With a laugh, I take a sip of my coffee before it gets too cold to be good. “I doubt that you’re anywhere near the extreme of what they’ve seen. Remind me to tell you about Rule 34 sometime.”
She draws her face into a very skeptical sort of grimace, her mouth turning down and her chin pulling back. “ ‘If it exists, there’s porn of it.’ Already aware of it, thank you very much. No need to go down that route. Like I said, I’ve Googled a lot.”
“So, how did you feel after our last session? Once you had some distance.”
“Honestly? I felt elated. Like I’d dared to do something that’s part of me, even if it was something so basic and simple.”
“No guilt?”
“Oh, there was guilt. A little later. I got home, flopped onto my couch and starting questioning what on Earth I’d done.” She flops her head back against the headrest. “I’d been a bad girl, or at least it felt that way.”
The way she says ‘bad girl’ makes my therapy instincts tingle. “Maybe it’s time we take a closer look at where this comes from.”
She looks about as excited as the time I started talking about spiders. “Do we have to?” she whines.
“You’re not getting bratty with me, are you, sub?” I intended for that to come out jokingly, but it must’ve been sterner than I thought, because she shakes her head immediately and straightens in her seat.
“No, Sir.”
Instinct kicks in. “Good, because avoiding the important subjects won’t help us make progress. What has given your mother such a hold on you?”
She looks away. “My father.”
I remain silent. Now that she’s begun, I’ll let her take it at her own pace.
“He… hit Mom. Like, a lot.” Her face tightens, and my heart aches at the obvious pain the memories bring with them. “She was black and blue just… all the time. Fists, belt… He had a bamboo rod hanging on a hook in the kitchen. He loved to say that it was thinner than his thumb, so she had nothing to complain about.” She swallowed. “Never above the neck, though, or anywhere it could be seen. He wasn’t that dumb.”
Shit. I suspected something like this, but still, shit. “How old were you?”
“When we ran away? I was ten. But it started before I can remember. Mom said he used to be nice. At least until she got pregnant. He was an executive on the rise and she was barely out of high school, trying to figure out what to do with herself. Her family had no money for college or stuff like that so I think he always thought she was beneath him. They met at a bar and he smooth talked her into bed, and things happened.” She gestured to herself. “He insisted on doing the right thing, and married her, but we would’ve been better off without him. I think he hated the life he ended up with, and little by little he started to take it out on us.”
“I’m sorry.”
She gives me a wan smile. “Mom’s told me the story several times. I saw him at his worst and was too young to remember the good times, but she wanted me to know how insidious it was. Sharp words at first, maybe a bit of a nudge or grabbing her a bit too hard. Enough to make her feel like it would stop if she just was a better wife or mother. By the time I was old enough to understand what was happening, she’d spend all her time trying to make sure he wouldn’t get angry, but it was never enough.” She shakes her head, as if trying to clear herself of the memories, then sniffles. “And it wasn’t just words anymore.”
There’s a ton of literature arguing against what I’m about to do. I’m a counselor, not a friend. Or something more. But I can’t help it, not when she’s like this. I stand and walk to her chair. She looks up, her beautiful blue eyes shining.
Kneeling down by her chair, I wrap my arms around her and pull her close. She resists for barely a second before she eases into me, her face against my chest and her arms around my waist.
“I’d hear it at night, after she’d put me to bed,” she forces out, her voice strained. “The yelling, the screams, it was horrible. I never saw it. Well, almost never, but what made Mom finally break away was when he hit me. It only happened once. He’d threatened me tons of times, but one day he was in a particularly bad mood and I guess he thought I was big enough to take it. It wasn’t even hard. Nothing like what he’d do to her. I was more surprised than anything, but Mom told me later that was the moment she realized it wasn’t going to stop. He was going to do it to me too.” She shudders, and I squeeze her harder.
