Oh god! What have I done?
CHAPTER 3
In the two hours before I go to bed, I check my email at least four times, alternately praying for a response and hoping not to find one.
Just before midnight, I finally give up and crawl beneath the covers. He hasn’t replied, and I’m mildly surprised to discover that I’m more disappointed than relieved. There are lots of possible reasons I haven’t heard back from him, I tell myself. First, it’s only been two hours—he may not be as obsessively checking his email as I am. Maybe he’s already found someone and just didn’t bother pulling his ad, maybe he’s winnowing through a huge pile of replies, or maybe he just didn’t like my response. Whatever the reason, there’s nothing I can do about it now—unless I write him another letter! Yeah, that’s the ticket! I’m halfway out of bed before I stop myself. Get a grip, girl. I scooch back under the covers, berating myself for my impatience. I feel like I’m sixteen again, waiting to get asked to the prom. Geesh.
If I don’t hear from him, I’m no worse off than I was before I saw his ad. If I do hear back, who knows? I could be much worse off. It’s probably better if he doesn’t reply. I spend at least half an hour tossing and turning while I flip-flop back and forth on whether I really want to hear from him. Finally, I escape into sleep. The last thought I remember before drifting off is this: if it’s meant to be, then it will be.
I awaken early, even though it’s Saturday and I can stay in bed as long as I want. But I don’t want, not today. So I pop out of bed and head for my desk. I wake up my computer and go right to my email. As usual, they’ve piled up overnight, mostly junk mail. This morning, I have twenty-six unread messages waiting for me. Anxiously, I scan down the list.
There it is, near the bottom. The subject line is what catches my eye first: “Re: Pleasing.” He must have sent it soon after I went to bed. I mentally berate myself for not staying up at least a little bit later. The address is a generic bunch of letters and numbers at craigslist.com. I frown—there’s no information to be gleaned from his choice of a name for his email address.
Now that he has replied, what do I do? Do I open it, or do I delete it and put all this behind me? There’s no real harm in reading his message, but I have the feeling that if I do, I’m crossing some invisible point of no return. I move the cursor to “open,” but my finger hesitates above the mouse. My heart is pounding like a drum inside my chest. I take a deep breath and then plunge ahead, clicking the mouse.
His email contains only two words: “Good girl.”
What the fuck? I pour my soul out to him—well, give him a little peek at it anyhow—and all he replies with are two fucking words? I don’t get it. What does “Good girl” even mean? Is he praising me for the quality of my response to his ad? Or is he saying I’m a good girl, but he needs a naughty one? Maybe he’s testing me somehow. I don’t have a fucking clue.
If he’s praising me, why hasn’t he written anything else? He could share some details about himself, or at least give me some instructions on what to do next. If he’s letting me down easy, couldn’t he at least be a little more clear about it?
Even if I want to reply, how the heck am I supposed to respond to “Good girl?” The whole thing is maddening. I keep staring at the email as if something else might magically appear, some hidden addition to the message. Of course, nothing does. There’s only those two words, teasing me, tormenting me.
Finally, I shut off my monitor, push my chair away from my desk, and head to the kitchen for some breakfast.
Usually on Saturday I take the time to whip up a veggie omelet or some blueberry pancakes and bacon, or some other special treat, but with my mind in a whirl, I’m not sure I can handle anything that complicated. Instead, I pour myself a bowl of bran flakes, topping them with fresh blueberries.
While I eat, barely tasting my cereal and berries, I keep thinking about how I should respond to the message. I’m totally at a loss here, completely inexperienced in these matters. Having read Fifty Shades is no help—Anastasia met her guy out in the real world, with barely a hint of his dominant nature. Not until she’s seen him several times did she begin to fall under his spell.
Maybe that’s what I need to do—write him back and ask him to meet me for coffee, or something equally normal and mundane. Somehow, though—maybe from the way he wrote and worded his ad—I instinctively know that’s not how he would want me to play it. I wrack my brain for some other response.
