by Sienna Mynx
“Fetish! I knew it!” she shoved him off.
“I’m honest. Any man that says he has no fetishes is a liar. Some prefer slender woman, some feet, some men prefer a woman’s hands. Mine is skin. Any shade darker than my own. It’s beautiful, it’s vibrant, and it’s the essence of beauty to me. And I won’t apologize for my preference. There,” he smiled. “A better word. Let’s call it preference instead of fetish if it makes you feel better.”
“It’s insulting to date black women because they are… black!” she said. “You know what I mean!”
“I don’t date black women. Haven’t had the pleasure. And I’ve not dated you.”
“You know what I meant!” she said looking to the door.
“I’m being honest,” he said in an even tone.
“No you’re being creepy,” she said.
“Could I approach you in a coffee shop and tell you what the mere sight of you in this skirt makes my dick hard as a boulder? Can I stand behind you in line at the grocery store and explain to you the light on your skin when it glistens like polished bronze makes me weak? Could I have asked you to come to club Ajani with me and spend a night in my chamber without you reporting me to the authorities?” he chuckled.
Destini swallowed over a healthy dose of nerves. She backed away, breaking the spell, if only temporarily. “You forget you told me another truth. You read my books long before you took notice of me. You fell for an illusion. That’s what Rain is, and so is your false sentiment. The man that I give myself to, doesn’t need... control in order to relate to me.”
“We have unfinished bushiness. Take a seat.” He gestured to the chair.
She glanced back behind her. Two leather wingback chairs faced each other. Between them was a small table with a black candle. Its flame was enough to reveal a black folder with the Gaylor crest on top. It was the crest on Bryce and Nero’s ring. Also there was a feather tip pin and a small ink jar.
“Please,” he asked again.
Destini did as he asked. She sat in the chair and crossed her legs. He walked around and sat before her.
“I will admit this step should have been done before I ever laid a hand on you. It’s why you don’t trust me now,” he said.
“What is this?” she asked.
Bryce opened the folder. He picked up a thin sheet of paper and handed it to her. It was a medical document on blood work. The test results for HIV, Hepatitis and various diseases were all negative. She scanned the document and her eyes lifted to his.
“You will need to provide the same,” he reclined and crossed his knee. “Go on,” he gestured to the other stapled document. She set the paper down and picked up the other.
It was a contract. The title of the contract floored her: Consensual Master and Submissive Agreement.
“Are you insane?” she gasped.
Bryce studied her. She glanced up at him and then down at the document. It stated that the contract is not legally binding. It’s a sign of mutual consent and trust for extended role-play. The terms outlined in the contract covered the role of a submissive. If she agreed to the terms there would be no boundaries of place, time, or situation where she wouldn’t submit to the whim of her Master. And more importantly once she entered the contract her body belonged to him unconditionally. There was also a veto clause for the submissive. It offered her the power of refusal over any command of the Master under outlined conditions. If the command brought about the threat of arrest or prosecution, it was an agreeable condition. If the command threatened the life of the submissive or would bring about the destruction of her livelihood the sub could refuse. And of course things like physical or psychological trauma. Destini could not believe what she was reading. What had she been playing at? She had no real idea about BDSM or the lifestyle. She wrote Rain to be some caricature of women’s sexual liberation without the slightest clue as to what this lifestyle meant. She felt humiliated and remorseful for the fantasy, and that made her angry. How dare he open her eyes!
And yet she continued to read on. The Master’s role was outlined and he was omniscient in his power and control of his submissive. There were rules for punishments. There were rules for rewards. There were rules for secrecy, alteration of the contract, and termination of the contract. She could read no more.
She set the document down.
“Before I ever lay a hand on you again I will need your explicit consent.” He sat forward picked up the black feather pin and dipped it in the ink jar. He then scrawled his name on the contract. Bryce set the pen down. He removed his ring. She watched as he opened a flat small rectangular compact. He pressed his ring against the black ink pad and then pressed the ring to the document next to his signature. When he lifted the ring the crest was clearly there. Bryce plucked a tissue and used it to wipe his ring clean.
“Take your time. Read it. Understand it. Come to me when you are ready.”
“I don’t need time. I’m not signing it.” She stood. His gaze lifted to hers as she stood over him.
She remained trapped by his unwavering gaze.
“I want you to reconsider,” he said.
“Too late. A normal man wouldn’t do this. A normal woman… wouldn’t let you do this to her.” She shot her gaze over to the door. Did she actually still believe he would harm her? What he gave her was the power over his life. It was as big of a risk to him as it were to her. If she took the contract to the press, or his enemies, hell even his brother, he would be ruined. And yet she was trapped in her own moral dilemma refusing to be brave.
“Explain to me Destini why this scares you so much?” he asked.
“Some things are just for fantasy, Bryce. For the pages of a book,” she said.
“Bullshit. My feelings for you are what fantasies are made of, Destini. Who wants to be normal? Not you… never you,” he said. “Look at me.” He stood.
She did.
“I walked away from anonymity and came home to a family I’ve tried to erase from my life for you,” he said.
“No.”
