by J. D. Chase
‘I panicked when he lost consciousness. I didn’t think . . . ’ Elaine cries, tears flowing down her cheeks.
‘You were the Top. You had a responsibility! Even if he was an experienced sub . . . a serious masochist . . . he was restrained—At. Your. Fucking. Mercy. Let’s just forget that he wasn’t consenting for a second. You should have been monitoring him closely. You failed him on every single level. And then, when he could take no more, you crept away and left him. Thank fuck somebody found him. And thank fuck they had the foresight to bring him to me so at least I could do a damage limitation exercise. If the consequences had been worse, and believe me, this is more than enough, your sorry arse would be behind bars by now.’
‘Don’t you think I don’t know?’ Elaine hisses. ‘So what happens now? What do you want to do to me, now that you’ve got me here?’
‘I want to knock some fucking sense into you. I want to vent my anger and frustration on you. When I walked through the door, I was tempted to spread your cocky fucking smirk all over the walls. But what would that achieve? I don’t inflict a ridiculous level of pain to get someone to do what I want them to do. That’s where we differ . . . I’m fucking better than that. You are a disgrace to the BDSM community and I’m going to make sure that everyone knows it. From this moment forward, you are banned from Vouloir—’
‘Oh, big whoop,’ Elaine deadpans, her bravado returning now that she’s sure it’s safe. ‘You get these ugly as fuck goons to grab me off the street and bring me here to tell me that? Why the hell didn’t you just tell them to stop me entering the club? I guess understated and classy is not your style. No, you have to make a big song and dance about everything to make you feel important. All hail La Veuve Noire. You think you’re better than me. With your fancy qualifications and your sex therapist job. Dream on, lady. You’re too soft. You’ll never be the Domme that I am. All this softly, softly crap. No wonder people need therapists. I could break any man. I could bring any fucker to his knees. I can out-dom any Dom.’
Smack.
My lip is curling at her words but, when Veuve’s fist shoots out and smashes into her face, snapping her head back. My jaw drops.
Silence descends until Elaine regains her faculties.
‘This lifestyle isn’t for you, Elaine. It isn’t a competition. I don’t seek to out-dom anybody. But then, I have nothing to prove. Men submit to me because they want to. I don’t have to shackle them and mutilate their genitals in an attempt to force them into submission. That’s all kinds of fucked up. You cannot force somebody into submission—in a D/s sense.
‘You forced Dean—a fit and healthy guy—into severe shock. Into losing consciousness. HE STILL DID NOT SUBMIT TO YOU. You tried to break him with cruelty and abuse. You could chain him up, flog him, beat him, mentally abuse him for weeks and you still wouldn’t earn his submission. You could rack up the pain level, inflicting burns, breaking bones . . . hell, you could risk killing someone and still not have them submit to you. True submission is not born out of fear. Nor out of hate.’
Veuve’s voice has risen to an almost hysterical shriek and her whole body is shaking. Hairs on my neck stand up as she speaks. Now the hairs on my forearms join in. It isn’t just the picture she’s painting that’s so disturbing, it’s the chilling emotion contained in every single word. The effect is dramatic, upon me at least although Elaine is sitting stock still.
The therapist pauses and stands completely still. The room is completely silent. I think she’s composing herself.
Yeah, she’s calmer when she continues.
‘Dominance isn’t about having a bag of tricks—the tools of the trade. It’s not about wearing the uniform or inflicting pain to ‘get what you want.’ It shouldn’t be about getting what you want—your focus should be on giving the sub what they need for them to choose to submit to you out of respect—never out of fear. If they submit, then your responsibility, your burden of care, increases dramatically. You then become responsible for a part of their submissive journey. If that’s not how you view your role or if you have to rely on, or resort to, any of those ‘incidentals,’ you’re not a Dominant. You’re a fake. A fraud. An abuser, acting under the cover of dominance.’
Elaine shakes her head vehemently at Veuve’s words.
