Trivial Pursuits Ch. 07

Dear Readers,

Welcome back to another story. I'm sorry the chapters a short and teasing, but it is my hope to keep them coming regularly so the wait shouldn't be too long.

Thanks again to AlreadyTaken for her stellar help!

Enjoy!

Titania

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CHAPTER SEVEN

"Unhappy am I with all the powers I possess
'Cause girl you're the key to my happiness.
And I. Can't. Get. Next. To. You."
"Can't Get Next To You" The Temptations

It was the alcohol's fault. That was the only plausible explanation for why Alessa didn't pull out of Denny's arms as he murmured her name and dipped his head toward hers. It was the only reason she lifted her face in welcome. The only cause for the whimper she gave when a sensation warmer than the sun poured through her as his firm lips finally touched hers. Her last coherent thought was that she should have never drank so much.

Denny was joyously grateful for Alessa's momentary capitulation. In this one twinkling of time in which she had granted him his desire, he became desperate to seduce her, to imbue her with such great pleasure she would never want to leave him. He moved his mouth gently over hers at first, cognizant that she most likely didn't know how to kiss. He was cupping her face with one hand and cradling her head with the other, his fingers imbedded into her glorious hair rubbing her scalp.

Alessa was instantly lost in the sensations Denny's mouth and hands afforded her. It was the most natural movement in the world to follow the guidance of his mouth, and before long, his moving lips were parting hers so he could stroke her with his velvety tongue. The taste of another human made her gasp and then moan as she became an instant addict. Needing more, she answered his seeking tongue with an eager stroke of her own, whimpers of hunger filling her throat. Denny caught each one with his mouth.

The erotic sounds Alessa was making were like punches of pleasure straight into Denny's gut. He could feel the need blossom in his groin, and so pressed himself more tightly against her, desperate for pressure to relieve his ache.

Alessa responded by sliding her body sensually against his, mindlessly searching for more sensation. Denny's hands caressed their way down her lithe body until he was filling his hands with her firm bottom, using his grasp to rub her body against his. Her arms had trailed up his chest and were now clinging to him, pulling herself in tightly to mash her breasts against him.

Though Denny had only meant to give her a pleasurable kiss, what passed between them was like a flame of need and he was burning alive. Without much thinking, Denny turned them so he could press her against the wall, suddenly needing more than what a simple kiss could offer. One large hand guided a silky leg to lift, forcing her skirt to slide high up her thigh. Holding beneath her knee, Denny leaned into the junction of her thighs and pressed his arousal into her.

The whimper she gave turned into a moan, and Denny wanted to come when her hips began moving against him. He wasn't ashamed to answer her with small thrusts of his own and abandoned her mouth to move down her neck, craving the silky feel of all of her.

It was the cat call whistle of the two passers-by that caused Alessa to freeze with Denny's mouth buried against her neck. The giggles of the small group faded as they walked on, but the spell was already shattered. "Fuck," she heard Denny mutter into the crook of her neck, and then her hands were frantically pushing him away. She pulled her raised leg back and half twisted her body away from him. He reluctantly stepped back to give her space. She was running her fingers through her hair and wiping her mouth. She was breathing rapidly in an attempt to calm herself, though to Denny she sounded as if she were on the verge of hyperventilating.

He watched her, his haze of arousal evaporating as he tried to regroup and salvage what was left of the momentum of their kiss. But he could see her rapidly shutting down, her arms tightly around herself as she corseted up her fraying emotions. He knew in some estimations he had succeeded, that he had given Alessa the elusive pleasure she had claimed didn't exist in reality, but he also saw her shuttered expression, which mournfully conveyed he had failed to tear down the wall against intimacy she had spent years erecting around herself.

He took a step toward her, but when she took a quick step away, he paused, so much of his disappointed hopes suffocating his heart. "Don't be afraid of how you feel, Sweetheart."

She gave a harsh sigh, her arms still tightly wrapped around her. She felt submerged in a raging tempest, and wave after wave of desire and fear and regret and despair were capsizing her sanity, throwing her into a scrambling panic to survive the looming pain. "That was such a mistake," she declared, a quiver of strain in her voice laced with an edge of anger.

