[Siren Classic: Erotic Consensual BDSM Romance, public exhibition, fire play, HEA]
They say that love hurts when it’s done right. Married D/s couple, Tern and Jill Quinn, didn’t count on the pain of separation. Jill is a devoted submissive to her Dominant. Their life together is perfect. They play, they love, and they travel the world. Their relationship is based on her anticipatory service rather than rules and punishments.
When Jill’s niece is abandoned at their doorstep, their hedonism abruptly ends. Jill is suddenly a mother. Tern now must provide—and that includes paying a lawyer to start adoption proceedings. He relocates a thousand miles away to take a well-paying job. Jill is terrified by the separation. They’ve never been apart for more than a few hours since they were married. She’s always relied on Tern to make the major decisions. Now she must make them on her own.
Tern discovers his easygoing nature is at odds with the control Jill now desperately needs. Will their relationship survive?
A Siren Erotic Romance
It was dusk when Tern and Jill headed back home from the club. They strolled slowly, holding hands. A perfumed early-summer breeze ruffled her braid. She always felt peaceful and depleted after a session with him.
Their life together was nearly perfect. When they weren’t living at their San Francisco home base, they traveled the world, fearless and open-minded—and still in love after ten years.
Home was a run-down Queen Anne Victorian in Lower Pacific Heights. Jill’s Aunt Alice had left it to her. Like Aunt Alice, the house was a bit shabby but had a remarkable and rich interior life.
Someone was outside their house.
A red Mercedes was parked in front. A gray-haired man paced beside the car, cell fixed to his ear. A real estate agent, probably. Agents were constantly knocking at their door, trying to get them to list the house. Properties in their neighborhood were going for a lot of money.
Someone was standing on the porch, too. The agent’s partner? A woman, for sure. Well-dressed, pretty. As they approached, Jill figured out who it was.
It was her sister Kim.
She let go of Tern’s hand and ran toward her, suffused with surprise and delight. She bounded up the porch stairs. She hadn’t seen Kim in years. Kim had occasionally sent them postcards. Jill always responded, but by then Kim had moved on. Jill’s letters were returned, undeliverable, unknown addressee.
Kim was “a seeker.” A restless, contemplative soul, Kim was always looking for ways to connect with God. Psychedelic drugs, Christianity, Buddhism, the occult.
They hugged each other tight.
Drawing away from their embrace, Jill looked her sister up and down. Kim was so elegant. Her red hair was cut short and asymmetric. Large diamonds winked at her earlobes. She was smiling. Had Kim finally found God or had she given up on her religious quest?
“Do you live in the city now?” Jill asked.
“No. Business trip. We’re up from Palm Springs.”
“Well, come on in. I’ve got some sun tea in the fridge. Let’s catch up.”
“I wish I could. But we’re heading off to Vegas.”
“Vegas?” Why had Kim bothered to come if she couldn’t spare the time to have an iced tea? Jill was hurt.
Tern ambled up the porch stairs. “Hey, Kim.”
“Hello, Tern,” Kim said. “How’s life treating you?”
“Pretty good. So is Mr. Mercedes with you?” he asked.
The gray-haired man was now sitting in his car, looking up at them.
“Well, ask him in,” Tern said. “Any friend of yours is a friend of ours.”
“I’m sorry, but we can’t,” Kim said. “Duke’s got an early-morning meeting in Las Vegas. We’ll be driving most of the night.” Her gaze settled on Jill. “I was wondering if you might watch Poppy for a couple of days.”
Still stung by Kim’s eagerness to leave, Jill scanned the porch. She expected a designer pet carrier with a fancy foo-foo dog inside. Instead, she saw a child. The little girl sat on their rustic rocking chair, cradling a tiny plaid suitcase. She resembled Kim, but with darker hair and skin. All those postcards and Kim had never mentioned she had a child? Why?
Jill was dumbfounded. “Poppy,” Kim said gently. “Come and meet Auntie Jill and Uncle Tern.”
The girl walked over, dragging her suitcase behind her. She couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. She looked vulnerable and shaky, with her shoulders hunched and eyes scouring the porch floor.
Despite the questions crowding her mind, Jill’s heart had melted. The little girl needed somebody to take care of her.
But it wasn’t Jill’s choice to make. Tern was the head of their household. All the major decisions were his.
She gazed at him, silently hoping he would sympathize with the child. She prayed he’d notice how desperately frightened the little girl was.
