I Married a Master

by Melanie Marchande

  Before I had a chance to think about it, I was running out the front door, heading down the sidewalk towards her neighborhood. It was sheer luck that I managed to run into her, and pretty remarkable that she actually stopped to talk to me. Agreed to see me again, nonetheless.

  I could see the barely-concealed revulsion in her eyes. She didn't understand it. Of course she didn't. It was one of those things you had to feel. Everything I'd told her about my history was true. The first time Daria told me she wanted it, I wondered how I'd managed to hitch my wagon to a mental patient. I was about as judgmental as they come. Then, when I finally had her moaning and squirming underneath my hand, everything started to make a whole lot of sense.

  It wasn't just about sex. I mean, sure, you'd have to be robot not to get a hard-on with a sexy woman squealing and shimmying across your lap, especially when you can feel her getting hot for you, punishment or no punishment. But the power, the control, it was intoxicating even beyond that. Even though I never had Daria's trust, I had something like it. And with her, I learned that almost was good enough.

  Of course Jenna didn't understand it. I couldn't expect her to. But that wasn't what bothered me. I'd talked her back into our deal; that was no problem. I was persuasive. Short of her discovering I was the Zodiac killer, there was nothing I couldn't silver-tongue my way out of. That wasn't the reason why my brain felt like it was trying to swallow itself.

  She wanted it.

  Some men, some Doms, they claim they can look at a woman and just know if she's a natural submissive. I happen to think they're full of shit. People can put on all kinds of masks, all kinds of performances, during their everyday life. What I do is all about stripping those away, slowly, slowly revealing the person underneath who just craves pure sensation. The submission is just a way to get there. In the end, it's all about feelings. Triggering the right brain chemicals. Pretty soon, you're hooked.

  Jenna wasn't hooked yet. But oh, she wanted a taste.

  I could tell.

  When we met, if she had the desire, it was dormant. It was too deeply hidden for me to see. But once the idea was planted in her head...

  Well. Now, it had wormed its way into her brain. There was no way it was coming back out. Even if she never did it, for the rest of her life, she'd wonder.

  And I didn't want that for her.

  There was beauty in submission, yes. There was comfort. There was happiness, for those who wanted it, they got some kind of gratification they couldn't find any other way. But I'd never been fully convinced that they didn't lose a part of themselves in the process.

  While something inside me growled with pleasure at seeing a powerful, independent woman subdued - another part of me still recoiled. I believed everything I'd said to Jenna - at least, I wanted to. Those were the justifications I'd read, over and over again, until I could recite them to myself whenever I had doubts. But that spark she'd had when she confronted me in the grocery store, the way she didn't even think twice, just saw me acting like an entitled asshole and lashed out. I never wanted to see that disappear. I didn't want to see her bite it back, I didn't want to see all kinds of unspoken things flashing in her eyes while she reluctantly bowed her head. It wasn't right. She deserved better.

  Better than me, at any rate.

  ***

  I didn't contact her again until the day before our planned visit to my offices. Thankfully, I'd actually remembered to get her number this time. After some thought, I elected not to mention how I'd practically kicked her out of my house. A proactive apology would be nice, but it also had the potential to breed unnecessary awkwardness. Better to pretend it never happened. Hopefully, she'd do me the same courtesy.

  After an hour or so, she responded to my text, just as coolly and nonchalantly as I could have hoped. Yes, we were still on. She wondered what she should wear.

  Let me worry about that, I told her, pressing send before I had a chance to stop myself.

  Shit, I really had to stop giving this woman orders. But I already had a plan in place, involving a boutique downtown that already had my Amex on file. They knew my tastes, and they knew how to make a woman look good in them. She'd be perfectly dressed for the part. I had to smile when I pictured her going to the door with a frown on her face, not expecting a package, only to find a beautifully wrapped box from a place she'd probably never dreamed of setting foot in.

  This was my favorite gift to give a woman, and one I reserved for special occasions. In this case, of course, it wasn't so much a gift as a necessary expense for our facade. But of course, I'd let her keep it. I've always felt that a dress belongs to its owner in some special way. It always carries the memory of her, no matter what happens.