‘Of course you don’t believe it. You can’t even see it. That’s what makes you so dangerous, Elaine. Being a part of this community brings responsibilities. I take those responsibilities very seriously—as we all should—as a true Dominant would. Therefore, every club in a hundred-mile radius has been alerted that you’re an abuser. They, in turn, have alerted surrounding clubs . . . and so on. That’s how seriously the community takes abuse . . . you are persona non grata at every single club.’
‘That’s unfair! You have no right!’ Elaine’s suddenly on her feet.
Like lightning, La Veuve Noire pushes her back into the seat and secures her by means of a handful of her hair.
‘I have every fucking right. You’re an abuser. And what’s more, I have arranged for you to see a colleague of mine. He specialises in rehabilitating sexual predators and abusers. You will see him weekly until he decides otherwise. You miss one session and I’ll hand over a dossier of evidence I’ve collected from your fuck up to the police. At the very least, you’ll be charged with ABH. My guess is that it will be GBH—even though the time has probably passed to guarantee a Section 20 conviction, you’ll still be looking at a custodial sentence.
‘Even a lesser conviction of a Section 47 Actual Bodily Harm charge carries a jail term of five years. Five years inside a prison. As a sex offender. Then the rest of your life on the sex offenders’ register. You’ve made some stupid mistakes, Elaine but I don’t think even you’d be stupid enough to risk a jail term. And rest assured, my colleague has agreed to brief me every week. One slip . . . that’s all it will take, and I’ll make sure you go down for it.’
Leaning right into her face, the therapist says, ‘I fucking hate abusers. You’re lucky you’re still breathing. Oh and don’t bother to mention your little trip here—nobody saw anything and the cameras are off. You have no proof. So don’t even think about trying to worm your way out of this. One toe out of line and I’ll fucking have you. And rest assured, the pain you inflicted on Dean will be nothing to the pain I’ll inflict on you. Do you fucking understand, you worthless piece of shit?’
It looks like Elaine tries to nod but Veuve holds her fast.
‘Y-yes,’ she manages.
‘Good,’ the therapist says before staring into her eyes. ‘I’m giving you one chance. And I’m already regretting it. Making you black out from pain would be a pleasure.’
She leans back and releases the handful of Elaine’s hair. ‘Now fuck off before I change my mind and do it now.’ She doesn’t so much as speak as growl.
Elaine doesn’t need telling twice. She scoots off the chair and hightails it out of the room, not giving me a second glance. The bouncers set off in pursuit, presumably to see her off the premises.
My eyes stay on the therapist, who hasn’t moved. She’s standing with her back to me, her frame so tense I can feel her nerves vibrating. Hell, I can almost hear them.
I don’t know whether I want to take her into my arms and attempt to soothe those ragged nerves or whether I want to high five her. Instead, I just stand there in awe.
This woman . . . this fucking incredible woman.
I’ve known guys in the field with less balls than she has. She’ll take anyone one on, as bold as brass with those balls of steel.
But even I can see she has a heart of gold.
I smile at my metaphors . . . like she’s made out of metal parts.
Yeah, and I’ll bet they’re Teflon coated. Nothing seems to keep her down—not even the trauma of reaching young Dan too late.
I chew on my lip. Yeah, I’ve seen men who seemingly attack everything head on and didn’t let anything affect them . . . they just bottled it all up and kept right on going.
Until one day, there’s no more room and everything that’s bottled up explodes back out.
But then, she’s a therapist. She knows the pitfalls and she probably has amazing coping strategies to prevent her from bottling thing up or getting bogged down. The armed forces could do with a therapist like her. I have a feeling they’d have less trouble getting men to make appointments if she were the one sitting opposite the couch.
I FEEL THAT HE’S judging me. That’s to be expected in this situation, I guess. And it should be no problem. People judge me all the time. But having Jones observing how I deal with Elaine, irks me. Little thoughts creep into my mind unbidden and I find myself preparing my words and doubting my chosen course of action. Because of him.
