Craving Flight Read online

  Tzipporah Berger is thirty-seven and single, which is practically unheard of in the Orthodox Jewish community she now calls home. Her increasing religiosity and need for kink may have broken up her first marriage, but she’s decided it’s time to try again. And the rabbi’s wife has just the man in mind.

  Elan Klein is the neighborhood butcher whose intimidating size and gruff manner hint at a deliciously forceful personality. But BDSM isn’t exactly something you discuss during an Orthodox courtship. Will a marriage to Elan solidify her place in the community that she loves and provide the domination and pain Tzipporah craves or will she forever have to rely on flights of fancy to satisfy her needs?

  For M, who has supported my outlandish ideas from the beginning. You have only yourself to blame.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  Thank you!

  Other Books by Tamsen

  Acknowledgements

  Excerpt from Personal Geography

  Copyright

  Foreword

  This novella is a product of the Bring Out Your Kink ~ Bound by Ink writing event sponsored by the Goodreads BDSM Group. Members provided a photo and letter to inspire writers to create an original story. Writers picked the prompt that spoke to them most. A written description of the image that inspired this story is provided below along with the original request letter.

  *

  A woman in profile, eyes cast down. Clearly holding the camera at arm’s length, she wears a long-sleeved, olive-green shirt that covers up to the hollow of her throat, a black pearl necklace and drop earrings. Her hair is covered by intricately tied scarves of blue, grey, bronze and gold, the interwoven tail is draped over her shoulder. She is at once modest and on display.

  Dear pervert,

  I am a deeply modest yet profoundly kinky woman. My husband left me for another woman, so I divorced him. During our marriage, I discovered that I had a need for restraint, spanking during sex play, and some rather kinky drives. He was my husband but resisted being my Dom though he agreed to “play” sometimes during sex.

  My bed proclivities represent only one area where I have grown and evolved. I also have become more modest as I have grown older. I cover my arms to the elbow, my legs to the knee, and my collar bones. While not frumpy, I chose to dress to save my charms for the next and only master I will have. Also I have long auburn hair that I keep tightly bound and covered with beautiful scarves called tichels…keeping that part of myself hidden for my next master. My hair hasn’t been seen by a man since I last was with my husband five years ago.

  I am a sexual submissive that is dominant in other life roles (career, academic, etc.). While my ex-husband did try at times to meet my needs, I have craved a master who would demand my full submission…perhaps one who would demand a much deeper power exchange and much more intensive exploration of pain play…allowing impact, bondage, violet wand, clamping, wax, and pain but no edge or fluid play.

  Please…I beg you to unwind my scarves, take down my hair, bind me in the literal and figurative ropes of your dominion with shibari and pain, so that I may finally fly free.

  Please,

  Craving Flight

  Prologue

  ‡

  “Good afternoon, Tzipporah.”

  “Good afternoon, Elan.”

  His jaw tightens at my response, only barely visible by the shift of his beard. I have to resist swallowing. His eyes focus on my mouth, my lips, and then his gaze travels down my neck to the buttoned-up collar of my shirt. The wings inside me beat harder under his gaze. Even though it makes me nervous because his dark eyes are so intense, I don’t truly mind his scrutiny. I like the way he looks at me.

  With the shop being relatively empty and his attention distracted by examining what I’m wearing, it gives me a chance to return the favor and study him. The way his broad shoulders fill out his white shirt, how the fabric grazes his biceps. But his forearms…those are definitely my favorite. The sleeves rolled up nearly to his elbows show off the veins and muscles, the masculine dusting of hair that reaches to his wrists. His hands—battered and scarred from his work but scrubbed clean—rest on the counter behind the glass. I even admire his clipped-to-the-quick fingernails.

