Unraveled by Him

by Wendy Leigh

  He is on top of me now, the entire weight of his body resting on me, and I revel in the bulk of him, the muscle of him.

  Then he moves down lower, much lower, and I feel his tongue inside me, thrusting, swirling, pleasuring me, while I lift my hips up to him.

  He is inside me now, filling me, pumping me, riding me, and despite the welts on my ass, which he is pressing into the mattress, making it smart and ache, I want to keep him there, forever.

  I feel the pulsation of his cock and his breath quickens; he is about to come inside me and I am ecstatic that he is giving me the greatest gift of all.

  At that exact moment, in a dizzyingly swift move, he pulls out of me, and I am empty.

  In a millisecond he is on his feet, and in a flash he is fully dressed again.

  At the door of the dungeon, he turns and says, “Return to your suite immediately, and compose yourself. I shall be joining you there in an hour.”

  And with that he leaves me there, on the verge of tears because he didn’t allow me to pleasure him, because he has denied me my heart’s desire.

  The Master, withholding the essence of himself—the ultimate punishment for a submissive like me.

  Back in the suite, once I’ve had a bubble bath, I inspect my welts in the mirror and admiringly conclude that Robert is an artist with the whip: the welts are carefully placed over my body like diamonds but are not too deep and will fade quickly.

  But will his memory of Lady Georgiana? And will I ever be able to compete with it, or with her?

  It’s past eleven when Robert bangs on the door of my suite.

  I let him in, thrilled to see him.

  “Tonight you exceeded my wildest dreams, Miranda,” he says, and I feel dizzy with pleasure and relief.

  And then he hands me a red velvet box.

  Inside, a vintage Chopard watch in a diamond and emerald Kutchinsky setting—emerald like his eyes—with a diamond-and-emerald-encrusted strap by Van Cleef & Arpels.

  The watch is unutterably beautiful and startlingly unique, as it has two faces for two different time zones.

  Two faces! Just like you, Robert, flashes through my mind; then I feel massively guilty at having such a critical thought about him, given how generous he has been to me.

  I kiss his neck, his eyes, his arm, then run my fingers down to in between his legs.

  To my surprise, he moves away from me.

  “When I’m with you, Miranda, you excite me so much that my brain turns to mush, and tonight, of all nights, I need to focus. Because, however much the doubts the wreath caused me to have about you are fading, they won’t be banished completely until you’ve passed all five tests.”

  “And I will, Robert, I swear that I will. You’ve challenged me, and there is no way I’m not going win,” I say.

  “As a gambling man, I’d bet on it, my little spitfire,” he says, and my heart soars.

  Then he goes on: “As—judging by your performance this evening—I am certain that you will prove that the wreath and the message it carried are an unadulterated lie, I am going to take another risk. Not just once, but each and every time you have passed one of my tests,” he says.

  “Risk, Robert?” I say, and can hear the rising panic in my voice.

  “I’ve always been an extremely private man, Miranda, so this is more of a risk for me than it would be for most men. What I intend to do tonight, and every night until the tests are over, is to reveal the secrets of my past to you. Then you’ll understand everything,” he says, and adds, “I don’t do this lightly, Miranda, but no other woman has ever had the effect on me that you have,” and I almost faint with a combination of shock and pleasure.

  “Not even—” I start to say, once I’ve recovered.

  Ignoring me, he goes on: “And I know I was wrong to react so strongly to the wreath. But it played into elements of my past that still haunt me. So I want to pay you the compliment of telling you the whole unvarnished truth about it.”

  He looks so tense, so full of shadows, that I reach up and kiss his cheeks, then his eyes, then his lips, and for a moment he closes his eyes, luxuriating in what I’m doing.

  Then he clears his throat and goes on: “Miranda, the truth is that I have finally realized that if we are ever to find happiness together, I need you to know the truth—the best and the worst of me.”

