by Wendy Leigh
The Master is beside me again.
I hear the faint impact of something metal put down on the rug.
“Drink,” he says, “Drink.”
He pushes my face down into a bowl of liquid.
The champagne fizzes up my nose, and I recoil, but he smacks my ass and orders me to keep drinking.
I slurp and lick, acutely conscious that my face and hair are drenched in champagne.
“Hungry now, sweetheart?” he says.
He picks up the phone and orders supper, while I stay still, aware of the consequences if I dare move even a fraction.
Then I feel a tug on my leash.
He drags me to another place in the suite and commands me to resume my former position.
I obey.
Suddenly, I feel a leather tongue trail the back of my buttocks and my thighs.
I hear the crack of the crop a moment before the pain blazes through me.
Again and again, the pain reverberates through my ass, my thighs, my whole body, while I writhe and whimper.
Only a small amount of time has passed, but I am already reduced to a craven object, thrashed over and over like a dumb, mindless animal, as the pain doubles and redoubles.
I take it all, suffer it all, hate it all.
Meanwhile, my body betrays me, and I am wet.
“Louder, Miss Stone! You’re mumbling,” Robert Hartwell says, and I could strangle him.
The suite bell rings.
The Master strolls to the door.
I hear the waiter say good evening, and the sound of a trolley being wheeled into the suite.
I remain on all fours as I have been instructed, terrified to move.
Crimson with shame, I don’t know exactly where I am in the suite, or where exactly the waiter is.
I hear him put down dishes, serve food, pour drinks, chat to the Master interminably about the blizzard.
I shrink into the floor and pray that the waiter can’t see me.
Surely if he could, he would say something?
Or would he?
He’d probably just continue with his duties while I remain here, groveling on the floor, naked, mortified.
I start to consider my options.
But as I do, I am compelled to admit that I would sooner throw myself out the window than rip off my blindfold, bolt for the bathroom, and break my covenant with the Master.
So I remain in place, my entire being aflame at my abasement.
Finally, I hear the waiter say good night and leave the suite at last.
I am led across the cold marble floor.
The Master tethers me by one ankle to what I assume is a table leg.
Then he immobilizes my arms behind my back by attaching the two leather cuffs to each other.
My hands are no longer my own.
Nor is my body.
I am immeasurably aroused, yet afraid.
I bask in the white heat of the dramatic contrast in my emotions, all part of the lure of what I am doing, what is being done to me.
My mind is a blank now, obliterated by my fear, my anticipation, my wantonness.
My breathing slows.
My heart quickens.
Outside, the snow slashes against the windows.
The Master has me rise to my knees and he feeds me.
I slurp lobster bisque from the spoon as tarragon teases my tongue.
Then shrimp cocktail, luscious and juicy.
He feeds me gently, painstakingly, almost lovingly.
Nevertheless, some of the food spills over my chin, and he licks it dry.
For a moment, I flush with shame at the intimacy of his gesture.
“So intimacy makes you feel ashamed, Miss Stone, does it?” Robert Hartwell says thoughtfully, and gives me a piercing look.
I push back my chair and smash my glass of Cristal in the process, so the champagne spills over my dress. But I am far too incensed to care.
“I can’t stand another second of this, Mr. Hartwell!” I say, leaping to my feet.
He grabs me by the wrist, pulls me across the table so that we are eye to eye and I can feel his hot breath on my face.
“Walk out now, Miss Stone, and you’ll never see me again,” he says.
“Can’t wait to celebrate!” I say.
I look into his eyes, and suddenly, I can see in them the sad, lost little boy he once was, alone and lonely. And that touches my heart.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hartwell, that was out of line. I really didn’t mean what I said. Let me go on reading.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it,” he says, and for a moment the arrogant, all-powerful, aggressive Mr. Robert Hartwell actually sounds as if he is genuinely grateful to me.
There is more food, more gentleness, more licking.
Then dinner is over.
Despite the position the Master has put me in, eating starts to bring me back to reality, as does the music.
Silently, I congratulate the Master on his showmanship, the way he has orchestrated everything, almost as if he were art directing a carnal dream.
But I don’t voice my thoughts, as I am fully aware that I must not speak without permission.
Just as Elvis vows to be as weak as a baby, or as wild as the ocean, there is a click, then nothing.
“No more music,” the Master says, “Just the sound of your moans . . .”
And then the night begins for real.
* * *
The night seems to go on forever, and through it all, I feel like a Stradivarius played by a virtuoso violinist, a Ferrari driven by a champion, or a mustang broken in by a seasoned cowboy, who understands every nuance of the stallion’s innermost nature and how to use that knowledge in order to break him.
The Master subjects me to an irresistible combination of passionate sex and domination, as, by turns, he chastises me, soothes me.
Sometimes I feel the bulging muscles in his arms, then the tenderness of his caresses.
Enthralled by him almost beyond reason, I bend to his will.
