As head administrator and guardian of this place, my position here is cemented. But still, it’s expected of me to dabble with my art. To create, to be an artist. And for whatever reason, the muse has definitely leaped off the sinking ship. Maybe she got shot alongside Nate?
I grimace at the thought. Pencil clinking against the desk as it drops from my fingers; I slouch down, press my elbows to the tabletop and rest my head on my hands. The endless hours of doing nothing have given me time to ponder why my muse has shriveled up like a ninety-year old eating sour Altoids.
Change doesn’t bother me, or at least, it didn’t. Eddie hates it. She likes everything to be in a fixed position, and she would be quite content if they never moved. I’m more like Mona. We roll with the punches. But the changes to the studios don’t sit well with me, and I’m wondering if that’s why I’ve been so unproductive.
Maybe because the renovations are so alien to what I’m used to. As a teenager, the studios were all smallish rooms. Each person had his or her own space, with a door and a window. One allowing them to see the world, the other allowing them to lock it out. But now, the open-plan space is almost aggressively exposing. I feel bare here, and I don’t like it.
A wall of windows offsets the huge floor plan, and I can’t deny they let in the most beautiful light. For the painters, they must be in heaven. But for me and for what I’m accustomed to, it’s a nightmare. Every artist has a cubicle. A large one, bigger than the old space I used to have here. But if I peek over the sides, I can see others and it’s discomforting.
I understand the method and the thought process behind this redesign. Hell, I agreed to it. We needed more space than the old system allowed us to house.
There are four resident artists at Blue Ridge. An installation artist, a photographer, and two painters. But we’re also a haven for visitors. People who come and stay at the ranch for a bit of R and R. In truth, we’re like a weekend spa for geniuses. We only accept people with acknowledged credentials and they have to pay their way, but over the last few years, under my guardianship, we’ve established a name for ourselves in the upper echelons of the industrial, technological, and artistic world as a place to relax and recuperate if you’re of a certain skillset.
At the moment, we have six guest-artists here. In the old building, we would never have been able to accommodate so many. As it is, we have a further five cubicles free.
This studio came with my prior approval. I discussed plans with the architect himself. This open space means the purest light can flood every single artist’s working area. Artificial illumination is entirely unnecessary until darkness falls.
Theoretically perfect, yet, in practice, it’s a nightmare. That I’m the only one who feels this way, makes it even shittier.
Pretty early on, after my arrival, I returned to my bedroom and took down all the old designs and drawings I’d pinned to the wall. I’d hoped if I pinned them to the cubicle walls, it would make me feel more at home. But it hasn’t worked. All my equipment is here. All the necessary accoutrements and gear that I require to create anything my imagination cooks up, and yet, said imagination is on hiatus.
For the last two hours, I’ve been trying to draw something. Anything. After desperation struck, I figured I could let this whole new part of my life, my submissiveness, inspire me. In the depths of my brain, I envisaged a series of works. All redolent with the poignancy of submission and the strength of my Dominant. A part of me is excited at the idea, the memories of the sights I’d seen at Papillon aiding it, but my mind’s eye can’t picture the pieces. Hence the fat Santa on the sleigh.
In all honesty, I’ve created the image without even meaning to. My mind has been elsewhere, drifting from New York to Mona and Eddie and why they’re still incommunicado.
From the Russian arsonists to Nate’s slow healing… and then, what’s been going down in the bedroom. On top of what’s due to occur this very day.
Just the thought has my blood pumping harder, and between my legs, I can feel the lips of my sex start to grow slick with arousal. Being denuded of hair makes it way too easy to get wet patches on your pants. Not that I’m complaining. A few damp stains are worth the trouble when I consider how damned sensitive I am now.
Fuck me; every sensation is magnified, amplified even. One slight touch and I want to quiver, tremble at the flood of emotions barraging me. It’s intense and frigging incredible.
Yesterday, Nate told me I was to greet him with all the pleasure I felt at being in his presence after a day spent apart.
