He stepped forward, removing the small space between us, towering above me. “Put your purse on the counter,” he ordered softly.
I shoved it onto the counter I hadn’t even looked at. Who cares what the bathroom looks like when he’s in it?
“What were you supposed to reply to my order, Rebecca?” he asked, and there was no missing the warning in his voice.
It took me a moment to process, but I remembered what I’d been taught Saturday night, how I’m to reply to everything he commands. “Yes, Master.”
“Take off your panties.”
The order aroused me like I’d never been aroused, but then, I say that about a lot of things with this man. I also do a lot of things willingly I’d have never thought I would. “Yes, Master,” I replied again, and the heated approval in his eyes was like a stroke of his hand over my already aching sex.
I tugged the skirt of my pencil-cut black dress up to my hips and slipped my tiny black thong down my legs and over my high heels. When I started to tug down my hem, he ordered me to leave it up so that I was bared for his viewing. I complied and gave him another “Yes, Master.”
Then I dared to dangle my panties by my finger, because, well, what else was a girl going to do in that situation? He took them from me and, without touching me, stuffed them in his pocket. I knew I wasn’t getting them back. He’d have that little part of me with him the rest of the day and I’d be bare, thinking of him and what we wouldn’t have time to do in a public bathroom. The panties ensured that he would, too.
“Unzip your dress and let me see your nipples,” he ordered next. Someone knocked on the door and he added, “Ignore them. Do as I said.”
I can’t believe, knowing where I was, how busy the deli was, that I didn’t hesitate. I reached for my zipper. “Stop,” he said, and he did not sound pleased.
My heart lurched at the hard-spoken word and I froze, staring at him an instant before I knew what he wanted. “Yes, Master,” I said quickly.
He inclined his chin and I tugged down the front of my dress, then shoved my bra out of the way. His gaze swept downward, over my aroused nipples, and I reacted so completely, feeling him all over and burning for him to touch me and be inside me, that he might as well have physically touched me all over. I’d never wanted any man like I wanted this man in that bathroom.
His gaze lifted from my breasts and held mine. “Touch them,” he ordered as someone jiggled the door handle behind me.
This time, I ignored the person trying to get in. “Yes, Master.” I touched my nipples and teased them and his hot stare was my reward.
“Good,” came his approval (another reward), but it was followed by what felt like punishment. He stepped back, putting more space between us, then leaned on the wall and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Make yourself come.”
“I can’t here,” I gasped, and the floor just about fell out from underneath me. “People want the bathroom.”
“You can and you will.”
The door jiggled again. “I’ll be out in a minute!” I snapped impatiently. He arched an amused brow at my outburst, seemingly unaffected by the intrusion. But then, he wasn’t the one who had to make himself come while people demanded entry.
“The sooner you come,” he told me, “the sooner we walk out of here.”
I’d never masturbated for a man before and surely not in a public place, but as panicked as I felt in that moment, I never doubted I was going to do what he wanted. I’m not sure what that says about me or how about he affects me. Not only did I know I was going to do it, I was so damn aroused by the idea that I was burning up, hot and weak in the knees all over again. I knew we couldn’t get caught. We might get yelled at for being in the bathroom, but no one could prove we had done anything but talk. That comforted me. I could be naughty with him, for him, but I wasn’t going to get in trouble.
I drew a breath, issued my “Yes Master,” spread my legs wider, and slid my fingers down to my clit to stroke. I watched him watch me, encouraged by the darkening of his eyes, as I explored the silky wet heat of my arousal. His watching me made me wetter, hotter, more needy. Pleasure overtook me, lowering my lashes, and I let it, ripples of sensation weakening my knees, and I orgasmed with amazing speed. When I finally opened my eyes again, he was standing in front of me.
“You’re meant for this, Rebecca, and you looked exquisite, coming like that.” He slid a finger between my legs and then sucked it into his mouth. “And now I’ll have you on my lips the rest of the day.”
He reached for the door and I quickly pulled my clothes together, but by the time I did he was gone. I snatched my purse up as a woman walked in and gasped when she realized I’d been inside the room with a man. I hurried out into the hallway and to my table, expecting my “Master” would be waiting. But he wasn’t there.
I gathered my coat and sandwich and quickly headed for the gallery, where I spent the afternoon excruciatingly aware of my pantyless state. That was what he’d planned, what he wanted.
I don’t buy into me having all the control just because I have a safe word. I have no control where this man is concerned. That should make me run for the hills, but I know I’m not going anywhere except where he leads me. I hope that isn’t a mistake, but I can’t find the will to care.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Lunchtime at my desk . . .
Ricco was not only fine with the private showing, he didn’t seem upset at all, which is a relief. I hope the client calls me back soon, because I’ve left Ricco in limbo about when we are coming by. He is tolerant now, but how long will that last?
Okay . . . Mary just popped into my office and asked if I needed anything while she was out. This can’t be the same woman who all but called me a whore. Have I entered an alternate universe where she got some sort of fairy wings handed to her?
Almost time to go home . . .
