Trust Me: A BDSM Romance

  Trust Me

  Cate Bellerose

  Cate Bellerose

  Copyright © 2018 by Cate Bellerose

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  Trust Me: A BDSM Romance

  April 10th, 2018

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  Trust Me

  1

  Miranda

  “You can’t just stand around forever, Miranda. Get out there. Play a little. It’s just whips and chains.”

  She’s right, mostly. About the whips and chains at least. As for standing around forever, I think I can definitely do just that. Pressed up against the wall in a BDSM club on Flogger Friday, we’re well out of the way of the kinky activities going on around us. That doesn’t mean we’re not watching intently. Amber’s virtually salivating at the thought of some good rope ties and a well-oiled leather flogger caressing her round ass, but as her husband Eric isn’t here yet, she’s stuck on the sidelines.

  With me.

  I give Amber an exasperated stare. “It’s not the right time.”

  She’s not really listening, her attention fixed on a couple in the play area that’s spread out in front of us, her trapped naked in a set of stocks, him wielding a flogger so expertly it’s like it’s an extension of his arm. Pink trails light up her pale skin each time he swings, each impact eliciting a deep moan from her throat. I’m sure they’re way more fascinating to watch than I am to listen to. I can’t really say that I blame her.

  And then Amber proves me wrong, by huffing and rolling her eyes. “It’s never the right time. When are you going to realize that actually getting in there and experiencing the real thing is a bajillion times better than watching it happen? You’re just teasing yourself, over and over, and I don’t think you’re into that. At least not like this.”

  She’s right, of course. Well, in some ways, but while she gets that this is what I want, she doesn’t get me. She doesn’t get why I don’t jump in, and I don’t think she ever will. She doesn’t think that way.

  With a grin like a cat cornering a mouse, she grabs my wrist. “One of these days, I’m just going to drag you over to one of the house Doms and tell them to do what they want with you. You’ll be furious at me, but you’ll love it.”

  Her grip’s not so tight that I can’t easily pull away from her. She’s not serious. This time.

  “Maybe. Some day. But you know no one does anything here without enthusiastic consent, so your plan wouldn’t work anyway.”

  She sticks her tongue out at me.

  “What’s going on here?” Come to rescue me from his wife, Eric steps out of the crowd, still in his motorcycle leathers. His face is stern, but his bright green eyes sparkle with amusement. “Did I just see you stick your tongue out, Amber?”

  Her eyes widen and she holds her hands up in denial. “No, of course not. I was just—”

  She doesn’t get any further before he pins her up against the wall and presses his lips against hers. She mumbles something into his mouth, but it’s lost in their kiss. I roll my eyes before looking away. For some reason, I can watch kinksters get their freak on in all sorts of weird and exciting ways, but when it’s one of the few friends I have getting kissed by her husband, suddenly everything gets awkward.

  That’s me—more issues than a complete collection of Playboy magazine.

  They must’ve finally come up for air, since Eric rumbles, “You didn’t think I’d miss out on Flogger Friday, did you?”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Amber replies huskily.

  It’s a good thing he gets off on her being bratty, and she gets off on him punishing her for it, because it’s about to go down. Not my first time at this rodeo.

  “I’ll leave you guys to it,” I comment over my shoulder, making a pretense of exploring the club by myself, mostly so I don’t have to stand and watch Amber and Eric being happy next to me.

  “Hey, wait,” he exclaims. “I didn’t mean to steal her away. I can wait. For a while at least.”

  “You say that like I can,” Amber jumps in, a decidedly bratty and teasing note in her voice.

  “Knock yourselves out, guys. I feel like taking a walk, anyway.” By the time I’m a few feet away, they’re already back to swapping spit.

  I need to stop torturing myself this way. Either just make the stupid decision and jump in, or get away from here, away from temptation, shame and guilt.

  I pass a petite blonde wielding neon pink and green floggers in each hand. She’s raining down blows on the back of a seriously curvy brunette who’s tied to a chair. The sight of it raises excited goosebumps on my arms, but there’s that voice in the back of my head—always that voice—that tells me this is all wrong.

  I shouldn’t like this.

  No one should, and I should know that better than most. So why can’t I keep away from it? My upbringing left its marks, and while they might’ve been made with love, they’re still there and impossible to erase.

  Weaving my way past enthusiastic kinksters towards the back of the room, I’m reminded by how much I want to be a part of this, and at the same time, how alien I feel in crowd of people who’ve managed to come to terms with what they love.

  Squeezing by two leather-clad gentlemen watching the stage show, I arrive at the notice board in the back. The space is set off for anyone to use, a mix of classified ads and notices of upcoming happenings. I always enjoy reading them, even though I know I’ll never respond to any. Then I feel guilty about it after.

  I’m a mess. So I read the board.

  MWC seeking adventurous Bi M latex slut for noncommittal fun times.

