He stands up but keeps his distance from me. “I hope you enjoyed that, Calliope. It’s the last hit you’ll ever get because I own you now.”
He waves the cell phone he picked up off the ground in my face. The disgusting video is still playing. I wince and avert my eyes from the screen. Gentry’s shark grin widens, white teeth bright in the sun.
“I’ll expect regular reports at this phone number. You have two and a half weeks to deliver.” He holds a card up right underneath my nose. I jerk back from it and he laughs before tossing it at my feet.
“Two and a half weeks, Miss Cruise, or you lose your son forever.”
With that, he turns and walks away.
* * *
I go home.
I shower.
I scrub.
I scrub some more.
“Hey,” Shannon bangs on the bathroom door. “Stop wasting all the hot water. You’ve been in there forever.”
It’s not until I look down and see how red my forearm is from repeatedly brushing the loofa back and forth that I realize just how long I’ve been showering for.
“Shit!” I throw the loofa against the far wall of the shower like it’s toxic.
“What?” Shannon asks.
I grit my teeth, then manage to call back in what I hope is a normal-ish tone, “Nothing. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“’Kay, well hurry. I made lasagna and it’s getting cold.”
“Yeah.”
I listen and finally there’s just silence, which I hope to God means she’s left me alone. I lean back and bang my head against the shower wall as the spray of water hits my body. I haven’t been reduced to this in so long. Yet with one afternoon, one conversation with him, here I am again. Feeling as filthy and disgusting as right after it first happened.
“No.” I shake my head back and forth, water droplets flying from my hair. “I’m stronger than this.” My tiny voice barely makes a sound in the spray of water.
“I’m stronger than this!” I hiss and slap the wall tile for emphasis.
I reach behind me and shut off the water, then fling back the curtain. The bathroom mirror is completely steamed up and now that I’m stopping to think clearly, I realize how hot it is in here. I can barely breathe.
I wrap the towel around myself and shove open the door that leads to my bedroom, letting in some needed cool air. I grab my clothes from the floor, hating even to touch what I wore in his presence. I shove them in the hamper and close the lid tight. I try to walk away, but feel a nervous tic in my jaw.
It’s like I can still feel him on the clothes. He was sitting so close beside me on the bench. I swear the odor of his cologne seeped into the cloth and I can smell it even with the hamper lid closed. Which is ludicrous. I’m just making shit up now. Laundry day is on Sunday. That’s in two days. It’ll be fine just sitting there until then.
I turn away but then pause. Because I know myself. Dealing with the clothes on Sunday would just mess up my head all over again.
I open the hamper and grab my shirt and pants, holding them with the furthest tips of my fingers. As I head toward the washer and dryer at the back of the apartment, I hear his voice in my head.
I own you now.
Two and a half weeks to deliver.
My hands shake and I overfill the laundry detergent cap. “Shit.” I pour it on top of the clothes and then slam the lid shut.
Or lose your son forever.
I jam the gooey lid back on the detergent container, shove it on the shelf over the washer, and press the button for wash.
“What are you doing?” Shannon stands in the door to the tiny laundry room looking confused. “Sunday is laundry day.”
I avoid her eyes as I squeeze past her through the door. “It had a stain. I didn’t want it to set.” I make a beeline for the bedroom but she follows.
“Those weren’t your work clothes you came home in.”
“So?” I keep walking. The blue detergent that overflowed the little cup is all over my hands. Dirty. I want to shower again. Just one more good scrub down. That would make me feel better. I just need to get clean.
“So?” Shannon repeats, sounding offended. “So you came home at the same time as normal but you weren’t in your work clothes. Why?”
I head into the bathroom and turn on the tap. I put my hands underneath and start scrubbing. I don’t know how long I’m doing it before Shannon grabs my elbow.
“Are you even listening to me?” She sounds pissed until I try to pull away and she reaches down to my wrist. “God, Callie, are you bleeding?”
