by Lila Dubois
“Either you trust me or there’s no point in this.”
“That’s not fair, for you to just ask me to trust you without discussion.” Christiana turned to face him—which conveniently meant her back was to the window.
James looked hard and stern, and she shivered. Strangely, she also felt calmer.
“The windows are treated,” he said. “No one can see in, though at night, depending on the lighting, I believe shadows are visible.”
“Oh.”
“Normally, I would not stop to explain, because so often it’s a stalling tactic, or a way to fight my control.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Dino had said he made slaves stand by the window as punishment.
“I know, which is why I explained.” James put one hand in his pocket. “I want you to lower your hands.”
Christiana hesitated only a moment before dropping her hands to her sides.
James didn’t look at or ogle her breasts—he kept his attention on her face. “How do you feel?”
“Okay.”
“That’s not enough. Honesty.”
She paused, needing to sort through her own feelings before she could say more. “I feel… calm, a little excited, a little sad.”
“Why sad?”
Because you’re going to train me to be a submissive and then leave. Because I think I fell in love with you.
“I’m not quite sure.” It was a lie, but she wasn’t willing to give him a true answer to that question. She was already enough the fool in this little play—the ignorant interloper, the amateur peasant—that she wouldn’t add lovesick idiot to her list of descriptors.
“Why calm?”
Again, she took a moment to think before answering. “Because I trust you. Because I want”—you—“to be here.”
“And that isn’t how you felt with the dinosaur man?”
“Dinosaur man? Oh, Dino. No, it wasn’t.”
James reached up, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She’d quickly redone her bun, but hadn’t had time to do anything more with her hair.
“Did you wear it up for me?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied softly.
“Good.” James reached around for her bun and pulled out the pins. Her hair tumbled free. He slid his fingers into it, shaking out the locks, and then stepped back. “Christiana?”
“Yes?”
“Kneel.”
Chapter 5
Christiana sank to her knees, taking the “kneeling up” position. She’d found and studied a chart showing different submission positions and even read a blog about how the goal should be to move gracefully into each position. She’d done a bit of this with James, at the start of that second night, kneeling and waiting. One comment on a blog post she read said it was essential to be able to rise from a kneeling position using only thigh muscles, in case your hands were bound behind your back. She’d practiced her postures while alone in her apartment, feeling stupid all the while.
She bowed her head, arms hanging at her sides but her wrists twisted so her palms faced forward.
James didn’t say anything, but he lifted a lock of her hair, letting it run between his fingers.
Christiana kept her gaze on the floor as long as she could, but as the silence stretched, she couldn’t stand it anymore, and looked up, though she kept her chin down. The position meant she could only see as far as his waist. He had one hand in his pocket, in a posture she now recognized as uniquely James. He was wearing a belt—glossy black leather with a rectangular metal plate instead of the more traditional buckle.
She imagined him sliding that belt out of the loops of his pants and…
The fantasy she was building sputtered and died when the idea of anything, let alone a belt, touching her abused ass had reality overriding fantasy. She dropped her gaze to the glossy hardwood floor.
“I must admit I find myself conflicted as to how to proceed,” he murmured.
“Why, Sir?”
“Sir?”
“Oh, should I not have called you that?”
“Why did you?”
“Because we’re… Please just tell me if I did something wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong; I just want to understand if you decided to use ‘Sir’, or if it was more instinctive.”
“More instinctive, I think, Sir.”
“Perhaps the best way to go about it would be to act as if you were a novice.”
“I’m not a total novice,” she said. “I spent three nights with this Dom at a fancy party in San Francisco…”
“Ha ha,” he murmured, and she could hear the smile in his voice. His fingers feathered against her cheek. “I haven’t trained many novices,” he said. “Actually, I haven’t trained any, but I know the general idea behind it.”
“You’re a novice at training?” Christiana bit the inside corner of her mouth to hold back the smile, though she doubted he’d be able to see it.
“Careful, my sweet, or you’ll earn a punishment.”
“Can I ask a question about that, Sir?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t quite understand punishment. Sometimes it seems to be things the person really doesn’t like, but sometimes it’s a spanking, and a spanking isn’t really a punishment.”
“Are you thinking about when I spanked you?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I’ve thought about having you over my lap more than I care to admit in the past month,” he murmured, then cleared his throat. “Punishment is an interesting prospect in BDSM, and how it’s used is different for everyone.”
“How do you use it, Sir?”
“I don’t,” he said simply.
“But you spanked me.”
“True, and that wasn’t punishment. That was impact play.”
“Oh.” Christiana thought she understood. “What about the brush spanking?”
“Did you enjoy that?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And I intended you to. Again, impact play, though I called it punishment, as that’s part of the mental game.”
“So, what do you do when you really need to punish someone?”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t punish them?”
