The BDSM story A Choker of Lace is an exquisite exploration of awakening desires and whispered needs that delves into the heady world of submission and restraint. The full-length novel will soon be available for purchase. Meanwhile, you can read the prequel to this story, Initiation, in chaptered form here on my website. Don’t want to miss an installment?  Subscribe to my mailing list!

When beautiful Juniper Reed forms an attachment to the brooding, enigmatic Ronald Drake, the whole town wonders what hold he must have over her. The true nature of their agreement, a contract binding them together on a journey of lust and submission, power and pleasure, has consequences neither of them could have foreseen.

In Initiation, an awful incident brings Ronald and June together for the first time. From the stirrings of attraction to the deal that will change both their lives, their unspoken desires will lead them down strange and twisted paths.

 

Initiation

Chapter One

He met Juniper Reed for the first time at Brightwater Senior High’s Cherry Blossom Dance.

Ronald Drake was too old to be wedged in between adolescent boys and the punch bowl, trying to protect the latter from being tampered with (not very successfully, judging by the way said adolescents behaved), and he hated being there. It was all Felicia’s fault, and he could say with utmost sincerity that he hated Felicia, too. She knew exactly how to blackmail him, and he hated himself for teaching her so well how to blackmail. It had been a mistake, helping her to become mayor of this sleepy town. Now she recruited him for every single event in need of volunteers, and be it the Brightwater high school’s dance, where he was as out of place as a gator in a bunny compound.

He thought he’d seen the last of high school a long time ago.

He hadn’t thought of himself as old, being just shy of 34, but being surrounded by young adults from Sophomore to Senior made him feel positively ancient. He glared at Felicia as she headed towards him, cruising through the crowd like a racing yacht. The teenagers in their glittering dresses and rented tuxedos ducked away from her, parting before her like the ocean spray. She didn’t notice, or when she did, she didn’t let it on when she reached him and showed her teeth. It was supposed to be a smile, but she smiled like a shark, and it was a rather intimidating view.

“Having fun, Drake?”

“Tremendously. Don’t know why I always avoid these events.”

“Just try not to scare the kids.”

“Isn’t that the reason you brought me here? To scare the kids?” Drake flicked a glance at the dancing crowd, giving an impression of ennui he’d cultured to perfection.

“I brought you here to see you suffer in misery. Seems like I got what I wanted.”

“What have I ever done to you to deserve such spite?” He put his palm on his heart in mock hurt, but Felicia just raised her eyebrows. It was a rhetoric question, of course. They both kept books about who did what to whom. Without their private feud, life would be so much paler.

“I see, you got this.” Felicia patted his arm, smiling brightly, and glided away again, leaving him to his lonely post of guarding the punch.

He could still make out Felicia’s dark bob cut amidst the crowd when someone approached him from the side.

“Why are you here if you hate it?” The question came from a girl who had to be a Sophomore, and probably skipped a year, judging by her height.

“Aren’t you a little young to be here?” he growled. He wasn’t here to answer nosy questions, especially not coming from little girls in vintage dresses.

The girl tilted her head. “I’m a Senior.”

“Are you, now? I didn’t know they make them so small these days.” Drake took a closer look at her. She was tiny, but upon closer examination, she did indeed look older than 15. Her curves filled her dress nicely, but that didn’t have to mean a thing. Even as a senior, she was still too young to be talking with him, and not the hunky boys of the football team.

“I’m 19. So why are you here if you hate it?” She drew herself up as if she could make up for the height she lacked. Drake allowed his gaze to sweep down her legs. She wore mint colored dancing shoes, made of leather, matching the mint-ish dress. It set her cleavage off nicely with a bow below her breasts, and Drake wondered if she wore a corset underneath the snugly fitted bodice. It was a little tight around her bust. The girl looked like she lived in a candy-colored fifties’ movie, and she probably hoped to get her voluminous petticoats lifted before the night was over. All that was missing was the lollipop and the ponytail.

“I’m here to please Madam Mayor. She thought I would enjoy chaperoning a silly high school dance. But tell me, why are you talking to me, and not Prince Charming over there?” He pointed his chin at a gorilla shaped boy raking through the dancers and clearly looking for someone. The girl followed his gesture with her eyes, and panic flitted across her face. She leaped into him as if she wanted to knock him over, pushing between him and the curtain covering the wall behind him.

