Bodhi Read online

  And now she wondered...

  How do I get Gavin to hold my hand? Allow me to touch him when I want to? How do I get him to visit my home? How do I reach this other part of him?

  What if that part didn't exist? Though she’d seen it in action several times, in his eyes constantly.

  What if he didn't need the other part?

  What if she didn't need it from him either?

  Then why was there cotton in her mouth and throat? Why couldn't she swallow?

  Would certain pieces of a man ever be enough? Why was wanting everything from a single person — an improbability — a necessity, an obsession, the end goal?

  Dell had always been too much of a gentleman to take advantage of Audrey’s willingness in the early days. Hell, even during their marriage, Dell had sometimes treated her like a princess — an out-of-reach goddess.

  Audrey knew now why the whorehouse had been invented.

  Men had desires that needed to be satisfied, but they placed their wives high up on princess’ pedestals where they wouldn’t be bothered with things like masculine urges, fetishes, and demands. Horny men were blind to the fact that their wives might have similar urges.

  Forbidden ones. Dirty ones.

  And then there was another beast. A different kind of animal altogether: men who had their heads so far in the sand they didn't even know what they wanted or desired. They denied that they fantasized. The possibility of fetish or play outside the box of how a man — a gentleman — should behave with their lover/wife/girlfriend was buried in two hundred feet of Freudian/religious/parental muck.

  Audrey may have at one time been one of those suppressed ostriches.

  Now, she was an owl and an eagle. A student who knew precisely what she wanted and who she wanted for a teacher. What she needed scared the shit out of her because knowing didn't mean the ideal existed or that she could have it. Knowing meant choosing. And she’d already chosen to let go of one good man.

  Dell...

  Love had died. Withered.

  And this man, Gavin Sellers, her Master whom she loved — a love that people, civilization, and this modern world we call advanced intelligent society would say was anything but — couldn't break role. Gavin was Daniel Day Lewis in Lincoln. Val Kilmer in The Doors.

  Call me Jim.

  Call me Mr. President.

  Can't break role.

  It wasn't love. It was an addiction. A want. Hedonism. Love wasn’t supposed to look like Gavin and Audrey.

  Black and blue. Collar and chain. Hands tied. Nipples clamped. Ass and thighs covered with glorious welts and abstract bruises. Holes raw and sore and begging. Jaw aching. Voyeurism and sharing. No entanglements. No family tree branches dangling. No dating or movies. No "normalcy."

  No bread making or breaking.

  No handholding.

  Heart made of glass and complete with a little hammer ready to shatter the illusion…

  That…

  …was Gavin and Audrey.

  Love looked like Cinderella and Prince Charming. Julia Roberts and Richard Gere. Love even looked like Nicolas Cage and Cher.

  But Gavin and Audrey?

  Fuck… Audrey thought as he slid two loaves of bread in the oven. I love him. I physically ache for him. Emotionally and spiritually too.

  He placed two more pans on the wire rack as her mind continued its journey to the foregone conclusion she’d been denying for weeks…

  Nights I'm away and in my bed alone … at the dinner table where the fourth chair sits empty … during car rides to Disney... Fuck... I want my boys to meet him.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Life wasn't some stupid fucking Hollywood movie. And if it was, hers wouldn’t have been fairy-tale-bullshit princess dreams. The title of her movie would’ve been more akin to Looking for Mr. Goodbar, only without the abhorrent ending.

  “Wait for me in my room, Audrey,” he said without turning around or acknowledging her, his dominant voice a line drive to both her heart and pussy. “In position.”

  His cadence spoke volumes, informing her he’d already seen the memories of past relationships glazing over the brown of her eyes, turning their chestnut into dark chocolate.

  But he couldn't read her thoughts.

  Except … he could.

  Audrey had no doubt she'd be in Gavin’s room, knees on the floor, palms up, spread open, for as long as he wished to keep her there. Waiting for a man she craved and loved and feared — who had no intention of ever holding her hand — to punish her, fuck her, chain her, push her, dominate, and humiliate her … do all the things she thought a family man couldn’t provide.

  It was tit for tat.

  This or that.

  She chose Gavin fucking Sellers.

  23

  Weekends weren’t always filled with excess and the goings-on of the dungeon. Some nights included meet-ups or classes, conversations and wine — separate from the atmosphere at Bodhi. Some Sunday mornings were spent talking to Darcy. The woman came in early once a month on Sunday, usually to take inventory.

  “What else do you like to do, Darc?” Audrey popped an olive into her mouth.

  “You mean besides this glamorous job?”

  “Yeah.”

  Darcy put her elbows on the counter, then pushed on the bridge of her large, square-rimmed glasses. “I just opened up a tattoo parlor.”

  “No shit.”

  “Do you have one?”

  “No, I don’t have a parlor.”

  “Brat.” Darcy stuck out her tongue.

  Audrey laughed. “No, I don’t have a tat.”

  “Want one? I can hook you up, kid.”

  “Maybe. I’ve thought about it. I have no idea what I want, though. Gavin has been giving me ideas.”

  “I’m sure he has.” Darcy bounced her eyebrows. “He’d probably love to carve a penis on your forehead.”

