by Cynthia Dane
“As the years went by, we went deeper. Maybe it happened naturally. Maybe it was all his machinations. Whatever happened, the next thing I knew he was picking out what I wore and who else I slept with. You see, sometimes he would bring home another girl and tell me to do things with her. I did them. I wasn’t disgusted. It was fun, really. But they weren’t things I would have asked for or pursued on my own.”
“I called him Master. I didn’t leave the house unless he accompanied me. When we were home, I stayed in our room until he invited me elsewhere. I couldn’t even go outside for a walk without his permission. To me, that was normal. I trusted him.”
“It may have happened on one day. It could have worked its way up to it. All I know is that one night he had me chained up like always. And then he slapped me.”
“He never laid a hand like that on me before. Not a violent one. It stung so much, and the glee in his voice as he laughed at my reaction made me feel sick to my stomach. After so many years together, though, I forgave him. It was a one time thing. Then he did it another night. Then another. Then he hit me so hard I had a bruise and no excuse for it.”
“One night he nearly broke my arm. He grabbed it so hard and turned me around to throw me on the bed so quickly I could feel a pop. I wish that was the worst thing that happened that night. When he was done with me, I felt like I could barely walk. That’s all I’ll say about that.”
“The final straw – because I was so weak – came when he literally kidnapped another woman and intended to make her his sex slave. I woke up that day. I stole his keys and his gun and got both that woman and me out of there. I never looked back.”
She let her words dissipate in the sunset, each one harder to dissolve than the last. By the time she realized her key lime pie remained untouched, Henry Warren grabbed her hand, making her fork clatter on the table.
“I’m sorry that happened to you.” His grip on her tightened. Monica stiffened, not out of fear, but out of the sense that this man was too good for his own benefit. “It wasn’t right. That man doesn’t know how to appreciate what he has.”
Yes, that was the problem Monica wanted to roll her eyes, but she was frozen in her seat, reliving those awful memories. Closing her eyes was dangerous. If she did that, her brain would place a scene on the back of her eyelids. Maybe the night Jackson slapped her and called her a whore because she always agreed to whatever he wanted. Didn’t he understand that I wanted that too? Serving him, making him happy…
“No, what he didn’t get was what a submissive is. We’re not toys, Mr. Warren. We’re not vessels of pleasure to be used however a Dom wants. Our joy and pleasure comes from bringing our Dom happiness. Of course we have our preferences and the lines we draw, but at the end of the day, we’ll try anything once if it brings him or her joy of any kind. That’s how we become so vulnerable. We bare our souls from the first meeting. If we’re put in the wrong hands… men like him knew that. I fear for any woman he cons next. He’s handsome and wealthy. There will be someone.”
“There are none that I know of.”
“That you know of. He keeps that shit private.” For good reason. He was the type of man to understand what wasn’t socially acceptable. But he did them anyway. “Forgive me. You didn’t need to know any of that.”
“Correction. I didn’t want to know any of that.” When Monica turned her head toward him, bemusement clouding her countenance, he explained, “I don’t get any glee or pleasure in hearing what that callous man did to you. Yet I needed to know it. I needed to know what you’ve been through, so I understand where you come from.”
“Where I came from is obvious to anyone who Googles my name.” Monica pulled her hand out of his. “Where I’m going, on the other hand, remains a mystery to most.”
“Even to yourself?”
“Perhaps. I take things one week at a time.”
“Perhaps you will be a little old lady running your Château a good forty years from now.”
“And I will be happy to do so.”
She knew what that look meant. The one telling her, “Are you going to hide in your mansion of everyone else having pleasure but you for the rest of your life?” She would if it meant she was never hurt again. Monica could sustain herself on the ambiance of her insular world and never again be touched by another person. She could die happy that way.
“I won’t pretend to understand,” Henry said. “Obviously I have never been in your position before. All I know is that the world would be a much lonelier place if you never ventured into it again.”
Monica blushed. “The world doesn’t know who I am.”
“I do.”
See, this is what’s dangerous about this man. Henry had the influence to sway Monica back into the world of powerful relationships. Powerful within, and powerful on the outside. There was the power they exuded on each other behind closed doors, and then the power they presented when they stood before others as a unified front. If I go out into the world, then I do nothing but wander around it, looking pathetic. Dominant men were the accepted norm in the business world. They came, they saw, and they conquered the piss out of everything.
Submissive women, on the other hand, looked lost. People often approached Monica when she sat in cafes by herself, asking if she was all right, if she needed help, etc. And that was when she was in a relationship! When people found out she ran her own business, they were floored. People didn’t respect submissives as smart, intelligent people who had a lot of will to get things done. Just because Monica wanted to live a life of submissive love and pleasure didn’t mean she couldn’t do things on her own.
