by Aya DeAniege
“I’m asking because that’s what people do, is ask about each other.”
“You seriously watch everything about me?” I asked, shaking my head and frowning.
“Not everything,” was the quiet response as those eyes flowed down to my feet and then back up again. “There was one thing that was suggested, by Nicole, as a possible solution for your little accidents.”
“Is she one of the ones who believes I’m doing it for attention?” I spat out.
There was a stifled laugh as the man smiled. “Something of that sort.”
Each word seemed to be its own sentence. As if he hesitated afterward, trying not to say the wrong thing. I was left baffled as to what he meant and couldn’t help but feel annoyed that Nicole thought I needed some attention from a man.
“I don’t need attention.”
“Said the woman who is gripping her arms so tightly that her fingers are going white,” Mr. Wrightworth said. “Through gritted teeth, with red in your cheeks. You look like you’re about to attempt to take my balls for suggesting you might need contact with another human being.”
“And what would you suggest?” I asked.
Mr. Wrightworth slid his hands into his pockets. He considered the table with a small smile before he moved around the table and towards me. He didn’t stop until he was inches from me.
“My place, tonight at six,” Mr. Wrightworth murmured. “Don’t eat before you come. It doesn’t matter what you wear. I won’t keep you late.”
“What makes you think that I want your sort of attention?” I asked.
“If you’re linked to me, we both win. The men won’t try anything with you because you will be spoken for. The women will shut up about me and perhaps put their noses back into their files where they belong.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“You’re leaning towards me not away.”
“What?” I asked, looking down.
I shifted away from him, arms still hugging myself tightly.
“When a person doesn’t want to be touched, or to be near someone, they lean away. They’ll lean towards the exit and turn that way. Your feet are facing me. Your skin flushed, and your breath is coming quicker, but not fast enough to be fear. That grasp you have on your arms has changed. That’s not anxiety. It’s the simmering anger of being caught with a dirty thought.”
“Mr. Wrightworth, I don’t believe such a relationship would be appropriate.”
“Give it a chance, Darling. There are addendums to all contracts, even my contract as head of the Program.”
My name, the mention of the addendum? I was caught in thought as Mr. Wrightworth pulled away. He moved across the room and picked up the bag, clearing his throat when I didn’t react.
Ever so slowly I turned towards him.
“My place at six,” Mr. Wrightworth said with a slow smile. “Let’s see if we can’t come up with something interesting to do.”
“How do I get there?” I asked.
Even though he had explained it before, it had been months before, and I hadn’t needed the lines since then. They had melted into the background, were simply a part of the setting.
“Follow the blue lines. Don’t be late, Darling. I don’t like it when my visitors are late.”
Chapter Four
At precisely six, I knocked on the blue door.
Mr. Wrightworth’s floor had a great deal fewer doors than mine had. Those doors were further apart down the hallway, and there were maybe a dozen in all. Whereas my floor three or four dozen. I had never bothered to count them before, but looking down that hallway I realized just how many people lived on my floor. People I almost never saw. And if that was one floor down one hallway, there were thousands of people working in the Program building and living there. Each to their little apartment, each with walls and a locking door between them and everyone else.
In the slums, we were six to ten in a two bedroom apartment.
Everyone could find Mr. Wrightworth’s apartment, though he lived alongside the higher ranks from the Program. The carpet and walls all had the same quality to them as the other floors I had been on. From the outside, the upper-rank apartments appeared to be the same as those of the lower floors, just a little larger.
Mr. Wrightworth opened the door in pyjama bottoms and a worn t-shirt. The shirt had once had a band’s logo on the front but had faded to almost nothing through so many washes. There was even a small tear in the collar of the shirt, which was clearly a size larger than Mr. Wrightworth needed.
My mouth fell open. I was so surprised to see him without the formal wear. At that point, I was almost certain he slept in the suit while standing up. Underneath the suit, he wasn’t as lean as he appeared. There was a wiry sort of muscle to him, not quite as obvious as Nathaniel’s, but still there.
“You’re late,” Mr. Wrightworth said, stepping to the side as he motioned into his apartment.
“I’m on time.”
“On time is late,” Mr. Wrightworth said.
I walked in and shifted to the side as he closed the door.
Mr. Wrightworth’s home was a rather large apartment. It had two rooms, not small ones either, a full bathroom, and a living room with a balcony that overlooked the slums but also faced east. The kitchen was larger than my place a few floors lower, and it even had an eating area attached to it.
The walls and carpeting were still the neutral colours of my apartment. Whereas my walls were blue, Mr. Wrightworth’s were a purple-ish grey. There was no artwork or photographs on the walls, making it look stark, but then most apartments in the building were bereft of wall decoration.
I gawked about, just looking at the space of the place. Of course, I could only see the front hallway and into the kitchen, I would see the rest of the apartment later.
“Stop gawking,” he said, moving into the kitchen.
Suddenly he came back.
Mr. Wrightworth wrapped a hand around my throat and tightened until I gasped. My whole world narrowed to him. I whimpered, I wanted to melt into that touch, but managed to stay on my feet. I did reach up and grasp his wrist with both of my hands. I needed the extra stability.