“I hoped I had lost him,” she whispered, hardly audible over the music.

“That’s your gorilla?”

“No! I mean… he almost was. But he thinks Descartes is a dessert. Can you imagine?”

“Shocking.” Drake thought that it was excusable for a boy in that age to be oblivious about their philosophers (they tended to take them too serious anyway), but apparently the girl thought differently. She shot him a sharp glance at his dry tone and narrowed her eyes. Drake straightened his shoulders and made his chest a little broader, stepping between her and the gorilla’s line of sight. He might not be a Prince Charming, but he wasn’t a complete bastard.

“Did you promise him a dance?” He had to talk over his shoulder, for she hid behind his back, scowling at her suitor past Drake’s biceps.

“I sent him to fetch something to drink for me. I hoped he would give up looking.”

“Sending him away with the task to fetch something isn’t very clever in that case. It implies coming back. That’s like playing fetch with a dog.”

“Oh. I didn’t think of that!” She grabbed his arm and tried to pull him even more in front of her.  Her almost-boyfriend seemed to have spotted something, for he moved with new determination through the crowd, away from them.

“I think you’re safe now,” Drake said. The girl sighed.

“Thank you, Mr. …”

“Drake. You’re welcome.” He didn’t ask for her name. She might be charming, and her cherry red lips kept drawing his eyes to them, almost hypnotizing, but she was still too young to wake his interest. He had no interest in playing babysitter.

She smiled, and Drake did his best to ignore the tingle at the base of his spine that erupted at the sight of it. He then proceeded to ignore the way the nape of his neck prickled when she giggled and bit her lower lip. She should leave him now, duck away and search for new places to hide, but somehow she still stood there and beamed at him. It was decidedly uncomfortable.

Rescue came in the form of another girl. Drake flinched when she jumped at him, but his irritation faded when he realized that it wasn’t him who was the target of her attack.

“There you are! I’ve looked everywhere for you!”

“I’m sorry. I just tried to ditch Greg…”

“Why would you do that?

Drake was forgotten as the friend of his new acquaintance pulled her away. She sent him one last, helpless look as she stumbled after her friend, but Drake had no intention to intervene. No, he would stay out of any teenager’s life.

As it turned out, he was very much mistaken about that.

He’d spotted the girl from time to time, although she was so small that she was hard to make out amongst the dancers, but her almost-boyfriend made up for that by being a head taller than the rest of them. He’d caught her eventually, and Drake supposed he also brought her something to drink.

He shouldn’t focus so much on the girl, Drake told himself, but without wanting to, he searched her out again and again. Maybe the reason for that was his deep-rooted distrust towards teenage boys, or maybe it was because he couldn’t get her full lips out of his mind, pathetic as that may be. From his vantage point close to the stage with the band, and close to the table with the punch, he had an excellent view of the dancers. He didn’t miss it when she started to cling harder to her almost-boyfriend, when she turned so pale that she had the distinctive look of a corpse, and when she stumbled and weaved at her almost-boyfriend’s arm. He didn’t miss the smug look on the boy’s face either.

Drake positioned himself close to the exit, so he wouldn’t miss it when almost-boyfriend would inevitably accompany the girl out. All he had was his suspicion, but it was a strong one. There was something decidedly fishy about it all, and he was there to chaperone, after all.

The girl was hardly able to keep on her feet when almost-boyfriend guided her towards the exit.

Drake stepped in their way.

“Excuse me, the young lady seems a little ill to me. Are you alright, Miss?” Drake ignored the scowl of the boy, even though he was almost a head taller than he himself, and twice as big. Drake was more of the lean, wiry sort, and even though his expensive suits made it look as if he had a broad chest and lots of muscle underneath it, that was mostly due to perfect fitting. He wouldn’t need muscle, though. He had power, and every inch of his appearance exuded it. Even a knucklehead like almost-boyfriend instinctively picked up on that, and he knew better than to challenge Drake.

