Chimera

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Chimera Page 13

by Stephie Walls


  “What? James never mentioned a wait list.”

  “How do you think I knew he was aware of who you are?”

  “But you’re just as big as I am, Sera. That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Nowhere even close, but thank you.”

  “I haven’t made up my mind. James called me this morning to see if I had made a decision. I told him the things I am struggling with, none of which have anything to do with his club. He referred me to a guy locally at Stone Ground. Ever heard of it?”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s another high-end club here in town, but much smaller and nowhere near the clientele of The Warehouse. It’s actually run out of one of the homes over off Augusta Road. Their pool house is dedicated to playing. The house functions as an office of sorts. Old money, completely different kind of place, but just as reputable.”

  “I called them today. The owner’s name is Zane. Had a great conversation with him as well. Truth be told, I think I can get what I’m looking for locally for a lot less money. The investment of time would be better spent actually with a mentor than on the road for two hundred miles a trip. I told them both I’d make a decision by the end of the weekend and call them both back.”

  “Are you leaning toward Stone Ground?”

  “I like the anonymity The Warehouse offers—well the distance that adds to the anonymity—but for the type of mentoring I’m really looking for, I think Stone Ground makes more sense. I want to work one-on-one with a Dom or Master before I try anything public. It’s the mentality I want to adopt. I want my confidence back.” It’s true, but I don’t mention the other things I hope to gain in the process. Until I’m a man she respects and can see herself with, until she sees the transformation, acknowledging what I want from her would be fruitless and ruin any chance I might have in the future.

  Conversation over, I made my decision in the midst of it. Stone Ground it is, for the time being. A year or two from now, The Warehouse might make more sense, but right now, local is where I need to be. When Sera leaves, I call James and let him know. He extends an open invitation, which I will definitely take him up on. Zane is happy to hear from me, sooner than anticipated, and seems surprised I chose him over James, but I really think personality wise, he’s a better fit for how I learn. We agree to get together tomorrow to set up a schedule, classes of sorts with individual instruction. His approach is a more public one than I expected, but right now, I’m open to just about anything to get me started.

  Elated, I walk up to the front door of Stone Ground. There’s no sign; as Sera mentioned, the club is in one of the homes in the old money district, completely unidentifiable as anything other than a mansion on Crescent Avenue. A beautiful girl greets me after I ring the bell. She’s clad in a modern maid outfit of leather and lace showcasing her phenomenal assets. She escorts me down several halls to a rather grandiose office, and introduces me to Zane before she exits.

  If I were a betting man, I would’ve lost my ass describing this guy by his voice on the phone, or maybe it’s simply the idea of who I thought he should be because of his title. Master instills a certain level of respect and fear. I envisioned a larger man, especially with a name like Zane. Before me stands a ginger, I’m guessing about five ten, average build, mid-to late-thirties. There’s nothing remarkable about him, although he does have striking green eyes and a splattering of freckles. When he reaches out to shake my hand, I get the first glimpse of authority. This man exudes it. If a handshake can show you a lot about a man, this one is great. He didn’t exert force to crush my fingers, but something about his posture, the shake, and the way he introduced himself without ever breaking eye contact told me I made the right choice. Zane is a man I want to learn from.

  “Bastian, please, have a seat.” He motions to a large leather chair to the side of the room as he closes the door to provide us some semblance of privacy. “I know we spoke some about what you’re looking for and hoping to gain from having a mentor, but I wanted to go into a little more depth about what I’m expecting from you.”

  “Certainly, the more clarification you can give me, the easier it will be for me to follow instructions.”

  “You mentioned having a desire to learn about the dynamics here, but also in gaining your confidence again in everyday life. I’m assuming there’s a woman involved?”

  “Two actually. My wife who passed away almost six years ago, and the first woman—hell, the first person—who’s sparked any sort of life in me since that day. I want to make my wife proud of the man I was able to become after almost losing myself, and I want to have the confidence to be the man the new woman needs. I’m a long way from either place, but until I can be happy with who I am, I’m of no use to anyone else.”

