Single White Submissive

by Madeleine Oh

  Rikard put down the knife and cupped both of her exposed breasts in his gloved hands, his thumbs flicking back and forth across her pebbled nipples.

  “I had to be sure of you,” he whispered huskily. “You could have screamed.”

  “I will never betray you,” she choked out through her tears.

  He grabbed her savaged dress and pulled it over her head, tossing it aside as soon as the heavy skirt cleared her face. Her legs were spread, exposing her pulsing need for him. He cupped her pussy, and she groaned in agonized pleasure. Her entire body throbbed in time to her heartbeat, from her tingling breasts all the way down to her toes. He slipped two fingers inside her soaking wet channel.

  “Please,” she sobbed. “Please. I need you inside me.”

  “Enough games,” he growled. “Let Zorro have Consuela. Master Rikard wants to make love to Gayle.”

  “Yes! Please.”

  “And I want to do it in a comfortable bed.”

  Swinging her up into his arms, he carried her into the guest room. A moment later, his pants were down, a condom sheathed his cock, and he was kneeling between her widespread legs.

  “Please, Rikard. Don’t make me wait any longer.”

  He thrust, hard and sure, filling her with one strong stroke. Gayle arched up off the bed, screaming her fulfillment as the orgasm ripped through her. Rikard just held her, letting her shake and shudder with his cock buried deep inside her. When she finally began to breathe normally, he started to move slowly in and out, quickly whipping her into another frenzy. His pace accelerated, faster and harder, until they were slamming together in mindless need, both straining desperately toward release.

  Rikard stiffened, his arms locking and his spine bowing as he trembled, then came in a powerful explosion. Gayle writhed against him, then arched upward, coming in a shuddering rush. They collapsed onto the bed, hot, sweaty and tangled in each other, but neither willing to move.

  “God,” she breathed. “I had no idea being scared out of my mind was such a turn-on.”

  “As was scaring you. I think we’d better back off on that scenario for a while.”

  “Why? It was great!”

  “Because I need to be able to remain in control during a scene. And now that I know what fear of knives does to you, I don’t think I could. That makes it too dangerous. I won’t risk you getting hurt, no matter how great the sex is.”

  Gayle smiled, a warm glow of contentment settling deep within her chest. He might not know what he was saying, but she did. He wasn’t just interested in sex. He wanted a real relationship.

  Chapter Eight

  Gayle woke disoriented and alone. Amazingly soft sheets scented lightly with citrus caressed her naked body, and a pillow so fluffy it had to be one-hundred percent goose down cradled her head. Light streamed into the room from the wrong direction, allowing her to recognize the furniture in Rikard’s guest room. She stretched, feeling the stiffness of last night’s vigorous lovemaking in her hips and thighs. No jogging this morning for her.

  She glanced around the room, until she located a small clock on the dresser. Quarter after six. She had plenty of time to drive back home, shower, dress, and still get to work. But only if she got a move on.

  Tossing back the covers, she encountered heavy resistance. Rikard had left the bathrobe she’d used before draped across the bottom of the bed. She shrugged into it, then went looking for him.

  She checked the attached bathroom and studio first. Both dark and empty, although she took the time to admire the décor of the bathroom. Black and white tiles set off towels, fixtures, and shower curtain patterned with swirls of musical notes and flowing staves, and black-framed prints of pianists graced the walls. It was the first obvious nod to his career she’d seen, other than the music room and studio, and those had been purely practical. Idly, she wondered if the bathroom decorations had been Rikard’s idea, or simply a way to use up music-themed gifts he’d accumulated from friends and family over the years.

  She frowned. She assumed he had friends and family. But he’d never spoken about them. Oh, he’d made general references, like saying his family was from New York, which had made it easy for him to attend Columbia. But nothing recent. She didn’t even know if his parents were still living, or if he had any brothers or sisters.

  Her next stop was the playroom. It was empty, except for her neatly folded clothes on one of the tables. As she was getting dressed, she heard water running on the other side of the wall in the master bathroom.

