by Multiple
“Ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“Where to, ma’am?”
I finally registered the tingling sensation in my palm. I stared at it as if it held some kind of answers, even poked at it with my manicured nail in case there was a secret below the surface. The sharpness of the pain there was like a frightened breath, a sudden blotting-out of everything else.
My ulcer flared up a little, but in truth it was the least of my troubles. Anxiety attacks, momentary blackouts, and chest pains. My self-medication program of coffee, cigarettes and vodka – sometimes simultaneously – didn’t seem to be working. Even sex was losing its edge, and those pretty-boy escorts were hardly worth the time and money I spent on them. They scratched an itch but they had no substance.
“Ma’am?”
“Hotel Bridgeman.”
I flipped open my cellphone and dialed Joanna’s number. She answered on the third ring. “Ms. Blakely’s office.”
“Joanna, what took you so long? Two rings maximum, remember?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Blakely. I was just signing for a flower delivery. My fiancé–”
“I don’t care. Cancel my afternoon.”
“Um...pardon?”
I squeezed the phone as I rubbed the bridge of my nose. Nothing tipped a girl off her rocker quite like flowers. “Look, if you can’t handle it...”
“No, no problem, Ms. Blakely. I was just...surprised.” She remained professional, but I heard tears mixed with her confusion. Good. I didn’t need her thinking we were buddy-buddy friends.
“Don’t wet yourself. Just do your job.”
I disconnected the call and stared at my cell for a moment. I imagined Joanna sitting there, poking her tongue out at me through the phone. Joanna, with her upcoming wedding to that no-neck carpenter who smelled of sweat and hard work. Whose muscular hands and coarse mouth probably left grime all over Joanna’s body every night. Whose low income seemed matched only by his poor imagination. Flowers on Valentine’s Day? A dozen red roses, no doubt. I mean, who on Earth wanted that sort of stupid, empty...funny...romantic...shit? I stowed my phone and leaned my head back, watching the skyscrapers glide past. For a second, maybe two, I closed my eyes and listened to the muffled noise of the city.
The limo pulled to a stop.
“What’s wrong, Simon?”
“We’re here, ma’am.”
“Already? We only just left.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but we’ve been driving for forty minutes.”
“Forty?”
“Yes, ma’am. The traffic was against us, I’m afraid.”
“Did I...fall asleep?” I don’t sleep during the day! I barely have time for it at night.
Simon opened my door and helped me out. “Shall I wait, ma’am?”
“No. Just be ready. I’ll call when I need you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I took the stairs since it was only one floor, and was shocked at how short of breath it made me. I was puffing like someone twice my size and age by the time I reached the top. Stupid anxiety. What a useless emotion.
The thick carpet allowed me to walk in near silence, despite my three-inch heels. As I passed each room, drawing closer to 112, I felt a tingling inside me. It might have been the ulcer, but it felt more like something from a long time ago. Was it fear? Excitement? Either way, it was novel feeling.
I reached 112 and a shiver broke through. Goosebumps erupted from my neck to my knees as I fisted my hand and knocked.
The door swung open. Behind it stood a petite redhead in a sheer nightgown and department store lingerie.
I quirked up an eyebrow. Derek had implied sexual therapy, but never in any of my sessions had I mentioned being open to women. Was this part of what he meant by radical? I guessed I would soon find out.
I handed her the card that Derek gave me and started walking inside. Despite her diminutive stature, the redhead moved in front of me and blocked my path.
“You’re kidding, right? What is this, the NFL?”
“You have not been permitted to enter yet.”
“Have I been permitted to give a fuck? Because that one’s way down on my to-do list.”
“Give me your bag.”
“Go to hell.”
She held out her hand and tapped her foot. “Bag. Now.”
My hands found my hips almost of their own accord. “Do you know who you’re talking to, matchstick?”
“I know and care in equal amounts.”