  SBW switch seeking SBM for bondage play

  Friday, April 20th, our very own Paul Cannon hosts an advanced bondage safety talk. Free admission.

  SWM seeking SM for edge play and bloodsports. MUST be experienced and communicative!

  Is he not flogging you hard enough? Is her discipline not strict enough? Tired of your hangups? Anxiety, depression or fear holding you back? I can help you hit your stride, or your significant other. Keegan York, kink-positive lifestyle coach. Special rates if you mention where you saw the ad.

  That last one jumps out at me immediately. Anxiety, depression and fear holding me back? I fight back the urge to raise my hand right there in acknowledgment. Below the ad text, written in thick marker, reads, “Highly recommended. - Gabriel Carson, owner.”

  And then, all the way down at the bottom of the sheet is a plastic baggie stapled to it, filled with a small stack of business cards.

  I don’t know, though. It sounds like therapy. I tried that before, and that’s not an experience I’d care to repeat. No one judges in my office, the therapist said, and it took her exactly one session to prove how wrong that was.

  Then again, this guy must get it if he’s got his flyer up in a BDSM club. Unless he’s like that counselor Mom brought in once to “chat” with me after the time she found the leather corset in my closet, and was there to “fix me.” Fat lot of good that did.

  But if he was, the owner of the club wouldn’t recommend him, would he? Unless this Keegan York guy scribbled that on himself. Who knows these days?

  I sigh. Second guessing muc
h? I’ve got his business card. That’s enough info to do a little online sleuthing first to see how legit he seems. A card is more professional than a cut strip at the bottom with just a phone number at least.

  Pulling my phone out of my purse, I tap in the website address from the card. Looks like it’s a center with several coaches and—I knew it—psychotherapists sharing an office space. It doesn’t take long to find Keegan’s name among them.

  Wow.

  There are a bunch of qualifications and degrees on his profile, but I don’t read any of them because the face that watches me from the screen is way too distracting. This guy could make a killing as a model instead of trying to attract customers with flyers. Dark green eyes draw me in, large and intense, topped by thick eyebrows. His torso is at an angle, but his head is turned right into the camera, so it’s like that emerald gaze is pointed right at me. He’s got short black hair with a wild curl over his forehead that makes me think of Superman. High cheekbones and a five o’clock shadow dust his strong jaw, framing a gorgeous smile, full lipped and white. He looks ridiculously kissable, in a way that makes me put my fingertips right on the screen as if I could touch him through it.

  Instead, I two-finger zoom without meaning to. Jeez, get a grip, Miranda.

  I’m not sure I could go to this guy for coaching or therapy or whatever it is, even if I wanted to, just because of how gorgeous he is. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate. Maybe it’s a sign of how lonely I’ve been lately if all it takes is a sexy picture to get me going, but really, that man is something else. He hardly looks thirty, but I bet he’s happily married to a perfect beautiful wife, with a kid and another on the way.

  And there I go again. Whatever his life is like, I doubt he’d give me a second glance. Not that that is even a thing, because all I’ve seen is his picture, and he’s never seen me at all. I could call him, though. For help, I mean. Therapy? I shudder at the thought, but if he turns out to be a dud, at least I’d have something gorgeous to look at until I could get out of there.

  Forcing myself to glance away from his portrait, I go over his credentials. Ph.D. in psychology, internships, work history. Very sterile and factual, but it doesn’t tell me much about him. No kinkiness meter, but maybe that’s not exactly the first thing one advertises. Unless you’re hanging your flyer in a BDSM club.

  I slip the card into my purse as Amber comes rushing by, grabbing my arm and dragging me towards a whipping show she claims I’ve just got to see. Admittedly, she’s right, and the guy doing the whipping definitely knows what he’s doing. He’s turning his partner into a crisscross of clear red stripes with a long flogger, making her squirm and moan in her stocks. It’s beautiful and sexy, but I can’t get a certain kink-positive lifestyle coach out of my head.

  I need help. I know that. Much as I’d love to think I can go it on my own, I know that’s not the case. God, I’ve been stuck in the same situation for how long now? All my life? But at least a year here at the club, where I can’t keep away, yet can’t bring myself to become a part of it. Even Amber, who took pity on me and basically adopted me, has noticed that it’s driving me crazy, and there’s no doubt what she thinks I should do, to put it mildly.

  Later, when I close my front door behind me and drop into the couch in my little apartment, I pull out my phone again. I meant to check Instagram, but when I unlock it, I’m still on the web page with sexy-as-hell Keegan York staring out at me, daring me to call.

  Maybe it’s his gaze drawing me in, or maybe I’m finally ready to try moving forward, but for the first time in a long time, I come to a decision.

  I’m going to do it.

  It’s almost ten, too late to call, but I’ll send an email. Now, before I chicken out. I tap out a few inquiring words—okay, a bunch of them, and they’re a total mess, but if I stop to fix them now I’ll never send them, so one last breath, and then I tap the send button.

