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Author’s note: In part one of this hetero story, only he finds release–but there’ll be more for her (more for both) in the future.

This story has some heavy background and emphasizes emotional more than physical dominance. The D/s element is light and informal.

It’s told in alternating perspectives–hers in 3rd person close, his in 1st person.


This is crazy. No… It’s fucking NUTS. Why did I agree to this?

What was I thinking? she wondered for the hundredth time.

Amanda gave up trying not to chew her lip as she stood in the spacious hotel room, arms crossed against the chill of overzealous air conditioning. If she could just avoid looking in the mirror, and maybe just sit on the bed. Just sit, for now.

Damn it. She turned her head away from the mirror, but the damage was done. She really did look all sexed up. Or ready for sex. It didn’t matter what the phrase was–the end of it was definitely “sex,” punctuated by the black fuck-me heels she was obligated to wear, at least until Mr. Anderson came in and decided whether or not she had to keep them on.

Ugh. Mr. Anderson got to decide. Mr. Anderson got to tell her what to do. Mr. Anderson was in charge for the night–from midnight to ten the next morning–and Amanda just had to get used to it.

Well, it was what she’d signed up for. But she didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror. And in fifteen more minutes, when Mr. Anderson came in, she would do things that would make her recognize herself even less.


“Each of you ladies will be paired with one member of the bachelor party,” the red-headed woman had said at the meeting three hours before. “You’ll eat now, and–“

“What if they’re gay?” Amanda had piped up. Nerves made her voice come out loud and tight.

The red-headed woman pushed her glasses up her nose, flicked the merest glance at the offender, and returned her gaze to her clipboard, answering in a bored voice, “They’re not.”

Giada elbowed Amanda. “Don’t you think they checked, dummy?”

Of course they checked. “They” checked everything, knew everything about the eight-man bachelor party. Not that they shared every detail with the girls.

The redhead wrapped up her spiel.

“So. Please eat soon, give yourself plenty of time to digest so you can comfortably engage in vigorous activity”–Amanda winced–“and make your usual preparations, physical and mental. See Ernie for your rings between nine-thirty and ten, and, girls, be sure you test them,” she added sternly. “See me by ten-thirty for a final check before you’re escorted to your guests’ rooms. Let me know if you require assistance.”

The group began to disperse.

“Last time, she said ‘let me know if you need a hand,’ and Ashlynn took her way literally, which she should have expected, ’cause, like, it’s Ashlynn,” Giada said quietly to Amanda, breaking into a grin.

Amanda gave her a blank look.

“You know. Ashlynn? Goes both ways? Total slut for redheads?” Giada added. “Come on, Mandy, relax. This is gonna be fun.”

Amanda tried to agree but couldn’t choke out the words.

Giada made an impatient sound.

“Seriously. Relax. The hotel has vetted them, searched their stuff. I don’t know all the details, but I’ve been doing this a while, and I’m telling you, it’ll be fine. Nobody’s gonna pull a weapon on you,” Giada said soothingly, linking arms with her nervous friend. “Security’s seconds away. Worst that’ll happen is your guy’ll have a really obscure or really boring fetish, and even then, they usually find out and let us know ahead of time.”

Amanda, a poor conversationalist even under better circumstances, seemed to have hit a wall. It was real now, this whole thing was real, and she could technically back out–but twenty-two years of being taught to live up to her obligations and to keep her promises were stacked against that option.

As were fifty thousand dollars of student debt. This one night would chip away at that far better than her minimum wage gig at Pat’s Diner. Besides, she had no real reason to be nervous.


Giada had done this before, for the last year and a half, in fact. Amanda clutched Giada’s arm like it was a parachute and Amanda was about to jump.

The girls had reached the elevators too slowly to go up with the six others.

“Had a glance at your guy,” said Giada, giving Amanda a sly look. “He’s cute. Nice that they give us recent photos, huh?”

Amanda’s brain hadn’t registered that he was cute, or anything at all. Instead she’d gone over and over the warnings they’d issued during the meeting: Make sure your guest matches his picture. If somebody else walks through that door, use your ring immediately. If he’s too inebriated, use your ring immediately. There are no weapons permitted in the rooms; but if you see one, use your ring immediately…

A ring against a knife, or worse. There was a comforting thought.