I can’t even see him. No blue eyes. No blond hair. No imposing stature.
But I can feel him. I can feel his eyes burning into the back of me.
I can sense his judgements.
Having this man around is no good for me. I have enough to contend with and now, I’ve all but agreed to make him a member here. And who am I to deny him, based purely on my own issues? He can’t help his looks any more than he can be blamed for my past.
I have a feeling I’ll be spending a lot less time here for the foreseeable future—especially if he goes ahead and becomes a club Dom.
Although, from the looks of it, The Kid seems determined to have Jones around as often as he can manage it. So I’m still faced with his presence in my own home.
Perhaps, if they can continue to bond and build up trust, I can leave him with Jones while I come to the club for my own needs and then, when Jones is here for his, I’ll be at home with The Kid.
Yeah, there may just be a way to make this work so that we all benefit.
I’M GUTTED. I’D GOT myself all worked up for another hands-on session with my therapist, after yesterday’s revelations and action but no.
Today, she’s dressed like I imagine a regular therapist to dress . . . well, maybe not exactly—she’s still got her unique style in evidence. Heeled shoes (black with silver skull prints), black tights (or are they stockings . . . for some reason, I hope so), a black pencil skirt and the tightest black jumper you can imagine. It’s stretched across those magnificent tits making them stand out even more. I mean, I may be horny, but fuck . . . nobody could refuse to notice them. When she walks into a room, they get there a good second before the rest of her.
I’m sitting opposite her now, I’m trying to keep my eyes on her face. If I can’t, they’re on the floor, on the walls . . . anywhere but on those tits. But that’s only because she keeps studying me. When I’m sure she’s not looking, my eyes are drawn to those mammoth orbs. Don’t get me wrong, they always have been . . . usually because they’re threatening to fall out of her corset but since I touched them yesterday, since I felt the softness of her skin and the rubbery firmness of her nipples, they’re calling to me.
I shouldn’t give in. I know it’s rude to stare. But that’s not all. When I woke up this morning, it seems that the bruising on my cock has fully come out. And, let’s just say that any pain I’d felt yesterday when my cock stiffened is nothing compared with the agony I feel today. And looking at those tits makes my cock do things of its own accord. So here I am, attempting to pay attention when all I can think of is not wanting to look at those tits, not wanting my cock to get hard or even twitch, and needing to look at those tits. It’s not surprising then, that I couldn’t tell you what she’s saying.
‘For fuck’s sake, Dean. Are you listening?’
Shit. Busted!
‘I’m sorry, Veuve. It’s just that there’s so much to take in,’ I lie, although there is some truth to my words. My head is still pretty fucked after the events of the past week. Bearing that in mind, I guess I should be trying harder to focus on her words. She is trying to help me, after all. And I’m not a fifteen-year-old, for fuck’s sake.
I get away with it. She smiles and her expression softens. ‘I know, honey. I know. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about not being there for you. What happened was—’
‘Not your fault. I should have followed your instructions. I can’t believe I thought she was going to be my sub,’ I say and she nods.
‘You’d have been safe if Elaine hadn’t been in the club. Or if she wasn’t trying to get one up on me. But, make no mistake, the scene is fraught with danger until you know the rules and have some experience behind you. This is why people need a mentor and why I’m yours. But today, I want to focus on you. Forget the club and what might happen in future—I’ll get you to where you need to be, don’t worry about that. I want to look at the events that led to you walking through the door of Vouloir for the first time. I’m not ignoring what happened after that—I will deal with that later.’
I roll my eyes when she wants me to talk about my earliest memories. Then it’s my school and home life then girlfriends . . . all the way up to my night with Isla, my boss. She seems particularly interested in my relationship with my mother again. I feel like defending myself—I’m a good son. I’ve looked after my mother since I was little, taken her criticisms and I can tell that she is critical of the interactions I have with my mother—she doesn’t say anything but she keeps clarifying things that have been said and asking ‘what would happen if ?’ questions. not held them against her, nursed her when she was sick. I give her half my wages to help run the house, although I’m out of the house a lot, when I’m working.