“You continue to flatter me. The fact of the matter is, Mr. Warren, you don’t know me from the mole on your back you’ve never seen before. Like I keep telling you, I’m a sub, not a naïve girl who believes everything a handsome man tells her.”
“So you think I’m handsome?”
That knowing smile could sink ships. Like the one capsizing in Monica’s stomach right now. “I think you know you’re handsome. Men who are handsome always know that they are.”
“Meanwhile, beautiful women need constant affirmation.”
“Can you blame them?”
“No. And can you blame me for trying to get to know you better?”
“Mr. Warren, may I remind you that you sent me a silver and diamond sub collar? That’s not getting to know me better. That’s…”
“A friendly BDSM way of saying hello there gorgeous, I know.”
He said it so flippantly that Monica snorted into the back of her hand before giving herself over to overflowing laughter. Her voice echoed in the gardens below, bouncing off the topiaries and rousing a flock of birds into the air. “And what do you know of BDSM, Mr. Warren? I mean, truly…”
Henry wasn’t laughing. “A lot more than you probably figure I do.”
Monica stopped guffawing and rested her hands on her stomach. Her pie was still untouched. “Do you practice?”
“No, I don’t practice.” Henry grabbed the half-empty wine bottle and refilled his glass, then Monica’s, a set look of determination flickering in the growing lantern light. “That’s definitely not the word I would use.”
“And what word would you use?”
This time he did not take her hand. Monica didn’t even know what he was doing beneath the table until she felt him touch her knee, his delectably warm palm and fingers curling around her bare skin. Shots of desire, both welcomed and menacing, plotted a wavering course up her skin and straight to her groin. Or maybe those were his fingers, treading dangerously close to her thighs and a warmth she kept to herself.
She didn’t push him away. Nor did she tell him to stop or change his ways. Deep down Monica wanted him to touch her intimately, to know what her body felt like beneath his touch. God knew it felt good on her end.
“Rather experienced.”
Monica concentrated her breathing, a practice she hadn’t had
to use since the days she was driven to the edge of orgasm but forbidden from indulging in it until her Dom said it was okay. Deep breathing meant she could stave off her pleasure… it also meant she could keep a level head. “So you tell me now. And here I thought you were bumbling along.”
“No you didn’t. You never thought that. I told you, Monica, you know who I am. Do I really have to tell you who and what I am?”
She shook her head, eyes darting between his stern visage and the hand tightening on her thigh. Just a little farther and I won’t be able to resist him anymore. The closer she let this man get to her intimately, the harder it became to deny him. “I know who you are. What surprises me is that you knew me so quickly. How many subs have you had?”
Henry withdrew his hand and straightened his jacket, probably in lieu of having a tie to adjust. “Trick question. I’ve dallied with submissives, but I’ve never found the one for me.”
“So you’re shopping around, and somehow think I can fulfill your needs.”
“I don’t assume anything. All I know is that I am intrigued by you and want to get to know you better.”
“Until now, I wasn’t sure what you meant by ‘get to know me.’ Now I think I do.”
“As long as we’re on the same page.”
“We’re not. As I told you, I’m not really ready for something like that again yet. And you still made the mistake of assuming I was up for patronage. Like a whore.”
“Then what are those girls? Are they whores?”
“Excuse you. What they want and what I want are completely different. They aren’t lifestyle submissives like I am. This is a job to them. I’m careful to not hire lifestyle women. They get too attached to their clients and cause a mess for me and them.”
“That is wise.” Henry removed his hand, clenching it on top of the table. Still, neither of them ate their dessert. “You really do have a good head for business. It must help that you have a lot of experience in this line of living.”
“If only you knew, Mr. Warren.” That was not an invitation. It is. It truly is. Monica pushed her plate of pie away. “Come. I want to show you something.” She stood up, pushed in her chair, and turned resolutely toward the door.
He attempted to follow, but the look on his face expressed that he had no idea what her intentions were. “You already gave me such a great tour last time.”
Monica touched the handle and looked over her shoulder. “Not of my room, I didn’t.”
That certainly got his attention. Henry moved to hold the door open for her, and the moment Monica stepped back into the Château she told the maid to give the pie to anyone who wanted it, and that she and Henry were not to be disturbed unless it was an emergency.
What Henry thought of these instructions she could only imagine. On one hand she was inviting him into her private quarters, beyond her office, but on another it was not a sexual invitation, as much as she wished it could be. But there was something that she wanted Henry to see, and he could only see it in her chambers.