“The next day, while he was at work, she packed all of our clothes into two suitcases, called a cab and we were out of there. Not just our house, but out of town. She got a neighbor to help book us plane tickets across country to get back to my grandparents. I found out later that Dad came looking for us, but Grandpa chased him away with his shotgun. Other than receiving the signed divorce papers in the mail, it was the last thing we ever heard from him.” She’s silent for a while, before she whispers nastily, “Coward.”
We’re both quiet for a long time. She needs time to think more than she needs my advice right now, and I’m not going to push her out of my arms. Not ever. Putting a hand in her hair, I stroke it gently. “How are you feeling?”
“Right now? Better than I thought, to be honest.” She snuggles closer into my chest. “I haven’t talked about this to anyone in… I don’t know, forever. Mom and I would talk about it, a little, but mostly I was brought up with the evils of men up front and center. She never moved on after we left. Her church and the friends she made there have become her whole life. Mom knows, and I guess I know, that Dad was a bad man. Most men aren’t like that, but he wasn’t always like that either. How do you separate the good ones from the bad?”
“There is no simple test, unfortunately, but I can teach you some red flags to look for. I’m amazed you’re talking to me at all. Why didn’t you try a female counselor?”
“I did. A few years ago. We got started, and then I mentioned that I had an interest in kink, and she grew convinced that it was a counter-reaction to what I’d experienced and that I needed to be cured of it. That it obviously was something wrong with me, and not just… well, what it is.”
I shake my head, upset that Miranda’s had to live with her problems for longer than necessary, but I can’t regret that she’s in my life now. “Sometimes you just find the wrong counselor.”
Finally, she leans back and looks up at me. There’s a little smile back on her lips. “And sometimes you find the right one.”
She looks so certain that all I want to do is to hold her close and keep her safe. Protect her, and help her break away from the hold that lowlife piece of shit father put on her. As a counselor, that’s my job, but I can’t deny that it runs deeper than that, and this is quickly becoming more than a simple doctor-client relationship.
I’m going to have to tread really carefully.
10
Miranda
I see him the moment I enter the club. His back is turned, but I’d know that shape anywhere. He’s wearing a black suit, and the way it tapers from his broad shoulders towards his narrow waist gives him a shape that’s so sexy, it should be illegal. Already, I hate that I’m not the only one here who gets to look at him.
Calm yourself, woman, this is a session, not a date. And it’s only been two days since I saw him last.
He turns, and the way his face lights up sure makes it feel like a date, though. “Miranda, you’re here. Good.” He takes my hand, not quite pulling me to him, but closer, so it’s easier to talk over the rumbling bass of the dance music. “Are you ready for this?”
After the emotional outpouring of our last session, his suggestion to make the next session something a little more physical and cathartic made sense. A bit of a break, and a chance to try the exposure thing again, this time in a more appropriate setting. At least it made sense at the time. Now that I’m here, with the music pounding and the knowledge of what sorts of things go on in the play area at the other side of that tunnel, it feels as intense as our session was.
So am I rea
dy? I don’t know. Do I want to get better? Definitely. So I nod and smile up at him. “Let’s do this.” And then, after a moment’s consideration, I tack on, “Sir.”
Those sexy green eyes of his narrow, and his smile curls up on one side, giving him a very predatory look. Like the big bad wolf.
Is he going to eat me?
Oh God, I can’t believe I even thought that. Hopefully it’s too dark in here for him to notice my flush.
“I’ve booked us a private room where we can practice. Are you okay with that?”
The private rooms are the only part of the club where I’ve never been. Well, those and the men’s room, I guess. I’ve been insanely curious, but never had reason to enter. It feels like a commitment of sorts, but I trust Keegan, so I nod. “Yes, that’s fine.”
He leads me past the dance floor, clearing space through the undulating throng, so that we can pass. Then we head down the tunnel that separates the dance floor from the play area, emerging out on the other side with only a faint thumping sound remaining from the music behind us. The rush I always get when visiting this part of the club isn’t made any less with the knowledge of what we’re about to do.
