Two Minute Penalties
by be287m

--Game Three—

Sunday I started to have second thoughts.

Not about his fingers caressing my body—mmmm.  My skin tingled at the memories.  They say Rodin used to caress his subjects before beginning a sculpture and I kept having images of Steve as some erotic artist, me standing before him.  The man knew how to touch.  I could barely keep from touching myself when I reminisced.

And that kiss.  Wow.  Too many men didn’t know how to kiss.  At least too many of the men I’d dated.  But Steve. . . Steve knew how to kiss.

Yet he’d pulled back at the end of the two minutes.  If he’d kept going, I would have let him pull me onto the bed, if I didn’t pull him there first.  But he’d stopped.  I was sure he wanted me, but he’d stopped at a kiss!

I realized I really didn’t understand Steve.  In fact, I barely knew the details of his life.  Yet, he wasn’t like the other guys I’d dated.  Not in the way he stood or held his body.  Not in the way he noticed everything.  Not in the way he mixed impishness with a serious core.  I suspected he could do things to me that no other guy could.  That excited me.  That scared me.  What was I getting myself into?

We hadn’t even gone on a real date yet!  Just a season’s worth of hockey games and post-game parties with really no time alone together.

Except for two minutes.

And then there was that.  When we’d made the bet, I’d expected something where I would have to please or pleasure him.  Instead, he’d made me remain completely passive while he touched me.  I didn’t “do” anything.  I’d loved it, and I didn’t know what to think about it.

Mom had always raised me and my sister Vickie to be strong independent women.  She’d caught the edges of the feminist movement in the 70’s and probably would have gone into politics herself if not for us.  She’d been torn between her ideals and her strong sense that she needed to stay home to raise us.  Her compromise was to teach her daughters her ideals and urge us to live the life she’d been too afraid to.

That had worked for Vickie.  She was in Washington as a lobbyist these days, deliriously happy with her 80 hour work weeks and her tiny Dupont Circle apartment.  I’d rebelled.  I found boys just too much fun to not hang around with, and when I did, they seemed just as lost and confused as the girls.  The one compromise I’d made for mom was that I never let a boy get the upper hand.  There was no date until I wanted a date, no kiss until I wanted a kiss, nothing further until I initiated it.  I even lost my virginity in a deliberate manner—after prom with my then boyfriend because I had appreciated how he hadn’t pushed me all year.

That softened when I got to college.  I was more willing to do the social dance and let the guys initiate.  It was more fun.  Sometimes I would seduce a guy, sometimes I’d let him seduce me.  However, I’d never been completely passive.

Until last night.  For two minutes.

And I’d thoroughly enjoyed it.

Was this really me?

I might have spent all day pondering things in my head if it weren’t for Sandy’s hockey practice.  They had a Sunday evening time reserved at the rink and, as usual, she wanted me there for locker room guard.  I normally would read a book during practices because Steve only attended the games.  I resolved to talk to Sandy about Steve.

Except Sandy was exceedingly unhelpful.

“I can’t tell you,” she said, smiling as she shrugged her shoulders in reply to my query about Steve.

“What do you mean you can’t tell me?”

“I can’t tell you anything about Steve.  Not even what he does professionally.  Pete and I have our own bet.”

“You and Pete have a bet??”

“Yup.”

“And what is it?” I asked.

“I can’t tell you that either,” Sandy replied.  She saw me getting frustrated.  “Look Liz, I think it’s great that you and Steve are finally doing more than talking hockey.  I don’t know him very well, but I like him and Pete says he’s a great guy.”

“So you and Pete are betting on us??”

Sandy just smiled, lips tightly closed, and didn’t speak for a moment.  Seeing that I was getting more frustrated, she reached out and touched my arm.

“Relax, Liz.  We’re both rooting for you.  Steve too.  You guys just have to find your own way on this one.  We can’t help you out.”  

I knew she was right, but I didn’t like it.  I didn’t want to wait for Steve to make the next move!  Even when I suspected I would really, really like it.