They weren’t too far from the balcony. Just a few steps, and they were there, Monica unlocking the door that led to her private world.
Whatever Henry initially thought of her room, he did not let on. It wasn’t anything special. A large canopy bed, some antique dark wood furniture, and erotic art that she collected over the past few months.
“Everything you see in this room,” she said, pouring herself a glass of brandy and then offering another to Henry, “was procured in a short amount of time. When I left Jackson, I had only the clothes I wore on my back. I don’t know what he did with my old things. Maybe he threw them away. Maybe he created a shrine in which he venerates my image and vows to steal me back from my new life. I don’t care, but every time I look at these things, I’m reminded that I once had everything and then had nothing.”
“It’s still impressive.”
“I suppose. Most women couldn’t leave with nothing and build something like this up in such a short amount of time, true. I’m not most women. There are many different things about me that don’t hold true for other women I’ve met. ‘Normal’ women.”
“Is there really such a thing?”
He stood by the door, declining the brandy. Don’t act like you don’t want into my space. He would have to be mad otherwise. “There is such a thing as what the public perceives as being normal. I am not it.”
“Oh, I’m not sure about that. I think a lot of women feel like you do, they just don’t know how to express it.”
“There’s expressing it, and then there’s living the lifestyle.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
“What? Live the lifestyle?”
“Naturally.”
“As you said. Naturally.”
Henry eventually took a glass of brandy from Monica’s hand, his fingers lingering on hers. Keep finding excuses to touch me. I dare you. “You are right to be cautious. There are a lot of terrible people out there looking to take advantage of women looking for that kind of life. Unfortunately, as you prove.”
They stood in front of each other, Monica’s head tilted back so she could look up into his stoic face. “Are you a terrible person, Mr. Warren?” There was no whimsy in her voice. However he answered would decide the next thing she said to him.
It took a while for him to answer. During that time he sipped the brandy, murmured that it was a good brand, and stuck his hand in his pocket as if searching for his wallet or phone. “I like to think I’m not a terrible person. But all men are a work in progress.”
Damn him again. Monica wanted to hear him say that he was awful, that he was the best man in the whole world. Absolutes. That’s what she wanted. That way she could write him off as someone either too self-aware or too haughty to be trifled with. Monica drank her whole glass of brandy in one gulp, letting it burn her on the way down in hopes of washing away the memories bubbling up in her stomach. If they reached her brain, she was in real trouble.
Too late.
She didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the situation, but Monica dropped her empty glass on the chair next to her and hid her face in her hands. The first sob to burst forth was powerful enough to shake her whole body, but the sound was worse: like an abandoned child wondering why she was all alone in the world yet again.
What was wrong with her? What made her so easy to abuse? What made any man, let alone the man she gave her heart to, decide to take her heart, her virtue, and her dreams for their future and crush them with his polished shoe? What made Jackson think he could hit her, spit on her, and force her to do things that went beyond the line of harmless sexual humiliation? She gave him several years of her life. In return, he gave her a prison and a broken heart.
Henry’s arms wrapped around her, a much welcomed veil of protection from the world she was too exposed to. I don’t need this… She didn’t need these welling feelings overflowing in her body, telling her to cling to him, to feel the strength of his arms, his chest, and his shoulders enshrouding her. He was so tall that Monica easily nestled into his embrace, hoping that he would hold her there in their small world forever.
She wanted a lot of things. Like the pat on her back, the nose in her hair, and the kind words that said she was worth more than any man must have shown her so far. I’m so weak. As if he read her mind, Henry said, “You’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever met. Who can come back from something like that and do as much as you have? I’ve seen men crumble from less.”
No matter how much Monica wanted to tell him that it was an absurd thing to say, the words still sank into her brain, and she thought of the very few men in her life she ever saw cry. None of them had been her lovers. She wasn’t even sure Jackson was capable of producing tears – besides tears of laughter at her expense. “Why am I such a mess?”
Henry tipped her chin up and gazed into her tear stained face. There should have been something comforting in the way he looked at her
, but all Monica could think was that this man had seen her cry. That was her second most vulnerable.
The first was…
Her heart exploded into a burst of sparks when he kissed her, Monica’s brain screaming no while the rest of her resisted reason and gave in to her strongest desires.
She hadn’t kissed a man who wasn’t Jackson in so long that she forgot men all did it differently. Henry, in particular, kissed with the entirely of his lips, not favoring one side or the other as he devoured the woman in his arms, each kiss stronger, more intoxicating than the last. Monica clung to him, her arms stretching to reach up around and bring him down closer to her, body slipping toward the sofa behind her with Henry following.