At nearly one in the morning, I lay in bed and listened as he said good-bye to Master Two. I wondered who he was, this other Master. I wondered what came next. I’d read some BDSM sites that talked about the Master wanting the sub to sleep on the floor or at his feet. That wasn’t me, and I realized just how foolish blind signing that contact had been.
The uncertainty I felt quickly brought back every one of my doubts I’d left in the living room earlier in the evening. I sat up, intending to dress, only to realize my clothes were in the other room. He appeared in the doorway then, jeans unzipped and hanging low on his lean hips, and sauntered over to me, before removing them as I watched. It was hard to think with him naked, and I wondered if he knew that.
He joined me on the bed and pulled me into his arms, my back to his chest, his lips to my ear. “Get some rest. That’s an order.”
All thoughts of leaving faded into the bliss of being held by him. “I told you, I don’t take orders well,” I murmured, but the truth was that I was exhausted. “I’m pretty sure that makes me a bad candidate for your sub.”
“You don’t take orders well, but I like a challenge,” he agreed. I almost thought I felt him smile against my hair, but he isn’t much on smiling, so surely not. And there had been no smile in his voice as he’d sternly added, “Go to sleep, Rebecca.”
I don’t remember what came next. Apparently, I did as ordered and went to sleep.
Friday had become Saturday at 2:00 a.m., or that’s when I remember looking at the clock next . . .
I gasped and then blinked awake to find myself alone in his bedroom, and it only took me seconds to realize I’d had one of my nightmares again. Every time I thought they were gone, they came back. I was shaking all over, and I sat up and tugged the blanket up with me, thick darkness consuming the room, feeling as icy as the San Francisco Bay water. This nightmare was different from the others, I realized. My mother wasn’t actually trying to kill me this time.
Instead of being on a trolley that loses control and slams into the ocean, I was already in the water, or I wasn’t really there. I was in the bay, only I wasn’t in the bay. I was me, and yet I wasn’t me. I know that makes no sense at all. I thought writing it down would make it more logical, but it isn’t working. How do I describe what a shifting, odd nightmare is like? It was like . . . like one of those movies where someone dies and they end up watching the hospital staff try to bring them back to life from above, wherever above is. That’s how this nightmare flowed. I could see myself floating facedown in the choppy waters, my dark hair spread out on the surface.
My mother was there, too, floating facedown just like me, both of us unmoving, lifeless. I figure the fact that she is already dead has some meaning; perhaps my mind is telling me I’m going to end up like her. I’m not sure if that means dead or unhappy. And I’m not sure where I was watching from. I never saw myself watching me, or rather us, but I felt the water, the ice, the emptiness. I was dead in the water, but the part of me watching was alive and I wanted to stay alive. I tried to scream and get to myself and my mother, but I couldn’t make a sound. I tried to move but an invisible box confined me. I was trapped, incapable of saving myself or my mother, though it was illogical to think I could. We were already dead.
What makes a person whose dead mother was never anything but gentle have these kinds of violent nightmares? Uncertainty? Uneasiness? A sense of being out of control of my life? Isn’t that what my mother always preached? Control my life, so no one else could?
These were my thoughts when “he” returned. The door opened and he entered, and I didn’t care where he’d been or why he’d been gone. I just knew what had to happen. “We need to talk about the contract,” I blurted out.
He flipped on the light. “Then let’s talk,” he agreed, sauntering forward. He was back to wearing those sexy, low-hung jeans and nothing else. Soon he’d be naked if I didn’t stop him.
I held up a hand, staying his approach. “Not here. Not in the bed. I want to get dressed and talk about our agreement for what it is: a contract. I want to go down it line by line, item by item.”
He glanced at the clock. “At 2:00 a.m.?”
“Yes. Now.”
Fifteen minutes later, fully dressed in the clothes we’d started this night out in, we sat at the table in a kitchen that was pretty much the size of my apartment. Oddly, his money didn’t intimidate me, even though I’d never had any of my own. His money didn’t attract me, either. He did.
I broke the silence. “I won’t sleep on the floor or at your feet. I won’t wear a collar. Ever. I know that’s big in the BDSM world, but it’s not me. You won’t collar me.”
“Fine on the floor and I don’t want you at my feet. I prefer you in my bed, where I can fuck you at will. A collar is simply ownership, but to me it’s more like marriage—I do not collar anyone. What’s next?”
More confirmation that this is simply a short-term agreement to him. Fine, then, I was going to make sure it was very short-term. “Three months, not six.”
“Six months.”
“Three.”
“Four, but if we decide to renew our agreement after that, I want the contract modified to include things I might want added or taken out.”
“And things I might want added or taken out,” I countered.
His lips curved ever so slightly. “Of course.”
“I don’t know what a cane or caning is, so take it out.”
“Try it first.”
“No. No more trying. I need to do this now or not do it at all. That’s what I need you to understand. We have to come up with an agreement I can sign tonight, or there is no agreement.”
“Signing before you’re ready—”
“I am ready.”
He stared at me far too long for my comfort before he said, “I want you, Rebecca, but once I have you, I plan to push you. I can’t do that if I’m afraid you’ll crumble.”
