Trauma Kink

GRAYSON

“Hi, really?” I stare at the girl with auburn hair. She looks like your typical fucking brat.

Those ripped fishnet tights print a thousand words inside my mind. I look down at her boots. They’re unique, I’ll give her that, and that short skirt doesn’t provide her with much security.

Don’t get me started on the crop top that she’s not wearing a bra with either. Then there’s the black jacket with the sleeves rolled up.

I can safely say that she’s the first girl who has ever walked into my life dressed like that. Different, I must say.

I have to admit that there is something that I’ve spotted that grabs my attention instantly. Marks on both of her wrists. I don’t like that at all.

She crosses her arms and shifts over to her right foot.

“Yeah. Got a problem?” Taken by surprise, I raise my eyebrows and step forward, staring down my chest at her. She pushes me gently. “Do you mind? Space, please. Thanks.”

My point is proven. She’s a brat! I squint my eyes and light up a cigarette, blowing smoke in her face. Closing her eyes, she breathes it in with a cocky grin.

Who told me not to judge a book by its cover? That statement is complete and utter bullshit!

I turn around, leaving her ass at the door. Picking up my glass, I swish it around in my hand and drink it like a shot.

“What do you suppose I should do with you, huh?” I ask her. She has the option to reply if she wants to. The freedom is there.

“Oh, I don’t know. Keep me as your slave, lock me up in your dungeon… Just don’t make me wear a pink dress or I’ll abolish you,” she tells me, throwing herself down on my black leather sofa.

I stop what I’m doing and drum my fingers on the side table. I wasn’t expecting that response from her. So, is she a bratty submissive or is she a woman who likes to act as if she is?

I grab a second glass from my shelf and pour her a drink. Picking up the glass and my pen, I walk over to her and hold the glass out for her to take.

“Is that right?” Nodding her head, she chews gum, and it frustrates me. I want to grab her jaw and force her mouth open until she spits it out. The noise goes through me, but I brush it to the side, trying to ignore it.

She sits up straight, raising her hand to take the glass, and I purposefully drop the pen on the floor. Let’s see what she does next.

I watch her. She stares at it and I narrow my eyes. She can’t throw a statement like that at me and not expect me to respond. Then again, she doesn’t know who I am, does she?

Pushing her off the sofa, I put my feet up and hold my hand out. On her hands and knees, she stares at me, obviously lost for words.

“I need that pen,” I tell her. Her drink is on the floor, her knees are soaking wet, and her face is the perfect picture of a woman not getting her own way. Dirty bitch.

“Get it yourself.” She squints at me and sits down next to the small puddle of rum, bringing her knees up to her chest.

“You told me to keep you as my slave. I could simply whip your ass. Then again, I’m sure you’re all talk and no action, aren’t you?” I grin, putting my glass to my lips.

“Wow, offensive.” She gives me the ultimate brat facial expression. Sighing, she picks up the pen and places it in the palm of my hand, and I grab her hand.

“Don’t make statements like that in front of me. They will get you in a situation you don’t want to find yourself in,” I warn her with a stern voice.

ARRI

Oh wow, what a jerk! I have only this set of clothes with me and they now stink of alcohol. Moving myself to stand up, I walk over to his security camera setup and look at the screens.

“Bad past?” he asks me, and I glance over my right shoulder. He looks me up and down, and I shake my head, rolling my eyes.

“Because I’m dressed like this?” I ask him, and he nods, walking to stand behind me.

I can feel the heat radiating off his body, he’s that close to me. Breathing in deeply, I think about Thirst. I hope that she’s safe, away from that jerk Caponde.

I know that I’m not exactly in a safe place, but I can look after myself. Thirst can’t. She’s a people pleaser who gets herself in trouble all of the time.

“You’re wearing black. I can tell just by looking at you that you have problems that stem back to your past.” I don’t say a word. His hands touch my shoulders and I close my eyes.

He does have a point. My soul is an endless pit of nothingness. I no longer feel anything and depression has been the hardest demon to overcome.

“I’ll take that as a yes. So what was it… Parents divorced, heartbreak, one parent not in the picture?” He’s hitting a sensitive nerve. This is a subject that I would rather we don’t talk about.

I don’t know him, but I feel as if I can tell him what haunts me day in, day out. I need to vent.

“Abuse and neglect,” I mumble, keeping my eyes focused on the screens.

“Have you sorted through it? What are you doing with life now?” he asks me. His voice is rather soothing, if I may say so myself.

