by KD Robichaux
The movie made it all the way through the filming and releasing process. The pictures I’d found of him had been at an independent film festival in Austin. You can’t even find that shitty excuse for a movie on video. It’s uploaded on the internet for the world to see… if anyone cared to.
Nowadays, ole Alan moved back to the east coast. This wasn’t in Vi’s file on him. She mustn’t have looked into him in a while, because he now teaches acting classes in Wilmington, because, ya know, those who can’t do, teach. His Facebook profile shows all sorts of photos of his house, a beautiful, expansive mansion just outside the city limits. Really, though, he must’ve either broken in or taken selfies during an open house, because he actually lives in a decrepit apartment near the university. The thought of the motherfucker being anywhere near college-aged girls, the age Vi was when he raped her, makes my hackles rise even higher. His only saving grace is there is absolutely nothing on his record for being a sexual predator. But then again, Vi never turned him in either.
So many rapists get away with what they do to their victims. In Vi’s case, Alan was handed the perfect victim, a person he more than likely knew hated being the center of attention and would never want to draw eyes to herself. So he knew when he attacked her that he would probably get away with it.
I can only imagine how torturous it was for Vi after that. She and Alan shared a class together at their college, used to study together at his and Sierra’s apartment. She had to see that motherfucker every day at school, and any time she wanted to hang out with her girlfriend at their place. Doc hadn’t had time to touch on that part, so God only knows what she went through having to share space with her rapist during her day-to-day life.
And I had divorced her.
No questions asked. No thinking it through. No trying to work it out. I had sent her the divorce papers and never spoken to her again, leaving her alone to deal with everything on her own.
Sure, I had thought she cheated on me. But so what? It’s been proven time and time again that if a couple goes through counseling and works through infidelity, they have a higher likelihood of staying together, happily married, than the ones who never went through it in the first place. They are the couples who worked hard on their marriage, the ones who fought for each other. And I did none of that. I had chucked up deuces and said I’m out, while Vi was left to deal with being assaulted, no one to turn to because her person, as she used to call me, had divorced her at the drop of a hat.
I feel like a piece of shit. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to make it up to her, but God knows I’m going to right the wrongs done to her, and I won’t rest until that fucking cocksucker is no longer breathing.
IT’S BEEN A few days since Vi’s and my last training session, since I made her come for the first time in a decade. Her first orgasm with another person in as many years. And she had come to my face. She had finally reached that peak, climaxing thinking about me, Corbin, not to who she thought was Seven. I had sensed torn pieces inside her stitching back together, and it was a heady feeling, knowing I was helping her heal. It makes me want to repair more of the broken parts of her psyche. The only way to move forward and do that is to take Doc’s advice and allow Vi to express her anger. I’ve never done that scene before, but I have witnessed it, and I want to do that for her. It will be emotional, for her of course, but even for me, someone who has been emotionless for ten long years. But I have to be strong for her. I have to grin and bear it, the same way I do when I want to just hold her, but talk it out with her like I know I should.
I pull up the messenger for my fake Seven Facebook profile, clicking on her name.
Me: Afternoon, my sweet.
VB Lowe: Hello, Sir. :-)
Me: I will give you a day to prepare yourself. But tomorrow night, we will be doing your anger expression scene. Normally, it’s done with witnesses, but under your special circumstances, I will allow it to be done behind the curtain.
There’s a pause on her end, but soon, the three dots start dancing in our chat window.
VB Lowe: Yes, Sir.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
Me: Good girl. Choose something from the list of acceptable attire I gave you the other night. Be at the club at 10:00 p.m. and meet me in position at the table in our playroom. You are allowed one glass of wine from the bar.
VB Lowe: Yes, Sir.
An idea strikes me, and I grin.
Me: How long are your chapters normally?
VB Lowe: Um… usually around 3k words. Unless it’s a love scene. Those run a little longer.
