, his task complete far too soon. “Don’t confuse us, Chella. We’re very different people. We want very different things out of this game. But we all like to win. Even you, I’m sure.”
“What is winning?” I ask.
The look on his face takes me by surprise. “Happiness, of course.”
“And not touching me makes you happy?”
“Did you like what I just did?” He sets the razor down on the bench.
“Yes,” I say. “But I’d like it more if your hands were touching me.”
“Maybe one day I will touch you, Marcella Walcott. But that’s a long way down the road. So it’s better to get used to the way things are done now. Are you finished?”
I shake my head. “No, I have to rinse my hair.”
“Hurry up then. I’m tired and I need you to fall asleep before I do.”
He opens the glass shower door, grabs a towel off the rack, wraps it around his waist, and then walks out of the bathroom.
What do I think of this new development?
He can’t touch me, but he can use other things to touch me.
Yes, this could get interesting very quickly.
Smith, I think as I rinse my hair. He’s not really what I expected.
I expected the asshole he’s shown me he can be. The one who creeps around, breaks into my house, makes himself a key, and changes my alarm code.
But this no touching stuff. Why? And then to demonstrate how nice it can be by shaving my legs? Again, why?
“Chella,” he calls from the bedroom. “I’m fucking tired. Hurry up.”
What will he do now? Will he sleep next to me? How can he? If he can’t touch me, surely he won’t get in the same bed with me?
I turn the water off and step out, dry myself off with a towel, then wrap it around my hair and walk out into the bedroom, naked.
He’s sitting in a chair, his back to the window. His usually slicked-back dark hair is all tousled and wet. A few pieces of it fall over his eyes in long, soft curls. He’s not wearing a shirt, but he does have on a pair of sweats, the waistband tugged below his huge balls. And his hand is on his cock, stroking himself slowly as he watches me watch him masturbate.
“If you think I’m not gonna jerk off to you every chance I get, you’re insane.”
“And me?” I ask, unable to stop looking at his hand on his cock.
“I sincerely hope you do the same. I’ll be very disappointed if I watch you tonight and you don’t put on a show.”
So this is how it is.
My time with Smith will be nothing but self-pleasure.
No, that’s not all it is. It will be self-pleasure while he watches me.
“Put on the lingerie, take that towel off your head, and get in bed, Chella. Lights are going out in two minutes.”
He’s serious about the two minutes thing. I’m still messing with the alarm on my phone when he reaches over to the lamp next to his chair and flicks it off.
There’s a little bit of light from the street lamps outside, but he’s all shadow. “I can’t see you,” I whisper.
“You don’t need to,” he replies. “I can see you and that’s all that matters.”
“Will you get in bed later? Or will you leave?”
“I won’t leave,” he says. “But I won’t sleep with you either. It’s too much.”
“Too much trouble?”
“Too much temptation. Now tell me what you think of the game so far.”
I smile up at the patterns of light on the ceiling. “I think it might be fun.”
“Come for me, Chella. Come for me and I’ll come for you.”
We do that. I have my hand between my legs. My breathing is rapid as I try to create enough friction to orgasm. But in the end, it’s not my hand that gets me off. It’s him. From across the room. It’s Smith’s heavy breathing. His moans. His groans.
And when we come together, I get it. I understand what they’re trying to tell me with this rule.
We are all responsible for our own happiness.
I don’t need him to make me happy. He doesn’t need me to make him happy.
We make each other happy.
And we do that by making ourselves happy.
I fall asleep. A deep, deep sleep. One second I’m awake… and then I’m out.
“Chella.” Smith is talking to me, I know this. But I can’t seem to make my eyes open. “Chella, come on. We’re having an early breakfast, remember? I already picked out your clothes. They’re hanging in the closet.”
I turn over to see him standing in front of the window, looping his tie into a knot at his throat. He’s wearing a dark blue suit. “You’re dressed?” I asked, still groggy. “Where did you get that suit?”
“I brought some things over yesterday. Figured it would save me time.”
It’s like… he moved in.
“Get up. I’d slap your ass really hard for keeping me waiting if I had a different rule, but then I’d just fuck you afterward and we’d be late anyway.”
I have to stop and picture that for a moment. “Wait,” I say. “What do you mean if you had a different rule?”
“First one to spend the night doesn’t get to touch you,” he says, slipping on his suit coat. “It’s too easy to get attached the first night. And we’ve done this enough to know it never works out if we don’t each get an even chance. You have ten minutes to get ready, so get the fuck up.”
“What was your rule last time? With Rochelle?” I ask, my mind spinning with this new revelation.
“None of your business. Nine minutes, fifty seconds, Chella. Quin and Bric have both already called. They want a report. So let’s go.”
I swing my legs out and sit on the side of the bed for a moment. Smith is already hopping down the stairs, calling, “No time for coffee. We’ll get it at the White Room. And don’t bother putting makeup on. Bric only likes makeup at night.”
I sit there for a few more seconds, trying to get a grip on this new development.
Taking Turns isn’t really a game, is it?
It’s a lifestyle.
The outfit Smith chose for me is mine, but not something I normally wear—a white sleeveless shift dress that has a low scoop back so I can’t wear a bra. I have no underwear on at all. Somehow he managed to find an old pair of white Calvin Klein knee-high leather boots and a black swing coat I bought when I was twenty and thought they were cute.
Smith hands me a hair tie when I come downstairs and says, “Put it up in a ponytail. High on your head.”
I gather my thick dark hair in my hands and then pull the tie through, hiking the ponytail high up on my head like he asked, until my face feels tight. “I feel like a majorette right now.”