  “Stop.” Audrey clutched her stomach, laughing.

  “And what do you do … away from all this kinky shit?” Darcy blinked. “Wait.” She put a palm in the air. “Let me guess.”

  Audrey put her elbows on the counter too, mimicking Darcy. Although no one could imitate Darcy. She was a one-of-a-kind loveable bitch.

  “Okay … you're an elementary school teacher.”

  “Nope.”

  “Social worker?”

  “Nope.”

  “Hmmm…” Darcy tapped a hot-pink acrylic nail against her cheek.

  “Open your mouth.” Audrey smiled.

  “What? You wanna see my tongue ring?” Darcy opened and said, “Ahhh.”

  Audrey winced at the sight of the bar spliced between the muscle. “No. Show me your teeth.” Unable to help herself, Audrey inspected them. “Thank you. You have beautiful teeth.”

  “Of course I do.” Darcy winked and returned to shuffling some boxes around. “You a dentist or something?”

  “Or something. I’m a dental assistant.”

  “That’s even more glamorous than what I do here.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Tell you what?” Gavin said after entering the room.

  Audrey jumped. “How do you always do that?”

  “You never told me our new little miss kinkster is a dentist.”

  “Dental assistant.”

  “You never asked.”

  “Maybe what you should concern yourself with, Gav, are the things I tell Audrey about you when you’re not around.”

  “I am always around. I’m omni.”

  “Right. I forgot.” Darcy snorted.

  “How long have you two known each other?”

  Gavin’s face became somber. Audrey assumed he was thinking of the woman he’d loved, the one who’d committed suicide. Darcy met Gavin’s eyes, and they shared one of those telepathic, secret-agent gazes.

  “Why don’t you take the day off?”

  “I’ll fall behind.”

  “Do I have to spell it out?”

  “No, sir.”
/>   Darcy packed up a few things. “I’ve known him for sixteen years.” She shot Gavin a pointed stare even though she’d spoken to Audrey. “Sometimes he’s a real dick.”

  Audrey couldn’t disagree. Most everyone could be a real dick from time to time. But she loved that dick — and the dick’s dick. And she was glad they’d be alone for a few hours longer. Her and the dick and the dick’s dick.

  “When is Kate picking you up?” he asked.

  Kate was probably at Peyton’s apartment. They played there too. Kate even said they did couple things. Went to the zoo. Ate meals at restaurants. Things Gavin wouldn’t dare do. Not with Audrey — a woman who had children, baggage, fears. A woman who wore his collar but couldn’t fully commit to the lifestyle.

  “Around four.”

  “Come. I want to show you something.” After waiting for Audrey to stand, he placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her to his private room.

  His laptop was open, and he clicked on a folder entitled Blog Drafts. Audrey’s eyes were riveted to the screen. Her breath caught. She had to remind herself to release the air from her lungs.

  “Sit,” he commanded, then began to braid her hair.

  Audrey bathed in this simple act of care — it never ceased to get old. Once finished, he placed one hand flat on the desk and the other on the touch pad — his biceps were practically grazing her face — as he clicked open a specific document.

  “Read these two.” He bent lower and kissed her neck. “I want to share the ugly parts of myself with you.”

  “Nothing…” She swallowed. “No parts of you are ugly.”

  “Audrey, I’ve had to find my own version of God.”

  She blinked the way the cursor did, her eyes on the unpublished essays.

  “Stay here until I come for you. When you finish reading, be in position.”

  Turning her head toward him, she whispered with no inhibition, “Yes, sir,” then proceeded to read the inner chamber of her Master’s heart.

  The two essays were untitled.

  She wondered if they had no beginning and no end.

  The first time I asphyxiated Harper, I felt a metaphysical calm, something other-worldly which radiated beyond the neurological pathways leading to my mind. The sensations traveled outside my nervous system. Outside my body.

  I could describe this calm in several different ways. But the best way — the memory that grips my heart with an iron fist at unsuspecting times during the day or night — was the minute Michael was born.

  Practicing breath play gave me a calm I hadn't felt since I'd held my child for the first time — the little boy who became a man and no longer wished to own the title “son.”

  My son.

  Strange in a way.

  Not that he refuses to call me dad or father or anything at all for that matter. But strange because on the day of his birth, I felt a palm-grazing-the-tops-of-the-wheat-field peace in a moment when many first-time parents might’ve experienced both serenity and panic.

  Strange … because the peace both of those experiences provided was similar in nature.

  The way Harper’s eyes fluttered open, then closed, and the way her breath slowed when I held my palm to her neck. The way she trusted me implicitly to care for her — the way my son also did at one time — was something I never took for granted.

  She had beautiful eyes even when closed. Shaped not like almonds — a cliché — and not sloped like the doe-eyed Audrey Hepburn, but round and soft and inquisitive. Beautiful. Like an angel had christened her pupils, the irises, the everything that went into making them majestic. The wings of a cherub had painted God's beauty on the pale of her skin and in the deep chasms of her blue eyes.

  My hand on her throat … I’d float watching her lashes flutter.

  My name would pass her lips on the way out of consciousness and again on the way back in.