  She went back out into the upstairs foyer, and politely knocked on the doorframe before poking her head inside the open door of Rikard’s bedroom. It shared the same oak-and-iron furniture as the guest room, but the walls and linens were all soothing blues and greens, shading from dark to light as they swirled upward. It felt like she was standing at the bottom of the ocean looking up through the water toward the light of the surface.

  “Rikard?”

  “In here,” he called from the bathroom.

  She followed his voice, and found him leaning against a cream and white marble countertop, wearing only black silk pajama bottoms. Droplets of water clung to his broad back, and his wet blond hair was slicked back into a ponytail. In the mirror, she could see that shaving foam coated his face from eyes to halfway down his neck, except for a stripe the width of his razor on the right cheek and jaw.

  He glanced over his shoulder at her. “I’ll be another few minutes shaving. But if you’re willing to wait, I can make you breakfast. How do blueberry pancakes sound?”

  Gayle grinned. She loved a man who was so willing to cook for her. “It sounds heavenly. But I’m afraid I can’t wait. I’ve got to get home, or I’ll be late for work.”

  “No jogging this morning?”

  “I got enough exercise last night.”

  He grinned, the shaving foam puffing up on his cheeks. A slight dimple was visible in the thin strip of shaved skin, where it would be covered by his Master’s mask. She hadn’t noticed the dimple when they met for coffee, and thought it was a sign that he was more relaxed around her now. His eyelids were much more even when he smiled now, too, the faint offset no more than most people’s side-to-side discrepancies.

  He dropped his razor onto the counter and turned to face her, leaning back against the edge of the counter and stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pajamas.

  “If you want to bring some clothes over next time, go ahead. Then you won’t have to run away in the morning.” He tossed out the suggestion with a studiously neutral tone that implied he didn’t care if she did or not. Recalling his reactions the first time they’d made love, she suspected he cared, and cared deeply, about her answer.

  “I’d like that. A lot.” She shook her head. “But I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

  “Friday?”

  “Works for me. And then I can spend Saturday with you, too.”

  He stiffened, his eyes widening, the right opening wider than the left. “I won’t be available during the day. I have a previous obligation. But I can see you Saturday night.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t have to look so panicked at the thought of spending the day with her. “Are you busy Sunday, too?”

  “Afraid so.”

  Gayle pursed her lips, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. “What are you doing?”

  “I have to meet with someone about a song. It’s a four-hour drive.”

  Her eyes widened. “And you’re driving there and back in the same day?”

  “I’ve done it before. It’s no big deal.”

  “Well, would you like company for the drive?”

  He shook his head, bits of foam flying off to spatter on the thick blue carpet. “No. I won’t be good company. I will, in fact, be the stereotypical neurotic artist, obsessed with what they think of the song.”

  He hesitated, then asked, “Would you like to hear it?”

  “I’d love to.” She was going to be late for work. Maybe she could skip
the shower, and just do a quick rinse-and-go. She knew an olive branch when she saw one, and she wasn’t about to refuse.

  “Come on. It’s already cued up in the deck.”

  He bounded out the door, making her run to catch up with him. He crossed directly to his studio, bypassing the guest room and bath, and fired up the banks of electronic equipment. After a few minor adjustments to various switches and dials whose purpose escaped her, he punched a button and the opening power chords of a pop ballad thundered through the room.

  It started like so many other songs, extolling the virtues of the bad boy who stole the singer’s heart. Hearing Rikard’s voice singing lyrics obviously meant for a woman was a little strange, but his knife-like delivery didn’t give her room to think about it, cutting straight to her heart with his pain and anger.

  “I thought it was forever. You thought it was one night. Now I’m hotter than hot, and you’re sniffing at my heels like you never went away. Gonna buy me a lover, make him big and strong and dumb. Gonna buy me a lover, one who’s never gonna run. Gonna buy me a lover, and we’ll have all kinds of fun. Gonna buy me a lover, and he’ll love me until the money’s all gone.”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks as verse after verse hammered her with Rikard’s pain and desperation. Despite the upbeat, perky music that practically begged her feet to dance, the lyrics spoke of a bleak, meaningless future. She’d known he had issues. Carrie had warned her that he couldn’t commit to a real relationship. Had losing his girlfriend in the accident really crushed him that badly, that he couldn’t risk loving again?

