A Matter of Discipline

by DawnMarie Richards

  “That’s a beautiful piece…Blake.”

  He smiled at her tentative attempt at small talk, as if they were old friends catching up over drinks. He’d play along, for a time.

  “Thank you.” He pivoted to face her, crossing his arms and propping his hips on their topic of conversation. “It belonged to my great-grandmother.”

  “Oh. Did you know her?”

  “Yes. She owned this house and the one next door, as well. I grew up over there.” He angled his head in the direction of the studio. “She was born here…literally, in the master bedroom. Died here, too…when I was ten. An impressive woman.” Blake realized it had been a long time since he’d thought about his Nonna. “Typical Italian matriarch, kept the clan in line with an iron hand thinly disguised in a velvet glove. And, of course, mandatory Sunday dinners. The family scattered to the winds once she left us.”

  “So you don’t have any family in the area?”

  “My sister lives in the western part of the state, but there’s a sizeable divide in lifestyles. She’s doing the whole husband, couple of kids, and a dog thing.”

  “Does she know what you do for a living?”

  “She knows.”

  “But she doesn’t approve?”

  “We’ve come to an agreement. We don’t discuss my work, and she and her husband keep their opinions on it to themselves.”

  “And your parents?”

  “They are enjoying a second adolescence in Florida. Golf at nine, dinner at five, and social engagements which keep them busy every minute in between. If it weren’t for the grandkids, I’m not sure we’d ever hear from them. What are you grinning about?”

  “It all sounds so wonderful.”

  “Yeah, everyone’s family sounds wonderful to other people.”

  “Not everyone’s.”

  “What?” He pushed off the sideboard, casually making his way toward her. “You expect me to believe the sweet town librarian is embroiled in some heated family feud?”

  She clasped her hands together in front of her body, her knuckles squeezed white as he approached.

  “No, there was no feud. More like a mismatch of personalities. I have a very different view of the world than my parents did.”

  “Did?” He came to a halt inches in front of her, forcing her to tilt her head to meet his gaze.

  “They died last year.”

  “Both of them?” The question came out of his mouth before he registered the pain lurking beneath her matter-of-fact tone.

  “Yes, both of them,” she replied flatly.

  “An accident?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Marion,” he warned, growing impatient with her evasiveness.

  “Is this really necessary?”

  “Only if you want me to bring you into the studio.”

  Her eyes went wide with shock and indignation.

  “I don’t see how my personal life has anything to do with it.”

  “I’m about to strip and bind you. You have no idea how intense the experience is going to be. It’s obvious to me you’ve got some shit set to boil, and it’d be incredibly irresponsible of me to take you in there without knowing what the hell is going on.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s…It’s nothing so dramatic.” Her pale green eyes frosted with determination. “They committed suicide…together…in Europe.” She looked away, giving a short hollow laugh as she lowered her head. “I really didn’t expect to have to talk about this tonight.”

  He reached out, cupping her cheek and bringing her head up to face him.

  “What happened, Marion?” he asked, gently.

  “My mother had breast cancer when I was a little girl. Apparently, it recurred. Of course, my parents never told me that. They just said they were taking a sabbatical, six months in Switzerland.”

  Her gaze had gone hazy, giving Blake the unnerving sensation she was looking right through him.

  “Did you know they have very liberal views on assisted suicide there?”

  He shook his head, his heart weighing heavy in his chest.

  “So, after a couple of months, they made the decision and took the pills they’d been hording and got into bed and fell asleep in each other’s arms, never once thinking to call their only child and say goodbye.” Her focus clearing, she looked sharply into his eyes. “At least that’s what I pieced together between the letter from my father and the police report. I received them with Mother and Father’s cremated remains, courtesy of the United States Postal Service.” She sighed. “See, not everyone’s family sounds wonderful.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I. It’s a terrible story. That’s why I’ve never told it to anyone.”

  “Not even Ilene?”

  “She knows my parents died last year, but she didn’t need to hear the gory details.”

  “Those gory details matter. They’ve obviously had a profound effect on you. It’s important I know.”

  “Fine. You know.” She looked in the direction of the studio. “Now, can we get started?”

  He considered the rapid pulse exposed at the base of her neck by the turn of her head, the throb speaking of both her strength and vulnerability. His neat characterization of her, naughty librarian looking for a walk on the wild side, didn’t do justice to her true depth. But even as he realized how very much he’d like to know her better, he knew the effort would be pointless. I won’t be in her life long enough for it to matter. Lifting his arm, outstretched hand angled toward the doorway on their left, he indicated Marion should precede him.

  “After you.”

  Blake watched as she disappeared into the sitting room, trying to shake off the curious regret twisting his gut. Her hesitant footsteps became muffled by the rich Oriental rug, and he had to quick-step to catch up with her. Floating his hand over the small of her back, he guided her toward the open French doors at the far side of the room.

  In silence, they crossed the glass-fronted walkthrough. Marion’s spine grew stiffer with each step. When they reached the door of the studio, he eased his hands over her shoulders and turned her to face him.