“You think I can’t handle this. You think I can’t handle you.”
“I’m not sure you think you can handle this.”
I pushed to my feet and he stood up as well. “I’m out,” I stated. “You’re right. I can’t do this—but not for the reasons you imply. I like to control my life, and I don’t do well when I can’t.” I laughed without humor. “That sounds ridiculous, when I’m negotiating a contract to be a submissive.”
“It’s not ridiculous. A choice to hand over control under agreed-upon terms is not only control itself, but the freedom to let go and escape reality when you otherwise wouldn’t.”
“Then you have to see that lessons and uncertainty are the opposite to me. It’s affecting my job and my sleep. It’s making me crazy.”
He stepped around the chair and pulled me close. “If you want to sign, we will, but on one condition.”
“And that would be?” I held my breath, waiting for the answer.
“One last lesson. The ultimate lesson. When it’s over, if you want to sign, we’ll sign.”
This was a test. “When?”
“Tonight. I’ll pick you up at nine.”
Lunchtime . . .
He tried to get me to talk about my nightmares but I quickly withdrew and asked to go home. Reluctantly, he agreed. Maybe that was my test for him. I need to know he won’t push me when I don’t want to be pushed, and he seemed to understand this was one of those times. I can’t talk to him about personal things and still make him about pleasure and escape. I’m not big on sharing my personal feelings anyway, and my mother, and the things I learned from her before her death, are as personal as it gets. I’m already struggling with my feelings for him, which give him even more power over me than any contract ever will.
He’d taken me home as I’d requested so I could try to sleep a few hours before work. I was remarkably exhausted and I’d fallen asleep almost immediately.
Even so, I was forced to stop by the coffee shop before work for a caffeine boost. Inside I found Ricco Alvarez waiting for a drink,
looking aristocratic and debonair in a fitted suit. Oddly, he was in deep conversation with Mary, whom Ralph had said Ricco didn’t care for. What is it about the coffee bar that was inviting meetings these days?
I ordered my drink and joined them. “Ah, Bella,” Ricco purred. “Just the lady I wanted to see. Your customer dropped by my gallery and purchased several pieces. We need to do the paperwork for your commission.”
My eyes went wide. “You’re kidding.” I was elated. When I’d taken the woman to his private showing, she’d been embarrassingly hesitant to buy. “That’s such good news.”
“Congratulations to you both,” Mary said tightly. “I’ll let you two talk.” She glanced at Ricco. “I’ll bring the painting over tonight.” She slipped away toward the door.
I frowned, wondering what that was about as Ricco accepted his coffee from Ava, saying something to her in Spanish before turning back to me. “Shall we go share the good news with your boss?”
I smiled. “Yes. Let’s share it.”
An hour later, Ricco had gone and Mark appeared in my doorway, electrifying the air as he always did. “That painting you found in Seattle—the guy sold it to me for a steal. We’re going to make a fortune at auction.”
I was stunned. Even now, I can’t believe the sale came through. My commission is going to be . . . I can’t even write down what I estimate it will be. Instinctively, I knew Mark would use my excitement for control. He plays the control card with everyone in the gallery. “That’s fantastic news,” I said, managing to sound cool and calm. “I can’t wait to find out how well it sells.”
His lips twitched. “Seems like today is your lucky day, Ms. Mason. Feel free to continue that trend. It’s good for the gallery, and so, it seems, are you.” He left in a whiff of spicy male wonderfulness, leaving me basking in his rare compliment.
I smiled. He was right. I’d just closed two huge sales; today was my lucky day. I just hope the night is, as well.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
After the night . . .
I wore a dress he’d sent to me by courier. Turquoise. Figure-hugging, with a zipper down the front. Expensive. My shoes were black pumps. My thigh-highs, thong, and bra were black, with sexy sheer lace. My nerves were jumping around when my doorbell rang, and I drew in a few deep breaths before I opened the door. And when I did, oh, my, he just plain stole my breath. He was scrumptious in every way.
His eyes traveled down my body, caressing it with an intimate, slow inspection, and just like that, I was wet and wanting and we hadn’t even left my apartment. “Hi,” I said when his gaze returned to mine, sounding like some silly infatuated schoolgirl. Feeling like one, too.
His eyes danced with amusement before he pulled me close, kissed me thoroughly, and then caressed a hand over my backside. “Hi,” he replied.
When he set me free, I wobbled, and he grabbed me and held me there a moment, just staring down at me. “I’ve been thinking about tonight all day.” His voice was rough, almost harsh with feeling.
I wet my lips and his gaze followed, sending liquid warmth to my belly and then lower. “Me, too.” Just then I wondered what we were doing and where we were going. Wondered if I could pass this final test, and did I really want to? Last night, in that moment in his arms, his hard body cradling mine, the answer had come easily. Yes. I did.
“Tonight I am ‘Master’ to you.”
“Yes.” His brow lifted and I added, “Yes, Master.”
Once he helped me into the sleek, silky black jacket he’d bought me, and we were in his fancy car, we rode in silence, the small space thick with sexual tension and anticipation. Our destination turned out to be a gated property in a ritzy part of San Francisco called Cow Hollow. Here the standard small houses disappear and become monstrous architectural wonders.
