I put on my bathrobe; it was Saturday and Preston should be at home. I expected he’d still be sleeping at eight o’clock, but I found him in his study, dressed for the day as impeccably as he was when he came to work—just a little more casually in tan slacks and a lightweight black sweater.
“What is it?” he asked looking up at me.
“I need to talk with you.”
“Yes?” He stared at me as coldly as he had the first time I met him. My legs were trembling, and my hands so sweaty that I couldn’t even rub them dry on my robe. Worse yet, everything I wanted to tell him suddenly vanished from my mind as if someone, or some thing, had tiptoed in and tiptoed out, taking my thoughts with them.
“I… uh…” I shook my head. “Nothing.”
“No?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, then you can get started helping me get ready for the party tonight.”
“What party?”
“Oh, I suppose I didn’t mention it to you.”
This was surprising, since I thought I knew about everything going on his life.
“Just a small intimate gathering… a few friends I’m sure you haven’t met.”
I had no idea what I faced, but I was sure I wouldn’t like it.
The very worst thing about his little soirée was that I never did remember what I failed to tell him—what had been vanished by that little mind thief. My disquiet got shuffled aside and after a time left me in peace, while I busied myself making his apartment perfect and his canapés delicious.
By the time his soiree started, I had completely forgotten that I’d awakened in a panic. I suppose that mortal terror had been too nebulous and difficult to comprehend. It was soon destined to be replaced by real panic based on things I had a right to fear.
“Thank you for getting this done.” It was ten to eight. I was disheveled and sweaty from cleaning, because the housemaid hadn’t shown that day. “You can take the evening off and rest.”
“Rest?” I’d expected him to order me into the shower so that I’d be presentable to his guests.
“Yes, rest.”
“I thought…”
“Thought what? That you’d be attending?”
“Maybe, yeah.”
He smiled like a condescending parent.
“But the party isn’t for you, Skye. It’s private.”
Oh, hadn’t he punctuated that nicely?
“You have the evening off, which you surely need. Besides, you look like a wreck. I’m not sure there would be enough time to make you presentable for my guests. Now run along.”
At this point I’d been there almost two months. Most of the time, it had been just the two of us, but I knew there were a few nights when he entertained other women. I heard them come in late, the giggling girlfriend muffling her presence in the bedroom, while Preston spent two minutes taking care of me—sort of like putting the pet to bed for the night. I stuffed away my concerns, hid my internal protests—he’d made himself perfectly clear on the issue of other women that day at the housing development; I wouldn’t make a fool of myself again. But this time the fact of my submission hit me in the face like a giant 2x4, right between the eyes. It then moved on to hit me squarely in the gut.
I managed to keep my poise long enough to say, “Thanks.”
I went to my room like the dutiful slave girl I was, but I didn’t close the door. I couldn’t. Green with envy for everyone who walked into the sparkling clean room, into that warmly glowing atmosphere of sexual seduction, into the music, incense, lighting, the smell of wine and rich hors d’oeuvres. I couldn’t shut myself off. I forced myself to listen, and allowed my gut to wrench as I heard the sounds of laughter and levity, and later, the sighs and groans of intimate foreplay. I heard the sharp snap of leather on skin and wished it were my flesh taking the beating. I craned my neck, listening for Preston specifically, although I never quite identified him in particular. Minutes ticked by, and then an hour or two, I listened with a longing that finally led me to disobey, and I crept from of my room and down the hallway, where I watched from an alcove in the kitchen, hopefully undetected.
Then I was suddenly jolted by the unthinkable, “Skye!” Preston’s voice rang with that commanding, icy tone of reprimand that he had so thoroughly mastered, the very one that made my whole body shudder and my pussy wet.
I didn’t move.
“Skye, out here now! I know you’re there.”
I was dressed in pajama pants and a man’s old tee shirt, my breasts tenting the stretchy fabric. I could even feel my nipples grow taut from arousal, looking like two perky headlights at the tips of my ample breasts. I padded into the room trying to look guiltless.
“What were you doing there?”
I shrugged.
“Answer me.” He lounged on the sofa. A woman I didn’t know was draped on his one side. His legs were crossed, ankle on knee in a casual pose I’d never seen. Even so, he was very masterly, very stern. I even liked that, but all those other unfamiliar eyes made me hate every miserable sweaty second of the interrogation. “Didn’t I tell you to stay in your room?”
“Hmm, not exactly.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
“Not what?” He looked at me incredulously. I had no idea what was behind that, until it dawned on me that he expected the same language from me now that I used in private with him.
“I’m not lying, sir. At least that is how I understood my instructions. You never mentioned that I had to stay in my room. I came out to get a Coke.”
“If you really believe that line, Skye, then you’re more stupid that I thought you were.”
“You’re calling my stupid?”
“I’m calling it how I see it.”
“Well, to hell with you, Preston Lockhart.”
I guess I was wound too tightly; too pent-up. Regardless of whether I was some man’s submissive or not, after several months worth of holding back—and my angry jealousy—the nasty little piece of me that needed to spit and fuss a bit just burst out in one split second.
