Gene shrugs. “I don't know, Ben obviously, a couple of my grad students. But that envelope was sitting on my desk when I came in. I saw the delivery slip and wrote out the note to Ben. He doesn't come in until later.”
“Do you still have the delivery slip?” I ask, and Gene points to his paper recycling box. I pick up the box and dump it on the big table on the side of his office, Gene squawking in indignation at the mess. “Shut up. You didn't even take the time to check the delivery slip with Melanie before you started the blame game, did you?”
Thankfully, budget cutbacks mean that recycled paper is picked up only twice a week, and Gene's paper box is still full of yesterday's stuff. I quickly sort through it all, being nice enough to at least throw the rejects back into the recycle box. “Professor Meyers, I hardly think that a delivery slip—”
“Just be quiet for a second,” I shoot back, finding what I want. The form is right. It's inter-department mail, but the handwriting . . . “This isn't Melanie's signature.”
“What do you mean?” Gene says, stepping next to me.
“I mean, Melanie's right-handed,” I say, pointing at the writing at various points. “This was written by a left-handed person trying to copy her signature.”
“And how do you know that?” Gene asks haughtily. “Are you a handwriting expert?”
“I picked it up when I was an undergrad,” I say dismissively. “I actually learned, instead of trying to scapegoat innocent people to cover my ass. You should try it some time instead of pontificating about the work you did with McDonnell-Douglas before I was born.”
I leave the office with a mess on his desk, heading down the hall. Only staff and TAs have access to the form that is used for inter-department mail. And right now, only three people in the department are left-handed. One is on sabbatical, one is a woman with a shaky hand who could never even get close to Melanie’s signature, and the third . . .
“What do you owe him?” I ask as I enter the 'bullpen,' the big room that's been assigned for associate professors and TAs whose professors don't have big enough offices for them to share. My target, Aaron Watson, looks up, panic immediately coming to his eyes.
“What . . . I don't—” Aaron starts to try and say, but I don't give him a chance, grabbing him by his denim jacket and lifting him out of his seat and slamming him down on the central table, a battle-scarred metal thing that's been in the College of Engineering since about the fifties. Aaron screams more in surprise than in pain, his eyes squeezed shut in panic. “I had to!”
“Why?” I scream in his face, cocking back my fist. Everyone else in the office is frozen in shock at seeing a tenured professor slam a TA into a table, but I don't care. “Why?”
“My sister!” Aaron screams, tears rolling down his face. “She–she's a member!”
I turn, looking at the rest of the staff. “Everyone, out.”
They clear out like a pack of panicked lemmings, my left hand never leaving his chest. I turn back to him, lowering my fist but not letting him up. “Talk fast.”
“She's a member of The Club,” he says, his eyes leaking tears. “She came to me, saying that I needed to get the envelope to Shawnie. It was sealed. I didn't know what it was!”
“But why would she want to do that?” I ask, getting frustrated.
“She said she was being blackmailed, and if I didn’t, compromising pictures would be sent to our parents. My parents, they're traditional. They'd . . . I don’t know what they’d do!” Aaron says pleadingly. “I didn’t know what was in that envelope!”
I'm tempted to smash his face in, partly for what he did, but also for either lying or just being a dumbass. If his sister was being blackmailed with pictures, what the fuck did he think was in the envelope? Instead, I let him up, stepping back. “You nearly ruined two more lives because of what you did.”
There's a knock on the door, and the Dean and two campus cops enter. “Professor Meyers, I think you need to come with me.”
“No. No, he doesn't,” Aaron says, letting himself up off the table painfully. “I have something I need to confess.”
Shawnie's apartment is quiet when I knock on the door, but I hear someone inside, and when she opens the door, her eyes are both haunted and shocked when she sees me. “Rafe?”
