by Wendy Leigh
I’m dying to ask Robert what he’s going to do with it.
But I daren’t, as no matter how close I sometimes feel we’re becoming, he still intimidates the hell out of me.
We are back in the Rolls again, headed for an address somewhere downtown.
Next to Robert sits the black crocodile briefcase with all the dollar bills in it.
Six hundred and fifty thousand of them.
The car stops in front of an art deco building in Tribeca and a big, beefy blond bodybuilder type approaches the car. I see the grip of a pistol peeking out of his waistband.
He opens the Rolls door.
“My bodyguard, Troy,” Robert says to me over his shoulder, as he climbs out of the car, taking the crocodile briefcase with him.
I’d love to follow him, but he hasn’t invited me to.
So I stay put.
After a few minutes, though, I open the compartment between the backseat and our driver and tell him that I need some air.
I get out of the Rolls, take a walk on the opposite side of the street from the building where I know Robert is, look into a shop or two, then cross the street and come back.
As I pass the building where Robert, his bodyguard, and the black crocodile briefcase with $650,000 in it now is, I glance quickly at the sign on the door and check out the nameplate:
“The Lady Georgiana Hartwell Foundation.”
Five minutes later Robert comes out of the building, with the bodyguard but without the briefcase full of money, and gets into the car, next to me.
I’m still dying to ask him about the money, and the Foundation, and am in the midst of trying to come up with a delicate way of doing that, when he leans close to me, strokes the inside of my wrist, and then gently removes the beautiful emerald and diamond watch he gave me.
First he sets the bottom face to East Coast time.
Then he starts winding the top face.
“European time. For our next visit,” he says, and I feel as if I’ve won the lottery ten times over.
Back in my suite at the castle, I’m in the midst of deciding what to wear tonight when there is a rap at the door. The valet with three large Bergdorf Goodman boxes.
In one, a red silk Versace gown; in another, bloodred Louboutins. In a third, a red satin corset, red fishnets, and long, red satin gloves.
Plus a note: Miranda, you will dine alone tonight, in silence. And if your silence and solitude give rise to fears regarding the second test to which you are about to be subjected, that is my intention. Robert.
As I attempt to put on my corset, my hands tremble, particularly as it is so tight that I have go into contortions just to pull it across my body. When I manage to fasten all the hooks, I glance at myself in the mirror and see that my breasts are spilling over the top of the corset.
Clearly, the corset is one size too small for me. Which must be as Robert intended.
Downstairs in the dining room, I ask the waiter for some wine and he shakes his head.
“Mr. Hartwell’s orders, Miss Stone,” he says.
I say something polite to the waiter but seethe inwardly. How dare Robert treat me like a child!
I am so furious that I get up just as the waiter is bringing me chocolate mousse and leave the dining room.
Back in my suite, once I’ve calmed down I ready myself for the dungeon, looking like an incarnation of Jessica Rabbit. But I feel more like Alice in Wonderland, going down the rabbit hole, as the door to the secret passage swings open and I descend to the basement, to Dungeon 2, Robert, and the second test he is about to put me through.
After being in Dungeon 1 yesterday, I expected Dungeon 2 to be even more terrifying, filled with even more forbidding furniture, even more instruments of punishment.
Instead, I find myself in a large den, with soft lighting, a massive TV, plush leather couches, a mirrored coffee table, shelves containing a vast array of books, and oil paintings displayed on the walls.
Not just any paintings: Degas, Matisse, Toulouse-Lautrec. I don’t just recognize them, I also know their value: each one is worth the annual budget of a small European country.
Yet another reminder of Robert’s wealth and power.
Today he is wearing black leather pants and a form-fitting black T-shirt that is so sexy I long to rip it off him.
He is lounging on a cream suede couch, his feet up, watching a Mets game.
For the first time since I met him, he seems like a regular guy, and so different from the dominant of Dungeon 1.
And then not.
Without even looking up at me, he orders, “Strip,” and I do.
He snaps his fingers.
I immediately drop to my knees in front of him.
I stay that way for what seems like forever, kneeling on the hard floor, looking down abjectly.
Then he snaps his fingers three times.
I obey and look up at him.
As always, he towers over me, so that I have to crane my neck in order to meet his eyes.
In a voice as serious as if he were reciting an oath of office, he says, “Miranda, as you will have realized, each and every test will determine your willingness and your capacity to take punishment. Today, I shall also test your capacity to serve me. Tomorrow, your level of obedience.”
Now, I’m not good with numbers, but even I can count well enough to know that I had one test yesterday, am having a second test today, and a third one tomorrow.
So what about the fourth and fifth tests?
“After the fourth test, the fifth, Miranda, will be the most important test of all,” Robert says finally.
I want to ask why, but something tells me that he won’t answer.
Instead, he goes on, “You see, Miranda, if a dom orders a submissive to worship his feet, a woman who is playing at submission will obey him and do it. But if that same dom tells a true submissive that he is allowing her to worship his feet, she will be in heaven.”