  “What can I get for you today?” His words startle me. How much longer have I been staring at him than he’s been staring at me? Blood rushes to my cheeks and my face grows hot. Forget my cheeks. I must be blushing from my collar to the tichels that cover my head. It’s a ridiculous thought, but I’m so flustered, I think my hair might even be turning redder under the scarves. My reactions to even the most innocent interactions with Elan are visceral. It’s as though he knows how to communicate with the very center of me.

  “Half a pound of ground beef, please.”

  His expression doesn’t change, implacable as ever, but there’s a small shake of his head. I’m confident he finds me faintly ridiculous. This interloper who hasn’t quite adapted to her new surroundings. I stick out like a parrot in the taiga. I’m trying, have been trying, but I don’t know that I’ll ever feel completely at home here.

  “Spaghetti and meatballs again?” Am I imagining the tinge of judgment in his voice? I could be. I’ve been told I’m overly sensitive to these things. Probably the result of too much of my life spent studying other people, watching for nuances, coding and decoding the words they’ve said and trying to figure out What does it all mean? Four years as an undergraduate, six years earning a PhD, nine more as a professor teaching classes and doing research, and I haven’t figured it out yet.

  His hands come off the counter and he tears a piece of waxed paper from a large roll before he pulls on gloves and takes a tray from behind the spotless glass of the case. Something else I like about Elan: how easily he moves in his work, how at home he is here. We have that in common—competence in our occupations, though his is with his hands and mine is mostly in my mind. He weighs the meat and hands me a package tied with care along with some counsel. “Don’t forget, no Parmesan cheese.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  It’s kindly meant, I think, but it mortifies me. I’ve been keeping kosher since I moved to this neighborhood in Brooklyn. It should be second-nature after so long but even now I make mistakes. He gives me reminders sometimes because he knows I can be forgetful.

  It’s such a cliché, the absent-minded professor, but I’ve been that way my whole life. Always with my nose stuck in a book, my brain churning with abstract thoughts instead of paying attention to worldly things. I’ve gotten caught out in the rain with my laptop before because I didn’t notice the gathering clouds, and if I want to have a hope of being on time for anything I need to set alarms. I’ve gotten better at hiding exactly how scatterbrained I am and it embarrasses me that he knows.

  Our fingers nearly brush as I take the small parcel and the almost-contact is electric. At least for me it is.

  “Thank you,” I murmur, tucking the meat into my grocery bag that already holds a box of pasta, and vegetables to make the sauce. Tomatoes, zucchini, and onions I’ll chop carefully in my quiet apartment and put on the stove to simmer while I grade the papers I collected during the seminar I just taught. I have high hopes since they’re my seniors and it’s October, but I don’t like to count on anything. We’ll see.

  “You’re welcome, Tzipporah.” The sound of my name formed by his mouth, the bre
ath he expended to say it, to acknowledge me, sends a pleasurable chill up my spine that I try to ignore as I pay the younger man at the register.

  Turning to leave, I feel Elan’s eyes on me as I go. What is he thinking as he watches the gentle sway of my skirt around my calves, the tightly wrapped colorful silk that crowns my head, the press of my palm to the door as I push it open to head out to the sidewalk? Or am I inventing the weight of his attention? I don’t turn around to find out.

  I think of him as I walk down the street; the work of his strong hands safe in the sack that hangs from my shoulder, his soft but compelling voice, his presence behind the counter as reliable as the sun. He’s always there.

  Though I’ve tried to ignore it and would never admit it to anyone, I’ve had a certain fascination with Elan since I walked into his butcher shop five years ago. And next week, I will become his wife.

  Chapter One

  ‡

  Two Months Earlier

  The tea I’m holding is hot and outside it’s a sticky-August eighty degrees but my hands feel cold. Bina, on the other hand, looks like she’s got sunshine streaming out of various orifices. She’s practically bouncing in her seat. “Is this about what I think it’s about?”

  I shouldn’t roll my eyes because she’s always so kind to me. I know it’s her job as the rabbi’s wife to be nice to new people but she’s taken a special interest in me, and we’ve become close over the past few years as I’ve tried to integrate myself into Forest Park and the shul her husband leads. I really shouldn’t roll my eyes. And yet. “Probably.”

