by Ward, Deena
I was stunned, so surprised I couldn’t even be annoyed by his high-handedness in submitting my work without my permission. The instant he spoke of lessons in different mediums, a powerful desire rose within me.
I thanked him and the next day drove into the city for my interview. By the end of the week, I’d won the scholarship and was enrolled in classes on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.
I didn’t forget Isabel’s offer. She was supportive of whatever I wanted, and when I told her about getting accepted into art school, she congratulated me then suggested I work part time at Roundtree, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I happily accepted.
So just like that, I had a life again. A full life and a fuller schedule. School and work, both new, both exciting in different ways.
School was a crazy, hectic rush, an adjustment of a major sort. I was both out of place, because of my age, and exactly where I was always meant to be, pursuing art.
This was the direction my life might have taken if I hadn’t gotten pregnant when I was eighteen and chained myself to the wrong man. Or perhaps, the change would have had to happen earlier, before I became one of those sad young women whose self worth was tied to her man. And when might that time have been? Far back, long before I became a woman, when I was still child, staying on my grandparents’ farm.
This realization might have been sad, but I couldn’t be upset by it, not when my life was finally coming together.
Work with Isabel was a pleasure. She drove me mercilessly, but I enjoyed it. My biggest complaint about my old job as office manager at Linton Cosmetics had been the tedious, repetitive nature of it. I certainly didn’t have that grievance at Roundtree.
I fessed up to Isabel about my relationship with Gibson and enjoyed a rare moment of seeing her shocked. She then resumed her usual straightforward manner and told me to not expect special favors because of my involvement with the owner, shaking her finger at me and making me laugh.
Every day was exciting with Isabel raising hell and wasting no time letting everyone know she was there to make big things happen. Her new employees loved her as much as her old ones did, or at least the ones who weren’t terrified of her. Part of my new job was assuring them that Isabel didn’t bite; or if she did, she didn’t break the skin.
Technically, I was Isabel’s part-time assistant. In actuality, I was her arbiter, often her mouthpiece, and occasionally her sounding board.
After the previous weeks of fear and misery, and the mindless sort of mental and physical lethargy that depressed thinking can bring on, my current busy schedule was a violent shock to my system. The first week of my full schedule, I fell asleep each night before nine o’clock. By the time the weekend rolled around, I planned to spend half of it sleeping.
Every moment I didn’t spend at school, working or sleeping, I filled with Gibson. He supported my decisions, and never begrudged the time I spent sketching or practicing new techniques for school. He suggested we carpool to Roundtree on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and that quickly became a highlight of my workdays, as did our lunch breaks.
We slept together every night, either in his bed, or in mine. The more I was with him, the more I wanted him. I was confident he felt the same.
We worked out a flexible schedule between us, where we ate, whose place we slept at, and so forth. It was a natural evolution when finally, Gibson asked me to move into his house with him.
It didn’t seem that big a thing when he asked and I happily accepted. I was already living on his property. Moving into one house was more practical than anything else, and would cut down on all the juggling of toiletries and other belongings that resulted from switching residences so often.
On a Saturday morning in October, Gibson and I, along with help from staff members, moved my belongings out of the lakeside cottage and into the estate mansion. I was pretty blasé about the whole thing, going around in a carefree manner, bantering with Gibson about how he’d have to give me more drawers than he wanted.
It wasn’t until my boxes were piled in Gibson’s room and a couple of housemaids were traipsing around unpacking and trying to find space for everything, when it hit me. I was moving in with Gibson Reeves.
My God. This was my stuff in his room. Wait. Not just his room. My room, too, now.
And all my art supplies were being set up in a different room in the sprawling mansion, a room that Gibson was having altered specifically for my needs, with special lighting and built-in cabinets, and I couldn’t say what all since he had brought in an interior designer to take over when it was obvious I wouldn’t have the time for it. My studio, my workshop.
When I went to sleep that night, I’d be in Gibson’s bed. My bed. And the huge bathroom. Mine. The veranda. Mine.
If I wanted a snack, I’d have a long trek to the big kitchen with the vast refrigerators and other industrial-sized appliances. Even the toaster was intimidating in there. Or I could buzz up a servant and ask that a snack be brought to me. Now that was a serious mind-blower.
The next time Elaine visited me, I’d be welcoming her into a mansion. If we had coffee, there’d be a household employee nearby, expecting to fetch and serve it.
These realizations were overwhelming. I needed time to think, figure out what was going on. Why was my heart beating so fast?
I half-staggered to the door, feebly telling the maids to put things wherever they thought best, then I rushed down the hallways and stairs, seeking a quiet spot to hunker in. I found a small sitting room halfway down the east wing, slipped inside and closed the door with hardly a sound.
I flopped down in a soft chair and stared at the carved mantlepiece over the fireplace.
This was my home now. I lived here with a sexy, unbelievably handsome, who-knew-how-rich man. And he was as crazy about me as I was about him.
And I was in school, had a great job and friends that I could be honest with about who I was.
