I’m trying to process this. I keep replaying the situation, and my way of thinking, and demanding I look beyond the surface of what I feel. Logic. I need logic. He’s trying to make sure I’m ready for the next step between us and that I won’t regret my decision. Why does this upset me?
Okay. This is where I need to be honest with myself. As much as I’ve sworn I do not want a relationship, or the strings and heartache that go with one, this man is under my skin. I feel myself falling hard for him and looking for signs that he’s falling for me, too. It’s insanity. I’m a contract, a responsibility. A possession to him. He should be nothing but pleasure and the escape he has promised me he will be. And that is all he has promised.
It should be enough. It has to be enough before I allow myself back under his control, even for another encounter.
That means I need to take a few days and decide if I really can do this. I need to find myself again, the me that doesn’t need anyone. The me that understands I’m the only one I have to count on in this world. The me that will allow him to pleasure me and expect nothing else in return, because expecting more from people just means heartache.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Lunchtime …
I walked into the gallery this morning determined to make it about art. If anything can bring me back to me, that’s it. Once I arrived at work, though, I discovered Mark was dealing with off-site business and probably wouldn’t be in all day. I felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. I know the rest of the staff is relieved when he’s gone, too. He always creates a subtle tension in the air, but he also creates a raw energy that excites the entire building and the people inside, even if they don’t realize it. I need that energy today.
In his absence I turned to caffeine. I was just leaving the kitchen with a full cup of coffee when Mary, my fellow sales rep, and “frenemy” as Ralph has called her, knocked into me. The contents of the cup splattered everywhere, including down the front of my—fortunately black—dress. She apologized profusely and swore it was an accident, but it wasn’t. I’d thought things had improved after she’d had a meeting with Mark last week and become friendlier, but apparently her friendliness was short-lived. She simply hates me for existing and I can’t control that. There is a lot I can’t seem to control lately.
3:00 p.m.
The gallery was sealed off to customers about an hour ago to allow the removal of the art from our personal office walls, because apparently it’s part of Mark’s personal collection. He must be even richer than I realized to own as impressive a collection as this one. I’d thought the pieces belonged to the gallery since his family also owns Riptide, one of the largest auction houses on the planet. Anyway, it turns out that once a year, Mark replaces the art and invites elite customers in for exclusive showings. The event is highly anticipated.
With the gallery shut for the art removal, I decided to head to the coffee shop for a caramel macchiato and was surprised to find Chris, Ava, and Georgia standing at the counter deep in conversation. Chris’s longish blond hair was rumpled, as if he’d been running his hands through it while working, and there was this devastatingly sexy energy about him that, based on how enthralled they looked as he spoke, clearly had Ava and Georgia spellbound. I waited in line to order, and my attention went to Georgia. Her beauty, next to Ava’s, had me feeling very ordinary. All my fears that Georgia had inspired the ring came back to me.
Chris’s gaze lifted, and his brows dipped. I knew he’d seen something on my face, and thankfully it was my turn to order, which gave me an escape from his scrutiny. I have no idea what he saw in my expression—but too much, for sure. He and Mark both saw too much. But then, Chris is an artist, a man who studies details. What did I expect?
Once I placed my order and turned back to the group, I found that Chris had disappeared back to his table and Ava was attending to a customer. Georgia greeted me with such a friendly smile that it was hard to remember why I’d felt uncomfortable a few minutes before. Apparently she’d stopped in for coffee on her way to a meeting with Ralph to go over the prior night’s sales and receipts.
We chatted on the short walk back and I asked her about the famous artist Georgia O’Keefe and the similarities in their work and their names. Turns out O’Keefe was her idol. Georgia had learned about their names both being Georgia (not an overly common name, she pointed out) when she’d taken an elective art class just to get the easy credit. The deeper she’d gotten into the semester, the more certain she’d been that their names were no coincidence but a sign she was meant to be an artist. Georgia’s story inspired me and, for the first time in days when I walked into the gallery, I felt a sense of rightness in being there. This was where I belonged. The art, this place, was me. Is me.
That was a few minutes ago, and already the feeling has faltered. The instant I sat down behind my desk I found myself staring at the empty wall where the painting had been removed, and I knew it couldn’t be just the art I love, nor could I hide behind it. Taking this job, daring to do what I’d dreamed of, had been, and is, about living life, finding myself.
And there are more parts to me, things I’ve only just discovered, and things I want to discover. I am still the same girl that walked in here: an art enthusiast who was waiting tables, and who dared to make my college major a career. But I am also the woman who’d stood in the coffee shop bathroom and been aroused by a spanking. I want to know all parts of me. I have to know myself to control my life and destiny. But does that mean “he” is the right man to help me make that journey?
That’s what I have to decide.
9:00 p.m.
Last night is repeating itself. Hot bath. Pajamas. My own bed. And again I ask, what more could a girl want? The answer is the same. Him. I clearly need to rethink my strategy, as I am in the same place as before. I feel mentally exhausted. I don’t want to think about contracts, or rings, or why it hurt when that ring was given back to me, though I’m pretty sure it means that I haven’t made this about sex and escape—what I vowed last night it had to be, in order to move forward with him.