"Alessa, I don't regret kissing you," Denny stated confidently, refusing to agree with her.

"Well, I hope it satisfied you because you won't get another," she returned emphatically.

Denny took another step, not stopping this time despite how she momentarily cowered away again. He placed his warm palm on her cheek and turned her face to him. "I assure you, it came nowhere near satisfying me, and I can promise you, Sweetheart, I will get another." Denny wasn't prepared to let his pursuit end yet, but he knew she had had enough for one evening. "Come on," he coaxed gently, "let me take you home." He slipped his arm around her, and counted it a small victory when she didn't try to pull away.

But she did argue. "You don't need to take me home. Traffic will be murder for you. Just take me to my bus stop."

"Nope. I'm taking you home."

"Denny," she groaned, "I really don't think that's such a great idea."

"Alessa, shut up for once. I'm just going to make sure you get home safely. Nothing more. After the state I've put you in, it's the least I can do for you." By the end of his speech, they were back at his car. Neither said a word during the thirty minute ride across town.

She gave him directions to her home, and when he pulled up in the drive, though it was dark and only his head lights illuminated it, he commented on how nice it looked.

"Oh, this isn't my house. It's Mr. Cho's."

"Cho?" Denny asked a little confused. "You rent it from him?"

"No, he lives in his house. I rent the small apartment above his garage." As she pointed, Denny could just make out a two-story, detached garage at the back of the property. "One of my colleagues at the Asian Museum got me this place," she explained, eager to leave but desperate to avoid an awkward goodbye. "Thank you for dinner. I enjoyed the oysters." And then her door was open and she was out, not daring to look at him, not wanting to be tempted into another kiss.

Denny watched as she rapidly made her way to the stairs on the outside of the garage. When he saw her slip inside, he finally pulled out of the drive, his mind churning over the problem that was Alessa. He pulled out his phone, punched a contact and dialed. When a husky voice answered on the other end, Denny spoke. "Max, can we get together? Tomorrow night at eight is fine." And then he hung up, knowing if anyone could help him gain a little peace of mind, it was Max.

It took less than a minute for Alessa to drop her bag, strip off her clothing and submerge herself in her hot shower, the water streaming down her face mixing with her tears. Though she hadn't told him the whole of the truth, she had confessed more than she had ever wanted. And then, like a fool, she had allowed him to kiss her. But unlike the last time she had given a man a second chance to woo her, Alessa had completely lost herself in Denny's kiss that seemed to burn away all the insecurities in her soul. She experienced only drugging euphoria and none of the panic. And desperately, she felt hope that with Denny it could be different. But that hope was just as frightening as the disappointment of times past.

Why hadn't she realized she was too fragile just to kiss?

Alessa took some Ibuprofen, downed a glass of water and slunk into bed. She didn't allow herself to sob, but she couldn't keep back the hot tears of misery as she fell asleep under the heavy hand of the earlier-consumed alcohol.

Denny assumed Alessa would be working in the office Saturday, and so worked from home, not ready to confront her as he himself was at a bit of a loss as to how to proceed. Around noon he took his small sail boat out; the sunny sky was sure to ease his mind, if only for a few hours. He showered that evening and headed to the bar where he and Max always met. It was crowded, and when a bar stool opened up he took it, still no sign of Max. He was on his second beer when a feminine hand touched his shoulder.

"Hey, there. Sorry I'm late," the short brunette apologized as she squeezed in next to him. Almost instantly the bartender brought her a beer, knowing the two regulars always ordered the same drinks. Before she had taken a swig, the man on the other side of Denny stood to leave, and Max quickly grabbed his seat.

Denny noticed that Max's cheeks were pink, her makeup was fresh but minimal, and her hair didn't look as styled as normal. Her clothes were casual, though with that dark, sexy edge of a black leather jacket, skinny jeans, and a rock t-shirt that she wore effortlessly ever since college.

"So, what were you doing?" he asked, the stress of his own personal situation leaking out to irritate everything else in his world.

"Eager to see me, huh?" she teased with pseudo-sultriness in her voice.

"Something like that. So where were you?"

She paused. "I had to take a shower," she answered, and took a drink, looking around the crowded bar.