  “Well, you have been living here for over a year, you know. And coming to the shul for five.”

  “Oh, I know.”

  After I divorced Brooks five years ago, I decided to seriously pursue the Orthodox life that had been calling to me since I was a teenager. I started out slowly, researching neighborhoods and taking classes at the outreach center, gradually spending more weekends here so that I could observe Shabbos. After I finished my year at seminary, I took the plunge and moved.

  Barely a single day has gone by since then that I haven’t had at least one person ask when I was going to find a husband. At thirty-seven, I’m completely over the hill in this community and they desperately want me to adhere to the social norms. Get married, have babies. I’m late, but better late than never.

  I’ve tried to shrug them off, saying I wasn’t ready, but at my age, the bubbes won’t take that for an answer. They have zero shame about reminding me exactly how loudly my biological clock is ticking. Some of them have tried to foist grandsons, nephews, distant relatives on me. Some of them hadn’t offered up any male sacrifices though. Whenever that happens, it’s half-insult, half-relief, knowing it’s because I’m a ba’alat teshuva, an outsider. Someone who was technically born Jewish but is only now becoming observant. Sure, to people who don’t know any better I look and talk like an Orthodox Jew, but even children here can tell I’m a relative new-comer. It’s an odd space to occupy.

  Bina taps her tea cup with long, manicured fingernails, the hair of her wig brushing her shoulders. If you didn’t know she was wearing a sheitel, you’d never be able to tell. She always looks impeccable. And now so very eager. “Well?”

  I take a deep breath and blow it out my nose. “I think I’m ready to start looking for a husband.”

  She claps her hands and squeals. At least this is making someone happy. “I think that’s an excellent idea. I’ve been thinking of matches for you since you rented your apartment. To be honest, even before that.”

  Yes, I know. The teachers had cautioned us against dating while I was at seminary and I was one of the few people who’d faithfully adhered to the edict. I had too much to accomplish in that year that I didn’t want derailed by a relationship. Leave it to me to go back to school while on sabbatical from my professorship.

  I’d also shied away from men because I’d been raw from the end of my marriage. I suppose that’s what happens when your husband is confused and disgusted by everything that’s become important to you.

  I still feel as though I’m settling in to the community but it’s time. And maybe having yet another tie will help my roots go even deeper. It’ll probably convince a few of the people who continue to be skeptical that I’m in this for good.

  Bina digs a notebook out of her bag and cracks it open to a tabbed page. There look to be a dozen names on it already, not to mention several that have already been crossed out.

  “Bina!”

  “What?” She shrugs, a poor imitation of guilt turning down the corners of her mouth. “No harm in thinking about it.”

  This time I do refrain from rolling my eyes because I really am thankful and her attention makes me feel loved and flattered. She’s had faith in my commitment, in me, since the beginning. She’s been one of the forces keeping me going even though it’s been hard. “Fine. What have you got?”

  “Avraham Rifkin.”

  “No! He’s a baby.”

  “He’s twenty-two,” she protests. “And from a good family.”

  I shake my head. “They have to be older than my students.”

  “So picky.” And there go half the names on the list, stricken with her vicious pen. “Shmuel Greenbaum?”

  “I know I said older than my students, but he doesn’t have to be old enough to be my father.”

  She tsks at me as she removes Mr. Greenbaum from her catalogue of potential suitors. He’s a very sweet man, the kind who always keeps hard candies in his pocket, but no. Just, no. “You’re never going to find a husband this way. Not here anyway.”