“I said stop gawking,” Mr. Wrightworth said in a commanding tone. “Understand?”
“Yes,” I said, a shudder rolling through me.
Why do I react like that every time?
The roiling in my belly and sudden moist feeling between my legs didn’t help matters. I certainly didn’t understand then the sort of comfort one can find in submitting to another. I was still very new to the whole thing.
Many don’t realize that it’s not submitting to just anyone that does it, it has to be the right person. Being forced to submit to Nathaniel’s father hadn’t enticed me in the least.
But Nathaniel would never hurt me without cause. Mr. Wrightworth would never cross a line, at least not once he knew where the line was.
“Yes, Master,” Mr. Wrightworth corrected.
“Yes, Master,” my voice shook as I spoke the title.
Patrick wasn’t just there to tease Mr. Wrightworth. He was there to make a point.
It was only then that I realized that Patrick played a larger role than being subservient because of the rift that was developing between the Program and Nathaniel’s company. A Master was different from a Sir. I understood that even then. They had even told me as much during that day at church. The two had been dropped into the same category, however, as a dominant. We hadn’t had the time to get into the actual differences between the two titles.
He released me and walked back into the kitchen.
“There are cameras here, but only I have the password to access the network,” Mr. Wrightworth murmured as he pulled a pot off his stove. “The walls are supposed to be sound proof, but I’ve yet to test that. As much as I want to hear you scream, we will end up using a gag. Don’t need to get arrested for—what’s that look for?”
“I don’t like gags,” I said.
“You will get used to them.”
“Nathaniel used a ball gag on me because I didn’t say something when he wanted me to,” I said, the fear blooming in my belly. A cold flooded through me as I recalled that I was supposed to have told Mr. Wrightworth about it the first time I saw him. “I was supposed to tell you the next time I saw you.”
“Given the circumstances, I doubt anyone would blame you,” he said, opening a drawer and pulling out a spoon.
“But he said if I didn’t—”
“No harm, Darling,” he said, raising his voice slightly. “Come here. This is dinner. It’s just mashed potato with some ground meat and peas. My mother’s favourite thing to make when the pay didn’t stretch quite far enough and rations ran low. Although this has more meat and peas than she put.”
I took a bowl, happy for the slum food. It was comforting to see and smell something I recognized.
“My mother used corn, and the meat was usually stuff she strained off her broth,” I said, accepting a spoon.
“I remember those days, then my brothers and sisters went to work but still lived with us. That was some good eating. For about a year before they all moved out.”
We moved to the eating area, and he sat. I sat across from him and immediately began to eat. He smiled slightly as he ate a bite of his food.
Again, we ate in silence.
When Mr. Wrightworth finished his meal, he stood and picked up my bowl, waiting just long enough for me to place my spoon into the bowl before he walked to the kitchen.
The dishes went into a dishwasher, along with the pot and spoon. He hadn’t made any extra, had wasted no food. It was a mark of a poor person long into life. Waste not, want not.
“Come,” he said, walking off.
Almost sighing, I stood and moved through the kitchen and followed him deeper into the apartment. The bathroom was right by the door of the apartment. The two bedrooms were along the outer wall of the building. Both had windows, and both had curtains on regular rods. He took me into the room at the end of the hall.
I have no idea how he managed it, but Mr. Wrightworth had smuggled in play furniture. Perhaps he had the items labelled as something else and shipped in their pieces. Attached to the ceiling in the middle of the room was a chain through a hoop. The chain went through the hoop and then connected to the floor, where it was locked into place in another hoop.
“Strip,” Mr. Wrightworth said.
I stripped off the work dress I had tossed on. I didn’t have anything else that appeared formal enough to wear on this imaginary date of ours. Besides the clothing I used to work out in, all I had were the work dresses. I wasn’t even certain where to go if I wanted new clothing.
Mr. Wrightworth looked me over, then motioned to the bra. Hesitantly, I took it off and dropped it with the dress.
He approached me as the fear returned. I was almost naked, in front of a man, and it wasn’t for medical purposes. It felt so wrong.
“Anything that isn’t covered is available for being struck,” he said, motioning down as he stepped ever closer.
I pulled away, putting distance between us as I crossed my arms over my chest to hide my breasts.
“Mm, those,” he said with a small nod. “Those aren’t exactly appealing to me. But if the bra is on, there will be a band across your back. That will interfere with what I want to do to you.” I shivered again. He smiled in response. “You, of course, know that I don’t play with women except as consensual discipline. This is an exception. We are not that sort of pair. I will never fuck you, or have you. If sexualization is brought into the play, we will use toys on you. Never on me.
“This isn’t about me, though I’m sure I will derive pleasure from it in some form.
“Come over here.”
He moved to the chain hanging from the ceiling. I edged towards him, and he snapped his fingers, jabbing at his feet. Afraid that he might hurt me otherwise, I rushed to the spot.
“I’m going to tie you with this,” he grabbed the chain and the manacles attached to them. “Tonight, that’s all that’s going to happen. Raise your hands,” when I did as he told me, he slipped the manacles on each of my wrists and tightened them. “I’m going to sit by the door there and turn on some music. You will hang here until I let you go. You will trust,” Mr. Wrightworth took my chin in his hand and lifted my face so that I had to look into his eyes. “You will learn to trust me, Darling.”