Monday night rolled around.  The game was early—6 pm.  I got home just in time and started preparing dinner with the game in the background.  I’d begged off on an invitation to watch the game with Sandy.  I’d said that it was because I had a lot of work to do.  The reality is that I was too nervous to enjoy the company.

The Avs were terrific, but Nabokov was hot in the goal for the Sharks.  He made save after improbable save, including one that reminded me of Sandy in her last game.  The first period ended with no score.  The second period opened the same way.  The Avs were hot, but Nabokov was hotter.  The game entered the third period tied at 0-0.  Midway through the third, Nabokov’s play paid off and the Sharks got a 1-0 lead.  That’s how the game ended.  A shutout.  I felt sick to my stomach.

The phone rang as soon as the game was over.  I grabbed it on the second ring.

“Hello Liz, this is Steve,” Oh my.  It was.

“I promised to take you to dinner,” he said.  “How does Saturday night sound?”

“Sounds great!”

“Willing to wait until Sandy and Pete’s game on Wednesday to work the logistics?  I want to see what reservations I can get.”

“Sure . . . what type of restaurant were you thinking?”

“Something where we can get a little dressed up, but not too fancy.  I want to see what those legs of yours look like in something other than jeans.”  I was instantly blushing.

“So did you catch the game?” I asked.

“Of course!  Nabokov made some incredible saves!”

“No kidding!  It was incredible to watch, even as it got painful!”

We continued dissecting the game for several more minutes.  He mentioned missing the first part because he’d worked late and so I asked him about his job.  He actually opened up and told me.  He was an electrical engineer working for a company that designed disk drives.  I couldn’t follow the technical side of his job, but he happily stopped to answer even what had to be the most inane of questions.  As he spoke, I realized that he had a passion for getting the details right.  He almost gushed describing his breakthrough two months ago that looked like it might lead to a new product line.  I liked hearing him gush.

I asked how he’d gotten into engineering and that led to him telling me about growing up in Michigan with his parents and younger sister.  He described the challenges in getting his degree and how he had eventually come to Colorado.  There was the occasional mention of a girl, but they seemed to be only bit players in the story of his life.  This man was too self assured, too comfortable to be around, for him to have not had more than a string of flings that never lasted more than a few months. Listening to him talk, I was fascinated.  I was also surprised he’d never opened up to me before.

I then asked him what he did for fun.  He mentioned skiing and hiking and reading and that led to us talking about our favorite authors.  The conversation meandered back to hiking and the now-cancelled one that Sandy and I had planned for the previous Saturday.  We started talking about typical weekends in Colorado and what we liked to do.  After a while, I realized that he hadn’t mentioned any evening activities.  So I asked.

“So Steve, you mentioned that you used to go to a club regularly.  What type of music do you like to listen to?”

He chuckled.  “It’s not that kind of club.”  

I paused.  Oh really?  Did I want to know?  Curiosity won the internal wrestling match.

“So what kind of club is it?”

“I’m not going to answer that question,”  I could tell he was amused even as he stonewalled.

“What if I ask for it as a story, as part of our bet?”  I inquired, trying to sound coy.

He laughed.  “Detroit doesn’t play until tomorrow.  I don’t owe you a story unless they lose.”

“They’ll lose! Let’s call it an advance!  You tell me the story now, and you don’t have to tell me another one when they lose tomorrow.”

He chuckled.  “Okay.  But they’re not going to lose.  I’ll give you the story now, but if Detroit wins tomorrow, you owe me four more minutes of anything I want.”

“Four???” I cried.

“Call it a double-minor,” he joked.  “You’re asking for a story in advance of something that may never happen.  The Red Wings aren’t going to choke like your Avs.”

I snorted.  “They haven’t choked!  Nabokov is playing hot, but they’re figure him out!  You’re on!”  Oh man oh man.  I already owed him 4 minutes and he’d already demonstrated how he could use those minutes to drive me absolutely crazy.