I wonder if any of my girlfriends have any experience at all in this realm. We’ve discussed the Fifty Shades books—what group of girlfriends hasn’t?—but none of them has ever volunteered that they’ve actually taken part in something of this nature.
“Good girl.” How can something so simple be causing me so much turmoil?
A sudden thought strikes me. Fight fire with fire. Follow simplicity with simplicity. I need a response that’s as simple as his, yet still filled with meaning. I wrack my brain, discarding at least a dozen possibilities. Finally, I have it.
No longer interested in my breakfast, I dump the remainder of my cereal into the disposal and hurry to my computer. When I turn on the monitor, his opened email is sitting there waiting for me. I click on “reply” and a new message window opens. I type in a simple, “Thank you, Sir.” It looks and feels right, so I hit “send” with only the briefest hesitation.
Anxious and on edge now that my message is sent, I get up from my chair, leaving my computer and monitor turned on so I can see it from anywhere in the room, just in case. I can’t sit here doing nothing, waiting for his reply. It might not come for hours. It might not come at all. I could go crazy. Crazier, I remind myself, since getting involved in this thing is already kind of crazy.
I need to be busy, to be distracted. I turn on my iPod, which is nestled in its dock. Pink’s “Try” erupts from the speaker. Not a good song for my iPod to decide to start with. I love the song, but I really don’t need to hear about desire leading to getting burned right now. I wonder if maybe the universe is sending me a message. I quickly switch to another song, Kesha singing about partying. I bounce to the punchy beat for a few moments. This song is much better—there’s no message for me in it—but it’s still not enough distraction. I decide to dust. Dusting is a nice, mindless distraction, and it’s something that needs to be done, besides.
I grab my fluffy blue dusting wand and begin wiping it absently over surfaces, glancing at my monitor every minute or so. I feel totally foolish every time I look, but I can’t help myself.
My vigilance pays off. Less than fifteen minutes after I sent my email, my screen lights up with a new message.
I drop my wand onto the dresser and rush to my desk, smiling. My smile fades when I see it’s just another piece of spam. Silently cursing all senders of junk email to the deepest levels of Hell, I delete the message. Before I can turn away from the screen, another new email pops up. This one is not spam. This one is from him!
I wonder if maybe he’s been watching his email as eagerly as I’ve been keeping tabs on mine, but somehow I doubt it. Such eagerness wouldn’t fit the dominant personality type, I don’t think. And there was nothing rushed or hurried about his ad, that’s for sure. He was probably just working at his computer, doing whatever it is he does when he’s not searching for a sex slave.
The first words I see are “VERY good girl.” I feel myself grinning as I read the words—for some reason, I’m especially pleased with myself. I guess my response was pretty much right on with what he wanted from me. I’m even more delighted by the thought that I seem to have pleased him. I guess I really am a VERY good girl.
The second part of his message is also simple and to the point—but much more frightening. He’s given me my first order. “Call me,” it says, followed by a phone number. The message is signed simply with a capital S.
What do I do now? My heart is racing and my palms are growing sweaty. I definitely was not expecting this, not so soon, at any rate. I thought
we’d exchange a few harmless emails first, getting to know each other a bit and giving me plenty of time to back out if I want to. Talking on the phone is a whole different matter—much more real, much more personal…and much more dangerous. I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet. In fact, I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.
Luckily, I don’t have to decide right now. Our emails have gone through the craigslist servers, so he has no way of knowing when I opened his message. He won’t know if I delay before I call—if I call, I remind myself. I won’t lie to him, not directly anyhow, but I can always have his email in front of me when I phone him and say something like “I’m looking at your message right now.” If he takes that to mean that I’m looking at it for the first time, well, that’s not my fault, is it?
My very logical thinking has the effect of slowing my heart rate down at least a little. I’m feeling quite proud of myself. Maybe it’s possible to be a “VERY good girl” and still have things a little bit my way.
