by Emma York
I’d bought a music business a couple of years ago for the sole purpose of using their engineers to help with getting things perfect. It had taken months to build but meant I could be sure what happened in here stayed private. No one would hear. No one would see. Except me and whoever I brought in with me. I heard everything. I saw everything. Something about having it in the office made it all the more intense, hiding in plain sight, the best place to hide.
“Why are there cameras?” Rosa asked, pointing at the one above the far door.
“So that I can monitor what happens in here,” I replied. “I can see everything via my phone or on the computer in my office. Don’t worry, the program is hidden behind several layers of encryption. See.” I held up my phone, showing her in miniature a crystal clear image of the two of us, as seen by the camera in the far wall.
“Why do you need to see in here?”
“I can’t spend the entire ten days with you. I still have a business to run.”
“I’m going to spend the ten days in here alone?”
“No more questions until we’re Sub Rosa. If you would.” I pointed to the door next to her.
“Is it locked?”
“When I unlocked that door, these doors automatically did the same.”
I only had to flick a switch on my phone to lock or unlock any of these doors, the perfect way of controlling them and whoever was behind them.
She pushed open the door and we both stepped into the Rose Room.
There were no windows. The walls were painted crimson, six pillars helping to create a hexagonal shape to the space. Each pillar curved overhead towards an inverted bowl ceiling. At the very top, in the centre, there was a rose, carved in wood, crafted to look as real as possible.
“Sub Rosa,” I said while she looked around her at the empty space. “Under the rose. What is said and done in here is confidential. I will reveal it to no one and I trust you agree to the same.”
She nodded, slowly, looking up at me. Was that fear in her eyes? Shame? Guilt? I would soon find out. She wasn’t going to keep anything hidden from me much longer.
“I’m going to ask you a series of questions and I want you to be completely honest with me. Some of the questions may seem intrusive but it is vital that I build up an understanding of you as a person. Understand?”
She nodded again, still saying nothing.
“Where were you born?”
“Leeds.”
I threw questions at her. Height…weight…blood type. She answered them all until…
“Did you get on well with your parents when you were growing up?”
“I’m not sure I want to answer that.”
“I need you to answer if this is going to work, Miss Harper.”
“I got on well with my mother.”
“Your father?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Everyone’s got a father.”
She shook her head, anger flashing across her eyes. “Not me.”
“How would you describe your mental health?”
“Pretty normal.”
“No bouts of mental illness in the past. Visions, voices, that sort of thing?”
“No, why-”
“I’ll ask the questions for now. At the end, you will be allowed to ask one so make it a good one. On any medication?”
“Nope.”
“If you could describe your childhood in one word, what would that be?”
“Difficult.”
“And again for how you’re feeling now in one word.”
“Interrogated.”
“Ever been hospitalised?”
“I broke my leg when I was nine.”
“How.”
“I fell down the stairs at home. I was in hospital for a few weeks.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing major.”
“What would be your ideal career?”
“Journalism.”
She was getting faster with her answers, starting to trust me. It never took long. I made sure I had a reassuring look on my face, not the cold, angry look I would use if she lied to me. Hopefully, she wouldn’t need to see that look.
“Are you a virgin?”
“No.”
“Any previous relationships?”
“One.”
“How long ago.”
“Since it ended?”
I nodded.
“Four years.”
“How long did it last?”
“Three months.”
“Sexual preferences. Do you prefer to be on top? Underneath? Tied down?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“You slept with him?”
“Only once.”
I could picture it. He stayed with her long enough to get her into bed, then moved on. History was going to repeat itself. “Fantasies. What would your dream sexual encounter be?”
“I’d rather not say.”
I pointed up at the rose above our heads. “Sub Rosa. Nothing leaves this room.”
“Do I have to tell you?”
“You don’t have to do anything. I strongly suggest you choose to tell me though. The alternative is leaving and our time together comes to an end.”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Could you write it down?” I had encountered this before. Some women found it too difficult to tell me out loud but leave them alone and they would wax lyrical about their desires. I had the paperwork ready in case.
“Maybe.”
“Then I’ll leave some questions for you to answer on your own. Ever taken any illegal drugs?”
“No.”
“Ever drink to excess.”
“Define excess.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. The burn mark on your leg. What caused it?”
Surprise flashed across her features.
“Of course I noticed,” I continued. “How did it happen.”
“A man did it to me.”
“Your father?”
She nodded, slowly, not looking me in the eye, her feet shuffling in place. She sniffed loudly. “I’m sorry he did that to you,” I said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “It remains Sub Rosa, never to be shared.”
“Thank you,” she said in a very quiet voice. “Please don’t ask me anything else about that.”
“Your room is next door. Inside is a document with a list of questions. When we are finished in here, I ask that you complete that document to the best of your ability. It will not leave here. No one will see it but you and me.”