  “I can’t imagine that that there’s anything bad about you that I don’t already know, Robert,” I say.

  He gives me a faint smile.

  “We aren’t just talking about my arrogance, my dominance, Miranda, but much more,” he says, and pauses, while I try to digest the enormity of his words, and to prime myself for whatever horrifying revelation he is about to make.

  Then he goes on, “I have to warn you, my tale also features a number of unsavory characters, who, shady as they are, are crucial to the story I’m about to tell you.”

  “That doesn’t bother me, Robert. All I care about is you,” I say.

  He lights a cigarette, the first I have ever seen him smoke, takes a deep drag on it, and begins: “Let me take you back ten years, Miranda. At thirty-five, I was already a man who possessed everything money could buy—power, prestige, influence—and who, as far as the world was concerned, was wholly above reproach.

  “From as far back as I can remember, I was always determined that no man, and particularly no woman, would ever control my life in any shape or form. And that determination was and remains the guiding principle of my life.

  “On the sexual and emotional front, right from my early teens, I was consumed by dark thoughts and a craving so intense that it throbbed within me incessantly: the burning desire to dominate and control a woman.

  “But by the time I was ready to live out my fantasies, to satisfy my true desires, my status was such that I couldn’t afford to take the risk of dominating a woman as severely as I craved, lest she turn hostile to me afterward and spread the tale of my sexual proclivities to the media, or, worse still, press assault charges against me.

  “Years passed, during which I hoped that chance would intervene and I’d one day meet a genuinely submissive woman who longed to be dominated as vigorously as I wanted to dominate her. A woman whose drive to walk on the wild side was as passionate as mine. My dream woman, my fantasy woman, the woman I swore I would one day find, love, and marry.

  “But much as I yearned to find her, she never appeared.

  “At times, I toyed with availing myself of commercial sex, and hiring a professional submissive, but I never did, because I believed—and still do—that if you pay a professional to submit to you, her primary motive is financial gain, and ultimately, she will have the upper hand. And, as you know, Miranda, I never want a woman to have the upper hand over me.”

  Fat chance of getting the upper hand over you, Robert, I nearly crack, but I don’t because I can tell that he isn’t really here with me anymore. He’s in another time, another place, and I guess I’m lucky that he wants to take me there with him.

  Robert continues, “As it transpired, the great blizzard of 2005 proved to be the act of God that finally eradicated all my misgivings about hiring a professional submissive, and enabled me to live out my secret sexual cravings at last.

  “Marooned in a Manhattan hotel suite because all the roads were closed, late at night, I passed the time watching soft-core porn and chanced on an advertisement for Le Château, an S&M fantasy parlor. Or, to be blunt, a brothel. An upmarket brothel a couple of blocks from Wall Street, situated in an elegant eight-room apartment. Five of those rooms were outfitted as dungeons in which customers could act out their fantasies, either playing a dominant or a submissive role with professionals prepared to participate in every aspect of their own particular sexual scenario.

  “Drawn to the glamour, the exclusivity, and the sexual possibilities of Le Château, I made a call, an
d was put through to Murray, the owner and manager of the club. Introducing myself as Mr. Blake, I made him the proposition I had evolved as a way of living out my desires without danger of them being made public.

  “I agreed to pay him a substantial sum of money on a regular basis, provided that he guaranteed the following:

  “One: He would sign a confidentiality agreement promising never to disclose my identity to anyone.

  “Two: He would have a peephole installed in the door leading to the biggest, best-equipped dungeon in Le Château.

  “Three: He would keep Le Château open for two extra hours on any evening of my choice.

  “Four: He would select six of his most beautiful, most submissive girls and have them line up outside the dungeon with the door with the peephole in it.

  “Five: I would then appraise the girls from behind the door, make my selection, and convey it to him.

  “Six: At that point, he was to dismiss all the other girls and ensure that they leave the premises immediately.

