A Rose of Any Color

MaleDom
A BDSM Anthology

by

Canice Brown-Porter
Miranda Heart
Kayleigh Jamison
Emily Ryan-Davis
Katrina Strauss
Joe Wilson

Freya’s Bower.com ©2007

Culver City, CA
 A Rose of Any Color: MaleDom: A BDSM Anthology

On Bended Knees Copyright © 2007 by Canice Brown-Porter, pseudonym. Little Book

of Fantasies Copyright © 2007 by Miranda Heart, pseudonym. A Scandalous
Arrangement Copyright © 2007 by by Kayleigh Jamison, pseudonym. Unwrapping Amy
Copyright © 2007 by Emily Ryan-Davis, pseudonym. Efflorescence Copyright © 2007
by Katrina Strauss, pseudonym. Touching Down Copyright © 2007 by Joe Wilson. All
rights reserved.

For information on cover art, please contact covervan@aol.com.

Cover illustration © 2007 Freya’s Bower. All rights reserved.

Editors: Katherine Merchant, Sonya Bond, Michelle Puffer

ISBN: 1-934069-81-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote
brief passages for review purposes.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any
place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are
created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Warning:
This book contains graphic sexual material and is not meant to be read by any person
under the age of 18.

If you are interested in purchasing more works of this nature, please stop by
http://www.freyasbower.com.

Freya’s Bower.com
P.O. Box 4897
Culver City, CA 90231-4897

Printed in The United States of America

 Contents
Foreword 5

On Bended Knees by Canice Brown-Porter 8

Little Book of Fantasies by Miranda Heart 38

A Scandalous Arrangement by Kayleigh Jamison 65

Unwrapping Amy by Emily Ryan-Davis 86

Efflorescence by Katrina Strauss 123

Touching Down by Joe Wilson 147

4
 Foreword

What is this thing called BDSM?

BDSM is an acronym for Bondage, Discipline, and Sadomasochism. It is a blanket

term that encompasses Bondage and Discipline (BD), Dominance and Submission
(D/s), as well as Sadomasochism (SM, S/m, or S&M). Immediately, to those unfamiliar
with these lifestyles, it conjures up visions of perversion, torture, and abusive
relationships. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Those in these lifestyles are your run-of-mill everyday people. They are not the dregs
of society. They are from all walks of life, whether they are rich, middle class, or poor.
You would never believe for a minute that lawyers, teachers, politicians, corporate
executives, business owners, secretaries, hairdressers, janitors, store clerks, your
parents, brothers, sisters, cousins, or even your grandparents could possibly indulge in
such perverted acts in their bedrooms, could you?
Many in the D/s lifestyle stay behind closed doors because of the stigma attached to
it out of fear of retributions by a society that frowns upon such behavior. However, there
are just as many – or more – who actually incorporate it into their daily lives. But,
provided they have decided to remain in the closet, no outsider would ever suspect they
perform some small form of their special relationship under the public’s noses.
Discreet actions (or signals) and words which appear normal to everyone around can
and do have a different connotation in these relationships. Only the Dominant and
submissive would know its veiled meaning. Something so simple as a Dominant
grasping his submissive by the wrist to lead the way in public would most likely go
unnoticed by anyone that possesses little to no knowledge about the practices of the D/s
lifestyle. Another example would be the Dominant who orders from a menu for their
partner in a restaurant. Simple everyday actions take on a whole new context when
expressed within this type of relationship. Another subtle action includes the wearing of
a simple necklace, bracelet, anklet, or perhaps some other piece of jewelry.