“June’s fine. Seems like someone spiked her drink, though. I was just about to bring her home.”

“Someone, huh?”

The boy could no longer hold eye-contact, and he shifted on his feet, pulling the girl – June – closer to his side and placing his arm around her. It was a picture that caused revulsion to roll up in Drake’s stomach.

“It wasn’t me.”

Drake ignored the boy and stepped closer. Carefully, as if she might break if he handled her too roughly, he put his fingertips to her cheek, following the line of her jaw to her chin, and tilted her face up. Her skin, soft like cherry blossoms under his fingertips, was clammy, and her pupils dilated. There was a look of panic in their blue depth, and he felt her tremble.

“Do you want him to take you home, Miss?” he asked gently, watching her face intently. She was definitely under the influence of more than just alcohol, and he had to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep himself from beating the boy senseless. His eyes must have betrayed something of his rage, for she was shaking in earnest now.

“See, she’s not saying no. Everything’s fine.”

Drake’s head shot up and he bared his teeth at the boy. “Not saying no doesn’t mean yes, you bastard, and she’s clearly incapacitated by something. What did you give her?”

“Nothing!” The boy took his arm from her waist and stepped away from her, and Drake had to fetch her and keep her from falling, for she swayed helplessly. When Drake had caught her around the waist and looked up again, the boy was gone. “Bastard,” he snarled through clenched teeth. June whimpered.

“Okay, June, do you want to sit down?”

She shook her head and lifted a hand as if reaching for him and not quite managing to steer her hand in the right direction. She needed a second start to place it on his arm.

“Please bring me home,” she whispered.

“I think you should go see a doctor, June. God knows what that bastard mixed into your drink.”

“No!” Her protest was surprisingly strong, and he was taken aback by her sudden outburst. “No, please… not to the doctor. Just… just bring me home.”

“Okay.” Drake looked around, hoping to find someone trustworthy he could delegate the task to, but all he saw were other teenagers, and adults tied up in the very important business of chaperoning. “Okay. Can you walk?”

June nodded, but Drake tested the truth of it by taking a few steps first. It went well enough, and only when they were outside of the school’s gym and the cool night air hit them, he remembered that she might have had a coat. Instead of turning back, he leaned her against the wall outside the door, waiting till he was sure she wouldn’t falter, and took off his own blazer to place it around her small form.

She was all but swallowed by his blazer, even though he himself was not built like a giant and only a head taller than she. Wrapping his arm around her waist and taking her arm, he supported her on the way to his car. Apparently even a tiny person weighed a ton without coordination and muscle tension, and he was glad when they reached his Cadillac without an accident. He leaned her against the car so he could unlock it and open the passenger door.

June started slipping down the back door just when he straightened again, and he caught her just in time to keep her from falling.

“I’m going to kill that guy,” he murmured. June groaned.

It was rather difficult to stuff her onto the passenger seat, with her limbs flopping uselessly about, getting in the way, and her head lolling dangerously from side to side. When it was done, he fastened the seatbelt around her, struggling with the endless layers of her tulle petticoats getting in the way for a moment. They were everywhere, and he cursed when they got snagged in the seatbelt and he ripped a hole in one of the layers.

“I’m sorry, but your dress is rather impractical.”

“It’s my mom’s,” she slurred.

That explained the ill fit and the distinctive, old smell of it, as if the dress had spent the last fifty years in a plastic bag in the attic, packed generously between layers of moth paper.

“Well, I hope your mom doesn’t mind a tear in the petticoats.”

June tried to straighten, suddenly anxious, her lips trembling. She patted down the skirts, but she had too little control over her arms as that she would find the tear in her skirt. “Oh no,” she murmured, repeating it over and over, with so much distress that it lifted the hairs in Drakes nape. It was just a dress, after all, and he supposed that her mother would prefer the integrity of her daughter over that of a dress. While June still tried to find the tear, he closed the door to the passenger side, carefully not to catch any more of her dress between car and door, and rounded the hood to climb in himself.

“Okay, can you tell me your address?” he asked, once seated and buckled up. June let her head fall back and closed her eyes.

