Restrain

by Shandi Boyes

  When she peers up at Jackson, wanting him to back up her theory, he unconvincingly nods, making my guilt ten times worse.

  After numerous assurances that I’ll be fine, I bid farewell to Lexi, Jackson, Brodie, and Aubrey. My nerves don’t fully kick in until the taillights of Brodie’s car disappear over the horizon. It isn’t just the eerie silence playing havoc with my emotions, it's the chaos equally numbing my heart and brain.

  My steps down the hallway separating Marcus's office from the central living space are shaky and drawn out. I am exhausted, but my sluggish actions have nothing to do with tiredness. Marcus's head lifts from his desk when he detects my presence. I prop my shoulder on the doorjamb of his office, waiting for him to give me permission to enter.

  My heart rate quickens to a brisk canter when he stands from his office chair and paces toward me. Although he has his cell phone pressed up against his ear with his taped hand, he doesn't speak a word. I close my eyes and inhale deeply when his unique scent overtakes the stench of desecration leeching out of my pores. My eyes snap open when a spark of electricity surges through my top lip. Marcus's touch is only brief but strong enough to fill me with hope.

  The pain in his eyes turns lethal when he stares at my lips while roughly scrubbing them with his thumb as if he is trying to remove Dexter from my mouth. He scrubs and scrubs until my mouth reaches a point of blistering from his feverish touch.

  When he steps back, I peer up at him, issuing silent apology after silent apology for my idiocy. When his hand moves toward me, I pray it's to pull me into his body and comfort me until the moisture leaking from my eyes stops running. I've always said I'm saving my tears for my darkest day—this is my darkest day.

  My hopes are dashed when Marcus says, “You need to shower. You still smell like him.” He then shuts his office door with me standing on the other side.

  I stand frozen, staring at the white frosted door, confident the male scent on me doesn't belong to Dexter. Not wanting to stir any more trouble, I keep my mouth shut and wait for his shadow to disappear from behind the door. When it does, so do I. I don't go far, only to the bathroom in his master suite. I know running would ease the sting of his rejection, but I won’t run. I’ll face the consequences of my actions with a maturity I did not hold tonight. I just need to work out what that appropriate outcome is.

  After taking a shower hot enough to hide the tears staining my cheeks and incinerate Luke's cologne scent from my skin, I pad into the massive walk-in closet. Although my clothes are stacked in a neat pile on my right, I veer to the left, allowing my heart to guide my steps. I dress in one of Marcus's bland white undershirts and a pair of his cotton boxers. Since the waistband of his boxers are too loose for my female frame, I roll them up until the cuff is sitting high on my thigh.

  My toes grip the plush woolen carpet as I slowly pace out of the room. Instinctively, my hand darts out to run over Marcus's suit jackets hung in sequence of their color. I've done the same thing every day the past weeks, because even though his clothes have been laundered, they still smell like him.

  My brows furrow, leaving a substantial groove in the middle of my head when I notice a folded-up piece of paper sitting on top of one of many black polished dress shoes. Bending down, I gather the note. I swallow away the bile burning my throat as I slowly unfold the unknown document. My heart stops beating when I read the handwritten message scripted inside.

  A relationship can weather any storm

  if the couple continues standing under the one umbrella.

  * * *

  I miss you.

  * * *

  Marcus xx

  * * *

  I search the note for any indication of whom the message was written for; it's void of any clues. The sluggish beat of my heart doubles when I stand mute, staring at the group of freshly pressed navy blue suits hanging in the closet.

  Recalling the message Brodie shared last week, my jaw gapes. “Tell Cleo if she is cold, she can borrow my jackets. Navy blue is my favorite color.”

  In a hurry, I check the pocket of the first navy blue jacket I stumble upon. I find a matching folded-up piece of paper in the breast pocket. This note leaves no doubt whom the messages belong to. They belong to me.

  The name Cleo is of Greek origin, it means “Glory."