I’ll bet my last dollar that Lady Georgiana was the second kind of submissive. But what about me?
“Worship my feet, Miranda,” Robert commands, and I instantly do, with all the passion that I feel for him.
As I snake my tongue around his toes, he reaches down and feels between my legs.
“Wet, but not very,” is his verdict. “Don’t move.”
He moves away from me, goes through a door at the end of the dungeon that I hadn’t noticed before, and is gone for five or six minutes.
In the interim I remain on my knees, just in case he is watching to test whether I am obeying his directive not to move a muscle without permission.
Now he is back again, in front of me.
“Miranda,” he says, “as a reward for your good behavior yesterday, I’ve decided to allow you to worship my feet.”
His words send a surge of excitement through me, and I kiss his feet with more passion than I ever dreamed I had within me.
After he indicates for me to stop, he sticks his finger deep inside of me.
When he pulls it out, he has a thoughtful expression on his face but says nothing.
Ten minutes later and I am still on my knees in front of him, my head bowed.
Without any further warning, he fixes a red collar and leash around my neck, and cuffs my hands behind my back. Then he blindfolds me so tightly that not even a chink of light gets through. I am in utter darkness.
I feel the bite of clothespins on my body. Not one, not two, not twenty-two. I count up to fifty clothespins being attached to my naked body—by him. The pegs bite into the most tender parts of me and the pain is intense, particularly on my nipples and my labia.
Apart from the intense pain that I’m suffering—pain that seems to double each minute—I hate that my entire body must look as if I were a porcupine, with clothespins instead of quills sticking out of it
. I can’t bear it in silence any longer.
“This is so humiliating, Robert, and so painful,” I say.
“I know. That’s why I’m doing it to you,” he says, and I hear that devilish chuckle.
A warmth floods through me along with the richness of the pleasure I feel at pleasing him through submitting to the pain and the humiliation he has chosen to inflict on me.
Next, he leads me over to the bed and takes my hand and helps me up onto it.
He removes the blindfold from my eyes.
Apart from dramatic thigh-high black leather boots, he is stark naked.
I am overwhelmed by his glorious, big, muscled body.
But before I can wallow in his utter gorgeousness, he secures my hands behind my back and then he ties the blindfold around my head again so that I am in darkness once more.
“That’s enough. You don’t deserve to see any more,” he says; then I hear him unzip his boots and remove them.
Then he commands, “Lick my body all over. Every single inch. Serve me with every lick of your tongue. Serve me slowly. And serve me well.”
He guides me so that my face is pressed against his feet, and I start to lick. I lick right up his body, till my mouth is close to his cock.
But as I open my mouth wide enough to take every inch, he grabs my hair and drags me up to his chest.
A pang of disappointment rips through me, but I concentrate on the task he has allotted me and carry on licking him, here, there, all over his body, everywhere.
As I do, the clothespins dig deeper and deeper into my flesh, along with my knowledge that the longer I am forced to keep them on, the more it will hurt when he takes them off.
Without meaning to, I start licking his naked and magnificent muscled body even faster than before, only to be met with the bite of a whip, which I didn’t notice he had on the bed next to him.
I flinch but am not surprised.
After all, he’s a dominant. So naturally he’d have a whip by his side at all times.
Thinking of how much of a dominant he is, how accomplished, how masterful, how brilliant, how powerful, how strong, in the throes of my passion for him I forget myself completely and lick faster again.
“Slow down, Miranda, or I’ll end the test,” he says, and I steel myself to follow his command.
Still blindfolded, still with clothespins all over my body, I feel as if I am just an object to be humiliated, tortured, not worthy enough to be permitted to gaze upon his body in all its majesty. And part of me accepts that.
I concentrate on serving him, as he has decreed that I must.
Until finally he moves away from me.
I remain motionless.
Then, with a series of movements so unexpected that I can’t brace myself, he rips the clothespins off my tender body, one by one. The pain is unendurable and I let out a series of screams so loud, so pitiful, that I can hardly believe they come from me.
“But still no tears, Miranda?” he says.
I shake my head.
“I am going to take off your blindfold now,” he announces.
My heart leaps at the prospect of being allowed to look at his glorious naked body again.
Then he takes my blindfold off and my heart sinks.
He is fully dressed.
His feet, however, are still bare.
He points to them, and I crawl over obediently and start licking. Then he steps away from me, undoes his belt, and drops his pants.
Underneath, he is stark naked.
I look up at his enormous cock, open my mouth, and hope against hope that this time he will let me serve him.
Grabbing me by the hair, he pulls back my head, thrusts into my mouth, down my throat, and starts pumping his cock into me. Luckily, my gag reflexes are good, so I don’t pull away when his cock hits the back of my throat.
He is so close to me that I think I hear his heart beating.
I redouble my efforts to please him. Every cell within me throbs to take as much of him as I can, and I do.