“May I come in?” I ask, and Shawnie steps back listlessly, giving me entrance. The inside of her apartment is a horrible mess, the couch destroyed and what at first I take for blood is scrawled on the walls before I realize that it's just dark red lipstick. What scares me even more are the words written all over the place, mostly around the half dozen pictures that are tacked on the wall, a note beneath them.
Slut
Worthless
Die
“Shawnie,” I whisper, taking her in my arms, chilled to the bone by the last word. “Oh, Shawnie, it's okay. I'm here.”
“I tried, Rafe . . . I tried so hard to be the woman you want me to be,” she says, clutching at me. “I tried. I'm so sorry . . .”
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” I reply, holding her tight. “I found out who did it. It's okay.”
“Does it really matter now?” Shawnie asks, looking up at me with tear-streaked eyes. “Who did it?”
“Come with me, and I'll tell you all about it. Grab your computer and your coursework. You won't need anything else in here.”
Shawnie nods, and I help her, taking down the photos while she's getting her bag together and burning them in her sink, putting the note in my pocket for later. When she comes out, there's a little bit of light in her eyes at least. “I'm ready.”
I hold her hand as we walk down to my car, Shawnie feeling like a feather almost ready to blow away when a breeze hits her. “I . . . I was able to keep myself from going to The Club at least,” she whispers. “I'm sorry, Rafe. I went to Club Paradise.”
“I know,” I tell her, helping her into the passenger seat before going around and getting behind the wheel. While we drive to my place, I lay it all out for her. As I talk, Shawnie starts to show signs of life. “So in the end, I'm getting a departmental written warning and Aaron's losing his TA position. The Dean's leaving the rest up to you.”
“Why are you doing all of this for me?”
Her eyes are gleaming, and at the next stop light, I reach over and take her hand. “Shawnie, you’re a smart girl. I think you know why. You're not just a lab assistant to me. I think you know that. But the rest of the answer is something that can wait until we get to my house.”
She nods, staying silent until we reach my house, where I help her inside, glad for once that it's dark when I bring her here. I don't care what the neighbors think, but Shawnie's the only thing on my mind right now, and I don't need her feeling like she's being watched. Instead, I put my arm around her shoulders as we go inside, and I set her computer on the table. I lead her over to my couch, where I sit her down gently and go to get her a glass of milk.
“I'd rather have a double scotch and soda,” Shawnie says, and I cluck my tongue.
“Sorry, but I don’t think you should be having that right now. It’s time to break old habits,” I tell her softly. “I’ve made that mistake once before, taking you to The Club. I’m sorry about that. Until I know you're safe, you're staying here. I’ll hire a cleaning crew to clean up your place.”
Shawnie drinks her milk, wiping her lips gratefully, while at the same time getting a whiff of herself. “Whew, I stink.”
“We'll deal with that later,” I reassure her. “First, though, let's talk. About you.”
Her lip trembles, and I feel my heart want to reach out to her, but this isn't the time for softness, but accepting strength. “Rafe, I'm . . . I'm sorry. I guess you want me off the team now.”
“Not at all,” I reply, reassured a little that her first thought is of her position on the team. “Shawnie, if I thought so little as to have thrown you off the team, I'd never have tried to find out what the hell happened. No, you're not going anywhere on the tea
m.”
Shawnie looks down, then over at me. “You know, a lot of people back home would call you a damn fool for everything you've done. You risk all that at school, then you don't even stop, you just open your house to a mentally disturbed woman whose struggles almost overwhelm her on a daily basis.”
“I don't do half-measures, Shawnie. I'm here to take care of you.”
She thinks, then shivers, and I can see she wants to believe me. “Rafe . . . I want to stay, but . . .”
“I'm here to do anything you need, Shawnie,” I reply. “I mean that. Anything.”
Shawnie reaches out, taking my hand. “Rafe, I want to put my full faith and trust in you.”
The way she looks me in the eyes, I can tell what she means. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? You’re ready to submit completely?”
She nods. “I am. We didn't go far enough before. I liked it, but I need more. So yes, I’m ready . . . Master.”
