Fate

by Nikki Sex

  John Flynn, also known as “Father John” was a well-known celebrity in The Basement. He’d gotten the strange nickname, because his subs always seemed to confess to him when he skilfully tormented them into a blissful state of euphoria with his bullwhip. Then, like a priest, John forgave them.

  John and André nodded to each other, but Emily couldn’t miss the glint of real pleasure in John’s eyes. Kelly told her that André was John’s best friend. It astonished Emily, how much she knew about Kelly and her life since they’d practically just met. There was no doubt about it. Kelly was a chatterbox, but everything she said was so cheerful and such fun, that Emily couldn’t help but enjoy her company.

  Kelly, well aware of how frightened Emily was, patted her on the shoulder. “I’ve got to go,” she said with a reassuring smile. “So I’m going to leave you now, Emily. You’ll be fine with André.”

  She turned toward her husband. The man gazed down at his wife with a look of naked love in his dark eyes. Kelly held out her hands to him, and John wrapped a club tie around her wrists. With one arm possessively wrapped around her, he turned and they both walked away.

  The interaction moved Emily.

  Father John clearly worshiped his wife. Kelly was a nice girl who deserved happiness. Watching them together had been a welcome distraction from the dread and uncertainty over what the evening may hold for her.

  “Come, ma petite lapine,” André said, drawing her into a quiet alcove at the back of the sub gallery. “Sit, s’il vous plait."

  Emily sat down, which was just as well because her knees were trembling, and she was feeling faint. André sat beside her and continued to hold her hand, putting his other hand on top of hers for a moment before releasing her.

  Then he surprised her by taking out a mobile phone. Phones and electronic devices were banned in the club, because of the cameras in them. Why did this man have one?

  “Red or white wine?” he asked her.

  “Oh, I don’t think….”

  André cut in, “Red or white,” he repeated.

  “White.”

  “Nick?” he said into the phone. “It is André Chevalier. I am in the subs area. If you please, bring water and two glasses of white wine. Mais oui, your finest, but of course!” he added cheerfully, in response to something the bartender had said.

  Emily just stared at him.

  “Ma petite lapine,” he said in a soft, calming voice. “You are very frightened, yet I assure you, there is no need to be so. We can stay here if you wish. We can talk, and do nothing else.” He soothingly patted her hand once more. “Speak to me, if you please. I would very much like to know why you have come here tonight.”

  Emily’s breath caught. Her mouth was dry, and somehow she couldn’t find the words. She didn’t mind him holding her hand. Bossy as he was, André seemed kind and even likable. And her friend Kelly held him in high regard.

  “Take your time,” he said, sitting back comfortably and stretching his long legs out in front of him. “I am at your disposal.”

  Emily had to smile, and when she did, he instantly returned it. Who says, “I’m at your disposal?” And that strong French accent of his had a unique charm of its own.

  She licked her lips, and shyly looked at him through lowered lashes. Emily couldn’t seem to meet his gaze.

  André wasn’t dressed for an outing in a bondage club, other than the fact that he wore all black. He looked great in perfectly tailored and pressed trousers with a narrow belt, and dark, hand-made Italian shoes. His black silk shirt was open at the throat. It had French cuffs, of course, and gold cuff links sparkled at his wrists. The faint scent of an amazing cologne came to her; he smelled fantastic.

  The corners of his eyes had crinkled slightly when he smiled. How old was he? Certainty at least ten years older than she was, maybe more. But he was in good physical shape: flat stomach, broad shoulders, dark hair, cut short around his neck and ears.

  There were numerous pock marks on his face, from what? Childhood acne? Yet they didn't detract from his healthy good looks. He was attractive, but he was not Paul.

  André put his finger under her chin, and tilted her head up. “Have you finished studying me, ma petite lapine?”

  “I’m, sorry,” she said. Caught, she felt too embarrassed and light-headed to say more.

  With a slight shrug, André gave her a carefree grin. “It is nothing. We begin to know one another, no?” The man positively exuded charm. There was an aura of humor about him, too, in both manner and appearance. The bartender arrived, and placed their drinks on a small table near them.