“I… uh…” She took a deep breath and crinkled her forehead, as if it demanded all of her concentration to remember her address. “Juniper Reed, 7 Eel Street, Brightwater, Maine.”

Drake sighed. Most of Brightwater’s streets were named after some fish or other, reminiscence of the town’s glorious past as a town of fishermen. At least it wasn’t like searching real eel on the bottom of a muddy pond, as Drake owned enough of the town’s real estate to know his way around. Eel Street was located on the outskirts of town, where the housing prices were cheap and he owned less, because it was too much trouble and too little profit to bother.

When he started the car, June groaned again, and Drake drove slowly off the parking lot, flicking a glance at her every so often to make sure she wasn’t going to vomit as soon at the car started moving. He should have opened the window at her side, he realized, so she got some fresh air.

“Are you sure you don’t want to see the doctor?” he asked, before steering onto the street.

“Can’t…” She didn’t open her eyes as she answered, and Drake steered towards Eel Street with his stomach churning and his hands clenching hard around the wheel.

“Talk to me,” he ordered when they were past the first corner, for he needed to hear her voice to be sure she wasn’t passing out. Maybe his command came out a little harsher than intended, but he comforted himself with the certainty that she wouldn’t remember a thing come morning.

“Can’t…”

“Yes, you can. Tell me about your almost-boyfriend. What’s his name?”

“He’s… he’s Greg. Greg-s-stupid.”

“His name’s Stupid?”

“No. He’s stupid. Not my boyfriend.”

Drake had to stop at a traffic light. “Okay.” He had no idea what to ask her to keep her talking. He just didn’t know enough about the lives of young people nowadays, and what moved or interested them. Luckily, June kept talking of her own.

“He thinks he can tell me to suck him off and be his slut because he’s a quarterback and I’m the bookworm and dying for attention or something.”

Maybe it wasn’t so lucky that she kept talking. Drake focused all his concentration on the traffic light, willing it to change to green.

“The worst thing is that I’d want to be that girl, but not for him, you know.”

Oh, it got worse. The light still didn’t change.

“Like, I’m looking for someone special. I don’t want the next boy, I want someone mature and intelligent. Someone who adores me, and doesn’t see just fuck-holes in me, or a cum dumpster. I hate that word. Cum dumpster. It’s terrible.”

“It is,” Drake murmured, tapping nervously against the wheel. This didn’t go the way he wanted at all. Especially since hearing her slur obscenities in her throaty voice made it harder and harder to remember his principles. She was a child, not a woman, even if she herself might think differently. She had to be protected from the predators in this world. He wasn’t the one to be either of these roles, neither protector nor predator. Finally, the traffic light sprang to green, and he pushed down on the gas. She still kept talking.

“Like, I wouldn’t say no to a spanking if I knew the guy would do it for the right reason, and not because he thinks the woman’s place is on her knees and the man is the crown of all creation, you know…” She groaned as he rounded a corner, and heaved.

“Keep talking!” he barked, despite it being the exact opposite of what he wanted. “Don’t vomit into my car, please.”

“I… won’t…” Her voice, so much stronger only moments before, was thin and quivering once more, and Drake slowed down again. He wanted nothing more than deliver her on her doorstep and be rid of her and her unguarded words, but he didn’t want to pay for it with a soiled car.

“Tell me the right reasons for a spanking.” As desperate as he was for her to keep talking, he shoved his scruples aside and resigned to have her talking filth, just so that she kept talking at all. He had to strain his ears to catch her words, and even so, most of it was slurred beyond comprehension.

“They would have to do it for me… to please me, you know? Because I want it, not to punish me for some… real life stuff. No man’s better than a woman. A person can have a craving for pain and submission without it taking away their equality…but…” She groaned, and from the corner of his eyes, he saw her clench her fists into the petticoats. She was shaking, and so deathly pale that he almost turned around to bring her to the hospital, her wishes be damned. Maybe it was the subject of their conversation that kept him from doing it.

“But what? Please, I need to know.”

“I don’t know. I don’t feel well…”

“I know. I’m sorry, June. We’re almost there.” It was a lie. They still had to cross half of town to get to Eel Street, and he was driving excruciatingly slow now, hoping it would help to keep the contents of her stomach where they belonged.

