When she’d expressed an interest, the Mistress had explained that all dominants in training were expected to undergo an apprenticeship period as a submissive. There wouldn’t be so much training involved, there was no right or wrong way to be a submissive, since one did exactly what a master expected of them, and every master was different. It was, however, a way to find out what the various toys and techniques felt like, and how certain games were played safely. That knowledge would vastly increase the expertise of a dominant, who would know more exactly what they were seeing in a submissive’s reaction.
Once that initiation period was ended, if she still wanted to continue as a dominant, then Andy would be trained in the proper way to bind someone, the correct way to wield a paddle and a cane, and which toys should be used when and where for maximum efficiency, amongst other things.
All that had sounded completely reasonable to Andy. It had made perfect sense, and, if she was honest, it was more than a little exciting. She’d watched a scene during which a cuffed submissive had endured hot wax being trickled onto her nipples. Andy had realized, as she walked out of the room, that she was aroused in a way that she hadn’t thought she would be.
It had been terrifying to start her apprenticeship at the dungeon, but the people there seemed nice enough, at least in Andy’s limited sphere of experience. But they had missed, or ignored, what Andy now knew to be a fairly common condition amongst submissives that were beginning to explore their tantalizing new world. Andy had begun to fall into what she now knew to be an actual condition. She had fallen into sub-frenzy.
Such a euphoric state of mind occurred when a submissive, having their eyes opened to the potential of such new games, wanted to try everything, as soon as possible, with little regard for their physical or emotional safety. Rather than pause and question whether they really wanted to take part in particular scene, or play with a particular toy, a sub in frenzy would throw themselves into the game, risking serious emotional overload afterwards as their expanding self-knowledge and existing belief systems were challenged too rapidly.
Almost every new practice and sensation that she experienced felt inconceivably wonderful. To some degree it was the abdication of responsibility; for those hours she was not thinking about her studies, or her bills, or anything else other than what the dominant wished for her to be thinking about. Some of it was the strength of the endorphin rush. If someone had stopped her on the street and asked her if she would like to be whipped, Andy would have responded with an emphatic negative. When she’d actually tried it, she experienced a powerful orgasm from being whipped with a riding crop over the mound of her pussy.
It was during that time that she’d met Erik Dubkova, a Russian-born dominant. She was entranced by the man who was several decades older than she, and who always immaculately groomed, from his artfully cut grey hair and edgy stubble, to his designer suits. He was tall and lean, and had icy blue eyes that gave nothing away. The new and enthralling world that had opened up to Andy in the dungeon soon became a part of her personal life, too.
Erik had been an experienced and talented dominant, but he was also controlling and sadistic in a way that had nothing to do with the lifestyle that they were a part of. What had started as a partnership based on Andy’s education, had become a romantic relationship, and from there, had become an abusive nightmare.
In the beginning, they were simply an average couple who enjoyed their sex with some kink, where Andy was always the bottom, but it had changed and warped into something very different. Andy had carried on in her studies at college, and at the dungeon, but she had found herself living the lifestyle of a slave when at home.
As Erik had exerted more control over her, forbidding her from socializing with her friends, or even talking to them, monitoring her phone calls, managing her finances and instructing her diet, he had also changed in the way that he acted as her dominant. He’d begun to ignore her when she called her safeword. He pushed her limits dangerously, and had forced her to participate in scenes and practices that she had previously made the choice to avoid.
It had taken Andy some time to see that she was in an abusive relationship rather than an extreme dominant/submissive partnership. It had been some time more after that revelation that she had found the strength to leave. After every session, no matter what had taken place, Erik had cradled Andy in his arms and assured her that he loved her, adored her, that she was his, and that she was the center of his universe. He’d bandaged her, massaged ointment into her broken and bruised skin, had driven her to the ER, and all the while assured her that next time he wouldn’t get quite so carried away. He’d often said it was the beauty of her total submission that made it so hard for him to control himself, which left Andy feeling like it was her fault, and that her fear was an overreaction.
It was after a private session at the dungeon, involving several employed submissives and paying dominants, where Erik had exhibited some of his true nature, that one of the male subs had taken Andy aside and insisted that what was happening to her was very, very wrong.
She’d found the will and the strength to leave Erik, eventually. But it had taken a toll on her. She had no desire to return to stripping, something about that seemed horrifically objectifying to her after her experiences, and she couldn’t afford to take a job as a waitress if she wanted to continue her degree, so she had decided to pursue the domination avenue. She’d moved to a different dungeon to continue her training, and had found, to her chagrin, that they did not all operate in the same way.
Seeing the cold arrogance in Chiz’s eyes, knowing that she was in real danger and feeling the rush of that fear, followed by his gentle and affectionate care of her, had reopened wounds that Andy had thought were long closed.
She squinted at the bottle, and realized that she had drunk half of it while she had sat and brooded in the darkening room. She got up, stumbled and almost tripped into a small table, but managed to turn a lamp on. She staggered back to the sofa and dropped heavily onto it, squirming when the thin padding provided insufficient cushioning for such a fall.