  “I respect that. Most people don’t recognize they need to be whole before they become a pair. That being said, I really want to focus more on your confidence personally, and I want to do that by teaching you how to respect a Dom or a Master. You will not be a sub, but you will treat me with the same respect a sub would. You will do as you’re told without question, and you will trust the things I have you do are purposeful and to benefit your growth. I don’t believe anyone can lead unless they first have followed. It’s critical for any successful Dom or Master to be able to relate to their sub or slave. They can only do so if they’ve been in that role, and every Dom or Master here has been trained in this same manner.”

  I listen, not really knowing what any of this means.

  “This is not a transformation that will take place overnight—you know that, right?” he asks toward the end of our conversation.

  “Yes. I’m aware and I’m invested for the long haul.”

  “Glad to hear it. Let’s get started.”

  My God, the contracts and lists: lists of interests, things I will do, things I won’t do, things I might do, some sexual, some routine life events. The contract outlining the training and my expectations is very clear, with detailed explanations.

  I look up to him. “You want to know everywhere I go and what my plans are while I’m there?”

  “Yes, you’re accountable to someone else from now until you are released. When you stop seeing this as a requirement and start thinking of it as a privilege, someone cares for you enough to want to know your whereabouts, you will start to change the way you view yourself. You’ll start to see your worth. It’s a tedious task initially, but it’ll become second nature.”

  “I don’t want to bother you with that kind of thing, though.”

  “That’s exactly why you need to do it. It’s not a bother; it’s a commitment I’m making to you, to ensure your safety and wellbeing. As a Master, I enjoy the responsibility it brings, the confidence that I’m caring for someone else. And, Bastian, if I don’t think it’s in your best interest, you won’t be going.”

  My face contorts in all kinds of confusion. “Seriously?”

  “Your response going forward is simply, ‘Yes, Sir.’ Trust the process.” He smiles warmly at me, easing my discomfort.

  “Yes, Sir.” I sign on the dotted line, agreeing to all aspects of the contract, knowing if I violate them, he can either punish me or release me, and if he violates them, I have the option to walk away as well, but no recourse for punishment I notice.

  Before I leave, we decide I will meet with him every morning at nine o’clock in workout clothing, five days a week. He also has me give him a basic outline of my typical day, who my friends are, people I associate with, et cetera, reminding me I’m never to leave my house without expressed consent from him via phone or text unless prearranged, and even then, I’m to text him when leaving and returning and any stops in between. I confirm my understanding, clutching my copy of my contract. He hugs me goodbye, which I find a little awkward, but I go with it anyhow, and agree to see him in the morning in workout gear.

  Walking back to my house, I ponder everything Zane said, wondering how well I will do reporting to someone else, learning to respect them as well as myself. Everyth
ing he said about building self-esteem made sense in theory, but practical application might be a different story. I’ve already figured out openly doubting him or disputing him is not the way to go, and I realize how quickly he formed a bond with me. I don’t want to let him down. I want to follow his instruction so he can see me succeed, be the man I want to be. I want him to know the time he’s investing in me is not wasted. I smile at the thought of making someone proud again. Sylvie was always proud of me, Nate occasionally, too. It’s someone new, who has no reason to be, who doesn’t think I’m great because I can paint—someone I earn that from, especially someone who teaches me a skill. That will make me happy. Eager to please, I do as instructed by texting Zane as soon as I get home.

  Me: Arrived home

  Zane: Sir

  This is confusing.

  Zane: I arrived home, Sir.

  And so it begins.

  Me: I arrived home, Sir.

  My day continues as normal, spending the majority of my time painting. As the sun starts to set, I realize I never told Zane about Nate coming by every night. I quickly hack out a text to him apologizing for the oversight. He asks a couple of questions about Nate and indicates he’d like to meet him. Before I know what I’ve done, I’ve invited him over.