Now I’ve been spanked, and I liked it. Not every girl can write that in her journal. And on that note, I’m going to bed and to sleep. Tomorrow I’ll figure the rest out. Tomorrow it will make sense.
11:00 p.m.
So much for getting some sleep. Josh, the conservative, good-looking, safe investment banker I dated a few times, started calling me over and over right after I lay down to sleep, and he won’t stop. He’s drunk and out of control and I don’t want to call the police, but I’m starting to think I have to. After he showed up at my work a week ago, and now this, I’m feeling very nervous about what he might do next.
I tried to bluff and threatened to call the police if he called again. He called again. I’m fighting the urge to shove things in front of my door for protection. I don’t think Josh would hurt me, but I didn’t think he was capable of anything he’s done either, and we only dated a few times. My phone is ringing again …
Friday, March 18, 2011
Late afternoon, home again …
I don’t really know where to begin writing, considering all that has happened since last night and what my plans for tomorrow night involve. But I know I want to get my thoughts down on paper so I can look back at this and know how I was feeling before it took place.
I’ll start with last night, when Josh was calling me and harassing me. I don’t know how it’s possible, but my would-be Master and self-proclaimed keeper of my happiness and safety called right after Josh had just called me a whore and told me he was coming over. The sound of my would-be Master’s voice set something off inside me, and I’d gushed out a confession about what was going on. The next thing I knew, “he” was on his way to pick me up and rescue me from Josh. I didn’t need or want to be rescued, and I regretted telling him about Josh. I didn’t feel ready to see him—not alone, not in his house and his bed. But there’s no fighting him. He’d made a decision to pick me u
p and I knew he wasn’t going to be stopped.
He arrived at my door fifteen minutes later, with me a nervous wreck. But when I opened the door and found him standing there in jeans and a snug-fitting T-shirt, looking casual and sexy, the power oozing off him, I wanted to wrap my arms around him. I didn’t, though. I knew I couldn’t touch him until he touched me. But his eyes met mine and it’s like he just knew how much I needed to feel him close.
He pulled me into his arms, molding me against his hard body, and buried his face in my hair. I heard him inhale my scent and then he whispered, “I’m here.”
I’m here. The simple words resonated on some deep level I needed them to. No one else was there for me in life. Only him. It scared me that I felt I needed him, when earlier I’d been so certain that I would always want more from him than he would from me. Or, maybe, more on a different level is a better definition. I know he’ll push me to places I might not even think I can go, but I am almost certain I will never have the power to push him to places he wouldn’t otherwise go without me. He won’t ever need me. He will need power, and I think that my need for him is exactly that. His power. His power over me. Standing at my door, I told myself he was just pleasure and an escape, even safety for the evening, and I wanted to believe it, but I knew then, and I know now, that it wasn’t true.
We left my apartment and had just made it to his fancy sports car when Josh showed up.
“Who the hell are you?” Josh demanded of him.
In a flash, Josh was against the car and my would-be Master said something low to him that I couldn’t hear. Josh paled and then said something back before handing over his keys to “him.” I stood there hugging myself, shivering from the cold night air and the intensity of the situation. More low words were exchanged, and when Josh was finally set free he apologized to me, looking like a whipped puppy, before he went to sit in his car.
My would-be Master ushered me into his warm car and, once he joined me, said, “Josh won’t be bothering you again.”
He wouldn’t say it if he didn’t mean it. “You took his keys,” I commented. “How will he get home?”
“He made the choice to drink and drive. Let him figure that one out.”
I couldn’t argue that point.
Fifteen minutes later we entered his home, and I remember the spicy, woodsy scent—his scent—warming me all over. This place felt safe. He felt safe. It was a moment of revelation. Isn’t that feeling exactly why I was able to allow him to spank me and be aroused, rather than frightened or angry? Though I’d been mad, it was about the location, not the spanking. I don’t, and won’t, allow my job to be affected by our relationship.
He led me to his living room, and I felt a kind of vulnerability from my need for him that I wished then, and even now, that he couldn’t create in me. But I was alone with him and he was gentle in the way he’d been that night he’d come to my apartment, the night when I’d freaked out over my first reading of the contract. That felt right and good—until I saw that we weren’t alone at all. The other man who’d been here before, who we’d been with, was standing by the crackling fireplace, holding a glass of wine.
“From what I hear, you need this,” he said, lifting the glass to offer it to me.
My would-be Master stepped behind me, his hands sliding to my waist, his mouth lowering near my ear, “Go take the wine.”
“No, I—”
“It’s just a glass of wine, Rebecca,” he said. “It’ll calm your nerves.”
It wasn’t just a glass of wine, and we both knew it. It was the first step to more. Even so, after a moment of hesitation, I stepped forward, moving slowly, cautiously toward the other man. I stopped in front of him and he handed me the glass. He was as gorgeous as I remembered, tall and dark, the opposite of my would-be Master.