He walked behind me and music began. The music was soft, almost peaceful, but it didn’t quite override the panic that was quickly overwhelming me. Of course, I hadn’t been tied since my time in medical and that had been only a little while. To a bed no less. Nathaniel’s father had strung me up like that, he had even used a chain and manacles just like that.
I stiffened at the thought as I caught a whiff of a familiar cologne. Trying to get in a breath, I turned towards Mr. Wrightworth, half expecting Nathaniel’s father to be there.
“Face forward,” Mr. Wrightworth snarled.
I turned back, my heart thundering in my ears. The smell seemed to get stronger. I tugged at the manacles, needing to get away.
He was there. I swear he was there!
“Banana!” I shouted.
“What?” Mr. Wrightworth asked, his confusion plain in his voice.
“Banana,” I sobbed. “Please let me down.”
The man came around me, frowning as he cocked his head. “What’s that? What’s banana for?”
“It’s my safe word,” I said between sobs, still struggling to get out of the manacles.
Mr. Wrightworth’s hand darted out, grabbing the chain and holding me almost still as he stepped close to me.
“Why would he use that word? Most use red so that you can call yellow as well. Hold still. Stop. Stop, Darling.” I came to a sudden stop, still crying. “I’m going to let you out, but you are not to run, understand?”
“Yes,” I cried.
He pulled me free of the manacles.
Of course, I ran.
I made it out of the room and almost to the front door before Mr. Wrightworth slammed into me. His body impacting with mine forced the air from my lungs and thumped me against the door. Almost naked, I struggled against his hot body as he grabbed first one, then the other wrist. He pinned my wrists to the door above my head. I shuddered to a stop as he pushed himself against me, pinning me with his body.
And that was how I learned I liked being restrained physically.
I half expected a flood to come from between my legs. I pushed against his body, and Mr. Wrightworth responded by snarling. The fear came flooding back at the anger in that snarl. I struggled again as he yanked me from the door, dragging me into the kitchen. He thrust me over the counter, narrowly missing the upper cupboard with my head. I struggled harder, crying out when he thrust against me, pinning me with his body once more.
What does a man do to a woman who disobeyed him and was then pinned to a counter? I thought he was going to rape me. The wound was far too fresh.
I struggled harder.
Mr. Wrightworth growled again and sat up, one hand very firmly placed between my shoulder blades. The other hand moved and I thought he was pulling himself free. It didn’t help things a moment later when he yanked down my underwear.
“Please don’t!” I cried.
“You should have thought of that before you ran,” he growled back.
I flinched. The stinging impact didn’t seem to register fully. It was not the sort of stinging I expected, certainly a lot higher than I expected. Even if he was going a different route. The second strike made me whimper as the sting turned to pain. The third strike was followed by yet another heated flood as my hips ground against the counter.
“Are you...” Mr. Wrightworth stopped. His free hand flitted between my legs. “Well, that’s...”
There was a thumping at the door. An annoying sound as I writh
ed against the counter.
He leaned close, sighing out.
“I think I’m going to have to alter that sexualization comment. Get to the bathroom and stay there. Now.”
He pulled away and threw a tea towel at me, to cover myself. I stepped out of my underwear, which had been around my ankles on the floor, and left the kitchen, headed for the bedroom, not the bathroom.
Mr. Wrightworth answered the door as I went around the corner.
“Mr. Wrightworth, we’re part of the patrol, just received a complaint about thumping and a female voice. We need to check your apartment. It is policy.”
“I have a visitor,” Mr. Wrightworth said quickly. “What was heard was not pain.”
“We still have to check. It is policy.”
“I have a female guest one time, and everyone thinks I’m raping and murdering her in my apartment?” Mr. Wrightworth demanded.
“Sir, it’s policy,” the other man said, sounding a bit desperate. “Of course we don’t think you’ve done anything, but we have to check.”
“Mr. Wrightworth?” I called out as I walked around the corner. “Who’s at the door?”
I lifted the tea towel as Mr. Wrightworth stood to the side and pulled the door fully open. Holding the two corners up near my breasts, the fabric draped down, barely covering me. Thank goodness Mr. Wrightworth liked big tea towels. Otherwise, I would seriously risk showing a nipple or the very edge of my sex.
Two men in policing garb gaped at me.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” one managed to get out, reaching for a notepad and pen in his pocket.
“Izzy,” I said with a hesitant smile.
I wanted to run away.
The two men weren’t moving and—while Mr. Wrightworth was between them and me—it was dawning on me that he might not rape me, but that wouldn’t necessarily stop him from inviting the other two in to do the job. I wanted to get rid of them as soon as possible, but neither seemed interested in leaving anytime soon.
They even stepped into the apartment, and Mr. Wrightworth closed the door behind them.
I took a step back. Mr. Wrightworth, behind the pair of them, shot me a scathing look and jabbed sternly at the floor. My feet became wooden. I couldn’t seem to get them moving.