“Shawnie, I’m not going to judge you and I’m not going to change my mind. I just need to know. What did you do last night at Club Paradise?”
She lowers her eyes, and I expected to hear something different. “I watched. I just watched. But it didn’t stop me from feeling terrible afterward, for going in the first place.”
“Okay,” I say, leaning in and sniffing before smirking. “We're going to get you a shower. And after that . . . we're going to my play room. It’s time to try something different, Angel. Remember that name, because that’s your new name from me, and your safe word too. I’m going to show you how much of an angel you are.”
Chapter 21
Shawnie
The way he's looking at me sends shivers down my spine, and I can't believe how much of a glowing, gleaming lifeline of hope he's showing me. I know, deep inside me, that he understands the burden that he's taking on. I'm shattered, broken, and I remember the words that I wrote on my apartment walls.
And now . . . Master. Just saying his new name sends warmth through my arms and legs, and I hold my head up high, the way that I know he'd want me to as he marches me to the bathroom, his hand on my arm, controlling but not hurting me. At least not the way I don't want it to.
“Strip and hand those rags to me. We'll burn them tomorrow morning in the barbecue. They're filthy reminders of who you were,” he says, and I gladly remove the disgusting remnants of what I pulled on this morning, wishing I could just toss a Molotov cocktail into my apartment while I'm at it. “Now shower, every inch of your body.”
I do as he says, using the soap to wash my body from head to toe before pausing at my hair. “Master?”
“Yes, Angel?” he asks, opening the shower stall, and I turn, smiling at that name already.
“Uhm, do you have any conditioner?”
He considers my hair, then shakes his head. “No, just the 2 in 1. Tomorrow, we can go out and get you exactly what you need. Leave the hair for now, Angel. Rinse off, and then step out and follow me.”
My body is starting to hum as I step out of the shower, drying my feet before he takes the towel from me and wraps it around my neck, twisting it a little. “We'll get you something better this weekend as well. You got very lucky, Angel. I have two whole days with you before you go back to classes Monday.”
“Classes? You really want . . .” I start, then stop. “Yes, Master.”
Tugging on my towel, he pulls me to the garage, where he takes a key out of his pocket and unlocks the door, leading me inside. I look around in amazement. The walls aren't the gleaming metallic finish of the Black Room, but instead a normal wallboard painted a forest green, golden highlights coming from the hooks and fittings along the wooden shelving. The bed in the middle is rich and covered in silk sheets, and the carpeting is a thick looking Oriental design, like a custom fitted rug from a sultan’s chambers.
I’m led to the center of the room before Rafe unwraps the towel from me. “Don't move.”
I stay stock still as he walks over to a cabinet and opens it, removing a few items and coming back over. He holds up the first, a leather collar with adjustable buckles. “You will wear this all weekend to show that you are my Angel now. If you’re a good girl, I’ll get you a nice one, something more permanent. Lift your chin.”
I lift my chin and Rafe buckles the collar around my neck, and I’m confused. I'm collared. I should be feeling degraded . . . so why don't I?
Because it's Rafe, my Master now, and he knows just what to do as he attaches the hobbles and the leash to my collar, leading me around the room a few times just to see how I react.
“What you're going to learn is that humiliation is nothing more than a state of mind. There's nothing that you can do to my Angel that I can't turn around and make feel like heaven,” he says. I’m confused at first, wondering who he’s talking to, then I realize. He’s lecturing the demon, and from his tone of voice, he’s ready to engage it fully. “I took on The Club. I beat the shit out of the manager there. You? You're small potatoes.”
With each word, the demon howls and tears trickle down my face, but they're tears of joy even as the ache increases and my hamstrings start to burn. “You're worthless, a phantom created by a madman and only given power because you've kept my Angel from the truth about her. That she loves this. She loves the pain, she loves the release . . . and there's not a damn thing wrong about any of it.”