  Now she’s playing hardball. She knows I want to stay in Forest Park. After things ended with Brooks and I’d been on my own, I started my search for the perfect community. I had several criteria: one, it needed to be a reasonable commute from the university where I work. I didn’t want to leave my job at Hudson because professorships are few and far between and I’d been dazzlingly lucky to get a tenure-track position as young as I had. I have no intention of starting over at some other university. Two, I wanted it to be Orthodox, but not insanely conservative. It’s a tricky space on the continuum, that tipping point between modern Orthodox and Orthodox. Three, I had to be able to afford it. And four, I wanted someplace that was pretty welcoming to BTs. Not everywhere is so encouraging of ba’alei teshuva.

  Forest Park was one of the few neighborhoods that had fit the bill. I’m not interested in shipping off to LA or Israel or even New Jersey to find a match and Bina knows it.

  She taps at another name on the list. “What about Levi Hollander?”

  If I hadn’t just declined a bunch of her suggestions, I’d likely outright refuse. I know who Levi is. I’ve seen him at various Shabbos dinners, events at the shul, and around the neighborhood. He’s also a BT like me. While I’m sure he’s very nice, he’s perhaps too nice. He’s lacking that commanding edge I crave in a man, the very thing Brooks couldn’t provide for me. Plus Levi’s built a little too much like an insect: thin and angular with slightly bulging eyes. I don’t find him attractive. But I refrain from wrinkling my nose and instead hand her a small victory. “Maybe.”

  “We’ll think about him, okay? Going on a date wouldn’t hurt anything.”

  Except that I know how seriously dating is taken here. If I go out with someone, the whole shul will have us halfway to married by the time we’re finishing our appetizers.

  She names a few more men and I cast votes of yay or nay and finally there’s one last name.

  “Don’t say no to this one right away, all right? He’s maybe a strange choice for you, but you should give him a chance at least. For me.”

  “I will give him due consideration, cross my heart.” I mean it, but inside I’m pleading, please don’t say Ephraim Goldmintz. He’s exceedingly loud, laughs like a donkey, and smells vaguely of fish.

  “Elan Klein.”

  “The butcher?”

  “Yes, he’s a butcher, but you know he was in y
eshiva until his father had a stroke. Elan left to run the family business. And he’s maybe a little…” Her eyes skate over me and I know what she sees: small-boned, delicate and petite. “…big.”

  It’s true that Elan dwarfs me. He must be a good six feet tall and he’s not a beanpole. More like a brick wall. Does she think that’s a turn-off? On the contrary. In fact, I’ve been aware of him since I got here because he does have that particular brand of authority Levi lacks. One that makes me think he might have it in him to—I can’t think about that. No sense in raising those hopes at all.

  As for being a butcher…that doesn’t bother me either. I’ve been married to someone who was another college professor—met him in fact because he was my dissertation advisor—and I don’t need to do it again. Would maybe prefer not to. Having two people in a marriage who live so much in their minds can make for a disengaged partnership. Or it had for Brooks and me.

  Intelligence does matter to me though, but like she’s said, he’s educated, and it takes not a small amount of brains to run a business. “His job doesn’t bother me.”

  Her eyebrows go up and I can see the meddling wheels start to turn in her head now that she knows he’s a real candidate. “He’s a widower, you know.”

  I shrug. I’m divorced. That’s far more likely to cause issues. “I know. His wife’s name was Rivka, right? I met her a few times at the shul, saw her in their shop. She was kind to me.”

  I have memories of a sturdy, round-faced woman who wore a wig instead of tichels like I do. Always with a greeting and a smile, telling me I should eat more. She treated me as if I belonged here, not like some of the other women who’ve lived here and been Orthodox their whole lives. Frum from birth, or FFBs, they call people who’ve grown up Orthodox; observant since their first breath in this world.

  Rivka passed away almost two years ago. I paid a visit while the family was sitting shiva. It was the only time Klein Brothers Kosher Butcher had been closed when it wasn’t the Sabbath or a holiday. I remember it particularly because it was the only time I’ve ever seen Elan look small. Sitting on a low stool, his whole body seemed to wither in mourning. My heart had gone out to him. He’d obviously loved her very much.