He said, and I quote, “Tomorrow, we’re going to start a routine. I’ve been trying to ease you into this, and tomorrow’s a brand new day. At five-thirty, I’m going to come to this room and at five-thirty, not a minute before or after, you’re going to be at the foot of the bed, knelt before it, head bowed, naked, waiting for me.
“I’m going to give you my hand and you’ll kiss it and then, you’re going to tell me if you broke any rules. Do you understand, princess?”
I’d nodded and told him that of course, I did.
And boy, had I.
Even now, my body buzzes at the very idea of such a ritual becoming a part of our daily life. The idea of greeting him naked, head bowed; kneeling before him...every part of me shivers and shakes, longing for five-thirty, when we can start this next aspect of our journey together.
Every day is a rebirth, a renewal. My submission and Sir’s domination are always reasserted.
My excitement is dampened by my concern over the sculptor’s version of writer’s block, and I take the opportunity to get to my feet and stretch. Crouched over this desk for the last four hours and nothing, nothing to show for it, I stretch a little more. It’s too easy to feel disheartened. Yesterday, I just played with clay, hoping I’d get a feel for it, create something with it. But stunted, I gave up and crept off toward the homestead office to catch up with some paperwork.
Being on site is a hell of a lot easier than it was being in New York.
For the most part, I’m left alone. If there are any problems, they go to Nate as that’s a part of his job. Although I am trying to encourage them to come to me, I know that will take time.
Overall, I oversee general decisions, issues and potential problems on the commune, and he puts my ideas into practice.
I see the bigger picture for the IQ squad itself. Something, which can be a pain in the ass. If I’m honest, I’ve had plenty of why me? moments. From the wasted hours at the studio, to the head-scratching moments at my desk in the office.
The parts making me happy are the reconnection with the land, the place itself and then, the time spent with Nate.
Sighing, I gather my stuff together. It’s time to quit before I pull my hair out or draw more mean cartoons of everyone on the ranch.
Gathering the Thermos flask containing the smoothie Nate prepares for me in the morning and which I drink through the day, I slot my cell into my pocket with my free hand. As I stride out of the studio, I can see eyes on me, people questioning why I’m leaving. There’s no routine here, no nine-to-five working day. But some work is expected. If not a part of the rules.
I ignore them, a snarky thought in my head being I’m the boss and can do whatever the hell I want. I don’t say it; I don’t want to alienate them completely because I’m in a shitty mood.
Outside of the studio, the huge one-story building that is both a pleasure and a curse, I cross the yard to reach the homestead. Overhead, the clearest blue sky you could ever imagine sparkles and glitters with the sun’s rays. It’s so bright, I squint a little and underneath my feet, vibrant green grass crunches and snaps, filling my nose with its earthy, clean scent.
Breaking into a jog because I don’t want to talk to anybody, and for the moment, the yard is relatively empty, I head up the homestead verandah steps and into the building.
Silence.
Sam and Nate must not be here.
Relieved, as I’m not in the mood to chat, I clim
b the stairs, bypass Nate’s quarters and head toward my old suite for a bit of privacy. Luck isn’t with me, because the minute I open the door, I wish I hadn’t bothered to come. The room is most definitely not how I left it. If anything, it’s filled with all the workings of a surprise.
Ladders, paint buckets, tools, large dust sheets that cover the exposed floorboards… This place is obviously being decorated. I’d actually wondered about that. This suite of rooms is three times the size of Nate’s quarters. It makes sense to use this space for ourselves.
In truth, this area is a self-contained apartment within the house. It’s ideal for the depth of discipline Nate wants to introduce into our lives. It doesn’t matter that Uncle Sam probably never uses the lounge downstairs, preferring his own quarters. There’s no way in hell I’m going to sit naked on the sofa if there’s any chance anyone’s going to see me.
And I have a feeling this will be coming soon… Nate fully dressed as he watches TV, me sitting beside him on the floor. Curled up against his legs, perched on a pillow like a pet.
I shudder at the thought.
