Rebecca's Lost Journals

by Lisa Renee Jones

  Eventually it’s going to come out that I am with him. Eventually every bit of success I’ve had will be questioned. If I believed in where he and I were headed, it would be okay. I’d deal with it. But I guess that’s what it really comes down to. I don’t believe in where we are headed.

  Maybe … maybe I need to leave the gallery, to find another job in art—but wouldn’t I still be in the same circle of people? And I’ll never make the money that I make with Riptide, and I’m alone, with no one else to count on.

  Yes, I have him.

  But for how long?

  8:00 p.m.

  An hour before closing …

  I’ve decided I need to go home to my apartment tonight. I’m not looking forward to telling my Master that. We’re at contract negotiation time again and I know he’ll freak out and think I’m pulling away from him. Maybe I just won’t tell him. He won’t know; he’s off in another state right now.

  I’ll decide later. I just need some space of my own. Of course, all of the things I use daily are at his place. I’ll have to go by there, and I wish I didn’t. When I smell his scent, see his things … it’s hard to turn away, but I feel like that is where this is headed. I need more than another contract, and less of what he’ll want included in the new one, anyway.

  I just don’t think he can give those things to me.

  11:00 p.m.

  My apartment. It’s so very strange to be here, but nice. A whole lot more humble than my Master’s elaborate place, but I like that. This is me, with my overstuffed, overused couches and my down comforter on my full-sized bed, which I’m sitting on now with all my old journals surrounding me. It’s a cozy little place, made cozier by it being mine, something I claim ownership of. He tried to pay my rent as part of our last contract, but I refused. I needed to know I had my sacred place I could go to if I ever needed to, and tonight I did.

  Though I’ve made some money from the auctions and I can afford to get a bigger, fancier place, I’m not going to. The Riptide auctions that I’m involved with are only a couple of times a year, and I want a nest egg before I start spending outside my norm. I’ve done way too much throwing caution to the wind this past year. I might splurge on a few pieces of art and decorate a little, though. Make it even cozier.

  Yes. I think I will. This idea pleases me, yet it makes my stomach burn. I’m thinking about leaving his place. I’m thinking about needing mine.

  For now, though, I just packed enough of my things for the weekend and went grocery shopping. He called while I was at the store and he knew something was wrong. He told me he did. I told him I was exhausted. And I am. Emotionally. I’m on an emotional rollercoaster ride and he’s not. That bothers me. It’s telling. But what is it telling me?

  I told him I’d call when I got home, before going to bed. I have to call him. He is my Master. At least for two more weeks.

  The call …

  You aren’t at the house,” he said the instant he answered, not bothering with “hello.”

  My heart jackhammered and I didn’t ask how he knew. Probably the security system. I should have thought of that. “No.” I hesitated. “I’m at my apartment.”

  The line crackled with electricity. “Why?”

  “You aren’t there. I have no reason to be.”

  “I want you there. That’s reason enough.”

  It used to be enough. And it could be again, so very easily, if he’d just … what? I don’t even know. “It’s almost contract renewal time. I wanted some space to think through what that means to me.”

  “What does that mean, Rebecca?”

  My chest hurt. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

  “Figure it out at home.”

  “This is home for me.”

  “No. Home is with me.”

  He was wrong. It was his house. His couch. His everything. “And you aren’t there this weekend, so home is here.”

  “You belong to me,” he reminded me softly. “You belong in my bed. I need you there.”

  I could hear the rough quality to his voice and I knew he was upset. I knew he didn’t want to lose me. But I also heard the word choices he always makes oh-so-cautiously. I belong to him. Not with him. I belong in his bed, not by his side—or in his life.

  I drew in a deep breath and let it out. “And I need this weekend here. Please, Master, grant me this. Just while you are away.” I knew the use of “Master” away from our play would help my cause, and it did.

  There was silence, and time ticked slowly by, but when he spoke he granted my wish. “When I return, I’m going to make sure you never want to leave again.”

  “I don’t want to leave,” I whispered.

  He was silent again, even longer than before. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “Okay.”

  We both sat there, and I knew he didn’t want to hang up any more than I did. We do have a bond. He does want me. I know this.

  “Goodnight, Rebecca,” he finally said, his voice low, sandpaper rough.

  My throat thickened with emotion. “Good night,” I replied, and added because I had a burning desire to please him, “Master.”

  Saturday, May 5, 2012

  1:00 a.m.

  My bed surrounded by my old journals

  It all comes back to the roses …

  The roses in the dream (or nightmare) have been bothering me all day. The day my Master introduced me to the club, there had been no roses. My mind had to be telling me something, and I think that is part of why I wanted to be here tonight. I needed to clear my head of everything that is my Master, and get inside my thoughts.

  So I started reading my own writing. The old entries are eye-opening, especially since I’ve lost track of my feelings these past few months, sporadically at best scribbling notes in random places when, and if, I have the privacy to do so. I told myself it was because I didn’t want my Master reading about my feelings, but I think I just went through a period of denial. I didn’t want to see everything in my life clearly as I had wanted to in the past.