“I have a room?”
“Would you like to see it?”
She nodded so I led her back out into the corridor and through the opposite door. I wanted to wrap her up in my arms, hold her tight, tell her no one would ever hurt her again. It was not uncommon in the interview to find things out about the past of the women who came in here with me. Perhaps that was why they tried to cling to me afterwards, believing we had shared something private enough to bond us together.
I had never known a submissive like Rosa though, one who had been injured as a child by someone she should have been able to trust. I felt a boiling anger and rage towards the person who had scarred her. Even without knowing the details I wanted revenge for her. I kept my face neutral, biting down on the emotions that swelled up. It would not do to lose control, not when she had just begun to trust me.
“Here,” I said, stepping aside so she could go in front of me. She gasped at the sight of the room.
“This is surreal,” she said, putting a hand on the four poster bed. “How did you even get this up here?”
“Built in place by three carpenters working to my exact specification. You like it?”
“It makes me feel like a princess.”
“And so you are while you’re here. Sit.”
She sat on the edge of the bed, looking at me as I sank into the armchair in the corner. “I know you feel an intense desire for me,” I said, watching her reaction closely. At least sh
e didn’t try to deny it. “For the next ten days I am giving you a gift. The gift of freedom.”
“The gift of freedom?”
“Freedom from choice. You will not be paralysed by indecision as affects so many. Ever stand in a supermarket trying to choose between two hundred types of chocolate? Wouldn’t it be easier if someone stood next to you and said have that one?
“I am that person. You have only to obey me as I will make your decisions for you. The paper in that drawer asks many questions. From it I will set up what I think will best suit you, from what is served for your meals to what clothes you will wear to what punishment will be carried out if you misbehave. Do as you are told and by the time we are done, you will not recognise the person you have become. You will be reborn but only if you trust me.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then say the safe word and go home. It will mean you cannot handle the change, that you are not ready to become the person you could be. I will also bill you for the time wasted.”
“What is the safe word?”
“Thorn. Appropriate for a rose, don’t you think? Now, the interview is over and I will give you the rest of this evening to fill in that paper. When you are done, hold it up to the camera in the corner, one page at a time.”
She looked around at the camera and I anticipated her question before she asked it.
“It is not pointed at the bed, nor can it see into the bathroom through that door. You have privacy when you need it. It points at the door so I can see if anyone enters or leaves this room without my permission. Now you may ask me one question and it is the last one you may ask until I decide otherwise. Make it count.”
“Why do you do this?”
No one had ever asked me that question before. I didn’t like it. It was far too personal.
“Because I have to.” My answer wasn’t a lie. I did have to. I just didn’t elaborate on the reason why. “Stand up.”
She did as I asked.
“There are things that will happen in here that will hurt but no permanent damage will be inflicted. At any time, if it gets too much, say the safe word and it will end. You walk away.”
“I understand.”
“I know you better than you know yourself. I know you want to know what it’s like to be spanked? I grant wishes in here. Bend over that cabinet.”
This was the pivotal moment. One whisper of the word, ‘thorn,’ and it was all over. Would she do it because I’d told her to? Even though I was sure she would obey me, it was still an anxious moment. It was every time, no matter how confident I felt.
She looked at me, her eyes wide, saying nothing. Her chest heaved and her cheeks flushed as she processed what I’d said. Then she turned, her left foot first, twisting away from me, taking a step, two, three, over to the cabinet. I held my breath as I watched and waited. Would she do it?
She bent slowly forwards, taking hold of the corners. The cabinet was hip height and as she leaned down, her trousers tightened over her ass, making me ache for her. “This is the first step to setting you free,” I said as I walked over to her.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the collar, clicking it in place around her neck before she could react. “That stays on until we are done.”
I had to move her hair out of the way to attach the collar and as I did so, I felt her breath on my arm. It gave me goosebumps. Why was I reacting so strongly to her?
I raised my hand in the air. “Are you ready?”
“I’m ready,” she replied in a faint whisper.
I brought my hand whipping down, the palm landing with a sting right in the middle of her right buttock. The smacking sound echoed around the bedroom. She gasped but didn’t cry out.
“Stay here until I come and get you.”
I walked out of the room as quickly as I could. I had to get out of there. If I stayed any longer, I wouldn’t be spanking her, I wouldn’t be training her, I’d be fucking her. It was too soon to do that. I was supposed to be training her to submit, not easy if I couldn’t keep control of myself. I’d never get her to the club if I didn’t get her trained to obey first.
I walked out to the main corridor, locking the door behind me. Then I went to my office and sat in the light of the desk lamp, head in my hands, thinking hard.
I had barely kept control of myself when my hand lifted from her ass. It was the feel of her, the way her body had reacted to the blow, the way I was reacting to what she’d told me.