I never had to worry about anything, really. Certainly not money. The only small arguments Gibson and I had were always about money — him wanting to buy me things and me saying no. Of late, though, he won those arguments more often than not. He’d even managed, finally, to persuade me to drive one of his new cars instead of my old clunker, a lengthy battle which I still wasn’t comfortable surrendering.
Still, Gibson and I never fought, not seriously. He was so even-tempered and reasonable I couldn’t imagine ever being in genuine conflict with him. And best of all, none of the ease meant he wasn’t passionate. Oh, in bed, he was as passionate as any woman could hope.
Here I was. Living with a wonderful man on a fancy estate.
So what the hell was I freaking out about?
I laughed out loud. Seriously. Who freaked out over this, this, what was it?
I searched for an answer. What was this?
Happiness. Could that be it?
Good Lord. I wasn’t freaked out. I was happy, happier than I’d ever been.
Hell, I was half-giddy with it. If I were a teenager, I’d be jumping up and down, dancing around the room and squealing about it over the phone to my best friend.
So this was what pure happiness felt like. No wonder people wished for it so badly.
And there I was, stupidly hunkered in a sitting room, hiding out because I didn’t know how to deal with being happy. I mentally shook myself. I needed to get the hell up and out of that room and go find the man who was responsible for creating this joy.
I smiled. And stood.
I’d left Gibson at the mercy of the maids and when I reentered our bedroom, I found him backed against a wall looking distinctly unamused at the questions the two women were tossing at him, questions about where my panties and bras should go, and how my shoes should be arranged in the closet.
He met my gaze with no small relief, and my heart gave a few quick thumpity-thumps in response. Whatever it was that brought me to this moment, I thanked it with everything I had. I couldn’t imagine anything being better than this.
Not
hing, I thought, could be better than living with Gibson Reeves.
Our first week co-habitating passed smoothly except that I began to have some questions which only Gibson could answer.
I didn’t notice anything missing, at first, I was so thrilled to be with him. But now that certain facts had come to my attention, they needed addressing.
I waited until Friday evening, after we ate dinner and after he released the house staff for the night. We were tucked away in Gibson’s study. He was at work typing on his computer and I was stretched on the sofa reading my art history textbook.
I looked up from a photo of a Doric column. “Are you busy right now?”
“Give me a second.” A flurry of typing followed before he turned in his big leather chair to face me. “I’m all yours.”
I laid my book on the table in front of the sofa. “I was wondering if you’d tell me where your dungeon is.”
He blinked once, twice. “You sound certain that I have one.”
“I am. I’ve been going through every room in this place trying to find it. No luck. But there are some locked doors. Give it up. Your dungeon’s behind one of those doors, isn’t it?”
“You sound convinced of it.”
“You have one. Come on. You had to have a place where you took your subs for, you know, BDSM action.”
He grinned. “I think it’s adorable that you call it BDSM action.”
“You can’t distract me with flattery. Okay, you can, but don’t.”
“Fine. If you insist. I usually met my subs at Private Residence. There are rooms there, the no-audience kind. I had one on permanent reserve.”
“You didn’t bring them home?”
“No.”
“Sleep in a bed with them?”
“No.”
I paused to consider his answer. “It’s so impersonal.”
“With most of them, it was like a business arrangement. We bargained about what each of us wanted, reached an agreement and signed a contract. It wasn’t romantic, if that’s what you mean by impersonal.”
“Did you never bring a sub here?”
“Almost never.”
“You’ve had relationships before, though.”
“A few.”
I plunged onward. “We haven’t had any BDSM action ourselves yet, not since we started up again.”
He nodded, his features still. “That’s right.”
“You had to know I was going to start wondering why you aren’t tying me up and spanking me. It used to be something you couldn’t get enough of and now phhht. Nothing.”
His mouth twitched. “Are you offering to become my submissive partner, Nonnie?”
“I didn’t know you needed me to.”
“The last time we spoke on the subject, you were unsure about continuing as a submissive.”
“Just because I didn’t want to do training at Private Residence doesn’t mean I’m unsure about doing stuff with you. Anyway, you’re always large and in charge no matter what we’re doing, and I pretty much do what you want, don’t I?”
“Pretty much.”
“So you’re not making sense. Do you want me to ask for it? Because I will. I’m not shy, you know.”
“I’d noticed that. Come here.” He uncrossed his legs and patted his lap.
I clambered off the couch and settled onto his lap. He pulled me close to his chest, circling me with his arms.
“I’m not playing games,” he said. “It’s not about forcing you to ask for it. I haven’t wanted to push you after what you’ve gone through. You’ve been reticent and that’s understandable. If you never wanted to delve deeply into BDSM again, I won’t lie to you and say I wouldn’t miss it. I probably would, but I don’t have to have it to be happy with you.”
I watched his face closely, the fine crinkles at the corners of his dark eyes, the shape of his moving lips. It declared sincerity to me. “I haven’t ever considered giving it up, not for long. I want that with you, Gibson. I love what we do together now, but I want it to be like it was during our weekend at the condo, too.”