Elements of a D/s relationship

Those who have chosen to live their lives by the Safe, Sane, and Consensual (SSC)
standards are known within the community as lifestylers. Let’s get something straight
now. No Dominant would ever do anything to their submissive that wasn’t already
agreed upon prior to the relationship moving from the “getting to know you” stage into
the formal contract of such a union. If a Dominant or submissive steps outside the SSC
creed, that person has broken the contract and is forever ostracized from the
community. And if you think negative talk travels fast outside the community, you
haven’t witnessed how fast it travels within the BDSM lifestyle. Abuse is NOT tolerated.
Dominants will never scene/play if angry. At least not those who are true to the
lifestyle. If a submissive has said or done something that upsets the Dominant, s/he may
choose to scene/play to make a point on the unsuspecting subbie. Generally, this sort of
scene/play will carry a strong message. One that the Dominant prefers his property (the
submissive or slave) never forgets.
Dominants protect and nurture their submissives and/or slaves. They realize that
anger and scening is a dangerous combination and would never run the risk of hurting
their property. Concentration and perception are important elements during scening.
The Dominant has to be fully focused and totally aware of what is happening to their

5
 Foreword

submissive to avoid injury. Anger hampers this concentration. Therefore, Dominants

will not allow themselves to scene/play. Just the idea that they could “lose control” is
usually enough of a deterrent. Dominants thrive on control. It’s who they are.
The D/s relationship incorporates an Exchange of Power (EOP) or Total Power
Exchange (TPE). The submissive offers their gift of submission to a Dominant, which
the Dominant can accept or choose to refuse. This decision is generally based on the
limits a submissive presents and whether or not it is compatible with the Dominant’s
(and the submissive’s) desires. Yes, a Dominant is expected to push those limits, but not
breach them without the consent of the submissive. To protect the boundaries of the
contract, all submissives should have a safe word or action in place prior to any
play/scening. Once the submissive speaks the word/s or uses the action, the Dominant
immediately ceases all activity.
Once the EOP (or TPE) is in force, many believe the Dominant controls the
submissive and the relationship in its entirety. However, the reverse is true. The
submissive has set boundaries (limits) that the Dominant has accepted and agreed not
to cross. Once the relationship is underway, the Dominant does direct the course of the
relationship by controlling it within the boundaries of the contract.
There are no hard and fast “rules” set in stone in D/s relationships except those
agreed upon between the participants. Each one is as individual as the individuals
involved. The only carved in stone regulation is the Safe, Sane, and Consensual (SSC)
creed. Written negotiations prior to any play/scening should be a requirement, and is as
such, when done by those serious about the lifestyle. If you – as a submissive – should
encounter a Dominant that rebuffs this…RUN! Never scene without your limits in place.
Of course, as the relationship matures, new written negotiations may be required. With
limits pushed and stretched and sometimes changed, this is inevitable.
There are other necessary factors that play a pivotal and poignant role in these
relationships. Trust. Respect. Communication. Trust can be defined simply. You don’t
want to be tied up and gagged by someone you don’t know. Because once you are
restrained, you have just placed your life in that person’s hands. So, trust is a major
requirement. Respect is just as easy to explain. Respect is earned over time and never a
given. If you don’t trust someone, why would they have your respect in the first place? If
you don’t trust and respect an individual, you certainly wouldn’t place yourself in a
position where you are totally vulnerable. Right? Last, but not least, is communication.
This is perhaps the saving grace of the D/s lifestyle. Communication is imperative. Both
the Dominant and submissive should be able to communicate their feelings, needs, and
wants openly and honestly without fear of retaliation. It’s important to be able to talk to
one another about any given topic.
With this said, let’s discuss the psychological aspect of a BDSM relationship.
Submissives thrive on different levels of pain. These levels may or may not include
humiliation, degradation, soft, hard, or extreme pain. What one submissive may define
as hard pain, may be extreme to another and vice versa. Whatever their choices are, it’s
important to remember that it’s an individual desire and it is their choice.
All BDSM relationships include control. Be it psychological, emotional, mental, or
physical control. There is some degree of these four elements in all BDSM relationships.
The level is based upon the submissive’s limits as set forth in the negotiations at the
beginning of the relationship. This is where limits are so important. It protects the
submissive. If the submissive doesn’t speak or use their safe word/s or action, it is