Me: Between now and tomorrow at 7pm, write me a love scene involving two sex toys. 6k minimum. Send me the file here by that time. If you fulfill my demand, you will be rewarded. If you don’t meet your deadline, there will be consequences.
I hit Send and sit back in my chair, smirking to myself as I watch her respond. The three dots dance on the screen for a while, but when her reply comes through, it’s short. Which tells me her original response was much longer before she deleted it and sent something else.
VB Lowe: Yes, Sir.
This could be mutually beneficial. I’ve seen the way Vi stresses about meeting her writing deadlines. She has no one to push her, encourage her, except for readers demanding the next book in her series. I can only imagine that sort of pressure without support and the right kind of inspiration could cause writer’s block, the author’s equivalent of performance anxiety. So maybe with the prospect of a reward for busting out a couple of chapters for her book will be inspiration enough to push her along. Or at least the thought of being punished for not following my command will be incentive to force her mind to focus and get it done. It will benefit me in return, because nothing fucking turns me on more than knowing my Vi will be spending the next twenty-three hours pushing herself to follow my orders.
I SET UPON my keyboard like a woman possessed. The words flow from my fingers as if my hands have been taken over by the characters themselves, using me as their vessel to tell their story. By the time 6:45 p.m. rolls around, I’ve blown Seven’s six-thousand-word requirement out of the water. I open our chat window and attach the file.
Me: Here you go, Sir. It’s a good thing you gave me a minimum word count as opposed to a max, because I don’t think I could’ve stopped if I tried. *laughing emoji*
I see the green circle show up by his name as he signs on, and I smile, feeling proud. It’s a new emotion for me. I mean, I’ve felt pretty good about myself since I started writing. The first time I typed The End, I couldn’t believe I had actually written an entire book. Now, seven books later, that feeling never goes away each time I type those two little words, and my readership grows with each title I release. Who wouldn’t feel good about being successful at what you do as your career of choice? But right now, as I wait for his response, I anticipate his praise with more excitement than I ever have waiting to see how people react to a new story I put out. He doesn’t disappoint.
Seven: 13,732 words. V, you’re amazing. I’m so very proud of you, my sweet.
Me: Thank you, Sir. *blushing emoji*
Seven: Are you ready for tonight?
Me: Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.
Seven: All right. While I read this, I want you to go relax. Take a hot bath for the next hour and prepare yourself for me.
My jaw drops and I sit back in my computer chair. Holy shit. He’s…
Me: You’re going to read it, Sir?
Seven: Of course I’m going to read it, V. 1- How would I know if you followed instructions and wrote a sex scene involving two toys? And 2- You obviously worked your sexy little ass off for the last day on this. What kind of Dom would I be if I didn’t show my sub the respect of appreciating all that hard work she did to fulfill my command?
Me: I suppose not a very good one, Sir. LOL!
Seven: Exactly. Did you sleep at all, or did you pull an all-nighter to more than double what I asked for?
Me: I slept a few ho
urs early this morning, Sir.
Seven: All right. You have three hours before we meet. Relax in the tub as instructed, but then I want you to take a nap before you come. Trust me, you’ll need to rest up for what we will be doing tonight.
I go to type “I’ll try,” but I know that would never fly with Seven. I’ll more than likely never be able to fall asleep. The anticipation of tonight will probably not allow it. So I just send him a “Yes, Sir” hoping I’m not lying, before I sign off.
I spend the next hour in my claw-footed tub, soaking in my Beautiful Day scented bubble bath from Bath and Body Works. I take my time preparing myself for my Dom, shaving my underarms, legs, and bikini, and when the timer goes off that I set on my phone, I let out my bath water and stand up to take a shower. I lather up with my loofa using the same scented body wash, and then shampoo and condition my hair.
I dry off quickly then blow-dry my hair before slipping between my sheets to try to fall asleep. I set my alarm for 9:30 p.m. Just enough time to get dressed and make it to the club for our appointment.
