by JA Huss
She balks and tries to lift her upper body, but my hand is swift on her bottom. The crack sounds off simultaneously with her yelp. “Stay put,” I order her. “I’m not fucking around. You earned this spanking. Now it can be pleasant and sexual, or it can be harsh and demoralizing. It’s your choice.”
“How is it my choice? You’re the one who gets to dole out the punishments.”
“And you’re the one who gets to decide when you get punished and what form that takes. Do you want to be punished like this?” My hand smacks down on the back of her legs, right where they meet the upward curve of her ass. But before she can cry out, I’m rubbing her and slipping my fingers inside her pussy. “That feels good, Grace. It’s not about pain, it’s about control. You resist my control because you don’t trust me. And I’m telling you right now, you’re making both of us unhappy by doing that.”
“You want to leave me.”
“I don’t want to leave you. I love you. I married you. I want to fuck you and boss you around and make you have my babies. I want to keep you forever. You’re the one who’s got one foot out the door. I want you to commit, Grace. And the first step is to submit.”
She’s silent for a few moments as my words sink in. I don’t want to say this. In fact, I’m terrified to continue. But it needs to be out in the open. It needs to be done. “Are you willing to do that? Or do you want to end this marriage?”
Chapter Ninety-Seven - Grace
#EpicQuestionsCount
DO I want to end this marriage?
My instant response is no.
But… I stop myself from saying the word. Because he’s asking me an honest question and that deserves some introspection. I became his wife under less than ideal circumstances. I don’t even remember it. As far as I’m concerned, this is the first time I’ve had a say in this marriage at all.
“Grace?” he prods.
Maybe I did say ‘I do’ in Vegas. But that was hardly my choice. Because honestly, if he had asked me in the morning if I wanted to marry him, my answer would’ve been no.
My answer has always been no. For as long as I can remember, I have never wanted to marry anyone. Not even Vaughn Asher, movie star. In fact, I have no idea what marriage looks like. I never prepared for it.
“Grace, you’re making me nervous.”
All this is new to me. I’m at a loss on how to answer.
He unhooks the spreader bar from my ankles and throws it across the room and then he pulls my upper body up off his lap and then stands, leaving me on the couch. He walks out of the living room and I’m too shocked to stop him.
He doesn’t go to our bedroom, I know that because a few minutes later I see light flickering down the hallway. Lights coming from the home theatre.
A few minutes go by and then I hear sounds coming from the theatre room.
I’m making a huge mistake, I know this. But it feels wrong to say I feel the same as he does. I don’t.
I get up and walk down the hallway until I reach the theatre room and then I prop myself up against the doorjamb. He’s watching a George Clooney movie that I love about some escaped convicts during the Great Depression who become famous for a song they sing.
“I love this movie.”
“Me too,” he answers without turning his head to look at me.
“You never asked me.”
“I did ask you. You said yes.”
“I was drunk. I don’t remember.”
“Well, I remember.”
“You’re only one half of this team, Asher. You never asked me. Me. Sober Grace was never consulted. I can’t be held responsible for drunk Grace’s actions. I was beyond drunk. I blacked out. It’s not fair that I found out about our marriage from the TV. It’s not fair that it all happened in the same moment that I was taken again. It’s not fair that—” I stop talking because he never turns. Does he even want to know? Is he even interested? He says he wants me to trust him, but he scares me when he walks away. “I want you to ask me.”
“I want you to remember.”
“How do I make myself remember?”
Finally he turns his head. “Grace, you talked for hours on end that night. It’s impossible that you just don’t remember. It makes no sense. Yes, you were drinking. But you said so many things that night. Thoughtful, well-articulated things.”
“I don’t remember.”
He turns away again. “I’m not telling you. I refuse to paraphrase what happened that night. I won’t do it. I refuse to reduce it to a retelling.”
I sigh and walk around to the front of the massive square sectional couch. I crawl across it, my bound hands keeping me off balance a little, and nestle as close to him as I can, laying my head on his shoulder. “I want you. Is that enough?”
He doesn’t embrace me. He makes no move to cuddle me and make me feel loved. He doesn’t offer to untie my wrists.
“I’m past wanting you, Grace. I have you. Or at least I thought I did. And now everything is up in the air. I just want to settle. I’m tired of juggling life. I’m tired of coming home to an empty house.”
“You’ve been coming home to me for almost three months. That’s not empty.”
“No,” he says sharply. “How do you not see that you’re not here? This place is a fucking mess. You don’t do anything but mope. It’s a goddamned miracle that you came to see me at the studio this week. And to be perfectly honest, after the flight coordinator called to let me know you scheduled the jet, the more I thought about it, the better I felt. I was happy that you took an interest in something. But you went about your life. All fucking day. And never once thought about me. I don’t matter to you.”
“That’s not true. I…” I what? What am I trying to say?
“You can’t even say it. You can’t even admit you love me. You chased me for three years online, telling the whole world your feelings and your desires. You’ve fucked me in public. You married me. And right now, you can’t even say you love me.”
“I love you, Vaughn. I do. That’s not why I’m hesitating.”