6
 Foreword

agreed that the scene/play may continue, unless the Dominant decides enough is
enough.
Psychological, emotional, and mental control is a major part of a BDSM relationship.
The submissive has willingly accepted this type of control based on his/her limits and
granted the Dominant permission to exercise within those boundaries. This type of
control allows the Dominant to “mess with the submissive’s head” or “mind control”.
For example, a Dominant may create an illusion of impending horrific pain or even
possible death which will prompt the submissive to conjure up images in their minds. It
will instill an intense sense of fear, and their attention will be focused on nothing more
than what the Dominant is doing and saying. Nothing else. The submissive will mentally
sink into a very small space and thought process where other observations of the
obvious go unnoticed. Cruel? Not if the subbie’s limits are not breached. Not if the
submissive never speaks or uses their safe word/s or action. The only time this will stop
without the submissive’s intervention is if the Dominant notices their property is in
danger of allowing them to truly cause injury.
Again, this reinforces the fact that a Dominant will never scene or play if s/he is
angry. Control of the scene once a submissive’s mindset is so narrowed that they
unwittingly place themselves in danger becomes the total responsibility of the Dominant
to stop before injury occurs.
Another tactic, which is a favorite of Dominants, is the withdrawal of their
attentions. This type of mental control is generally used as a punishment when the
submissive has said or done something to upset the Dominant. Trust me, this works well
with most submissives. Been there, done that. Deprivation of a Dominant’s attention –
whether it is total silence on their part, lack of physical contact, or doing things for
themselves that the subbie has always done for them in the past – tends to “mess with” a
submissive’s head.
This psychological, emotional, and mental control fulfills a need in the submissive
psyche. It enhances the physical aspect of the relationship s/he shares with their
Dominant. It is true that the brain is the most powerful sex organ. For the physical sex
to be extraordinary in these relationships, these three elements – when used
appropriately – can create some of the most explosive climaxes ever for the individuals.
Pushing the psychological and emotional buttons through embarrassment
(humiliation), fear, anxiety, pleasure, or some other emotion allows the Dominant to
create another level of sexual tension in the submissive. Controlling the intensity and
level of sensations of the submissive during this type of scene will create an
undercurrent of sexual responses for the individuals. Maintaining erotic stimulation –
both mental and physical – will set the stage for the culmination of the scene.

What about love?

Love isn’t a necessary or required element of a BDSM relationship. Submissives or

slaves who are not emotionally attached to their Dominant are normally referred to as a
bottom. You would hear this term used more in clubs and dungeons where the
participants are there only for the scening/play. If love blossoms in a relationship, then
it’s considered a plus! But it is not always what Dominants or submissives seek. There
can be instances where love isn’t a criterion. Such as a Dominant or submissive

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 Foreword

attending scening parties or visiting dungeons just to participate in role playing or being
among like-minded persons.

Why would anyone choose to live within this lifestyle?

Again, there are as many different reasons as there are relationships. The
elimination of a power struggle between the participants is already settled prior to
entering the relationship. Everyone knows what to expect. Some enjoy the idea of not
having to make decisions. Others like living a structured life. Then, there are those who
– perverted in the observer’s eyes or not – want their lives dashed, sprinkled, or
blanketed by the spices of life that entails BDSM.
Whatever the reason, Dominants and submissives must compliment each other. It is
not an easy undertaking to find the perfect Dominant or submissive. And these
relationships should never be entered into unless all parties have found their soul’s
counterpoint. With all the elements in place, it is the most beautiful and fulfilling
relationship people can share.
Note from the author: There is a wide misconception that the terms submissive and
slave are synonymous. The difference is monumental. A submissive has limits that a
Dominant cannot breech without the submissive’s permission. A slave enters into a
relationship handing over full control of his/herself without set limits. However, the SSC
creed is always intact.
Written by: mickieb{LM}, a submissive within a nine year D/s lifestyle with her
Master, Lord_M.
“…i have found my freedom through my submission to my Master…”