I didn’t appreciate the snark in her tone. And despite my dangerous stare, her green eyes did not waver from my face. Any of my underlings would have cowered in fear, but for the second time in an hour it had no effect. I pulled my phone out and turned to leave. “I knew this was useless.” I started dialing Simon.
“No.” A voice, deep and calm, burst from the shadow-filled doorway directly across from room 112.
I froze for a moment as the owner of the voice seemed to grow from the very darkness before me. He stepped forward, tall and broad-shouldered, his face masked from forehead to mouth, his legs encased in black leather pants, his torso bare. He looked as if he could snap me in half with one hand. The mask he wore worried me a little. Only superheroes and criminals wore masks...and there are no superheroes. So why did he need to hide his identity? For that matter, what had I agreed to by coming here?
I backed away from him, through 112’s door until I ran into the little redhead. I guess I’d just been given permission to enter.
The guy was big. Not monstrously so, but he sure filled the doorway. “So you’re Dr. Benson’s latest hard-luck case. Natasha Blakely.” He held out his hand. “Give me your cellphone.”
“Sure. When you pry it from my cold, dead hand.”
“From what I hear, I may not have to wait long.”
His voice washed over me, calm but potent.
I folded my arms.
“Natasha, I have a strong distaste for repetition.”
“Ooh. Everyone has a fucking attitude problem today.”
He stepped forward and grabbed hold of my phone. I gripped it like it was a life preserver. The big lump of muscle brought his other hand up and squeezed my wrist, pinching at a nerve until I released my prize.
“I understand your history, so consider this your first and only warning. When you address me, you will do so with respect. I am Master Sweet.”
“Shit. I would’ve preferred candy.”
“Congratulations. You’ve just earned your first punishment.”
“Punishment? What am I, a child?”
His expression went flat, but his voice remained just as stern. “From here on out you will speak only when I say, and only with respect. Are we clear?”
Apparently this man had no clue whom he was addressing.
“Are we clear?” he snapped again.
I tried to formulate a witty enough way to tell him to fuck off, but before I opened my mouth his smoky baritone voice butted through my thoughts.
“Let there be no confusion, Natasha.” He chopped his hand toward the hallway. “Out there has ceased to matter. This suite may be small, but it is now your world. And it will remain so until I decree otherwise.”
“Now listen here, you thug–” I poked at his chest but he seized my hand. In under a second he had me turned around, my face against the wall and my hand bent up into my spine. The heat and hardness of his body pressed against my back. I tried to struggle but he twisted my hand just enough to let me know I was at his mercy.
Pinned like that, I felt utterly weak. Constricted. Like I was prey. His breath coursed over the back of my neck and my hair rose to meet it. There was a tingle inside me that was all about power. His power. It felt raw and animalistic as he wielded it, yet he clearly had it under precise control.
His voice returned, a low buzz straight into my ear. “Who you are, what you do, all you have; these mean nothing. Your doctor felt this was the last resort. You can get with the program.�
�
“Or...?”
“There is no alternative.”
His arrogant tone felt like a lit cigarette in my brain. The moment he released me I planned to smack that damn mask off his face. My hand still tingled from the last time I’d let it fly. Derek’s broken glasses flashed in my memory, a symbol of everything that would go wrong if I surrendered control for even a second.
But that was exactly what he’d warned me about. I couldn’t stand anyone telling me what to do. If Derek was right, eventually my chest pain would turn into a full blown heart attack. But how could I relinquish control when no-one else could do anything right? I swore I could feel my empire crumbling while I was squeezed between a wall and a hard man. Who seemed intent on crushing the air from my lungs. I needed to get this over with and get back to work.
“Fine. I’m here, so we might as well do this. Where do I start? You wanna hear how daddy wanted a son? How I used sex to jumpstart my career? How I’ll do anything to get ahead…”
“Silence.” He slipped his free hand up into my hair.
“Oh, yes. I speak only when – ow!”
The back of my head felt like a thousand hot needles as he fisted his big hand. “You’ve already used your chance.” He turned to the redhead who’d been standing obediently waiting for an order. “We clearly have much to do. Take her things and we’ll begin.”