  Glory can mean many things: a victorious triumph, an award.

  But for me, it recalls magnificence and great beauty.

  That's what you are to me.

  Wait for me, Cleo.

  The storm will soon be over.

  Marcus xx

  * * *

  I find another four notes hidden in Marcus's suit jackets, each one placed in one of his beloved navy blue suits. They all follow a similar tune—that we are stronger than the storm striving to overcome us. God—what I would have given to find these messages sooner, then maybe I wouldn’t have acted so recklessly. I thought I was losing him; little did I know he was fighting to save us.

  I sit on the edge of his bed for several minutes, my stomach churning, my mind at a loss on how to move us past this. Marcus is sacrificing everything, yet I’ve given up nothing. I’ve always maintained that I want our relationship on an even playing field; shouldn’t that refer to both sides of the team?

  I inhale a sharp, quick breath when an idea pops into my brain. There has only ever been one thing Marcus has requested during our negotiations—he wants me. If he still desires that, I can give him that—wholly and without reservation.

  I stand from the bed and race across the master suite. My steps are weightless since all the heaviness on my shoulders lifted the instant I made my decision. That's how much I want this—not even my brain can cite an objection. I gather a fancy treasure chest-like key out of the wooden box sitting on top of a stack of drawers before exiting the main suite.

  I pace across the hall, reaching the door of Marcus’s playroom within two heart-thrashing seconds. The boom of the lock sliding out of place bellows down the hall when I shove the key into the door and twist. I move through the playroom in a flurry, wanting to have my ducks lined up in a row before the noisy clank of the lock mechanism announces my intentions to Marcus.

  Remembering the rules associated with this room, I remove my clothing, fold them into a neat stack, then place them on a woven laundry basket on my left. The coolness of the air vents prickles my skin with goosebumps as I head for the trunk of goodies Marcus and I spent a week working through before our separation.

  My hand rattles when I pry open the singular drawer above the chest, but I push aside my shaky response, knowing it's more based on exhilaration than fear. I place a new D/s contract on top of the drawer before hunting for a pen. Failing to find one, I dash back into the main room and gather one from in there.

  I freeze halfway into the playroom when I hear Marcus climbing the stairs. With his shoulders still weighed down by my betrayal, his steps are clunky, sending every one of them booming down the hall. I race for the blank contract, flipping it over until I find the most significant section I need to fill in—my signature.

  After scrawling my name across the bottom of the document, I set it square in the middle of the drawer before adopting a submissive stance. I lower to my knees, bow my head and rest my hands on my bare thighs, palm side up in an offering position. With my hair still wet from my shower, it clings to my naked back. I am exposed and utterly raw with nothing but remorse blanketing me.

  I level my breathing before pricking my ears so I can listen to every step Marcus takes. I count his steps: one, two, three, four, five, until they stop just outside the playroom door. The hairs on my nape stand to attention, announcing his arrival, but I keep my head down low, waiting for my Master to issue any punishment he sees fit.

  I wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  19

  My muscles grow weary as I wait for Marcus to respond. Although the pain in my aching joints tells me I’ve been kneeling for some time, I know Ma
rcus is still with me. Even strangled by remorse for my betrayal, my body’s awareness of his closeness is still primitive. She knows her mate, and she knows him well enough to hear all the thoughts running through his mind right now. He is torn, stuck between wanting to punish me and wanting to walk away. His indecisiveness kills me more than believing Keira was his sub. I’ve laid myself bare to him, yet he is still considering walking away from me. That hurts—a lot.

  I shut my eyes to ward off my tears at the exact moment Marcus steps into the room. With my head still bowed, I watch his feet slowly pace across the room behind a set of lowered lashes. He stops in front of the chest moments before the sound of paper sliding across wood trickles into my ears. I don't breathe—I can't, every muscle in my body is reserved for listening to any prompts Marcus may give when he realizes I've signed on to be his sub. A sigh. A murmur. I'd even take a grumbled curse word.

