****
Normally Chase would have been long gone. He'd been paid for his time for the workshops, and there was no reason to stick around. The event had wrapped up after the brunch and some closing remarks by Marty and Marianne, which
included an apology for the "ruckus" that had been inadvertently caused. Brighton was nowhere in evidence, and Chase didn't ask where he was, glad he didn't have to face the guy, afraid if he did, he might punch him again. Power Play had only rented the warehouse space for the weekend. M&M kept the partition screens and larger BDSM equipment in a shed on their property in Westchester County.
Most of the people still around were in the dungeon, packing up. Only Jacob Presley remained upstairs, busily clacking on his laptop keyboard. Chase approached him. In what he hoped was a calm, rational voice, Chase asked Presley for Ashley Kendall's email address.
"I just want to make sure she's okay after what Brighton pulled last night. She apparently split right after the scene."
Presley shook his head.
"Sorry, Chase. No can do. Emails are proprietary."
He executed a few clicks, hit return and then stared at his computer screen. "Ashley Kendall selected the 'do not share' tab for email or any other personal information on her registration form. If I go handing out her email address, I'm violating her privacy. It would compromise not only her integrity, but the integrity of Power Play. I'm sure you understand."
Chase bit his tongue to keep from saying something sarcastic about Power Play, which, while a worthy group, was really just a handful of kinky folk into public BDSM play. It wasn't like he was asking for her criminal record or classified CIA files or something.
"If you'd seen her, Jake," he tried one more time.
"Brighton abused her. She was terrified. She ran off. I just want to make sure she's okay."
Presley shook his head again, crossing his beefy arms over his chest for emphasis.
"I get what you're saying, but it ain't happening. No offense, but I don't think she asked you to be her knight in shining armor, did she? If she wants to be in touch, she can email me. If she does, I'll definitely let you know. How's that?"
That sucks, Chase wanted to say.
"Okay, thanks," he said instead.
"Guess I'm going to head back to Queens."
"Okay. Sorry I couldn't help you, buddy," Presley said.
"And listen, try to stay out of trouble, okay? We don't like our pros beating on each other. Isn't good for our reputation."
"It's not good for your reputation to employ a guy who doesn't respect limits. John Brighton is dangerous."
Presley peered at Chase.
"With all due respect, we've been involved with John Brighton for over five years. Yeah, there's been the occasional complaint that he's intense, but that's one of the reasons he's such a big draw. The women are literally lining up to scene with that dude.
Now, while your bondage workshops are well received..."
Presley trailed off,
but Chase knew where he was going with it. Naturally
somewhat of a loner anyway,
Chase's rope making and bondage gear business washandled almost entirely online, and he spent most of his waking hours holed up in his workshop. He'd only reentered the pubic scene within the last few months, as a way to try
and force himself back into the world.
Presley continued. "You know people come and go at these events. No one's taking attendance. She's paid in full. I don't care if she decides to skip the brunch. Look, nobody saw this so-called 'abuse' except for you. She managed to get out of there on her own volition, so it couldn't have been that bad, no matter what you thought you saw. As far as Master
John's concerned, without any complaint from the girl, it comes down to a case of you said, he said. Just so you're prepared, you should know he's already lodged a complaint with M&M about you. I don't know what they're planning on doing about it at this point, but I'd watch my step if I were you." Chase was too stunned to respond. He pressed his lips
together, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, his muscles tensing like they were preparing for another fight.
Aware he had to contain his anger,
Chase stood tall, ramming his hands into his pockets to keep them from curling into fists. Focus, he reminded himself. This is about Ashley, about Kate. Nothing else matters right now.
Without another word, he walked away. Presley resumed tapping at his keyboard. But Chase didn't leave the building. He found a spot against a wall near the lockers, out of Presley's line of vision. He was a patient man, he reminded himself, but also a determined one. From time to time he leaned forward until he could see Presley. The hulking man was still bent over his laptop. From his corner, Chase surreptitiously watched Presley, waiting for his chance. Stacey and Presley were probably right.
Kate didn't want or require saving. He should let it alone. He should walk out and head home, and put this whole sorry business behind him. He'd nearly convinced himself to do just that, but Presley chose that moment to stand up and amble away, leaving his laptop behind on the card table. Chase remained where he was, watching until Presley disappeared down the stairs. Cautiously Chase moved out from behind the lockers. No one else was in sight. He could hear them talking and moving things below. He seized his chance, moving quickly toward the laptop. He scanned its
desktop and saw a file that read PP Registration. He opened it.
Inside were documents titled by date. He found that weekend and clicked again. There they
were, all the attendees with pertinent information such as how they had paid for the event, their D/s orientation and, yes, their email address.
Some had included a phone number, but hers was not filled in.
There was no snail mail address, but email was better than nothing.
When he read the address he gave a small grunt. It was ridiculously obvious, once he saw it.
[email protected].
Made sense. She was an author, according to Stacey. She probably had a website, and that was the email address associated with it. She probably had a blog and a Facebook account and Twitter too, all of it as
Ashley, Kate safely incognito.