“I don’t feel well, Mr. Drake…”

He cursed under his breath. He could hear the tears in her voice, dammit. He hated the helplessness he was condemned to, hated that he was unable to reach over and make her feel better with a simple touch. She would have to get through it on her own, and it would probably take hours.

“Concentrate, dear. You wanted to say something.”

“I can’t.” She inhaled deeply, stifling a sob. Drake had never seen someone more miserable than her in that moment, and it broke his heart.

“We’re almost there,” he said, as if repeating it would make it any truer.

“Can we… can we stop?” Her voice trembled. She sounded so in distress that Drake kicked down the gas and sped up the car, wanting nothing more than to get her home right away.

“Do you need to vomit?”

“No…” There was something in her tone, making her sound so much like a child that it turned his stomach. As if she was scared of him. As if she wanted to be as far away from him as possible. No wonder, considering the things he made her talk about, bastard that he was.

“Don’t worry, dear. I’ll get you home safely, I promise.”

“Please hurry,” she whispered.

He did, but he needed to stop twice more at a red light. The second time they halted, she was fidgeting in her seat, and for one terrible moment, he feared she would jump out of the car. She grappled at the door, at the buckle of her seatbelt, and she groaned and panted. She was clearly suffering, and she did not suffer in silence.

“Talk to me,” he begged her, no longer caring if he stressed her with his demand. Scaring her was better than having her jump out of a driving car in her state, and probably killing herself in doing so. “Tell me, if you don’t want to be disciplined, what would be the reason for spanking you? There has to be one, right?”

Too late he realized how his words sounded. As if he was threatening to spank her if she didn’t tell him the answer to his question. He bit down a groan and glanced at her. Maybe she hadn’t noticed.

June watched him wide-eyed and with trembling lips. Fuck.

“There… would have to be a code… sort of…” she stammered. “A play… Like we act that it’s real punishment but it isn’t. It’s not to correct my behavior, it’s to sate my craving…”

“Your… craving?” His throat was so tight that the words broke and came out hoarse and rugged.

She pushed her hands under her thighs, as if she wanted to pull her legs up but then didn’t, and she stared ahead, chewing her bottom lip. Her words came hesitantly, as if she was scared of speaking them at all. “I’m a terrible person. I know it’s wrong, and sick, but I want it so much. As if I could only be happy if I could kneel and serve someone. But I rather stay forever alone than do it for the wrong reasons, for someone who thinks I’m just… a slut. I mean, I want to be… that. I want it so much. I’m disgusted by how much I want to be called a slut, but not… not like it’s a bad thing, you know?”

She trailed off, and Drake let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He had no idea where to even start in unraveling her feeble string of words.

“I… I don’t think it’s wrong, or sick, June. We’re human, and we come in a vast variety of characters. Some things appeal to some, but not to others, but who is to say that one’s wrong and one isn’t? I mean, of course there are some things wrong, but as long as none of the things someone does involves any unwilling parties, or parties unable to consent, I don’t think we should judge. You need to be comfortable with yourself…” God, how had he managed to get himself into this situation? He was absolutely the wrong person to give anyone absolution for their twisted desires.

“You think so?” she asked, voice thin, and he noticed that she was clawing at her skirt, kneading the fabric frantically. She would tear it some more if she kept doing that. Her knuckles were white, her whole complexion ghostlike in the darkness of the car. In the passing light of a street lamp, her cheeks glittered. She was in tears, for fuck’s sake. What a monster he was.

“I do think so, yes. Don’t worry, you’re still young. You’ll have a lot of time for figuring things out.”

“I… hope so…” Panic flitted across her face. “Can we please stop?”

“We’re almost there.”

This time, it was the truth. He turned into Eel Street and slowed down, looking for number 7. They were at the wrong end, it turned out.

“Please, I can walk the rest, just let me out…”

“It’s no big deal, really. I’ll bring you to your doorstep. You can’t possibly walk alone.” She had hardly made it to his car, and that had been with his help. She was in a much worse condition now.

“Pl… oh. Oh no.” She tensed, making a wretched sound. It crawled along Drake’s spine like an icy hand and made his hair stand on end.

