by Lulu Astor
“I’m not even sure I ever was in love to begin with… but to answer your question, no, Ariel, I do not.”
Later that night, he made up for all of the weirdness by being sort of romantic—definitely seductive. If nothing else, Ian wasn’t letting me escape until I’d at the very least surrendered my chastity. He must have seen it as a conquest—and he was all about conquests. So I finally lost my charter membership in the virgin forever club. If not for the conversations that preceded it in his office earlier that day and then just an hour before in his library, I would have felt my fantasy fulfilled. He was gentle, sweet, and achingly sexy. I was thrilled to have Ian as my first.
I spent the night and the next day with him. The following evening he drove me home himself, kissed me chastely on the cheek, and wished me goodnight. That night, instead of sleeping, my mind endlessly rehashed all of the requirements of the position that Ian was offering me: no emotional intimacy, slavish obedience of his rules, no looking at him without permission, kneeling at his feet during scenes, no public relationship, and strict adherence to monogamy—I wasn’t even allowed to cheat on him with myself, if you get what I mean. I’d belong to him… but he wouldn’t belong to me.
I tried picturing myself in the role. I couldn’t. How could I be around this handsome, thrilling man and have no rights of claim to him? He wasn’t looking for a girlfriend, didn’t want one. He was seeking a sexual partner, the latest one in a long line of them. I wanted a lover, a confidant—if I got lucky, maybe even a soulmate.
I was forced to make a painful decision. Even though I barely knew him, it was truly difficult to make and it hurt my heart, knowing I was shutting the door to ever seeing that glorious man again: his endearing grin, his beguiling eyes, the way his ass looked so bitable in well-fitting suit trousers.
The next day handmade chocolates arrived in a sterling silver box with an invitation to again join him for dinner.
Instead of accepting, I forced myself to send him a text message, begging off. Even if he weren’t so mesmerizing, it would be dangerous. I have a bad habit of being able to be talked into just about anything by just about anyone. I always expected to one day find myself on the six o’clock news as the stupid friend who leaped off a bridge, sat on a train track, bungee jumped into a cliff, or whatever, because her friends told her to do it. I could just see myself, in traction in the hospital, both eyes black and blue, the television news camera right in my purple, pulpy face, whining, “My friends told me it would be fun!”
I knew I needed to walk away from Ian Blackmon. He didn’t want what I wanted and he never would. I wanted a mate, someone with whom to grow intimate, share secrets, and enjoy simple things together, like good music or wine or a fat, cuddly puppy. Someone with whom to laugh and cry, have important discussions about current events, curl up and spoon in the cold, dark night. A boyfriend to introduce to my friends and family, to be seen out in public with, and to have the right to drape my arm around his waist whenever the urge took me.
He wanted a sex slave, an unequal partner to submit to him in every way possible, a woman who wanted nothing more out of her life than to please him.
I wouldn’t mind pleasing him; in fact, I would damn well love to please him, in every way possible. I’d gladly give myself to him, body and soul. But I wanted him to love to please me, too. And therein lies the rub.
Ian Blackmon was dangerous—to me, my tender heart, my mental wellbeing, especially. I’d known him for ten minutes and I already felt attached to him. What would happen to me in a month? A year? He could destroy me, break me into a million little pieces, kill me with a thousand cuts.
Saying goodbye by text was shitty, I concede, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it in person. Simply stated, staring into those penetrating eyes of his would preclude me from saying no to anything he suggested and, really, that wasn’t good for my health.
The message itself was short and simple:
Ian,
Thanks for a great time. I enjoyed getting to know you further (much further) and the tour of your lovely home as well as the exhilarating evening sail. I enjoyed other aspects of our time together, too.
I don’t think we’ll be seeing one another again but I do want you to know that I very much appreciated all the attention you showed me. I’d wish you good luck in your life but it seems you already have plenty of it. I don’t know what else to say.