To my joy, he lets me lick and suck for a few minutes, as I toy with the tip of his cock with my tongue. Suddenly, a fleck of white appears there, and I am filled with triumph, knowing that he is on the brink.
I plunge my mouth down on his cock and move it up and down slow, fast, deep, shallow until I feel a massive pulse in my throat.
He is about to come! Robert Hartwell is about to come in my mouth!
At that moment I feel as if I am the queen of the world.
With a great roar he pulls out, in an earthquake of spending.
Not down my throat.
Not in my mouth.
But over my hair.
And my face.
When he’s finished—and it takes a clear minute—he looks down at me, my face wet, my hair matted, and declares, “The second test is over.” He strides out of the dungeon without another word, leaving me there, bereft.
When I get back to my suite, I throw myself onto my bed, feeling as if my heart will break.
I feel so worthless. Like a hooker.
But then, a hooker gets paid, and I’m not even worth that.
Robert has made that extremely clear to me tonight by treating me as if I were no one, nothing.
Just as I am feeling sorrier for myself than I can remember feeling for a long time, there is a knock on the suite door.
I grab a tissue, rub my eyes, then answer it.
The valet, bearing a small black velvet box and another envelope with Robert’s dramatic writing on it.
I read the note first.
You did brilliantly tonight, Miranda. My trust in you increases all the time. A token of my esteem. Robert.
Then I open the box.
Inside lies a dazzling antique diamond brooch, with a large cabochon emerald nestled in the middle.
A token of Robert’s esteem.
I love, adore, and cherish it almost as much as I am starting to love, adore, and cherish the man who gave it to me!
Chapter Ten
All I have to do is look at my dazzling emerald brooch and I know I’ll sleep well tonight. I’m so thrilled and happy that Robert gave it to me.
I reach to turn out the light, but there’s a knock on the door.
Robert!
I fling open the door, eager to tell him I’m overjoyed by his gift, but he stops me.
“It’s late, Miranda, and you have another test ahead of you tomorrow, but I wanted to tell you the second part of my story.”
He lounges on the bed next to me, lights a cigarette, and begins.
“I had offered Murray so much money that I expected him to call me within days or weeks and tell me he’d found my dream girl. But he didn’t. Not a word, not a glimmer that he had even come within a mile of finding her.
“Instead, when I returned to Le Château, he arranged for a new group of six girls to line up in front of the dungeon door. I took my pick and spent a fairly pleasurable evening dominating Angel, a submissive girl who went through the motions of our session with the good grace of a working girl enduring her lot in order to please her trick.
“She had done her best, I tipped her well, and she departed the dungeon.
I was about to follow suit, but before leaving the dungeon, as was my wont, I checked through the peephole that the coast was clear.
“To my horror, I saw a man standing close to the door, his pointed features clear and distinct to me. In shock, I reassured myself that although I could see the man, hidden behind the dungeon door as I was, he couldn’t see me. Yet there was something disquieting about having him here at Le Château, in such proximity to me.
“I am not a man who is afraid of much, Miranda, and even if I were, I would never give in to those fears. But this was different. This man, the man I saw through the
dungeon keyhole, filled me with a sense of foreboding, of dread. Consequently, I studied him through the peephole and engraved his features, his narrow, glacial eyes on my memory indelibly.
“The following morning, Murray called, using the special number I had given him to use in the eventuality that he had found my dream submissive. He apologized for the intrusion of the night before, then came out with a garbled explanation. William Masters, as he told me, was a highly experienced dominant, a good client, a regular one, although not popular with the girls.
“ ‘Set on having a session here last night. Told him it was out of the question when he called, but he was gagging for it. Desperate. Demanding. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Bullying motherfucker. So he turns up here anyway. Just as Angel is coming out the front door, he pushes past her and charges toward the dungeons, hoping to find one of the other girls still there, ready and willing to take a heavy session from him. Which is how you came to catch a glimpse of him through the dungeon peephole, Mr. Blake,’ Murray said.
“I remembered the chilling expression in William Masters’s eyes, shuddered, then ordered Murray to guarantee that our paths would never cross at Le Château again.
“And Murray swore on all that was holy to him that William Masters and I would never meet again in this lifetime.”
His voice has dropped to a whisper, and I hear something in it that makes me afraid for him. I snuggle a little closer to him and stroke his cheek, and he gives me a tender smile before continuing.
“Six months later, and the end of another session at Le Château. I was not pleased by the night’s submissive or the lackluster performance she put up during our session. Paying a woman to submit to you never gets you the real thing, as I explained to you before, and that night confirmed my conviction yet again.
“I went into the den, where Murray was watching TV, out of politeness planning to have my usual quick drink with him, but he greeted me in such a way that I instantly knew tonight would be different.
“ ‘I’ve found her, Mr. Blake, I’ve found your dream girl, your perfect sub!’ he said.”
He did? I hate him! I can’t bear the suspense . . .