And over a desk, whereupon my legs are spread wide, my wrists attached to the collar around my neck.
I am now unable to protect any part of my body from the assault that awaits me.
Truth be told, I don’t want to.
For the first time since I started reading to him, Robert Hartwell gives a sharp intake of breath.
I hear the whistle of the cane slice through the air, and I cower.
The cane cuts into my flesh and almost takes my breath away with its force.
“The cane does hurt a great deal, doesn’t it?” Robert Hartwell says suddenly.
I start, unsure of the reason behind his comment, but say nothing.
“I know, because of my time at a strict school in England,” he says finally.
“You got the cane, Mr. Hartwell?”
He nods.
“You probably deserved it!”
“Definitely . . . but I still felt like killing the headmaster for administering it.”
“I don’t blame you,” I say, then regret it, knowing that he might well now jump to the wrong conclusion. Or the right one . . .
As the Master punishes me, he chastises me verbally.
He has gagged me so I am unable to protest.
Besides, as much as my mind and my intellect and my sense of self-preservation inwardly rebel against his words, against what is being done to me, I also revel in all of it.
Even though I am looking down at the page, determined not to meet Robert Hartwell’s hypnotic eyes, at this moment I feel the heat of them so strongly that it is as if his gaze has set my skin ablaze.
As the Master applies the whip to my body, I instinctively arch to welcome each lash.
Easy for me to do, as I no longer fe
el it.
Only a deep sense of serenity, of peace.
I am floating, trancing, dreaming.
And when we are finally in bed together at last, I fall into a deep sleep, drained, and still blindfolded.
* * *
When I awake and remove my blindfold, dawn has long since broken, and the man I slept the night with, but never once set eyes on, has left.
On the bed, an envelope.
Written on the front of it, the words: “Our next rendezvous: My yacht. St. Barths.”
Judging by the weight of the envelope, three or four sheets of paper are inside.
I put the envelope into my snakeskin bag, unopened.
In the corridor, I glance at myself in the mirror.
Unnaturally pale, with big eyes, a girl in a white mink coat with a fox collar, boots over her bare legs, her hair tangled in knots.
The white-gloved elevator attendant says good morning to me from what seems like a great distance.
I find that I am unable to answer.
I am locked in my dream, in my trance.
It’s over!
I shove the manuscript into my purse, snap it closed, and right on cue, the waiter brings us our lobster.
When he’s finished serving us, I meet Robert Hartwell’s eyes and hold his gaze, determined not to flinch.
“You’ve had your way, Mr. Hartwell. Now will you please explain why getting it meant so much to you?”
“Ah, but I always insist on having my way, Miss Stone, and you should know that about me,” he says, and gives me a conquering smile so powerful that I feel as if he is about to invade my thoughts, my heart, my body, and occupy all of me forever. And the deepest, most secret part of me can’t wait to surrender to his relentless conquest of me. But I’m not ready to let him know that yet.
“Remind me never to play poker with you, Miss Stone,” he adds, when he realizes I am not about to react to his statement.
“As this is the last time we shall be playing a game together, Mr. Hartwell, I think you ought to put all your cards on the table,” I say.
He smiles his devastatingly seductive smile.
“Very well, Miss Stone. This once, I shall allow you to win. I summoned you to Hartwell Castle to read Unraveled to me out loud because I knew that if you obeyed me, I would enjoy it immensely.”
“Enjoy humiliating me, Mr. Hartwell?”
His answer is to take both my hands in his and squeeze them.
“Exactly, Miss Stone,” he says, and squeezes even harder.
I make no attempt to free my hands from his iron grip because I truly don’t want to.
He increases the pressure, then gives me his hypnotic stare again, as if he can see into the heart of me.
At that moment, I almost believe that he can.
“No reaction, Miss Stone?” he says, watching me intently. Then he lets go of my hand.
“Not so fast, Mr. Hartwell, I’m not ready yet,” I say.
“Don’t play games with me, Miss Stone. I only play games of my own choosing,” he says, and it’s as if all the air in the restaurant has been sucked dry by his menace.
If in doubt, say nothing . . .
So we spend the next five minutes staring at each other in a Mexican standoff.
To my surprise, he is the first to break the silence between us.
“Tell me the truth, Miss Stone. Is your novel the product of your overactive imagination? Or is it autobiographical?” he says.
“I’ll answer that question, Mr. Hartwell, if you agree to answer another one of mine,” I say, playing for time.
“Listen carefully, Miss Stone: I never negotiate. Not with anyone,” he says.
“And I don’t plead with anyone either, Mr. Hartwell,” I say.
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” he says with a chuckle, which spurs me on.
So I ask the question which, now that he has made his dominance crystal clear to me, is foremost in my mind.
“As you are obviously a dedicated dominant, Mr. Hartwell, why did you marry Lady Georgiana, who clearly wasn’t in the least bit submissive?” I say, then hold my breath.
“What gives you the impression that she wasn’t, Miss Stone?” he says.