  “Before we go in, there are rules. They may not necessarily apply to your situation, but I need you to accept them regardless. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the studio, you do not speak unless directed to. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “We covered some of this the other night, but it bears repeating. You will answer every question out loud, promptly, and in a complete sentence. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  He smiled at her broadened response.

  “You will follow my instructions without hesitation. Do you understand?”

  There was the merest pause before her rushed, “Yes, I understand.”

  “Is there an issue?”

  “An issue? No, not exactly, it’s just…will you let me…how do I…what if you…what if I don’t…”

  He tightened his grip until her stammering stopped.

  “What if you don’t what?” he asked her calmly, relaxing his hold.

  “What if there’s something I don’t want you to do?”

  “All right, that’s a fair question. I’m very aware this is new to you so my plan is to keep things simple. I doubt it will be an issue, but for the sake of your, ah, education…” The skin between her brows crimped with concentration. “For most of the women I bring to the studio, pushing boundaries is a necessary part of the process. I’m sure you’ve read about safe words in those books of yours.” She nodded up at him. “I don’t do things that way. If, at any time, for any reason, a model wants to stop, she says so and the session ends…immediately.” He released her and lifted a hand to her cheek, touching the pad of his thumb to the quiver in her bottom lip with curiosity. “It hasn’t happened in some time. I’ve had a lot of experience and I’m very good at this.” He met her questioning gaze and smiled, letting his hand fall
away from her face. “But you do have the option. Just understand. We will come to a full stop. It’s not a threat or punishment. We’ll just need to cool down and talk and, possibly, reassess. Beyond that failsafe, your choices begin and end with your decision to enter. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “Good.”

  He took in her expression—apprehensive though eager—the aftereffects of their terse exchange in the foyer nowhere in evidence. In fact, as she angled close, the heat of her excitement penetrated his clothes and warmed his skin.

  “Any other concerns?”

  “I don’t think so.” Her eyes slid to one side, considering, before she returned her gaze to his. “Are those all the rules?”

  “Ah, thank you for reminding me.” He reached around her, the metal knob cool beneath his fingers. “There is one other. A special one just for you. When we’re in the studio,” metal scraped over metal as he turned his wrist, “you will address me as Mr. Vince.” He pushed open the door. “Are you ready, Marion?”

  “Yes, Mr. Vince, I’m ready.”

  He pulled her inside and shut them in the dark.

  Chapter 9

  Marion stood in the doorway, naked beneath a too-large terrycloth robe, trying to process the scene before her.

  Blake faced the opposite wall, fingers bumping over the top row of a wrought iron rack housing what appeared to her to be an overabundant selection of restraints. Scarves looped into flowing coils and differing thicknesses of rope wound in tidy lassos provided shocks of color in every conceivable shade.

  She watched as he selected a butterfly twist of gorgeous amethyst silk cording. Her breath caught in her throat when he turned, a tsunami of dissociation ripping through her brain. As if who she’d been had begun to split away from whatever she was about to become.

  He smiled, but her deadened muscles wouldn’t allow her to return the favor. He kept his focus tight on her as he walked the width of the room, deftly unbinding the bundle he held lightly in his hands. He stopped, and she noticed something swaying just above his head. Her gaze wandered up and she discovered an antique block and tackle hung from the ceiling.

  “Marion.”

  She brought her attention to his mouth.

  “Come here.”

  In a fog, she did as he commanded.

  “There’s no way around this next part, only through it. Keep your eyes on me. It will help. I promise. Now…” He dipped his head in her direction. “Take it off.”

  Though her fingers shook, she managed to undo the loosely knotted tie. With the tiniest shrug, the heavy covering fell away from her body, leaving her bared before the fully clothed and entirely controlled Mr. Vince.

  His unwavering attention became the only thing preventing her from shielding her breasts and collapsing to the floor.

  “Thank you, Marion. You’re doing beautifully.”

  Anxious tears pricked behind her eyes at the condescending praise. She bit the inside of her cheek while offering him a wry smile.

  “Right.” He implied his understanding. “Get on with it. Kneel, bottom to heels and hands on knees.”

  She obeyed as quickly as her numb limbs would allow.

  “Good. Now, hands up.”

  Bending her arms, she offered her fists to him. He reached down and separated them about eight inches, the warmth of his touch cruelly brief.

  “Bondage is a tool,” he explained as he looped her wrists with the rope. “What many people don’t understand is how much more complicated it is than simply having control.” After five quick circuits, he brought the remaining ends over and under at the center. “It’s a sobering responsibility…” Taking up one free length, he began to coil it tightly around the loose strands, forming a thick cable between the mid-point and her wrist. “To be liable for another person’s safety and experience…”

  The tips of two of his fingers at her pulse made Marion jump. He glanced at her but made no comment, continuing to wind until the ropes encircling her were tight to her skin. Apparently satisfied, he shifted his attention to the remaining inches, becoming totally absorbed in weaving them through the wrapped section. He checked his handiwork carefully, inspecting it from different angles and making several minor adjustments. Only then did he begin on the other side.

  “Their safety and experience,” he repeated, picking up the thread of his discourse as he secured her other wrist. “And, ultimately, their pleasure.”

