Fall From Grace

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  “I’m sorry, sir. I was confused.” The whimsical look on her husband’s face was too much to pass up without comment. “Did you set me up?” she wondered aloud.

  He cocked his head. “I’m surprised that you have the audacity to ask after what you’ve just been through.”

  “I thought you wouldn’t mind?”

  “If it was a test, Regan. You didn’t pass. Now get up, you have work to do.”

  Regan struggled to her feet with her arms still bound behind her. And as her husband unlocked the irons, she sighed happily.

  “Now, go, get something done for Tenny, or he’s likely to forget there are any boundaries to keep him from punishing you.”

  “Yes, sir.” She flitted off happily.

  Regan was an astute slave; she knew her place. But she also knew there was some point to the game that they’d just played. Tennyson Hallock was no mere Dom, and the designing arrangements had some purpose beyond what Kurt was confessing. She felt jittery inside knowing this; but that unsettling feeling provided the rush to keep her moving. Charged with energy, she dived into her work for the next few hours, pulling out everything possible she could imagine for her new client. Even the sketches for the ceiling were inspired. Two hours in the box had served her well, though they did little now to prevent the physical roar that suddenly grabbed at her crotch fueled simply by the idea of pleasing another, and very puzzling Master.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It had been as grey and withered a November day as Regan Wheat could remember. A vile cold shot through three layers of clothing as she braced herself against the wind and trudged head bowed to the studio at 15th Place. If it hadn’t been for leaving Jon, she wouldn’t have had to take the trolley and walk the rest on foot, but this was the price she paid for taking back her life and her freedom to choose—she could choose to brave the wild November days.

  “Hello, Deanna,” she said, pulling off her red stocking cap and sighing heavily as a crude chill passed through her body inside and out.

  “Couldn’t be more miserable, could it?”

  “Not if God were throwing icicles,” she smiled, and looked around at the glowing lamplight that infused the lobby with warmth. There was a gently kindled fire crackling softly in the grate and the aroma of Deanna’s incense stirring the air—not sweet but with enough bite to kick her cold-numbed senses awake.

  Regan peeled away the layers of her thick clothing, until she was down to a blue silk blouse, a baggy woolen sweater and a pair of black slacks. She slipped from her boots into a pair of comfortable flats. This was sensible business dress for a cold day like this one. Just the ruthless mop of the streaked and golden curls framing her face lent any suggestion to the woman dwelling inside her modest clothes.

  Picking up her portfolio, she was about to thread her way down the corridor to her office, when Deanna interrupted the trip.

  “You have a visitor,” the receptionist mouthed so quietly, and with such a sense of mystery in her eye that Regan stopped right there, and leaned against the secretary’s desk as though they were telling secrets.

  “Who?” she whispered.

  “Name’s Kurt Kingsley. Heard of him?”

  She thought… “No.”

  “He seemed to know you.”

  “Really?”

  “Know of me, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps.” Deanna giggled, whispering again, “He’s a hunk.”

  “Is he now?” Regan’s face almost glowed. “I could use a hot-looking client.”

  “Then bag this one.”

  Regan chuckled and, more nervously now, made her way down the long hall to the building annex—a porch that had been added fifty years ago to the hundred year old brick apartment building—now converted into quaint offices spaces.

  To enter Regan’s porch was like entering another world—a fragrant lusty place bordered on two sides by long banks of windows with dozens of windowpanes. Even on the darkest days, the office was filled with a gentle radiance. An old glass ball hung from the center of the room dispersing the light carefully, leaving just the softest shadows. Regan’s drafting table was set in the corner where the two grand windows met. And on that side of the room there was space for a pair of cozy chairs and a coffee table. On the wall next to the door was a panel of stuffed bookcases and then her desk—now a mountain of folders, sheaves of paper and general clutter.

  The door was already open—which was surprising. Deanna should have made her client wait in the reception area.

  “Sir, may I help you?”

  The man was standing with his back to her, staring out the windows over the top of her drafting table. At the sound of her voice, he turned.

  “You’re Regan Wheat?”

  “I am.” She dropped her jaw, almost aghast by the attractive picture the man presented for her eyes. He was a lean but muscled man of average height with closely clipped sand-colored hair and disturbingly blue eyes—and no, not a simple blue, but like a spring sky, and profound, sharp, likely inventive and, at the moment, charmingly warm. Though the rest of his face was almost lost inside those eyes, it fit perfectly a man who could be determinedly grim, or wooing, depending on his purpose. His strong jaw was so inviting that Regan could almost feel her fingers touching that smooth skin.

  He held out his hand for her to shake, smiling now with both eyes and mouth.

  “Kurt Kingsley,” he introduced himself.

  “I’m afraid you have me at a loss. Was I expecting you?”

  “No,” he stated flatly. He turned, surveying the room briskly. “You’re an interior designer.”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded interestedly. “That’s good.”

  “And you need an interior designer?” she wondered out loud.

  “No,” he stated again giving nothing away. “I have a very good one for what I need.”

  She looked reasonably perplexed.

  “I’ve been told that you’re a currently freed slave.”