  I could bring her back to life.

  I thought I was her redeemer.

  Her savior.

  Her Jesus fucking Christ.

  Until the day arrived when I wished to stop believing any fishers of men existed.

  No one could save her.

  Not Christ.

  Certainly not me.

  She had hung...

  ...lifeless.

  Without support.

  In the end, she had no one.

  And that’s why Bodhi exists. Because Harper convinced me to open this sanctuary. Because she'd needed exactly that.

  A place to be normal again in a world full of self-righteous do-gooders.

  I built this house of worship, and I lost a son.

  Another Son provided redemption.

  I lost a girl with angel-kissed eyes.

  But I’d gained a tribe.

  After Harper died. I died. I found it increasingly difficult to participate in the kink I taught and craved.

  Peyton brought me back to life.

  I started referring to my past as Before Peyton. It eased my mind. Made me think I was changing or I could change. Except … I didn't believe in metamorphosis, not the way most people teach it. Religion teaches change. Correction: religion teaches the guise of change. Follow the Law to the letter, and you’ll be a better man.

  Stop drinking.

  Abstain from sex.

  Don’t lie or steal or cheat.

  And people pay out the nose to risk believing in it. And their hearts pay too — they break. Their souls pay because they can no longer be redeemed. Hope is taken from them when they no longer accept traditions, and they’re left to find their own paths. They must learn the hard way…

  People can stop doing certain things: proclivities, activities, habits.

  But people don't change.

  Desire remains potent and alive, never having left them or me or us. Eating away at willpower. And Before Peyton, I would lie in bed after an evening spent brutalizing another human being in all the ways they’d begged me to — their marked skin an imprint on my soul — and I'd ponder everything religion hadn't taught me.

  I ended up with a long list of nagging doubts and questions.

  Not being able to change wasn't an excuse to misbehave. It wasn't a license to sin. But it was a key to unlocking a mystery.

  A mystery named fear.

  And religion did a fine job cultivating, then helping me maintain, the fears I harbored … fear after fear after fear.

  Michael thrived on it. Lots of people do, whether they’re aware of it or not. Fear keeps them in line. It gives them hope.

  I sought freedom from that form of slavery. And I harnessed the momentum I felt in discovering this new-found religion, and I shed the chains of the old rites and became the man God meant for me to be.

  The precise, choreographed, deliberate ministrations I learned, then executed — the innate need for control I finally embraced — led me to the true path of inner peace…

  Bodhi.

  Yet … the girl I loved was never far from my mind. And Peyton’s exorcisms couldn’t ever take her away. Nor were they supposed to.

  Each time I pressed my thumb to her neck, each time her knees gave way and I kept her intact … each time I pushed a first, second, and then a third finger into her tight ring of muscle, and finally my dick — because her ass was mine … each scream, gasp, breath … each sigh — rendered me in absolute fucking control. And no nighttime regimen of thinking about sons and sin and metamorphosis could take that away.

  The dungeon we built would be forever.

  Black and blue, the tattoo I offered.

  And twisted, beaten, pinched, suffocating — beautiful — skin would be the daily sacrifice I would feast on.

  24

  sometimes when he fucks me

  a thumb presses into the hollow of my neck

  not lightly

  held there

  pressing

  with a push into the skin

  how far can he go does he wanna go

  He Pushes It Deeper
/>   He Squeezes Tighter

  gripping my neck with his fingers

  darkness dancing in his eyes

  that I've never seen

  sometimes I’m afraid of his eyes … and the look in them

  yet

  he cannot discern his gaze or interpret it

  whenever I'm beneath him

  owned

  used

  held

  and his hand circles my neck

  his thumb in the hollow

  it belongs, belongs, belongs

  his eyes alight with mirth and death

  the semblances mixing together

  until the opposing forces unite

  becoming one and the same

  25

  The four of them had already walked the square in its entirety but had been unable to sample every vendor at the Saturday Morning Market. The early February air still had a bite, the steady wind blowing across the Bay feeding the tents its breeze. Music played from a traveling vendor — a man at a large keyboard. CDs for sale and a box for donations were set up near the front and off to the side.

  Audrey fished for some cash in her wallet while squinting at a nearby white canopy opposite her when her body gave way.

  With the money in her fist and what was sure to be a deer-caught-in-the-headlights look in her eyes, she almost tipped to the side. But her knees locked, and she righted herself as she looked away from the sharp Copenhagen gaze of the man who held her heart in his stare.

  Clearing her throat, she spoke to Rick, handing him the ten. “Buddy, go put this money in the box.”

  “Can I have a CD?”

  “Sure.”

  Audrey could feel Gavin’s starry sky burning a hole through her skin. Kate and Bryson were busy watching the piano man when her phone buzzed in the palm of her hand.

  Gavin: Do you have on the panties I told you to wear?

  Audrey bit her lower lip, glanced at him, but he was now busy speaking to a customer. She nudged Kate, then nodded in Gavin’s direction.

  “You knew he would be here?” Audrey whispered, unsure whether she was mad or scared or tingly. Maybe all three. Lines were blurring, and she hadn’t moved a foot since spotting him.