I’d blinked at the man whose name I did not even know, the air crackling like the fire behind him. He wanted me. I didn’t want to want him, but there was this sexual tension in the room that was almost like a living creature. It was as hungry as his eyes told me he was. I knew then that if I let it happen, I would be submissive to both men. This man would be Master Two, submissive only to Master One.
I accepted the wine and sipped it, letting the bittersweet liquid slide down my throat, welcoming the numbing effect it would offer. Master Two reached down and stroked my hair behind my ear. “Beautiful,” he whispered.
I don’t consider myself beautiful, but the way he looked at me and the way he said it, all rough and husky, as if he meant it, made me feel as if I was. My body heated, and I remembered him touching me once before, the way his mouth had intimately licked and kissed me all over. The way his cock had thrust inside me.
Master One, the man who’d consumed me inside and out, stepped behind me again. It was him I truly responded to, his touch tingling through my body, heating my blood.
“Yes,” he agreed softly, his fingers trailing down my arms, creating goose bumps on my skin. “Beautiful.”
It was all I could do not to lean into him and become lost in his touch, but once I did that, once I forgot everything but him, there wouldn’t be only him. There would be them—both men. It bothered me to be shared, and yet it aroused me.
I knew then that I had completely lost control of myself again. I downed the wine, and shoved the glass at Master Two before I turned to Master One. “Why did you call me tonight, when you told me to contact you when I was ready for this?”
His fingers stroked down my hair. “What’s important is that I did, and you needed me.”
That wasn’t the answer I wanted, though I have no idea what I had wanted him to say. Just not that. “I can take care of myself.”
He laced his fingers in mine and pulled me to the couch. “Did you know,” he asked, sitting down and settling me onto the cushion beside him, “that putting yourself in danger is forbidden in our contract? In fact, it’s grounds for punishment.”
Nerves slammed into me immediately. His spanking me had been one thing. I trusted him in ways I didn’t try to understand. But I did not trust Master Two. I didn’t know him. “You want to punish me again?” I asked.
His fingers wrapped around my neck and he brought my mouth to his. “Punishment is between you and me. Only you and me.”
A small amount of tension eased from my body. “Then why is he here?”
“Because I want every drop of pleasure I can get from you. I want to taste it. I want to touch it.” His lips brushed mine, his fingers caressing one of my breasts. “I want to feel it when your body tightens around my cock and quakes because I’ve fucked you so well.”
My sex clenched, but I wasn’t ready to cave in to passion. “And yet you want to share me.” Just saying the words twisted me in knots.
He leaned back to look at me, his gaze probing mine. “When he’s fucking you, and touching you, and licking you, Rebecca, I can watch every little nuance of how it affects you. It’s like a window into your pleasure that allows me to not only give you more, but also be the best Master I can be. I can’t do that when your hot little body is squeezing my cock into oblivion. So, let him fuck you. Let him please you. Let us give you the escape I can feel you craving.”
It wasn’t the answer I expected. In fact, it was everything I didn’t expect, and everything I needed to hear. It was incredibly arousing—freeing, even. “Yes,” I whispered, and my reward was his mouth closing on mine.
Master Two sat down behind me, his hand settling possessively on my hip, and this time I didn’t resist him. This time I gave in to the pleasure that I knew this night could hold. They touched me, undressed me, undressed themselves. I was naked with those two gorgeous men, and they took turns kissing me, licking my nipples. Licking my clit. There wasn’t a part of me they didn’t touch, they didn’t own.
At nearly one in the morning, I lay in bed and listened as he said good-bye to Master Two. I wondered who he was, this other Master. I wondered what came next. I’d read some BDSM sites that talked about
the Master wanting the sub to sleep on the floor or at his feet. That wasn’t me, and I realized just how foolish blind signing that contact had been.
The uncertainty I felt quickly brought back every one of my doubts I’d left in the living room earlier in the evening. I sat up, intending to dress, only to realize my clothes were in the other room. He appeared in the doorway then, jeans unzipped and hanging low on his lean hips, and sauntered over to me, before removing them as I watched. It was hard to think with him naked, and I wondered if he knew that.
He joined me on the bed and pulled me into his arms, my back to his chest, his lips to my ear. “Get some rest. That’s an order.”
All thoughts of leaving faded into the bliss of being held by him. “I told you, I don’t take orders well,” I murmured, but the truth was that I was exhausted. “I’m pretty sure that makes me a bad candidate for your sub.”
“You don’t take orders well, but I like a challenge,” he agreed. I almost thought I felt him smile against my hair, but he isn’t much on smiling, so surely not. And there had been no smile in his voice as he’d sternly added, “Go to sleep, Rebecca.”
I don’t remember what came next. Apparently, I did as ordered and went to sleep.
Friday had become Saturday at 2:00 a.m., or that’s when I remember looking at the clock next …
I gasped and then blinked awake to find myself alone in his bedroom, and it only took me seconds to realize I’d had one of my nightmares again. Every time I thought they were gone, they came back. I was shaking all over, and I sat up and tugged the blanket up with me, thick darkness consuming the room, feeling as icy as the San Francisco Bay water. This nightmare was different from the others, I realized. My mother wasn’t actually trying to kill me this time.
Rebecca's Lost Journals Page 8