“No, if my partner is unable to handle being with me, I sever the connection.”
“So, you punish them by leaving them.”
“I wouldn’t consider it punishment.”
“But you… withdraw your attention.” She’d read that phrase somewhere.
“If a submissive does something that would need real punishment, we weren’t a good fit anyway.”
Christiana wasn’t sure how she felt about that. On one hand it made sense, but on the other she now knew that if she messed up, seriously messed up, he would just leave. “What would be so bad that you would leave?” she asked.
“Lying,” he replied quietly. “Not communicating with me.”
She winced, then curled her hands into loose fists.
“Maintain your position,” he commanded.
Christiana suddenly felt cold and alone and stupid, kneeling there on the floor. What was she doing? On the surface this was no different than what she’d done when she went with Dino. Perhaps it was even stupider, because though she knew James, he had the kind of power and resources that made him inherently dangerous. He was like the scorpion in the fable. That same sense of wrongness that had gripped her when she was with Dino was creeping into her mind now.
“Let’s start with some postures,” he murmured. “You didn’t enjoy high protocol style play before, but that was most likely because you didn’t know it.”
She didn’t think that was why, but said, “I know the positions, the postures, Sir.”
He grunted. “Then I want to see humble.” He sounded cold and far away.
Christiana took a moment, searching her memory for exactly what that position was supposed to look like. She lowered her upper body to the floor, her arms stretched ou
t in front of her, wrists crossed over one another. She rested her forehead on the floor between her arms. She was supposed to have her butt resting on her heels, but she kept her hips elevated just enough so her heels didn’t touch her abused flesh.
“Uncross your wrists. Palms flat. Fingers spread.”
She adjusted her position as he ordered, following each of his commands.
His footsteps echoed as he walked around her, and she could feel the vibrations in her forehead. “Spread your knees wider.”
She made the final adjustments, and waited for him to say something, but instead she heard him walk away.
He was gone long enough that her abused ass and thigh muscles started to ache from holding the position, her shoulders cramped, and she felt very, very stupid.
Was this what submission was like—real submission? She tried to tell herself to relax, to find subspace, but her mental litany of this is stupid, this is stupid made that impossible.
She didn’t want this, she realized. Not this—the cold, aloof commands, uncomfortable positions, and solitude. She wanted what she’d had with him at the club. She wanted that closeness and intimacy. She’d thought she would have that again if she was with James, but now she was with James, and it wasn’t the same.
His footsteps returned, and she took a deep breath. She was just having a bad moment. It would pass, and she would stop feeling like this.
“Table,” he commanded.
Christiana hesitated, then pushed up so she was on all fours, her back flat and level. Her hair was hanging in her face, effectively blinding her. A cold glass settled on the small of her back. She shivered.
“Hold still,” he barked.
Christiana blinked and a tear slid down her face. No, no, no. This wasn’t what she wanted, wasn’t what she’d been craving with James. He made her feel alive and whole. At least he had. Now she felt invisible and inconsequential.
James pulled a chair over, then sat. He reached out and took the drink off her back, sipping before setting it down again.
More tears slid down her cheeks. This was all wrong. She’d made a mistake. Yet another mistake in her ongoing series of terrible mistakes.
The next time he lifted the glass, she scrambled away, hands and knees thunking against the floor.
“Christiana, resume your position.” He sounded stern.
She grabbed her sweater off the floor and, still kneeling, pulled it on. She wrapped it closed over her naked body and swiped at her cheeks.
“Christiana?” Now it was a question.
“I made a mistake. I don’t… I don’t want this. I’m sorry. I thought it would be like…” She stumbled to her feet, no grace, no poise. She frantically brushed her hair back. Strands were sticking to her wet face.
“My sweet, are you crying?”
“Don’t,” she pleaded. “Don’t call me that. It reminds me of what it was like before and that’s…” Breaking my heart.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“This. Us. It’s not like it was before.”
“Of course not. I’m training you now.”
“Then I don’t want to be trained.” Christiana turned to him.
James’s face was stern and hard. He was so handsome, and in that moment so unapproachable.
She took a half step back, hating the feelings rolling through her. It was all just too much, from her terrible decision to go with Dino, to what happened in his playroom, to her resolution to find James, to the realization of exactly who he was, to finally seeing him. It had been an insane twenty-four hours, and she had had enough.
Christiana burst into tears, hating herself for crying. She so rarely cried, yet when she was around James, she couldn’t seem to hold back the tears. Getting upset and crying wasn’t who she was. She was better than that. She was strong and smart.
Right now, she felt weak and stupid. He was making her feel weak and stupid, and that meant it was time to leave.
“Christiana, did you hurt yourself?” Now his voice was soft with concern.