  “Merci,” André said. “Double your normal tip, Nick, and add it to my account, if you please.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Drink this,” he said, handing her the water. Emily easily swallowed it all, after realizing that she was parched. Strange that André knew this before she knew it about herself. When she finished he added, “Now drink half of this,” handing her the wine.

  Emily wasn’t sure how she felt about his overconfident bossiness. It wasn’t that André wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. It was more like he’d never doubted that she’d agree to whatever he wanted.

  He’d been aware that she was thirsty, and mindful of her fear. No doubt, to a Frenchman, wine was the best therapy for almost anything. A part of her wanted to argue, but somehow, instead, she found herself drinking the wine as ordered.

  “Merci. It is very well, ma petite lapine,” André said with a kind smile. “Will you tell me your story now?” he asked, taking a generous sip from his glass.

  “Can you tell me what ma petite lapine means?” she countered. She understood that ma meant ‘my,’ and petite was ‘little,’ of course. But what was lapine? Whatever it was, Emily liked it. It sounded like a sweet French endearment, ‘ma puhteet lah-pen.’

  “But of course,” he said. “It means ‘my little rabbit.’”

  Emily stiffened at this. Her jerking fingers almost accidentally broke the wine glass in her hand. What the fuck? Little rabbit? Rabbit is what Paul always called her.

  “If this disturbs you, I will use another designation,” he said easily.

  “No, it’s okay.” That incredible coincidence was too damned weird.

  Chapter 21. André Chevalier

  From: Candy

  To: Paul Jarman

  Subject: Baby don’t hurt me….

  Maybe Cupid is sitting up on a cloud, mischievously aiming arrows of love. Or perhaps love is simply the workings of fate. All I know is that EVERYTHING is different in my world, ever since our time together.