Denny frowned. "Well, why were you late?"

She shrugged, and as if reluctant to answer, mouthed into her beer, "I was with a client."

"A work dinner?"

She seemed to hesitate, shaking her head. "No, we were working."

"Huh," Denny grunted thoughtfully.

Max turned to him with a small frown, perhaps defensiveness. "What?"

"Well, I was just thinking. You never really talk about your work. It's a little weird, especially considering how close we are. It's like you work for the CIA or something."

Max only nodded slowly, thoughtfully, but chose not to comment on his observations. "So what's with the secrecy? Or do you not enjoy your work enough to talk about it?"

"No, I love my work," she replied instantly.

"So tell me about it then. I feel a little like an incompetent hack since I'm always asking your advice, but you never seem to have any problems. Just what sort of work do you do for them? Do you handle their criminal defenses or something? Assets management?"

Max was silent so long, Denny thought she wasn't going to answer. But then she pursed her lips together and spoke. "It's more like...I handle them," she admitted slowly, casting him a sideways look.

"You mean like PR?"

"Sorta the opposite."

"Opposite?"

"Of public. More like private relations..."

"You mean you're their...what? Marriage counselor?" he asked confused, still not understanding.

She swiveled round on her bar stool to square up on him, her hands on her knees bolstering her up. Her face was pensive. "Denny, I have something to tell you. Aw, fuck, I don't know how to say this. Damn, I've thought about telling you since we graduated."

Denny frowned. "Do you give legal advice to the mob or something?"

She chuckled miserably. "No," she sighed. "Okay, I want to tell you something, but I don't want you to judge me, and you really can't tell anyone."

"Max," he said with a solemn frown, "you know I would never judge you."

Knowing he spoke the truth, she took a deep breath and blurted out, "Denny, I never took the bar."

He frowned again, baffled. "You mean you've been practicing illegally?" he whispered.

"No," she groaned, rolling her eyes at his lack of imagination. "I don't practice law at all."

"Oh, okay," he paused baffled, "then these clients are...well you said not PR? I don't get it, what is it? You know you can trust me, right? Just tell me."

She bit the inside of her lips. "Denny, I am what you might consider a...domina." He could see, even in the dim light of the bar, her flushing face. He could only sit with his mouth agape and brows knitted in befuddlement.

"You mean you..." he trailed.

She took a deep breath, "Yeah, my clients, they're men...for the most part, and I...do things...for them. To them." Her eyes were full of uncertainty as she waited for his response, but when his awed face slowly morphed into a cocky, male grin, she felt the tension break and reached out to slap him chidingly on the arm.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he laughed in amusement. And then the full meaning of her revelation began to settle in his mind. "So you're not a lawyer. All these years, I thought...Why? Or how? How did this happen? How did you get into that?"

She took another breath and turned back to her beer. "Well, it sorta just happened. It began my last year when I was interning at that little law firm in Daily City, remember? It was one of the older partners."

"How much older?" Denny asked with a cheeky grin

"Nothing too pervy...he was in his fifties, and just barely at that. Anyway, one thing led to another and before I knew it we were sleeping together, and bit by bit he revealed his proclivities."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"It started out with light bondage, spanking, name calling...and he just kept pushing and I just kept letting myself be dragged down, down, down." She sighed almost wistfully. "I fucking loved it. I'd finally found my sex life. Hell, I found my life. Eventually he taught me a lot about the whole scene, even took me to a few clubs."

"Clubs?"

"Yeah, a swingers' club and then a club specifically for BDSM. I met a guy there and when my relationship with Mitch finally ran its course, I sorta hooked up with Brett...at least, I began a sexual relationship with him. And he really knew his stuff. Helped me discover ab-so-fucking-lutely everything about myself. And it was he who convinced me to try becoming a professional at it."

"Like...a hooker?" he ventured carefully, not quite understanding the distinction.

"No, more like a therapist. Like a fucking life-style guru. He even found me a backer, so to speak." She looked at him honestly. "You'd probably call him my sugar daddy, but it's really more like a business deal. He set me up with my business for fifteen percent of my profit and free sessions twice a week. And he was enjoyable to be with, though he prefers to be the dominant, so it wasn't a bad deal at all."