  “Oh, my,” her jaw dropped a mile as she went into a fixed trance staring at the handsome man. Without changing her gaze, she stepped into her office and closed the door behind her, finally setting her portfolio on top of the precarious mess on her desk.

  Kurt’s gaze went immediately to the teetering stack, “Better move that elsewhere, or you’re courting disaster.”

  Sounded like an order.

  “Yes, sir,” she answered in kind, unthinkingly.

  She spent several anxious seconds moving the mass of unfinished projects about, including her portfolio, until her desk was reasonably free of pending disaster. Finished, she stood up straight, suddenly having the feeling that she was there at his discretion, not he at hers.

  “So back to my question, Regan Wheat,” her visitor continued. “I hope my information is not misplaced… though I doubt it is,” he added as though he’d already inspected her mind for the truth.

  “No, it’s not. But who told you?”

  “Jon Benjamin.”

  “He’s combing the parties again?”

  “If that’s what he does, I don’t know. Jon and I are friends from college. Surprisingly, we have similar viewpoints on male/female relationships. I ran in to him yesterday—about two years since I’ve seen him. He suggested that I see you.”

  “See me? Really?”

  Her palms were sweating so profusely that she had to wipe them on her pants. “For what purpose?”

  “Your submission, Regan.”

  How wonderfully he spoke her name, as though his fingers were caressing the two rough syllables into something softer than its nature. She’d never thought her name pretty or distinguished, but from his lips, the sound of it was musical.

  “My submission?” she was whispering again.

  “He said you were a good slave. That he’d trained you beyond enough boundaries to know that you could be guided deeply. All that makes you the kind of slave I need.”

  “Oh, so you pick up the castoffs of other masters?” She so
unded almost flip, which was purely a defensive mood, though Kurt Kingsley didn’t pick up on that. Or if he did, he certainly didn’t give that away.

  “You left him,” he replied simply.

  “I did. Unsubmissively, I suppose. But it couldn’t work.”

  “Because Jon has little integrity with the women in his life,” Kurt stated what was apparent to them both.

  “You know him, then?”

  “Enough.”

  It was a gaze so deep that she could feel his psychic hand moving through her body to her crotch—and there, seizing flesh to hold as though he had the power or the right to be that invading.

  “Enough to know he’d have a worthy slave?” she wondered.

  “Jon doesn’t dabble. His sluts perform. You did.” He looked at her through critical eyes. “Or was it just a game that you play very well?”

  “My submission is no game,” she answered feeling slightly more sure of herself and indignant enough to show it with the inflection in her voice.

  “And I believe that about you, Regan Wheat.” He bridged the few feet between them, as her legs were beginning to tremble. They stood eye to eye, his death-defying blue ones on the assault—though it was a gentle one. Reaching out with his left hand, he gently moved his palm along her jaw, then further back, against her neck and under her hair where he could slowly ease his fingers through the curls and grab hold. The pressure of his grasp increased in tiny increments until she felt those fingers driving into her like steel claws.

  “Should I go on?” he asked.

  “Why would you ask?” she wondered quietly.

  “You’re not my slave. Until you are, I ask permission.”

  “Then yes, go on,” she answered in a breathless whisper.

  She expected for her willingness, a kiss. Instead, he jerked her free of her numbing pose, and roughly pushed her over the back of her comfy reading chair. And bending with her, his hand still steeled to her throat; he squeezed enough for her to fear choking. She wouldn’t scream, even if that were the proper response to a stranger’s assault.

  While keeping her bound inside his grip, he laid his second hand on her ass and roughly worked the flesh.

  “You won’t be wearing pants again, Regan,” he shot off quickly, annoyed with her choice of attire. “Act like the slut you are. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” she gasped.

  Kurt shoved her into the chair and let go, standing back, while Regan remained bent over—obedient to the desire throbbing hard between her thighs.

  “We’ll keep in touch,” he advised her

  She was ready for him to bind her seriously, ready for his hand slapping at her ass and crotch, ready for his lash and his cock, and any other device that suited his Dominant fancy. But he was out the door, leaving it wide open for anyone to pass by and see her bewilderedly falling over the back of her chair.

  ***

  Kurt Kingsley came to the office the following week. Every day since his first visit, Regan had worn skirts in deference to his orders—this through a week of snowstorms with her legs practically freezing from subzero temperatures until she was finally inside the warmth of her office.

  She was at her drafting table this day, making sketches. Hearing the door close behind her back, she was caught unaware, but expecting to find her boss or one of the other associates standing there. Before turning around, she finished one small detail on her drawing, then without warning, she shook with an unexpected bout of fright, while the hair on the back of her neck stood on end.

  She finally turned around. “Mr. Kingsley!” She looked at him shocked and moved off her stool without thinking.

  “Regan?”

  “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I’m sure you weren’t. Have I interrupted anything important?”

  “No, sir, not really.” She looked at her drafting table. “Just finishing some sketches for a client.”

  “Good. I will be brief.” It seemed as if every nerve ending in her body suddenly stood at attention. “In fact, I have just a simple question.”