  I half-expected a call or a text, the next morning. What the hell? I worried that she hadn't gotten the package, that something had been mixed up along the way. The boutique didn't open for another hour and a half, but I tried calling anyway, and the owner answered on the first ring.

  "Good morning, Mr. Chase," she said, smoothly. "How can I help you?"

  "I just wanted to make sure that delivery went through," I said. "Haven't heard anything from the recipient."

  "It certainly did, Mr. Chase. She even signed for it. Would you like to talk to the courier?"

  "No, thanks, that won't be necessary." I sighed. "I appreciate it."

  "Anytime, Mr. Chase."

  So. Either I'd pissed Jenna off, or she was just going the route of quiet submission to my will. Damn it.

  Or maybe she's just being polite, and you're being ridiculously melodramatic.

  No, polite would be thank you. And it wasn't a gift, not really. It was an order, tied up with a pretty bow, but an order all the same. As much as I tried to act like a normal person, I couldn't help slipping into this role. Especially when it came to her.

  It was odd. With Daria, with all the others, I always felt like I was wearing a mask. Every action I took as their Dominant, as their would-be Head of Household, was carefully thought-out. I had to consider my every move, lest my instincts lead me in the wrong direction. But with Jenna, it came naturally. I must have grown more accustomed to it than I thought.

  My driver, Tim, was waiting for me patiently. Since I asked my employees to arrive by nine o'clock, I always made a point of showing up by eight-thirty so they'd see me settled in already. It was all about setting a good example. This morning, however, time was just slipping away from me. I finally climbed into the backseat of the town car, fighting the nagging sensation that I was forgetting something.

  He got us to Jenna's place in record time, and her front door popped open almost as soon as Tim pulled up to the curb. She walked down the stairs quickly, not giving me nearly enough time to appreciate the masterpiece she was wrapped up in.

  From head to toe, she looked ready for the red carpet. Her silky dark hair cascaded down, almost unstyled, which suited her best. It was humanly impossible not to imagine running my fingers through it. The dress was a rich shade of eggplant, bringing out some hint of violet in her midnight-blue eyes. The neckline dipped just low enough to hint, but not quite tease, while the fabric clung just right to show off the swing of her hips.

  My mouth was suddenly dry.

  Suddenly remembering myself, I hopped out quickly, almost colliding with Tim as he went to the open her door. "No, it's fine, I'll get it," I told him, trying to jockey past as an irritated driver honked at us for blocking part of the road.

  By the time I made it past him, she was already climbing in. I sighed, and returned to my seat. So much for chivalry.

  "You should let me open your door for you," I said, as she gave me a bemused look.

  "Seemed like there was some confusion," she said, shrugging. "I thought I'd cut out the middle-man."

  This was going to be a long day.

  I stabbed the button to raise the partition, and turned to her. "It's one thing around here, where no one's going to notice. But when we're going to be seen together, you need to act l
ike my girlfriend. Like you're expecting me to treat you like a princess."

  She rolled her eyes. "Oh my God, what is this? Tsarist Russia? Wait, I know, maybe I should sleep on forty mattresses with a pea under it, so I can prove to the commoners that I'm worthy of your love."

  The spike of annoyance in my chest was actually a relief. She hadn't changed. "Just trust me, Jenna. I know this world. You don't."

  "Okay, well, I'm pretty sure Mark Zuckerberg's wife opens her own door when she gets into his Honda Fit. Just because you're rich doesn't mean you have to act like disgustingly old money."

  "We have to get into the habit," I said, firmly. "People will notice. Mentors of mine, people who've been like parents to me. They're old-fashioned. They need to see me taking care of you."

  She absorbed this silently for a while, her arms folded across her chest. It was defensive posture, but I could tell it was beginning to sink in. She really didn't know this world, and she was realizing that now. But it was satisfying to argue with her, rather than her just accepting her fate.

  "Thank you for the dress," she said, quietly, after a while.

