He shrugged. “The comments I can handle. The attitude I can’t, or should I say, I won’t. You may call me Mr. Oliver, and I will call you missy.”
“Missy?”
“Short for Mistress C.” He walked toward her. “By the way, how did you come by that name? There is a C in Francesca, true, but I don’t see why they used the C out of it.”
She laughed. “It stands for Mistress Cunt. I had a sub that, shall we say, thought I was a bit harsh. He called me Mistress Cunt, which of course I couldn’t let stand. He found himself without a Mistress. After that, I heard that people in the community were calling me Mistress C for short, and I rather thought it was a badge of honor, it was a reminder to them that I don’t stand for bullshit from my subs.”
He sat down across from her. “Neither do I. You sat without permission. Shame on you.”
“I didn’t know we’d started.”
“We started the minute you walked into the room.” He sat back, stretching is arms along the back of the couch. “The first thing we need to do is discuss our contract.”
A look of approval crossed her face and he nodded ever so slightly. “I agree to lead you this weekend, to give you pleasure, and sometimes pain that will be pleasurable for you. I agree to take care of all your needs, in any way that shall arise. Do you agree to give me control over you for the weekend?”
“Yes.” Her quick answer surprised him. He knew she still had doubts, but he could see that she wanted to play, that this was something she was going to do, even if she had to force herself to be submissive. She was exploring. That was good for him.
“Everything we do this weekend will be safe, sane and consensual, as it always is in our lifestyle. If at any time you are in pain that could lead to damage, it is your responsibility to tell me. What would you like to use for a safe word?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, her voice low. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
“You know the rules. It needs to be something you can easily remember, and something that you wouldn’t normally say in a scene.”
She was glancing around the room now, as if trying to find an object that would give her inspiration. Finally, she said, “Shortbread.”
“Excuse me?”
She nodded to where a tin of shortbread cookies sat on a side table. “Shortbread.”
“So be it.” He had to give her credit for ingenuity. He didn’t plan on her using the word, but it had to be done. Rules had to be followed so that safe guards were in place, just in case. He handed her a pen and watched as she signed the agreement. He signed right above her, and then gave a copy to her. He watched her fold it in half and put it in her purse. Now that the formalities were over, it was time to play.
“Stand up.”
He nodded at her compliance. “Strip.” He had to give her credit. She had not one ounce of modesty in her. Of course, that would be hard in the long run, when he was trying to find things that would take her out of her comfort zone during public scenes. Being naked didn’t bother her. But then again, being naked, and dominated, probably would. If she wore her name as a badge of honor about not taking any bullshit, then she wanted to appear strong to others. All he probably needed to do to keep her in line was threaten to take her downstairs with a collar and leash.
“I have something for you to wear, something that will please me.” He pointed to the chair where he’d set out the clothing.
Her sharp intake of breath let him know she wasn’t happy with the costume he’d selected for her.
“You’ll need help with the corset,” he said. “Put everything else on, and then bring it to me. He kept his back to her, trusting that she would follow his instructions. He could hear her moving, heard a deep grunt that came, he was sure, when she put the thigh-high boots on. Figuring out the size she wore hadn’t been easy, until he discovered that the sub of one of the Doms who frequented the club worked at a shoe store Francesca frequented.
The heels were rather high, but he knew they would make her look spectacular. When she appeared before him, she wore the boots, a gold chain belt around her waist, leather cuffs around her wrists, and nothing else. She held out the corset.
“Will you assist me, Mr. Oliver?”
He inclined his head ever so slightly. “Kneel down, with your back to me.”
A deep flush spread across her face, and he knew the idea of kneeling wasn’t one she appreciated. This would be an early tell. If she refused, things would end here. After a few moments hesitation, she put the corset next to him on the couch, turned, and knelt down gingerly.
It was, he was sure, one of the hardest things she’d ever done in her life, and she’d done it fairly fast. It should make for interesting conversation in a few moments.
“Arms out.” Her obedience made him wonder if he’d been wrong all along. He’d thought the first few hours of this weekend would be spent in her arguing with him, and while he’d told her he wouldn’t accept it, he’d been prepared to look the other way for a small portion of it. Maybe they could start playing immediately, and have a weekend of hedonistic pleasure that would make them both thirsty for more.
His hands brushed her breasts as he reached around her and wrapped the leather corset around her torso. Today’s corset was red, tomorrow’s was black, and the one he’d selected for Sunday was whalebone. It would be the most uncomfortable, but he wanted it to make a lasting impression, which meant he wanted it to be the last thing she wore here—for this weekend, that is.
Once their relationship was in full bloom, he would want her naked while she was here, even in winter. Playing with the temperature could provide hours of fun for the both of them at that time.
He zipped the corset up before he ran his fingers down her shoulders. “Turn to me.”
She scooted around, just as he’d hoped she would. The movement made her breasts, squeezed together by the corset, jiggle where they weren’t covered by the leather.
“Delicious,” he said. “That’s one word.”