Perhaps the idea should terrify me. The depth of control Nate wants to have over my life...it should scare me, but if anything, it acts like a big hug. Wrapping me in cotton wool, protecting me from the hard knocks in life, his love and dominance a shield from the nasty outside world.
I think back to the contract I signed and a conversation that sprang up from the hard/soft limits agreement.
“There’s nothing on here about being shared.” I’d asked the question not out of any desire for it to happen, but to state clearly that it was and would never be on the cards.
Having my nipples pierced, cleaning in the nude, being flogged…all of that did something, twisted my insides into knots. But being shared? No way.
“Is that disappointment I hear?” he asked and I’d immediately shaken my head. “Good,” he stated and reached for me, cupping my cheek in his large, warm paw. “I’ll never share you, Marina. So that’s one thing, even if you’re in denial about wanting to experience something like that, you can get out of your head. I don’t even want to play in public. Nobody will see what belongs to me; have you got that? Your pussy, ass, and mouth are mine. Nobody else’s.”
His possessiveness thrilled me. If it was something he felt throughout the length of our relationship, I never noticed it until he made that statement.
I don’t want another man to touch me, to bend me to his will. Nor do I want to play in public.
I get that it’s part of the lifestyle. Rosalie, one of my pro subs, has been a part of many clubs and play scenes in New York. Being a sub is about more than just earning a wage. It is a part of who she is.
But the idea of it did and still does nothing for me; in fact, I can’t stand the thought of Nate displaying my submission in public.
I’m not ashamed of these traits in my nature. I think they’re odd, popping out to play now, but then, I think maybe I’m only submissive with the one Dominant. Okay, that’s like Happy Ever After in the BDSM fairy tale collection…highly unlikely.
But the idea of anyone else touching me, spanking me, urging me to obey their rules, disciplining me… I feel nothing but repulsion. Where with Nate, it’s like turning on the ignition of a space shuttle. To infinity and beyond.
Standing in the doorway, I rest against the jamb and close my eyes, at the thought, as a goofy grin creases my lips. What he does to me, should be illegal. Under his control, I’m a creature intent on destroying any ideas I had about myself. Did I think of myself as a feminist? Perhaps. I don’t know for certain. I had stringent ideas about what was right and wrong on the subject. So to go to the extreme, to know that in a few hours’ time I’ll be expected to subjugate myself to my Sir...the idea should be repulsive and instead, it dazzles me.
The need it inspires, now that is overwhelming.
I shudder again, my hands curl into fists and my nails dig into my palms. So turned inward am I, so focused on my thoughts, I jolt as Jase’s Texan drawl breaks my concentration and permeates my eardrums.
“Aw, shit. You weren’t supposed to see this.”
I spin around, startled at being jerked out of my thoughts and spot the rueful grimace on the Texan’s face. He’s quite an attractive man in all honesty. As tawny as Nate, same hazel eyes as Nate. As brawny and as tall, yet, he isn’t Nate.
He has a crush on me. I’d be blind not to spot it, and I’m in no way being big headed. I’m just aware of his attraction to me and if anything, I’m discomforted by it. In the past, I’d have been amused. Found it a compliment. Now, I know trouble lies down that path, and I’m trying to prevent it from happening.
Every now and then, he highlights his attraction by uttering an inappropriate comment. Mostly, they make me chuckle. Things about my ass...just teasing remarks that are amusing because they pop out. He doesn’t mean to say them. It’s for that reason and that reason alone that I haven’t smacked him. I’m quite capable of it. Hell, I’m capable of a lot more. I did more than just an administration course at evening school. Self-defense classes are a must for any single woman living in New York. I’m more than capable of looking after myself.
“I won’t say anything if you don’t,” I murmur, knowing Nate will be pissed off that I inadvertently ruined what is obviously intended to be a surprise. The words were muttered by the Marina of old, the new me cringes. This is the kind of lie I specialize in. Damn my hide.
“Sounds good to me.”
“How long you been working on this?” I ask, amused at Jase’s relief even if I’m pissed off with myself. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Who better than I to know how harsh a taskmaster my Sir can be? Jase is lucky he doesn’t get spanked for every minor break of the rules.