“To hell with me?” he repeated, amused—and I think just a little drunk.
“Yeah… that’s right.”
“Well, exactly what is it you want from me? I’ve asked you that before, and you couldn’t answer.” Yes, the question was familiar, but I couldn’t remember why… nor could I even recall the first time he asked it… “Maybe you know now.”
My whole body was hot, my face beating with shame. I wanted out of the room, but I couldn’t figure how that would happen. I finally shrugged again, flippantly. “I’m a novice in your game, Preston. And I probably want too much. I’ve been thinking that I could be your submissive, and also be the woman in your life.” I looked around nervously at the women on either side of him. I almost lost my train of thought; I was almost crying. But then, the last of my speech wasn’t about to go unsaid. “I guess I didn’t read the contract clearly,” I blurted out sarcastically, “not that it was ever stated in so many words, or there was anything for me to sign. So, you’ve made a fool of me. I’m sure I deserved it, but damn it,” I took a deep breath, “I’m in love with you!”
With hot tears stinging my eyes, I was too embarrassed to stay and wait for his answer. I took off, not looking back.
Though Preston called me, I refused to stop.
“Skye!” he said it so sharply that I did hesitate at the door of my room.
To my shock, he’d bolted from his lounging position—having a whole helluva lot more energy that I’d thought he’d have so late in the evening—and was at my door in seconds, taking me by the arm, hauling me back to the living room where his friends waited with great interest. He plopped back down on the sofa next to the pretty, pert girl with ice blonde hair and a droopy languid smile. All the while he stared at me as if to say, “Don’t you dare move a muscle.” I wasn’t going to whether he said it or not.
“Letha, you know the paddle in the cupboard? Go get
it for me.” Letha was not the blonde, but turned out to be the woman slouching in the easy chair to his right. The thick, attractive, big-mouthed brunette was more than happy to oblige my master, and moved with some unexpected grace, and certainly enthusiasm to retrieve the requested item. She returned with a hefty wooden punishment paddle that had been drilled with holes. It was at least eighteen inches from handle to the far edge of the business end—a horrible sight to my wide-shocked eyes.
He reached for me, before I could back off, and pulled me over his lap. His physical strength was compellingly evident. All the muscles in his body seemed to converge on me, to hold me in place inside the powerful grasp of his arm. Preston tore at my pajama bottoms until they were dangling at my feet, then he swiftly paddled my behind to a garishly purple hue, with bruises rising underneath the scalded skin. Each smack was dreadful, as the plump rounds of my ass took an awful beating. Though I wanted to cry, I tried vainly to hold back my anguish because I thought I should. To stoically keep the pain inside almost hurt me more than the sting of the wood; and that wood was a dreadful master of my emotions. It finally prevented any attempt I could make to control myself. Before Preston finished I became a wriggling, jerking, frantic, snapping, crying bitch. Although I have no idea what I said—I’m sure it was awful—Preston never threw it back at me, which has always surprised me. Maybe some things you just have to let go.
After he finished blistering my ass, he put the paddle down and worked his fingers in between my thighs, playing with my genitals. It wasn’t sixty seconds and I was coming—with his blessing. But the bigger blessing was more a curse—the raw humiliation of being revealed for what I was in such a public display. I guess there had been many other such circumstances during the course of the game that revealed my true self, but none were quite so textbook as this one for shaming me and leaving me stripped of any self-respect.
“Now, Skye, apologize to my guests.”
He pushed me to my feet. I was a bit lightheaded and not particularly lucid, but I managed to utter something like, “I’m sorry I ever started this. It was pretty stupid. I hope I haven’t ruined your night.”
“Okay, now, get to your room, Skye. Close the door and see if you can behave yourself until morning. You’ll do the rest of your explaining then.”
In a more favorable recollection of the night, I believed that Preston and I gave his audience a good show. Where else would anyone see such a display of power, humiliation and good old-fashioned corporal punishment? I met all the people at that party some time later at various occasions. If could poke fun at myself over the incident that endeared me to most of that crowd.
I didn’t know until the next morning that our clash the night before would be another turning point in our relationship. Whether he would have chosen that time to deliver his next amazing message, I’ll never know, but in retrospect, I was almost grateful for that horrible night for what happened the morning after.
I was standing before him, humbled, while he was sitting on the sofa in roughly the same position he’d been the night before, though at the moment, drinking his morning coffee. He had that impeccable stern look on his face that made be ready for a wintry blast and remind me of the terrific ache in my behind. My biggest worry was that he’d whale on me again, just to emphasize his point—or even worse, order me out of his life forever.
“Come here, Skye.” As soon as he drew me closer, I felt my body flood with relief. “Sit down.” He patted the sofa beside him, placing me in a position I’d rarely enjoyed with him and it made me nervous. He was leveling the playing field and I wasn’t used to it. “You raised a point last night I need to speak to…”
“Oh?”
“I’m going to say this once because I’m not the kind of man who gushes affection. What I feel deeply, I keep to myself, but in this case you need to know the facts. Don’t expect me to repeat them often, so listen carefully.” The unusual situation was already enough to scare me, but this surprising candor only made me frantic.
