Contract Taken (Contracted Book 1)

by Aya DeAniege

  “Just not the behaviour,” I muttered bitterly.

  “The behaviour is not acceptable because you're bitter with life, and I don't like that. Bitter is a behaviour I can break, however."

  I swallowed hard and looked down, afraid of what I would see in his eyes if I dared to meet them.

  “Now, I'm not going to pad your ego again," Nathaniel said, closing the small gap between us. His hand wrapped around my throat and drew my face upward with pressure under my jaw. "I will not explain to you again. You will accept what I say as the truth because I'm never going to lie to you. Do you understand me?"

  “Yes, Sir.”

  A tremble ran through the hand around my throat, but it was so slight that it couldn't be seen with the eye alone.

  “You ever use that tone when saying that again, and I will cane you,” Nathaniel said. “Understood?”

  I had to fight every instinct in my body not to retort back in a tone worse than the first with the addition of a few colourful words. What I managed to respond still sounded barely controlled and was said through gritted teeth.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  I wanted to peg him between the eyes for the way he spoke to me.

  If he had been any other man, I would have. If he hadn't held a contract over me, and he was still a rich person? The smack between the eyes would have been followed by a knee to the groin for thinking himself better than everyone else.

  “Good,” Nathaniel said, releasing my throat. “When I touch your throat like that, does your world focus down to me?”

  Confused, I frowned at him. Nathaniel reached out and took my throat in his hand again.

  “What do you focus on?” he asked.

  “You,” I said as the hand tightened ever so slightly.

  Nathaniel released me and nodded. “That's the point.”

  I reached up and touched my throat as a memory floated back to me. Of the medical building, when Mr. Wrightworth had suddenly caught me around the neck with his hand. I still recalled the look in his eyes, the barest blush to his cheeks. Mr. Wrightworth's thumb had, just like Nathaniel's, been along the right side of my windpipe. Neither of them had grasped the whole of my neck but had centred their hand around the side and the windpipe.

  “Go change into your gym clothing.”

  “All that was in the wardrobe were dresses,” I said.

  Nathaniel's green eyes travelled down my dress, to my bare feet, then back up to meet my eyes. Finally, the man swore.

  “I forgot to order the clothing,” he said to the ceiling. “Fine, you can work out tomorrow. I'll send some old things over for you to wear.”

  “Do the dresses mean something?” I asked. “There are so many different styles, and they're awfully expensive.”

  “You deserve to wear clothing that is as beautiful as you are,” was his mildly annoyed response.

  I blushed at the compliment and looked away. “There's also a very expensive gown, which I'm certain is not for everyday wear.”

  “Of course not. Normally you should wear the sundresses, the simpler ones. The one you're wearing is more of a 1950's style of dress. I have a bit of a thing for the dresses from that period. When you wear these dresses, we will do the gentler things. If you want to be made love to, instead of played with and had as I please, you will wear one of these dresses. Friday nights you will wear one of these, that's movie time, and it will remind me not to play with you in the middle of the movie."

  “1950's?” I asked, looking down as I wondered if the Romans or Greeks wore this dress.

  “1950 C.E," Nathaniel said.

  “That's the one that goes backward, right?"

  My education, at the time, was not poor, but slum computers didn't exactly cover history, especially pre-collapse history. Had I made it into university, had I gone into teaching, I would have been in math or science. History and social studies were definitely not my strong suit. I couldn't even recall which time era came first and which counted forwards or backward.

  “B.C.E. is the one that goes backward. C.E is the one right before the collapse. B.C.E stands for Before Common Era.”

  “They just call it B.C. in my school,” I muttered, looking down again.

  “They shouldn't. B.C. used to mean Before Christ. It's an inappropriate title for the time. They dated their so called new era on the life and death of a man that they can't even prove the actual life and death of."

  “The son of God is not someone you should just go around proclaiming didn't exist.”

  Nathaniel stiffened, eyeing me as if I were a bear trap ready to spring on him.

  “We don't go to church in this house.”

  “Neither did we," I muttered with a shake of my head. "But we lived and grew up in a Christian neighbourhood, and those Christians saw us through some hard times. Times that we wouldn't have survived otherwise, so I just don't feel right about you muttering like he doesn't exist. If people didn't believe in him, my neighbourhood wouldn't exist."

  “People should look after other people as standard, not because some invisible man shakes a finger at them!”

  “You said rich people stab each other in the back.”

  “The community doesn't!”

  “And why does the community exist? What keeps them in line? An invisible man shaking a finger, or a sadist with a whip? They don't look out for each other because they're good people. They do it because they are linked by an idea. Just because your idea is called—whatever it is this is called—and theirs is called Jesus, doesn't mean you can be a dick about it!”

  Nathaniel watched me, and I wondered if he was going to strike me down. Instead, he studied me for a long moment, then shook his head.

  “You need to learn.”

  “Screw off with the training!”

  “I'm not talking about training. I'm talking about history and philosophy. Learn what your precious Christians did before they settled down into peaceful, helpful people. What all religions have been."

  “What all men have been, I think you mean. I was taught that most wars were started because of religion. I'm not stupid.”

  “Have you even seen a Bible?"

