Obsessive Compulsion Page 9

  “I am, Mistress Cat.” I move back to the front of Ian and keep my eyes locked with his. “I’ve used ropes and binding for art displays and naive bedroom play. I’m grateful for your guidance so I can do this properly for Twitch.”

  She nods once, seemingly satisfied with my answer. “Proceed.”

  I ask Ian to sit and then look around the room. “Last Friday, I blindfolded him with gauze, but you didn’t bring any?”

  “Correct,” she affirms. “When you mentioned the blindfolding, I knew that was part of the problem. With Twitch, because of his OCD, a blindfold takes away his ability to focus and channel his compulsive urges where they need to be – on you. Isn’t that right, Twitch?”

  Ian’s head lowers again. “Yes, Mistress.” I’m angry again for a split second until he raises his gaze back to mine. “I didn’t actually know until I freaked out last time, I swear. When I explained what happened to my therapist, she recommended leaving the blindfold off so I can look at you. Victoria agrees.”

  “You told your… I mean,” I inhale and then let it out. “I’m sorry. It’s not my business.”

  “Yes, it is,” Ian corrects. “I tell Michelle everything. I have to. She specializes in OCD and helps me figure things out.”

  “Alright,” I caress his cheek again and he immediately calms. “No more blindfolds. But,” I change to a playful tone, “no cheating either.” I wink and he grins. “You remember the game, and the word to say when you don’t want to play anymore?”

  “I do, Miss Scarlet.”

  “Good.” I try to forget that Victoria is there, watching us. I want to focus all my energy on Ian so he can do the same. Victoria is there as an Assist, but right now, it’s just me an Ian. His comfort is all that matters to me. Pulling off the glove from my right hand, I wink at him again. “Then let’s play.”

  I begin with simple drawings. A line, a cross, a diamond and even a heart. When I draw a macaroni noodle, Ian snorts. I kiss him extra for that. As the game continues, more complicated drawings and words leading into longer kisses, the rest of the room vanishes. It’s just me, Ian, and his strange, beautiful eyes.

  After dotting the ‘i’ in Charlie, his smile warms into a lopsided, boyish grin before he whispers my name. The way he says it causes tingling ripples to cascade over my skin. He says it like it was a special secret, just for us. A secret like the feelings behind the way he’s looking at me. The kiss deepens, we both let out simultaneous moans, and my hands are roaming paths up his inner thighs.

  It’s all going so well, and I think that the blindfold and the tight bindings must have been the issues last week. I think we’re in the clear. I think Ian and I can actually make this work.

  “Stop.”

  Victoria’s voice breaks into my mind, shattering the moment. I pull back and am shocked to see Ian with wide eyes and twitching muscles. I’m confused, hurt and worried all at the same time.

  I look between Ian and Victoria, unable to keep the emotions completely under control. “What did I do wrong? Twitch, are you okay? Twitch? Breathe, Ian.”

  Ian sucks in a deep breath as I lean further away from him, removing my hands from his body. Again, I look to Victoria for answers. “What did I do?”

  “Too fast,” Victoria replies. “You need to slow down. You were doing very well, so don’t get too upset. I’m very impressed, but with first timers, you should always do your advances in stages, being certain you aren’t letting your own needs control the momentum.”

  “Baby steps. I understand,” but I’m also still confused. I know this isn’t Ian’s first time being bound. I asked Brandon after last Friday’s fuck-up. “But, what do you mean by first timers? First time doing what, exactly?”

  Victoria’s dark brown eyes widen as she looks at Ian. “You didn’t tell her?!”

  Ian doesn’t answer. He just lowers his head, his sandy hair falling over his eyes. Between his shamed body language and the expression on Victoria’s face, I put two and two together, then I gasp. Mercy. Ian is a virgin?

  “Well,” Victoria sighs in heavy disappointment directed towards Ian. “You two obviously have more talking to do. We will continue this lesson next week. Please untie him and then, for the love of God, talk to each other.”

