by Brianna Hale
“Want to watch a movie while I make dinner?”
“You don’t want any help?” I ask, snuggling deeper into the blanket.
He grins. “Nope.” Passing me the remote, he shows me where the TV guide is, where the on-demand channels are and where I can stream films. I spend a few minutes flicking around while he heads into the kitchen.
I bite my lip, conflicted. I want to watch something childish, like a cartoon, but I’m sitting in such a grown-up apartment. There are lamps and hardcover books and art on the walls, for heaven’s sake. Losing my nerve, I find a Friends box set and start from the first episode. Friends isn’t so bad. It’s funny, and Rachel is adorable. When she stresses out I want to hand her a coloring book.
The title music starts rolling and Rufus puts his head round the door. “That’s what you want to watch?”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice going up at the end.
“You don’t sound too sure about that, babygirl. It’s not what you wanted to watch on your day off the other week.” He comes over and sits down next to me, taking the remote from my hand and pausing the show. “I know there are times when you might want to watch a sitcom or a drama or even a horror film, but don’t feel like you have to. You can be yourself here, whatever mood you’re in. Do you want to watch Friends?”
“No.”
“What do you want to watch?”
“Beauty and the Beast.”
He finds it for me and hands the remote back. “There you go, kitten.”
I hug a cushion to my chest and lay my head down on the arm of the couch. I watch the film, and listen to Rufus chopping things and filling pans, and I don’t think it’s possible for me to be happier in that moment.
Forty-five minutes later he calls out that dinner is ready. He’s carrying two plates and I follow him into the dining room. He sets down poached salmon and rice, and a mountain of vegetables. Remembering my rules, I say nothing and pick up my fork. I eat the salmon slowly, peeling off a flake at a time and chewing it with care.
Noticing the effort with which I’m doing this, he says, “I thought you liked fish. You ate all your smoked salmon the other night.”
“I didn’t want you to think I was fussy.”
“And now?”
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m fussy.”
He points his knife at my plate. “Eat it. It’s good for you.”
I do, and I get a kiss when he clears the plates. I follow him into the kitchen to help clean up but he shoos me out again. “Not tonight. It’s your first night here. Go. Sit.”
After he’s washed up we watch the rest of the film together. Before he sits down he presses his forehead against mine and says, “Would my poor, starveling sugar-junkie like some Pocky sticks?”
“Yes!” I clutch at his shirt. “Please.”
He comes back with the box of strawberry Pocky and hands it to me, and I nibble them while nestled into him.
As the credits role he looks at his watch. “Bedtime for you.”
I’m quite tired and go obediently with him as he shows me where the toothpaste is and where I can store my hairbrush. “Come get me when you’re ready to be tucked in.”
I do, and he helps me into his enormous bed. The sheets are fine and white and the duvet is filled with feathers and feels like a cloud.
“What are you going to do?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.
“Work. Think about you. Mostly think about you.” He leans down and kisses me. “Night night, princess.”
I feel warm and safe as I snuggle down into his big bed. There are the sounds of him moving about beyond the door, the quiet drone of a news program.
A few hours later I half wake as he slips into bed. He’s naked, and wraps himself around me and kisses my neck. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs, and my eyes close again.
* * *
We wake up face-to-face, the dawn light slanting dove-gray through the window. His eyes open a few seconds after mine. Wordlessly he reaches for me, kissing me while his hands roam up my hips and over my ribs. When he thumbs my nipples I arch against him. It seems to do something to him and he rolls on top of me with a growl, his knees between my thighs. I find myself pinned beneath him, legs spread. He’s holding my arms above my head and his eyes are dark. I’m completely at his mercy.
“I want you to,” I whisper. I know it will hurt but I like him to hurt me.
But he just kisses me. “Not yet, babygirl. I just wanted to see how you looked like that.” He moves down between my legs, spreads me open with his fingers and licks me. I cry out and bury my hands in his hair. When I’m close to coming, he reaches up and pinches a nipple and it pushes me over the edge.
I lie there gasping, looking at the ceiling, not able to believe how lucky I am. When I reach for him he is hard and thick in my fingers, but he just kisses me and gets out of bed.
“But what about you?” I ask, looking at the hard length of him.
“What, this?” he asks, looking down at himself as if he hasn’t noticed his arousal. He rubs the back of his neck. I am coming to adore that gesture, and it looks especially sexy when he’s bed-rumpled and naked. “Don’t you worry about me. I’ve got breakfast to make.” He grabs a robe from the back of the door and pads through to the kitchen.
“Strawberry milk?” I call hopefully after him.
“You’re cute, princess.”
Dammit.
I lay in the big bed a few minutes longer, starfishing and looking at his things. There’s a bottle of cologne on the tallboy and a bowlful of cuff links. Underneath the dresser is a row of leather shoes. Lifting my arms up above my head, I stretch, and my wrist bumps against the bed frame. I’m admiring it when I remember the rope that he gave me yesterday. I guess that he picked this bed design for a reason, and I feel a twinge of jealousy wondering who else he’s had in it. Other subs, or perhaps girlfriends that he’s persuaded to do kinky things with him. I like that he’s so sure of himself and knows what he’s doing when he touches me and dominates me, and that can only come from practice, but I’m possessive of him already.
