His Name Is Sir (The Power to Please, Book 3)

by Ward, Deena

  “I know. I know. Here’s what I want you to do. Just breathe for a minute. Try to steady yourself. I know it’s hard.”

  I glanced at her hands. They were shaking. Not as much as mine were, and yet, it was a comfort of sorts to have this visual evidence that my mentor hated doing this to me. It was something, anyway.

  “I have a plan,” she said. “Just listen. You will resign, it’s the best thing. Frank Linton won’t let you stay, and it has nothing to do with you breaking the rules. It has everything to do with his fear that a scandal might derail the deal with Roundtree. I told him that was ridiculous, but he won’t listen. So you will have to resign.”

  I could only shake my head.

  She held up a finger, a motion for me to wait. “Resign. Lay low. Once the sale with Roundtree goes through and the Lintons are out of here for good, I’ll hire you back. You won’t lose your job while you’re gone because I won’t let them fill it. You’ll come back and resume your position.”

  “This can’t be happening,” I said.

  “I’m more sorry than I can say. If it were all up to me ... enough of the ifs. We have to face what’s in front of us. I’m certain that the sale will go through very soon. I’m thinking a month, maybe two. Do you have enough money to support yourself without income for two months?”

  “I ... I ... don’t know. Yes, maybe. This ...”

  “If you need help, call me. I’ll give you whatever you need.”

  “That’s kind of you. I don’t know. I’m not ... thinking well right now.”

  “I know.” She picked up a manilla envelope and slid it across her desk to me. “All the DVDs we received are in here. Take them with you. Go home. Call me when you’ve made your decision about resigning. But remember, if you don’t resign, Frank Linton will fire you, have no illusions that he won’t.”

  I had no doubt she was right. I recalled his face outside the elevator, the sneering way he dismissed me.

  I asked, “And if I can prove it’s not me, that I didn’t do this thing?”

  “If you can do that, and you want to force the point, you can let Frank fire you, because he is unlikely to accept any proof you offer him. After that, you can hire a lawyer and file suit against him and the company.”

  “Okay,” I said, feeling a sense of hope that maybe she was wrong about Frank Linton. Maybe I could convince him. Some strength returned to my limbs at the thought. “Then that’s what I’ll do.”

  She gave me a sad, half-smile. “Watch the DVD, Nonnie. Then decide.”

  “I will.”

  She stood up and came around the desk. “When you leave, if anyone asks where you’re going, just tell them you’re sick and are going home. Don’t worry about your belongings in your office. I’ll box it all up after everyone’s gone tonight and messenger it to you.”

  I managed to get to my feet. “Thanks. I appreciate that. That would have been ... awkward.”

  Then Isabel did something she had never done before: she hugged me. A fiercely powerful hug, the kind that’s both a comfort and a passing of resolve from one person to another. A stiff-upper-lip, you-can-handle-this kind of hug.

  She held me by the shoulders, gave a little shake. “You’re made of stern stuff, girl. Never forget that. This will pass, and you’ll be even stronger for it.”

  My eyes filled for a moment with unshed tears, but I held them at bay. “I’ll be back.”

  She nodded sharply. “I know you will.”

  She released me and I turned to go. “Don’t forget to call me,” she said, right before I opened the door.

  I told her I wouldn’t forget and then I was through the door, walking to my office in a daze, digging out my purse and looking around the room, wondering what I could take with me now, what might fit in my purse.

  I had shut down, was moving on automatic pilot. I opened a few drawers, but saw nothing there I wanted, nothing that was mine. I didn’t have any pictures on my desk, no nicknacks like so many of the other women in the office. I grew confused.

  And then all I wanted was to get the hell out of there, to run away as fast as I could. Get away. Get out.

  I left my office, closing the door behind me. It seemed a long way to the elevator. I imagined I heard people whispering as I passed. Or maybe I wasn’t imagining it. It didn’t matter. I didn’t look left or right, just straight ahead.

  When I passed by the reception desk, I noticed Stephanie had returned from lunch. She watched me leave without saying a word.

  I sat in my car for a long time, waiting for my nerves to steady before I dared to drive. I looked at the manilla envelope Isabel gave me. It was on the passenger seat, taunting me to open it. No. I would wait until I got home. I couldn’t play a DVD in my car anyway.

  On the drive home, my brain kicked back into gear, of a sort, a scattered, panicked sort of gear. I thought of how certain Isabel was that it was me in the videos. Before long, I realized that it was possible that it could actually be me.

  Three possibilities presented themselves.

  One: the night of the kink ball. Me, on the auction block, naked, the raucous crowd, Michael stroking me in public.

  Two: on the beach, next to the bar, with Josh. The shadowy figure watching me have sex in the moonlight.

  Three: “A Doctor’s Work Is Never Done,” with the Hoytes and Patsy. Nudity, sex and so much more.

  I couldn’t imagine how anyone could have filmed me on the beach with Josh. Yes, there was bright moonlight, but surely not enough light to make a recording, to clearly show that it was me. However, I knew little about current technology, what could and could not be filmed with minimal lighting.