“Because she was a strong, determined, and independent woman,” I say.
“Have you looked in the mirror recently, Miss Stone?” he says.
I blush scarlet, because he is right.
For as much as I know about submission, I know one thing: a woman who is submissive in bed can be strong and assertive out of it.
“The truth is that from the very first day I met Georgiana, she was submissive to me,” he says, and in his eyes, I see memories so romantic, so passionate that I know I can never compete with them.
“Which is the primary reason I fell in love with Georgiana and married her,” he says.
He might as well have stuck a knife into my heart and twisted it.
Brains, beauty, class, style, elegance, and—to top that—Lady Georgiana was a submissive. I don’t think I can bear it . . .
“Is something wrong? You’re as white as a sheet, Miss Stone,” he says, suddenly gentle and concerned.
I shake my head, then focus with all my might on thanking the waiter, who has brought me my chocolate soufflé.
“As long as you are all right, Miss Stone, I must insist that you stop stalling and answer my question.”
“Your question?”
“Don’t push your luck, Miss Stone. Answer my question! Is Unraveled fact or fiction?” he demands.
My stomach is still in a knot after his revelation about Lady Georgiana, and I don’t trust myself to speak.
“Your silence tells me everything, Miss Stone. As did your reaction when I squeezed your hands,” he says.
“Then you have your answer, don’t you, Mr. Hartwell?” I say.
“And that’s all you have to say for yourself?”
“Exactly, Mr. Hartwell,” I say.
He gives me a thunderous look.
I studiously ignore him and concentrate on eating my soufflé.
It’s so succulent that, for a few seconds, I almost forget that Lady Georgiana was a submissive, which to me means that she even has that over me.
We sit in silence for so long that I wonder whether he plans ever to talk to me again, never mind let me ghost his autobiography.
Either way, for whatever reason, I don’t want to part from him on bad terms.
“Mr. Hartwell,” I say, as brightly as possible, “this is the most wonderful restaurant I’ve ever been to. I just don’t understand why it’s empty.”
“Because I issued an order for it to be closed for lunch today,” he says abruptly.
For a moment I don’t grasp what he means.
“For you, Miss Stone,” he says.
Robert Hartwell closed his restaurant just for me?
Suddenly, I’m unable to breathe.
“Eat your soufflé, Miranda,” he says.
It strikes me that if my father had ever cared about me, or what I ate, he might have talked to me like that.
I quickly demolish the rest of the soufflé, while Robert Hartwell watches, almost as if he approves of my appetite for it.
“I apologize if I appear to be hurrying you, Miranda, but my plane departs for Geneva in three hours,” he announces suddenly.
He’s leaving town!
I feel a rush of disappointment snake through me.
“But I’ll tell James to drive to the airport via Hoboken,” he says.
“Hoboken?”
“So that we can pick up your passport,” Robert Hartwell says.
Chapter Four
Everything is happening so fast, my head is spinning, but even though Robert Hartwell is sitting in the back of the Rolls
with me, I can’t really understand why.
Did he invite me to fly to Geneva with him because he plans to work on his autobiography with me there?
Or is his invitation a romantic one?
But how could it be, when he’s still in love with Lady Georgiana?
Can he love her and still want to have sex with me?
Whatever the truth, I refuse to make a fool of myself by asking him such leading questions. Besides, Robert Hartwell is so startlingly handsome, so overwhelmingly sexual, that I’d rather luxuriate in being swept off my feet by him, no matter what his motives.
I’ve told my mother, Lindy, and Grandpa that I’m flying to Geneva to start researching his autobiography, but haven’t told them that Robert Hartwell is traveling there with me.
That way, I won’t have to cope with Grandpa’s searching questions.
As it is, his dire warnings still disturb me no end, and I haven’t quite decided yet whether Robert Hartwell is Prince Charming or the devil in disguise.
I guess I’ll soon find out.
In Geneva.
The Rolls glides to a halt outside my apartment.
“Seven minutes,” Robert Hartwell instructs.
So I dash into my apartment, grab my passport, pack my tape recorder and a few clothes, then, as an afterthought, slip my trusty Magic Wand vibrator into my case.
At JFK, a team of liveried officials take our luggage and passports with a lot of bowing and scraping, then show us into the VIP departure lounge, where we are to wait until our plane is ready.
Our plane? I mean Robert Hartwell’s . . .
Robert Hartwell, the man I hardly know, the man who is a total stranger to me but with whom I’m flying to Geneva tonight.
Me and Robert Hartwell?
Robert Hartwell and me?
A fairy tale, a fantasy, and unthinkable.
But then what am I doing here? And what are his plans for me once we arrive in Geneva? For me to start writing his autobiography? Or to be a temporary erotic escape from the pain he still feels at losing Lady Georgiana?
I’m still silently weighing up the possibilities when the VIP team arrives and escorts us onto the tarmac, where Robert Hartwell’s plane is waiting for us.
