“I like it.” It’s such a girly color, and it draws the eye of people when I walk through a room. I like the attention. I like that it sets me apart a little in a room full of beautiful people. There’s also the added bonus that I can tell a lot from a person by how they react to pink hair, in particular. It’s like it short-circuits something in people’s brains, especially men. If they curl their lip when they see my pink hair, I know immediately that I won’t agree to scene with them. It’s a nice way to filter out assholes.
“The indigo is nice.” She moves down the back of my neck, finding a knot there and working it with her fingers. It feels good-bad, a hurt that is almost like a release. I have a private theory that all good massage therapists are sadists, and this feeling only reinforces that belief. “You carry a lot of tension in your neck.”
Maybe it’s the warm bath or her competent hands, but I forget myself for a moment. Forget who I’m talking to. “Why the massage and bath? A quick cuddle with a blanket would have gotten the post-scene job done.” That’s the standard procedure in the Underworld. Obviously, I know that every Dominant-submissive combo has their own preferences, but this is outside my realm of expectations and for some reason, it’s throwing me for a loop.
“Because I want to.” An answer that isn’t an answer at all.
She keeps up that idle massage until I feel almost drunk. I have the distant thought that maybe falling asleep in the tub wouldn’t be such a bad thing, but before I can follow through on that ridiculous thought, Malone’s touch is gone.
I open my eyes in time to see her reach into the water and open the drain. She grabs a ridiculously fluffy towel and gives me a long look. “Can you stand without falling over?”
“Of course.” I’m not sure if I’m lying or not, but I’m not about to admit it. I climb carefully to my feet and step out of the tub. She instantly engulfs me in the towel. I start to take it from her, but another severe look has me dropping my hands.
She dries me off just like she seems to do everything. Competently. If I didn’t have so much experience in submission and scening, I’d mistake this for actual intimacy. It’s not. It’s simply aftercare and a Domme ensuring her submissive coasts back to reality carefully. Not that I’m hers. Not really. But for the next two weeks, I might as well be.
Exhaustion weighs down my thoughts, making them sticky and confusing. This is why I didn’t want aftercare from this woman. It muddies the waters, even for me, an experienced submissive. Tomorrow, they’ll be clear again, and I’ll reinforce my plans.
Tonight, I just feel like crying.
She doesn’t comment on the shining in my eyes, which is the smallest of favors. Once I’m dried to her satisfaction, she folds the towel and hangs it back in its place. I’ve reached the satisfied numbness of a post-scene drop, so I simply stand there and wait for her to tell me what she wants. What little energy I had to fight this disappeared with the water from my body.
When she pulls out a bottle of the exact same brand of lotion I use, I raise my brows. Someone did their homework, though I can’t begin to guess how. I’m particular about lotion, and I’m extra particular about scent. This is the only one I’ve found that doesn’t make me sticky but also has a subtle enough scent that it doesn’t irritate me.
Even through my daze, I start a little when she begins rubbing lotion into my skin. She moves slowly, as if learning my body. It feels too intimate, too… I don’t even know. “You don’t have to do that.”
“You should know by now that I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.” She doesn’t look up as she massages lotion into my stomach. “Be silent, and be still.”
There’s no point in arguing. I’m too tired and worn down to bother. It’s easier to simply submit as she slowly works her way over my body, taking extra time and care to ensure she doesn’t miss an inch. Aftercare. That’s all it is. Simply thorough aftercare.
But despite the strange floating feeling in my head, I don’t miss the way pink tinges her cheeks. She wants me. She might not want to want me any more than I want to want her, but she does.
Before I can think better of it, I catch her wrist. “Malone. Mistress.”
Her brows wing up. “I’m listening.”
Why am I doing this? Just another manipulation. That’s all. I refuse to think too closely about how flimsy that excuse is. “Surely you aren’t going to go without orgasm tonight just because I am.” I lick my lips. “Let me help.”