Ella
I cried when I wrote it, knowing I was doing something irrevocable when I hit send. When would I ever meet another powerful, enigmatic man like Ian? Probably never. I drew my knees up to my chest, hugging them to me in a sorry facsimile of affection, and waited for his response.
When he didn’t reply to my text, I thought a.) he wasn’t near his phone and he’d see it later, or b.) he readily accepted my farewell and was moving on, casting his eye about for the next sex slave candidate. What did I expect anyway? I couldn’t be important to him, not this early in the game. If ever.
Less than an hour later, the doorbell rang. There he was standing at the door to my apartment, looking as delectable as ever, his hair windblown, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat, with his tie in his hand. He smelled like fresh laundry.
“Come for a drive with me,” he said, his deep voice like endorphins to my brain, but his pretty eyes held uncertainty.
“Um, I’m not dressed,” I looked down at the yoga pants and ripped tee I was wearing. “I wasn’t planning on going out again today.”
“May I come in, then?”
“Sure.” I backed up a few feet to allow him entrance. It was strange having the larger-than-life Ian Blackmon, a man recognized in public, in our small, humble apartment. Now I felt happy that Mariah had replaced the old laminate countertops with a beautiful slab of black granite only two months ago. Gesturing to the stools at the kitchen counter, I said, “Have a seat: I’ll go throw some clothes on and we could go for that drive.” I then scurried out of the room, padding barefoot down the hall, in a rush to get to my bedroom. I wanted to hurry him out of the condo before he could work his magic on me again.
But when I turned around to close the bedroom door, he was right there—so close I could smell his aftershave and his own beautiful Ian scent—and without another word, he kicked the door shut behind him and pushed me up against the nearest wall. Pinned by his hips, I could feel his rock-hard erection on my belly.
I went on the offensive. “Ian. I want you to know that I don’t think this Dominant/submissive thing will work for me,” I said breathlessly. “I’m just a very disobedient type—ask my mother—and I have a willful personality. Both of those traits will serve to undermine my value as a sex slave. Plus, I’ve never aspired to be one, but… listen… if I were the type to want to be a slave, I swear you’d totally be my idea of a very fine master or sire or liege… or whatever they call you. I just…”
He never allowed me to finish my rambling. He kissed me until I was seriously depleted of oxygen and would agree to anything. His voice, both soft and menacing, spoke directly into my ear.
“Did you expect me to just accept your rejection, my sweet Ariel? If so, you have no idea with whom you are dealing. I always get what I want—and make no mistake, darling girl, I want you. You want me, too.”
True that.
His hand curved around my face, lifting it to get my undivided attention. His eyes were blazing with some kind of volatile emotion when he looked into mine. “You feel it too, don’t you, Ariel?”
I couldn’t deny it. The it he referred to was the palpable electricity that snapped and crackled around us whenever we were together in the same room. But I was scared of it too. And of him.
“Yes,” I whispered, “I feel it, too.”
“Now wouldn’t it be foolish to cast aside such a gift without further exploration?”
I nodded, wanting nothing more than to throw my arms around him and snuggle into that delicious-smelling chest.
“Then don’t,” he growled, �
��it’s really quite simple.”
Then he tore off my clothes, throwing me on the bed to ravish me and lay waste to my objections. It’s amazing how agreeable I am after two consecutive orgasms. So, yes, I agreed to dinner and more discussion. I wanted to meet at a neutral place, say a restaurant; he wanted me to come over to his house. We compromised and I went over to his house—I didn’t say it was a good compromise.
Again I sat in his palace of a home, requisite wine glass in hand and a tad intoxicated, queasy even, still trying to digest the whole thing—that which he’d hoped to induct me into that very night. The delicious dinner I’d just consumed was being curdled by more detailed information about his… implements. During my last visit, when I’d endured his eye-opening lecture on the delights of BDSM and a guided tour of his dungeon, he’d mentioned a virtual cornucopia of deviant sex acts associated with each piece of equipment. Now he was telling me what he expected to use on me right away and what would come later, as I became more experienced.
