Protege(36)
He stood. “Now, that’s just mean. You haven’t even seen my skill with hot wax. I do not slather.” His mouth curled in a wicked grin. “I do love the sound of tearing back the cloth, though, that sharp moment of heat and slight pain tingling under your delicate flesh as the blood rises to the surface in a sweet blush. Such a pretty sight.”
She stared at him and whispered, “You’re a sadist.”
“Hardly. I’ll introduce you to Damien and you’ll see the difference,” he teased. She at least hoped he was teasing.
“No, thank you.”
He smirked. “I’ll meet you in the gym in an hour. Thank you for lunch, peach.”
“You’re welcome.” Please don’t hurt my lady parts.
Chapter Five
By definition, an erotic fantasy was anything that stirred a person’s sexuality. Fantasy had always been a fascination of Jude’s since he was a pubescent, horny preteen. While imagining the breasts of a peer had been entertaining, there was nothing equivalent to catching a peek down his teacher’s blouse and masturbating to that image. The taboo spoke to him and carried an erotic potency other fantasies did not.
That was how he discovered he was a voyeur. Initially, he lacked the label, not knowing the terminology or even the wisdom that other people had the same curious obsessions, enough people for the proclivity to have a title.
His first visit to a strip club was interesting, but not what he hoped it would be. Watching a woman voluntarily perform was always pleasant, but not to the degree observing a woman in private was, especially when she was a touch uncomfortable.
However, he was loath to see a woman suffer a sense of danger. The appeal was in watching a female slowly become aroused, that subtle change of voice and skin tone as her body shifted and heated. He could watch that dance forever.
As a college student, he learned that sexual fantasies were a universal phenomenon and immediately changed his major to business with a minor in human sexuality. Realizing the limits of higher education, he conducted his own research, venturing to uncountable hidden places, some enlightening and some regretful. It was during those years that he met Ezra.
Together, they compiled countless hours of research, f*cked and plucked everything that consented, and took an extreme interest in the variation of personal sexuality paralleled with an overwhelming desire for acceptance. People ultimately wanted to find a partner to share sexual exploits and counter their needs. For every Dom there should be a submissive and for every sadist there should be a masochist and so on.
After their senior year, they spent the summer abroad and, while passing through Germany, they first heard the term Fernweh. There was no English translation for the term, but its meaning was everything they’d been trying to convey during their early twenties.
Fernweh was a longing, a sense of homesickness that pulled and caused a yearning inside someone for something they had yet to discover. It was the simple draw to something more and the instinct that, whatever more was, it had to exist, because they felt it. Fernweh drove people to search out the unnamable thing they yearned for. And so their business was born.
They’d met enough eclectic people over the years to build a small clientele. After years on the BDSM scene, many of their initial clients expressed disillusionment with life. Sexual release was one thing, but the desire for love and companionship never disappeared.
Their first marriage took place between a mistress they connected with in Minneapolis and a delicate male sub they found in Prague. The couple had just celebrated their tenth anniversary.
In the passing years, he’d seen it all. The scope of his personal preferences had been narrowed to a very manageable list that didn’t often bend. First and foremost, he required absolute surrender and trust, something he once could parallel. Such trust with Collette was not necessary, as he was merely providing her with a service. However, that didn’t mean he couldn’t take pleasure in the task.
Which brought him to their present situation. Jude forced his smirk into a straight line and entered the room, which had been designed to mimic the look of a clinic; the walls were faded mauve and the counters were immaculate and white. Drawers held various tools from speculums to piercing guns. He wouldn’t be using anything so invasive today, but he would be enjoying himself.
“How are you, peach?”
She eyed him with cautious reserve as he shut the door: wearing only a white cotton robe, her feet dangling over the edge of the exam table, her hands folded tightly in her lap. “I’m wondering what sort of man has a room like this in his house.”
He grinned. “A meticulous one. Lie back.”
She eased back slowly, her motions jagged and her hands slightly trembling. “Good girl.” He pulled the metal stirrups from the side of the table and guided her heels into the cradles. “Place your feet here. Relax.”
Her soft exhale whispered past her lips as her eyes screwed shut. The wax had been warming for several hours and was the perfect consistency. He took his time selecting various sizes of fabric strips. “Are you nervous?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
He chuckled. “Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes a little heat can be fun. There’s nothing to fear.”
“This room is intimidating.”
Flipping on a bright overhead light, he rolled the stool to the foot of the table. “Are you comfortable?”