  Oh, God. He wanted to buy a lover because it put him in the position of control, and that way he wouldn’t be hurt again. Was that why he was so adamant about staying in his Master persona?

  Gradually, she became aware that the room was silent, and Rikard was watching her intently.

  “You’re crying. Why are you crying?”

  “It’s just so sad.”

  “But sad in a good way?”

  Gayle gave a strangled laugh as she wiped her cheeks. “I see what you mean about not being a good traveling companion. It’s a powerful song. Who’s it for?”

  He hesitated, then turned away to shut down his equipment. Talking to the bank of dials and switches, he mumbled, “Amanda Tiegg.”

  “The pop princess?” Gayle squeaked.

  “Yeah. She wanted something darker, to try and change her image.”

  “Well, that’s darker, all right. But still perky, if you know what I mean.”

  “That’s what I was going for. So her fans who want mindless dance music will still be happy. But the music critics will have lyrics they can take seriously.”

  “So how does that work? Did she give you the subject for the song?”

  “Well, we talked about some general ideas. It had to be something believable. She mentioned how annoying it was for people who had treated her like dirt in high school to now be treating her like they’d been best friends.”

  Then maybe it didn’t reflect his attitude. After all, mystery writers wrote believable murderers without ever killing anyone.

  Gayle smiled. “I’m sure she’ll love it. You can tell me all about it Saturday night.”

  “So I’ll see you Saturday night, then? Instead of Friday?”

  “You’ll need a full night’s sleep before your drive. And if I spend the night, you’re not going to be doing a lot of sleeping. I’ll see you Saturday. But speaking of drives, I need to start mine. Or I’ll really be late for work.”

  “Go. I’ll see you Saturday.”

  She moved forward, kissing him goodbye despite the foam covering most of his face. Laughing, she wiped her nose and cheek with her sleeve. “Finish shaving. I’ll let myself out.”

  As she drove away, she caught herself humming “Gonna Buy Me a Lover”. Great. Another earworm.

  * * * * *

  The good news was, pop princess Amanda Tiegg loved “Gonna Buy Me a Lover”, and planned to use it on her next album. And in honor of the sale, Rikard and Gayle played a game where she was, as he put it, “a woman with love for hire”. He ordered her to do a wide variety of sexually explicit tasks, including pleasuring herself to orgasm while he watched and offered direction, which she found unexpectedly liberating. But the bad news was that he stayed in his role of Master the entire time, even the next morning as he fed her the promised blueberry pancakes. The sex was incredible, but it did nothing to reassure her that he was interested in having a relationship.

  She continued seeing him on Wednesday and Saturday nights, sometimes spending all day Sunday with him as well. They often played pirate-and-lady again, each time with her getting a thorough flogging that sent her sailing among the stars. They played Batman and Catwoman, and she finally understood why Rikard felt so powerful behind his mask. Knowing that your face was hidden allowed your true self to surface in a way she’d never expected. They played Spanish Inquisition, where Rikard tortured her with fiendishly erotic torments, making her come again and again until she finally passed out in exhausted delight—although she successfully refrained from admitting she was a witch.

  The sex was phenomenal. All she had to do was hear his voice saying, “I have a special treat planned for you”, or see his blue eyes sparkling with that telltale glint in the depths of his mask, and her heart pounded, her breath turned quick and shallow, her nipples tightened into hard nubs, and her pussy throbbed with wet heat. Pavlov’s dogs had nothing on her for salivating on a signal. And every time, after the sex, it seemed as though he wanted more, holding her with fierce desperation, and starting half a dozen times to say something, only to fall silent, and, when she asked, insist it was nothing.