She frowned, then said, “Should I have brought a dictionary with me?”
“Perhaps. Now I want you to give me one word, about your feelings at this exact moment. One word only.”
“You’re kidding me, right? If we’re going to play analyst and patient, shouldn’t I be on the couch?”
Oliver chuckled. “I would think someone who hasn’t had an orgasm in two days would remember how I punish smart-mouthed subs, or those who just flat out disobey me.” It was hard not to laugh at the shocked look on her face. “That’s right, I know you followed my orders, which I appreciate. However, if you continue with your ways, I will push back the timetable for your orgasm. I hope those words make my point. Now one, tell me one word that describes how you’re feeling, and be honest.”
He watched various emotions play over her features, from nervousness to just a little bit of anger. Finally she said, “Trepidation.”
“Excellent word,” he replied. “Now, give me one more.”
“A little foolish.”
Oliver frowned. “That’s more than one. Tell me why you used three words when I asked for one.”
“Is there a word limit on that, too?”
He sat back and shook his head. “You really don’t want to come tonight, do you? No limit. Explain yourself.”
“Because I don’t feel totally foolish, but I have to admit to feeling a little foolish. I feel like a tart.”
“You look like one, and I rather enjoy it, since I dressed you this way.” Too soon for sex, he repeated to himself as she cocked her head and gave him a look that made his already hard prick throb. Don’t let her take control.
“Stand up.” She had to put her hands on the couch to obey him, and when she bent over her breasts spilled out from the top of the corset. Her nipples were hard and rosy red, and the urge to suck was strong.
Not yet, he repeated, not yet.
“May I cover up?” she asked when she was back on her feet.
“You
may not.” He nodded to the right. “Go to the kitchen table and retrieve the items that are there.”
“Oh, I’m on a scavenger hunt now. Goodie.” Her gait was uneasy as she moved away, and he watched her with appreciation. Her bare ass was gorgeous, and after he whipped it tonight, it would be even more spectacular.
He was pretty sure her reaction to the event he had planned would be like fireworks going off in his dungeon.
When she came back, she jiggled the delicate gold chains he’d laid out on the table.
“Missing something from my outfit, am I?” She gave him a brilliant smile. “A woman loves to get jewelry.”
“So she does.” He held out his hand and she put them in it. “Stand here.”
At least she was obeying him in some things without giving him lip, he thought as she moved into position. “Here’s the plan for the afternoon,” he said. “I’m going to attach your wrist cuffs to the belt you’re wearing. Then, I’m going to give you an hour to walk through the house, explore things, get the lay of the land, so to speak. After that, you have a half hour to write down three words about how you’re feeling.”
“You’re big on the words and feeling thing, aren’t you?”
Oliver sighed. “You’re dangerously close to losing orgasm privileges for tonight. Once they’re gone for the evening, any problems I have with you will carry over until tomorrow. If you can’t keep from smarting off every few minutes, you won’t climax all weekend, which would be a true shame because you look so lovely when you come.”
Her lips were clamped together now, and he wondered if she’d say another word the rest of the evening.
“Do you understand my instructions?”
“Yes. Explore, then write down three words about my feelings.”
“Very good.” He attached one end of the chains to her cuffs, the other to the link around her waist, keeping them taut so that she had very little room to move her arms.
“At the risk of being labeled a smart-ass, how am I supposed to write if my arms are tied to my waist?”
Oliver sat back, admiring the image in front of him. Damn, she made his dick hard. Screw letting her get acquainted with what she was feeling, he should flip her over and fuck her until she fainted.
Instead of following through on that idea, he said, “You’re a smart woman, you’ll figure it out. You have an hour and a half. I’d watch the clock if I were you.”
“Fine, look, write. I can handle that.”
“And have your nose in a corner when I return, specifically one in the dungeon.”
Her hackles were back up now. “Excuse me? You want me to stand in a corner?”
“Did you hear me say stand? No, I want you to kneel there, with your nose pressed against the wall. I should think it’s a very self-explanatory order.”
“I don’t kneel in corners.” The angry timbre of her voice made him smile.
He stood and ran his hands down his thighs. It was either that or touch her, and now wasn’t the time.
“As I said before, you’re dangerously close. Think on that before you make statements about not doing something. Have a good hour and a half.”
Oliver made sure to keep his steps slow and steady as he left the apartment. Behind him she was spitting out words asking him to wait, that she had a question to ask. He knew the corner would be the undoing of her in this activity, well, besides the kneeling.
This would give her plenty of emotions to feel. The hard part would be picking out just three of them to write down.
Chapter Four
“Kneel in a corner, my fat fanny,” Francesca growled as she prowled around Mr. Oliver’s home. “It will be a cold day in hell before I put my nose in a corner.”
She’d made plenty of subs do it, and they’d always told her it was “exhilarating,” that it helped them to “give over power.”
The word that came to mind for her was humiliating. Maybe she should write that one down, or maybe it would piss him off. But then again, who cared if it did. He wanted to know how she felt. This wasn’t a test with an answer sheet.