Kate Anderson. It was a pretty common name. If it was even the right name. Stacey had been rather vague. Might be
Allen or maybe she'd got it wrong altogether. At least he had the pen name, and now an email address. He'd write to her, and who knew, maybe he'd get lucky and she'd write back.
"And if she doesn't, Saunders," he said to himself,
"then you need to let it, and her go."
CHAPTER 8
Though she'd only been gone from home a few days, she felt like she'd returned from the wars, wounds and all. It was good to be back in her safe, sleepy village. Horses on a nearby farm were grazing outside her window, their coats shiny in the summer sunlight.
She stared at them, willing the sense of peace watching them usually brought her, but it didn't come. By the time she'd finally made it all the way home it was nearly three in the morning.
She'd gone straight to bed and somehow managed to sleep, though she'd awakened by seven, the sound of a woodpecker as insistent as a jackhammer outside her window. She gasped when she saw her bottom in the mirror that morning. It was covered with welts, some pink, some red, some nearly purple. Her thighs were similarly marked.
They didn't really hurt that much anymore, but she wondered if they'd leave scars. The thought was very unsettling. How had she been so stupid as to hook up with that man? Why was he allowed to do what he did?
Should she tell someone? Maybe email Master Presley and let him know what had happened?
The thought was too embarrassing, at least for the moment.
Maybe in a day or a week, when her emotions had calmed down, when her flesh had healed. And anyway, Chase
Saunders had probably told them. He seemed like a very responsible type.
She'd been so bli
nded by Master John's charismatic
attraction, his masterful attitude, that she hadn't really focused much on Chase. She had sensed his dominance during the workshop, but it was a more subdued kind of behavior. She found herself wondering how that might change one on one, when
Chase was not the instructor, but the lover.
Chase's words came back to her. It's not supposed to be like this.
He took advantage. He betrayed your trust. Chase had saved her from a man who had gone past the boundaries of safe and consensual. It was humiliating that Chase had been witness to it, since he was the one who'd warned her against John in the first place.
Kate tried to go about her normal routine, making coffee, settling down at her computer to check email and any royalty statements that might have arrived, checking her Facebook and blog for reader comments.
She opened her latest manuscript, the BDSM novel she was supposed to be writing, the one this trip was supposed to give her inspiration for. She stared at the screen, her fingers limp, her mind empty. She was restless and agitated. She was angry and confused. She wanted to talk to someone about what had happened, but who? She thought of Stacey, but rejected the idea.
Not only did she not know how to contact her, but she found herself actually resenting Stacey in a way. After all, she was the one who practically forced Kate into the scene with Master John. No, that wasn't fair and she knew it. Kate was a big girl, and she was the one who had made the decision. She'd gone with the flashy guy, excited not only by the idea of being with him, but pleased by theego stroke of his choosing her.
With a sigh, she closed the document and started to rise from her desk, but the pinging sound that indicated the arrival of a new email caught her attention and she sat back down. She didn't recognize the email address, but she got fan mail several times a week, which she always answered immediately. She began to read.
Dear Ashley,
I hope it's okay to contact you. Stacey clued me in on your writing career, and I looked up your website. Please forgive me if you consider this email a violation of your privacy, but after what happened last night and the way you disappeared
afterwards I was and am very concerned that you are okay.
interrupted your scene last night because what I heard and saw made me concerned for your safety and wellbeing.
Shit. I'm laughing at myself right now, because I just spent nearly thirty minutes composing and recomposing that one paragraph, while trying to figure out how to express my concern without pushing myself into where I may not be wanted.
When you ran out of the warehouse it was clear, as it should have been to anyone, you were very upset after what you experienced.
I am reaching out to you because I really want to know that you are okay and if you aren't, to help you in any way I can. I know we barely know each other, but please understand that I am here for you ... to talk, to listen, to be a friend.
Email me or better yet, call me any time, day or night.
I mean it Ashley, any time, day or night.
I know you are new to the scene and I hope you will understand that what happened to you has nothing to do with what BDSM is really about. The romance and pleasure
of a consensual exchange of power was lost in the abuse you were subjected to. It is understandable if you decided never to have anything to do with BDSM, but I also know something in your heart brought you to the event. You wouldn't have been there if you didn't feel that "something" is out there waiting for you.
Ashley, the tears I saw on your face and the betrayal I know you felt are indelibly etched in my mind. If you need a friend, someone to talk to, I'm here.
Chase Saunders
His cell phone number was listed below.
Kate wiped away a tear she hadn't known had slipped over one cheek. What a kind man to write such a thing. She thought about his words, that what happened with
Master John had nothing to do with BDSM. And yet ... and yet when they'd started the scene, she'd been incredibly aroused by being bound and at his mercy. She'd remained aroused in spite of the caning.
No, because of it. But he had gone too far. He had slashed through the tenuous bonds of a fledgling trust and now Kate wasn't sure she'd ever have the courage to try again.