And, honest, he looks so damn normal!
This was our third discussion on the subject. But familiarity was not breeding comfort here. Not in the least.
“I think I now understand why you had me sign those papers. Protection from sexual exposure?”
“It could be,” he answered cryptically. Probably seeing my confusion, he elaborated. “I don’t like the press, Ariel. I try to keep my life private and they do their utmost to thwart me—apparently I make good tabloid fodder.” He shrugged. “It’s a game: sometimes I win and sometimes I don’t, but I try to never make it easy. Let’s leave it at that.”
“If I agreed… if… am I allowed to change my mind mid-game?”
Exasperated, he’d snapped, “You’re not going to be imprisoned, Ariel.” His face then split into a disarming smile. “Well, perhaps I should amend that to, you won’t be imprisoned all of the time.”
Oddly, those words didn’t go far in reassuring me. “I’m not a brave individual, you know. I’ve never even gone bungee jumping due to trust issues.”
He shook his head in dismissal of my feeble attempt at humor. “This is just sex on steroids, Ariel. What’s more, based on the little I know I about you, I can almost guarantee you’ll like it.”
Though I offered him my most suspicious look, his smile continued to widen. Uh-oh.
It happened that very night; patience wasn’t among Mr. Blackmon’s many virtues, I concluded. He took me into the dungeon for the first time and I had to admit… I did like it. Or at least my body did.
On our first night together, he’d made love to me—no question about it. He’d taken his time, tried to make me feel comfortable, and was exceedingly gentle. Seeing him without clothes made me pant so enthusiastically I nearly hyperventilated. The man was an exquisite specimen of the human male, from his luxuriant head of hair down to his beautiful, masculine feet. Believe me, I searched for at least one imperfection, scouring him with enthusiastic eyes, but there was nothing to mar Mr. Gorgeous, just a big, fat zero.
And I? Instead of being nervous, I found myself eager to get things going, but he took his sweet time, slowly removing my clothes first and only later his own. In fact, he left his jeans on until the very last minute, a subtle reminder to me of the power exchange underway here, and where I was going to fit into his life—under him in more ways than one. By the time he was actually where I needed him to be—between my legs, ready to take my long-held virginity—I was beyond coherence and I’m pretty damn sure he knew it. I begged him to sully my virtue—and quickly. He finally did but though he was gentle, there was nothing quick about it. The next day, walking was a challenge for me.
I wrote the book because it ended far too soon, when I refused to agree to his terms, to become essentially a slave to his every whim. I wanted him on my terms; he wanted me on his—and never the twain shall meet.
My book was jokingly called Three and a Half Weeks, after the movie Nine and a Half Weeks, but modified since that’s how long our relationship limped along, propelled by nothing more than unadulterated lust. I briefly considered calling it The Story of A but that would have been too obvious, I think.
Chapter 2
Even though he was always so supremely confident of himself, when I agreed to try doing this thing with him, he looked somewhat taken aback, as if he weren’t expecting it. Why not? He’d told me he wouldn’t give up on me easily.
“You’re agreeing?”
“Yes,” I replied, my voice sounding hoarse and alien to me.
He stood up and extended his hand toward me. “Well, then. No time like the present. Come.”
I gave him my hand and he pulled me to my feet. Walking ahead of me, he held onto my hand, nearly dragging me behind him. I thought it was a fitting metaphor for the whole experience. Too soon, we reached the door of the dungeon. Naturally, it was in the basement of the house, next to the wine cellar.
“Ian,” I croaked out, “just in case you’re a serial killer, I should tell you that both Mariah and my mother know I’m here with you.”
He turned around and gifted me with the most delighted grin. “I’ll bear that in mind, Ariel. Ready?”
“As much as I’ll ever be.”
“Good.” He opened the door and urged me inside with his hand on my back.
I stepped in as if walking to my own doom. Sort of octagonal in shape, the room was dim and cool and smelled like cinnamon or something similar. As soon as we were inside, he closed the door.