I look down and see that I’ve been scrubbing my hands so hard together my nails scored the skin over my knuckles and indeed, little beads of blood are surfacing.
My hands clench into fists and I squeeze my eyes shut.
I just stand there, frozen in my bathroom like a frightened animal facing down an oncoming car. Damn it. Goddammit.
I’m past this. I’m fucking past this.
He doesn’t get to have control over me. There has to be a way. There has to be. I refuse to let that man force himself on me in any way ever again.
I look up, straighten my back, and look at my sister. “Sorry, Shan. I spaced out for a second there.” I put my hands under the water one last time to rinse them, then grab a hand towel to hide the damage I’ve done. “I gotta get dressed now.
She just stares at me for a long moment. “What’s going on?”
I smile and shake my head. “Nothing. Just a stressful day at work. I changed clothes before I came home for a more comfortable commute. Grabbed a taco from a food truck and dripped hot sauce on my favorite top. Speaking of, I’m pretty full. I think I’ll skip out on lasagna. I’m going out. Save me some leftovers.”
With that, I usher her out of the bathroom and then wave her from the bedroom too. “Skooch unless you wanna see the headlights up close and in all their glory.” I make like I’m going to drop my towel.
Shannon covers her eyes and hurries out of the room. “You are so weird,” she mutters over her shoulder.
As soon as the door shuts behind her, I let out a long breath and uncover my hands from the towel. They’re scratched up all to hell.
Which fucking pisses me off. Because fuck that. Gentry doesn’t get to make me feel dirty and cower in the shower for hours on end. No. That’s not who I am anymore.
No. The word is my fucking motto now.
I head straight to my closet and push all the sensible office clothes to the side. Tonight is a back-of-the-closet kind of night. The secret stash of too tight, too short body-con dresses. I flip through them. There’s the plunging red spandex one, or the blue—
My eye catches on the black one with the tags still on at the very back. I bought all of these online, too embarrassed to go into an actual store and try anything so revealing on. The black one was an especially daring buy—it’s a faux leather strapless mini-dress. I tried it on when it came and it suckered to my body like a glove. But even for me, it seemed too… much. Too loud, even though it’s just black and not an in-your-face red.
It’s a dress that you don’t just wear, you have to own it. You have to have presence to pull off a dress like that. It’s the dress that men should bow down before.
I feel a spike in my heart rate.
I aimed straight for my closet because it was habit. I didn’t have a particular plan in mind when I told Shannon I was going out. Loosely, that I was headed out to the clubs, I guess.
Then Jackson’s voice rings in my head:
Safe. Sane. Consensual.
I can’t do what I’ve been doing. My jaw tics again. But I can’t just sit here cooped up in this apartment eating fucking lasagna and watching whatever crime show Shannon will inevitably want to watch either. I’ve got the itch. I need this tonight. And now I know there’s another way.
I drape the black dress over one arm and head toward my purse to grab my phone. I scroll through my contacts in my thumb hovers over Jackson�
�s name.
The ride home the other day was… awkward. At least for me. Jackson didn’t seem uncomfortable in the least. He wanted to talk about the session and go over some of the other things we’d seen. During the scene, I thought I’d want that too.
But when it finally came time, all I could give him were monosyllables in response. Everything we’d gone through in the club had hit a little too deep for me to want to dig any further.
Jackson let us continue to drive in silence for a long while before speaking up again. “Control is central to what this is all about. My life felt out of control for several years and this was a way for me to find a center again.”
He looked at me and for a second, I allowed the intensity of his dark blue eyes to capture mine. “I found this lifestyle at the point when I really needed it and I guess I hope I can give that to other people.”
I scoffed as I looked away out the window. Night was just falling. “BDSM as therapy?” I tried to joke. “Is that what this is?”
“Do you need therapy?” His tone was completely serious.
The question struck a little too close to home. “Are you one of those people who always answers a question with a question?”