  But Rikard dodged her every attempt to establish a relationship based on anything other than sex. He cooked for her, elaborate gourmet meals that were feasts for the senses of sight, smell and touch as well as taste. He helped her with her music for Into the Woods. Sometimes he sang for her, baring his soul until she bled for his pain and ached with his desire. But he wouldn’t come to any of her rehearsals, like other cast members’ significant others did, insisting he preferred to get the full effect on opening night. He wasn’t interested in going out to the movies, or even renting a DVD and watching it companionably in his home theater, saying he’d spent too many months watching films to find them entertaining any longer. He saw no reason to eat out when he could cook a better meal at home.

  Whatever they did, he did it as Master Rikard. Aside from that one morning she’d surprised him while he was shaving, he was never just Rikard. She liked Master Rikard. She needed Master Rikard. But she suspected she could love plain old Rikard, if he ever gave her the chance.

  She woke up one Sunday morning, alone as usual. He’d admitted that he didn’t sleep much since his accident, and what sleep he did get was restless. She’d peeked into his room once while he was still in the shower, and seen the shambles he’d made of his bed before he had a chance to tidy it. Restless was an understatement. The covers were on the floor, the bottom sheet torn off the mattress, and the pillows flung into the far corners of the room. She didn’t mind not sharing a bed after sex, since unlike him, she actually needed something approaching eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

  Shrugging into her robe, she belted it loosely, so that he could reach inside it to fondle her during breakfast. She visited her bathroom, to brush her teeth and use the toilet, and finished the roll of toilet paper. Since the guest bathroom was a peculiar oversight of Rikard’s—he entered the guest bedroom and studio through the hall doors, never through the connecting bath—she knew he’d never notice the roll was gone. She had to change it.

  A brief inspection of the cabinets revealed towels, drain clearer, and more piano knickknacks, but no toilet paper. He must keep the spares in his bathroom.

  She padded across to his room, ignoring the enticing aromas of breakfast drifting up the stairs. Something with bacon or sausage this morning. Mouth watering, she entered the master
bathroom. This wouldn’t take long.

  Rikard’s bathroom was divided into two sections by the marble basin and counter top, which was directly opposite the door. To the right was the toilet and a combination sit-in shower/steam bath unit. On the left was a lower counter and padded stool, originally designed to serve as a vanity, but which now held his whimsical collection of rubber ducks. There were two sets of cabinets, one below the basin and one on the wall facing the vanity. She guessed he’d keep toilet tissue in the cabinet near the vanity, since that was likely to be drier.

  She opened the cabinet on the wall and looked inside. Rikard’s face looked back at her.

  Gayle screamed. Backing away, she bumped into the vanity, and sat on a duck. It quacked an insulting raspberry at her.

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs.

  “Gayle? What is it? What’s…” Rikard’s question faded into silence, as he saw the open cabinet. “Oh.”

  “Oh? That’s all you have to say? Oh?”

  She forced herself to look inside the vanity cabinet again. It wasn’t his head on the shelf. It was an incredibly realistic mask, complete with hair, on a foam head. In fact, except for the fact that it had no eyes, and ended at the upper lip, it looked exactly like Rikard.

  There was another mask beside it, but this one rested on a plaster head that bore Rikard’s features. The second mask was made of clear plastic, with eye and nose holes and a tiny opening around the mouth, although half of it had been painted white in the style of the Phantom of the Opera’s mask. Heavy straps secured it to the plaster head.

  She shook her head. No. Impossible. And yet…

  “Take off your Master’s mask, Rikard.”

  His hesitation was all the confirmation she needed.

  “I’ve never seen your face, have I?”

  “Not all of it, no.”

  “You lied to me.”

  “No!”

  “What do you call that?” She stabbed an accusing finger at the face in the cabinet.

  He sighed, and pulled off the leather mask she’d grown so accustomed to seeing. She didn’t know what to expect, but the features he revealed looked almost exactly like the ones she was familiar with. The only difference was on the left side of his face. Dark purple-red scar tissue covered from the corner of his eye to just below his cheekbone, shining dully in the florescent light.