Seven o’clock and it’s time to pack up to leave the gallery. No call from my client about visiting Ricco’s gallery. To top that off, there has been no erotic “Master” encounter today and I am disappointed. But then, I guess he’s not my Master yet, so I shouldn’t expect a daily demand from him. Should I once he’s my Master? I mean IF he’s my Master. The contract makes me think he pretty much intends to dictate to me daily. Hmmm . . . this makes me think, and I don’t like where my head is going. Does he have another submissive right now? Will he have more than one when he’s with me? The contract does talk about sharing me with others. Oh, God. This idea upsets me. I have to text him. Or should I call him? Texting is less intimidating. I’ll text. Maybe. I need to go home and think about this.
At home now . . .
Thinking has made me certain I need an answer. If I am one of many submissives, then this is over. I’m going to text. That way, if I find out I’m one of many, I can flip out in the privacy of my apartment.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Work came early today since I basically didn’t sleep last night. So much has happened since I sent that text to my would-be “Master.” He replied immediately and told me he was sending a car to pick me up so we could talk. He didn’t ask if he could send a car. He just told me he was.
I remember sitting there reading the text, and it wasn’t the order that bothered me. It was the fact that he hadn’t simply said that I was the only woman he was with at present. I’d considered texting again and asking, but my gut said he wouldn’t reply until I went to him. I replied that I’d be waiting for the car.
I didn’t change clothes or pretty myself up while I waited for my ride to arrive. I left on my navy blue sheath dress from work. I wanted answers, not sex, and that was the message I set out to deliver. The possibility of being one of several women had really changed everything for me. I don’t know why, but that idea had hit me far harder than the idea of being shared. I didn’t like either, but I really didn’t like being just a number and a contract.
When the car dropped me at his home, I headed down the walkw
ay. The instant I lifted my hand to knock, he appeared in the doorway. Seeing him sent a rush of heat through me and froze me in place. I always react to that first instant I see him, but for some reason it was more intense than usual. Maybe because I’d decided that I might walk away from what he’d been offering me.
I searched his expression, but if he felt what I did, it didn’t show. His face was impassively beautiful, as usual, and I wondered how many times he’d had to calm a potential submissive. What number was I for him?
He surprised me by taking my hand, touching me easily, when his touch always feels like a reward to be earned. Guiding me into the foyer, he shut the door and then turned to me, wasting no time answering my question from the earlier text. “The contract states exclusivity for both of us, with the option of bringing others into our play as I see fit.”
My stomach knotted at the confirmation that he intended to invite others into our play, and I tried to pull my hand back.
He held me easily and I found myself molded close to him, the hard length of him pressed to my body, our legs entwined. His hand had settled on my back, possessive and firm. “What did I say that upset you?”
My fingers curled on his chest. “Exclusive and sharing. How do those two things go together?”
“Everything we enjoy, we enjoy together. And ultimately, everything I do with you is about your pleasure.”
“And if I don’t think sharing is pleasurable?”
“How do you know if you don’t try?”
“I know it bothers me.”
“And I ask you to try everything once. If you don’t like it, we won’t repeat it.”
Once? I wasn’t sure I could say yes. I don’t think I would have, if things had been different, but I had no idea what I’d walked into.
“If this is your worst fear,” he said, “then it’s better that we deal with it now, not later.” He released me, the warmth of his body leaving mine, his fingers twining with mine. I let him lead me to the bedroom when perhaps I shouldn’t have. It was there that I quickly learned what I had in store.
There was another man there—tall and gorgeous, dark where my “Master” was light, wearing jeans and a T-shirt that molded a perfectly sculpted body. To say that my heart lurched is an understatement. I could barely breathe.
My Master stepped behind me, his hands settling possessively at my waist, his lips lowering to my ear. “Try it once. Do this for me.”
“I don’t know,” I whispered, surprising myself. I hadn’t said no—I’d said maybe.
“You have your safe word,” he immediately replied. “Use it and we stop.”
Thinking back now, the most profound moments of the night followed that promise from him. Everything had gone into slow motion. My Master’s hands on my body, caressing my sides, my breasts. The other man, whose name I still don’t know, watching me with a heated, anxious expression on his face.
“One time,” my Master whispered. “I just ask for one time.”
I remember wanting to please him, or telling myself that was what I wanted, and then saying yes.
“Good girl,” he murmured, and the other man had smiled and stepped forward. Before I had time to back out, the stranger was sliding his hands to my waist, his thighs melded to mine. It seemed like in a blink of time all three of us were naked. I have these random memories. Me on my knees. My Master behind me, holding my breast. The stranger licking my nipples. The stranger pressing fingers inside me. Both men inside me at the same time. I’d never dreamed that was possible, or that it could be pleasurable. Those two men together . . .