I can hear him whistling and the smell of coffee brewing, so I pull on his shirt from the previous day—which I locate in the dirty clothes hamper, of course—and some pink underwear and wander through to the kitchen. I’ve left the shirt open and the sleeves hang over my hands. I am hoping he’ll tell me I’m cute.
He does, and pulls me up onto a granite worktop to watch him. There is a carton of eggs by my thigh and a loaf of sourdough in a paper bag that looks like it’s come from a bakery and not a supermarket, and he’s chopping fruit.
“Wow, this looks super healthy,” I say.
“No kidding,” he says, smiling. “Coffee?”
I shake my head, so he pours me a glass of milk. Plain milk. “Can I have juice?”
“All that sugar on an empty stomach? I don’t think so. Have a strawberry.” And he pops one into my mouth.
We eat at the kitchen table, a boiled egg and soldiers for me, and poached eggs on toast for him with three cups of coffee. Fruit salad for both of us, and he serves mine in an adorable little Japanese bowl.
When I’ve eaten two soldiers dipped in runny egg yolk and half my fruit, I sit back, turning my hands this way and that and looking at them in mock wonder. “My god. All these vitamins. My body doesn’t know what to do with them.”
He glances at my plate. “You could try and eat a little more, but I suppose even that small amount is better than what you usually have. What do you do in the mornings when you’re at home?”
“I work on my flexibility for a while, and then I read my e-reader or...read the financial news on my phone.” I put my forefinger between my lips and bite it so he knows I’m kidding.
“Oh, finance, of course. What do you really do on your phone?”
>
“Play bakery games. I’m good, you know. I have almost all the cupcake badges.”
“Clever girl.” He frowns. “I suppose you usually have a mat or something for your workout. There’s a rug under the big window in the lounge. Will that do?”
“Perfect. What will you do?”
“I have to work,” he says, standing up and clearing the plates. I help him stack the dishwasher and this time he doesn’t stop me. “Computer stuff. Some things have to be done online.” He glances at me. “I’m...thinking of buying another theater.”
I grin at him. “That’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you.”
He lifts his shoulder in a half shrug, but there’s a pleased smile on his face as he says, “Thank you, kitten.”
“Have you always wanted a second theater, or is this a new goal?”
He muses on this a moment, and then says, “A bit of both, I think. The Palais will always come first, but recently I’ve been taking stock of what I want, and it’s not enough to just exist. I want to feel like I’m improving on what my father and grandfather made.”
My ears prick up. Recently? Have I had any effect on helping Rufus make plans for the future? Not directly, of course, because he’s only talked about the Palais and what it means to him once before, but perhaps being my dom has reminded him just how much he’s capable of. It’s exciting to think that I might be having an effect on him as much as he is on me.
“Your father will be so proud of you,” I say.
But Rufus’s face clouds a little and he turns to stack the dishwasher, and I wonder what it is about his father and the theater that holds bad feelings for him.
When the kitchen is clean I change into my workout gear and go through my routine on the rug. The sunshine is streaming in and the windows are open. Rufus is on the couch and I can hear him typing away. He makes a few phone calls and I like the rumble of his voice as he speaks. A couple of times I catch him watching me, and he gives me a look that almost makes me lose my balance several times.
He’s still talking when I finish, and I lie on my belly and open the bakery app on my phone. I’m absorbed in it when I hear him come over and sit down on the rug next to me.
“How does it work?” he asks, nodding at the game.
He runs his fingers through my hair as I explain. It feels so good that if I could purr, I would. When I’m done he kisses the top of my head and whispers, “I’m so glad you’re here, kitten.”
For lunch he makes chicken wraps filled with salad and quinoa. Sitting at the kitchen table I stare at them, and then at him. “You’re like a walking wellness blog. I didn’t think that people like you existed outside Instagram.”
He just grins and tells me to eat.
The wrap is good, but I can’t resist teasing. “Is this all for my benefit, and you actually eat cereal out of the box when you’re alone?”
He levels a dry look at me. “What do you think, babygirl?”
When we’ve finished he hands me a plastic lunchbox. “I know you can’t have a proper dinner, but these are what you should be eating instead of that junk that was in your bag.”
I open the lunchbox, pink of course, and see little bags of nuts and pretzel sticks and dried fruit.
“There’s always fresh fruit in my office and I expect you to come and get two pieces a day before you go on, and eat them by the time you go to bed. You can’t have everything out of a packet. All right?”
“Yes, daddy.”
He puts his chin on his hand and looks at me. “My god. Your lips when you say that. Say it again.”
I feel myself go pink under his gaze. “Yes, daddy.”
“Good girl. Take off your underwear and go and lie on the couch.”