  “Seven: The submissive girl I’d chosen would then, for a specific sum of money I would decide, sign a nondisclosure agreement ensuring that she would never reveal my identity to anyone.

  “Eight: After which, my session with the girl of my choice would begin.

  “Murray, clearly a greedy man, naturally agreed instantly to my lucrative proposition. And from then on, I repeatedly made visits to Le Château in the dead of night, and lived out my most intense desires with the submissive of my choice there.

  “This gave me an outlet for my passion to dominate, punish, and control, Miranda, but not one that truly satisfied me. The girls were beautiful, and readily agreed in advance to submit to whatever I demanded of them, but none of them were born submissives, not like the woman of my dreams, not like the woman I longed to have in my power. Not like the woman I longed to love and marry.

  “But surely Georgiana?” I can’t help saying, then wish I hadn’t, because he gives me one of his scathing looks, then carries on as if I weren’t in the room. I feel like a schoolgirl reprimanded for talking in class.

  “Late one evening, I was about to leave Le Château when I discovered that while I was in the dungeon with my submissive girl of the night, outside another storm had broken out and my limo was stuck in traffic.

  “So while I waited for it to arrive, I passed the time drinking with Murray, who turned out to be smart and far more sophisticated than I originally assumed, as well as obligingly eager to forge a friendly relationship with me—hardly a shock, given how wealthy I was making him.

  “During our protracted conversation, Murray confided in me the story of his personal life. A married man with a wife and five children, many years ago, one night in a diner not far from here, he locked eyes with a woman who turned out to be an experienced dominatrix, fell in lust with her on the spot, and told her that he had always yearned to explore S&M, whereupon she took him home to her dungeon.

  “There she tied him to a Saint Andrew’s Cross and started to whip him. At that he went crazy, twisted around, grabbed the whip from her, ordered her to untie him, and she did. Then, with her consent, he tied her to the cross in his stead, dominated her, and discovered his true vocation.

  “Soon after, he left his wife and family, and he and the dominatrix founded Le Château together. However, after a few months, she decided that she preferred to be a free agent and work all over the world instead. So, after promising they would always remain friends, Murray bought out her share in Le Château for a pittance, and they parted amicably. And now Le Château was one of the foremost S&M fantasy parlors in America, owned and managed by Murray, who spent most of his days and evenings there, supervising the proceedings, and reveling in all the power and access that entailed.

  “Charmed by Murray’s openheartedness in confiding his life story to me (which is probably what he intended), I started talking about myself, my own desires, my experiences, and my dream to find a true born submissive with breeding and intelligence, one who craved to be dominated to the same degree and extent that I wanted to dominate her.

  “A woman who burned with her vocation as a sexual submissive, just as I burned with mine as a dominant.

  “ ‘And if I find her for you?’ Murray said, his eyes glittering with barely suppressed excitement.

  “I stated a sum of money, and he smiled.

  “ ‘She’s as good as yours already,’ he said.”

  Chapter Nine

  I am alone, and Robert is back in his suite, clearly shaken by his memories. Although I am thrilled at his trust in telling me his story, I sleep badly, haunted by the image of him in Le Château, searching for the submissive of his dreams, and Murray, the sleazy man who promised to fulfill them.

  I toss and turn, fall asleep, then wake abruptly to find myself standing by the window of my suite, looking into the darkness beyond.

  Part of me realizes that I’m sleepwalking.

  The other that I’m still dreaming.

  This hasn’t happened to me for years, and when I wake up fully, I’m rattled to the core.

  Somehow, I get myself back into bed again and manage to grab a few hours of sleep, but when I wake up I’m covered in sweat.

  I have a vague memory of the night before, and the fact that I’ve sleepwalked here, in Hartwell Castle, terrifies me.

  What if I had sleepwalked into the corridor, naked, and run into Mrs. Hatch?

  I make a mental note never to go to bed naked again, and to lock my door tonight and every night I’m at the castle.