His words pierce me to my very soul and I start sobbing, unable to walk, and he stops, lifting me in his powerful arms and carrying me to the bed, where he lays me on my back. My legs are bent and spread for him, the hobbles now acting as an effective leather harness for him as he takes off his clothes and stands before me naked, his cock proud and massive in front of him. “Is this what you want, Angel?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Is this what the demon wants?” he asks, and I shake my head. “Why?”
“It's afraid of you.”
“It should be. I underestimated it once. I won't do that again. Be warned, like any operation . . . this might hurt a little.”
Rafe grabs my knees and jams them next to my head, slamming his cock into me with one powerful thrust, spreading me open and making me howl in pain and pleasure. He doesn't pause though, grabbing me by the throat, his hand over my collar as he pounds me, his cock hammering deep into my pussy each time, angrily slamming home so deep I can feel my womb shaking inside me under his relentless power.
Still, despite the anger and ferocity of his body, his eyes are tender, emotionally taking me in as he hammers me, my body adjusting and starting to milk him, to clutch his perfect cock even as his body ripples with the force of his efforts. “Mine, Angel. You're mine. Say it.”
“Yours, Master,” I moan happily. “I’m yours.”
My words cause Rafe to speed up, his cock a blurring, never-ending assault of pleasure on my body, my pussy filled and every nerve inside me screaming in pleasure. He doesn't stop when I come the first time, but drives himself in harder and harder, our hips smacking together even as the sweat starts to glisten on our skin and his breath speeds up. He's an athlete of inhuman ability, but even his perfect hips can't keep this up forever. He doesn't stop as my aching pussy starts twitching again and my chest grows warm. “Oh, fuck . . .”
“You can come as much as you want, Angel. Don't worry if you aren't perfect . . . yet,” he grunts, his chest and stomach outlined like a sculpture in the lights.
“Yes, Master,” I moan, my body starting to release again. I feel myself clench, and another orgasm tears through me, my eyes squeezing shut. I can't control myself. He pulls out, and suddenly, the warm spray of his seed splashes on my skin, and the demon starts to chuckle before he gasps in anger. I open my eyes to see Rafe write his name with his own come on my stomach before scooping it up and feeding it to me. I suck the precious gift from his fingers gratefully, understanding what he's done. “Master.”
“My Angel,” he replies, smiling down at me. He reaches for my ankles and undoes the hobbles, carefull
y letting my legs down. “Now . . . that’s a good start.”
The collar digs a little into my skin as we walk through the shopping center, and I can see some people looking as we walk through a shopping plaza. There’s no physical leash, but there is a mental one, and I stay exactly one step to his left and one back, proudly displaying my collar.
“Are you mortified by this, Angel?” Rafe asks. “Does this humiliate you?”
“No, Master,” I reply immediately. We're over a hundred miles from Stanford, which is helpful because I still worry about what would happen if the people from campus see me like this. Rafe knows it though, and as we walk into the shop to buy me some new shoes, the store clerk looks startled before giving me a jealous look and turning away in a huff. “See?”
“See what, Angel?” he asks after the store clerk walks away and we start trying things on.
“The way the store clerk looked when she saw me with you. She's startled, she's never been where I am . . . but one look at you and she wants to be. How can I be humiliated when the women we see want to swap places with me? I'm lucky.”
The clerk brings out the shoes that Master selected for me, and in ten minutes, we leave, my bag in my hand as he takes me back to the car, putting my bag away before giving me a deep kiss. I moan, my bare pussy starting to get wet. Master commanded that under my skirt, I'm not to wear underwear all weekend. When he steps back, my heart is racing and my skin feels warm. I want him right here. “Master . . .”
“At home, Angel. First, a little more shopping. I want you to have a full, beautiful new wardrobe to match your new life. And it is a new life, isn't it?” he asks, stroking my face.
“Where to next?” I ask, and he smiles.
“The next stop is the jewelry store. We're going to get a proper collar for you. But there's one more thing we're going to get.”
Crossing the Line Page 34