  He does nothing. He remains perfectly silent.

  I pull my chin in close to my chest when he spins on his heels to face me. Every stride he takes to lessen the bridge between us has my pulse quickening. His steps are slow, as if they are purposely torturing me. My hair falls from my face when he grips my chin and raises my head. He has my recently signed contract in his hand, his hold so firm it has a massive crinkle down the middle of it.

  "This space may be known as a playroom, but you do not play games in here," Marcus mutters, his tone a stern warning that I’m no longer in the presence of Marcus. Master Chains has arrived.

  “I understand, Master Chains.” My quivering voice gives away the emotions pumping through me.

  “Then why did you sign this?” He thrusts the contract to within an inch of my face.

  I angle my body to the side so I can look him in the eyes. “Because I wanted to. I want to be yours. I want to be your sub. And I want you to punish me for the wrong I did.”

  “Disobedience does not get rewarded,” he snarls, assuming I’m using my idiotic decision to kiss Dexter as a way of forcing him to dominate me.

  That's not what I’m doing. I want him to punish me so we can move past this. If my research into the BDSM lifestyle is correct, once a punishment has been issued, the reason for the punishment is no longer valid. So once Marcus punishes me, he’ll have no reason to be angry anymore. I’ll also happily suffer through the pain my disobedience will bestow upon me, as I doubt it will be anything close to the ache gnawing at my chest.

  “I was wrong; I deserved to be punished, and I’m willing to accept any punishment my Master sees fit.” My words come out strong, hiding the turmoil brewing in my stomach from Marcus’s rueful glare.

  When he releases my chin from his firm grip, I return my head to its bowed position. My entire body quakes uncontrollably as I wait for him to make his decision. I don’t know what I’ll do if he walks away from me. This is the furthest point I can reach to display my devotion to him; I can’t do any more than this.

  I sneakily run my hand under my nose to gather the contents spilling from it when Marcus pivots on his heels and paces away from me. To begin with, I’m panicked, assuming he has decided he is done with me and my Garcia antics.

  I suck in a grateful breath when I realize my assumptions are wrong. “Because this is the first time, you, the sub, will be punished purely for pain instead of pleasure, I will allow you to choose your punishment and the severity of it.” His voice is monotone and flat, unlike anything I’ve ever heard.

  I nod, incapable of speaking through the heartache of him referring to me as “the sub” instead of my real name. He has always called me Cleo in the playroom. He has never addressed me as if I am not a real person.

  When he moves back to stand in front of me, I notice his feet are now bare, but his trousers remain in place, acknowledging that our session in the playroom is not about pleasure. If it were, he wouldn’t be clothed.

  “Look at me.”

  I swallow away my nerves before peering up at him. He has removed his suit jacket and tie, and his business shirt is undone at the front. Even with my mood suffocated by fearful guilt, my eyes can’t help but drink in his smooth skin pulled tightly over the impressive ridges of his stomach and torso. His body is truly a masterpiece—one I’ll do anything to make mine.

  “First, you will choose what instrument you want to be punished with. Then you will choose the severity of your punishment. But be warned, if I do not believe the punishment equates to the level of your disobedience, our session will end, and your contract will be void. Do you understand?”

  "Y-y-yes, Master Chains," I reply, idiotically stuttering like a fifth grader. It isn't panic about the pain I'm no doubt about to experience that has me stammering my words, it is the sheer darkness of Marcus's eyes. He looks like he’s lost his soul. I hate that I've caused him so much pain his usually vibrant eyes are dull and lifeless.

  “Choose your punishment, C—” He stops himself before saying my name.

  Following the direction of his gaze, I take in his wall of floggers, whips, and canes. When I first entered his playroom in Chains, I was shocked by the apparatus I assumed would be as unpleasant as they looked. But the more weeks I spent with Marcus, the more I understood that in the right hands, even something as tortuous as a whip with pronged ends can be used to entice pleasure.