“It’s going to be alright, dear, I promise!” He got a feeling that it wouldn’t. Like he was lying to them both, and she would collapse and die in his car just when they would reach her house. How was he supposed to explain that to her parents? He stared with narrowed eyes out into the night, searching house numbers. Fifteen. Thirteen. Not much further now.

Beside him, June was quietly sobbing. He could tell that she tried to suppress it by holding her breath, but ever so often, she could no longer hold it back and sucked in air in shuddering sobs. Drake did his best to ignore her wheezing. He should have just called her parents to get her. What had he even been thinking, bringing her home himself? Stupid, that’s what he was.

Number 7. Thank God. He stopped and turned off the engine. “There, we’re here,” he said with false cheer, before getting out of the car. In his haste to get rid of her, he even forgot to unbuckle her seatbelt while still in the car. It occurred to him upon opening the passenger door, when she didn’t move an inch. She sat there shaking, staring down at her lap, and made no move.

“Can you get out yourself?”

“I can’t.” She didn’t even try, and she sounded tiny. Even in the dim light coming from the next street lamp, he could see the color rise into her cheeks. She looked feverish. Wretched. As if climbing out of the car meant the end of the world, an impossible feat.

Drake resigned himself to help her and bent down. As he reached into the car, June whimpered and tried to slap him away. Her hands didn’t obey her and she missed him, but even if she had managed to hit him, it wouldn’t have done much damage. She had too little control to bring much force behind her punch.

“Keep calm, I just want to open your seatbelt for you,” he said, impatient. For all her urgency to get out of his car earlier, she resisted rather hard now that they’d reached her home and it was time.

“Can’t,” she repeated, and the panic in her voice ignited a new wave of unease in Drake. He ignored her feeble attempts at blocking him and reached for the buckle of her seatbelt. June panted, emitting a high pitched whine that had him on edge, and he could almost feel her trembling on his skin, the vibrations hitting him like the sound of a kettle drum.  Despite her shaking, she radiated heat, a warmth that he could smell, as if all her pores opened to douse him in this new smell, different than the perfume of old moth paper and yellowed cotton, and unmistakable with its slight note of yeast. He froze, poised above her in the confined space of the car, so close to her that her warm, wet breath tickled his cheek.

He closed his eyes, swallowing a groan. The realization of what had happened – of her mishap, the reason why she had been so intent on leaving his car and was now refusing to get up – washed over him, but it didn’t bring the reaction he expected or even the one that would be appropriate.

June had wetted herself. She had peed into his car, and her refusal to get up was not – or, not only – her lack of muscle tension and coordination. It was raw, unadulterated shame. And the thing that seized him, grabbed his guts and made his every cell prickle and sing, it wasn’t disgust, no. It was something primal, visceral, a reaction just as pure and undiluted as her shame. It was wrong, sick and perverse, yet it was breathtakingly real, and addictive.

Triumph. Lust, shooting straight to his groin and slithering through his veins like melted gold. His nostrils flared as he sucked in the scent of her shame, and he swallowed thickly.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Her broken words condensed on his skin.

With shaking fingers, he groped for the buckle of the seatbelt and freed her. When he drew back, straightening carefully, he was aware of every single, yearning cell of skin on his hard cock rubbing against his boxers, from his balls to his tip, tenting his pants, was so aware of it that the rest of his body just as well might have ceased to exist, would it not tingle and hum all over.

“Let me help you out,” he rasped, his voice scratching in his throat as if he had to push it past flint and rubble.

She didn’t resist his gentle pull as he clasped her arm and helped her out of the car, but a sound broke from her throat when he placed his arm around her to support her on their way to the porch. He’d felt the dampness of her backside as he brushed past her clothes (and his blazer) where her urine had seeped into the fabric, still warm, and it sent another jolt up from between his pelvic bones.

“Don’t! I’m…”

“Don’t worry, dear. It’s not your fault. Let’s not speak about it.”

