Communication Skills

By Minxie Wells

Novelist and competitive board game player, Kira, sits down opposite her Scrabble opponent, Grahame Gaines, a few moments after the buzzer rings. Little does she know that 'apology' is more than his first word of the game; it is also her first sense that Grahame is less an opponent than the Dom she's been hoping to meet to help her explore her hidden submissive urges.

When this kinky and ultra-wealthy corporate magnate spots her again during her introductory visit to a local S&M club, he offers up his services as a mentor to indoctrinate her into the world of sexual slavery, and her lessons in Communication Skills begin.

During their visit to a private Manhattan sex parlor, Grahame has a catsuited Domme and her harem of slave girls put a reluctant and defiant Kira through her paces, using fetish wear, bondage, canes, floggers, dildos, and an introduction to bisexuality, to ensure that Kira will be adequately prepared to serve her Master–but only should she prove pleasing enough for his collar. Kira slowly learns that serving Grahame–no matter how perverse his demands–is far more rewarding than winning any word game.

Content Warning: contains explicit sexual scenes and BDSM

Note: This book has been previously published, and it won the Golden Flogger Award for Best Novella 2017 from the BDSM Writer's Con. Since the original publication, the book has been revised and expanded.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beachwalk Press, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781949300246

Book preview

Communication Skills

by

Minxie Wells

Communication Skills

Copyright © 2019, Minxie Wells

ISBN: 9781949300246

Publisher: Beachwalk Press, Inc.

Electronic Publication: January 2019

Editor: Pamela Tyner

eBooks are not transferable. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations in articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Back Cover Copy

Novelist and competitive board game player, Kira, sits down opposite her Scrabble opponent, Grahame Gaines, a few moments after the buzzer rings. Little does she know that ‘apology’ is more than his first word of the game; it is also her first sense that Grahame is less an opponent than the Dom she’s been hoping to meet to help her explore her hidden submissive urges.

When this kinky and ultra-wealthy corporate magnate spots her again during her introductory visit to a local S&M club, he offers up his services as a mentor to indoctrinate her into the world of sexual slavery, and her lessons in Communication Skills begin.

During their visit to a private Manhattan sex parlor, Grahame has a catsuited Domme and her harem of slave girls put a reluctant and defiant Kira through her paces, using fetish wear, bondage, canes, floggers, dildos, and an introduction to bisexuality, to ensure that Kira will be adequately prepared to serve her Master–but only should she prove pleasing enough for his collar. Kira slowly learns that serving Grahame–no matter how perverse his demands–is far more rewarding than winning any word game.

Content Warning: contains explicit sexual scenes and BDSM

Dedication

Thank you to all the scene folk who invited me in to watch and to learn. This is for you.

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to Pamela Tyner and everyone at Beachwalk Press who believed in me and in this project. And to my family, my writing friends, and critique partners—your help and friendship has been invaluable. I would be lost without you.

Chapter 1

An Unexpected Opponent

Panting and red-faced, I tugged open the heavy oak door at Pub-D-Lish at 6:57 PM, just three minutes shy of the start of the tournament. Stupid traffic. Damned lack of parking. Literary luminaries like Edgar Allan Poe and Charles Dickens glared down their disapproval from the walls of the local pub, apparently disinterested in my litany of excuses. I stuck up my nose in defiance and silently quoted fellow novelist Evelyn Waugh: Punctuality is the virtue of the bored.

Still, this was not the night to be late. I ranked a dismal fifth in the Maple Ridge Scrabble Club after a full three years of membership and competitions. Unacceptable—especially since words were my business. I’d promised myself that this year I’d make it to Nationals. And this was the moment of truth. If I won all three games tonight, I’d have earned enough points to qualify.

I grabbed my playlist from the tournament official and assessed my opponents for the evening. Though it was an open competition—meaning anyone could participate—I immediately recognized the names of two of my three challengers. Easy pickings. But the third, Grahame Gaines? I didn’t know that name. Or his skill level. Troubling. Unfortunately, there was no time to scan the room and size him up.

I hastily dispatched my first two rivals, smiling and chatting only after the game had been completed. My rule was to never schmooze during play. I’d heard somewhere that silence intimidates your adversaries and gives you a leg up. I never turned down a leg up, so to speak, or discounted an advantage. It was something I learned as a child. In my house growing up, the loser at any board game forfeited dessert.

Finishing my second game a bit early, I retreated from the competition to the side of the restaurant where food was served and grabbed a burger and a soda. My fellow player and friend, Sabrina—Brie for short—joined me, chicken Caesar salad in one hand and score sheet in the other.

How are you doing tonight? she asked, greedily attacking her dressing-drenched lettuce.

Two wins. I’m averaging three hundred fifty points a game and even put down ‘quixotic’ over a double-word score. How about you?

Not bad. One win, one loss, but at least I had two bingos.

Cool beans.

Bingos were like grenades in this word game. I loved how using all seven tiles and clearing my rack freaked out my opponent, even if they fought to remain stone-faced and unfazed.

I’m playing this Grahame Gaines guy next, I said. You know him?

I played him first. The game I lost. He’s the one over there playing Patsy. The preppy one in the sports coat.

She pointed. I strained my neck to see, but he was partially blocked by another set of players.