“Yeah. Nice.” Amanda swallowed the lump in her throat. She was earning a ridiculous amount for this. It was one night, with the possibility kartal escort of continued “service” if she did her job well.

As she’d let Giada steer her into the empty elevator, she had wondered if she would ever want to do this again.


I’m never doing this again, Amanda thought, trying not to hyperventilate, not to chew her lips, and not to look at herself in the mirror as she sat at the foot of the bed.

Ten minutes. Her eyes fell on her manicured hands, then beyond them to the matching pedicured toes peeping out of her sparkly black shoes. She never sprang for a manicure, but Mr. Anderson required it. The hotel would probably have required it anyway, just like the leg and bikini wax. At least she didn’t have to wax everything completely.

She shuddered.

She did like the smooth look of no hairs poking out of the skimpy underwear she wore. Her whole outfit was something like a Victoria’s Secret show, minus the wings. The redhead had frowned at Amanda’s gauzy bolero addition, which obscured her arms, but since it did nothing to hide her considerable cleavage, Amanda had passed scrutiny.

There was no way Amanda was removing the bolero. Its sheer sleeves were sexy and flirty and gave just enough coverage to obscure the disfigured places on her arms.

Eight minutes.

Her eyes flitted to the closet, where extra gear was stowed. Nothing too hardcore, but as she’d checked the right boxes on her application, the company was comfortable pairing her with a man who liked a little bit of control. Or domination. She was fuzzy on the details; her brain had sort of stopped working as soon as the meeting had begun.

His picture had flashed in front of her face, briefly, followed by three pages on his likes, habits, and proclivities. She remembered little and had not felt the tiniest bit curious when it came to stealing looks at the other girls’ guests.

Guests, clients, Johns… Well, as long as I’m in hooker makeup, hair, and heels, she thought, looking at the black shoes again. She shut her eyes, then forced herself to look at the clock without looking in the mirror.

Five minutes.

The room was getting chilly. There couldn’t be any other reason for her nipples to be erect, poking into her bra annoyingly as she counted down the minutes before Mr. Anderson’s arrival.

Before he had all night to do whatever he wanted with her.

Within reason.

A new thought struck her: what if he… didn’t want her? Didn’t want to do anything with her at all?

She stole another look down at the cleavage that threatened to pop right out of her ridiculous outfit.

She looked nice. Didn’t she? Tempting, even?

Amanda stared hard at her sleeves. The marks were light enough; he’d never notice them.

Doubts nagged at her.

Amanda glanced around but didn’t see a temperature control panel. Her eyes fell on the closet again.

Hmm. If she was doing this, if she was really going to be bad… she might as well go the extra mile. Giada had told her about some really wild tipping, as much as fifty percent.

Trying not to think about what she was doing, Amanda opened the drawer that contained extra equipment and pawed through it until she found what she was looking for. She would look really slutty, but hey, it wasn’t like he’d ever see her again. Wasn’t like he knew her.

Now, where should she do it?

She took a closer look at the bed and saw where.

Three minutes. Shit.

Wobbling in her heels, she flung herself onto the bed and snapped one cuff over one wrist, slinging the other cuff around a convenient flourish of the decorative metal headboard. The noise it made snapping shut seemed to snap her into the reality of her predicament.

Oh my god. I sooo do not make good decisions under pressure, she thought, shocked at the sight of her pale wrist cuffed to the bed. Her eyes fell on the emergency ring, a simple band with one subtle fake diamond, resting on her right index finger. Easy to press with her thumb and summon a big, burly security team.

Only if needed. She could do this.

Amanda shut her eyes, took a deep breath, and plastered what she hoped was an inviting look on her face. With her free hand, she tried to tuck her breasts down just a bit into the push-up bra and promptly dropped the handcuff key on the floor. Out of reach.


Two minutes.

But he could come in now. What if he was early?

What if he was late? She’d just cuffed herself into a long, uncomfortable wait. If he never showed–a possibility, if he’d found another guest to shack up with–she could always use the ring for a rescue.

The phone rang in the middle of her second deep breath, startling her. It, too, was out of reach.

She stretched and stretched, ass in the air as she bent toward the phone, gritting her teeth against the shrill ringing. Maybe she could lift the handset out with her fingertips…

Instead, she knocked it out of the cradle. A familiar voice squawked faintly from the other end.