“I started attending the club two years ago,” he began.  “At the time, I was . . . exploring.  I’d done some things as a teen that were a little. . . unusual.  I wanted to find out how important they really were to me.”

“What sort of things?” I interjected.

“My teenage years are another story,” he replied.  I rolled my eyes.  How many games would the Red Wings have to lose before I got all of this man’s history?

“So,” he continued.  “I did learn a lot.  In the end, I also learned that the club wasn’t for me.  I quit going right after Stacy and I broke up.”

“So what type of club is this?” I asked, starting to get suspicious.

“It’s a BDSM club.”

I damn near dropped the phone.  Oh shit oh shit.  What was I getting myself into?

“So. . . so you’re a sadist,” I finally stuttered.

“No, I’m not.  I’m not into pain, either giving or receiving.  I’m a Dom, or at least I was.  I’m not sure anymore.”  I realized that his normally firm voice had trailed off at the end.

“I don’t understand,” I said.  *That* was an understatement.

He sighed.  “I’m not sure I can really explain it on the phone.”

“Give it a try,” I urged.  I started to bring my breathing back to normal.

“Well, a sadist is in it for the pain.  A Dom is in it for the control.  The power, so to speak.  Except I didn’t really get a rush from the power.  I enjoyed setting up scenes and running them, but it got tiring.  So I quit.”

“Tiring?”

“Being a good Dom is kind of like being a bomb squad expert.  Or the parent of a toddler.  You have to constantly pay attention because things can go bad very quickly if you don’t.”

“But you still like it,” I said, still unsure.

Steve snorted.  “At times I like it.  *You* liked it too,” he replied.  Oh gawd, he was right.  I had.  What did that say about me?

“What I found, though,” he continued, “is that the people you generally meet at the club like it all the time.  I don’t.”

“But you still like it,” I probed.

“Sometimes.  With the right person.”

“I still don’t get it,” I stated.

Steve sighed.  “I can understand that, Liz,” he said.  “And frankly, if you want to back out of dinner, or out of our bet, that would be okay.  But before you do, I’d like you to think about two things.”

“Go on.”

“First, there’s more to me than something I used to do on Saturday nights.  Much more.”

“But I barely know you!” I interrupted.

He sighed.  “That’s true, and that’s probably my fault.  I should have asked you out long before now.”  

“Right on that one, buster.”

“I often move slowly when I find a woman really attractive,” he explained.  “I hope to make it up to you.”  

Awww.  The sentiment was sweet and I might have enjoyed it more if I wasn’t still on edge from the way this conversation had turned.

“So what’s the second thing?” I asked.

“You liked it.  You might not like it all the time, or even often, but last Saturday, you liked it too.”

I shuddered.  He was so right, and I didn’t want to admit it at all.

“If we keep going,” he continued.  “I will continue to touch you.  Caress you.  Kiss you.”  His voice had gotten firm again, the same strong tone he’d used last Saturday.

“If we keep going,” he stated, definitely back in command,  “I will touch more than your arms.  More than your legs or neck.  Do you think I didn’t notice how hard your nipples were?”

He paused.  I could feel my skin tingling with the memories.  Oh gawd I wanted this man.  Oh, this man scared me.

“You liked it, Liz.”

“I don’t know Steve.  I really don’t know.”

“Think about it,” he urged.  “We’ll see each other at Pete and Sandy’s game on Wednesday.  If you want to cancel the bet or back out of dinner, you can tell me then.  No hard feelings.”  I sensed that the last wasn’t quite true.

“Okay,” I murmured.

“Okay.” he replied.  “And Liz . . .”

“Yes?”

“Sleep well tonight.  Have pleasant dreams.”

“Goodnight, Steve.”

“Goodnight, Liz.”

I hung up the phone.  I didn’t know if I’d sleep.  I’d expected a game, but not this one.  What would be next?

Wednesday’s game, I realized.  Games, plural.  The Avs and Sharks.  Sandy and Pete’s.  And Steve and I.  

I took a deep breath.  I was going to need to figure some things out before the puck dropped.

--End Game Three-- 
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