Should I be worried?

Very. He’s good. And…

And?

He’s… I don’t know the right word. Weird, maybe?

Weird how?

I don’t know. Perhaps weird is the wrong word. Maybe guarded is better.

Doesn’t talk, you mean?

More than that. He kinda…stares right through you. As if he knows what you’re thinking. I couldn’t concentrate.

Heh. He got inside your head. Psychological warfare. He’s going to find he’s met his match with me.

You gotta chill, Kira. It’s a game, not a battle.

Wrong. I’m one ranking short of qualifying for Nationals. Every game is a battle. And this one, I intend to win.

We finished our meals, discussing things non-Scrabble, including the next night’s upcoming trivia challenge. Brie, Patsy, and I were three of the five members of The Darwinners, Survival of the Trivial. My two indulgences: Scrabble and trivia. I rationalized, with my love life in the crapper, reduced to occasional kinky chatroom sparring and watching videos on the darker side of the internet, I was entitled to sublimate somehow.

Immersed in conversation, I missed the warning bell and was startled two minutes later when the official hit the buzzer, announcing the start of the last round of play. Damn, late again. I rushed back and found my seat, which was pretty easy since it was the only one unoccupied.

Across from me sat an unamused Grahame, stiffly upright and unassailable with salt-and-pepper hair, shamrock green eyes behind silver-rimmed glasses, and his angular features scrunched into a scowl. Not unlike Sean Connery circa Diamonds Are Forever. Yum.

But this was not the time for flirting. This was serious. Without comment, I drew a tile out of the bag. An O. He drew an A. As per tournament rules, the lowest letter started the game.

We both drew seven tiles and arranged them on our racks. Without hesitation, he laid down all seven of his letters, spelling apology crosswise from the Start square, hit the timer, and smiled. The word was worth only fourteen points—the second O falling on a double-letter score—but any score covering the Start square is automatically doubled. Plus, he earned a fifty-point bingo bonus for using all seven tiles. Seventy-eight points in all. Damn again.

When can I expect it? he asked in a semi-whisper, which was just loud enough to be heard above the cacophony of tile clicks and timer thumps.

What the fuck? I shot him a look of incredulity. If my modus operandi was to never speak to opponents, I certainly wasn’t about to apologize to one.

I stared back down at my jumble of tiles. Two As, an F, an R, an N, an S, and a T. What to do, what to do? I rearranged them a few times, seeking inspiration. Ah, yes! Building off the Y in apology, I laid down fantasy, retaining the R on my rack. The A fell on a triple-letter score, and the F fell on a double-word score. Thirty points total. Still less than half of his points for the round, but it suited my purpose.

I lifted my head triumphantly and caught him watching me instead of his tiles or the board. Brie was right. His stare pierced right through me. It was appraising and gauging. I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end, but I wasn’t about to divert my eyes and let him win. We held that stare for about a minute, neither willing to back down.

Want to waste your precious turn time staring at me instead of your letters, buddy? Fine. It’s your funeral.

He finally ended the standoff with an amused huff and returned his attention to the board. After a moment, he laid down defy off the F in fantasy. It was worth almost nothing—only eleven points—a throwaway move. In fact, I could even see where with one small adjustment, those same letters could have easily scored four points more. I guessed he was trying to make a point of his own.

The remainder of the game proceeded without further stalemate or drama-infused code. He won handily, 425–380. I glared at the board, telekinetically willing it to disintegrate.

Pleasure beating you, Kira. Would you like to…

I nodded a wordless congratulation and abruptly pushed back from the table, eager to drop off my points log with the scorekeeper and end the evening’s debacle. Handsome or not, Grahame Gaines was clearly my strongest competition in the league and obviously an obstacle I had to overcome—nay, obliterate. There were only two weeks left until the end of the season. If I didn’t qualify during either week, I’d have to wait another year to achieve my quest of hitting Nationals.

So, sorry, Mr. Gaines, save the chit-chat for someone who gives a crap about that sexy body and forceful demeanor. You might have won the game, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to fraternize and risk winning the war.

Chapter 2

Trivial Plans, Unexpected Encounters

Tuesday afternoon dragged on endlessly. It was filled with self-recrimination over Monday night’s Scrabble loss and a debate over where to place a comma in chapter seven of my latest romance. I finally held up my hands in surrender and retreated for a few hours into my imaginary alternative life, cruising various BDSM chatrooms, studying explicit videos, and looking for a vicarious thrill or two.

Being a natural-born researcher, I’d made an intense study of ‘the scene’ over the past few years. So passionately, in fact, that I doubted if an actual participant could be any better versed. A true-blue wannabe and pseudo-sub without—as of yet—the opportunity or the balls to venture further.

Oh, sure, I’d occasionally summon up the courage to flirt with an online Dom, but I always posed as someone else. Someone far more daring and experienced. I was careful never to give out my name or arrange for a meeting and cross that threshold between sheltered anonymity and the uncomfortable acceptance of my darker sexual yearnings. My parents raised me to be an independent, successful woman who could conquer anything in her path. Admitting to submissive tendencies was as objectionable as being complacent about losing at Scrabble, a declaration of weakness, and a confession that it was okay to not always be the person on top.

Finding no satisfaction on