“You’re my mate. Skid. That’s the only reason why I know exactly when you had turned eighteen. You’re legal, an adult, in wolf years. The mating instinct matures then. That’s when mates can truly find and sense each other.”

“M-mates?” Why did he feel so dumbfounded asking all these questions? He’d parroted like a stupefied puppet. Skid gulped in an attempt to regain ahold of himself and create a sense of order. Shaking his head, he insisted, “No, I’m not your mate. I’m part of your pack.”

Alpha stepped closer and this time Skid felt enough backbone to stand his ground. He didn’t budge. Alpha nodded to the area. “You recognize this place?”

“Yeah. It’s where you found me. Years ago.”

“That’s why I’m going to take you here. Claim you.”

Skid’s mouth dropped open. His skin prickled with new awareness. Although his mind stuttered, his dick certainly hardened (again) at the mere thought of mating.

With Alpha, no less.

Fuck. He was so screwed. In fact, the nearer Alpha drew the harder Skid got.

Impossible.

No, this was fucked. He was eighteen, damn it. He could leave. Alpha should have given him an opportunity to choose his own fate.

​Skid stuck out his chin, willing his anger to reign supreme over his increasing irrational desire. “I’m eighteen. You said that you’d let me go when I come of age.”

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Rhiannon stilled, as if to let the admonition land. When she started on the roll again, Britt flanked the full dorsal curve of her foot against Rhiannon's crotch. An involuntary tightening around her foot told Britt that the little sub was turned on. The warm dampness she felt through her pantyhose also told her what she needed to know.

“Silky, isn't it?” Britt asked rhetorically.

Rhiannon lifted her head and glared at her. Mouth full of cinnamon roll, she was unable to answer the question anyway.

Britt smirked at the thornless glare, which she would have to address later. “Don't talk with your mouth full, pet. I'm just getting started.” Sure, Rhiannon mentioned she didn't like humiliation, whatever that meant. Who knew exactly what the boundaries were unless Britt pushed? The gray areas were way too vast and delicious to go untested. Besides, it wasn't like Britt was using the word pet in a derogatory manner. If anything, it dripped endearment when she said it.

Britt gave Rhiannon a nudging glide in the nether region, delivering a liberal teasing friction by foot. “I can tell these lips like what I'm doing. Coupled with the gush coming out of them and my silk pantyhose, doesn't this feel like a long slick tongue lapping up your juices?”

She watched the irritation in Rhiannon's eyes fade to a glaze of blazing lust, the cinnamon roll quite forgotten. So the pet liked dirty talk, eh? That she could deliver in the next however many minutes left, and set aside the polite reminders she had given of the time limit. No more niceties from the Mistress, even for a newbie. After all, including the last bit of cinnamon roll Rhiannon had eaten, she should have enough energy by now for the rest of the session forming in Britt's mind.

“I don't think you came here for pain, pet,” Britt continued. “I think you came here for pleasure.” 

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“Why did you invite me for dinner?” Britta asked when they entered the dining room. The drive from Manhattan to Southwest Mass was far more pleasant than she had expected. Moreover, the scenic byways soothed her end-of-the-workweek shot nerves. However, the real treat was entering the door to this humble modernized cottage. This was definitely a great place for a weekend stay, away from the crowded, busy, and kinetic energies in the city.

“Please,” Reg said, motioning to a dining chair, “take a seat.”

Britta obliged as Reg took the opposite chair. In walked a topless man with jet black hair, dressed in black bowtie, carrying a tray of appetizing starters for their enjoyment. He placed a basket of fresh-baked bread and a bowl of olive oil on the table, then bowed and proceeded to exit.

A glint of light snagged her gaze. She realized with a start that the man had a metallic cock cage, previously hidden by the serving tray. From the mere profile view, his shapely bottom was bare--sans pants!--and sported a tattoo too small for Britta to decipher.

Holy shit.

She didn’t swing that way, but even she couldn’t tear her eyes away form the sight and had to admire the build on the man. Seemingly unbothered by the gawking, their waiter turned and her mouth parted in an inaudible gasp. He for sure had something up his ass. Literally. Her eyes widened and snapped back at Reg, whose lips quirked softly in amusement.

​“I understand you have some questions about the lifestyle.”

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He abandoned the aloe and dove in with his fingers. Her channel was so slick, it swallowed him to the knuckles. “You're so tight, so wet. I want my cock in you.”


With each thrust of his fingers, he learned her. His cock swelled to ginormous proportions, tenting his slacks. Ignoring his need, he continued to plunge into her wet folds and swirl his thumb over her clit on occasion. He listened for the peak of her bliss, watched the rise and fall of her upper back, relished the increased frenzy of her breathing, lusted after the slight tension flitting across her face, devoured the flush of her body, and felt for the imminent tremble of her sex. She was close. So close.

He withdrew, a quirk shaping his lips.

A muffled cry of agitation rent the air before being replaced by the rise and fall of her heavy breathing.

She tried to squeeze her legs together, but he kept them apart.

​“Uh-uh-uh,” he warned. “If you try to get yourself off, your remaining infraction doubles.”

She stilled her body, no doubt clenching her teeth from the looks of her bulging jaw.


He smirked, a finger grazing lazily over her labia. “I heard a disgruntled grunt before. Is that how you thank me for pleasuring you?”

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“Well?” Gen asked. “I thought you said you were asexual and that you could care less about—what does this say again?”

Gen flicked her wrist so that the screen faced her so that she could read the flyer aloud verbatim: “ ‘What’s Sex Got To Do With It? The Art of Self-Love. Come join sex educator and author—’”

I dove for the phone and grabbed it out of her hand just as Gen squealed. Indifference was no longer an option here. The lady was invading my privacy—or whatever little was left of it as her roommate. The girl had no filter.

“Really, Gen, can you quit it?” Irritated, I flashed her a serious look—the don’t-push-it look. “I’m not interested in hearing what you have to say about all this.”

The cocky grin and waggling eyebrows immediately left her face. “What, Sy? It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You already hear plenty about my sex life as it is. This is the first I’ve heard about yours, something that is even remotely interesting.”

I sighed, knowing that this was the closest to an apology that I’d ever get from Gen. The girl could twist tales like a cat with a ball of yarn. You still got what you wanted alright—the ball of yarn (or the apology) you were looking for. However, you wouldn’t know what you were missing if you looked no further than that. In other words, Gen often used the right words that led to the illusion and overall implication of an apology.

​However, if you looked closer between the lines, you’d find that she had the cunning to build in a back door—an escape route that basically meant that she hadn’t really apologized at all. Because if lies included omission, wouldn’t apologies with omissions constitute as lies as well?

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