  I often wonder if the world is conspiring against me. Mother Nature never seems to be my friend, or karma, or whoever it is controlling people’s actions. Zane’s right on time, Nate’s late, and by great misfortune, Sera shows up unexpectedly in the midst of the chaos. She had no idea Zane was coming, and I wasn’t ready to out myself about my true motivation in this endeavor. Of course, she makes fast friends with Zane, Nate still holds her at arm’s length, afraid of the damage she could do to me, and the entire situation is awkward at best.

  Zane hangs back when Nate bugs out and Sera finally excuses herself. No sooner has the front door shut than Zane turns to me. “She’s the girl?”

  Letting out a frustrated sign, I admit, “Yes, Sir.”

  He nods his head in understanding but doesn’t say anything about her before letting himself out. “Tomorrow at nine sharp.” He doesn’t wait for a reply.

  22

  As the weeks fly by, none of this is getting any easier. It’s difficult to try to work creatively while answering to someone about my every move. The frustration mounting in me is going to come to an explosive head in the near future if there’s not some sort of progress made.

  I fucking hate working out, which we do, five days a week, an hour at a time. I cuss, and that’s a big no-no. I hate checking in with someone about going to work at a studio and having to explain the need to be there instead of my own home. How about the fucking reason is so I don’t lose my goddamn mind? How’s that for reality, Zane? He never tells me I can’t go, but sometimes, I don’t bother attempting to get out because I don’t want to answer a hundred questions about who, what, when, where, and why. The only reason I’ve continued this charade is the hopes of becoming the man Sera needs, but I’m wondering if she’ll ever see me any differently than she did two months ago or five months ago.

  I’ve tried to talk to Zane about my frustration, but his response is always the same. “Trust the process.” The process isn’t fucking working. Yes, I maintain eye contact now. No, I’m not afraid to ask for things I want or need. I no longer have social anxiety over being in public alone, but my inner irritation is at an all-time high, and it’s starting to affect my work. The agitation stifles my creativity. I’ve trashed my last two paintings because they looked like elementary school shit from a paint-by-number kit. Ferry even asked me what had me blocked. “I see the mental block in your eyes, Bastian. Whatever it is, eliminate it from your life so you can move forward.”

  Nate hasn’t spoken to me in three days, nor has he stopped by. The last time he was here, he wanted to go out to eat and I didn’t feel like asking for permission, so I told him no. He made some snarly comment about Ferry or Sera asking me and I’d hop right on out the door. The fight that erupted really had less to do with Nate’s snippy comment or jealousy toward my other friends, and more with the level of agitation at asking permission to go to dinner with my best friend. I’m a grown fucking man. And, he’s wrong; I wouldn’t have gone if Ferry or Sera had asked, either. Zane has become an enormous pain in my ass—one I don’t feel I’m reaping any reward from.

  Since Sylvie died, there hasn’t been a single day Nate hasn’t shown up on my doorstep until now. The void I’m harboring becomes unbearable. Unable to take his absence any longer, I text him. I beg him to come over and stop being a dick. An hour later he’s sitting on my couch.

  “I don’t get what’s going on, Nate.” His constant irritation confuses me.

  “You’ve just changed a lot in the last couple months and I don’t really like who you’re becoming.”

  “What?”

  “Surely you understand English, Bastian. I don’t like you much these days. You and Ferry have become butt buddies, and you’re a different person around him. You go from being carefree Bastian who loves to paint, to an elite asshole who thinks he’s God. And don’t get me started on your personality flip-flop around Sera, or Christ, that Zane guy. I mean who the hell are you anymore? Do you even know? You’ve got more personalities than Sybil, and I don’t like most of them.”

  Absorbing his words, motionless, silently, I contemplate what he’s saying and wonder if I’m ready to give up on this whole quest to be something I may not be cut out for.