  "My pleasure," I said, fighting to keep the innuendo out of my tone. I was almost successful.

  "How'd you know my size?"

  "You left your clothes in my laundry room all night, remember?" Belatedly, I realized how creepy that sounded. "I promise, I barely touched them. Just enough to read the tags."

  She smirked. "Hey, here's a tip, next time you do something like that, just tell her that you knew by looking at her. I don't know why, but women seem to find that very attractive in a man. It definitely sounds better than 'I rifled through your clothes.'"

  "I'm supposed to know someone's dress size by looking at them?" I frowned at her. "How the hell is that even possible?"

  "I don't know, try asking one of those carnies who guesses people's weight. It's in all the romance novels." She sighed, leaning her head back on the seat. "The size-guessing thing, I mean, not carnies. For some reason, they're not so hot."

  For a moment, I sat in silence, wondering if I really should feel creepy for touching her clothes. It seemed like a necessary evil, and I certainly didn't have any size-guessing superpowers.

  Finally, she spoke.

  "So, what was the other night all about?"

  It was the exact question I'd been dreading. I could play dumb, and if I really committed, she'd probably go along with it. That wasn't like her. Even if we were still practically strangers, I knew that much. She wasn't one to bite her tongue. But the other night, when I'd talked to her in that tone...she melted to it. We'd fallen into the exact roles I didn't want us to take, because I knew where that was headed.

  It never lasted. Not when I was involved.

  I wasn't going to play dumb.

  "I'm sorry about that," I said, putting on a remorseful smile. "Just had a bad day. I guess it hit me all of a sudden. I didn't get much sleep either, and you know how that goes for me. It's like feeding a Mogwai after midnight."

  She might be poking at my defenses, but she had a wall up herself. I felt it crack, just a little, as she smiled at my stupid joke. "Okay," she said. "Well, good. I was afraid I did something."

  "No," I lied, leading her towards the waiting town car. "Of course not."

  After that, she was quiet. Thoughtful. Closed off, even, which was good. The more she kept her distance, the easier this would be.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jenna

  The building was breathtaking.

  It felt like something out of a movie - gleaming marble floors, a massive bank of elevators with attendants, and even towering tropical trees in the corner. I couldn't imagine walking into a place like this and knowing that it all belonged to me. That it was my responsibility.

  "Morning, Mr. Chase," the security guard called from his glass box. Ben waved, and they exchanged brief pleasantries as we headed towards the elevator. It didn't escape my notice that Ben had bothered to retain the names of the guy's kids, and the fact that his daughter just graduated to the next level of Girl Scouts. Unless, of course, it was all bullshit and the guard was just too polite - or too cowed - to say anything.

  "Going to your office, Mr. Chase?" the elevator attendant asked with a cheerful smile. He nodded at me in acknowledgement of my presence, clearly not knowing who I was.

  "Yes, Dave. Thanks." Ben rested his hand on the small of my back, lightly, just a ghost of a touch. But it was like every inch of my skin suddenly came alive, responding to the warmth that radiated through my dress. "This is my girlfriend, Ms. Jenna Hadley."

  Dave took this in stride, as I supposed any professional elevator attendant would. But I thought I detected a hint of surprise. "It's wonderful to meet you, Ms. Hadley. Please don't hesitate to ask if you need anything."

  Anything elevator-related, I presumed. I just smiled and thanked him, although I found myself spending the rest of the ride wondering whether he'd get in trouble if Mr. Chase's girlfriend sent him on a personal errand that took him away from his post. I hoped not. It was hard not to feel like a bull in a china shop. I was acutely aware that I was upsetting some kind of delicate ecosystem here, a world about which I understood absolutely nothing. And since this wasn't a heartwarming Nora Ephron comedy, I had a feeling it wasn't going to end with everybody deciding things were better when you just cut loose.

  The elevator was so quick it made my heart drop into my stomach. Or maybe that was the way Ben's fingers curled against my lower back, just slightly, before he seemed to suddenly realize what he was doing, and pulled his hand away.