The thought makes me want to giggle, because that should have been a complaint. If anything, like a cat, I want to purr with pleasure at the idea of Sir disciplining me.
Christ, Marina Denison, go-getter, madam of old, has definitely left the building.
“Ever since the first night. Nate told us his plans after you went upstairs. Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just curious.”
“Would you mind getting the hell out of here? I’d prefer him not to spot us outside this door.”
“His surprise isn’t a bust. I’m a good faker.” Not that I’ve had to be with Nate. And I won’t lie to him, either. Jase doesn’t have to know that though.
He grunts. “I doubt that. What are you doing here anyway? You’re supposed to be at the studio.”
“I got bored waiting for inspiration,” I admit with a shrug.
“And there you have why I’m glad I’m a scientist and not an artist.” He mock shudders. “It’s so much easier.”
He’s right. There’s no worse Master than the imagination. Especially when the fucker won’t cooperate.
“To say you’re not an artist, Nate roped you in to decorate.”
He snorts. “Anyone can paint a wall. Don’t need to be an expert to do that.”
“I didn’t realize you were a scientist.”
“Thought I was just a good ol’ boy, did you?” He eyes me knowingly. “Beneath the Stetson, there’s a brain.”
“I’m sure there is,” I mock. “I’ve seen your wage slips. You’re obviously very good at whatever it is you do.”
His eyes flash, any lingering attraction burned away at the slight.
Thank fuck for that.
“I saved your uncle’s pet project is what I did.”
“I’m sure.”
“Are you saying you don’t believe me? I didn’t come here for fun, you know. Nate called me in. As a favor.”
I shrug. “If Nate thought we needed you, then I won’t argue with him.”
Jase glares at me. “Have you even been inside the stables? You shouldn’t comment on what you haven’t even seen.”
It’s my turn to snort. “I’ve seen how much they’re costing to run. A fortune isn’t the wor
d.”
“Sam’s right. Eventually, when you kick off and get a few mares with foal, you’ll start to see a change in the profits.”
“Until then, I just have to suck it up and bear it?”
His left eye twitches. “Let me show you around and you can see your investment for yourself.”
“I thought you had work to do?” Shit. Backfired or what? Hoping to piss him off and make him dislike me, rather than have an awkward crush on me totally didn’t work.
“I do. But this is important. Sam keeps bitching at me about the hard time you’re giving him over this. You should see what it’s all about.”
“Sam’s bitching?” Anyone who knows me would have heard the dangerous tone to my voice. “He’s bitching?” I squawk. “How dare he? The man lies to me, for nearly a year. He abused his position, as well as my trust in him. Doctored the accounts, manipulated the figures to hide his lies and he’s bitching? And you dare to stand there and look at me as though I’m being… what? Mean?”
“Look, I just want you to see what the fuss is about.”
“Oh no, don’t you dare backpedal now. Is it or is it not deceitful to do what he did? Yes or no answer.”
He squirms under my glare. Literally starts fidgeting as I glower at him. “Yes. But he did it for a reason.”
“Oh, and that reason justifies every single immoral act he committed to cover it up? I understand the man had some crazy ass dream. So buy a fucking horse. Don’t set up a whole stable and use the commune’s funds to do it. It’s not like he’s a pauper, even though he dresses like one. The man’s worth at least ten million.”
I’m in his personal space, but not how he’d probably like it. Finger pointing, my fury a living, breathing entity as he cowers before me. He backs up, raises his hands in surrender and says, “I’m sorry, but Sam’s a good guy. Yeah, okay, he made a mistake, but it’s something he believes in.”
Despite myself, I want the goddamned royal tour of the stables now. It’s foolish; I should get out of Jase’s way before he does something to piss me off and makes me break the rules I have to live by. The instant I said ‘fucking’, I wished it back. It’s only one word, I could lie about it, but then, that would be two broken rules. Double the trouble. And as much as being disciplined is a turn on, I’m not going to court trouble. Do I look like an idiot?
Sinfully Mastered: Naughty Nookie Page 25