  “Well ... no.... The neighbourhood only has one, and it's in the care of the head of their church who only pulls it out on special occasions and stuff."

  “Yeah, that's what I thought," Nathaniel muttered. "It might as well be in Latin again because no one actually knows what it says. Except for me and any other rich person who bought a copy and read it."

  “You have a copy of the Bible?" I asked.

  “As well as the books of various other religions and the philosophical works of the greatest minds of history. I strongly suggest you read them and learn from them rather than spouting nonsense.”

  “You're just mad because your community is no different than their community.”

  “I'm not upset because they're the same.”

  “Then quit pouting like someone who might be.”

  The two of us stared at each other for a moment. I don't know what went through Nathaniel's mind, but I stood there wondering if I had gone too far.

  Arguing theology was one thing. Bringing up religion is a guaranteed way to start some sort of debate or fight. It is one of several methods to bait a person, getting them angry to gain leverage over them. Several Doms in the community have used theology as a way to upset someone they disliked or someone they were trying to read into.

  Nathaniel smirked for a moment. He turned and motioned to the door to the right of my room. With a fluid motion, Nathaniel crossed the distance to the door and opened it, pushing it open but not entering.

  I approached, but cautiously. After being yanked out of my room, I was wary about being dragged somewhere else.

  The door led to another set of rooms that was the same size as the one I had been given. Inside, the furniture was sparse, no rugs on the floor. It didn't look lived in at all, but it had all the basic furniture that a person might need if they spent the nig
ht suddenly. Everything was a light blue, from the covers on the bed, to the fabric of the couch.

  The only real difference in the structure of the room and my set of rooms was that the new room had no chandelier in the ceiling, though it did have a fixture there for a chandelier to be attached to.

  “After I saw you in the ballroom, I had a thought," he muttered, leaning on the door frame. "Your room was meant for you. If I'm going to be asking you to do other things, then obviously you need another space to do so. Many in the community keep their sleeping quarters separate from what they call their play rooms. I don't have a playroom. I do what comes to me, where it comes to me.

  “This one can be yours. It's set up like a bedroom, but I can have the furniture moved around or altered. If I give you homework, this is where you can do it. No one should be entering here but for you and me.”

  “Why you?” I asked.

  “If you ask for a scene, we will do it here. The more you learn, the more you will become comfortable with what you like. As long as you aren't being disciplined, I see no reason why I cannot see to your desires. You would dictate what happens, but I would still play the dominant role.”

  I peered into the room, then up at Nathaniel, wondering what the catch was.

  “Tonight, when you come as I have instructed you to, you come in here and make yourself comfortable. Bring up your ritualized fantasy of your white knight in shining armour seducing you slowly. Of him finally recognizing your worth before he ravishes you, but after he takes you some place secluded and private that not a single other soul but him knows about.” Nathaniel hesitated, reaching out to touch my jaw as he moved just a little closer. “And then you will come for me.”

  There was something so very confident about how Nathaniel said it that was impossible to deny. Heat flooded my limbs at the words as his green eyes pierced me to my very core. I trembled under the caress of his fingers leaving my jaw. Cold trails were left in their wake, reminding me of that day in medical just before I was taken to Nathaniel.

  “I may give you toys to use on yourself. The vibrating wand,” Nathaniel hesitated when I frowned in confusion. “The one I used on you in the ballroom. I will show you the use again. Anyhow, that item will only ever be used by me, on you. You can, though, ask me to bring it into your room to use during a scene.”

  “Why do you keep saying scene?” I asked.

  “A scene is sort of like that from a movie. We would be the actors. A scene, for example, could be my asking you to pretend to be the weak-willed victim and resist me."

  “Your rape fantasy," I said quietly, looking into the room even as I cast Nathaniel a sidelong glance.

  The man's breath hitched in his throat.

  “Yes. I don't keep bringing it up because I want to push it, but because I want you to be comfortable with the idea. Once you're comfortable with it, and with the rest of play, we'll talk about which of your lists it belongs on. I don't want to do it because I believe it's all right. I wouldn't want to if I thought it was okay to do. I need you comfortable enough to use a safe word if things get too real for you.”

  This man is crazy.

  “What's a safe word?” I asked.

  “Banana is your safe word,” Nathaniel responded, to which I snorted out a giggle.

  Real bananas were hard to come by, they bruised easily and didn't exactly keep a long time. We mainly had over ripe ones that had been mashed up and frozen before being transported to the slum. The only reason I knew what a banana looked like was because we had fake fruit. Banana's were often offered to women who were being snippy, because they had a phallic shape.

  I had always found the idea of bananas to be amusing, and I could never recall why.

  “And that's the point of my choosing that word. I need something you wouldn't normally say, and I'm hoping the sound of the word will offset whatever put you on that edge. I need you to say it for me, though."

  “Banana,” I said with a smile.

  “Good, one day I'll have to put you through the paces and see if you're capable of using it," Nathaniel muttered, pushing off the doorframe and began walking off. "Dinner's at six. Work out is tomorrow morning at nine. Don't keep me waiting. Oh," he stopped a ways down the hallway and turned back to me. His eyes roved over me, then met mine as a smile danced on his lips. "I expect you to tell me whether or not you've completed your extra work. Enjoy that ritualized fantasy while you still have it."