“You’re sure? Don’t do this because you think I have to have it.”
“I’m not. Maybe I’m the one who has to have it.”
“My greedy little sub.”
“That’s right.”
“Then if you’re ready, I am too. We’ll do it properly this time, though. I’ll pull out the paperwork and we can go over the limit lists and set an initial negotiating —”
I sighed. “Right now? I really don’t want to do that right now.”
“It’s past time we approached this in a formal manner, Nonnie. We should discuss limits and expectations and everything that goes with it.”
I wiggled my rear in his lap. “I agree. But I don’t see why it has to happen tonight. Right now.”
He gave me a stern look. “What you’re doing is called topping from the bottom, and it’s seriously frowned upon.”
“By who? You?”
“Most definitely by me.”
“In that case, I wasn’t trying to top you. I wouldn’t know where to begin. I was thinking, though, that it’s been a while and maybe we could put off the serious discussions until I have a better idea of what I’m looking at.”
“Like a trial period?”
“That’s it! A trial period. Let’s say I agree to spend the next, oh, forty-eight hours as your sub. You could try different stuff and we could —”
He laughed. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Okay, fine. So I don’t.” I wiggled my butt again.
“You as a 24/7 sub? Never. Not even for two days” He laughed again. “Believe me, you’re a bedroom-only sub.”
“I could do it.”
“You can’t possibly think you could spend every hour of the next two days obeying my every command, never wanting a break, never arguing or getting mouthy. Impossible.”
“I didn’t say I’d be a perfect sub.”
“It’d serve you right if I accepted your offer.”
“Yeah, you’d be showing me what’s what. It’d probably be good for me. A character-building exercise.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re cocky right now, but you wouldn’t be for long.”
“You’re probably right about that. If I were you, I’d want to prove it.”
“You’re digging yourself in deeper.”
“I can’t help it. And by the way,” I leaned down and spoke softly, next to his ear, “you think you’re being a gentleman not touching my butt, because of that other video and what happened. But Gibson, you’re mistaken. That weekend in the condo, you taught me to like it. I miss what you did to me there and I want to learn to like it even more.”
I felt his muscles tighten and clearly saw a pulse throb at his temple.
Several slow moments ticked past.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “Stand up.”
As soon as he let go of me, I slipped off his lap and stood facing him.
His words were clipped and formal. His eyes were agleam. “You’ve offered to be my submissive on a trial basis for the next forty-eight hours. I accept.”
My heart pounded and I had to fight back a triumphant grin. I tried to sound humble when I said, “Thank you, Sir.”
“Very good. Your safe words are yellow and red, yellow for slowing down and talking, red for immediate stops. There are no bad consequences for using safe words. Understand?”
I nodded. “Yes, Sir.”
“Please keep your eyes lowered, unless I tell you otherwise.”
I quickly dropped my gaze to the floor.
“Now,” he continued briskly, “do you agree to do what I ask of you, guided by your desire to please me?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Then it would please me to see you naked. What should you do about that?”
“Take off my clothes, Sir.”
“Excellent answer.”
It took but a few moments to pull off my cl
othes. I stood in front of him, naked and already trembling from the sensuality of knowing he looked at me.
He told me to stand up straighter, to push out my chest, to arch my back. “Turn around and bend over. Touch the floor if you can. And spread your legs. Mm-hmm. Just like that.”
Blood immediately ran to my head and added to the red flush crawling up my neck. I imagined him looking at my most private parts, all of which he’d seen before, but being displayed like this in a fully-lit room wasn’t exactly something I was accustomed to ... yet. Plus, I was getting wetter by the second, and he could undoubtedly see that. Embarrassing.
His chair creaked, then came the sound of a drawer opening. What was he doing? I couldn’t tell. There was some shuffling and moving about. He must have been digging in his desk.
His chair creaked a few more times, then came a rustle of paper. More creaking.
The noises finally died away. He spoke at long last. “I’m holding a standard contractual agreement between a dominant and a submissive. Since you’re not in a position to see any of this, I’ll explain as we go, and read when necessary.”
I shifted slightly and felt the first stirrings warning me that something wasn’t right.
“So,” he began, “when a sub and a dom decide to keep company with one another, it’s important that they discuss what their expectations are of one another. For instance, some doms have particular hygiene standards that they demand be followed. Some subs might have allergies or difficulties that prevent them from achieving those standards. This is a good time to discuss these basic issues before heading into more serious considerations and limits.”
“For me,” he said, “I like the way your pubic hair is trimmed short where you have it, and how everything else, such as on the labia, is kept bare. However, where you have hair, I’d like it grown out about an eighth of an inch more please.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. Oh, by the way. If you get dizzy or woozy in that position, let me know. We’ve got a good thirty pages to get through, then we’ll have the contract to work out so this will take a long time. I don’t expect you to hold that position through all of it. I do expect you to last as long as you safely can, since I enjoy the view.”