As I lie here, it hits me full-force. I will be having sex tonight for the first time in ten years. Seven and I will be acting out a scene in which I will be forced to express all the anger I’ve bottled up inside me for so long. I’ve done research on this scene several times since Dr. Walker told me about it. I chatted with Seven about my findings as well. In order for it to work, I will have to imagine him as Alan. Instead of having to recollect everything from that horrible night, I encouraged Seven to re-watch the video of my session with Dr. Walker, in which I went into great detail about what he had done to me. This way, he can act out what happened as closely as possible.
It’s one thing to pretend Seven is Corbin, giving me the ability to orgasm without the guilty feeling of somehow being unfaithful to my ex. But it’s another thing entirely to imagine him as my rapist. Won’t that make me afraid of Seven if I picture him as someone who hurt me? Will it destroy the trust I’ve established with him? I’ve been assured it won’t by both him and Dr. Walker, and by all the websites I’ve read. Because, during the scene, I will win the battle against my attacker, and because of the aftercare when it’s complete, they tell me I will feel nothing but relief afterward.
It still worries me though. I really like Seven, and I hate the thought of anything causing me to feel differently toward him. He’s my closest friend. I don’t have romantic feelings toward him, although I’m obviously sexually attracted to him. That’s a whole new set of feelings for me too. Before all this, I’d never willingly done anything physical with someone I didn’t love.
Maybe that’s another small reason I was never able to be intimate with the guys I dated. I never loved any of them either. But with Seven, I’m somehow able to separate the sex and my heart. Possibly because I’m using the training as a form of therapy. As long as I look at it as a way of healing, my mind doesn’t worry about the emotions involved. Plus, I’ve read all sorts of stories where a sub’s Dom isn’t necessarily her partner in life, both in romance novels and real-life memoirs. They fulfill a part of themselves that their significant other doesn’t. I personally would never be able to have a Dom separate from someone I was dating or married to. But since I’m single, I find no problem in having one that’s in no other part of my life.
Without even realizing I dozed off, my alarm is suddenly blaring from my phone, and I stretch my limbs as I reach for it on my nightstand. At least I know I didn’t lie to Seven when I told him I would take a nap. I have no idea how long I was actually unconscious for, but he never specified how long I had to sleep when he made the command.
I stand from my bed and walk out into my living room to the new bag of lingerie I threw on my couch after I got home from the mall yesterday. I’d spent a small fortune at Victoria’s Secret buying everything on Seven’s list of acceptable items, as opposed to picking and choosing. I don’t go shopping often, so I figured I might as well get everything in one fell swoop.
If I actually took the time to make a decision over what to wear tonight, I’d give myself an anxiety attack. So instead, I just reach in with my eyes closed and pull out the first thing I grasp. Unfolding it, I see I grabbed the burgundy lace panties I’d purchased, so I look in the bag long enough to find the matching bra before heading back into my room. I slip on the lingerie, lifting my breasts inside the cups, and turn toward my full-length mirror on the back of my bathroom door.
“This is as good as it’s gonna get,” I murmur, something I’ve always said to my image when I try in any way to look decent for public consumption. I pull my comfy black T-shirt dress over my head, and then my ever-present hoodie, and slip on my fuchsia ballet flats. Checking my phone and seeing it’s 9:45 p.m., I grab my bag, throw it over my shoulder, and head out the door.
I JUST FINISHED moving a second padded leather table into the playroom, butting it up against the one always there, before locking the legs together with zip ties to keep them in place, when I get that familiar feeling in my gut. Vi must’ve just arrived. I glance at my watch. 9:57 p.m. Such a good girl. She must’ve decided against the glass of wine I’d approved, because if she is anything, my girl is punctual. It’s against her very nature to be late, especially having been given an order to be in place at a specific time.