I frown. Very surprisingly, something about that last thought feels wrong. In fact, it feels bad. It’s making me feel like I’m a very BAD girl. To my surprise, I don’t like the feeling one bit. I want to be bad in some ways, but even when doing so, I want to be a VERY good girl.
Trembling, I pick up my phone.
CHAPTER 4
“Hello.”
His voice is deep, and there’s no trace of the questioning inflection that most people answer the phone with. He sounds like he’s answering a call he was expecting.
My mind starts racing. Does he know it’s me? Was he so sure I would call this quickly? Maybe he’s expecting someone else. Or maybe he always answers the phone this way.
Seconds are ticking by and I haven’t said anything. I need to say something, but my voice is frozen in my throat. My hand begins to shake so much I’m forced to hold the phone to my ear with both hands.
Say something, I scream at myself. Still, nothing comes out. Mothing even comes to mind. I don’t want him to have to repeat himself, or to ask who’s calling. Worse, I don’t want him to hang up.
He does neither. He seems to be waiting patiently, as if this happens all the time. Maybe it does.
Say something, I plead to myself again. If this happens regularly, I don’t want to be like everyone else. I take a deep breath to try to calm myself, and then another.
“Hi,” I finally manage to choke out. “I, uh, responded to your ad.”
“I know,” he says. “You’re my very good girl.”
Holy crap! How could he know? Does he really know it’s me? Or does he have a list of very good girls who might be calling him at this number? I have no way to know. I struggle with what to say next, but he saves me by speaking first.
“What is your name, good girl?”
My name? Shit! I’m such a dumbass. Of course he’s going to want to know my name. But am I ready to tell him? I don’t want to lie to him, but…. I decide to give him my middle name.
“Rose,” I say. “What’s yours?”
He doesn’t answer my question. In fact, he doesn’t say anything for at least ten seconds. What is he doing?
“You don’t sound like a Rose,” he says at last. His cadence has gotten slower and his tone seems to have dropped a notch. “Yet I do not hear a lie in your voice.” He pauses before continuing. “I think maybe you have told me a half truth. Is Rose perhaps your middle name?”
Oh my fucking god! How does he know these things? It’s impossible. My knees begin to grow weak, so I sit down on the edge of my bed. Could he be someone I know? Someone I’m close enough to that he would know my middle name? I don’t see how that could be.
He remains silent while these thoughts fly through my head. I need to answer him.
“Yes, it is.”
“But you don’t go by your middle name, like some people do, do you?”
I know I have to be honest here. “No, I don’t.”
“Your hesitancy is understandable, but do not lie to me, or tell me half-truths again. If you do, I’ll hang up and we will never speak again.”
The thought of never hearing from him again is surprisingly painful.
“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it.
“Now, let’s try it one more time. What is your name?”
I reply with only the barest hesitation. “Jennifer.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Jennifer. You may call me Sir. Or Master, if you prefer.”
He’s kidding, right? If one of my girlfriends told me a guy ordered her to call him Sir, I’d burst out laughing. If I said anything about this to Amanda, she’d do worse than that, for sure.
I think back to his ad. “How may I please you, Master?” I guess he’s not kidding.
“Yes, Sir,” I say.
“Good girl.”
Once again, a rush of pleasures surges through me. I can’t believe how much I enjoy hearing him say that. I tell him so.
“I love hearing you say that.”
“I know.”
He says it so matter-of-factly, as if it’s an established fact, like the sun rising in the east.
“How can you know that?” I ask. “We’ve never met. We’ve barely spoken.”
“I know it because it’s who you are, Jennifer…who you are inside, where it counts. All we need to do is bring it out.”
I’m not sure if that really is who I am inside, but from the way my body and brain have been reacting since I started this journey only yesterday, I think there’s at least a chance he might be right. Whether I want to bring that to the outside is another matter entirely.