"So you don't feel like a prostitute?"

She scrunched her face. "No, not really. I mean, technically I guess that's what I am, but in some ways not. I certainly have a choice, hell, I have all the choices. I interview and select my clients. It's not as if I'm in the phone book and any random guy can call and book a session like a cheap massage parlor. These are relationships, and they bring me fulfillment. Like I said, it's not always about sex. It's generally deeper than that. It's therapy; it's finding little spots inside you and rubbing the kinks out."

"More like rubbing the kinks in," he jabbed.

"Ha!" she chortled. "Good one. Yeah...it's more than sex. It's not a subset of sex. Sex is a subset of it. A lot of times I don't even have intercourse or get to orgasm."

"Well, now, that just sounds like bad sex."

She smiled softly. "Not really, because the whole thing is about something else."

Denny was silent as he thought for a moment and then had a disturbed expression. "And that's where you just were?"

Max seemed to blush as she nodded while taking a drink of her beer.

He just studied her a minute before he could collect his thoughts and continue with his questions. "You don't find monogamy to be an issue? You don't want a relationship with someone?"

Again she screwed up her face in thought. "Honestly? I might if I ever found someone I was in love with. But even then, he would have to provide me with all these things I need. But, like I said, it isn't necessarily about sex. It's just..."

"Exercise."

She chuckled, "Maybe something like that."

Denny was thoughtful for a few minutes as they each nursed their beers. The ramifications of her confession bleeding into his own present predicament. "So, you're an expert on the human condition, as far as sex is concerned? An expert on relationships, too?" he ventured.

"I don't know about that. But I think the foundation of any relationship, any good and solid relationship has to come from mutual understanding. To know the motives and needs of your partner. And now that I am good with. I mean, yeah, that's my job."

"Hm, and how do you get there?"

"You mean knowing a person? Well, in my professional setting, we usually have a session or two where we just talk, maybe a little research lab where I test certain reactions, but a lot of talking. I need to know what desires are there. When you first had them. How they developed and evolved over the years. What turns you on, what turns you off, what gets you off, moments of panic, moments of elation, any sensory enjoyments. What do you do in your down time? How do you see yourself? How do others see you? All sorts of questions. Like I said, therapy, digging down deep inside and discovering what's hidden under your skin. And from there I usually have them tell me their go-to get-off fantasy, and we usually recreate it and then feedback. Lots of communication. I have to know what's working for you, what are your internal responses."

"And if not in your professional setting?"

She frowned in thought. "Communication still goes. It's essential. You must know what you can't see because so much more happens on the inside. If we keep it bottled up, our partner will never know. In a way, it's wrong to not share, to not reveal ourselves. Especially if we expect the other person to give what we need.

"On the flip side of that is observation. While we expect our partner to disclose everything they can, we must always remember that we're not all fully aware, not of everything. We don't always know why we like to have it from behind instead of on the bottom, but we do, and as much as it's our partner's responsibility to tell us what they can, you have to be committed to observing and watching what can be seen. You can learn a whole lot from watching your partner as you touch them, or kiss, or say something or wear something. It's all there. You just have to watch for it. And that's what makes a good dom. Someone who is able to sense what the other person is unaware of."

"I assume everyone comes to you willingly," he broached.

She frowned at that. "Of course. What, you think I get off on raping men?" It was finally her turn to give a lopsided grin. "Well," the smile grew, "I do, but they're always agreeable to it...at some point at least. That's part of it, too; being out of control, not responsible. But you gotta give consent to start with. Is that what you mean?" she asked.

Denny sighed. "Have you ever pursued someone? You know, someone who resisted being with you?"

"You mean for an actual relationship, traditional, monogamous sort of thing?"

He nodded.

"No. I usually have to stun-gun them to keep them away."

Denny chuckled, agreeing it would be absurd that anyone wouldn't be interested in her.

She studied him a moment. "Were those just idle curiosity questions, or do they have anything to do with this stressed state you've been in lately?"

Denny continued to think for a while, and then after downing his beer turned to her. "I have a situation," he confessed.