Nothing in the tiny box she lived in was truly comfortable, apart from her bed. Andy refilled her glass and heaved herself off the sofa. It was the work of minutes to lurch around the structure she called home, to really look at this place that she lived in. Having made it back to the living room with some new bruises on her shins, she slumped back down onto the sofa. She didn’t live in her own house.
It was a house, barely even that. It wasn’t a home. It was tasteful, to her taste, but it wasn’t her. It was aesthetically pleasing, yet completely soulless. It only reflected the pictures she’d liked in the catalogue. She hadn’t put her own stamp on anything. And it was ridiculously fucking small. And she hated her neighbors, pompous, self-serving, pious bunch of twats that they were. They always fucking scowled if they saw her out in her Miata, like she was single-handedly responsible for the destruction of the ozone layer.
To a large extent, she was still hiding. She was hiding herself, her true self, in fear of drawing Erik’s derisive attention, or offending him, even though she hadn’t seen him in at least a decade. She was still hiding everything about herself for fear that someone would find it irritating or lacking. She was still being so very careful.
Andy poured some more vodka into her glass and tossed it down her throat to toast that epiphany.
It was hardly surprising. She had never allowed anyone to get close enough to break her out of her shell of self-protection.
It was minutes before Andy realized that she was crying, even though she was almost choking on the sobs that were at least fifty percent hiccups. It wasn’t easy to accept that a significant proportion of her adult life had been given over, unknowingly and unwittingly, to a ghost that she thought she’d left far behind.
There was nothing to do about it now. Well, there was. She could give way to a drunken fit and rip and tear and smash. But in the morning she would be without somewhere to s
it and without something to pour her coffee into. It was enough for tonight that she’d had the realization at all.
She negotiated her way around the furniture until she was armed with a large glass of water and some Tylenol. She took her booty into the bathroom. There, with the aid of her toothbrush, she made herself sick, enough to bring up most of what she’d drunk that night. She dropped her toothbrush into the waste basket, and retrieved a new one, still in its packaging, from the cabinet. She brushed her teeth, then swallowed the Tylenol and drank all the water. She refilled the glass from the basin faucet and, more steadily than before, shuffled into her bedroom. She set the glass on the cabinet beside the bed and crept under the downy comforter.
Unfortunately, at that point, she discovered that she hadn’t changed the sheets. She could still smell him, them. It was all around her. She was drowning in what-could-have-beens. She couldn’t even drunk-dial him; they’d never swapped numbers. She didn’t know if she would have cursed him for leaving, or begged him to return. Andy still wasn’t sure whether she’d had a narrow escape, or whether she had lost something that could have been special, that could have healed her, or helped her heal herself.
She wrapped herself in the scent of that which she no longer had, and passed out into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter Fourteen
“That’s good, kid. Keep it comin’.”
Chiz blocked a high right jab from Sinatra and, bouncing on the balls of his feet, avoided the hooking body blow that the younger man threw with his left fist. If it had connected, Chiz was sure he’d have been pissing blood for a couple of days. He was pleased that his voice didn’t betray his exertion. His words came out with no hint of breathlessness.
For a couple of days he’d wallowed in a swill of Jack and weed, but sitting at the bar getting drunk and stoned wasn’t enough of a distraction. There were too many moments when his sluggish mind wandered, wondering... And the girls kept pushing up on him if he wasn’t actively engaged in conversation, and some of the more tenacious ones even then. He was no longer interested in any of the club pussy. Been there, done that, there was nothing of interest to see or feel. His dick didn’t even so much as twitch, no matter what size rack was pressed into his arm, or face.
Having decided he was miserable company for himself, never mind anyone else, and looking for a way to keep his thoughts on any other track than the one they kept doggedly returning to, he hit the gym, hard. When he wasn’t in the gym, he was in the garage, fixing everything and anything that was put in front of him, without complaint or comment. He put in extra hours, and when he was done being covered in grease and oil, he hit the gym again.
He’d even almost quit smoking. The habit simply wasn’t compatible with the demands he was placing on his lungs. He’d started watching his diet, too. He needed fuel and energy to maintain his level of activity. Two weeks of eating simple, fresh food, hardly drinking or smoking, and keeping up a near-constant state of activity, had resulted in a physique and level of fitness that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a bodybuilding competition.
Chiz had hauled Sinatra into the ring a couple of days after his return. Samuel had been right, the kid had vastly improved with just a few days of tuition from Shark, but he was a clean fighter and Shark hadn’t taught him any of the really dirty tricks. Chiz had beaten the crap out of the kid, and then offered his hand to help Sinatra haul himself up off the canvas. He’d followed that assistance with an offer to take over the role of trainer.
Sinatra was a quick study and an attentive student. Chiz hadn’t regretted taking the kid on. There was even the possibility, although Chiz wasn’t going to mention it yet, that the kid could make some bank for the club on the bare-knuckle circuit. Chiz was thinking about suggesting that the two of them stand in some fights, but he wanted to bring Sinatra on more first, and make sure that the kid wouldn’t get a swelled head from the suggestion.