She trembled in his arms, but didn’t protest. Her eyes firmly on the ground, she allowed him to help her up the sagging steps of the porch and to the door. The paint on the door frame was chipping off in flakes, and Drake held on to June rather than leaning her against the house front or the door. Her closeness kept his senses alert and his hard-on very much acute, and he did his best to keep her half in front of his traitorous body as a shield when he pressed his thumb against the plastic button of the doorbell. The automatic light above the door flickered, bathing them in sickly green light, and he could hear electricity hum above his head. June swayed, falling back against him, but even as he tightened his grip to keep her from falling, she jerked already away again. He felt a dampness against his thigh.

It was as if invisible strings were pulling him closer, towards her, and he found himself leaning closer, so close he could feel her dark, curly hair tickle his nose as he inhaled deeply. A shiver ran through her and sprang over from where he held on to her arm, humming like the exposed wires of the flickering light above them. His lungs were filled to bursting with the scent of her sweat and urine. His reason told him that he should be repulsed. A baser part of him wanted to wallow in the scent, and absorb it with every cell of his body.

Eager to stump out that rebellious part of his psyche, he pushed the doorbell again. Finally, the door opened, and he faced a haggard woman in a threadbare bathrobe. She focused on him, with a blank expression, until he gently pushed June towards her and her eyes were drawn to the girl.

“Jackie?”

June groaned. “Mom, it’s me. Juniper.”

The woman blinked. “What happened?”

Drake tried to persuade June to take a step across the threshold, but she was rooted to the spot, and her mother made no move to take her from his arm. “Mrs. Reed, maybe we could bring your daughter inside? I’m Mr. Drake, I was a chaperone at the dance… Juniper feels a little ill, and I brought her home. I think she was drugged.”

“You drugged her?” All of a sudden, the woman in the faded bathrobe turned into a dragon.

“No – no, of course not!” Drake was a little shocked by the fierce accusation. He hadn’t expected praise for bringing the daughter home unscathed, but  a quick and polite ‘thanks’ seemed the reasonable thing to expect. Mrs. Reed scowled at him, apparently not believing a word he said, and Drake was glad she didn’t have any weapons on her. A brush-in with a rolling pin would be unpleasant, to say the least. At his arm, June reeled, and he tightened his grip on her arm.

June panted, and finally, her mother stepped aside and pointed down the dim hall. She expected him to bring her daughter in, then. Fine. With his arm around June’s small form to support her, he followed the mother inside, through the narrow hall with its faded wallpaper into a kitchen. The Formica of the antiquated kitchen range must have been white at some point but was now yellow-grey and matted with grease, and the lino floor was so worn down that it had lost every color. A faint smell of smoke hung in the air, noticeable even over the fruity smell of mango and peaches pervading the air and tickling at the back of his palate. Drake supposed that ashes would trickle from the thick curtains of the window if he came too close and actually moved them. Even in her soiled dress, and pale as death, June was easily the cleanest thing of the room, and probably the whole house. When he helped her to a chair, it wasn’t just her miserable state that made him feel sorry for her. June didn’t resist when he took his blazer from her, and he folded it over his arm, the wet side away from his body, making sure to shield his midsection. Not even the obvious desolation clinging to every surface of this house managed to stomp out the heat in his veins.

Mrs. Reed followed him, her hands fluttering aimlessly in the air, as if she couldn’t decide what to do with them.

“Water would be a good idea,” Drake growled, when Mrs. Reed just stared at her daughter, and she sprang into motion, scuffling over to the sink. It was high with suds, and beside the mountains of white foam, some dishes, pots and mugs were scattered across the countertop, as well as empty shampoo bottles, tins and flower pots. It was a strange assortment of knick knacks, and it was all more or less covered with suds. Mrs. Reed must have been doing the dishes, and she must have decided to scrub any kind of container she got her hands on. She grabbed a mug with old remnants of paint on it and, without even rinsing it from the suds, filled it with water from the tap and brought it over. She wanted to shove it into June’s hand, but Drake took it from her before June could drink from it. It felt slippery in his hand.

“Do you have a clean mug, Mrs. Reed?”

She knitted her brows tightly and stared at him like he was some sort of monster. He felt oddly naked.

“I just washed that,” she said. So coldly that it sent a chill down his spine.

“What did you do, Mom?” June groaned.

“The dishes. Obviously.”