  Love,

  That Poor broken Woman you met in Cabo who now has an arrow straight through her heart.

  ~~~

  Ignoring the shock of it, Emily decided to tell André her story, right from the beginning. She’d told bits and pieces to Kelly, and to Master Colin. That had made her feel better. So, she explained about Paul, how they’d been friends since childhood, and her long-standing obsession with him.

  “Oh? It is a romantic intrigue?” André interjected, putting his glass down and clapping his hands joyously. “I am very much the romantic, you understand. It is perhaps, because I am French. Already, I wish to help. Continue, if you please, to tell me your story.”

  Emily explained everything: how she pretended to be Candy, and how she now had a huge and complicated secret from Paul, but how much Paul hated liars and all forms of deceit. She explained that Paul wanted to see Candy again, how he had written, and in fact, seemed quite obsessed with her. Details of Paul’s life, why he had left ‘never to return’ three years ago, and the fact he had become a Dom were all included.

  Emily explained that it was in her nature to be honest, but she’d been driven to deception by her relentless desire to be with Paul. She had intended to get him ‘out of her system’ but the plan had backfired.

  “Merde, this becomes complex. But the sex, it was very good, yes?”

  Emily’s f
ace burned with heat. She was blushing, but not from embarrassment. Any time she thought about sex with Paul, her body burned. “It was the most amazing sex I’ve ever had,” she said fervently.

  “Très Bon, ah, there is nothing better than such passion!” A bright glint of real pleasure shone in André’s eyes. “But Paul, he made no attempt to introduce you to the lifestyle while you were in Mexico? He did not bind your wrists, for example?”

  “No.”

  “Very good,” André said thoughtfully, taking another sip of wine. “I admire him for this restraint, for restraint it surely was. I do not believe that little Candy was capable of denying him anything.”

  Emily felt her face heat even more, and this time she was embarrassed. “You’re right. I would have let him tie me up. It’s hard to say no to him, once he, um…” she stuttered, unable to find the words to explain. “When he, I mean if he…”

  “Is dominating you during sex,” André finished her sentence obligingly. “You are fortunate, Emily, for he is clearly a trained Dom, aware of how important it is to begin such undertakings properly. And now, Paul wishes for you, non, pardon, for Candy, to go to LA, and to join him in a reputable club?”

  Emily nodded. “But it’s a big risk. You see, Paul isn’t forgiving. When he finds out that I’m Candy, it’s possible that he’ll never want to see me again. Part of me just says to forget it. To be Emily and keep him as a friend, even though I’d give anything to be his girlfriend. I figure that if I can’t do what he wants, in terms of accepting pain, then I don’t need to take the risk of losing him. Does that make sense?”

  André’s amused grin was priceless. He tipped his glass to her, as if in a toast. “I salute you. This becomes quite entangled, no? But do not concern yourself. Your story – it travels beyond me. But do not fear. I pursue with determination, yet at the slower pace.” He made an elegant gesture with one hand. “Please continue.”

  Emily giggled, as she imagined André stumbling and falling behind, as he tried to figure out the twisted saga that she was caught up in. The problem she hoped André could help her with, she explained, was the pain issue.

  “Paul’s told me he wants to tie me up, spank, and flog me.” Pulse pounding erratically at the thought, Emily bit her lower lip. “If I can’t do those things, then I need to know that. It’ll help with any decision I make about this crazy mess I’ve gotten myself into.”

  His eyes lit up. “Eh bien. I begin to understand what role I am to play in this endeavor.” André, noticing her panic, gave her a slight frown. “It is clear that you are very frightened with just the thought of pain, ma petite lapine. Have you had so many unpleasant experiences?”

  Pursing her lips, she took a moment to think about it. “My mom was a spanker, but only when she was really mad. It hurt, but I found it more frightening and humiliating, too. My mother had a real temper.” She paused, trying to understand her fear, in order to explain it. “The idea of a whip is just a really scary turn off for me. Pain, um… the idea of a man, hurting a woman. Well, it also seems so… perverse. So incredibly wrong.” She gave him an apologetic smile and shrugged.

  “Is this love you feel for Paul Jarman strong enough? Is it a sufficient reason for you to allow me to dominate you? For I am not certain that you will stay, and face this crushing fear. It consumes you, yes? Even now, I feel your desire. You wish to leave.”

  Emily was surprised to find that her laugh was genuine, if a little hysterical. “Running away isn’t my problem, André. I may hide for a while – but I never run.” She frowned, as thoughts formed in her head. They were strangely easy to explain.

  She leaned toward him. “Have you ever felt trapped by the same thing day after day, André? The same things to look forward to, to do because you must, or should? Or because it’s right? Taking care of others, while sacrificing – yes! Sacrificing your own desires? Deciding not to even try for what you want most?”

  André’s eyes widened as he looked at her. There was a light of understanding in those dark eyes.

  Emily lifted her chin. “Coming here and even being here now scares the shit out of me, I admit. But at least I feel like I’m doing something. These last two days in The Basement, this problem with Paul, and the choices I need to make. It’s like I’m at a crossroads, as if it’s fate or something that brought me here. I can’t explain it. Sure, I’m terrified, but I’m also thrilled. I can’t sleep I’m so excited. I have a sense of impending… I don’t know what. Not doom, maybe change. One thing is certain, I’ve never felt so alive in my life. Does any of that that make sense to you?”

  “Mais oui, most assuredly, it does.”

  “I won’t run away, André, I’ll see this thing, whatever it is… I’ll see it through. I promise.”

  “Very good.” André’s teeth flashed white against his tan, Mediterranean complexion. He stood up, and took her hands, pulling her up with him. “It would be my honor and my pleasure to introduce you to this experience.” He took a club tie out of his pocket, and bound her wrists together.

  “Wait,” Emily said. “One more thing. I’m not going to have sex with you.”

  André put a hand to his heart. “You wound me,” he said with a mischievous smile. “BDSM is about needs, ma petite lapine. It is not always about sex. I accept this restriction, of course.”

  “Thank you,” Emily said, tremendously relieved. She was ruined for sex anyway. After her time with Paul, she couldn’t imagine getting down and dirty with anyone else, ever again. It would feel like cheating. That concept almost made her laugh out loud. Who would be the cheater? Herself, or Candy?

  “I make one stipulation,” André said. “As your Dom, I must of course, be allowed to touch you, as I wish. I refuse to waver on this most important point, for I must have full control of your body. This is acceptable?”

  Emily agreed to it, with a nod. She could hardly do anything else when he was so determined.

  “Bon. Then, come with me, ma petite lapine,” André said, taking hold of her bound wrists. “I have a room, where together, we will explore both your desires, and your limits.”

  Emily took a deep, fortifying breath, and followed him. Despite her anxiety, she just had to smile. Little rabbit, André called her.

  How appropriate, she mused, because just like Alice, down the rabbit hole I go.

  Chapter 22. Who Are You?

  From: Candy

  To: Paul Jarman

  Subject: The Perfect Woman

  So your perfect woman would be a cook in the kitchen, a lady in the parlor, and a whore in the bedroom?

  You know who, XOXO