  “I don’t know what you want from me, Nate. You seem to be pissed off anytime I try to do something for me.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? You aren’t doing shit for you! You’re courting Ferry for God knows what reason. You don’t need him, Bastian. If you haven’t noticed, he isn’t putting shit out that doesn’t have your name on it. You, on the other hand, have people lined up on your doorstep waiting for you to throw out a scrap of paper, hoping to get a piece of your work. You can’t paint fast enough to meet the demands. And if you think I’m going to be supportive of whatever it is you’re doing with this Zane character in order to try to get the girl, it’s not going to happen. All you’ve done is become his little bitch, and if you think that’s endearing to Sera, open your fucking eyes. She liked you the way you were, not whatever it is you’re trying to be. Have you picked up on the strain there, or are you blind to that as well?”

  I watch him pace circles on my living room floor, his chest heaving from the rush of adrenaline. Nate never loses his cool, but his face is bright red. His blood pressure is probably sky-high, and he’s doing all he can to keep it reeled in.

  Before I’m able to respond, he stops, looks me dead in the eyes, and says, “You were created to be who you are Bastian. There’s not a single person alive worth changing that for. I wish you could see the person I see—or the one I used to see. I’ve loved you like a brother my entire life. I worried for years I was going to show up one day and find your brains splattered against a wall. Then you met Sera, and for a few brief months, I had my brother back. My best friend was living again. You’re successful. Your art is brilliant. I don’t understand why you want to throw that away in an attempt to be something you’re not. You’re not in competition with Ferry; he doesn’t have something you want. And as much as I hate to tell you this, it’s possible you may never have Sera the way you want her. You need to reconcile all of this in your mind and start to make it right. When you do, give me a call.”

  “Don’t be like that. Why does it have to be all or nothing? Why are you so jealous of Ferry and Sera?”

  And that there…that blew the top. “I’m not fucking jealous of anyone, Bastian! What is it you think I want? The asshole photographer or the kinky girl? Guess what, I don’t want either one of them, and I don’t think either one of them has brought even an inkling of goodness to your life. Grow the fuck up, Bastian. We aren’t ten anymore fighting on the playground. I’ve fought for your life harder than you have, so don’t give me some bullshi
t about being jealous of a pompous ass or a flit. Pull your head out of your ass and see what’s really going on around you.”

  He grabs his jacket off the arm of the couch and storms out.

  “Are you seriously fucking leaving like this? Jesus, Nate, you’ve gotten to be worse than any melodramatic girl I’ve ever known.” I scream out my front door after him and chase him down the sidewalk, insisting on having the last word. He lets me have it, never turning around, just giving me the bird over his shoulder. I notice people standing on the street staring at me. Embarrassed by my outburst, I retreat to my hole. The door slams so hard behind me it knocks a picture I had recently framed to the floor, shattering the glass.

  With slumped shoulders and an expressive sigh, I get a broom and dustpan. The picture is one of the last taken of Sylvie. The picture itself is of Nate and me but she photo-bombed the corner at the last minute. It’s always been one of my favorites. It illustrated everything good in my life, tangible proof I was happy at one point in time, and loved. Picture in hand, I sit down in the shards of glass as I start to cry, wondering how I got so far away. Staring at the two people I love most through the pools in my eyes, their image wavers but they seemed like they would always be around, forever my constants. Now I’ve lost one, and if I don’t get my shit together, I’m going to lose the other.

  Sera peeks her head around the door as she slowly moves through the glass pieces covering the hardwood. “Bastian?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.” I quickly wipe at my face, erasing evidence of devastation.

  “What happened? And why are you on the floor? Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine. I knocked a picture down and the glass broke. Just sitting here reminiscing. Watch your step, there’s shards everywhere.” She tiptoes through the mess, and reaches for the broom. I let her sweep up the pieces. I just don’t have the energy to argue or put on the pretense of pretending like she shouldn’t be doing it. Sometimes you just have to let a friend lend a hand. She pushes at my ass with the end of the broom, indicating I need to move in order for her to clean. Getting up, I shake out my clothes, letting the shards fall to the floor.

 

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