  “Oh?”

  His stare was pointed, his voice uncompromising, “I need to know if you want to proceed, Regan?”

  Proceed? Proceed how? With what? Her rational mind rattled off a dozen questions. Yet, not one required an answer. She knew exactly what he was speaking of. If their brains were not already melded as one, then it was safe to assume that they operated off the same score card of Dominant/submissive fantasy… perhaps better stated Master/slave protocol. He was offering her a relationship… not in carefully packaged words, but by the unspoken message behind his attitude and by what the terms ‘Master’ and ‘slave’ implied. The code language of their lifestyle got rid of the need for elaborate explanations.

  It had been three months since she split from Jon. Her sexual juices were on the rise, even burning—even in the dead of a hellish early winter. Two weeks earlier, just before Kurt’s initial visit, she was taken to the dungeon at an S&M play party hosted by her good friend Maryanna, a sweetly nurturing Female Domme with the equipment to frighten any man into protecting his balls with steel. Maryanna only wanted to love Regan and nurture her into another relationship. That night, she’d shipped her off to the dungeon with Master Thor. The burly brute couldn’t have been less attractive to her, but he was a magician with a flogger and managed to clean out the abrasive cobwebs from her empty insides, along with any remnants or daydreams of Jon that might be rising in the absence of a good Master. No, she didn’t regret her decision to leave her former Master; not if Master Thor, without providing a trace of sexual enticement, could make her body sing so beautifully. Flogging wasn’t all she needed—not even a fraction of what submission meant to her, let alone being a slave. But the scene with him was enough to remind her that the needs of the physical body could be easily satisfied, while the needs of her heart and soul required a more delicate mastery of intimate proportions. It had been a good fix up.

  This with Kurt Kingsley would be no simple fix.

  “Yes,” she answered after the gears in her brain stopped moving, after Kurt’s sharp blue eyes prevented any movement. “I’d very much like to proceed.”

  ***

  The scene at Tennyson Hallock’s palatial estate had hardly changed over night.

  Regan approached his door with the same trepidation as she had the previous day, but she had far more reason to fear and be unsure of herself this time. A little knowledge can work the mind into a frenzy, rip peace into tattered rags and set a slave’s body crawling with anticipation—filled with premonitions, whether warranted or not.

  Tennyson answered the door, and with a casual gesture she’d seen before, ushered her inside.

  “So, you managed to survive our last visit?”

  “Is there a reason why I shouldn’t have, sir?”

  “You left unsettled.” He smiled. That stubborn shock of blond hair was falling in his face again; again he brushed it back with his hand. His beard was a day old, but he was dressed in clean blue jeans with a sweater over a crisp long-sleeved shirt. Though it made no sense that she would find herself attracted to the man, Regan’s body reacted erotically as it had the previous day. Obviously, it wasn’t just his physical appearance that seduced her, but those insubstantial, unseen, but felt things that good Masters exude so well. “Your Master manage to take care of your rebellion?” he asked with his typical abruptness.

  “You assume I was rebellious?”

  She spoke carefully, submissively, though attempting to maintain the appropriate boundaries; being both respectful of her position as her husband’s slave and appropriately businesslike.

  Tennyson quickly brushed her cheek with the back of his hand as if he were playing with a child.

  “I don’t have to assume, I’m right. Now show me what you have.”

  Her hours in the cage—and the punishment—were still affecting her pleasantly. The reminder had been good.

  Moving into the dining roo
m, Regan laid out the fabric samples and then the sketches for the ceiling.

  “These are good.” He seemed impressed with her work… almost as impressed as she was herself. In the spirit of hedonistic decadence that he was after, she’d managed some rather animated poses of women making love in various stages of undress, most often draped in robes and diaphanous materials, which drifted over their bodies leaving plenty of significant body parts showing… nipples… Venus mounds with hairless, or hair-covered snatches… parted ass cheeks and firm thighs. “Very nice,” he moved from one to the next seemingly delighted. “Which figure is you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, I asked a question, answer me.”

  “I hadn’t thought of myself as any of them.”

  “You lie.”

  “Sir, please.” Her face was beginning to burn with embarrassment.

  He chuckled, amused by his own intuition.

  “This is hard for you.”

  “Yes, sir, it is. I am my master’s slave, which makes it difficult to speak candidly about personal matters without violating my agreement with him.”

  “You read more into my question than is there.”

  “I’ve been trained to do that. Submissive women usually are. The instinct for survival dictates that we remain watchful.”

  “And by all accounts, you are a good slave.”

  “If my Master says so.”

  He snickered offering no reply; but instead turned this attention to the sketches again. “A little more crude, a little less 17th Century. I want these to stun when they first meet the eye. I want my guests gazing at them almost embarrassed, as if they have, just by looking up, felt as though they’ve just stumbled into a woman’s bedroom in the middle of her cumming at the lips and fingers of her female lovers. Does that say it clearly?”

  He might have said that a day ago, she was thinking, but then, she might have gone into an instant panic if he had.

  “I can do that.”

  “Yes, I know. I know the way your mind thinks.”