  The email is away, and I’ve committed.

  Crap. What have I done?

  2

  Keegan

  “I’m taking off for the day, Dr. York.”

  Kent peeks in through my open office door, already dressed to go. There are days I envy our office manager. He’s an utter madman in his efficiency with phones, messages, scheduling and all around generally making sure both me and the other therapists can focus on what we’re actually here to do—help people.

  I couldn’t do that in a million years with the skill that he does, but he’s got one thing that I don’t. When the day is over, he gets to go home. He doesn’t have to think about his job for about sixteen hours and can spend that time however he wants.

  Unlike me, who’s going to be stuck here until God knows when, going through notes, catching up on emails, figuring out how to help tomorrow’s clients, how to drive in new ones and all that other shit that gets stuck in between.

  Still, I can’t complain. I’ve got it pretty good. Business is good, money is good and it’s all trending upwards. I’m driving a Beamer and my place is paid up. Not too bad for thirty-two, I think.

  I wave at Kent. “Have a good night, man. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Sure. Don’t work too late. And someone ought to ring the doorbell around eight with sushi for you.”

  I laugh. “I’m obviously getting predictable. You take better care of me than my own mother. Thanks.”

  “No problem.” He waves. “Have a good one.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  As the door slams shut behind him, I get myself a coffee. I’m going to need it tonight. A couple of presses on my fancy new machine and my cup is filling up with a hot, freshly brewed double espresso. Fuck, that smells good.

  While it works, I look out the window, mentally preparing for another long evening. Spring is here. Leaves are sprouting on the large oak outside. Somehow it has escaped getting cut down to make room for another building, left behind as a little fleck of green in an otherwise gray office complex. It was a stroke of luck that it turned out to be just outside my office.

  Six hours later, words are dancing in front of my eyes and I find myself spending more time staring into space than getting anything productive done. The empty sushi box is sticking out of my trash can, and I’ve had as much coffee as I can stomach for one evening. Time to pack up and head home.

  My empty home.

  One of these days I should try working less and get out a little bit. Patients aren’t exactly the best way to meet people, at least not in that way. Maybe someday. I’m still young, and there’s a lot of work to do. I can deal with the lonely evenings until then.

  One last check of my emails before I go. All spam or irrelevant. Wait, except that one. Need help, the subject says. Probably clickbait, but it’s late and you never know. You never want to leave a new client waiting too long.

  I quickly scan the contents.

  Hi.

  Umm, I guess I don’t know exactly what to write. I saw your flyer down at the club, and I guess I could use a bit of coaching right now. You wrote that you can help with anxiety and stuff like that, and I’ve got that in spades, so maybe this is the right thing to do? How much do you want by email? Or do I wait until I’m there? I mean, I’ve done therapy once before, but it didn’t really go all that well, and I’m just hoping that it was a bad experience, because you sound like you might get more of what I’m going through, and I’m rambling, aren’t I? I should rewrite this, but I’m a wreck just writing at all, so I’m going to leave this and click send and you can pretend what I said was meaningful. Thank you and sorry.

  Do you have any available time slots?

  Thank you,

  Miranda Larson

  Wow. That’s some email. When Gabe suggested that I post up at the club, he figured it’d be a good resource for the club to have, and I think he was right. It has generated some good business, and given my personal interests, I have a better angle of approach to BDSM-related challenges than most therapists. But in addition to good business, it�
��s also generated some weird emails.

  I shrug and reread it. Not much info, anxiety at least, obviously. I can handle that.

  Miranda, huh? Wonder what she’s like. A sweet submissive, maybe? A conflicted dominatrix? Maybe she’s cute. Not that it fucking matters. Mixing business with pleasure is trouble, no matter how you twist it. Maybe I really do need to get out more in the evenings. Something to file away for this weekend.

  Anyway, I can at least get back to her before I head home. Tapping out a few words after looking up my schedule, I give her some options and let her know I’d be happy to help. A quick click on send, and off it goes.

  I’m just packing together the papers and preparing to head home when my computer dings. She replied. That was quick.

  I’d love the 2 o’clock tomorrow, if that’s still open. Better jump in while I still have the guts, right? I really appreciate you taking the time, and the discount rate, and… yeah. Thank you!

  Miranda

  I’m laughing. I’m not sure why. I bet her issues are serious, and I’m sure as hell going to treat them as such, but her messages are so manic. I picture a squirrel hopped up on caffeine typing at the other end.

  So obviously, I want to keep the exchange going. And now that she’s piqued my interest, I’m definitely curious about what she looks like. My fingers chase letters around the keyboard as I type.

  Hi Miranda,

  Absolutely no problem, and please, no need to be anxious. New clients are always welcome, and we’ll do everything at your pace, whatever that may be. My office is a judgment free zone, I promise. Anything you say or do here will be held in the strictest confidence. I do my best to make this a safe space where we can explore whatever concerns you, and hopefully find ways to make it better. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.