by Emma York
I had no idea why such tension was running through me. He couldn’t get me, he was miles away, probably pulling the next woman into the Rose room and running through the same speech.
A series of images ran through my head. The way I’d felt when he took photos of me, the way he made me feel so beautiful, the feel of his hand on the back of my neck, the touch of his lips against mine, our bodies pressing together, the steam, the sweat, the heat. His hand making my ass sting. The cafe, me at the window, wanting only to please him, wanting people to see.
That was the awful truth. I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be humiliated. What did that say about me? How screwed up must I be to have wanted that?
In the clothes shop, the most intense orgasm ever. Then him in my mouth, yards away from unsuspecting shoppers, the way he’d looked as I gave him pleasure.
I’d never see that look again. I’d run. I’d ruined things.
No, they all ruined them. Without them I would have been fine. I shouldn’t have listened to anyone. I should have taken a temp job and put my dreams to bed. Dreams were for children, not adults. Adults should accept that the world isn’t roses and fun, it’s grind and work and that’s the truth about life.
I wanted to go back to sleep but I couldn’t. I groped out of the blankets for my phone, knowing it was somewhere on the bedside table, it always was.
I wanted to know the time. I wanted to know if I could justify staying hidden in bed any longer or if I needed to get up and start my job hunt.
I grabbed the phone, pulling it towards me as I stuck my head out into the open. Looking down my hand, I frowned. That wasn’t my phone. Mine was silver in a battered pink case that was two days from falling apart. This was sleek, black, and it was…
It was the phone he’d given me at the cafe. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
This was the phone he’d given me to send messages, to tell me what to do. And if this was his phone then that meant that my phone was…?
Double shit. Triple shit.
I thought about when I’d last seen it. I’d taken the photo of the Rose room and then I’d thrown it under the bed and that meant it was there and that meant there was no way of getting it back.
I’d have to buy a new one. When I could afford it, anyway. I wasn’t ever speaking to him again. I couldn’t bear the thought of it.
He’d ask why I ran and I didn’t have an answer. Because I was afraid.
The reason for my fear hit me in that moment. I was afraid because I’d liked it. I was afraid that if I’d stayed, I’d have become someone I didn’t recognise. That was what he’d said his training did but I had no clue he meant that. That person wasn’t me. I was me, this scared woman with his phone in her hand, his phone that just beeped into life.
I looked down at it. A text message had arrived.
Your phone will available to collect from Mr Spencer’s office at noon today. - Sally.
His secretary. He was probably fucking her. He was probably fucking half the population of the country, all of them laughing at me for running away like a coward.
I got up. I needed advice and from the sound of the TV next door, I knew where to find it.
I wrapped myself up in my dressing gown, scowling at my slippers for not easily accepting my feet. “You have one job,” I said as I hopped on the spot, squeezing my heels in. “Still, that’s one more than me.”
Emma was in the living room, the TV on an eighties cartoon. “I never understood why they wanted to fight crime,” she said as I walked in, nodding at the screen. “If I was a turtle, I’d be off to the Bahamas or something.”
“Did you just tell the Teenage Mutant turtles to go back to their own country?”
“I don’t know, did I?”
I sank onto the battered sofa which creaked under me. Like most of the furniture in the house, it had seen better days. How many tenants had sat and complained on it over the years?
“Are turtles even from the Bahamas?” Emma asked, turning the volume down a little. “Where are turtles from?”
“Can I ask you something, Emma?”
She muted the sound, shifting in place to face me. “What’s up? I didn’t want to ask but…”
“But I came home early last night and refused to speak to anyone?”
“Yeah, you did do that, didn’t you?”
“You noticed then?”
“Course I did. Is everything all right? He didn’t…you know?”
“What?”
“I don’t know. What did he do?”
“How do you know it’s about him?”
She smiled, reaching out and putting her hand on top of mine. “Because you look as if you’ve drunk a gallon of poison and then asked for another round.”
“That good?”
“I’m only saying this because I’m your housemate and I love you but you look bloody awful.”
“Thanks. That means a lot.”
“It’s what I’m here for. One question, did you get enough for the article before you ran home?”
“Sort of.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell her I no longer wanted to write it, she looked so excited in that moment.
“Get any juicy photos?”
“Maybe, listen, Emma-”
“Fantastic. Can I see?”
“That’s the problem. I lost my phone.”
“You didn’t look very far. It’s in your hand.”
“This isn’t my phone.”
“Then whose is it?”
“Well, it is mine. No it’s not mine. It sort of is.”
“It sort of is? Rosa, you’re not making a lot of sense.”
I rubbed my eyes, leaning back and groaning. “I left my phone there. He gave me this one but the photos are on mine.”
“Can you get it back?”
“I’m supposed to be picking it up at noon.”
“Then that’s fine. Now, are you going to tell me what happened while you were there or do I have to wait to read it when the next edition is in the shops?”
She really wanted the article. I didn’t feel I could let her down. He was supposed to have taught me to be confident. Why couldn’t I even stand up to Emma and say, I’m not writing the article. I’m not admitting that I liked the disgusting things he made me do. I’m not happy that you made me go to him. I said nothing about any of those things. I just smiled and agreed to show her the photo when I got back.