“Then what is it?” His voice booms through the movie room and I startle backwards a few inches. “Why are you not here? Why are you unsure? What the fuck do you want from me?”
“Untie me.” I hold out my wrists. He looks down at them, then up at my eyes. I can see the pain in there. The uncertainty I’m causing him. I hate that I’m making him feel this way. “Untie me,” I say again.
He shakes his head, sighing a long breath of air that lets me know he’s beyond pissed. And then swiftly releases the knots that bind my hands. “There. You’re free.” He balls up the silk tie and throws it across the room.
I lay my chest across his lap and place my face alongside the cushions. My back is slightly arched and my ass is in the air like an invitation.
“What are you doing?” he asks, still very irritated.
“Making a decision,” I reply. “I want to be yours. Spank me.”
“Oh my God. You drive me insane, woman.” I chance a peek up at him and he’s rubbing his hand down his face, like he really is exasperated.
“Spank me for being bad.”
“Jesus, Grace. Why? Why are you doing this?”
I turn on my side so I can really look at him. And for the first time in years, maybe ten or more years… I’m honest. “Because I want to cry.”
He just stares at me, a wave of horror flashing across his face.
“I want you to spank me so I can cry. And then I want you to fuck me and make it better.”
His first smack is loud and hard. It stings. I lower my head back to the cushions and prepare for the next one. It comes swiftly. Then the next and the next. The stings become burns and then there’s no distinguishing one from the next. The sharp pain from each smack runs together until I begin to sob. They are soft at first. When they are just from the pain of his hands on my bottom, they are soft.
But then I forget where I am and the memories take over. I feel the guilt of li
ving. I feel the pain of knowing I am alone. That my family is dead. That my brother never got a chance to be there for me when I needed him. For my parents, who were as nonexistent at my own wedding as I was. For all the family members who turned their backs on me.
I feel the shame. Shame for allowing that monster to take me and keep me and make me into someone I didn’t even recognize.
It’s not the pain or the fear that undoes me.
It’s the shame.
I cry hard. I gasp for air and sob uncontrollably. And I have no idea how long I do this before I realize Vaughn has stopped spanking me and he’s holding me to his chest. His hands sweeping down my back as he whispers in my ear. “It’s OK, Grace. It’s OK.”
Aside from that small breakdown in the hospital when I told Vaughn I was sad about the baby, this is the first time I’ve really felt anything in over ten years. “It’s not OK.” I tell him back. “It’s not OK. He took everything from me. I have nothing left. Not even myself.” For a second I fear that Vaughn will be offended at that statement, but he holds me tighter.
“I know,” he says. So unpredictable, this man. “I know. He killed your parents. He killed your brother. He took you away from your life and twisted your mind. He fucked up your whole life, Grace. You’re allowed to be pissed off and sad.”
My crying becomes ugly as the feelings flood in. But my gratitude is so overwhelming. Vaughn gets it. Of all the people who have tried to help me, this man—this self-centered, egotistical asshole—gets it.
None of this has anything to do with him.
It’s about me.
Chapter Ninety-Eight - Grace
#DayOneDoOver
“SWEETS,” Vaughn says in my ear. “It’s morning, babe. I have to go to work, will you be OK?”
I stir in his arms and realize I’m still naked and we are still in the movie room. “Yes,” I say automatically. I know he has to work. I want to throw a tantrum and tell him to call in sick, but I can’t. Not after he held me all night long and let me get it out of my system. Not after he was so patient with me.
“I’ll be home at eight. We only have three days of filming this week. I can’t wait for the long weekend.” And then he kisses me and he’s off.
What long weekend?
I lie on the movie couch, snuggling up with the soft blankets, and ponder this. What day is it?
I sit upright and gasp. “It’s Thanksgiving week!”
Oh my God. How does a person not know the holidays are upon them? It feels like I was just getting off that plane from Saint Thomas over Labor Day and now it’s Thanksgiving week.
I count up the weeks in my mind and realize I’ve been in this funk for almost three months. “Grace,” I begin to chastise. “This is not good. You are not allowed to wallow.”
I crawl to the edge of the couch, drop the blanket, and make my way to the living room. In the bright California sunshine, the filth we are living in is painfully obvious. There’s dishes and trash everywhere. Clothes, shoes, mud on the tiles near the doorway. Even outside, our movie-star backyard is littered with palm fronds and leaves from a storm last week and the various flotation rafts I’ve used in the pool since moving in here with Vaughn.
And then a sour smell reaches out and taps me on the shoulder. I look over at the dishes on the island countertop and wrinkle my nose. Spoiled milk in numerous cereal bowls.
I’m a terrible wife.
How has Vaughn put up with me?
A ringing startles me out of my introspection and I look around for the source. “We have a phone?” I ask myself out loud. I had no idea we had a home phone. I thought everyone just used cells these days. I follow the source just as the message machine—who has a message machine?—clicks on.
“Vaughn, baby. It’s me. I just wanted to double-check and make sure we’re still on for this Friday for the Black Bash. Call me.”
“What the hell is a Black Bash?” I ask out loud again.