  As Victoria leaves the room, I quickly untie Ian’s bindings. He’s still refusing to look at me, even as I set the rope aside and sit back on my heels. I fidget for a moment, then waste time putting my glove back on. I hate fidgeting, but I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to embarrass a nearly thirty-year-old man.

  Unable to stand the silence any more, I exhale the breath I’d been holding. “I wish you would’ve told me.”

  “I know,” his words waver. “I should have. I just never found the right time,” his voice turns dark. Aggravated. Self-mocking. “Yeah… I keep my stove unplugged, no fridge, I’ve got a stalker-worthy wall of your art, oh and by the way, I’m also a twenty-eight-year-old virgin. Pretty hot dating material, right?”

  By the end, he’s almost hissing the words past his tight jaw. I’m watching him come unglued, right in front of me. “You think that matters to me?” I lean forward between his parted knees, trying to get him to look at me. “You think I care about something like that?”

  “No, but I do!” He jumps to his feet and passes me, heading for the door.

  I get in his way. “No running, Ian. I’m not gonna run like I did on Wednesday, and you don’t get to run, either.”

  I watch his whole frame convulse in one, giant twitch. He’s fighting internal demons, and I can’t possibly make him fight them alone. I open my arms, he hesitates, and then he falls into them, burying his face into my covered neck.

  “I’m so tired, Charlie,” he sounds more than tired. He sounds completely exhausted. “I’m so tired of every single second of my life being a never ending war that I can’t ever seem to win.”

  “Maybe you aren’t supposed to win, sweetie.” My fingers run through his hair, wishing I didn’t have all this leather between us but understanding now, more than ever, how necessary it is. “Maybe you’re just supposed to survive.”

  He leans back, our souls reflecting back at one another. “Is that what you do?”

  The question is hard to answer, but he’s looking at me like he can already tell, like he already knows how unsteadily I walk through life despite my put-together appearance. Ian gets it, the same way I get him. I blink away a tear that forms without warning. “Every day I’m able to smile more than cry is considered a victory.”

  The admission falls out, and it’s too late to take any of it back. He stares at me, long and hard, then leans in to catch the tear with his lips as it beads against my chin. The significance of that single gesture, that he actually caught my tear with his lips, isn’t lost on me.

  I kiss his forehead, take his hand then lead us towards the bed. “I think we could both use a rest. Will you lay and talk with me?”

  His fingers tighten in between mine, but he doesn’t stop me. When we get to the bed, he kneels down and begins unzipping my boots. The slow, methodical motion of his fingers as they slide the zipper downwards draws my full attention. Even with the simple act of removing my boots, he’s asking me for patience.

  He stops, pats the mattress and I sit. “Thank you,” he whispers as he continues tending to my boots.

  I think Ian may have a shoe fetish, not that I’m complaining. It’s actually kind of sexy the way his fingers are gliding along the leather and caressing each grommet. “Do you like my boots?”

  “I love your boots,” he keeps his voice quiet. Reverent, almost, as he slides one boot off and sets it gently aside. When he’s done with the other, he unzips his own boots and sets them next to mine in a perfect line before standing. “I’ll could shine them later for you?”

  I can tell, just by the way he asks, that he wants to tend to my boots. “I would appreciate that.”

  His lips curl into a smile. If servicing my boots makes Ian happy, then w
ho am I to judge? We all have our quirks. I like posing models, bound in rope, and then body painting them. I wonder if Ian would ever let me caress his skin with my brush instead of just my finger.

  Glancing over his body, I think his exposed, lean and muscular chest is begging to be used as a canvass. Unable to resist, I palm his chest, fanning my gloved fingers out across his skin. His pectorals quiver, but he remains perfectly still as I raise my eyes up to his. He’s not looking at me, though. He’s staring intently at the top of my head.

  “Please grab my hairbrush from my bag,” I request. He inhales deeply then rushes to comply. I don’t know if Ian is just easy to read, but I like that I can guess some of what’s going on in that brain of his. He carefully goes through my things until he finds the brush then stands back in front of me, waiting. “I would like you to take out my braid.”