“You look like a go-go dancer.”
“Well.” I laugh. “That makes everything better.”
“Here, put on the sunglasses.”
I take the round, white, Jackie O sunglasses from his hand and shake my head. “What’s with this costume?”
“Quin’s dramatic. He likes this shit. Trust me. Just watch his eyes during breakfast.”
“Am I the butt of a joke?”
“No,” he says quickly. “I’m just trying to help him out. Move on, you know? He needs to. I don’t want to talk about… that last girl. Not at all. But he will want to, Chella. And you should not encourage it. He has to let it go.”
“What’s his rule? Is that it? He’s not allowed to dwell in the past?”
“No,” Smith says, pointing at the front door. “Come on. Let’s go. We’re so fucking late.”
The car is waiting outside and the driver doesn’t get out to open the door. Smith opens it instead, and we slide in. His phone rings, he takes the call, and then proceeds to have a conversation about things that have nothing to do with me or this arrangement. Business, I suppose.
But as soon as we get to Turning Point Club, he ends the call and takes my hand.
“No touching,” I say, pulling it away.
“Rules don’t apply during meetings. Just wait. I’ve got something fun planned.”
Oh. I feel a little heat between my legs.
The lobby is crowded and everyone turns to look at us as we enter. Smith doesn’t talk to anyone. Not the valets, not the coat-check girl, not the maitre d’. He keeps hold of my hand and leads me into the White Room, past all the gawking people already eating, and towards the back of the restaurant where Quin and Bric are sitting at a private elevated table, surrounded by so many gigantic flower arrangements, I can barely make them out.
Bric sees us first and stands up, smiling. It takes Quin a few seconds to stand up, but he does, half-heartedly, and doesn’t send me a smile.
He does notice the outfit when Bric offers to help me with my coat, just like Smith predicted.
Smith pulls out a chair for me, I sit, and then they do too.
“You’re late,” Quin says.
“Cereal?” Smith says, looking across the table at Quin’s choice of breakfast food. “What are you, fourteen?”
Quin doesn’t look up, just starts shoveling cornflakes in his mouth.
“Did you have a nice night, Chella?” Bric asks, ignoring everything going on between Smith and Quin.
I open my mouth to reply, but Smith beats me to it. “Chella has nightmares.”
“What?” I ask, looking at him. “I don’t have nightmares.”
“She walks in her sleep.”
“I do not. Why are you saying that?”
“And she plays with herself all night long. Her hand never stopped.”
“You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not,” Smith says, hint of annoyance in his voice. “How would you know anyway? Were you awake? Because I was.”
I let out a long sigh as I turn away and look at Bric. “Do you have nightmares?” he asks.
“No,” I say.
“She’s lying. But anyway, it was a good night. I fingered her and kissed her before we discussed the rules. Afterward, it was strictly hands off.”
“We’re having a play-by-play?” I ask, completely embarrassed.
“It’s OK, Chella,” Bric says in his calm, authoritative voice. “We don’t normally, no. But we have to make sure everything is proceeding well the first week. It’s a critical time.”
“She comes so fucking fast, you guys,” Smith says, a new playfulness in his voice I haven’t heard yet. “Demonstration?”
And then Smith’s hand is between my legs, his fingertips playing with my clit.
I’m watching Quin concentrate on his cereal as this happens, but he looks up from the cornflakes and his eyes meet mine.
He smiles. Sits back. Drops his spoon, picks up his napkin, and reaches under the tablecloth to…
I look around nervously.
“Don’t worry,” Bric says. “No one can see. Just relax.” And then he grabs his napkin and hides his hand under the tablecloth too. His eyes go half-mast as Smith continues to stimulate me.
Smith’s warm breath caresses the back of my bare neck. “Close your eyes, Chella. Enjoy it. I won’t be touching you again for a long time.”
I do. I close my eyes. But I want to participate as well. So I reach down between my legs and place my hand over Smith’s. Helping him get me off. He’s kissing my neck, biting my ear, and I want to feel his cock inside me so bad, I reach over and grab him. Stroke him. He chuckles softly.
When I look at Quin he mouths the words, You’re a dirty, fucking whore.
I feel like a dirty fucking whore, so I don’t even care. I just lick my lips and smile.
Smith pulls his fingers out of my pussy and brings them to my lips. “Suck them, Chella,” he says. “Suck them like you want to suck my cock. And get yourself off at the same time.”
I let him put his fingers in my mouth and I suck. I imagine what his cock would feel like. I imagine swallowing his come as I play with myself under the perfectly crisp, white-linen tablecloth until I can’t stand it anymore. Until my body wants to writhe. Until I want to rub my pussy on something—anything—and I come.
Both Bric and Quin come into their napkins. Quin clenches his jaw and closes his eyes as it happens. Bric stares at me and I stare back.
We are all breathing hard at the table, even Smith, who didn’t come. But I realize I’m still gripping his cock in my hand.
I look at him, slightly embarrassed, and let go. But he just gives me a lopsided grin. “I can’t see you tonight,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh,” I say, pulling myself back together. I look around nervously. This experience was so intense, I forgot I was in a restaurant. But Bric was right. No one can see us. We have a little private oasis in a very public place.
“But I’ll send a car to take you home after work. And Quin will see you on Monday. Make sure you’re back here by midnight Sunday, just in case he wants to visit early. You’ll be OK, right?”
“Of course,” I say. “Of course. I’m a big girl. I know how to live alone.”
But it’s the worst weekend of my life. It is long, and boring, and I rub myself raw because I spend almost the whole time masturbating to the thought of Smith fucking me.