  None of the toys Marcus has used on me ever solely caused pain. They walked the fine line between pleasure and pain, awarding me enough courage to try many of the floggers and whips in his collection. The only thing I haven’t been brave enough to face is the canes. I don’t know why, but they scare me. So much so, they are the perfect instrument to prove to Marcus I am taking this seriously. I understand the severity of my disobedience, and I am willing to face the consequences of my actions.

  “I choose the cane, Master Chains,” I advise. My voice comes out with so much confidence, anyone would assume I’m choosing a dessert.

  For the quickest second, Marcus’s stern mask slips, exposing an emotion his face hasn’t held tonight: panic. As quickly as his mask slipped, it returns. He paces to the wall, his steps fast and with purpose. After gathering the cane sitting in the middle of a stack of three, he moves back to stand in front of me.

  “Now the severity.”

  I peer down at my hands, trying to devise an appropriate number of strikes. I'm reasonably certain the cane will be painful, so the first number that pops into my head is deficient. But not wanting Marcus to null our contract, I continue racking my brain for a more appropriate number.

  Once I have a number settled in my head, I lift my eyes back to Marcus. His face is stern, but his eyes show he is as bewildered as I am right now.

  “I choose seven strikes, Master Chains,” I advise, hoping the seven strikes will erase the seven seconds I kissed Dexter.

  Seven may not seem like a high number, but when I realized seven seconds was all it took to unravel something magical, I’m hoping seven strikes with the cane will absolve my betrayal.

  "Very well.” Marcus nods. "Stand from your position and move to the spanking bench."

  I nod, acknowledging I’ve heard him before doing as requested. The ache in my muscles grows with every step I take. It isn't just exhaustion causing their taut response, it's my body preparing for the next stage of our exchange.

  Once I’m bent over the spanking bench where I received my first taste of anal play, Marcus moves to stand beside me. He leans the cane against the Saint Andrew’s cross so he can adjust my position. His freezing cold hands are a stark contradiction to the heat roaring through my body. Our bodies seem on opposing sides of the spectrum—much like the massive sentiment bouncing between us. The uninhibited lust that always surges between us is still in effect, but it's stultified by anger and regret.

  Happy I am positioned correctly, Marcus takes the cane in his hand. “What's your safe word, sub?” His voice is barely a whisper when he reaches my horrid nickname.

  I fight back tears before murmuring, “Pineapple.”

 
“Repeat it.”

  “Pineapple,” I choke out through a sob.

  He waits for what feels like an eternity before reiterating, "If at any time you want me to stop, say your safe word. Do you understand?"

  “Yes, Master Chains,” I reply, nodding.

  There is no chance of that happening. If I don't go through with the punishment I instigated, our contract will be void. I’ll never let that happen. Nothing would be more painful than losing Marcus—not even seven strikes with a cane.

  "I want you to count each strike. When we reach seven, this will be over, and tonight will never be mentioned again. Do you understand?"

  “Yes, Master Chains,” I repeat, thankful for his pledge that my punishment is in line with the severity of my deceit.

  “This is going to hurt,” Marcus warns under his breath as he raises the cane into the air, preparing to strike. “But it will be nothing compared to the pain I felt seeing you kiss another man.”

  I grit my teeth when the cane lands hard across my backside. Just as I had anticipated, the hit is intense, ten times worse than any I’ve been given in this playroom. Tears spring to my eyes in an instant as I cry out in pain. It's a sharp bite to my skin, one I'm certain I’ll never relish.

  I wait for the burn of his strike to release its grip on my throat before muttering, “One.”

  Marcus’s second hit is just as brutal as the first—if not more severe. The tears looming in my eyes are so plentiful, they have no option but to slide down my cheeks and drip onto the floor near Marcus’s bare feet.

  I suck in mass gulps of air, fighting to breathe through the pain roaring inside my body. It does nothing to ease the agony spreading across my butt cheeks. This pain is the worst I’ve ever endured.