  He finished and, without preamble, lifted her arms overhead, snagging the center of the hand-fashioned shackle onto the hook above her head. “Sober and un-fucking-believably exciting.”

  She found herself gazing up into the eternal darkness of his dilated pupils. Her body stretched, helpless, before him. Her mouth went dry even as her thighs became slick and cloying, her nipples gathering into tight peaks.

  “Keep those eyes on me,” he reminded her.

  Perversely, she squeezed them shut, refocusing on him only when she heard his receding footsteps. He’d strode passed her, forcing her to twist to the side, head tucked beneath her arm. He stood before a large cleat bracket screwed into the wall about three feet from the floor near the corner, unbuttoning the cuffs of his steel gray dress shirt. Distracted by the play of muscle along his forearms as he rolled up his sleeves, Marion barely noticed when he reached for the rope, unwinding the slack and grabbing it with both hands. Not until he tugged on the line, wrenching her up onto her knees, rope cutting into her wrists, did she realize his intention. She faced forward, gripped with panic.

  “I’ve got you,” he soothed. “Get your toes under you.”

  She shifted her weight and rolled onto the balls of her feet, Blake expertly drawing her up until she strained skyward, spine arching and feet struggling to find purchase on the weathered wood floor.

  A quick couple of figure eights fixed her in place and sealed her fate. There would be no escape…and no going back.

  Chapter 10

  Blake flipped up the cover of the pad, smoothing it over the completed drawing with a sense of satisfaction. Standing, he twisted to place the sketchbook on the seat behind him, the charcoal pencil angled on top. He straightened and stretched—arms up and eyes closed.

  Marion had been a fascinating model, just as he’d suspected. Every thought and emotion passing through the exceptionally beautiful, undoubtedly complicated head of hers had been on display. He’d had to remind himself to keep drawing, the urge to stop and watch a constant temptation. His camera would have been more appropriate for capturing such dynamic transformations, but drawing her had been infinitely more intimate.

  He opened his eyes and stepped toward her. She tiptoed away, her eyes going wide. Perplexed by her reaction, he closed the distance between them.

  His hasty arrival and abrupt stop disturbed the air around her, sending several wisps aloft around her face. A few clung to her lashes. Giving in to an indulgent impulse, he lifted his hand and smoothed the wayward strands into place.

  Pale green eyes, hazed by languor and arousal, lifted to his. Her lips parted in invitation. Transfixed, Blake bent close. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been made such a sweet offering. What harm could there be in having a taste?

  But he hadn’t considered her reaction. Before his mouth touched hers, she swept his bottom lip with the tip of her tongue, the trembling gesture devastating any gentle impulse. He pulled her into the crush of his arms, the curt huff of breath forced from her body eddying in the back of his throat.

  Her legs worked against his as she tried to keep her balance, the subsequent slide of her body over his rousing his slumbering cock. Without gauging the consequences, he adjusted his hold, grasping the flesh of her round, firm ass in both hands and grinding her into his erection. She widened her stance and pressed into him, her curves and hollows welcoming his hard angles.

  He deepened the kiss, parting her lips as he skimmed his hand over her hip and down into the wet heat between her thighs. As he
plunged his tongue deep into her mouth, he slid his middle finger inside her. She squirmed in his arms, her throaty moan becoming a desperate whimper when he located the swollen bundle of nerves at the front of her womb with his fingertip. Drawing lazy circles, he continued to kiss her, his sanity falling victim to the riot of sensations Marion provided.

  Her breathy sighs of pleasure echoed in his ears. She tasted of peppermint and lipstick and dark, dangerous desire. The florals from her freshly washed hair combined with the elemental scent he coaxed from her body, washing over him in an intoxicating blend of lavender and the sea. Her nipples, insistent pebbles in the swells of her breasts, teased at his chest even through the barrier of his shirt. So goddamn warm. The notion repeated in his head in rhythm with their kisses and the whirl of his finger.

  The unmistakable spasms of an impending orgasm made him lift his head in surprise, his mouth coming away from hers with an audible smack. Where the fuck had he been? How had he not noticed?

  “Marion,” he called to her. “Marion, look at me.”

  Her eyelids fluttered and then rose reluctantly, as if he woke her from a dream she hated to leave. Her front teeth scraped the swell of her lower lip as he slid his hand out from between her legs.

  Blake pulled her tighter in his one-armed embrace, reaching up with his other hand to unhook her. She sank against him, her cheek pressed to his chest, and he lifted her into his arms, carrying her from the room.

  A car drove by as they entered the glass-fronted walkway, headlights throwing them into stark relief. Marion burrowed into him. Her small gasp of dismay, captured in the crook of his neck, propelled him across the exposed expanse.

  In the sitting room, Blake settled her onto one of the two facing settees. He looked down, taking in Marion’s submissive posture. Bowed head and hands rested lightly on her knees. No matter how many times he witnessed the phenomenon, he continued to be amazed by the calming power of bondage. The trembling woman who’d so hesitantly dropped her robe for him less than an hour ago was no longer in evidence.