“You’re droppin’ your guard. Come on. Up!”
“It is up!” Sinatra’s irritation was almost lost under breathless exhaustion.
Chiz landed a vicious left hook to Sinatra’s kidneys. The younger man bent backwards into the pain. “No it ain’t.”
Chiz immediately stopped bouncing and made his way to the edge of the ring, beginning to pull the tape off his fists as he went. Only when he stopped concentrating on his opponent did he begin to feel the sweat running in rivulets down his naked torso. Shark, Crash and Scrat were leaning on the ropes, watching the free show. Shark stepped back to allow Chiz to duck out of the ring as Sinatra finally found the power to move.
“We done for today?” Sinatra called.
“Yeah.” Chiz stayed by the ring, continuing to peel the strips of tape away. “I know I pushed you, but you gotta be able to keep your guard up, no matter what. Someone comin’ at you ain’t gonna back off ‘cause you’re not feelin’ it, or you had a heavy night.”
“Aww, come on, Chiz. Man, it was Friday.”
“I don’t give a shit.” Chiz decided to throw the guy a bone to motivate him. “Kid, you got potential. Try and keep your dick in your pants some, stop eatin’ trash, and slow down on the booze, and you’ll be even better.”
“What, you mean live like a fuckin’ monk like you do?”
Chiz was back in the ring in a flash. Sinatra made the mistake of standing his ground. He started to raise his fists as Chiz feinted right, feinted left, then launched a right into Sinatra’s stomach. As the kid was doubling over, gasping for breath, Chiz delivered a left to his jaw, and as he was reeling from both hits, delivered an unforgiving combination to his midsection. Sinatra dropped heavily to his knees, and fell forward onto his hands.
“I don’t know what’s got into you kid, but try listenin’ to the voice of experience instead of mockin’ it.”
Shark was already holding the ropes apart, to make room for Chiz to step through, by the time he’d reached the edge of the ring.
“He give you this much shit?” Chiz asked his friend incredulously. He’d have expected Sinatra to still be needing extensive facial surgery if he’d pulled this attitude on Shark.
“No. But I wasn’t puttin’ as much effort in. He’s right about the monk thing, though. What’s up with that?”
“Nothin’. Benchin’ over four hundred hurts like a motherfucker if you’ve a gut full of Cuervo.”
Shark raised an eyebrow. “You’ve upped your weight?”
Chiz shrugged. “Some.”
Shark continued to watch Chiz as he finished untaping his hands. Once done, Chiz flexed out his fingers. He signaled to Scrat to gather the redundant strips of adhesive for the trash, and went to grab his towel from on top of the stack of dumbbells. Shark took a half step, just enough to get in Chiz’s way.
“Come find me if you need to talk, brother.”
Chiz had no intention of talking to anyone, about anything. He was putting a lot of time, and a hell of a lot of effort, into avoiding even thinking about anything more complicated than what part he needed to order, or what number repetition he was on.
“Sure.”
Shark looked skeptical at Chiz’s evidently noncommittal answer, but he got out of his way and let him pass.
Chiz didn’t give a shit if Shark wasn’t satisfied with his response. It was the best one his brother was going to get. The way Chiz figured it, if he kept on avoiding things long enough, then maybe the constant tightness in his chest might start to ease, and maybe his brain would find a different channel to play repeats from. Not that the flashbacks were getting old and boring, perversely they were getting more vivid, revealing details he hadn’t noticed in the heat of the moment, but they added to the steel band around his ribs.
There was no one in the main room of the clubhouse, so much the better. Chiz was able to make it to his room without having to run another gauntlet of well-meaning enquiries. It was too late to put anymore hours in on the SUV with a starter problem, but he figured he could spend some time tuning up his bike. If he tun
ed it up any more, he might as well add a tank of Nos and ride it to the fucking moon, but there was no harm in giving it another look over.
After a speedy shower, Chiz pulled on a pair of jeans that he wouldn’t mind getting oil on, and a clean t-shirt. Moving against every iota of self-preservation instinct that he had, he opened the bottom drawer of the dresser.
The ancient rucksack was languishing there. Chiz pulled it out, unzipped it, and reverently slipped out the contents. He didn’t even take a second to think whether the door to his room was locked. He lifted the black t-shirt to his face, and inhaled deeply, filling his senses with the scent of Elmo. He didn’t know how the ordinary piece of cloth had come to carry the fragrance that reminded him of her; maybe he’d been wearing it when they’d gotten up close and personal, or maybe it had been on the floor when she’d spritzed on her perfume. The how didn’t matter. It was the only thing he had.
For a moment he indulged his weakness. Then he folded the shirt, put it back in the bag, and returned it to its hiding place. He knew he should put the shirt in the laundry, that he should sever that last link, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He couldn’t resist occasionally twisting the knife that was permanently lodged in his gut.
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