  ~~~

  From: Paul Jarman

  To: Candy

  Subject: The Perfect Woman

  My perfect woman is a whore in the kitchen, a whore in the parlor, and a whore in the bedroom.

  We can buy take out.

  Paul

  ~~~

  With long steps, Emily was only just able to keep up as André strode quickly and gracefully through the club.

  There were many bigger men than André, and certainly more menacing looking Doms. Men with big leather boots and black leather pants. Really tough guys with whips hanging from their belts, and intimidating expressions on their faces. Yet, like a boat moving through still waters, with a wave on either side, everyone parted, moving out of the way as André passed.

  André Chevalier clearly had a lot of clout in the club. His self-assured authority was appealing. Even wearing normal clothes anyone could see that he was a powerful Dom through and through. Somehow with that engaging smile of his, he looked slightly dangerous. He exuded raw power and dominant control.

  Most people smiled, nodded, or said ‘hello’ to him. Many looked downward, averting their gaze respectfully. Subs, both men and women, stared at her with speculation or jealousy. It gave Emily confidence. If these people valued André, then she was really lucky to have him as her Dom.

  They walked down the hall to an elevator, and he pushed
the button for the third floor. For a moment, her pulse spiked in alarm. Wasn’t the wet room on the third floor? She had no idea what it was, but she was pretty damned certain she didn’t want to go there. André inserted a card, and opened the door, gesturing for her to enter first.

  What she saw took her breath away.

  Clearly, no expense had been spared. It was a magnificent library, like walking into a Lord’s residence in the Victorian era. The place smelled of wood and leather. Polished parquetry flooring, with intricate 1800’s designs graced the room. Mahogany bookcases, filled with books, lined the walls. There was a writing desk, and a gas fireplace burning cheerfully in one corner.

  The bed looked insignificant in the big room, she assumed it would be king size and huge, but it was much smaller. The bedspread on it had been turned back, exposing olive green silk sheets. It seemed rather out of place, but so did the spanking bench, not to mention the wall of ropes, whips and paddles. Large wooden beams were on the ceiling, and the ever-present cameras were there, too.

  “Wow,” Emily said.

  “It is very nice, yes?”

  “I love it.”

  André walked her to the bed, gently turned her to face him, and pushed her shoulders so that she sat down. Emily felt like a puppet, as he moved her body as he chose, while he stood in front of her.

  “Ma petite lapine, you do not look to me to be as frightened as before. Do you feel that you can trust me now?”

  Feeling a bit stupid, with her hands tied in front of her, Emily nodded. “Um, André? Is that a bathroom over there?”

  “Yes.” He untied her wrists, and glanced at his expensive-looking gold watch. “You have three minutes. If you come back later than this, I will punish you, and you will not enjoy it. Go.”

  What? Crap! Emily would’ve run, but she couldn’t in her heels. Instead, she walked rapidly to the bathroom, took care of business, washed her hands and splashed water on her face. When she returned, she stood, somewhat breathless, before him.