She was tempted to push the whole thing out of her mind, the same way she'd pushed Victor's rejection of her and her submissive impulses under wraps these past few years.
She would go on with her tidy, quiet life, pretending she was fine, letting the welts fade away along with the memories.
And yet she knew she couldn't do that. Not this time. Even if she managed to put it out of her mind from day to day, the psychic wound of the event would lay buried deep in her heart like a trapped bit of broken glass, covered eventually by scar tissue, but never fully removed.
Chase's email had unlocked something in her. She wasn't going to shove it down, she realized. Not this time.
She hit the reply button.
Dear Chase,
Thanks for the email.
She paused, wondering what to say. Did she confide her true feelings to this man? And if so, how much? A sudden ache to connect, to tell someone, anyone, how she was feeling assailed her. Her fingers began to move over the keyboard, almost of their own accord.
Thanks for not rubbing it in with an "I told you so." The stupid thing is, I thought I could handle it. I thought I knew what I was doing, getting involved with a guy who talked half the time like he was reading a script from some cheesy porno flick.
He also told me a little fear was a good thing. That should have been my next clue.
Remember you said I could always use my safeword?
That that would stop the action cold? I did use it, when I could finally get my head around what was going on enough
to form the word. Either he didn't hear it, or he ignored it. That was when I realized I was hanging out there over the abyss, with no safety net. I think that's when I really lost it.
Thing is, I've always wanted to experience the power, what did you call it? The romance of a consensual exchange of power. I wanted to understand what that really means, on a gut level. I wanted to write about it. I wanted to create characters who speak directly to the reader.
Characters who live and breathe and bleed and break our hearts and power our dreams...
I thought, idiot that I am, that some stupid scene at a BDSM
play party would give me the tools I needed to tell a BDSM
story that resonated, that mattered.
How naïve is that?
You mentioned I'm new to the scene, but that's not entirely true.
A few years back me and my then significant other did some experimenting. He wasn't a true Dom, but he was willing and eager, at first anyway, to try. Neither of us really
knew what we were doing, but there were a few times when it clicked. When something inside me said, "Yes, that's it.
That's who I am. This is where I belong."
It's almost like it was a physical space I would inhabit, though only for moments a time. A space where I felt right, complete somehow for once. I even felt that with Master
John at first. When I was cuffed and exposed, waiting for that first stroke of the cane, it went beyond sexual excitement, or anticipation of the unknown.
There was a certain, I don't know, rightness about it. Like I had been waiting all my life for this, and had found it at last. That's what makes it so hard, you see. First with Victor, then with Master John, I gave my trust, and it was abused. I have to conclude I'm the one at fault. What's that old adage,
"Fool me once, shame on you.
Fool me twice, shame on me."
I should have seen the signs. I should have followed my gut instead of, uh, other organs. I should have listened to you. You tried to warn me, but I thought I knew better.
Don't waste your time, Chase. I'm fine, or I will be. I've decided BDSM is not for me, except as a passing dream of what might have b
een.
Kate stopped, barely aware of what she had written. It had poured out of her in whole sentences, composed behind the scenes of conscious thought, coming faster than her fingers could type. She scrolled back up and read her words. Whenshe was done, she shook her head and sighed.
What was she thinking? Too much information. Chase Saunders didn't want to know this shit about her. He had been freaked out by her tears, was all. Most men couldn't handle a woman's tears, no matter the circumstance.
She highlighted what she'd written and hit the delete button.
She started over, her fingers moving slowly, her heart heavy.
Dear Chase,
Thanks for the email. I appreciate your concern. I am doing okay. A little shook up, but nothing time won't heal. I don't really think contacting you further is what I need right now. I'd like a little distance from the whole thing.
Take care and thanks again,
Ashley Kendall
****
Kate settled down the next morning at her desk with a cup of coffee, which she sipped while waiting for the computer to boot up. She opened her email, scrolling through the new messages, deleting the junk and moving the few that required action into a special folder.
Her eye dropped back to Chase's email. She reread his heartfelt words and half regretted the terse reply she'd sent, wondering what he must think of her. Noticing the website address in the signature, she clicked on it,
SensualRopeArt.com.
The tag line at the top of the page read, Bondage gear and handmade rope for every taste and level, from the not-so vanilla to the hard core enthusiast.
Enter here to explore your fantasies and realize your dreams.
There were several tabs, including products, testimonials, frequently asked questions and videos. Intrigued, Kate clicked on the video tab, which took her to a selection of
how-to videos. There were videos on the basic two column tie and single limb cuff she'd learned at his workshop, and instructions on more complex bondage like the chest harness, hog tie, hair tie and full body harness.
Chase was featured in the videos, along with a thin, blonde woman who served as his subject. They were wearing matching black T-shirts with the RopeArt logo. Chase's hair was longer in the videos, curling down his neck. He was actually a pretty good looking guy, she realized, now that she wasn't being blinded by Master John's blond perfection and provocative manner.
Heart of Submission Page 8