I can’t sit still while I’m thinking about all this, so I stand up and begin pacing my apartment.
“If I decide to continue with this…”
He interrupts me. “If you decide to continue?” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice.
I try not to let him fluster me. “Yes, if I decide to, how do we begin?”
I think I hear a single chuckle on the other end, but I can’t be sure.
“Why, sweet Jennifer, we have already begun. As a matter of fact, we’ve already rounded the first turn.”
This stops me in my tracks, right in the middle of my living room. Already begun?
“And I think it’s going quite well so far,” he adds. “Don’t you?”
I’m still trying to wrap my head around the idea that we’ve already begun something, and now he’s asking me if I think it’s going well?
“I… I don’t know,” I manage to say.
“I think you should sit down, Jennifer. Try to relax. There’s nothing to be nervous about—well, not much, anyhow.”
My head feels like it’s beginning to spin. I falter backwards and plop down onto my couch. How could he know if I was standing up or not? Reflexively, I glance at the window. The curtains are still drawn. No one can see in. There’s no way he could be watching me. Yet he knew. There was no trace of guessing or uncertainty in his voice.
“I’m sitting,” I say, leaving it ambiguous about whether I was standing when he told me to sit. For some reason, I feel the need to maintain small victories.
“That’s a good girl. Now take a couple of deep breaths.”
The “good girl” comment erases my need for any more victories. I suck in a slow breath through my nose and blow it out through my mouth, the way I learned in yoga class. I repeat the process. It helps—until I realize I’ve just obeyed two more of his orders. Then my heart starts beating faster again. This time, I can’t tell if it’s from nervousness or excitement. Some of both, I decide.
“May I ask you a question?” I’m not sure why I feel the need to ask his permission, but somehow it feels right.
“Of course.”
“How can I tell if I’ve truly got what you’re looking for inside me, or whether I’m just curious and a bit adventurous?”
“That’s a good question, Jennifer.” I realize that a little thrill shoots through me every time he speaks my name. “How are you feeling r
ight now?” he asks.
That’s easy to answer. I was just thinking about that.
“A little nervous and a little excited,” I reply without hesitation.
“And do you think you would be feeling that way if this wasn’t touching something inside you?”
He has a point. “I guess not,” I say. “But how do I know exactly what it’s touching?”
He doesn’t respond for a few seconds. It seems much longer. I hope I’m not proving to be more trouble than I’m worth.
“Let’s try a little experiment,” he says finally. “Close your eyes, Jennifer.”
I do as he tells me. I almost say “Yes, Sir,” but decide not to. He doesn’t seem to notice, or at least not to care.
“I want you to visualize the scene I’m about to describe for you. Try to put yourself into the scene, if you can. Will you do that for me, Jennifer?”
This time it just pops out. “Yes, Sir.”
“Good. Some of it will be familiar to you from my ad. Here we go.”
CHAPTER 5
“Imagine you are standing outside the door of my condo,” he continues. “You see a dark brown wooden door with a shiny brass knocker in the center. Before you reach for the knocker, you mentally run down the instructions I’ve given you, wanting to make sure you do everything precisely as I’ve ordered. When you’re ready, you grab the handle and knock exactly twice, as instructed.”
So far, it’s not very hard to picture. I’ve knocked on plenty of doors. I can feel my pulse beginning to quicken, though, as I wonder what awaits me inside.
“You see the doorknob begin to turn, and your heartbeat quickens. The door swings open, but you don’t see me, because I remain hidden behind the door. You hesitate for a just a moment, then take a deep breath and step across the threshold. Your heart is beating faster now, because you know it is about to begin. As instructed, you close your eyes and drop to your knees, bending forward until your forehead touches the floor. You hear the door thud shut behind you, closing off any escape. But why would you want to escape? This is what you came here for.”
Letting Go (Letting Go Series #1) Page 2
