Page 98 of The Dom with a Safeword

The room itself was clean and smelled fresh. A vase of beautiful roses sat on the table – his mother must have been here recently. She still came most weeks. The view out the opened French door was stunning – trees, an expanse of green lawn, flower beds overflowing with bright blossoms. A few birds flitted past, chirping.

He took a breath and went to the bed. He stood a while, flexing and clenching his fists. Looking at the man in the bed made him feel so empty. This wasn’t his dad, not anymore. Not since six years ago, soon after he’d started pre-med.

He looked around and found a chair then pulled it up next to the bed. The noise at last attracted the attention of the skeletal figure in the bed. Drool hung from his chin and his eyes were rheumy and sightless. Though the nurses must clean his face each morning crusts had already collected on his eyelids and lips.

His father. His world, until that day. The stroke had taken his father’s mind if not his body. The family, him included, had waited in turns for weeks, praying at first that he’d survive, then praying the brain damage might not be as bad as the tests indicated. All for nothing.

No matter the positive spin people tried to put on this, he’d never been able to see the point in life if you didn’t even know it was passing you by. This was the man who used to carry him on his shoulders, and who gave him bear hugs when he needed comfort. If he’d so much as nicked his finger, his mother had sent him to Dad. As if she couldn’t put on a Band-aid.

Jude smiled weakly. He saw through it now – her plan had been to let his father be involved in his son’s world. As a surgeon his days had been filled with work. The good memories still crowded in though – waking at night to a gentle kiss on his forehead and a smile, sitting on the floor with him laughing as his armies of toy soldiers got flattened by their basset hounds galloping through, buying popsicles at the beach.

But the brilliant surgeon had become a husk.

The ache in his stomach intensified but he reached over and took his father’s thin hand. What to say? He always went through the news when he visited…no matter how gruesome or strange or how bland. His years in Europe had meant telling some hair-raising tales of traffic on the autobahns as well as sexy stories of the European girlfriend who’d dumped him for a German accountant, of all things.

When he’d begun this story-telling routine it had been in the hope that somewhere inside, his father understood. He knew better now but the habit remained. He took a breath and began to speak.

The start of his story went fast – the early days of summer at the beach and how his friend, Fredrick, had given him the mansion to renovate. When he reached the time when he’d found Sabrina and Q in the yard that night, hunting ghosts, his throat tightened. But he went on, describing Sabrina’s antics and smart-ass replies, and Q’s quiet, no-nonsense, yet amused, way of handling her. He stopped talking. Was feeling like throwing up when you thought of a girl, or girls, a good or a bad sign? He shifted on the chair.

Diagnostically he was doing a shit job. This was not the result of a stomach ulcer. When you hear hoofbeats, think horses. He’d been avoiding his true emotions all along. But what could he do? He was trapped in limbo – in the land of not knowing which way to turn without disappointing himself, his father, his mother, and wrecking his life in general.

In the quiet, the flick of a book’s pages and crack of its spine carried from somewhere outside.

The wind gusted and a swirl of bright fabric curled across the door opening. The perfume was familiar. His mother? The toe of a red shoe, a woman’s shoe, made its appearance in the doorway. Yes, his mother. Ever the polite one who held you and listened to your grievances without criticizing – she was saying, hey, I’m here, without intruding too much.

He bent his head and held his father’s hand tighter. He couldn’t tell her, not face to face. Every time he’d gone home to say hello, or had met her for lunch, he’d stayed silent about the girls. This big bad Dom was a chicken.

He’d never shied away from telling his mother of past girlfriends, but he’d kept his kinkier activities to himself. This time though, the risk was there. Two girlfriends…two lovers, was not average, not acceptable in polite society. Maybe it wasn’t even normal but he wasn’t going to broadcast it to all and sundry. Somehow though, he needed to tell her. Would she be disgusted? He desperately hoped not. His mother was his bedrock – the one he’d relied on when the world went nuts.

He cleared his throat and went on.

The summer rolled past in his head, given life by his words, made all bright and shiny and wonderful. Though the reconstruction of the mansion played a part, it was the women who came to life as he spoke.

His voice strengthened as he told of the days on the beach, of Q’s nasty boyfriend sent packing, of the way the girls’ hair shone in the sunlight and their legs… No, not that. He stopped and began again with the time of the séance and how Sabrina had fooled him and Q, but then she’d laughed and they’d figured it out, and she’d made a run for it…

He stopped again. Damn. They’d had a lot of sex. Kinky sex. And a lot of crazy fun too. He’d just censor things. So he told of Sabrina painting him, but not of tying the girls up and beating Q until she nearly orgasmed from that alone, or of making rough love afterward. The ghost episode got a mention, but not the spanking. All in all, he found himself telling of how he’d slowly and inexorably fallen in love with Sabrina and Q.

By the end, his eyes were wet. He wiped them, squeezed his father’s hand and walked to the door. She was there, of course. In a pretty floral dress with her blonde hair in a chignon. Though her hair was streaked with grey, it was clear from which side of the family he’d gotten his hair and eye color.

He sat on the bench beside her and kissed her cheek. “Hi, Mom.” Then he waited. If she hadn’t heard him…hell, could he say all that again?

“Oh, Jude.” She brushed back a straying lock of hair from his forehead. “Why didn’t you tell me? You love them, don’t you?”

He dipped his head then looked her in the eye. “Yes. I do. But they both live in New Jersey.”

“And so?” She waited, fingering the book on her lap.

Though he searched there seemed no anger or criticism in her tone or expression. “You don’t mind?”

She sighed. “Well, it would have been nice if you’d found some girl next door to fall in love with, but you’ve never fit in any mold, Jude. You were always the one who stole the cookies before they were cool, or fell out of the tree and broke your arm. And playing cops and robbers, you were the one who forgot to untie the girls, but…I suppose that prepared me.”

“Um…” Trust mom to bring that up.

“So.” She patted his leg. “No, I don’t mind if you have an extra girlfriend. It’s unusual, but really dear, you’d have to be a serial killer to get me worried…or want to run for president. When are you going back to speak to them?” She raised her eyebrows.

“I may not have said this before, but Mom, you must be the most awesome mother ever.” It didn’t help him much though, not with his career to keep in mind. “Going back though, I don’t know. How can I? There are other difficulties and by now they may have forgotten me.”

“Hush! Never. No girl could ever forget my boy. And other difficulties? Jude, for the last two months, whenever I’ve met with you, I’ve seen your pain and I’ve been meaning to speak to you.” She sat up straighter, and took his hand. “Be honest with me, please. Do you wish to continue with this medical career?” When he opened his mouth to reply, she held up a finger. “Because, it’s clear that you hate it.”