‘What would your mother say if she knew you were a member of Vouloir?’ she asks and I feel my eyes widen.
‘My mother and Vouloir are like two separate worlds. And they need to stay that way.’
‘Why?’
‘My mother wouldn’t understand. She’s a prude. She’s very old fashioned. If we’re watching a film and a couple kiss, she gets embarrassed and leaves the room until it’s safe. There’s no chance of watching anything over a 12 rated film or anything on TV after the watershed. She’d shit a cake.’
I see the therapist’s eyebrows raise. ‘She’s of a generation where, for the most part, the club would be too far outside their comfort zone. Most of her age group wouldn’t understand—or be willing to even try. But not to watch couples kissing? That’s a little extreme. Does she ever talk about sex? Did she give you ‘the talk’ when you were going through adolescence?’
I laugh and shake my head. ‘God, no! She’d be too embarrassed. I learnt everything from school sex education lessons, my friends and magazine articles that would be passed around the classroom. My mother thinks sex is a dirty word. She rarely mentions anything about it, but if she did, it would only be to criticise someone or to insult them.’
I tell her about the conversation I had with my mother after she’d smelt perfume on my clothes and then caught me rearranging my injured cock—although she didn’t actually see my privates, just that my hand was down inside my waistband.
As I’m speaking, Veuve’s eyebrows climb higher and higher up her forehead. I watch and wait for the next incremental hike. At least my attention is diverted from her tits for a while.
‘How would you describe your relationship with your mother?’ she asks, gravity finally restoring the resting position of her brows.
‘Good. Overall.’ Then I think about it. ‘She’s a little over-critical. Very old fashioned, as I say. But she’s all I have.’
‘You’re late twenties, still living at home. Any reason for that?’
‘I couldn’t afford to move out by myself—I give my mother half my wages.’
‘Oh. Why is that?’
I shrug. ‘To help out. She can’t afford to run the place on her own. And I live there so it’s fair that I pay my way.’
She nods. ‘What’s half your wages? How much?’
‘I give her £200 a week. But I saw my boss last night, there was a party at the hotel to celebrate having had a good inspection grading and I was invited. I only popped in to show my face and maybe break the ice with Isla—she’d seemed
okay when she’d met you in Vouloir. I thought it would be best to show my face, rather than turning up after a two week break. I thought that might be more awkward. But she was in a foul mood. She was all for giving me my P45 but I persuaded her to let me stay. She compromised; I can keep my job but I’ll be demoted to the position of regular barman. My salary will shrink accordingly but we didn’t get that far. I told her I’d think it over.’
This time, the eyebrows do a back flip and return to their usual position quickly.
‘And this is because you slept with her? Don’t tell me she’s saying you forced her—not when she was the one who instigated sexual contact and demanded you carry out various acts, just the way she likes it. That’s harassment, Dean. Leave it to me, I’ll sort this out. You’ll have your real job back by the end of the day.’
I say nothing. It’s not that simple.
She misses nothing, this woman. She frowns. ‘Dean, you’re looking sheepish. What did you do?’
‘Before I met you that night, I’d been getting pissed.’
‘Yes, Dean. You said, besides I witnessed it. Your boss gave you two weeks to sort yourself out. We’re still in week one. What’s changed?’
I sigh as my brain searches for a way of getting me out of this without me sounding like a complete low-life.
DEAN SIGHS HEAVILY IN acceptance. He knows he has to spill the beans—and he knows I’m not going to like it. If he laid a finger on his boss last night, I’ll fucking break it off, shove it inside his urethra and staple the end shut. Please don’t let him say he did something stupid when he saw her. He’s not trained enough to take a heavyweight punishment to keep him on the straight and narrow and he’s too unstable for me to drop him from my client list. Please don’t tell me he should be signing the sex offenders’ register because he can’t keep his hands off his boss.