I slip out of the room and into the shadows just in time to see her coming up the walk space between the booths and the playrooms, and then watch her disappear into our room. I sidestep along the darkness of the booths in order to observe her. She immediately goes over to the footlocker and strips quickly out of her hoodie, dropping it and her bag into the trunk. She toes off her dainty little shoes, so completely opposite of the sky-high stripper heels all the other women in the club choose to wear, and it makes me smile. My sweet Vi, still so innocent.
Yet as she grasps hold of the bottom of her dress, which reminds me of a long black T-shirt, what she reveals beneath it as she pulls it over her head is anything but innocent. My eyes land on the dark red lace panties first before moving up to the matching bra that does little to conceal her delicious and voluptuous breasts. Jesus fuck. The Vi I was married to was irresistible. But this Vi… this Vi has the ability to bring me to my knees. And it has nothing to do with the size of her breasts. It’s the way she holds herself now, without even comprehending it. She has more confidence in the way she looks than she realizes. No longer the shy girl who slouched and tried to hide herself, she stands up straight, shoulders back, the sway of her back making a beautiful silhouette against the dim lighting of the playroom.
She drops her dress into the footlocker before shutting the lid, and then walks briskly to the other side of the doorway, reaching for the button on the wall. She turns, her long, shiny, dark hair swinging out from her body, to hurry over to the padded tables, and I see her climbing up into position before the curtain closes.
I glance at my watch once more. Ten on the dot. My cock is already pulsing from the way she carries out my orders to a T. So fucking perfect. Always was, and always will be.
Taking a deep breath and letting it out, I reach up to feel that my mask is in place before heading inside the playroom.
She waits for me in the center of the table on her knees, her ass resting back on her ankles and her hands relaxed in her lap exactly the way I instructed her. A small smile lifts her lips as I enter, and her obvious happiness at seeing me makes my chest expand. She seems a lot calmer than I anticipated for this night. I’m not sensing the anxiety or trepidation over what’s to come that I expected she’d be feeling.
“Good evening, my sweet,” I say low, coming up to her. With her on her knees on the table, she’s exactly my height, putting us face-to-face.
“Good evening, Sir,” she replies, her voice coy.
“How are you feeling? Are you nervous?” I ask, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear. Her head unconsciously leans in to my touch, making my heart thud behind my ribs.
She bites her full bottom lip before
she responds. “A little, Sir. More about what’s expected of me, as opposed to the actual… having sex part.” Her face flushes.
“Expected of you?” I prompt.
“Yes, Sir. Dr. Walker said for this to work, I will have to fight against you. I will have to show my anger. If you haven’t noticed, I’m not a confrontational kinda girl. I don’t get loud. I—”
“Shh, shhh.” I cup her soft cheek in my palm, seeing she’s working herself up. “Just do what feels natural to you, okay? I can assure you, if you allow yourself to be in the moment, putting yourself in the headspace of that night, you will have no problem showing me your anger. You’re stronger than you think, my sweet.”
She nods, closing her eyes.
“The only thing I’m going to do first is, since it’s been so long since you’ve had intercourse, I need to get you ready. As painful as your experience was that we are going to reenact, I don’t want to actually hurt you. That would go against everything we’re trying to do here. So… V, lie on your back. Hands above your head,” I order, and without hesitation, she moves into place.
Fucking buffet, I think, as she stretches out before me. It takes every bit of my self-control not to pounce on her, devouring every inch of her succulent, creamy skin. But tonight isn’t about me. Not in the slightest. Tonight is about taking care of my baby girl.
I move to the foot of the table, and grasp her ankles, sliding her feet toward me to stretch her legs out straight. She doesn’t even flinch, and I love that I can touch her now without her cringing away. I walk over to the back wall, grabbing an item I need before moving to the head of the table. Her eyes peer up at me, so trusting, and even though she can’t see it behind my mask, I smile down at her. God, I love this woman. I’d do anything for her. This will be one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, putting her through something so emotionally horrendous, but knowing it will help her heal, I suck it up. I can do this for her. I can help fix her broken pieces to make her whole again, giving her back what she lost of herself—no, what was taken from her against her will.