“Got the first word,” she said out loud, knowing there was nothing but the walls to hear her. So far she’d found two bedrooms, the larger of which was his. She knew it because of the colors. The guest room was in muted shades of rose. The master bedroom was in blues and browns, just like any male, she’d thought. There was only one full bathroom, situated between the rooms. That sort of surprised her until she remembered this was a Victorian house that had been moved here.
If it were her building, she would have had another bathroom added. She continued to explore, surprised when she found only a kitchen. There was no dungeon. A quick sigh of relief spread through her. No dungeon, no corner, she thought, even though she knew that was wrong. There had to be one here somewhere. But where?
She stepped into the hallway and glanced in either direction. One way led back to the living room. At the end of the hall was a door. It took her a few minutes of maneuvering, with her hands so close to her body, to turn the knob, but when she opened the door a light came on, illuminating a circular staircase, just like the ones in the main club.
So he’d built his dungeon upstairs, she thought as she looked at the stairs. At least they were wood, so that her heels wouldn’t get caught in any openings. Still, navigating the climb in these boots, with no hands, would be tricky. She had no idea how much time had elapsed since he’d left, but she was pretty sure it was at least half an hour. That gave her another hour. And she didn’t want to have to make this trip twice.
She went back to the dining table and looked at the pen and paper. They looked so innocent, and yet they might be at the center of her undoing today. She couldn’t move her hands enough to do something like tuck them into her boots so her hands would be free.
“I won’t be defeated by something so simple,” she said as she maneuvered her body to pick up the sheet, then bent down to take the pen in her mouth. She hurried back to the stairs as fast as she could, then leaned against the wall as she slowly took them one rung at a time, stopping every few steps to center herself and make sure she didn’t fall backward.
At the top she felt a surge of triumph. Soft light illuminated the room, and Francesca’s mouth dropped open, the pencil clattering on the floor as it fell.
“Oh, oh…” His dungeon rivaled any she’d ever seen. She had a few things of her own, a rack and a good collection of whips and crops, but she had nothing like this at her apartment. There was a St. Andrew’s cross, a rack, columns in between where a person could be bound, a swing, whips, chains, crops, clamps. She walked the room, her heart hammering in her chest as she stopped to examine each section of toys. What if he wanted to use all of these on her? She wasn’t into pain. She didn’t want to be in the stocks, or tied between the posts.
Her heart continued to race as she stepped toward the back wall. A suspension system, where a sub could be held by their arms, or upside down if Mr. Oliver so wanted.
“No fucking way,” she whispered even as she continued to stare. As she thought about the equipment that filled the room, she decided the three words she would write down were “I’m outta here.”
But, truth be told, the items fascinated her. What would it feel like to be suspended in air? Would he use a whip on her while she was up there? Or maybe a cat?
“Not on me, but on another sub. I could watch while he did it. Yes, that’s why it fascinates me. I want to watch, not participate.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire, a voice sing-songed inside her head. And not just any voice, her voice. She was fascinated, intrigued about giving over control to him.
“That little bastard,” she said. “He’s given me time to come to terms with things. He knew if he just rushed into it, I’d rebel.”
He was smart, she’d give him that, but she was as smart. She’d often told her subs that lots of people thought that stupid people who had no self-worth allowed themselves to be whipped, when in fact the o
pposite was true. It took a lot of self-worth, and a lot of smarts to come to give control of yourself to another person. You had to have trust, and a true sense of yourself.
She knew who she was, and she realized now that Mr. Oliver was right. This would give her the chance to explore something new, something totally different, which meant she needed to open herself up and give him control.
In a flash, she walked to the table against the far wall and put down her paper. Then she went to where the pencil had dropped onto the floor, getting down on her knees as best she could and picking it up with her mouth.
After several attempts to stand she realized it was not going to be possible, as she was hindered by her bindings and footwear. She knee-crawled to the table, using the surface, which she was sure was low enough so even a short person could bend over it, and her shoulders to get back to her feet. Once in place she spent more precious moments trying to figure out how to write with her hands mere inches away from her body. After she’d managed to write down the first word, which took her forever it seemed, she looked at it.
“Worse than a kindergartener,” she laughed. The block letters were huge, spread out across the page. She should have picked a shorter word. She wrote down the other two, and then looked around the room. All four corners were bare, which meant she had her choice.
“I don’t want any of them,” she said out loud, as the voice in her head reminded her that she’d decided to follow directions, to let the weekend unfold and see what it would bring.
She went to the one on the opposite wall, knowing it would allow Mr. Oliver a good view of her as he came in the door. He would see that she’d followed directions, that she was kneeling in a corner.
Following her mindset was not as easy as she’d thought it would be. Every time she put her shoulder against the wall in preparation to kneel, a voice inside her mind screamed that she was a Domme, that she didn’t kneel for anyone. They knelt at her command. It took three tries to get down, and then it took another two to put her nose in the corner, the dry wall cold against her skin.
My Kingdom for a Corner Page 4