“…all right?” someone maltepe escort bayan was asking her. Amanda recognized the snippy voice of the redhead. “Miss Amanda, I repeat, is everything all right?”

“Yes,” she said, trying for loud enough to be heard from afar but not so loud she was shouting. “I’m fine.”

“Good. Miss Amanda, I’m very sorry for the short notice, but upon reviewing our paperwork we saw–well–there’s been a mixup.”

Amanda waited nervously.

“Your guest is not Mr. Anderson. He’s a Mr. Carver, and he is the man described in the paperwork, but he will not be the man whose photo you saw.” Ms. Redhead paused to let this sink in. She went on, sounding irritable. “This has never happened before–I don’t know how–anyway, I’ve just sent Bobby up with the right picture, but he might not make it before Mr. Carver–“

Buzz, click. Someone was coming into the room.

The door had opened a little, but not all the way, and whoever it was hadn’t come in yet.

Amanda heard a voice, muffled, but familiar from the meeting earlier.


“Sir? Excuse me, sir?”

Muffled reply.

“…from management… just need to check… at your identification…”

Brief silence.

A muffled noise that sounded like, “Thank you.” Then, footsteps and the distinct sound of the door closing.

More footsteps, coming nearer.

Stopping at the foot of the bed.

Amanda, who had given in to the urge to shut her eyes, waited.

“Hello?” said a soft masculine voice. A soft, familiar voice…

Her eyes snapped open. Familiar voice, familiar face, familiar smile. Familiar blue eyes.

Familiar swooping sensation in the pit of her stomach.

And a new feeling: humiliation.

The familiar eyes rested on hers for a moment before skimming over her body, taking in her outfit, her teased hair, her predicament.

Mr. Carver, she thought, the name clicking into place. Matthew Carver.



Amanda Trudeau.

Damn. Never mind that outfit–I’d be thinking about that later–just seeing her again made my chest ache.

Here was a second chance.

She’d always been an open book to me, even among dozens of students. That hadn’t changed in the months since I’d last laid eyes on her: I saw her first instinct take hold of her right after she realized who I was.

She scrambled for something to cover herself, and, lucky for her, she happened to be sitting on a big, fluffy duvet.

I was thrown off kilter, but I wouldn’t have stopped her anyway; let her get comfortable, let her see I’m no threat to her.

Let her settle, relax.

All the things she never could manage to do around me.

She was having a hard time getting the duvet out from under her, probably because one of her hands was cuffed to the bed in the most awkward way possible. Had the hotel done this?

I took a step toward her and saw her eyes dart to the floor, where I saw the glint of a key.

Ah. Not the hotel. This was all Amanda, impulsive Amanda. I did my best not to smile as I came closer and she flattened her body against the wrought-iron headboard, as far away from me as she could get.

I didn’t say anything but bent to retrieve her key. I noticed the phone was out of the cradle and returned it.

Amanda relaxed; she must have thought I would turn to her and free her. Instead I retreated to the loveseat level with the foot of the bed and sat back in it, making myself comfortable, the key in my loose grip.

She was confused now, and just a little worried. I saw her twiddle a small ring she wore. I was pretty sure I knew what that was for.

“Hey, Amanda,” I said, still softly, nicely. I knew I was smiling at her because that’s what my face seemed to do whenever I saw her: give her the softest, nicest smile I was capable of. “That’s your panic button, right?”

She nodded, her mouth hanging open in surprise.

“Could you do me a favor and not push it?”

Amanda didn’t do anything to respond. She just looked at me with those big green eyes partially hidden behind a sweep of bangs. She definitely had that deer-in-the-headlights thing going.

I wanted to tease her–tell her she looked like Bambi–but we weren’t that familiar.

“I’m not going to–” I paused and searched for the right word; we both knew I could say “rape,” but neither of us wanted that word in the room with us right now, “–hurt you,” I finished.

She relaxed and nodded. Then she started blushing and dropped her gaze; I didn’t know why, so I just watched and waited. The watching was difficult because my body was definitely responding to her position, her clothes, her purpose here in the room.

Down, man, I thought. She was obviously new to this and a little scared, and I didn’t want to scare her–not beyond what she might like.

“I, uh,” she began, still avoiding my eyes, “I can find someone–someone else, another, you know, girl. If you just let me out.” She rattled her cuffed hand and gave an apologetic laugh.

“Someone else?”

