I moved forward without hesitation. I’d come that far and I wanted to complete what I’d started. Once I stopped under the archway, he stepped in front of me. “On your knees.”
I did as he commanded.
“Hands behind your back and lace your fingers,” he ordered next. “Don’t move them or I’ll bind them.”
Again, I did what he ordered, the position thrusting my breasts high in the air. His hot stare swept over them, puckering my already sensitive nipples, and I could almost taste his hunger, his desire. He enjoyed me bowing down to him. I know this as I write, as surely as I knew it in that room. He enjoyed the control it gave him. The power. And I was aroused by those things in him, wet and slick between my thighs.
“I can choose to let others watch us in this room,” he informed me.
My heart jackhammered and I opened my mouth to object when he added, “But tonight we just observe. You observe and discover all that you don’t know.” He hit a button on the remote he held, and the curtain behind him began to lift to reveal a gigantic video screen.
My Master moved to stand behind me, allowing me to see the image of a man chained to an archway like the one around me, two women on their knees before him, licking him and teasing him. “He’s being punished, Rebecca,” my Master explained. “The female on the left is his Master.”
Punished? The man seemed to be enjoying himself, his expression stark with desire, his hips thrusting forward. I was certain he was about to come. Abruptly, though, the two women pulled away from him and began kissing each other, leaving him wanting for completion.
“Each time he nears release, they stop,” my Master explained. “It’s a far worse punishment than flogging or whipping.”
The channel changed and a new scene appeared. A woman stood on a pedestal on top of a stage, tied to another archway with what must have been twenty-five people surrounding her. A man dressed in leather used a whip on her back and she bucked against each blow. I could see pain etched in her face. I watched the whip come down on her and I gasped with the impact I imagined she felt. I couldn’t watch it again. I needed to get out of there. That woman needed out of there.
I dropped my hands and started to get up. My Master wrapped his arms around me and pulled my back to his chest, burying his face in my hair. “Stay. I need you to stay.”
He needed me. Those words were probably the only ones that could have penetrated my need to escape. As they seeped into my mind, my body relaxed against his. But my mind was uneasy—fearful, even. “Is that what you want to do to me?”
“I told you I wouldn’t ever punish you in public, and I won’t. This is about seeing everything that goes on here, so you aren’t shocked later.”
“Somehow I think I will still end up shocked later.”
He didn’t deny that I was right. Instead, he stood up and walked around to squat in front of me, his finger sliding under my chin. “We decide what we do. We make our rules. And you always, and I mean always, have your safe word. Say it now, Rebecca.”
Looking into his eyes, I felt myself coming back to him, calming fully. “Red,” I whispered.
“Red,” he repeated. “You know it. I know it. I’ll listen when you use it. I’ll stop whatever I’m doing, no matter where we are. The control is ultimately yours.” He hit the remote on those words and the curtain closed, but not before I saw the woman grimace with another blow that set me on edge again.
I hugged myself, suddenly aware of my nakedness. “She was being beaten.”
“When I spanked you, were you aroused, Rebecca?”
“I didn’t expect to be.”
“But you were.”
I squeezed my eyes shut without answering.
“Answer, Rebecca,” he ordered, his voice hard, sharp.
“Yes.”
“Look at me.”
I forced my eyes open. “She is also aroused,” he insisted. “Her Master isn’t taking her anywhere that she doesn’t want to go. It’s his job to know her like no one else does, like I want to know you. And showing you these things tonight helps us both know what you want and where your limits are, in a way that just reading a contract didn’t allow. Unless you’ve decided you want me to take you home.”
He wanted to know my limits. Once again, he’d said the right thing at the right moment. “No. I want to stay. I want to continue. What next?” I swallowed hard. “Master.”
His eyes flashed with approval. “You will stand up, and I will tie you to the archway so you know what being in the center of this room, the showcase of the scene, and at my mercy, is like.”