We walk past the public scening, full of naked people, bound people, completely enclosed in leather or latex people, whipping people and on and on until we get to the private rooms.
I draw a nervous breath. “So here we are.”
Pulling a key card out of his pocket, he goes straight towards the closest one. “This is ours.” He gestures for me to enter. “After you.”
“Thank you, Sir.” I step inside, and see one of the rooms for the first time. Everything is black. The floor, the walls, even the ceiling, though there are hidden lights giving an indirect glow all around the ceiling.
There’s so much to look at. Whips on one rack—floggers, crops, a bullwhip, all ready for use. On another hangs rope in different lengths and thicknesses, a selection of sizes of leather cuffs, and whole bunch of metal restraints like spreader bars and portable stocks. It’s a kink smorgasbord. All of those are things I’ve studied the hell out of, but few that I’ve ever been close enough to see and touch.
“Does it meet with your approval?” Keegan’s amused voice brings me back to Earth. I never even heard him shut the door, but he’s standing right behind me, waiting for me to finish my survey of the room.
I step further inside, until I’m next to the leather-covered spanking bench in its middle. Needing to feel its texture, I run my fingers along the smooth surface. An adjustable floor-mounted set of stocks stands next to it, and a St. Andrew’s cross up against the far wall. A comfortable-looking leather couch is against the other wall.
Then I finally turn back to Keegan, unable to keep the smile off my face. “It’s all I hoped and more. It’s… I don’t have the words. There’s just something really… exciting about being in here.”
“Any guilt, shame?”
I pause, thinking about it. “Not yet.” I shake my head. “Not at all… yet. I’m too excited. That’s a little weird, isn’t it?”
“No. Well, maybe a little, but everyone’s a little weird when you come down to it. My job isn’t to make you less weird, it’s to help you accept your particular brand of weirdness.”
With a nod, I spin one more time to take in everything. I wet my lips and ask him, with a mix of trepidation and excitement, “So when do we start?”
He takes a step closer while he removes his suit jacket, throwing it aside onto the couch. “Call me Sir.”
I look up at him, the way he looms over me and makes me feel small. And like I’m his. “Yes, Sir.”
“Go stand in the middle of the room, facing away from me. You remember the safewords?”
“Yes, Sir,” I reply while obeying his order.
“Repeat them to me.”
“Red to stop, yellow to pause and discuss.”
“Good. Legs apart, hands crossed behind your back, eyes straight ahead.” His commands rattle off in quick order, and I stop in place, doing my best to obey. I can’t quite decide whether to try to push away or embrace the tingling that’s firing up in my gut. Sometimes the line between guilt and excitement is impossible to draw. To keep steady, I fix my gaze on the St. Andrew’s cross.
Keegan approaches, following me across the playroom. His dress shoes clack clearly against the hard floor. He moves into my peripheral vision, but I don’t dare glance in his direction.
He hasn’t given me permission.
“Good.” His voice is lower now, no longer conversational. It’s harder, a voice for giving orders. A shiver crawls down my back, enticingly dangerous. With my hands clasped and my straight posture, I can’t help but be aware of how my position presses my breasts out against my shirt.
Can’t help wonder if he notices.
Do I want him to?
Of course I do. He’s an attractive man, and there’s something in the back of my mind screaming, “Yes!” But he’s not supposed to. I know that much about how this works. And even if I wasn’t his client, would he want to?
It’s wrong, but I want to think he sees me as a woman. To know he’s not just doing what he’d do for anyone with my issues. I’m going to need therapy for my therapy soon. This stuff is confusing.
He walks around behind me. “Submission isn’t just about taking orders. If all you’re doing is taking orders, you’re working a job. It’s about giving up a part of yourself, if only for a short while, to let me into your mental space. Do you think you could do that?”