“Where is Mr. Reed?” Drake inquired, but no one answered him. He deposited the mug in the sink and took one without paint rests, rinsing it out before he filled it with clear water and brought it back to June. She couldn’t take a hold of it, so he placed it on the table, all under Mrs. Reed’s watchful eyes. He ignored her.

“Take care to drink a lot. And rest.” He patted June’s back, a little clumsily, and backed out of the kitchen. It didn’t seem like the best idea to leave June with her somewhat strange mother, but he had other, urgent problems to tend to, and frankly, the sad workings of the Reed family were none of his business. He had taken care that June got back home safe, and that was it.

At least that was what he told himself when he got back into his car. He glanced at the passenger seat. It was glistening, the seat darker than the back. Drake shivered. He covered the seat with his already ruined blazer, as if hiding the evidence would undo June’s mishap, and his shameful reaction to it. Yet he still very much suffered the symptoms of his reaction, and he groped at the crotch of his pants to adjust himself. He couldn’t help but squeeze, and rub the head of his throbbing cock, as if it would help and take the pressure off.

It didn’t.

“Fuck this,” he murmured, starting the car. The low vibrations and purr of the engine crept through his body, only furthering his state, and he’d never before been as relieved to reach his own house. As soon as he entered the spacious entrance hall of his Victorian, it was as if some weight was lifted off his shoulders. Everything was impeccably clean, gleaming, smelling of orange scented wood polish, and nothing hummed or buzzed. His ruined blazer bunched up in his fist, he went upstairs, where he tossed his blazer onto his dressing chair beside the floor length mirror, only to pick it immediately up again. Sinking down on the edge of his bed, he stared down at the bundle in his hand, feeling for the damp spot somewhere at the back of t, and wondered what he should do with it now. He could give it to the dry cleaners, but the thought of having a piece of clothing that smelled of urine cleaned seemed too embarrassing, even though it was not his own urine and he was by God rich enough that he didn’t need to bother with what anyone thought of him.

Then again, the thought of having the evidence of that breathtaking moment removed, when he realized what had passed, seemed like a sacrilege. Her shame had been so – intense. Keen. As had been his reaction. He pressed the blazer to his crotch, in spite of himself, and exhaled with a shudder. No, he wouldn’t give the blazer to the dry cleaner.

With trembling fingers, he unbuckled his belt, and opened his fly, freeing his straining cock. He was ashamed of his unrelenting hardness, of the need humming under his skin, but then, no one would ever know. As he took himself in hand, he pictured June, her skin shimmering with the heat of her embarrassment, her lips trembling, wet, and he inhaled deeply to suck in the lingering smell on his blazer, now pungent and sharp. He imagined to pull her dress down, over her hips, to let it fall to the floor where it pooled around her feet. She would shiver, she would try to cover herself and shield her body from his gaze, but he would grasp her wrists and move her hands behind her back, intertwining his fingers with hers. He wondered if her bra would be just as thin and worn as her dress had been, and he knew – just knew it – that her panties would be sheer and wet and cling to her skin, revealing the nest of curls underneath. Oh, she’d be so ashamed, having to expose her soaked panties like this, having to expose her mishap, the evidence of her loss of control… Drake’s eyes fluttered shut and he panted, stroking along his shaft, slowly, up and down. He would breathe in the scent of her heated skin, and oh, how she would tremble when he’d follow the curve of her stomach with the tip of his finger, down to the wet crotch of her knickers. He’d press his finger to her slit, with gentle pressure, and she’d gasp and whimper.

He imagined rubbing her crotch, gently, tenderly, while he massaged himself, and he groaned when he pictured bringing his fingertips up to her lips to have her lick the taste of her shame off them. He imagined spurting his cum onto her stomach and rubbing it all over her, massaging her firm little tits, making her lick it off his fingers, and using his cum as lube to push a finger into her tightly puckered ass. She would glow in shame, she would moan in pleasure, and he would make her admit just how much she liked it when he did that.

He came with a groan from deep within his guts, spilling himself onto the blazer in his fist.

He was choking with shame over his repulsive fantasy.

End of Chapter One. Stay tuned for future installments.