I was okay with his mercy. Maybe he hadn’t earned that, but it was an instinctive feeling I had with him or I wouldn’t have been there at all. I pushed to my feet. He stood before me, staring down at me for eternal seconds before he ordered, “Raise your right arm to your side.” I did as commanded and he bound my wrist to the archway with some sort of rubbery cuff that didn’t bite into my skin, then repeated the action with the other arm.
He stepped back, as if he was the audience that might be behind the curtain. I knew what he was doing; forcing me to feel what being on display would be like. With my arms wide, my body naked, his eyes hot as they caressed every inch of me, I have never felt so exposed in my life, but neither have I ever been so aroused.
Time ticked by eternally, and finally, he began to undress. I was spellbound by his male beauty, his long, lean, athletic body. His cock was thick and hard for me. He wanted me. He was turned on by my being tied up like this. My gaze tracked his path as he moved to my right and I watched him open a cabinet with rows of whips, chains, and various toys inside, and my heart raced. He ran his fingers over one item, then the next, and I knew he meant to taunt me, to build anticipation and make me wonder what he intended to do to me.
His selections turned out to be a flogger with long leather tassels and a flat leather crop. I let out a hot breath of relief. I didn’t know what a crop would be like, but I knew what a flogging felt like, and I’d enjoyed it. Familiar territory in unfamiliar surroundings was welcome.
With his toys in hand, he approached me, all sleek muscle, with a predatory gleam in his eyes, before he stepped behind me. His cock pressed beneath my backside, his breath whispered on my neck.
“You were relieved I picked the flogger.”
“Yes.”
His hand came down on my backside and I jumped at the surprise, the erotic contact. “Yes what?” he demanded.
“Yes, Master,” I panted.
“I chose it because I knew you wanted me to. Because it’s my job to know what you want. What is your safe word?”
“Red,” I answered.
“Say it again.”
“Red.”
“Use it and I stop. Understand?”
“Yes, Master.”
He began to massage my backside. Anticipation burned inside me. I knew the first blow would come soon but not from which toy, and my sex clenched and ached. My nipples tightened. His hand left my body and I sensed him take a step back. I held my breath and waited to discover if the flogger or the crop would come first. The first light smack of flat leather sent a spike of adrenaline through me. A series of repeated smacks to my backside immediately followed. None of them hurt, but my skin heated and I became so wet and needy that my thighs clenched against the emptiness I needed filled.
Without warning the long leather tassels of the flogger splayed over my backside, heavier than the crop, sending waves of sensation through me. A motion of leather on skin repeated over and over, and the room faded, and all ability to think began to disappear. It was heaven, freedom from worry, from the outside world. From the need to control anything at all. I gave in to the sensations. I wanted my mind to become a blank canvas. I craved more of the prickling pain that morphed moments later to pleasure. And he gave me more, using the crop in short, gentle pats on my breasts, between my thighs, and on my legs.
I barely remember the moment he dropped the crop and th
e flogger and untied my wrists. I only know that I was suddenly weak, exhausted both physically and emotionally. I collapsed against him and he lifted me, carrying me from the room. I curled into him, his warm body my cocoon, and I didn’t even question where he was taking me. I’d given myself to him some time back under that archway.
Our destination turned out to be a bedroom off the main room, where dim lights cast a glow on the massive bed. I melted into the velvety-soft blanket beneath me and rolled to my side, off my sore back and backside. My Master slid into bed behind me, and began to kiss every single place he’d used the leather on. He was gentle, worshipping my body, kissing me, telling me how beautiful I was. How perfect I’d been under the archway. Amazingly, time had, once again, stood still, and the sting of the leather faded. I was lost in my Master, in the way he commanded my body. Yes. In that bed, I knew him as Master more than I ever had, and I understood the escape that came from giving him that control, and the pleasure he promised would come with it. At some point I faded off to sleep, into a blissful, sated state of wonder.