  One of those random entries from back in January made me pause for all kinds of reasons. It’s the entry that made me begin this entry with “It all comes back to the roses.” I’d written it the night before our last contract renewal (which we’ve continued every four months). I’d still been in my apartment as often as I was at his house, but he’d wanted that to change.

  I’d been afraid of losing complete control of me. To escape into a “scene” with him, or even a weekend of being his submissive, was one thing. To live it day and night felt like quite another.

  And so he’d done what he always does: He found a way to seduce me into doing what he wanted. He sent me roses; twelve dozen in different colors. They were gorgeous buds that hadn’t blossomed yet. The card is what had really gotten to me, though. It read:“They are delicate and ready to bloom, like you are, little one.”

  It had started with a scene.

  I remember the two nights before the roses so very clearly. Those two nights that had led to his sending them to me.

  Night one had been at the club.

  I was in the center of the playroom (that’s what he called the round room in his private quarters) on my knees, my hands bound behind my back, my spine erect as he’d instructed, my breasts thrust high in the air. He stood above me, naked and powerfully male. I was aroused; passionately, intensely aroused. I could feel him in every inch of my body. It was amazing how easily he drew me into a whirlwind of lust and need where nothing else existed. It is this overwhelming feeling that is addictive, the escape from the rest of the world. The submergence of reality in a cloud of hot sensuality.

  He walked to stand in front of me, staring down at me, his long lashes low over his eyes, a flogger in his hand. “It’s time to play a new game.”

  A moment of nerves rippled through me. I never know where he’ll take me, only that he’s slowly been pushing me to darker and more intense places, places I go to please him, e
ven when they frighten me.

  He used the tassels of the flogger to tease my nipples in a gentle flicker over one and then the other. They tightened into hard little knots and I was aroused. He bent down in front of me and tugged them with his fingers, watching my face as he did. I moaned and my lashes fluttered.

  He brushed his lips over mine. “You are so beautiful when you’re aroused. I want to show you off to the world.” His tongue snaked out to lick against mine again. “I’m going to open the curtain and show you off.”

  I stiffened. “No, Master. Please.” He kissed me again.

  “You can do this.”

  And I had. I’d done it though I hadn’t wanted to, yet somehow it had aroused me. It was one of the first times I’d been truly scared of what was happening to me. There have been many more in the past few months, since our games have become different … darker. So much darker. But that was the first time.

  Or maybe the first time was with Master Two. Yes. I was freaked out then, too; confused by how aroused I’d been by his sharing me when I’d also felt so unimportant because he’d wanted to share me. I’m always confused by Master’s need to share me. And more and more, he seems to need to. Is that his way of avoiding intimacy? Avoiding allowing us to go to those places I want to go?

  After the scene, he’d known I was upset. He’d taken me to his bed and kissed me from head to toe, in that way he does that always pulls me deep under his spell.

  Night two had been a dinner date at Louie’s, a restaurant we’d both come to love and with a private room and entrance; there is no fear of our relationship going public. Sharing things we enjoy, like food and conversation about the art we both love, always makes me feel more like we are a real couple. And yes, Master/sub is a real couple for some, a deeply committed and intimate relationship. For us, I felt like it was his wall to keep us from being more. Still, I broke through that at times, on nights like these, when we enjoyed meals. Not that all of our tastes are quite the same in food, but I’ve done my fair share of luring him to Oreo and French fry land, as much as he’s lured me to finer dining.

  The waiter took away our plates. “Your normal desserts?”

  “Two crème brûlées,” Master confirmed. “A caramel macchiato for the lady and plain coffee for me.”

  The waiter bowed his head and departed, pulling the private door closed behind him. I sighed with satisfaction. These moments when we simply relaxed, when we weren’t on the edge of something intense, were too few and too far between.

  “You seem content,” he said, studying me.

  “I enjoy this place.”

  His eyes had warmed. “I’m glad you do.” He had reached inside his jacket and pulled out several folded sheets of paper. “It’s time to renew our contract. I thought we’d go over the details.”

  Renewing our contract is a topic of mixed emotions for me. I’d hoped we’d be more than this by now, and the confirmation that we are not tightened my belly. “You want changes?”

  “I want you to agree we stop hiding in a closet.”

  “No. I can’t do that. That would affect my career.”

  He studied me a long moment. “What if I said I want you to move in with me?”

  Hope filled me. “Move in with you?”

  His voice lowered. “You’re the only sub I’ve ever asked to do this.”

  The only sub—I’m still in that box. So living with him was just another way of controlling me. In fact, it was his way of controlling me around the clock, instead of only during the weekends that our last contract had dictated I be his.

  “I’ll pay your rent for the contract term,” he added. “Then you have the security of knowing that if we don’t renew again, you have a place to go.”

  “No,” I said immediately and stood up. It was clear I was never going to be to him what he was to me, and I just wanted to go home.

  He was on his feet in an instant, pulling me close. “Why?” The waiter came in and my Master gave him a sharp look that sent him into retreat. Once the door shut, he stared down at me. “Why, Rebecca?”

  Why didn’t matter. It changed nothing.