Already he was bending over, gently shaking the little girl’s hand. “Hi, Poppy. I’m Tern. Auntie and I are happy you’re going to stay with us for a little bit. How about I carry that suitcase of yours, and we head into the kitchen to see if we can’t find us some ice cream?”
“Up,” Tern said, helping Jill to lie on her stomach.
She settled onto the table, feeling self-conscious.
“Some folks think of fire play as ‘edge play,’ but with the proper precautions, it’s not dangerous at all. Fire play is designed to thrill the people who are watching.” He drew his hand down her back. “And thrill your bottom.” He gave her ass a slap.
She jerked. The audience tittered.
“Fire play isn’t about pain. It’s about drama. If you’re intent on hurting your bottom, do something else. If your bottom is new to fire play, she might be apprehensive,” he said. “So you’ll need to be sensitive to her emotions, perhaps you’ll need to encourage her to relax. Gently touch her. Speak to her softly.”
As he massaged her back, his lecture on the actions of various fuels and how to apply them drifted over her. She savored his light touch.
He asked someone to turn off the lights. The darkened room became library quiet. The tiki flames flickered.
“I would never actually use a tiki torch to ignite my bottom,” Tern said. “Too little control. The torches are supposed to set the mood, not the fire. I suggest starting with a lighter. Another option is to light the alcohol with a wand.”
As he described fire batons and how to make them, he swiped her ass with a rubbing-alcohol-soaked cotton ball. The sensation was cold, delicious, sending pleasure streaking though her. He made seductive S patterns on her skin. Taking his time, he described the most and least sensitive areas of the human body. He explained he would never ignite her tree, as scar tissue was the most vulnerable of all.
Tern’s lighter made a “shtick” sound.
The crowd pressed closer. He ignited her icy ass.
She was now on fire. The contrast between the cold and hot made her body sing with elation. Like a sensual rubdown. She loved fire play foreplay. The slightly sweet smell of the burning alcohol added to her sensations.
Next, he dabbed the bottoms of her feet with alcohol and lit them. Safe, relaxing, warm, and good. She sighed with contentment.
“I think she likes it,” he said.
After he fanned away the flames, he asked her to roll over. “I want to see your face when I ignite you, Heart.”
She lay on her back. Seeing Tern above her, his eyes glinting in the torchlight, blasted her with need. She wanted him to fuck her, not flame her. Had they been alone on the dais, she would have begged him to pound into her. She squirmed, uncomfortable, weighed down by the erotic strain.
He tucked her braids above and behind her head. “The front of the female body has lovely lumps and bumps and super delicate areas. The nipples, for example, should not be flamed.”
He gave her erect nipples a tug. Lust boiled between her thighs. She nearly came. But she didn’t want to have an orgasm in front of all those people. Biting her lower lip, she whimpered.
Every once in a while it was hard to be Tern’s submissive.
“The body also has many cracks and crevasses. I suggest you don’t do fire play in the front, until you are more experienced. I’ll show you one reason why.”
With one hand on her naked hip, he poured alcohol on her stomach. He pointed out how the accelerant had pooled in her belly button, creating a dangerous situation if lit. He soaked away the excess with a dry cotton ball. Next, he dabbed her front with the accelerant, from collarbone to waist, concentrating on her heavy breasts but avoiding her nipples.
She shivered from the sudden cold, and shut her eyes.
“This time I’ll be using a fire baton,” he said to the crowd.
He brought the lit wand above her face. She could see the glow through her eyelids, feel the heat on her cheeks.
“Open your eyes and look at me,” he commanded.
She complied, hypnotized by the fire.
He waved the baton high above his head and then lowered it to ignite her belly. Waves of blue flames jumped and danced, cavorting up from her waist to her breasts. Her core was bathed in fire.
Her world narrowed.
There were now only three living entities in the room. Her man. Herself. And the fire. Tern controlled them all.
The kiss of flames was sensual and thrilling. Her pelvis thrummed with tension. Seeing his quietly sober face through the fire mesmerized her. She’d do anything to please him. Anything.
As the flames subsided on her skin, he abruptly shoved her legs apart, spreading her pussy lips open. He shoved the lit baton inside her. The baton sizzled, her juices snuffing out the fire.
A searing climax took her. Spasming around the wand, she cried out. Slowly, oh so slowly, Tern pulled out the baton, sending her into another series of convulsions.
He rested his rough hand on her chest, bending over to give her a soft kiss.
“Tern,” she whispered, overwhelmed.