  When the doors popped open, I took a deep breath and stepped out. The hallway was so long I couldn't see the end on either side, so I waited for Ben to follow, guiding me to the left and down another hallway I hadn't even noticed at first.

  "How big is this place?" I muttered under my breath, mostly to myself. He just smiled, gesturing me towards the huge double doors that evidently led into his office.

  I bit the inside of my cheek to stifle a gasp.

  The whole back wall was nothing but picture windows, displaying a gorgeous cityscape. I couldn't stop myself from walking over to them, pressing up against the glass and staring down until I started to feel a rush of vertigo. My knees wobbled slightly.

  "Careful," said Ben, taking my elbow. "Don't look down."

  I wanted to snap that I was fine, but instead, I just turned my gaze upwards. The city looked like an ant farm from up here, everything tiny and inconsequential compared to us.

  The rest of the office was skillfully decorated, but it paled in comparison to the view. I walked around the perimeter, while Ben sat down at his desk and started looking through his drawers.

  On the wall furthest from the door, there were several plaques and awards displayed, most of them emblazoned with the names of organizations or societies that meant nothing to me. My eyes were drawn to some of the plainer, more official-looking certificates, and I slowly began to realize what they actually were.

  Diplomas. He had a bachelor's degree and a Master's of Science in Pharmacology, both from NYU. My brow furrowed.

  "Are these real?"

  He glanced up at me. "Yes, I really did win 'Most Improved' in Little League. Also, the diplomas didn't come from Kinko's. What kind of question is that?"

  I sighed. "Obviously I know they're real, I just meant...I thought maybe they were honorary degrees, or something. I'm sorry."

  Shrugging, he gestured to the chairs opposite his desk. "It's fine. Most people assume the same thing. I just wanted to understand at least some of what our science department was talking about, so I went to school for it. So you see, I'm not just an empty-headed socialite after all."

  I sat down, feeling slightly cowed. At least he took it in good humor, more or less. His desk was massive, solid wood, polished perfectly and organized in precisely the way his desk at home wasn't. Someone else must manage this for him. An assistant, most likely. Hell, a guy on his level probably
had six or seven interns at his beck and call too.

  As if on cue, there was a quiet rapping at the door. "Come in," Ben said, and the door swung open slowly. A young, doe-eyed blonde was standing there, carrying a cup of coffee.

  "Drew the short straw this morning, huh, Claire?" He smiled as she approached, and I could practically feel her stress level ratchet down a few notches. "Thanks. It's perfect."

  "You're welcome, Mr. Chase," she said, or rather squeaked.

  "This is my girlfriend, Ms. Jenna Hadley."

  I was going to have to get used to hearing that.

  "It's so nice to meet you," Claire half-whispered, shaking my hand with her cold, clammy one. She swallowed audibly. "I'm sorry. It's my first day. I'm still getting my bearings."

  "Please, don't apologize. It's nice to meet you too."

  She disappeared out the door a moment later. I ignored the knot in my chest, which was certainly not jealousy. A girl like her couldn't possibly handle a man like Ben, with all his complexities and dark desires.

  I couldn't stop staring at his desk, wondering if he'd ever spanked anyone on it. Did that extend beyond the boundaries of domestic discipline?

  Maybe women in the workplace just weren't compatible with it at all. I suppressed a laugh, sitting down carefully in one of the chairs across from him.

  "Penny for your thoughts," he said, glancing up at me as he began hunting through drawers again. "Damn it. I can never find anything once they've cleaned up in here."

  "Nothing," I said. "Just admiring your desk. It's very, uh, imposing."

  "Intimidating the subordinates is always good," he said, with a grin. "I play good cop, the desk plays bad cop. Everybody wins."

  "I don't think people like Claire are afraid of your desk," I pointed out. "They're just afraid of you. It doesn't matter what your personality is. Anybody with as much power as you have is...well, scary. For lack of a better term."

  He just laughed. "Do I scare you?"

  "I mean, on a personal level? No. But in the sense that you could probably make me disappear without a trace, if you wanted to? Yeah, a little. Rich people are dangerous. They're basically unstoppable."