“Ariel?” His voice was so soft.
I turned to peek at him and as soon as I caught his eye he issued a terse command.
“Strip.”
What? I paused for, like, a millisecond and it annoyed him. Talk about impatient!
“I resent having to repeat myself, Ariel.”
I was wearing fitted trousers with a silk tee. I started with my top, quickly lifting the hem up and over my head. He watched, his lips tight with impatience, I think. I hurried to unzip my pants and shimmy out of them, kicking off my shoes when my pants dropped to my ankles. Now I was in only my lingerie and I assumed it would be enough, at least for a few minutes. It wasn’t.
He strode over to where I stood and pulled something out of his pocket. Before I knew it, he’d cut off my bra and panties with a utility tool. I gasped in horror.
“Why did you do that?”
His face softened slightly, probably because of the appalled expression on mine. “One of the most basic but important lessons for you to learn is that actions or inactions have consequences, Ariel. I issued a simple command. First, you hesitated—transgression number one. Then you complied but only partially, a more serious misstep. As a result you lost your drawers. Next time I tell you to strip, I do believe you will divest yourself of everything you don’t want to lose. Am I correct?”
I quickly realized that the man in this room was decidedly different than the civilized man in the library. In here, all of his potency and character traits (both dubious and admirable) were magnified tenfold: his bearing, his facial expression—everything announced his unquestionable dominance.
I nodded, desperately wanting to stick out my tongue at him but repressing the urge.
“Good.” He lightly grasped my wrist and led me to a dark corner. “Whenever you enter this room, you will kneel in this corner, face cast down, your hands palm up on your thighs. Is that clear, Ariel?”
“Please, call me Ella. People call me Ariel when they’re angry with me.”
“All the better in here. When you agree to enter this room with me, you are relinquishing your autonomy and giving me full authority over you. Formality will help put you into the correct frame of mind.” He paused for a long moment. “I don’t want to overwhelm you with too much at once but you really should be addressing me as Master within these walls.”
“Master?” I sputtered. “I don’t think I can do that.”
He smiled tightly. “Fine. You may use Sir, if that’s easier.”
“
That’s just as creepy. If formality is what you desire, may I call you Mr. Blackmon?”
He nodded curtly. “For now it will suffice.” He pointed toward the floor. “Kneel.”
Feeling like a German shepherd, I dropped to my knees. He bent down and went about repositioning me. His body was so close that I could smell his cologne and it made me want to fling myself on him. I’ve never had an overactive libido—just the opposite, hence my long-held virtue—but Mr. Blackmon seemed to bring out the wild child in me. Hmm. And all it took was a ridiculously handsome, young billionaire to do it. That thought hit me sideways and led to hysterical giggles bubbling up in my chest and I knew instinctively it would be a very bad thing to let loose in here. Immediately, I conjured up a vision of a natural disaster and rescue dogs poring through rubble in search of survivors, to push it away.
“I’ve explained to you about reward and punishment. I believe you understand that punishment will usually be corporal. I do have other methods, however, that I will employ from time to time.”
Corporal punishment meant physical pain, right? So what other kind of punishments could he mete out? Psychological torture? Sleep deprivation? Extreme tickling? What? I couldn’t imagine so I had to ask. “Might I know what those are?”
“Oh, Ariel, you will find out soon enough. Being new, you’re bound to make mistakes.”
I was too terrified to appreciate word play but I asked anyway, “Was that pun intended?”
“No. Remember, whenever you address me, you must use a term of deference to rank. As I stated a few moments ago, I would prefer Master but for now I will settle for Mr. Blackmon. If you forget to use it, you’ll be reminded.”
“Behavior modification?”
The modification came instantly. I didn’t see what he used to slap me but it wasn’t his hand and it stung so much that I squealed.
“Excuse me?” his voice was thunderous.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Blackmon.” And I was sorry—truly—for my butt was burning.