I woke up this morning in his private chambers, with him wrapped around me, holding me. I remember so very clearly the moment I inhaled the luxurious male scent of him, absorbing the delicious weight of him pressed to me. And I remember blinking in surprise as the velvet box came into focus on the blanket in front of me, open to display the ring. My throat tightened at the sight and I sat up, the blanket falling to my waist, displaying my naked body.
My Master raised up on one arm and leaned in to lick my nipple, the intimate act sending ripples of pleasure through my aching, satisfied body. “Now or never,” he challenged me with a hot, intense stare. “Isn’t that what you said yesterday?”
I had, and there was no hesitation in my reply. Not after the way he’d made love to me the night before and known exactly what I needed, what I craved. “Now” I reached for the ring, sliding it onto my finger.
He leaned down and kissed it. “And now,” he said, possessiveness in his tone, “you belong to me.”
I belong to him. Despite his saying this to me before, the ring, the finality of our agreement, hit me with a bit of a shock. I belonged to someone else?
“Say it, Rebecca.”
I blinked at the order and realized that this was the real test—not last night. This was the moment I would give him my ultimate trust. It was terrifying. I’d only given that kind of complete trust to my mother, and she’d betrayed me in the end.
But I’d taken a leap of faith when I’d taken the job at the gallery, and it had paid off.
I was in too deep with him now not to take a leap with him. But I prayed then—and I pray now—that he deserves it.
I drew in a breath and breathed out the words that gave him all that power over me. “I belong to you.”
Journal number . . .?
(It’s been so long since I wrote, I don’t remember), Entry number 1
Friday, May 4, 2012
7:00 a.m.
I woke up with tears streaming down my face, lost in a dream, unsure where I was . . . a dream, or was it a nightmare? How can anything “he” is in be a nightmare? But how can it not be, if I’m this tormented in its aftermath?
I was standing naked in my Master’s private chambers, in a room filled with red and white roses. They were everywhere, the scent of them sweet and seductive, the smell of romance and passion. My skin was ivory perfection, more beautiful than I ever remembered it being. My hair was dark silk that flowed down my shoulders. I didn’t feel like Rebecca Mason. I felt like someone else. Someone compelling and enchantingly sexy.
He entered the room, standing before me fully clothed. It was part of his power, him being dressed. Me being naked. I liked his power. It excited me. It made me burn. To be possessed by such a man, this man, was everything I wanted, everything I craved.
He held out his hand. “It’s time.”
Nervous excitement shot through me. Yes. I will be his. And then, suddenly I was at the door of a large room with an octagonal stage. There were theater-like seats filled with rows of people. I felt a sudden surge of panic, a need to turn and run away.
“I’ve never claimed anyone as mine publicly,” he said softly, stroking my hair. “Only you.”
A knot formed in my chest and my belly. This was his way of showing me commitment; maybe the only way he knew how to show it. He was claiming me and asking for my acceptance into this community, and both things meant something to him. I had to do this for him, no matter how uncomfortable it made me feel.
He stepped forward, heading down the aisle leading to the stage, and I knew to follow, to keep my head down. I was his submissive, his slave, and he was a respected Master among what he considered his peers. I understood the dynamics, even if they weren’t easy for me to navigate—not in public. Not during any of the times when he involved other people in our time together.
I was glad to have my head down, relieved not to have to see the eyes I felt like heavy, wet blankets on my skin. I didn’t want these people to see me. I didn’t want them to want me, yet I felt the lust and hunger of those watching me, clawing at me, suffocating me.
Once I was on the stage he turned me to face him, his hands sliding to my face, his eyes finding mine. “Do you know how proud I am of you? How perfect you are?”