“What’s it a photo of?” she asked as I got up. “Does he have a playroom? Did you get to see it?”
I gave her a very watered down version of what happened. I told her he’d shown me some things that would make a good article but I didn’t mention what he’d done to me, just that he’d made me feel uncomfortable.
“Do you want me to go get the phone?” she asked when I was finished.
“No, I’ll get it. I doubt he’ll be there anyway. It was his secretary who sent the message.”
“Then get it, bring it back and we’ll make him pay for making you uncomfortable. No one does that to my housemate except me when I sit on her for refusing to move off my armchair.”
“I still have the bruises from that.”
“Are you saying I have a bony bum?”
“I’m not saying anything.”
She gave me a mock scowl. “You’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood.”
Would she forgive me if I didn’t give her the article? If I couldn’t pay the rent and we all got thrown out? Or would they just boot me out and get another housemate?
I headed back to my bedroom to get dressed. That hadn’t gone exactly how I’d planned but at least I knew what to do next.
I would go and collect my phone. I would bring it home and have a proper talk with Emma. I would then scrub Jamie Spencer from my brain and forget about him. I wasn’t the right person for someone like him anyway. He needed someone much more submissive than me, someone brave enough to do the things he commanded. That person wasn’t me. I wasn’t brave. I wasn’t special. I was just another notch on his
bedpost and he could laugh about me while seducing the next one.
The next one.
The thought of it made me feel sick. What was worse was knowing I only had myself to blame for this. I had my shot and I’d blown it. I’d run back to my ordinary life because it was all I deserved and all I knew how to cope with.
I chose the most casual thing I could find. What did it matter what I looked like now? I picked out a Bazinga tee-shirt, blue jeans and trainers. That would do. I was only collecting a phone.
I sat brushing my hair for a while, telling myself it didn’t matter. In a couple of weeks I’d have forgotten all about him.
That kind of intensity wasn’t for me. If I had to do things like that to become a journalist, maybe journalism wasn’t for me either.
Once my hair was done, I sat with Emma for a while, drinking coffee and watching her cartoons, not really paying attention to anything. I did my best not to feel nervous but as time ticked by, my heart started to flutter.
What if he’s there?
Stop it, I told myself. Whether he’s there or not doesn’t matter. You are collecting your phone and coming home again. That’s it.
“I’m off,” I said as it came up to half eleven and the noise of a taxi horn outside drowned out the TV for a moment. “Wish me luck.”
“Have a turtly good time.”
“Thanks.”
SIXTEEN - JAMIE
I woke up with a monumental hangover. I wasn’t quite sure how I’d even made it to bed. Was this my bed?
I opened my eyes, groaning at the thin sliver of light that made it over the top of the curtains. It was the slightest glow but to my eyes it was like looking directly at the sun through a telescope attached to binoculars.
I tried again a few seconds later, my brain reverberating around my skull, someone in there drilling loudly for oil. This time, I took it slower, opening my eyelids millimetre by millimetre until I could handle the room.
Why had I wanted to open my eyes? I had to wait while my brain assessed the damage and then worked out the answer to my question. You wanted to know if it was your room. Oh, and the damage is minimal, you’re just being a crybaby.
Thanks brain.
It was my room. Sadly, resolving that mystery led only to more questions. How had I made it back to my room? Where had I been last night? Why was I so hungover?
The answers didn’t come. The pain was too strong. I lay back down and groaned again.
I heard the bedroom door opening but I didn’t bother to look up. When I finally sat up, several minutes later, there was a glass on my bedside table in it, my homemade hangover cure bubbling away inside. It was mostly green, some red, a little Tabasco in there somewhere.
The staff knew me well. They knew I was hungover. So that meant…?
It came back to me. I’d been at the office. I’d climbed into the back of the car. Beyond that was a blank but it was enough information for now. I had been brought home and put to bed. I was still in my suit, at least they hadn’t tried to put me in pyjamas.
I sipped at the drink. There was a hint of scent to it, of roses.
Then I had it.
Rosa. She’d left. I’d got drunk because she was gone. Then I’d gone into her room and found her phone, found out she’d been lying to me, that she’d done all this not to please me but to get a bloody magazine article out of it.
I got up and headed through to the gym, stripping out of my clothes as I went. I started running on the treadmill, getting back into the routine, ignoring the hangover.
Fuck her and the horse she rode in on. Let her write her stupid bloody article. It wasn’t like I cared what she had to say about me anyway.
As I ran, I tried to shake images from my head as they came to me, the hangover lowering my defences, making it increasingly difficult.
Her in the bikini while I took photos, the way her body had moved, the way her eyes had nervously watched me, seeking my approval.
Spanking that ass of hers, that ass I’d never see again because I’d been stupid enough to think she was special. She wasn’t special. I was special. I didn’t need her.
The collar. Leading her through the rooms on her collar. She hadn’t even seen the other rooms and now she never would, nor would anyone else. I was closing them for good, moving away.