I have no idea, but I’m sure it’s some sort of Hollywood party and Vaughn just didn’t want me to worry about it, or was going to decline. So I drop it and go back out to the living room.
This will not do.
I really need to start making an effort. I open the folding wall of glass doors and let the sunshine and cool air in. It’s not cold. I mean, it’s like sixty-five. But that’s nothing like Colorado is in November. The fresh air feels good. And it will make the smell of spoiled milk disappear.
I walk around the living room picking up dishes and take them all to the sink to rinse them out before loading up the dishwasher. Then I go to work picking up trash and clothes. I start a load of laundry. There’s still a load in both the washer and the dryer and since I have not done laundry once since I’ve moved in, I can only suspect that this was Vaughn’s attempt to keep the house running while I was in my funk.
Funk, Grace?
Fine. It was a depression. But I feel like a new person today. I feel like I got it all out last night. He was so perfect. He listened to me cry and held me close. I have never felt such love and support in all my life.
But now I need to move on. I need to put all that bad stuff behind me and look to the future. And even though I’ve lived here for almost three months, I feel like this is the first day of my new life as Mrs. Asher.
Now if only I could remember my wedding.
I just don’t understand why it’s such a problem. I mean, either Vaughn is lying about how aware I was of what was going on, or I’m just… blocking it out for some reason. But why? Why would I do that?
I continue to clean as I ponder this. I make a list in my head.
I’m psycho.
The idea of being married was just too much for me after all that brainwashing
I really don’t want to be married to Vaughn Asher.
But none of those seem right. I’m not psycho. I might be damaged, but I’m not crazy. And yes, the whole kidnapper-trying-to-convince-me-I’m-his-wife thing did put a damper on all my future thoughts of getting married. But it’s fucking Vaughn Asher. And that makes number three ridiculous. I really do love him. Maybe it’s leftover infatuation kinda love from my Twitter stalking days. But it’s still authentic.
So why can’t I remember?
I almost wish I could go to Vegas and retrace my steps. But after my day jaunt to Colorado, I think it’s probably a bad idea to take off again. Besides, it’s almost Thanksgiving.
So instead of calling the flight coordinator and booking a flight to Sin City, I call my parents. My mom answers on the first ring and her unexpected happiness at my call makes me warm.
“Mom,” I say, after she’s got her hellos out of the way. “I don’t think we’re coming for Thanksgiving. Is that OK?” I’m nervous about this call. I’ve never spent a holiday away from home since they adopted me.
“Oh, Grace, of course. You have a new family now. We were just talking about this last night. Don’t worry about us. We’re going out of town this year, anyway.”
“Oh.” Well, shit. “Where’re you going?”
“San Francisco. Your father has decided to take us to San Francisco.”
“Well, that sounds fantastic.” Weird, I don’t add. “Fantastic!” We chat a little more and then say goodbye with promises to call on Thursday.
When I end the call I realize I’ve been cleaning the kitchen the entire time. I think this is the first time I’ve seen it void of dishes. Vaughn is not the best housekeeper. He and Felicity lived like bachelors.
I laugh at that and hang up the dish towel after wiping things down, and then I go get started on the laundry.
After the laundry is in progress, I find some sort of wood-floor cleaning contraption in the utility closet and get to work on those too. Layla the cat’s litter box is tidy, so obviously Vaughn has been taking care of that. But the fish tank is a mess of algae. There’s a sticker on the side of it with a number to call for cleaning. The man on the other end of the phone says he’s in the neighborhood and can stop
by in a couple hours.
Now the pool and river are something else. I know we have a pool person. That guy has been coming regularly. But the storm the other day has left the outside looking unkempt. So I spend the rest of the day putting the outside back in order. And by five o’clock the place is spotless.
“Maybe I’ll cook?”
I surprise myself with that notion. I hardly ever cook for Vaughn. I’ve thrown meat on the grill a few times, but that’s about it. But it will be good. Very domestic.
I wrangle up enough ingredients for spaghetti and meatballs, find some frozen garlic bread in the garage freezer, and by the time eight o’clock rolls around, I don’t even recognize this place.
I sit on the edge of the pool next to the small waterfall, with my feet dangling into the water, sipping wine as I wait for my movie star to come home.
A flash hits me. A memory.
Vaughn and I are standing outside the Bellagio near the fountain. The heat is suffocating, but the water is shooting upward, dancing as they do, night after night, and the spray is bathing us with a refreshing rain.
Did we get married at the fountain?
God, I wish I knew.
I hear the door alarm and then the familiar punching of keypad numbers and my heart beats faster.
“Grace?” he calls out.
“Out here,” I call back.
He walks through the dimly lit living room, looking around like he might be in the wrong house. And then he appears in the opening where the glass walls would be if they were not folded away. “What’s going on here?” he asks with a smile. “I don’t think this is my house. Am I dreaming or is that real food I smell?”
I pat the cement next to me. “Come sit here. Put your feet in and have a beer.” I reach over the champagne bucket and pull out his favorite micro-brew. “It’s cold,” I tempt him.
He steps forward, loosening his tie as he walks, and a few moments later, the shirt is coming off. “Mrs. Asher,” he says with a mischievous grin.