Only had sex once. She was even more innocent than I’d thought. I smiled as I thought of her walking around the club with that collar attached, thin silver lead wrapped around my wrist as I paraded her through, drawing admiring glances from everyone there, her body on display but belonging to me.
That was why I was doing this, to get into the club. But my own lascivious thoughts were interrupted. I found myself wanting to hold her, wanting to wrap my arms around her, never let her go.
Don’t get attached, I told myself. Get attached and you get hurt. Think of Catherine. Think of the pain of falling for someone only to lose them. No, better to shut all those emotions away. Teach her how to submit, hand her over to the club, then bask in the only membership so exclusive, money simply cannot buy it.
Fuck her if you have to but do it without getting attached. Attachment is bad. Detachment is good. Remember your system exists for a reason. Fuck her, spank her, choke her on your cock but do not under any circumstances fall for her.
I sat there for a long time before heading for home. As I passed the locked door, I looked at my phone, loading the camera that showed her room. She was sat at the desk, writing her answers down, head hunched over, pen in hand.
I wanted to go in there, speak to her, continue the spanking. Do so much more. But I didn’t. Detachment. Cold. Distant. Make her wait.
I went home but for the first time, part of me stayed behind, it was through the locked door with her and try as I might, I couldn’t get it back.
NINE - ROSA
I was alone. Well, if you didn’t count the unblinking eye of the security camera in the corner of the room. I made sure to keep out of sight of it as I fiddled with the collar around my neck. I didn’t want him to see me and think I was having second thoughts about this.
I was having second thoughts but they weren’t going to stop me going a little bit further. I’d seen behind two of the doors. The Rose room and my bedroom for the next nine nights. That left three doors still to look through. Could I cross the corridor and see for myself?
The bedroom door was locked. I was stuck here. What would happen if I said the safe word when he wasn’t here? Maybe I should have asked that instead of why are you doing this?
That would have been a sensible question but I had no answer. It was a philosophical question really. If you scream thorn at the top of your voice and the billionaire isn’t around to hear it, have you made a sound?
It had been a blur of emotion since the door had locked us together in the corridor. Taken into the Rose room, asked those most intimate of questions, all the while feeling his eyes on me, reaching into me, seeing further and deeper, passing by all my protections. Except one.
He had asked about my father. I refused to tell him anything about that. No one needed to know about that. He’d give me sympathy but I didn’t want sympathy. I wanted the past to remain where it belonged, not come reaching its claws into the present where it had no business being.
He’d seen the scars, he’d been told where they came from. That was an end to it. Luckily he hadn’t questioned me too much about my hospital visits. If he had, how long before he saw through the lies, realised what had really caused the broken leg, what had caused my mother and me to move from my real birth town, all the way up here, to get away from the past, to make a fresh start, before I even really knew what was happening.
It was over. I didn’t talk to her about it. I wouldn’t talk to anyone about it. It was my secret and that was all there was to it.
&nbs
p; I explored the bedroom, not that there was a huge amount to see. Four poster bed with curtains to draw around it for privacy. Mattress, firm, not too firm. Blankets that felt expensive. Thick, warm, dark colours.
Cabinet that I’d so recently bent over. I chose not to think about that. There was a deep tingling inside me that I didn’t trust when I thought about that. I wasn’t even sure I’d tell Emma. Wardrobe. Armchair in one corner. Desk next to it. That questionnaire laid waiting to be answered. In the other corner a TV was attached to the wall, small cupboard underneath.
The door next to that opened into the bathroom. I headed in there. A vision in blue and white tiles, no expense spared. Shower, rainforest shower head, claw foot bath, sink that was almost as big as the bath. Mirror that reflected my own startled face back at me.
I stood in front of the mirror, examining the collar. I should have hated wearing it, taking it off the moment I was alone. But I didn’t. It was a strange feeling. From the moment the collar clicked in place around my neck, I felt like I was his, like I belonged to him.
It was a surprisingly reassuring feeling. I’d felt the same when he’d told me he was going to make my decisions for me while I was here. I never expected that to feel liberating but it did. All I had to do was what I was told. It might only be for long enough to get the story but where was the harm in me enjoying it a little too? I could just edit that part out when I told Simon and Emma about it afterwards.
I also wouldn’t tell them that this was the first time I felt attachment to a man. The one boyfriend, the one I’d mentioned during his questioning, that was nothing like this.
Little Barry as Emma called him afterwards, trying to reassure me, make me feel better about what he’d done, about the fact he hadn’t taken no for an answer and there was no safe word to get me out of that situation.
The collar was made of leather, soft around my neck. It fitted perfectly, a metal ring at the front. Was that for a name tag? If lost, please call Jamie Spencer. Maybe he’d feed me in a bowl on the floor. Let me curl up on his lap.