I knew the area but had never been there. I was basically poor growing up, with a single mom who worked in hotel sales. She did all right for us, but we weren’t putting caviar on the table like the Cow Hollow crowd.
We pulled to the front of a massive concrete stairwell where men in suits, security I discovered, seemed to be waiting on us to arrive, but they didn’t open our doors.
“There are rules inside that we need to cover,” my Master told me, turning to face me.
“I’m listening,” I said, butterflies going wild in my stomach.
“You walk behind or beside me, never in front. You speak to no one unless I tell you that you may speak. You don’t even make eye contact with anyone unless I say you do.”
My lips parted in shock. “What is this place?” I whispered.
“A private club that we will frequent should we ink our agreement. That makes how you behave tonight critical. You are a reflection on me here.”
I nodded, uncomfortable and nervous.
“There are two sections to the club,” he explained. “A public play area and private rooms for intimate play. We will be going straight to my private quarters.” He studied me a moment. “Any questions?”
“No.”
“No, what?” he demanded, his tone sharp, his eyes hot.
“No, Master,” I replied, and I was surprised at the thrill that shot through me.
He opened his door and got out of the car. One of the security men immediately opened mine. My Master appeared and offered me his hand and I took it, letting him pull me to my feet. With my hand in his, we started up the stairs toward a set of double red doors. Two men in suits waited for us at the top, but I didn’t look at them.
When we entered the house, I stepped onto an expensive Oriental rug and immediately felt as if I was in the movie Gone with the Wind, the room was so elegant. An extravagant chandelier hung overhead and a winding, red-carpeted stairway twisted and turned toward an upper level.
My Master motioned me toward the staircase but he didn’t touch me. We made it halfway up when a striking man in a dark suit headed down toward us.
“Head down,” my Master ordered a moment before we paused for him to greet the newcomer.
“And who is this?” the man asked.
“My lovely new prospect,” my Master replied.
“Indeed. May I admire her?”
My Master touched my back. “Look at him,” he ordered.
Admire me? I fought the urge to back away and somehow I lifted my gaze to stare into the man’s eyes, my heart thundering wildly in my chest.
Raw male interest flashed in his stare. “Innocence personified,” he murmured, cutting his attention to my Master. “Will you be taking her to the main floor?”
“No. I’ll be keeping her to myself.”
Relief washed over me. The man glanced back down at me. “A pity.” He gave me a small bow. “I hope to see you again soon.” He stepped around us and I let out a breath.
“Come,” my Master said, urging me up the stairs and leading me to another pair of red double doors.
We stepped inside a small sitting room with high-backed chairs. A separate door led to someplace, I didn’t know where. My adrenaline was cranking up so hard and fast that the soft sound of him locking the doors behind made me jump.
He stepped behind me. “Untie your coat.”
I did as he ordered, and I heard the quiet whisper of the cloth as he disposed of it. My Master stepped in front of me, and looking into his eyes, seeing the possessiveness in them, shook me to the core. I could barely swallow, let alone think.
“This,” he said softly, “is the only room in my private quarters where you are allowed to wear clothing. Undress, Rebecca.”
I drew a slow breath, nervous to undress without knowing what was behind the other door, but I knew that if I was going to do this, to let him be my Master, I had to trust him. I unzipped the dress and let it fall to the ground.
“All of it,” he ordered.
I stripped off my panties and bra.
“All of it,” he repeated.
I kicked off my shoes and then peeled away my hose. When I finished, his gaze swept over m
y body, his expression fiercely primal. I craved his touch and hungered for him to undress. He gave me neither of these things. Instead, he hit a button on a remote I didn’t realize he’d been holding and the mystery door slid open. He stepped aside and motioned me forward. “Stop just inside the room.”
Anticipation burned inside me as I walked toward the door and tentatively entered. Beneath my bare toes, a thick, luxurious burgundy carpet absorbed my steps. Candles flickered, creating a sweet vanilla scent in the huge circular room. There were two more doors, one on each side of the room, and a wide archway directly across from me. A large chaise longue sat by one door. A small pedestal sat by another. Drapes were positioned at several places on the walls and I wondered what they covered.
But what really caught my eye was the archway that I couldn’t see beyond. My Master stepped behind me, leaning in close but not touching me. “Go through the archway, Rebecca.”
For some reason, I knew whatever was beyond that arch would change me in some way. I knew that no one would ever use the word “innocent” when talking about me again. A part of me hesitated, holding on to that innocence. Ignorance can be bliss, the truth painful. My mother had taught me that all too well. But not knowing the truth, the facts—I don’t want that ever again.
With that thought, I walked steadily forward. I wanted knowledge. I wanted to know whatever there was to know. I didn’t want to be naive and blind anymore about anything if I could help it.
I walked up three stairs to the main level. Curtains covered every wall around a circular room that was empty but for a pedestal in the middle that held some sort of steel archway shaped like the one I’d just passed through.
“Stand in the center of it,” my Master ordered.
Rebecca's Lost Journals: Volumes 2-5 Page 9