“Struggling to move forward. Being an adult is tough.” He nods in understanding.

I can see his reflection. He stares at the side of my head. I don’t know what his eyes are focusing on, and I don’t bother to look.

“I bet it’s not,” he whispers in my ear, and my body shivers. I’m not falling for this guy’s charms.

“Just because you have everything sorted in your life doesn’t mean it isn’t hard out there. You have all of this money. I call you an elite, and you elites, in my eyes, don’t know what the real world is.

“I’m from a poor background, and believe me when I say this, if you don’t have any money coming in, life is dark and sad all of the time.

“So, don’t you dare tell me that life is not hard as an adult, because I have firsthand experience of sitting inside my bedroom with no gas or electric, wrapped up in a blanket, eating unhealthy food, feeling grateful for that roof over my head.

“You have no fucking idea!” He’s annoying me so much right now.

“I didn’t mean it that way. You’ve blown my words out of proportion. What I did mean is that everyone can live an easy lifestyle, they just choose not to. The way that you do that is by stepping out of your comfort zone.”

I nod swiftly and sigh.

“I can see you’re a Dom,” I blurt out. He laughs and my throat closes slightly, restricting my airflow.

“What makes you say such a bold statement?”

I glance over at a coat rack. It has a set of cuffs and a blindfold dangling from it. It’s not hard to put two and two together.

The way that he holds himself, asks questions, and reacts are the characteristics of a Dominant.

A normal man wouldn’t ask that many questions, and they tend to twist your sentences to make themselves look better. That’s from my very own experience.

“Mmmm,” I hear him hum down my left ear. Removing his hands from my shoulders, he walks over to the rack and takes the blindfold in his hands.

I watch his every move closely in the reflection of the computer screens. Walking to me with slow steps, each one echoing in the room so loudly I want to cover my ears, he stops behind me again.

“Is this what you were staring at?” I nod, holding my hands together in front of me.

It has been months since I last stood in a room with a Dominant. My previous Dominant wasn’t half as experienced as this man.

He wanted to show me that he could pleasure me, but he couldn’t do it the way that I wanted him to. I spent most of our sessions feeling unsatisfied, all while he was feeling relieved.

I thought that my sexual side was connected to my emotions, and that was the reason why I couldn’t get the release that I wanted.

Holding the blindfold out in front of me, his forearms touching my shoulders, he wraps it around my eyes and my vision turns black. Like my soul.

I close my eyes and focus on my senses. Is he going to touch me? Leave me guessing where he is in the room or startle me?

I don’t know what his plan of action is, but I am trusting him completely.

I feel safe in his hands, and Thirst would call me insane for letting him cover my eyes, but for the first time in years, I can actually feel my beating heart coming to life.

There’s this flutter in my stomach, and the palms of my hands are sweating. If that doesn’t tell me that I feel safe, then I don’t know what will.

His fingers touch my right arm, and I catch my escaping breath, holding myself still.

“Self-harmer, I see.” Nodding my head, I focus on my breathing. There’s something about him.

It’s weird actually. Those who don’t have any experience with the lifestyle won’t understand how rare this man is in the BDSM world.

Granted, they will find a Dominant in days, but that person who claims to be a Dominant can be a psychotic fuck who will cause long-term damage to them, not only physically but mentally.

Those who have had a Dominant can spot another one instantly. There’s something soothing about the way that they carry themselves.

Don’t get me wrong when I say that because they can be scary too, especially when you’re on the receiving end of a stick.

Now there’s nothing that can explain the fear you feel when you hear a whip swishing through the air. I shiver.

Still, I don’t think it’s fair for submissives who are stepping foot into the world for the first time.

I see them as vulnerable, victims that these so-called Dominants, not forgetting Mistresses, catch like prey and make them obey their every order.

Messing with their heads, they feel their egos rise. I’m a firm believer that every submissive deserves a loving Dom/Mist in their life.

“When was your last?” he asks me, and I think back to when I was with Brian, my ex-boyfriend/Dom.

“Three months ago,” I tell him quickly. His fingers glide down the right side of my neck, and I lean my head toward his hand like a kitten being petted.

“Why?” Butterflies set off in flight mode inside my stomach, and my throat feels restricted as my heartbeat booms inside my ears. The silence inside the room makes my nerves shoot through the roof.

“Not the correct match.” He chuckles and I smirk. So he does have a sense of humor then.