Kismet of Submission: Episode 5

This time the spark Tamara feels is all sexual, so she pulls back as the food arrives. The snack they consumed at the convention center wasn’t very good, and the spanking definitely whetted her appetite for something more substantial.

The problem though, has gotten worse with that slightest of touches. She doesn’t trust kindness or empathy. Whatever lies beyond the griffon in the cryptozoology compendium, his gesture is even more rare and disbelieving.

‘Looks good,’ he tells her, leaning down and breathing in the aroma of refried beans and seared steak.

It does look good. Will there ever come a day when books are VR complete with scents and tastes? There are plenty of detractors out there for Mexican food. Too greasy, fatty: laden with carcinogens and calories. Not to mention—like several other types of cuisine—the pressing need for the WC shortly after. Still, proof positive of humans’ craving for complex carbohydrates and protein, is clearly illustrated by the speed with which the colorful glazed surfaces of the shallow bowls emerge like an archeological dig. Their brains fizz with energy.

The drive back to the conference is quiet and comfortable. Tamara decides to postpone her final answer until later. She has three hours after all before the bus leaves. Even if she does go back tonight it will only be long enough to pack, contact the landlord, and roll away like a tumbleweed. Her lower GI rumbles. A quick jerk of the head, then off to the ladies.

He finds the closest bench and studies the afternoon schedule. The pointer in his mind keeps flickering percentages. The interest he feels in Tamara is genuine, but… so much baggage. He sighs out loud and slumps his shoulders. I wonder if anyone has ever studied the ratio of restroom visits by gender?

At the diner, the pointer said one percent. In the morning workshop it rose to five percent. Peaking at twenty percent during the spanking, it was now hovering around ten percent. Being brutally honest, it would be better if Tamara snuck out the loo window a la James Bond—sorry, Lara Croft—and never saw him again.

‘Earth to sir!’

‘Sorry.’ A swift shake resets the neurotransmitters. ‘Having an argument.’

‘About me?’

He meets her wary gaze; it’s the least he can do. ‘Actually, Tamara, I don’t know if we should go any further.’

‘I see.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Tamara speaks rapidly. ‘It’s okay. I had the same argument in the stall.’ She sits down on the far end of the bench and stares sightlessly through the purposeful swirl in the lobby. ‘Why don’t we meet back here in three hours and decide then. No hard feelings either way. Deal?’

‘Deal.’

Go Your Own Way, by Fleetwood Mac, plays over the intercom as we watch them walk away in opposite directions. We pull back; rising like a helium sphere until we bump into the girders holding up the vast flat roof; our perspective too low to track them amidst the warren of aisles and temporary tents. Before we can decide whom to follow, we’re distracted by the lavish assortment of kinky toys. Vibrators, dildos, paddles, collars, scented lubes and stacks upon stacks of erotica all curated by panting purveyors. Time to whip out the plastic. Personal drama can wait, bling can’t.

He’s early for the rendezvous. Fittingly, Come Together, by The Beatles, snarls overhead. The lyrics have never been clear to him, but then again, perhaps it takes dropping acid to appreciate the genius. He laughs.

‘What’s so funny?’

He stares at the worn carpet. ‘Just thinking. If you’d had predicted back in the ‘60s that many of the bands would still be on tour fifty years later, the assumption would have been a really bad trip. It’s probably for the best they broke up back th—’

Tamara can’t help the flutter low in her abdomen at the wide-eyed look he gives her. She swishes her skirt with both hands and tilts her head playfully. ‘You like it?’

‘It looks great! I mean, you were great looking before, it’s just…’

‘Well. Since I had to get a change of clothing anyway…’ She sits down and tucks the shopping bags between her feet. ‘I don’t know if I can do this, Sir, but I want to at least try. I mean—my life is going nowhere. There isn’t anybody else, and quite frankly, if I run again, I might not stop until I go out with the tide. You said yesterday that it was a choice. So, it that choice is still available, I’m willing to go along. For awhile at least.’

‘Alright. I agree. For now, tonight and tomorrow back here at the show. We’ll decide then what comes next.’

They shake hands. Tamara dives into her loot and shows off her purchases. Free samples of lotions and potions, several more skirts of varying lengths and the official Expo T-shirt that says, in bold pink font:
Leather & Lace, Always in Good Taste. She hands a folded garment to him; he shakes it out, laughs and holds it up to his chest. A stylistic bottom is outlined in red, with the copperplate words that read:
Doms do it upside down. This time, the hug isn’t perfunctory. Tamara tucks her chin into his clavicle while he massages her waist.

Her words are muffled, but distinct. ‘Is there another lecture you want to attend?’

‘Yes… or we could go back to the hotel. I’ll still stuffed from lunch. We can have dinner later.’

‘I think I’d like to attend the lecture, Sir. I’m curious as to what things turn you on—besides spanking of course.’

To read all the Kismet of Submission episodes in order, please go to this page for individual links.

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