  “Yes, Charlie,” he whispers before joining me on the bed. Kneeling behind me, he starts at the bottom, taking out the band that’s holding my long, braided ponytail together. After securing the band to the hairbrush’s handle, he slowly begins unwinding the braid. “Your hair is beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” I smile. I’ve had plenty of other men tell me my hair is pretty, but none of them have ever quite said it like Ian. He says it the same way I might say a painting by Monet or John Waterhouse is beautiful. Those paintings touch places in my soul. The word beautiful is inadequate to describe them, but it’s the best word I have.

  Closing my eyes, I give him all the time he needs, letting the sensations of the brush combing through my hair tingle my scalp. “That feels wonderful.”

  “I’m glad.” The brush stops. “I could do this for hours, you know.”

  A light laugh bubbles through my chest. “I’m sure, but that may cause me to go bald.”

  Setting the brush down, he leaves the bed to stand in front of me again. I’m happy to see he’s smiling, too. Leaning back on the bed, I scoot over and pat the mattress next to me. “For now, I would like you to lay with me.”

  “I would like that, too.” His eyes show a want for something more, but his jaw twitches to reveal the continued struggle within.

  Holding my arms open to him, I wait to see how far I can take each step. I’ve got him into the bed, we’re talking, and now he’s accepting my invitation to lay in my arms. I resist the urge to wrap my body around his and hold him tight. He has problems being touched while I have problems not being able to touch him. It’s a delicate dance of give and take, but I think we’re slowly figuring out the right moves to keep from stepping on each other’s toes.

  “Thank you,” he whispers, nuzzling against the latex covering my breast and shoulder.

  My smile widens as I close my eyes, taking in the feeling of finally having Ian pressed up against me. There may be layers of leather and latex between us, but it’s still two bodies coming together in the only way they can. At least, for now. This man is worth every bit of patience I have, and maybe, just maybe, we can stop simply surviving through life. Maybe we can fight together to finally start living.

  Ian

  The sound of Charlie’s heartbeat is soothing music to my war-weary soul. I meant what I said. I’m tired. Beyond tired. It may be prime numbers and electrical fire nightmares that keep me up at night instead of gunfire and insurgents, but I’ve been fighting this battle for as long as I can remember, and every part of me is sick of it.

  I have battle scars in the shapes of countless relationships gone sour, friendships lost to cracks in the sidewalk and family members who became ghosts in my life because they couldn’t deal with the way I agonize over every little detail. There have been times when the night became too lonely and the ticks became too much. Times when I’ve contemplated the unthinkable. Times when I’ve committed myself to a hospital to keep me from committing myself to a morgue.

  Tonight, those ideas are far away while I listen to the repeating thump of Charlie’s heart, counting the beats in sets of six. And yet, those thoughts are also closer than ever before. It’s strange how my mind can hold onto something even while trying to let it go. Charlie, in her constant patience, is peeling away the scars one by one. It leaves me raw, open and bare, but I can’t remember the last time I felt this at peace.

  Her gloved fingers idly toy with my hair, swooping down occasionally to caress my cheek or shoulder. I think an hour passes us by, my mind continuing to count the passage of time with the beats of her heart. I believe I could be content to lay here forever. As her hand makes another sweeping pass, lightly touching her gloved fingertips over my jaw, I’m reminded that Charlie deserves more than a passive forever.

  She watches me as I raise to one elbow and I can see a hint of worry in her eyes. Perhaps she’s worried I’m leaving, running again for the door before my twitches become an embarrassing earthquake. Although there’s no guarantee that I won’t end up shaking like an addict two days into rehab, I’m not going to run from her. From this. From us.

  I’m going to give it everything I have from this point forward, and when she pushes my boundaries, I’m going to make myself remember what it is I’m fighting for. “Thank you. I don’t know where all your patience comes from, but I can’t ever hope to thank you enough for it.”

  The worry in her eyes is replaced with compassion. “It comes from helping to raise Emma. She’s worth every step back I’ve ever had to take with her. I think you are, too.”

  My lips meet leather to kiss her palm. “Even given my… inexperience?”