“I don’t know, am I?” A smile tilted the edge of his lips.
“Ha ha.” I was glad he let it go. Maybe he sensed pushing me further wasn’t going to get him anywhere. Then at the end he told me the ball was in my court. Where it’s been sitting untouched all week.
My fingers drum on my thigh as I stare down at the phone. I’ve been looking at it for so long, the screen goes black. I make an annoyed noise and click it back to life. Jackson’s name shines at me from the screen.
That’s the problem with Jackson, though. He always sees too much. It’s too intense between us, always has been. He’ll just look at me and know something’s wrong. And everything he said on Monday about how BDSM is supposed to be about trust and openness between partners…
I click to exit my contacts and grab my purse again. There. In the inner pocket, just where I remember shoving it—the card Daniel gave me.
I glance at the clock on my phone. It’s six-thirty. Is that a good or bad time of day to call a sculptor to make a date? And God, my hand goes to my temple, is that even what I’m asking for? It’s not like I want to go out for dinner and drinks. More like, I want to tie you up and… A blush rises on my cheeks as I try to imagine what I even want to do.
My mind skitters across all the things I saw in the club but nope, brain overload. Even the… dildo thing… oh my God, my neck is turning red in embarrassment just thinking about it. Yeah. Probably not that either for tonight.
Spanking, though. That I can do.
Just that image, having a man bent over in that position of submission like Mistress Nightblood had her slave—it sends a wave of, I can’t even describe it, it’s like I can take a full breath again for the first time since I saw Gentry’s fucking text this morning. I focus on the image, imagining the powerful back of a muscled man, his wrists cuffed in chains, completely at my mercy. My heartbeat, which has been erratic all day, slows.
Yes. God, yes.
I type the numbers from the card into the phone and save the contact. Then I debate between texting and calling. But a text seems too passive. It’s not the tone I want to set.
So I take a deep breath and push call.
It only rings twice before a deep voice answers, “Yes?”
“Is this Daniel?”
“Yes?” He sounds uncertain. Then again, he picked up when an unknown number flashed across the screen. Everybody else I know just ignores those kinds of calls.
“This is Mistress Calliope.”
I hear the expulsion of breath on the other end. “How may I serve you, Mistress?” His voice has dropped several tones and become intimate in a way it wasn’t before.
I bite my lip but keep my voice confident. Commanding. “You will clear your schedule. Make yourself available for me tonight.”
There’s not even a moment of hesitation before he replies, “Yes, Mistress. Where would Mistress like to meet?”
Oh. Shit. I should have thought that one through better. We can’t exactly meet at my place with Shannon in the other room. And the club, well, Jackson obviously had a membership and signed me in as a guest. Then I brighten. Obviously Daniel has a membership as well.
“Perhaps Mistress would like to come over to my condo,” Daniel says. “I have a dungeon with everything that Mistress might need.”
Oh. He has a dungeon. Um. Damn. Maybe this was a bad idea after all.
“A dungeon is just what we in the community call our playrooms,” Daniel offers when I’ve apparently been quiet for too long. “The room we played in the other day was also called a dungeon.”
Oh. Does that make it better? Am I really ready to go over to some stranger’s house and head into his dungeon? Willingly? I bite my lip again. Then again, Jackson seemed to know this guy pretty well. The way they talked, they seemed to have been acquaintances for years.
“Perhaps Mistress would feel more secure if she called a friend and let her know my address? Several of my female friends in the scene do this and arrange a second call at some point in the night.”
Of course. Lydia and I have actually done this for each other before. Well, she’s texted me when she’s hooked up with people. I’ve never done it because I’ve always kept my… activities… well, semi-public.
Daniel’s still talking. “I’ll also chain myself even before you arrive and toss the key out of my reach. I want you to feel completely safe.”
My mouth drops open. Whoa. This dude is serious. “Why would you do that? You barely know me.”