The rest of the room faded away. There was only him, and the moment he turned me to the crowd and announced me as his. He then pressed on my shoulders and I knew to kneel down, lowering my head, my hands outstretched, palms flat on the floor as he’d taught me. A long line of people began to line up to come to the stage and, one by one, they touched my hair, my back, my arms. I could feel myself shake, and not from arousal. He was sharing me again, and it shook me to the core, no matter what the reason, no matter what the rules specific to this club said, that this was part of my being accepted publicly. I tried to fight the shivers running through me, but I couldn’t. I slid into a dark place in my mind but it wasn’t shelter enough. Every touch of a stranger’s hand sent another shiver down my spine, and my eyes burned until tears streaked my cheeks.
And that’s when I woke up, crying as I had been in my sleep, the scent of roses teasing my nostrils (so very real, though it was imaginary), my gaze sweeping his bedroom, where I’d been sleeping with him for months now. It took a moment to realize where I was, and why I was alone. He was out of town and would be until Tuesday. “He” being my lover, my Master, and, I fear, soon my heartache. The bed was empty without him, the house emptier, but clearly my dreams and my thoughts were not. They were rich with a growing sense of unease.
I’m in the living room now, his living room, a cup of piping-hot coffee beside me, and the television is on, but my efforts to stop my mind from racing aren’t working. Now, for the first time in months, I’m forcing myself to do more than jot down random thoughts here or there as has become my habit, or rather lack of one. I’m going to start writing down what I feel again, and face what is bothering me.
And I know there is plenty bothering me. The nightmares of my mother trying to kill me have been back for a month, but now I’ve apparently decided to keep things interesting and have nightmares about the man I love. Who doesn’t love me.
There it is. No more analysis needed. One journal entry, and I’ve solved the mystery that isn’t a mystery.
He. Doesn’t. Love. Me.
It’s that simple, and yet it’s complicated in so many ways, starting with the fact that I know he cares about me in the way he believes is the ultimate showing of affection and commitment. He simply doesn’t believe in love. He believes in belonging, in ownership . . . in contracts. I’ve often thought that he trusts what is in ink more than he trusts what is in his heart or mine.
I can understand this. I can. Let’s face it, my mother loved me, but she lied to me. She lied in ways that I believe affected the very core of who I am.
Looking back now, I think the security of a contract was part of what drew me to our arrangement. I
know he has something in his past that makes him need that security, too, though he tells me this lifestyle is nothing more than who he is and what he enjoys. There is more in the depths of his eyes, though, more to who he is. I’d thought I’d discover what that is, who he is. I thought we could heal together. I thought we’d find love together—but he says love is a facade that twists people in knots, and yes, he’s gone so far as to say that it destroys.
He’s wrong. Love isn’t a facade, but yes, it does twist you in knots. And he is completely wrong about love destroying what it touches. It’s people who do that. And I fear that is where this is headed for me.
The scenes we enact together take me deeper and deeper into the places I know represent his internal hell, and yet I can’t pull him back. Instead, he’s pulling me inside that dark hole that is his escape. Only there is no escape for me anymore: not when every scene pushes me beyond the limits that mean pleasure for me. He doesn’t see that, either. And as my Master, he should.
Oddly, as I’m beginning to find me again, I think he’s completely lost me. Or maybe I’ve lost him. My heart just contracted at this conclusion. I love him. Why did I let myself love him?
10:15 a.m . . .
H e called me as soon as I sat down at my desk.
“My bed needs you in it.”
I swallowed hard at his raspy, desire-laden words. “It had me in it. You were the one who wasn’t in it.”
“Any bed I’m in needs you in it. You should be here.”
“We both know why I never travel with you.”
“Yes. And we are going to talk about that at the contract renewal.”
I wasn’t going to agree to go public with our relationship. I already battled people thinking I was too young to have depth to my knowledge. Having them believe I got where I’m at because I’m involved with someone connected to the gallery would be even worse. “My position won’t change.”
“We both know I can be very persuasive.”
Yes. We both knew that all too well.
Rebecca's Lost Journals: Volumes 2-5 Page 10