  “I don't have a ritualized fantasy,” I muttered under my breath the moment he was out of sight.

  Gritting my teeth, I turned and marched back into my room, determined to come up with something else to masturbate to before bedtime.

  Chapter Seven

  Dinner was awkward, made worse by the offhand comments Nathaniel seemed to make. At the time, I thought perhaps it was simply a slip of the tongue. He rarely makes wrong remarks. He almost never has a slip of the tongue.

  That particular night, I was not that lucky. Nathaniel let slip into our dinner conversation about his time in the slum, working alongside Mr. Wrightworth. I learned a little about the factory work he performed in a type of slaughterhouse.

  He may have even suggested that he had participated in the events that, in the end, made up the average poor woman's ritualized masturbation fantasy. Nathaniel was a rich, handsome man who had worked incognito in a slum for almost a year. It wasn't hard for me to imagine him participating in just such a liaison.

  After dinner, we went our separate ways.

  I went to my room and paced for twenty minutes before I realized that time was ticking away. Biting my finger, I left my room and went into the other room Nathaniel had given me.

  Even then I assumed that everything was recorded with audio and video. That fact made me very self-conscious. I just pictured Nathaniel sitting in his bedroom with the lights turned way down, watching me try to talk myself into doing what he asked.

  Taking a breath, I laid down on the bed and tried to refocus my mind. At some point, the idea of being watched was pushed to the back of my mind. I thought of what Nathaniel had said about if I came without permission and worried what he would do if I didn't do as I was told.

  It reminded me of the ballroom, which only made me think of that edge Nathaniel had brought me to. Somehow thinking about it reminded me that I had been on edge all day.

  I am no stranger to self-pleasure. Even going into Nathaniel's estate, I knew how to please myself, mainly because I couldn't find a sexual partner between the ages of nineteen and twenty-five. No one wanted to risk a possible child with me.

  They all seemed to think I was going to capture a man by getting myself pregnant because I had no other choice.

  I knew how to accomplish what Nathaniel asked, and went about it in a rather mechanical way.

  My fantasy may have been ritualized, but it worked. The sex happened the way it always did. Which is to say that the moment we were alone our imaginary clothing hit the floor, and we launched ourselves on each other. He was inside me quickly, and it was quite like regular sex in the slums.

  Except he lasted more than two minutes.

  As I balanced on that edge, my fantasy warped. It was Nathaniel over top of me and—as I struggled with the idea that my fantasy had changed—he whispered those damning words.

  “Come for me.”

  I came harder than I've ever come before.

  I was still reeling from it the next morning when I went to work out. Even though I was still upset about what he had said about my family, even though he had struck me the day before.

  Every move Nathaniel made in that gym, I watched him. It was his own damned fault, the man insisted on working out in nothing more than his shorts. After years of taking care of himself, his body was something to envy. He would work up a sweat. Then his scent would seem to change just slightly, and I'd just end up staring at him.

  Thoughts of my fantasy from the night before drifted back to me as I wondered what it'd be like to have him so cl
ose.

  BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.

  My heart monitor went off like mad for the fourth time that morning. Nathaniel had insisted on slipping the little band on my wrist. Each time my heart beat at a certain speed, it would make sounds.

  He stopped across the gym, sitting up on the piece of equipment he had just been straining on. His cold green eyes narrowed to pinpricks as he marched over to me. Which didn't help things as the monitor beeped faster. Nathaniel took my wrist in his hand and looked at the screen with a frown.

  “You were just walking on a treadmill,” he muttered under his breath as he fiddled with something on the side.

  When my monitor went quiet, Nathaniel went back to his workout.

  Each workout I did seemed random to me, but Nathaniel had a plan. He had me use the treadmill often and helped me with stretches for my leg and hip. That first week my leg didn't ache so much as burn. It was the weary burning of a muscle being used in a way it wasn't used to.

  While medically there was nothing wrong with the leg, there was long-term damage to the joint. I finally had it replaced in the thirties, best decision I have ever made. In extreme cold it would ache, as I got older, even the rain would make the damned thing hurt. Eventually, it began to seize up, and it was have it replaced or use a cane, or—heaven forbid—confined to a wheelchair.

  The reason why I made it so long with the bad hip was that Nathaniel made me move and exercise. He insisted on a healthy lifestyle for all of those around him. Even the servants who had minor contracts with him worked out and had medical provided to them.

  He's never had a servant betray him.

  At the time, I was more interested in watching Nathaniel than I was in working out. I did as he commanded, though my leg hurt more and more. I mainly did it without complaint because Nathaniel covered in sweat and straining—even if it was only against a machine's resistance—made my heart beat a little faster. The heat in my belly spread to my limbs over the course of that first workout.

  I had witnessed women in the slums batting their eyelashes and giggling at the men on the labour crews but had never really understood it. Those men were my close friends and family, I had grown up around them. To me, there was nothing attractive about those who worked in labour. The trysts I had in my younger years had been with men in other careers. Besides my fiance, who my father had introduced to me.