“Yes, Master,” she replied.
Master? He released me from his grip and the weight of his body. I cast a sidelong glance at her then him. I ran a damn tight ship, but never had I made my subordinates call me master. Though the idea was appealing. If this session gave me nothing else, maybe I could at least learn how to squeeze a little more out of my plebeian staff.
“Give me that.” The redhead reached for my purse.
“Touch it and I’ll have you arrested for theft. That bag cost more than you make in a year.”
“You’ve just earned yourself a second punishment, Ms Blakely. And you will apologize to my assistant.”
The memory of his hand in my hair was strong, and the sensation of pain still licked at my scalp. I turned to the little bitch. “Sorry, okay?”
“Natasha.” Master Sweet’s heavy hands pressed down on my shoulders. “When we apologize, we show contrition.” The weight of his grip increased until it began to hurt. I shrank away from it, but he kept pressing until I landed on my knees. “Good girl. Try again.”
I looked up at the redhead. Her face was calm and aloof, like she hadn’t cared since the nineties. My instinct, as always, was to stand up, walk out and destroy some careers. The tension in my chest reminded me just why I shouldn’t. I’d spent fifteen years making myself into this, and that was a lot to fight against. I needed something; a handhold, a landmark. Some experience I could draw on to fool these two idiots into thinking I was actually sorry.
With my eyes closed I thought back nearly nine years, to when I orchestrated the takeover of the Drinkwater Media Group. Well, to their faces we called it a “merger”. That was the last time I could remember favoring honey over vinegar.
Until I could get the hell back to the office, I figured I could channel that younger, stupider version of me.
“I’m very sorry, red-headed lady.”
Her expression never wavered. “Accepted.”
Master Sweet rested his hand back in my hair. “Natasha, it’s time to begin.”
He fisted that hand again, reigniting the heat in my scalp, while his other swept down my calf and stopped at my red-black two-toned peek-a-boo toe Louboutin pumps.
“What size do you wear, Natasha?” He drew the shoes off one at a time.
“Six.”
“Yet you have size eight feet.”
“Guys exaggerate their dicks, girls shrink their feet.”
He turned his already-tight fist, pulling a sharp breath into my lungs. “That kind of language is a privilege. One you’ve not earned.”
I couldn’t speak through the tension in my body, and I couldn’t nod without risking searing pain. Thankfully Master Sweet eased his grip just enough to allow my voice back.
“Yes.”
“You will address me as Master Sweet, or simply Master.”
“Yes, simply Master.” I tensed up, ready for him to squeeze again. Instead he shocked me by pushing forward, overbalancing me until I was on hands and knees, my cheek buried in the carpet. His pelvis nudged up against my ass, and he was definitely packing something hard in there.
He took a long, deep breath in. “I do so enjoy these early stages.”
“Yes, Master,” said the toadying redhead.
He brought his free hand back down to my feet. He appeared to still be addressing his off-sider. “Look at the deep lines her shoes have carved. The rich redness of constriction.”
“Yes, Master.”
His breath seemed to falter for a moment. “It will be exquisite to see this all over her body.”
All over my body? What exactly was that supposed to mean? I should have known better. Never agree to a deal without the terms being spelled out in a contract. Business 101. “Listen, Mister Sweets. Unconventional sex therapy is one thing, but no one is putting any kind of marks on my body. Are we clear?” I threw his condescending words back at him.
“Do you understand what it means to submit?”
His callous tone caught me off guard, but I quickly recovered.
“I have underlings for that.”
“So you see submission as a form of weakness.”
“Absolutely. I bow to no one.”
“You do now. “ The finality of his words was chilling.
“I never agreed to torture. I don’t care how you package it. Radical therapy, or whatever the fuck you’re calling this shit.”
He squeezed his hand tighter and drew my head up from the floor, slamming me bodily backwards against his hard chest.