She escort pendik let out a hiss of a breath. I hated seeing her so uncomfortable.

“You know, someone… better. For you. For this.” She gestured with her free hand around the room.

Okay, part of me relished seeing her so uncomfortable–part of me imagined what it would be like to push her boundaries, her buttons. I played dumb.

“For what?”

“For the night,” she said through gritted teeth. Her face was absolutely crimson.

The truth tumbled out before I could think twice. “I don’t want someone else for the night.”

Her eyes flashed up at me, briefly, and the look was doubtful.

If she knew what I knew, she’d be more than doubtful–she’d be mortified. Would I tell her I knew she wanted me to seduce her? Would I tell her how I knew that?


Would I seduce her?


“I… think I know what you’re thinking,” I said.


How could he know what I’m thinking? Amanda thought, hoping like hell that he had no idea, that he hadn’t seen the hope on her face after he’d said he didn’t want anyone else.

She kept her eyes trained on his shoes. Nice shoes, she thought, and a nice navy suit.

Amanda tried not to think about what she was wearing, but her breasts were squeezed up into the bottom of her peripheral vision.

Matthew could wear anything–or nothing, said an excited little voice in the back of her brain–and he would still be a commanding presence to her. He radiated innocence with his wide blue eyes and clean-cut appearance.

But that way he smiled, with just a tightening of the corners of his lips, suggested something dark beneath the surface.

He looks like he knows what he wants and is just biding his time until you catch up, Amanda thought. He looks so damn patient. So damn trustworthy. Like he’s waiting for me to confide in him… But he already knows what I’m gonna tell him. And it’s something bad.

She was seized with the urge to confess something–anything–bad to him.

She thought he was probably looking at her that way now, and she kept her eyes focused on those shiny brown shoes.

“Do you want me to tell you what I think you’re thinking?”

Damn, that voice, she thought, hoping he didn’t notice how it shot straight through her. She shuddered, and the metal around her wrist pinched for a moment.

Damn, damn, damn. Her nipples were so tight and sensitive now. Something about that voice and the restraint was doing things to her. She shifted uncomfortably.

She had heard his voice for nearly two months as he’d lectured as a guest in her criminology class last year; had listened to him chat at the handful of study groups he’d generously led after hours, where she had tucked herself at the back of the room.

Mr. Carver had a middle-range voice for a man, not the deepest she’d ever heard, but lulling and confident as it rolled gently over her, winding its way into her ear, and he spoke with a light undertone of humor.

It made her want to talk to him, want to trust him.

And it was sexy. Once in a while he would look at her, would catch her staring at him, and he would keep talking–but it felt like they’d switched to a private wavelength. He’d look into her eyes from his place at the front of the lecture hall, leaning his tall frame over the old podium, and it was like she was the only person in the world. Like he was talking just to her.

But she was always seated far away, and surrounded by others, so the intimacy could evaporate the moment class was over. And he never said a word to her, never looked at her as she walked by him, out of the room.

Never sought her out from her hiding place in the study group. But then, why would he?

Now she was mere feet from him, handcuffed to his bed.

And there was nobody else. And she felt that pull, to trust him, and she felt other things…

She cleared her throat. What had he asked?

Right. Did she want to know… She said, as casually as she could, “Sure, why not?” But her voice cracked on the last word. She heard him chuckle.

“I think you’re thinking… Something like, for six weeks I didn’t look at you, and now I expect you to believe I don’t want someone else here? Some other girl?”

His voice was unbearably gentle and knowing. She felt like it stroked her all over.

“I… Okay… Yeah.”

“I was looking,” he said. Amanda felt heat kindle low in her belly. And she didn’t have to see his face to know he was smiling.

He went on. “You know what I’d like to see now?”

Amanda went with her first thought. “My… chest?” That’s what the few other men she’d dated had wanted to see, and she was happy to share herself with them. She reached for the front clasp of her bra.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s Mr. Carver. Oh, god. Okay, just do it.

But again she heard that quiet, friendly chuckle. “No, no… Well, I am looking forward to seeing your breasts,” he said candidly, “but right now I was hoping to see your eyes.”

She froze. A flush of embarrassment crept up her neck.



It seemed like an eternity, and I wondered for a second if she was going to press that panic button. But eventually I saw her worry her lower lip between her teeth, and then she raised her eyes.

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