  “Please take me home, and consider anything you start tonight, or for the next two weeks, to come with the word ‘red’ on repeat.” I’d never used my safe word before but I was using it then. I didn’t want to be under his control. Not then, and maybe not ever again.

  “Rebecca.” He leaned in to kiss me.

  “Red,” I hissed. He hesitated and I added, “You said you would stop whatever you were doing if I used it.”

  His jaw flexed and flexed again, but he pulled back. “I’ll take you home.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  The trip to my apartment was short but felt eternal, the silence unbearably thick. He parked in the lot behind my building and killed the engine. We sat there in the darkness. “Why?” he asked again.

  Was that all he could do? Ask me why? I gave him so much of me, and he couldn’t even tell me how he felt about my refusal?

  I reached for the door. He caught my arm. I cut him a hard look and said, “Re—”

  He cut me off with his mouth, shoving his fingers into my hair and slanting his mouth over mine, kissing me, claiming me in a way he’d never done before.

  I tried to resist him, but I tasted more than need in him. I tasted his fear of losing me.

  I barely remember how, but suddenly his seatback was down and I was on top of him, forgetting that I was in my apartment parking lot. In seconds he was inside me and I was riding him, grinding my hips against his, reveling in him filling me, touching me. In the way he couldn’t seem to get enough of me.

  When I finally collapsed on top of him, I lay there and listened to his heartbeat, fighting a wave of emotion very unlike me.

  “Move in with me, Rebecca,” he ordered softly.

  “Why?” I asked this time.

  “Because I want more than we have now.”

  “But not the same kind of ‘more’ that I want,” I whispered. “And I’m not sure how I let that happen.”

  He slid his hands to my face and forced my gaze to his. “It’s the only kind of ‘more’ I know how to give.”

  “Maybe that isn’t enough for me.”

  “How do you know if you don’t try?”

  “I just … do.”

  “You are more to me than any other sub has—”

  “Don’t,” I said, rolling off him and struggling into my seat. “Don’t finish that sentence!” By the time I was sitting where I belonged again, he’d raised his seatback.

  “You’re upset. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

  “No.” I managed to awkwardly deal with the mess we’d made of my clothing and my emotions. “I don’t want to talk tomorrow. I want to go to work and love my job and not think about this at all.” I got out of the car and he followed. I knew he would. The Master must protect—right? But who was going to protect me from him?

  At my apartment, I turned to him. “Goodnight.” I opened the door to go inside.

  He gently shackled my arm. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “I’m done. This isn’t me. It never was.”

  His eyes glinted hard. “I’m going to change your mind.”

  I didn’t answer and he let me go.

  I quickly went inside, before I did something stupid like telling him to change it right now. I rested against the other side of the door and I could feel him doing the same on the outside.

  He is an addiction, and addictions are never good for you. He’s taking me deeper into his world, deeper into his dark desires, but I’m never able to get behind the physical aspect of our relationship. I just lose more of who I am.

  And then came the roses …

  They arrived at my door the next morning, and I was seduced by the romantic gesture. And later, when we talked, he assured me that these new, darker places I could feel him taking us was just another part of discovering us, and delving into a deeper level of trust.<
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  I was scared. I knew it meant that calling him “Master” would take on a new meaning. But I convinced myself that if I wanted more from him, maybe he still needed more from me first.

  And so I gave up what was left of my life outside of being his. I thought I wanted my life to be his life but somehow, by letting him control more of me, he gave me less of him. The things I have done to please him … well, let’s just say I’d never do them for anyone else. I’ve gone everywhere he’s asked me to go. I’ve gone places I never thought I could go. Done things that shredded me inside and out. Now, I need more from him.

  9:30 a.m.

  At my desk …

  I have work to do, important details for a big event we are hosting off-site Sunday night. A local artist who paints food is showing at a new bakery owned by the renowned chef Michael Adams. I set up the event after a visit to the bakery, managing to arrange for the chef and the artist to attend. It’s like nothing the gallery has ever hosted, and Mark actually complimented me. Even after all of this time, a compliment from “Bossman,” as Ralph calls him, is hard to get. But then, he put me in charge of the Riptide auctions. I’d say that is a pretty big compliment.

  And I should be thinking about the event, calling customers to confirm they are attending, rather than focusing on the fact that “he” hasn’t called me, and what that means. I should go get coffee and clear my head. Yes. I’m going to get coffee, and not next door. I’m sticking to the kitchen and the gallery.

  3:00 p.m.

  Control. He has it. I do not. I want it back. He thinks I already have it back, and now he’s punishing me for it. He still hasn’t called me. He’s reminding me that he has the power to make me need him, to crave the sound of his voice. And I do. Damn it, I do. I never doubted his power over me, though I keep reminding myself that his actions say he is doubting it. He’s the one trying to prove something that I already know: I need him. And he’s worried that I don’t. That has to mean something. Staying at my apartment has been the smart thing to do. And I’m off tomorrow, with lots of time to myself to think. It’s not only given me space to think but also spawned some in him. Maybe, just maybe, it can be a catalyst for something different for us.