“I…” I trail off, not sure about the answer. Could I? My mind spins.
I should never give up any part of myself.
I want to give myself up.
Submitting is shameful. It makes me vulnerable.
But I want to be vulnerable. At least sometimes.
Give them an inch, and they’ll take all of you.
I dream of being taken.
And then wake up feeling guilty for dreaming about it. How much worse would it be if I actually let it happen?
But how much better than my dream might the reality be?
I’m trapped in a loop of desire and denial that I don’t know how to escape from, but dammit, I can try.
Drawing a deep breath, I reply with all the confidence I can muster, “Yes.” And I believe it, despite every little misgiving that’s niggling at me. “At least to you. I trust you.”
There’s a bit of a pause before he responds. “Good. Thank you.”
“Sure thing,” drops out of me before I can stop it. Doesn’t seem very appropriate for what we’re doing, but there was a bit of dead space and I needed to fill it.
He chuckles softly. “Are you ready for more, then? To take it to the next level?”
I nod, though goosebumps are rising up my arms and the little hairs at the back of my neck stand up. What does he mean by next level?
“I’m not going to actually tie your wrists, but I want you to imagine that I have and keep them behind you and together at all times. Can you do that?” He moves behind me and puts his hands on my wrists. His grip feels more inescapable than any handcuffs ever would.
“Yes,” I nearly whisper.
“Yes what?”
“Yes… Sir.” I have to go deeper than I expect to force out the “Sir”. Earlier, I’d been playful. I could play it off with a kind of nonchalance. But here, in the dark room with him in a suit and me exposed in the middle of it all, shit just got real.
11
Miranda
He pulls my wrists back and crosses them. “Leave them there.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He lets go, gently, like you’d release a rescue animal into the wild, but I keep my wrists where I promised. He pats my upper arm gently. “Good. When I’m in command, you will attend to me. Pay attention. Until I say we’re done, or you call your safeword, you’re mine.”
Mine.
I was okay until he said that. Now, suddenly I’m overwhelmed by a heat that fills me, all
the way down. Closing my eyes, I let the word fill me with its implications, with its force. Mine. It’s so forbidden, and yet, right now, it feels so incredibly right. Any thoughts of guilt and shame flitter away as if all the butterflies in my stomach just escaped.
“Yes, Sir.” This time, the words come out with more confidence.
“I’m going to command you into some new positions. These will challenge you more than the last time. Remember your safewords.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He points at the spanking bench. “Climb on board.” When I hesitate, he steps closer. “Safeword if you need it. There’s no shame in it.”
I shake my head. I can do this. I approach it, trying to figure out how to get on.
“Knees here.” He points. “Rest your stomach across here, and your face here. I’ll adjust it to fit you comfortably once you’re up.”
I look at the bench, then at him, then back at the bench, keeping my hands crossed behind me the whole time. Even if the bondage isn’t real, in my mind my wrists are inextricably connected. He’s keeping me helpless, so I have to depend on him. It feels like a test, to see if I am able to give him that control too. For now at least, I am. “Sir, I can’t get up on my own.”
“That’s fine.” There’s a new rasp in his voice, a huskiness I don’t remember hearing before. As if his voice wasn’t sexy enough already. “I’ll steady you. Right leg up here, good…” With his help, I’m soon in position. He presses a button and the pads under my legs move up just a little, then he looks me over. “Does that feel okay? Tell me if you’re uncomfortable.”
I test my position, but it’s solid. I feel safe, at least from falling. “It’s good, Sir.”
“Excellent. You’re doing very well.”
I reply much more calmly than I feel, “Thank you, Sir.”
He takes a step back, but stays in my field of view. He’s looking me over, his expression serious. It feels like he’s making sure I’m positioned properly, and it does make me feel safer. A little. Also really exposed. The way I’m positioned, my butt is up in the air, making it a bit of a target.
Trust Me: A BDSM Romance Page 6