  But when I go down to breakfast at ten, just as Robert has decreed, I’m still feeling so rough that I can hardly eat a mouthful.

  Today I am wearing the black and white L’Wren Scott Head Mistress dress he gave me, with black Louboutins. And the black Hermès Kelly bag he gifted me in Geneva. On my wrist, my dazzling new emerald and diamond watch.

  In a way, I’m relieved that he hasn’t demanded I go straight to Dungeon 2 for my next test. As much as his dominance of me yesterday swept me off my feet, literally and figuratively, and made my body vibrate with pleasure, I long to spend more time with Robert the man, as opposed to Robert the harsh and cruel dominant.

  By noon we are once again sitting together in the back of Robert’s Rolls—this time a navy one, with the license plate RH5—bound for Manhattan.

  I’m glad to be so close to him, but not overly so, as he spends the entire journey calculating a series of figures in a large maroon ledger. He is so intent on his calculations that he doesn’t say a word to me, and I stop myself from holding his hand, or touching his arms, his thighs, as I long to. Instead, I look out the window at the street signs, the houses, and the people, as we speed on toward the city.

  The limo glides to a halt outside a grand and imposing apartment building on Fifth Avenue overlooking Central Park.

  As I follow Robert into the building, the doorman greets him as if he were the president, not of a mere company but of the United States of America, such is the level of his respect for him.

  In the glittering glass and gold elevator I look up at him, so tall, handsome, and broad-shouldered, and decide it’s a toss-up between president and Hollywood superstar, as he could have succeeded magnificently at either.

  Then the familiar doubts wash over me.

  I’m just a regular girl from Hoboken, a writer with more than a dime to her name, but certainly not a fortune, a fairly pretty face, but not like her, not like Lady Georgiana. So what the hell is Robert Hartwell doing with me?

  As we step out of the elevator and enter a dimly lit room with gold-leaf walls, chandeliers, and alcoves with statues of muscular Greek gods in them who remind me of Robert, he takes me by the arm and leads me over to an enormous green baize table with a roulette wheel in the middle of it.

  A group of players are already sitting at the table.

&nbs
p; “May I introduce you to Count di Palazzo, Miranda?” he says.

  The count, who is half as tall as Robert, has gray hair and a long row of medals stuck on his narrow, sunken chest. He grabs my hand, lifts it to his lips, and deposits a butterfly kiss on it.

  “Enchanté, mademoiselle,” he says.

  I give him a smile, then take a look at the other people at the table: a blond, freckled actor, a household name; a football star; and a Californian politician, all focused on the game about to begin.

  “Wish me luck, Miranda. You can watch from here,” Robert says, and pulls out a gilt and red velvet chair for me a little away from the gambling table.

  Gambling? Illegal in Manhattan . . .

  “Who owns the club, Robert?” I whisper.

  “A consortium,” he says, and I’m left wondering whether he is part of it.

  Even though I’ve only known him for a few days, I know that Robert Hartwell is a lone wolf.

  Then the croupier calls, “Faites votre jeux,” which, I remember from French class, means “Place your bets.” I watch as the other gamblers around the table place their chips on the numbers.

  Only Robert doesn’t.

  Robert waits.

  Then, at the very last second, before the croupier announces, “Les jeux sont faits,” and all the chips have been placed by the other gamblers on a variety of numbers, Robert places his chips on just one.

  Which, after the croupier spins the wheel, comes up.

  Two hours and countless glasses of Cristal later, plus platefuls of the delicate canapés that a series of beautiful casino hostesses regularly pass around to me and to the players, and Robert has an enormous pile of chips in front of him.

  Beckoning me to follow him, he hands them in at the cashier’s desk, whereupon the cashier exchanges them for $650,000 in large bills, which Robert immediately puts into a big, black crocodile briefcase that has miraculously materialized at his feet, courtesy of one of the casino hosts.

  I’ve never seen so much cash in my entire life.