He follows me into the lounge and tells me to open my legs, and he licks me again, slowly and expertly. I tangle my fingers into his dark hair, and feel his tongue push inside me. Is this the moment we’re going to have sex? I wonder how much different it will feel than his tongue, and if I will like it. I want to like everything he does, though I worry it will hurt or be nothing, like I’ve heard people say about their first times. But a moment later he moves back to licking my clit and the worry passes. When I come he holds tight to my thighs. I reach for him, but he holds my hands when I try to undo the buttons on his shirt.
“What about you?” I ask, sitting up, studying him. “You’ve made me come so many times and you’ve only come once, and even then you helped me.”
“Oh, I’ll get what I want,” he says, and something dark shifts behind his eyes. I remember the other side of Rufus, the side with the handcuffs and the butt plugs and his hand tight around my throat. Silly me. Of course he will.
Chapter Eight
“Abby,” Rufus says, stroking his hand through my hair. I’m sitting on his lap eating an apple. The show is over and I’ll be getting the train shortly, but we’ve fallen into the habit of me sitting with him for a little while before I head home.
He rarely uses my actual name, so I stop chewing and look at him, wondering what’s wrong.
“Would you consider going on the pill?”
I swallow. Butterflies start rioting in my stomach. I think back to the start of the week when he pinned me beneath him in bed, just to see what I looked like when he did that. I know he meant what I will look like when we sleep together. He hasn’t made any other reference to actually doing it, though every day he’s managed to find some quiet corner of the theater before, after or during the show to make me come. Today he cornered me backstage in between two of my dances and managed to get his hands inside my costume, which is no mean feat considering all the nylons, leotard and layers of tulle I wear. I nearly missed my second cue.
“Would you like me to?” I ask.
“Yes. But what I want isn’t important. It’s your body and your decision.”
That’s why he said my name, I realize. He wants me to know that he’s not telling me to do this, he’s asking.
“I’ve always been careful, but I’d get a blood test for your peace of mind.”
“You don’t have to. I trust you.”
He frowns. “I know you do, sweetheart, and I like that you do, but it worries me when you say things like that. Like the other day when you told me to go ahead when I had you beneath me in bed. That wouldn’t have been safe. I wish you wouldn’t be so reckless.”
I wrap my arms around his neck. “But it’s you,” I say, if that explains everything.
“It doesn’t matter. Promise me you’ll never put yourself in danger, for anyone, no matter who they are.”
“I promise,” I say.
“Thank you.”
“I will see my doctor about the pill tomorrow.”
He smiles and kisses me. “Really? Are you sure?”
“Yes.” It’s very grown up, going to the doctor for birth control pills, but I’m excited to do it, not daunted.
“Wonderful. And I’m getting the blood test.”
The next day he’s got a piece of gauze taped to the crook of his left elbow and I’ve got a blister packet of cream-colored pills. I’m sitting on his desk with my socked feet on his knees.
Rufus examines the packet, and then hands it back to me. “What’s your plan for remembering to take them at the same time every day?”
“Plan? They’re labelled with the days of the week. Easy.”
He gives me his sternest look. “Kitten. That’s not good enough. You need a plan.”
“I’ll...keep them by my toothbrush and take one when I finish cleaning my teeth.”
“And if you’re at my place, not yours?”
“Oh. I’ll keep them in my bag, then.”
“You change your bag every day or so. What if you leave them behind in a different one when you’re in a hurry?”
“I just won’t forget them.”
He pushes my knees to one side and swats my behind. “You could forget them, easily. Anyone could. Why don’t you get yourself a little pencil case and put them in there with your keys and your train card?”
“That’s a good idea. I won’t get far without those two things.”
He gives me a dry look, reaches past me into a drawer and pulls out a pencil case. “I did it already.”
I giggle and take it from him. Pink-and-white kittens again. “Thank you.”
Taking hold of both my ankles, he squeezes them tightly. “And if you do ever forget one, for god’s sake tell me, won’t you? I won’t be mad. I just need to know. All right?”
“All right.”
“Good girl.” He clears his throat. “Did the doctor tell you how long it would be until you’re protected?” he asks, his tone perhaps a little too light and conversational. Is he as impatient as me to go to bed together? It’s all I’ve been able to think about since I stayed at his apartment, though my impatience has been mixed with worry that I won’t like it or I’ll be rubbish at it.
“A week,” I say. “Next Friday.”
“I see.”
I look at him, one eyebrow raised, but that’s all he says.
He messages me at 8:00 a.m. every morning all week.
Have you taken your pill?
Yes, daddy.
Good girl.
By Tuesday receiving his message makes me roll my eyes and I add, It’s like you’ve got a vested interest in me taking these pills.
Princess, I would do this if they were antibiotics for an ingrown toenail.
I believe him.
By Wednesday I start to wonder why he hasn’t made plans with me for Friday night. I start dropping hints, but he ignores them.
On Thursday night in his office I pout and ask him why he hasn’t asked me out or over to his flat.
He give me his Now, princess look. “You’ve got two performances on Saturday. You can’t have a late night on Friday.”