How long would it take to sort out moving away? Focus on that.
Me inside her. The gasp of surprise when I thrust all the way into her, how she’d sounded when she came.
I hit the buttons, running faster and faster until I was sprinting in place, gasping for air. I kept going until I thought I was going to pass out. Only then did I leap off, collapsing on the floor, sweat dripping from me.
I didn’t need her. I didn’t need anyone. Getting too close to anyone was a mistake, not one I was going to make again.
I lifted weights until I had spots dancing in front of my eyes. It wasn’t enough. Images of her kept coming to me. Stop it. She betrayed you. She broke the rules of Sub Rosa. Stop caring.
When my arms could take no more, I headed into the shower, washing her off me, washing what had happened off me.
I came out back to myself. Once I was dressed, I rang Sally. “I have a phone to be collected. Send Miss Harper a message. Tell her to come to the office and get it at noon.”
“Of course, Sir,” she replied. “Anything else?”
“Work out what it would take to transfer my holdings into trust.”
She knew what I meant. What would it take for someone else to take over my role? That could mean only one thing, I was going somewhere.
She didn’t ask questions and I was glad.
I headed to work half an hour later, the hangover finally starting to fade. I felt rough but nothing like when I’d woken up.
I would give her the phone. I had no doubt she’d come to get it. I’d tell her I knew about the article. I wanted to see her face when I told her she was a liar. Then I would go to the club and say thanks but no thanks for the membership offer. Then I’d sit with my people and work out how to get myself out of the business and then I’d be gone and I’d see the back of this country for good. Maybe somewhere warm instead, somewhere where it didn’t rain all the bloody time.
The time it took to drive from my house to the office wasn’t long but over the course of that journey something happened. I couldn’t even put my finger on what it was.
It started with me looking at the photo of Rosa on my phone. I hadn’t wanted to see it. I’d only gone into my online storage to delete them. There was no need for before photos if there wasn’t going to be an after, unless you counted after her.
There were the images, her in the bikini. I was about to hit delete on the first one when I paused. My eye had run down her body and settled on her thigh, catching sight of that scar again.
That made me think of the interviews and the questionnaire. The first time, she’d come to the office, looking so nervous, that notepad. How big is your cock? Written in blue ink, appalling handwriting, her realising I’d seen the question.
Then me interviewing her, finding out about that scar, the hints of her past.
I found myself thinking more and more about her. I couldn’t help it. I stared at the photo, reliving what we’d done together. How had I been angry with her? How could I blame her for running after what she’d been through in her life?
I reached the office before I knew what was happening. I had climbed in so sure of myself but I climbed out feeling very differently.
I walked in, returning greetings but not paying attention to anyone around me. I made my way over to the lift, pausing only to collect a coffee from the machine. I needed caffeine, I could feel my hangover coming back.
I winced as I took a sip. “What the hell is this?” I asked, marching over to reception. “Is this what we give our visitors?”
“It’s a Burghini Express,” was the response, as if that answered everything.
“It’s bullshit. As of now, we're
re-engineering the entire line. No wonder they were going down the pan. Get rid of it. Today.”
I left the cup behind when I entered the lift, the gritty taste still in my mouth by the time I got upstairs.
There was still a smell of whisky in there and it wasn’t like I could open the windows that high up. Instead, I propped the door open with a chair, catching sight of Sally as she returned with an armful of files. “Coffee,” I shouted out to her. “Why can only you make a decent one?”
“Because you pay me a decent amount?” she replied, dumping the files on her desk. “I arranged for Miss Harper to collect her phone by the way.”
“Good,” I said, pulling out mine from my pocket. I had two hours before she arrived. That gave me time for one last roll of the dice. Either she would read my message and obey the instructions within. Or she wouldn’t.
Fate would decide what happened next.
If she obeyed, I’d be in the office waiting. If she ignored it, then so be it.
I didn’t send the message until I was sure she was on her way. I didn’t want her to have time to discuss it with anyone. I wanted her to decide quickly. That was the only way to be sure.
I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing. I had spent so long telling myself to ignore her, to shut my feelings down, but it hadn’t worked.
This gave her a choice. I knew she wanted to submit. She had proved that with everything she’d done. All doubt was gone, the confusion brought on by the drink had vanished. She wanted to submit but she was afraid at the same time. That was why she’d run.
It didn’t explain the photo or the email but that was a separate thing. If she obeyed what was in the message I’d just sent then I could punish her for that decision, persuade her that it might be in her interests to drop the story about me, especially if running it meant I’d share with the world what she’d done to get it in the first place.
“I want her,” I said out loud, hitting send.
“Sorry?” Sally called through. “Did you say something?”
That was when I realised the door was still propped open. “Nothing important,” I said, getting up and removing the chair, letting it swing shut. Never in my life had I been one to trust to fate. I hadn’t reached the top of the business world by leaving the choices to fate. I had made tough decisions but I’d always been the one to make them. This was the first time a decision was out of my hands and I could do nothing to influence it. I already knew she wasn’t after my money, I could tell that from a mile off.