“Yes, I came here for you. What may have started in a lie is much more to you now, to me. You’re mine.”
“I––”
“Mine. Say it,” he said.
His.
Destini went for the door, but he crossed the room and blocked her escape. Both of his hands gripped her arms tight. He forced her up against the wall, and she went rigid. A wild surge of desperation stretched her nerves to the point of fraying.
“You said you’d never touch me again without my consent,” she panicked.
“I’m desperate. I’m weak,” he said.
“Let me go!”
Did she fear him? He feared himself most days. He was different with her; he found bliss between her thighs and inexplicable calm when she held him in her arms. How could he explain it? He took her wrists and pinned them both above her head so her breasts lifted and strained against her blouse. “Say it,” he said through clenched teeth, his mouth just a centimeter away from her own. Her lips parted. Her eyes lowered to his lips.
“Say it,” he repeated.
“No.”
And then his mouth was on her, hot and furious. He released her wrist, his hands determined and urgent he snatched her blouse up out of her skirt, his thighs forced her legs to open wider for him so he could press against her, the soft region he longed to explore was so fucking inviting. How could he not fuck her right there, and punish her later? Several buttons snapped from her blouse as it was ripped open. This was wrong. He’d never gain her trust this way. But her refusal was more of a turn on than her consent. “You thought of me, wanted me, felt me wanting you. Admit it,” he grunted, eyeing her cleavage in the pretty lace cups. In her weak attempt to struggle she forced her skirt higher up to her hips. Bryce noticed. He slipped a hand in between her thighs to rub at her slit. He ran his tongue up her neck, nipping at the beating pulse. “Can you remember?”
Bryce had waited long enough and put up with more than en
ough. Forget the niceties. It was time to show her what she was there for. What they both wanted.
Bryce captured her pouty lips once more. Passion met him this time where before, he received resistance. He devoured her mouth, finding it impossibly soft. He bit and nipped her full lips. She cried out in shock, and he gave her his tongue. A hungry duel of their tongues ensued. It was frantic, manic, a tug-of-war for dominance—hers or his. He chuckled, to himself. He would win this battle.
Bryce pulled his mouth away long enough to push her higher up the wall, forcing himself between her legs. Her tits bounced in their lace cups causing him to groan lustfully in his throat. She had on panties, not a thong.
“Sign the contract!” he pleaded before he went too far.
“No,” she sighed with evident pleasure. He groaned with defeat.
“You will sign it. And the first rule my love is this. Every day you work here, and every night you play with me, you are to wear no panties.” Bryce’s eyes shot up to see if she got his meaning. She looked dazed, confused, and a little excited. But more importantly, he saw that soulful lusting in her eyes that made them kindred.
“God damnit sign the contract Destini, for both our sakes.” he grunted, tearing the lacy panty from her hips, shredding it. Still he wanted more access. He lifted her right leg by scooping just under the knee.
In his hurry, desperation to have her, he lost his cool. He pawed at her like some teenage lover, not sure where to begin first. She seized the moment and shoved him hard. Bryce faked his weakness and stumbled a step back. He was grateful she stopped him because he would not have stopped himself. And if he took her without consent there would be no turning back. She was quicker than lightning she was out the door and running. Gone. Angry with himself, and confused over how controlling his lust was, he punched the wall. He walked over to the forgotten contract. He picked it up gingerly. He glanced to the door she escaped through.
“Damn it, Destini.”
Fourteen
She must have run the entire distance to her cottage. Why couldn’t she remember doing so? Evidence wasn’t in the journey but her sore leg muscles. By the time she reached her door, she felt crippled and shriveled in her heels. She dropped everything inside her door and engaged every lock she could. She found a chair and wedged it under the doorknob in case he had a key. Near exhaustion, Destini removed her shoes and hobbled through her small cottage to the back bedroom. There she sat on the bed. She sat there for several long minutes waiting for the battle of her conscience, willing her desires to end.
Destini’s phone rang. It rang several times before she realized it had. Sad, and confused, she crawled over the mattress and plucked it from its base. She didn’t speak.
“I understand why you ran from me, Destini.” She fell over on her back and closed her eyes, holding tight to the receiver with her right hand.
“You don’t trust me,” said Bryce. “I’ll take whatever you want to give. For now. Did you hear me? For now.”
“Leave me alone,” she said.
“Okay. No pressure. Don’t question it. Just… think on us. You can come to me in any way you choose. I’m only asking that you do.”
There was another long pause shared between them.
“I have a delivery for you. I apologize, beautiful, for letting so much time pass between us. Accept this small token. We’ll continue soon. I promise.”
The line disconnected. Destini dropped the phone to her side. She sucked down a deep, long breath and released it slow and steady. As promised, within minutes there came a knock to her door. She sat up in bed. Her mind was finally clear, her senses sharp. She listened again and heard the knock. Throwing her feet over the side of the bed, she noticed her tattered blouse and swollen feet. How she made it across campus looking the way she did was a mystery.