I can’t deny it was pleasurable, yet I’m still bothered by how easily my Master allowed another man to touch me. I can’t be special to him, or he’d want me all to himself, right? I don’t want to share him with another woman. It’s all so very confusing . . . and though I have time to try new things while I decide if I am going to sign the contract, I don’t like this state of limbo, or the way exclusivity begins only after I sign the contract. I need closure and certainty sooner rather than later.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Today my job took over in the most wonderful way, and I was able to quickly forget about the contract. I started out the morning with a sale. It wasn’t a big one, but it was still a sale. I set up the meeting with Ricco and my client for Monday. The most exciting part, though, was Chris coming by the gallery and my being called into Mark’s office. I soon forgot about being nervous when I heard the reason I was there. Chris set up a charity event for next month with us, and he’s going to unveil a new work that will later be auctioned off at Riptide for his charity. Mark and Chris asked me to organize it, instead of Mary, since it’s attached to Riptide.
I am beyond elated! A new work from Chris? People will be fighting for tickets to see him unveil a new work. This is so exciting, and I’m eager to dig into the details tomorrow.
As for my decision to be submissive, well, I’ve been reading up on the internet on BDSM and I’ve been tuning in to the Dr. Kat show quite often. I’m thinking about calling her again. I need someone who understands the dynamics of the Master/sub relationship, and I like the anonymity of calling in.
Aside from that, I’m supposed to have another lesson tomorrow night at his place. I just hope there are only two of us—not three.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Morning . . .
The nightmare came back. I hate that damn nightmare. I hate how real the icy water feels, pouring into my lungs. And I hate my mother’s perfume, which I used to love. That sense of doom is back. I hadn’t even realized it had left until it returned. At least tonight, I’ll be lost in some kind of sexual fantasy sure to make me forget. Escaping into his world sounds very good right now.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Last night I went to his house for a lesson, and it was just the two of us. It was sexy and amazing. He tied me up and produced a pair of nipple clamps. I’d never been clamped and it hurt at first, but it was sweet bliss once the ache faded. He’d told me he was my escape, my place where I could let the rest of the world fade away. And it did. It was one of the few times in my life that I have ever fully let go. I didn’t think; I just let myself get lost in what I felt. He’d made me feel that safe.
But then he’d sent me home with a driver, and I crashed hard and felt alone all over again. The kind of alone that feels bad.
I think I’m already falling for him. I think I could fall in love with him. But is a man who is all about Master and sub capable of falling in love? Could he ever be happy with just me? There are moments when I see something in his eyes, when I feel something in his touch, and I believe he already does. When he sent me home, I almost thought it was because he wanted to escape what he felt. But that might just be me hoping for more than a contractual arrangement.
I don’t want to set myself up for heartbreak, but maybe it’s too late to avoid. Maybe I am destined to have my heart ripped to pieces by this man—because I know as I write this that I can’t walk away from him. I need to sign the contract and put the uncertainty and worry aside. I thought about calling in to the Dr. Kat show, hoping she would talk me out of such a rash action, but I know she won’t. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to sign the contract.
And whatever will be, will be.
Journal 6, entry 1
Monday, March 14, 2011
7:00 a.m.
I, Rebecca Mason, belong to him, my new Master. Or I will as soon as I sign the contract he’s given me to set the terms for our Master/sub relationship.
I woke a few minutes ago with these thoughts, and now, sitting at the kitchen table of my little San Francisco apartment, excitement is running through me. Now that I’ve decided to sign the contract, the idea of being “his” is downright intoxicating. Still, I’m glad I was the cautious girl that I am, and made myself sleep on the decision. Considering my recent nightmares, my good night’s rest speaks loudly. I’m at peace with my decision to sign the contract.
&nb
sp; Still, how crazy is it for me to feel this confident about giving myself to someone else? Only a few weeks ago, I would have never believed this possible. Before “him,” the idea of being submissive to anyone simply wasn’t comprehensible. All my life has been about learning from my single mother to control my own destiny and stand on my own two feet. Handing over complete control to another person simply wasn’t an option . . . until him. Now, how do I tell him I’m signing our contract? A text? A call? Meet him in person? Hmmm . . . off to shower and think about this . . .
While I was in the shower, I came up with the perfect way to tell him I’m his. First, the right attire. I’ve dressed in a sexy pale pink dress the color of spring roses, one that hugs my curves (to get his attention) without being overly sexy for work. It’s also perfect for an event being held at the gallery tonight. I just have to throw on a little lace jacket I recently purchased to spice it up.
Next, I took the big plunge and inked the contract. I then slipped on the beautifully designed ring with an etched rose he’d given me to wear after signing the contract, as a symbol that I am his. So it’s on my finger and I keep sitting here staring at it, expecting fear or regret, but I feel none. I feel right about this.
It’s crazy how my life has changed in a matter of weeks. I dared to chase my dream of working in the art world, taking a low-paying job at the gallery that required me to work a second job to pay the bills. Then, miraculously, that gamble paid off with a chance to earn big commissions through Mark’s auction house. I have a new career, and I’m discovering a new, daring part of me, a part I can’t wait to explore further. And I have “him.” Or I will by the end of today.
Rebecca's Lost Journals: Volumes 2-5 Page 6