  I had been unable to clearly see the stranger watching me, and it was not outside the realm of possibility that he had been recording the entire time. Not impossible, but unlikely, I thought.

  The kink ball and the Hoytes’ play both took place at Private Residence. The club had signs posted in numerous places which warned that the use of cameras and camcorders was not allowed, and that equipment was subject to seizure.

  Of course, someone could always sneak a camera in, record in secret. I thought that would have been difficult at the ball since there were so many people everywhere. But the night of the Hoytes’ play, the people in the rooms. It actually would have been an easy thing to hide a small device and film the whole thing.

  Easy.

  Of the three, the doctor scene was the likeliest one. My skin crawled at the thought of Frank Linton watching me prance around in that tight nurse’s suit, watching me get spanked, have my breasts ... ugh, I couldn’t think about it.

  The Hoytes. Patsy. Me. On the internet ... a pay site.

  It had to be that. It was the logical choice.

  And if it were, then it really was me in the video, and I would be forced to quit my job, would have no grounds to fight being fired.

  A momentary hope spiked through me at the thought that the Hoytes would be furious, and that Ron and Elaine would know what to do, could prove we weren’t paid. I would sue Frank Linton if he didn’t let me have my job back.

  But the tiny bit of hope faded away with the realization that this truly was happening to me. What had I done? What was I going to do?

  I heard Isabel’s voice telling me to breathe. Telling me to wait and watch the video. Wait. Listen. Plan. Then act. Isabel’s four steps to rational action. In this instance, substitute “watch” for “listen.”

  I needed to stop jumping ahead, freaking myself out before I had the facts in hand.

  Right then, though, rational thought was in limited supply.

  I made it home safely and headed straight to my computer. While it booted up, I pulled out one of the DVDs from the manilla folder. The plain, white label on the disk only had the address of a Web site and what it called an access code. I didn’t recognize the name of the site, but what with not frequenting porn sites, that wasn’t unexpected. Past the “.com” was a slash and a series of numbers, I presumed a straig
ht shot to the pertinent page.

  As soon as my computer connected to the wifi signal, I entered the address into my browser. Hit enter. I didn’t have a fast connection, and it seemed to take forever for the page to load. My heart was racing and I couldn’t stop the nervous bouncing of my leg, my fingers tapping on the desk.

  Piece by piece, the page came up. I saw right away that it was a kink Web site, for BDSM pornography, an obvious clue being the cartoon animation that stretched across the top of the page with a tiny naked woman scrambling on hands on knees to escape a masked man cracking a whip behind her.

  It wasn’t a particularly professional looking site, simplistic in design, old fashioned. A huge line of text stretched across the page, announcing: “ALL NEW!!!! OUR BEST YET!!!!”

  Underneath that, the title: “The Disobedient Sub Gets Disciplined.”

  Then below that, a few small photos of poor quality, a naked woman kneeling on the floor with her head bent down, a rear shot of a naked woman lying on the floor. You couldn’t see the woman’s face, or head for that matter, in the second shot, and in the first, you couldn’t see her face or any details to speak of, the quality was so poor. She had long black hair, like mine, but that meant nothing.

  I didn’t spend any time studying the photos. No need. The video would tell me everything. And it was quickly dawning on me that this was not likely to be the Hoytes’ play at Private Residence, or sex with Josh on the beach, or the auction, not if the title of the page was anything to go by. Maybe there really had been a mistake. I prayed there had been a mistake.

  I read on. A lengthy description of the video followed:

  Master Black’s sexy little sub has disappointed him by disobeying orders -- not once, not twice, but THREE times! This sub obviously requires extra discipline, so Master Black has called in Master Brown to help him punish the willful slut. This is one sub who won’t ever forget her place again.

  Watch her suffer in six different feeds of uncut video! Choose your favorite view and angle, including handheld! Watch as many feeds as you want at the same time!

  Hear her beg and scream for mercy! See her get her pussy pounded raw!

  Full package includes access to scores of still photos of the gorgeous, tortured sub, up close and personal.

  Don’t miss out on this one -- it’s our HOTTEST VIDEO YET.

  Click here for a sample.

  Click here for prices and to select a package.

  Click here if you have a membership access code.

  I read through the description twice. There had definitely been a mistake. Maybe I had a doppelgänger out there who made her living starring in BDSM videos. I clicked on the link to the access code, then entered the lengthy number on the DVD label.

  A basic page came in, just three links: “Photos,” “Main Video,” “Bonus Video.”

  I clicked on “Main Video.”

  Within seconds a screen popped up, telling me I didn’t have the appropriate player installed and that I had to go download the right one. I slapped my palm on the desk. Dammit! Typical.

  No way I was going to wait around on that. It didn’t matter. I had the DVD, and I’d seen the site. According to Isabel, the DVD had everything the site did.

  I jumped up from the chair and ran over to my television, shoving the disk into my DVD player.

  I sat on the couch, remote in hand.

  The DVD was every bit as basic as the Web site. It opened to a simple menu under the heading: “The Disobedient Sub Gets Disciplined.” There were only four choices under the title: “Photos,” “Main Video,” “Bonus Video,” and “Sample Other Available Vids.”