“I enjoyed our scene the other day very much. And Jackson obviously trusts you.” His voice has taken on that intimate quality again. “It would be a privilege for me to have the opportunity to help you explore your dominant nature.”
My mouth dries and I quietly suck in a deep breath. “Text me your address. Be ready at eight- fifteen.” I hang up before waiting for his response.
I clutch the phone to my chest, breathing hard. Holy shit. Am I really doing this? The phone vibrates only seconds later and I look down to see Daniel’s address. He lives in San Leandro. That’s about an hour away by public transit. I look to the ceiling again, then down at the dress in my arms.
I own you now.
Fuck that. No one owns me. My jaw tightens. Hell yes I’m doing this.
I’m the only one in control of my life.
It starts now.
Chapter Nine
CALLIE
Daniel’s place is a townhouse in a nice enough part of San Leandro. It’s no mansion in the hills like Jackson has, but all real estate in the Bay Area is insane. I wonder if he’s renting or if he actually makes enough as an artist to own a place like this. The building is painted a bright white with pale green accent shutters and window boxes with rows of potted plants along the front. It gives off a very homey vibe.
My phone beeps three times signaling a text right as I’m about to ring the bell.
DANIEL: Key is under the flower box by the front window. Box velcro’d on front left.
Oh. I reach under the window box bursting with flowers and yep, I feel what seems to be a small hide-a-key box secured on the corner closest to me. I tug at it and hear the familiar noise of velcro being pulled apart and the little box comes off in my hand. I slide one side up and then upend it, dropping the key into my palm.
I stare at it for a second. Should I really be doing this? I mean, did he actually handcuff himself in there? And then he’s cool telling me, a relative stranger, how to find the key to his house? What if I was a crazy person intent on hurting him? I mean, yeah, sure, Jackson introduced us, but it’s not like he gave us full background checks on one another. Doesn’t all this violate the safe part of safe, sane, and consensual?
More beeps come from my phone and I look down. It’s a facetime request from Daniel. I cli
ck to accept. Daniel’s face comes into view but at an awkward angle. I can’t see much behind him except light from the ceiling.
“Mistress, I’m so glad you came.” His tone is easy-going but his features don’t quite match. He looks tense. Maybe with anxiety, maybe with excitement. I can’t tell.
“If you come in, the first door on your left leads to the basement. I’m here waiting.”
I hesitate for another moment. Because the same thing that’s true for Daniel is true for me. I don’t know him at all either. This isn’t safe. Just because Jackson knows him doesn’t mean Daniel doesn’t have some secret life. What if he just plays at being a submissive so that he can lure women to his house in some kind of trap?
I take several steps back from the door. Shit. What am I even doing here? Why am I risking this?
But as if he sees my retreat on my face or in the shutter of the camera as I step back, Daniel’s eyes go wide with panic.
“It’s safe, I promise. Look.” The camera shifts from his face to a close up of his wrists. They are handcuffed to what looks like some kind of large wooden post centered in a well-lit room. Fingers fumble with a small key.
“I trust you,” comes Daniel’s voice from off-screen. One of his hands jerk forward and the camera shakes, but catches the trajectory of the key as it sails to the ground halfway across the room. Then the camera focuses back on the handcuffs at an awkward close-up angle since he’s holding the camera in one of his bound hands. The handcuffs shake and rattle to show that his wrists are indeed secured tightly.
“I’m locked up. You’re in complete control. And here, I’ll show you the room so you can see that we’re the only ones here.” The camera jostles crazily again before steadying and doing a slow three-sixty panorama of the room.
In spite of the unsteady cam, I get the picture. It’s a bright, clean room and the walls aren’t a garish red or anything. From the little I can make out, the cream-colored walls are perfectly plain except for two sections where well-organized implements hang like tools in a garage. Other than that, the room’s empty except for the wooden post and a few larger pieces of furniture placed around the room, similar to things I saw at the club.
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