  “I do wish you’d told me,” she says again, and I know she’s absolutely right.

  Given what we were trying, what this club and lifestyle involves, it should have been one of the first things I confessed to her. I have so much to confess to this woman.

  “That’s the only reason it bothers me,” she continues, “because I was pushing you, but your actual virginity? No. I mean, I get why you probably didn’t tell me. I get the stigma behind it, but to me, not having had sex at your age doesn’t make you any less of a man.”

  I love how her bluntness always hits the nail right straight on. “I was worried. Not that I think you’re shallow,” I quickly add. “I just… I’ve had nightmares that included you laughing at me, not that I think you would, but my brain is rarely rational these days.”

  A quiet laugh bounces her chest, making me smirk as she tries to swallow it back down. I raise an eyebrow ruefully at her and break the remaining tension with a quip. “Ah, see, there is the laugh.”

  “Because you’re funny,” she laughs more. “You’re a very clever man who can laugh at himself despite everything.”

  “If I didn’t laugh about it, Charlie, I’d be crying.” My lip twitches at those words. Confession number two.

  “Or bouncing in a rubber room?” She raises an eyebrow, demanding a real answer despite her playful tone.

  “On occasion, it’s been necessary,” I reply, meeting her gaze. Confession number three. “I’ve been hospitalized a few times. Sometimes it’s been my decision, other times it wasn’t.”

  “If you like the straight jacket, you only need to ask,” she winks.

  “I’m sure you would enjoy binding me up,” I retort.

  “I would.” Her fingers wrap around one of my wrists, and with a gentle push, I find myself on my back with that wrist above my head and Charlie’s face grinning down at me. “But only because you enjoy it, too.”

  “I do.” Confession number four is probably pretty obvious. My eyes dart between her face and the red strands of hair falling over her shoulder. “Remember what I said on Saturday?”

  Her eyebrow cocks up higher. “Before you stole my painting?”

  “Yes, before I saved your painting from further injury,” I snort. She blushes. My heart falls deeper in love. “I said I need you to push my boundaries. Despite Victoria’s ire at my stupidity, I very much enjoyed last Friday, and tonight.”

  “You talk like tonight is over.” Her eyes darken as her fingers around my wrist
tighten ever so slightly. “We can go as slow as you need, but we’re still pushing your boundaries tonight. Even if it’s just talking, I’m not letting you off my hook that easily, Mr. Rider.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me in the least, Miss McLeod. Please, push away,” I challenge her and myself at the same time.

  “Alright,” she tilts her head and looks up for a moment in thought, then meets my gaze again. “Explain the touching, please. Is it because of germs?”

  Right into the beast’s heart. “No. I don’t have mysophobia like many OCD patients. If you catch me washing my hands over and over, it’s because my brain says I haven’t washed them properly yet, not because I don’t think they’re clean. I like cleanliness probably a bit more than the average person, granted, but I’m not afraid you’re going to kill me if you sneeze in the same room I’m in.”

  That gets her to laugh and I join her with a light chuckle. Really? What can you do but laugh when your entire world is so seriously messed up that you’re happy mysophobia isn’t a problem?

  “Okay, then why?” she asks as our laughter dies down.

  “Sensory overload.” I think it’s probably the easiest way to explain it. “I don’t know why skin to skin makes a difference to my brain. It just does.”

  “Oh, okay,” she nods. “Emma has a similar problem. With her, it’s more sounds and visual stimuli, but I get it. When someone touches you, skin to skin, your nerves go crazy and it fires all your neurons in your brain at once. I read a paper by some autism specialist that tried to explain it, but when he went into pictures of the brain it all kina went over my head.”

  Love is such an inadequate word for what I’m feeling right now. “I guess you’ve read up, trying to better get what Emma goes through?”

  “Of course,” she shrugs, like anyone would take the time to do so. “Soon as they labeled her as a possible autistic, I read whatever I could find.” She stops, bites her bottom lip then lets out a soft breath. “I’ve been reading a little bit about OCD, too. I’m not trying to be your therapists or nose into it, but,”