  I selected “Main Video.”

  I expected the film to start right up, but instead a screen came up asking how many video feeds I wanted displayed, with instructions on how to change the main feed during the film. I hastily selected “All Feeds,” and only glanced over the instructions.

  My television was filled with six boxes. There were five smaller boxes spaced across the top and down the side of the screen. One large box filled the rest of the space.

  The large box was black, but the smaller ones were showing different, wide-angled views of the same room. I soon understood that the cameras had been placed in the four corners of the room, with one more centrally located. I selected the central feed and it took the place of the black box.

  Now that it was bigger, I could make out more of the details of the room. It was large, a dungeon, I thought, from the equipment and devices placed around the room. Some of the equipment looked familiar to me. The video was grainy and poor quality, probably from the low lighting and the distance. My stomach tightened.

  There was movement in the feeds, a naked woman being rushed into the room by a large man. The woman had long black hair and her hands were cuffed together in front. She had a hobbling chain attached to the cuffs on her ankles. It was impossible to really make out her face. She was too far away and the quality was terrible.

  There was no sound coming from the television, as if the television were muted. I checked the volume. No, it was fine. There just wasn’t any audio to the video.

  The man wore black pants and a white shirt. His face was blurred out. He drove the woman into the room then left her standing there while he began fiddling with something on either side of her. Restraints. Chains. Yes, he was lowering chains.

  I shook my head slowly. Said, “No.”

  It couldn’t be.

  The man soon had the woman chained up, spread-eagled, even her ankle cuffs clipped into chains on the floor. I watched the whole thing in dread, knowing the truth now, but unable to accept it, incapable of naming it.

  Impossible.

  The picture in the main feed began to change, to zoom in on the girl. Slowly, the woman became clearer and clearer. Her lips and nipples were a garish bright red. Her eyes were wide and scared looking. Her mouth was slightly open. She watched the man touch her body, pinch her nipples. She visibly trembled.

  And there was no way to deny it any longer.

  The trembling woman was me.

  The man with the blurred face was Michael.

  The room was his dungeon.

  She was me.

  Chapter 17

  She was me.

  That was Michael.

  This was the night of my punishment. Punishment for not doing what Michael wanted.

  And he had secretly recorded it with hidden cameras.

  I couldn’t think. I couldn’t cope. I couldn’t accept he had done this thing. Done it to me.

  I watched Michael bring the hideous hood over to the woman in the feeds, over to me, taunt me with it. Then he shoved the hood on my head, adjusting it in place. I knew what came next, of course. Who would know better than I?

  There still wasn’t any sound with the video, but I remembered what he said, telling me the hood looked perfect on me. He slid two slim metal boxes into flaps on the sides of the hood, over my ears, I knew.

  Suddenly, audio kicked in. Michael’s voice sounded distant, scratchy. He said, “It’s equipped with noise cancelling headphones.” Then back to mute.

  He had said more than that, though, I knew.

  He held a remote control. And then music began to play on the video. It was the same dark music that played in the hood that night, except the volume was much lower on the video, acting as background music.

  I hated that music, the ridiculously-named “Terror Tunes.” Despised the composer. Every muscle in my body shuddered at once.

  The music played on while Michael roamed around my bound person. You couldn’t tell it in the video because it was all cut out, but I knew he was talking to me about the music, about how he had to use the hood because he couldn’t hit me hard enough to make me really pay for my transgressions, how the hood would make even little things seem terrible.

  He touched me around the face. That was the part where he was threatening me with the bottom half of the hood, with the horrific penis gag. My mouth m
oved a few times, but there was no accompanying sound. This was also when he explained that I would be punished first for removing the Ben Wa balls without his permission.

  Michael suddenly said something on the video, his voice loud and clear, obviously dubbed, stilted. “It’s now time for you to be punished. Do you understand?”

  I heard myself say, “Yes, Master.” And that was original audio, I knew, because it was me, and it was distant-sounding and weak. And I sounded scared as hell.

  Michael picked up the remote from a nearby table. I knew he was turning the music on. I remembered how it felt to stand there, waiting for him to begin whatever it was he was going to do to me. How long he made me wait before he began.

  I had sat frozen on my couch all this while, too stupefied to fully react. Watching myself in the video, knowing what would happen before it happened. I hadn’t even begun to process Michael’s betrayal.

  In the smaller feeds, I watched Michael stroll over to the open doorway. Well, here was something I didn’t know, because I had been completely isolated in the hood, could see and hear nothing but blackness and vile music. I couldn’t even smell anything other than the cloying scent of incense. When Michael wasn’t touching me, I had no way of knowing where he was, what he was doing.

  Michael’s face was still blurred, and distant now in the smaller feeds from the corners of the room. He stepped briefly into the doorway, then returned to the room, went over to a shelf and began putting something around his face.

  It was a mask. As soon as it was in place, the blurring disappeared. I could make out that the mask was black, like a simple masquerade mask, only coming down to the bottom of his nose, leaving his mouth and chin uncovered. He reached out to one of the walls and the lights in the room suddenly brightened.