“No,” she snapped, anger rising. “This is all wrong. I’m an idiot.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m leaving. Thank you for… for being willing to try, but that”—she gestured to the spot where she’d knelt to be used as a table—“I won’t do that. If that’s what submitting is, then I don’t want to.”
“You expected every moment of it to be orgasms and pleasure?” he asked quietly.
“No. I didn’t. But I expected to feel… not to feel stupid and small.” A sob racked her and she scanned the floor through watery eyes, looking for her shoes.
“That’s how you felt?”
She didn’t answer.
James stepped in front of her, ducking his head slightly to look at her. His gaze was soft and concerned. “You feel small?”
“This was a mistake, in a series of terrible mistakes. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know I don’t want this.”
“You don’t want to submit, or you don’t want to submit to me?”
“I guess I don’t want to submit. I thought… I thought it would be like it was at the club.”
“And what was it like at the club?”
“Don’t,” she pleaded. “Don’t make me feel even stupider.”
“That is not my intention; I’m just trying to understand.”
She found her shoes, slipping them on. She was naked under the sweater, and if she let go it would flap open, but it was long enough that she’d manage. Where was her phone? She needed her phone at the very least.
“Christiana, my sweet, please. Talk to me.”
She lifted her head, brushing at her cheeks with one hand while she held the sweater closed with the other. She faced him head on, and took a deep breath to steady herself. As she did, her feelings crystalized, and she knew what she wanted to ask him.
“Would you have used me as a table if I was like you?” she asked.
“Like me?”
“Rich. Powerful. Or did the fact that you now realize I’m, compared to you, a nobody make you want to treat me like furniture?” Her hand itched with the urge to slap him. “Furniture!” she shouted.
He leaned away. “It’s just part of training.”
“Then, like I said, I don’t want to be trained. I’m not a thing, I’m a fucking person.”
“I am well aware of that.”
“Are you? Then why would you do that?”
“Ask a lovely, naked submissive to serve as my table so I can enjoy looking at her naked body while I have a drink?”
She shook her head, hair whipping around her. “No. No, that’s not it.”
“I put you on display in the club. Do you remember that?” His voice dropped to a menacing purr. “Standing in the lights, naked for all to see?” He took a step toward her, into her personal space. “You didn’t object to that.”
“It was different.”
“Why? How?” he demanded.
“Is this a test?”
“No, I’m trying to understand, for both of us.”
“It just was. Before, I felt… treasured.” She whispered the last word, then immediately wished she could call it back, use something less revealing.
“And now you feel small.”
“Yes.” The anger and sadness were both fading, leaving her hollow. “I need to go. Will you help me find my phone?”
“Christiana.” James lifted his hands, holding them beside her cheeks, but not actually touching her. “Don’t leave.”
“I need to,” she whispered. “Before I get even more messed up than I already am.”
“Don’t leave,” he repeated, “because I know how you feel.”
“What?”
“I didn’t like that anymore than you did.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“I thought that was what you needed, that was the kind of training you should have.”
They stared at one another.
“We’re done,�
� he said softly, “with other people’s expectations.”
“I don’t know if I can,” she whispered. “I don’t know if I can be vulnerable anymore.”
His gaze slid over her face, moving from feature to feature. “May I kiss you?”
Say no, you stupid woman. Say no and walk away before you get your heart broken.
“Yes.”
He’d made a mess of this, but he could fix it.
Christiana’s eyes were luminous with tears, and it brought out every protective instinct he had. The fact that he’d been the one to put those tears in her eyes didn’t change his reaction to her sadness.
He had watched a few women being trained at various events, and attended his share of how-to demonstrations around impact play—he was a responsible Dom and would never use a tool he didn’t know the ins and outs of.
Yet he’d absolutely fucked this up.
She was magnificent, and he doubted she knew exactly how compelling she was. And he’d made her feel small. His heart hurt from when she’d asked if he’d used her as a table because she wasn’t “like him.” He wasn’t so naive as to deny classism, but it had never occurred to him to treat her differently because of the balance in her bank account. He’d done what he thought she wanted.
No, that wasn’t the full truth. He’d done what he thought training should be, and he’d been deliberately stern and aloof. Perhaps, deep down, he’d wanted to punish her for lying to him, which was a terrible dick move on his part.
She’d suffered enough. They both had. It was time to rediscover what it was that drew him to her.
When she said yes, he closed the distance between his hands and her face, cupping her cheeks and leaning in to kiss her. He could taste salty tears on her lips. He kept the kiss almost chaste, his lips pressed to hers, softly at first. Then he pulled back to kiss her cheeks, eyelids, and forehead. He wanted to treat her tenderly, to cherish her.
No, he reminded himself. You only have her for two weeks, then you’ll need to let her go.
Her reaction made it clear that he’d been right. She needed more than “play partners” or casual weekends of submission at a club. She was the kind of woman who needed to be cherished and collared.