“Language, Natasha!” His tone was cold with menace. “You will submit to me. The only way you will succeed here is to reconfigure your prejudices. And you said it yourself: you’ll do anything to get ahead.”
I ground my teeth, frustrated. He was right. I had done it in the past and would do it again. Anything was fair game to get ahead. You don’t become a billionaire before you’re 30 by playing nice. Damn him for calling me on that with such hostility in his voice, though.
“Natasha, what happens here stays here. No-one will know about our sessions, and you have my guarantee that you are perfectly safe within the confines of this suite.” He eased the pressure on my hair just a little. “As for torture? Such barbarism as torture leaves a disgusting taste in my mouth. What we do in here is training. In a case like yours, though, it will be near impossible to see the divide.”
I didn’t know what to make of that. “A case like mine?”
“Your stubbornness means that training will be hard initially. The singularity of your vision means you will misinterpret much of what I say and do. I must break you down to build you up. You will learn to submit, and when you do, you’ll enjoy its many benefits. One of which is a more relaxed sense of being. Vital for someone with anxiety and stress issues.”
Despite my desire to say fuck it all and walk away, I swallowed my pride and grumbled, “Fine.”
“Rise, Natasha.”
I wobbled to my feet, guided by both my tormentors. The redhead moved in front of me and started to unbutton my blazer. Instinctively I threw my hands onto hers and squeezed.
“No...”
She looked to Master Sweet for assistance. Fearing the strength I’d already felt in his hands I released my grip.
It almost appeared he could read my mind. His voice carried no trace of anger. It was soft like that of a parent explaining something to a small child. “Natasha, in here, dressing and undressing yourself, and others, is also a privilege.” He turned to his assistant. “Chloe.”
“Yes, Master?” The eagerness in her voice made me more than a little uncomfortable.
“T
his slave’s clothing is wholly inappropriate to her station. Put it away until such time as she is worthy of it.”
“What? That’s Dolce & Gabbana!”
Master Sweet frowned and held up his hand like it was a blade. “You depend on possessions for status. You think they give you worth. In here, your only value comes through me. How well you serve me. You will learn this. From this moment until I decree otherwise, you are nameless.”
Chloe was quick. She peeled away my silk suit and the layers of tight nylon shapewear. Involuntarily, I let out a sigh of relief as the circulation returned to my stomach and glutes. They gently tingled like a waking limb, adding to the awkwardness of standing naked before these two unknowns. I hoped it wouldn’t show. I set my face neutral, aiming for proud, but the look on Master Sweet’s face told me I fell short.
His eyes skimmed over my body and I felt a surge of pride. I always made sure I was perfectly maintained, from my pedicured toenails to my hairless pussy. And one thing I’d always been able to count on was the lust of men. The ghost of a smile washed across his face and then disappeared. “Your hypocrisy amazes me, slave. You balk at the thought that I’d mark your body. Yet you do it to yourself in the name of fashion.”
“What marks?”
“These, here.” His hand ghosted down my torso, sending a shiver through me. “Your undergarments are so… constricting.”
I held my head high. “Yoga and Pilates only go so far. The rest takes careful packaging. I have a reputation to maintain, and looks are everything.”
“You are fit, despite your lifestyle and habits, and yours is a body I can work with.” I caught the glint of appreciation in his voice but it was short-lived. “However, your mental image and worldview leave much to be desired. In here, I decide the packaging. I determine if your looks are appropriate. Is this clear?”
“Yes,” I said bitterly.
Surprisingly, he ignored my tone. “Chloe, escort this slave to the room.”
Time for the radical therapy to start I guess. I had two choices here. I could suck it up and go through the motions, or I could fight. And it suddenly felt as if I’d been fighting all my life. Way back, jumping through hoops for the approval of people who’d never mattered and never cared. Lately, fucking over the lives of anyone I chose to. If Derek was right – and despite my behavior, I trusted the man – I had to take this seriously. I figured that, at worst, I’d feel stupid, go home, and start searching for a new shrink.