Destini scooted off the bed. She grabbed a robe and pulled it over her. Then she ventured to the door on her tender feet, leery of his arrival. She removed the chair. She would tell him to his face that she wanted no part of his stupid contract and games. She would tell him that she quit. That’s what she would do. Screw it all to hell. She’d quit and beg for her old job back.
The knock came again.
She undid the double bolt and opened the door.
“Ms. Sanders, good evening. This is for you, ma’am.”
A messenger, possibly a staff member, held a long red box with a black satin ribbon. Destini accepted the gift. “Have a good evening, ma’am,” the messenger said. He turned on his heels and walked off.
Destini closed the door. Bryce’s present was planned. Did he know she would flee him tonight? He seemed to know everything. Destini sat on her sofa in her modest living area. She set the box on the coffee table. For a long moment, she stared at it as if it would sit up, open, and speak to her. She even waited for that nagging inner voice of hers to explain the gift. There was nothing. So she removed the black card. The writing was in scarlet red.
My sweet Destini,
You are the rarest flower I have ever known. I can’t wait to explore what that means between you and me.
Think of the possibilities.
B-
Destini loosened the ribbon and its satin tails drifted to the dark wooden coffee table. She carefully lifted the lid and parted the scarlet tissue paper. Destini was stunned. Twelve black roses. Gathering the thorny stems into her hands with the aid of the tissue paper, she inhaled them. They were indeed real. She gazed upon such a unique beauty she felt humbled by them; they were so remarkable she felt herself almost driven to tears.
With a heavy heart Destini slumped back into the sofa cushions, cradling them in her arms. Part of her was curious, the part that had put on a leather mini dress and sashayed into a sex club trolling for forbidden things. Now, she would have to decide if her curiosity and Bryce’s obsession was worth the risk.
***
It was Saturday. She was grateful for the reprieve. But a night’s sleep on the sofa had her achy and weary. She needed a day to regroup. She’d risen and stood under the hot stream of jets from her walk-in shower until her skin was wrinkly. She dressed in her Hello Kitty pajama pants and a cut-off tee, throwing her robe over her shoulders to ward off the chill. Now she nursed a cooling cup of coffee, lost in her thoughts. Destini’s gaze turned to the vase of flowers. Overnight, the black roses had bloomed. She felt a quiet shiver go through her bones each time their rich fragrance drifted under her nose.
She remembered reading once that the roses were grown in secret somewhere. Destini set her mug of coffee down. She reached over and drew her laptop close. Flipping the lid, she immediately did a Google search, ignoring the blinking icon for her email account. She hadn’t checked email on purpose. Naiya had amped up her spamming, trying to engage her in conversation. She wasn’t ready to talk to Naiya. Her life was off- center thanks to her friend’s interference. Part of Destini blamed her for it still.
Destini’s fingers pecked away on the silver keyboard. There were several sites dedicated to the black rose and its meaning. One in particular drew her attention.
The black rose, often believed to be a myth, is indeed real. Few countries cultivate the dark flowers that are mostly used for ritualistic reasons. The rose’s enigma is rightfully earned. What many don’t know is that the petals themselves aren’t black. In fact, they are the darkest color of red, and are often referred to as Black Jade. In the 17th century, the rose became most revered by an esteemed Welsh family that can trace a direct lineage to the Tudors and King Henry VIII.
Historians theorize that the meaning can be found in its rarity, which renders it an apt symbol of profound love or other things of such a rare nature. For the Welsh Society known to serve the Gaylor Knights, it also is the symbol of rebirth, especially a rebirth of fidelity, trust, and unbreakable bonds of restraint. To them, the Black Jade rose represents a binding of the mind, body, and soul.
Destini sat up straight. “Gaylor Knights?” she clicked the link to a Wi
kipedia page for an explanation. The family crest with a knight’s shield and two crossing swords appeared. It was the crest she’d seen on Bryce’s ring when he presented himself as ‘Sir’, and she also saw it on Nero’s ring. It was on the black box in the room he presented his contact.
Gaylor Knights is a long-forgotten cultural identity. The history of this exclusive society has been lost to folklore. The only primary-source account of the Gaylors date back to the 1300s and speaks of men (a clan) who were defenders in the Scottish War of Independence. Their migration to southern Wales ended in the 1400s. Their order, steeped in secrecy, was founded on principles of supremacy of the mind and soul dominance that protected them from invaders and harnessed a sect of rules and disciplines that were to strictly govern the Welsh people. The 16th century saw the rise of the Tudor family. Gaylor Knights served the Tudor progeny in secrecy and were constantly rewarded with virtuous maidens as life mates (slaves). Historians extrapolate that the women were not a forward part of the clan, but instead, served some purpose not conveyed to us through historical accounts.
This conjecture remains unproven.
That was all. Nothing else. She frowned deeply. She performed another search, and yet another. Nothing returned. Finally, typing Gaylor family in Manchester Hills proved useful. She traced Bryce’s mother’s family back to New Zealand under Aled Gaylor, but it was all standard stuff of Welsh royalty and references to the Tudor legacy. There was no further mention of the Gaylor Knights. She looked at the flowers again, their presence taking on new meaning. What was Bryce trying to tell her by sending her those flowers?