“Preston, please, I’m so sorry about last night.”
“Yes, I know you are,” he said trying to calm me, “but now I need for you to shut up and listen.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make no mistake, Skye, you are the one woman in my life. I may toy with others and tease you with them, but they are meaningless trifles. Remember that and it should ease your anxiety.” Already the feeling of relief made me smile with happiness. “It has never been my intention to own a harem of slaves… I just want one perfect one, and that is you. We may be dissimilar in many ways, but in one respect we could be perfect clones.”
My smile vanished. “Clones?” That seemed to be stretching things. I was very curious about how he figured that.
“We make spaces between ourselves, put on this grand show of exhibition, of master and submissive, in part because we like the game itself. But that’s only half the reason. We’re alike because we’re comfortable with our emptiness. Playing our games keeps us from getting too close, from stirring up things we want to hide. You see it in me; I see it in you.”
Yes, of course, it was that vulnerability, his frailty, getting addressed in simple language. What a relief was my first thought, that he even knew it was there. On second thought, though, I realized what he was saying about me, and I wasn’t particularly comfortable with his assessment. He saw the question in my eyes.
“You think you can hide yourself from me?”
I blushed a bit. “I suppose I can’t.”
“We’re going to keep things simple between us. My rules, the requirements hold fast, I’ll enforce my will on you with every bit of zeal I can. There’s no end to the things I want to do to you, the situations I will put you in. Some are unapologetically sadistic, others more kind. You will hate me often. But you’ll live with it, and get the pleasure too. But just to be sure you understand the other side of me… I’m not asking strict obedience from you only to seek other pleasures from other women. You’re the only one I expect to ever need. If I take another woman, it’s only to remind you of the game we play, to keep it fresh and your anxious body titillated. I want you aroused above anything else, because it keeps me aroused—just like it was last night. That is my fascination. But even so, you’re the only woman I need.” He stopped, like he was waiting for his speech to sink in.
I thought a minute, “Let me get this straight… are you telling me you… you love me?”“Yes. I suppose I am.”
“I do love you,” I restated what I’d said the night before, just in case he hadn’t remembered.
“Yes, I know. You’ve said so in your own very direct way.”
I smiled a little bashfully.
“I think you’re beautiful, Skye; sexy, smart, efficient, feisty and full of spirit. You’re a damned good submissive, you usually follow orders well, and I know you’re malleable, even when you’re pissed off. I like that, because even when you’re failing me, which isn’t very often, you’re working at making this relationship work. I know you’re happy with the distance I maintain between us, as happy with it as I am. Even so, you need me to say these things, so here they are in plain English.” He paused. “Anything else you need to know?” I was too dumbfounded to know what to say after that. Here I had an open window, and all I could do was close it softly. I shook my head, “You really stumped me here.”
“Good,” he smiled. “Like to keep you on your toes. And next time we make love, don’t hold anything back.”
“I’ve been holding back?”
“You think about it, Skye.”
I thought about his accusation for some days after he made it… after we’d been in bed together several times and my sexual world suddenly exploded like New Year’s Eve in Times Square. Apparently, I wasn’t holding back anymore. We kissed, we hugged, we held each other tightly, and made love with a directness that put me in awe. I think he was in awe too because we hardly talked about it afterwards.
Preston shattered a few myths abou
t who I am, having held a mirror to my face. He made me look at myself, just so we could both be honest. He didn’t have to force me to obey him, the way my advertisement once suggested. I’d do anything he asked. But he had forced me to surrender everything… even the things I wanted to keep for myself.
***
Some time later….
It was the end of the day. I was dead tired. My cruel taskmaster had had me running since seven thirty that morning, and I wanted to go home to my little cell of a bedroom and crash.
Of course, Preston was aware of my state of being, which I suppose was why he decided to turn things on me so abruptly.
We arrived at the busy beer bar in the middle of the early evening crowd. I was unfamiliar with the place, a rustic roadside establishment with generic chairs and tables, old license plates along the walls, and faded movie posters that had been there decades. It appealed to truckers, bikers, blue collar studs, and even Preston’s working crowd of executives who wanted a little anonymity as they waited for a different kind of evening to begin. No one cared what you looked like or who you were with. It was smoky, noisy and crowded at seven o’clock. On a Friday night, it would stay that way until two a.m. when the bar closed.
We sat across from each other in a tiny booth on the sidelines, drinking margaritas and eating chips. A half dozen strangers to me, but friends of Preston ambled over to pay their respects, some striking up conversations that left me lost, a few others, just gesticulating the ways guys do to say, hello, and then moving on.
I suppose it had been some weeks since I’d been ordered to do anything outrageous—which made we wonder if Preston had run out of ideas, or just the energy to see them through. To his credit, he routinely sent me some provocative email with specific instructions. For one entire day, I worked in the office nude. Of course, since my office adjoined his, and could only be accessed through his, he created a barrier enough to keep my position from being compromised. It was an unbelievable experience—another love/hate relationship with my lust.
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