8
On Bended Knees

by

Canice Brown-Porter
 On Bended Knees

Chapter One

Naked as the day she was born, Morgan kneeled on the floor. Knees apart, back
straight, hands resting on top of her thighs, palms facing the ceiling. Completely
exposed to his gaze, she kept her chin lowered. The black, Italian leather loafers rested
an inch from her bare knees. A perfect crease traveled straight up the front of his
wrinkle-free Armani black trousers.
Silence enveloped the room. Even he remained silent. She wondered if he saw her
body tremble. Morgan’s nerves, fine-tuned and in perfect working order, made her
doubt she could hide her reactions. Her stomach clenched in nervous spasms, while
prickling sensations traipsed over her entire body. For just a moment, she wondered if
she possessed the ability to shield her emotions. This would be the final test of her
training, and she had no desire to disappoint him now. Especially now, she thought.
Morgan wanted him to accept her submission. Needed him to, actually. How many
times had she practiced what she would say at this moment? For the past two weeks,
she’d gotten down in this exact kneeling pose. The same one he always expected
whenever she entered a room that he occupied.
A determination from deep inside had surfaced under his tutelage during the course
of her training. A determination to please him, no matter what he commanded of her.
This, she thought, would be her moment to shine for him. It is the culmination of all
that he has taught me.
This would be her moment of truth. Had she surpassed his expectations? The
ultimate decision made by him today would alter her existence as she had known it for
so many years. No longer the same person inside, she’d grown in mind and spirit. Evan
had nurtured and groomed her to be all that she could. Her fascination and cravings for
pleasurable pain had come shining through. Those dark fantasies, she’d realized, were
not fantasies. They were real. And Evan had been the man to make her fantasies become
reality. Morgan found that her deepest desires were as real as the beating of her heart
and the breaths that sustained her.
It wasn’t a question of love, although she hoped he loved her as she did him. But that
wasn’t as important to her as him viewing her as the submissive that could fulfill his
every need or want in life. The acceptance of her submission meant he found her capable
of making him happy. And that was the highest compliment a dominant could pay a
submissive.
Valued. Highly regarded in that elite circle. A submissive worthy of serving a
dominant. What a heady experience it would be. She almost sighed out loud.
And in return? The dominant’s protection and care. The knowledge that he wanted
her for his own.
Elation coupled with a euphoric peace would be hers for however long he wished her
to wear his collar.
The rustle of his clothing and the shuffle of his shoes on the parquet flooring pulled
her attention from herself.
He stepped with ease around her, his crop lightly tapped his thigh. A whiff of his
cologne sifted on gentle waves around her. She loved how he smelled. Drakkar. The
scent had fast become her male fragrance of choice. She associated it only with him.
Morgan’s breath hitched at the touch of his crop between her shoulders. Lazily, the
stiff leather pad grazed up to the nape of her neck and wiped with gentleness across her

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 On Bended Knees

bare skin. She dared not move. It equated to trust in his eyes. It had been a stumbling
block for her.
“You are quite lovely, girl. Your skin glistens under the lighting.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
The crop swept back up to his collar that adorned her neck and raised gooseflesh
down the length of her arms in its wake. Prickling pulses of desire split down the center
of her back. She grew damp between her thighs.
The soft rumble of her Master’s chuckle filtered through the tumultuous thoughts
that bounced erratically in her mind. He knew. Well, hell yes, he knows, you silly girl.
Morgan struggled to remain steady when she sensed his presence drawing closer. His
breath traced a warm path against her cheek and tickled her ear.
“You please me greatly, girl.” His voice, soft and deep, caressed her earlobe. “You will
no doubt be a prized possession of the dominant that takes you for his own.”
“Thank you, Sir,” she mumbled. Her stomach wrenched. He was gone. He had
moved away, and the warmth on her ear and cheek grew cool.
“Pet?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“I will be removing my training collar today. You have done quite well over the past
four months.”
She cringed inside, refusing to reveal the pain of his words. “Thank you, Sir.”
He stood directly in front of her.
“You are aware that I only agreed to train you. Correct?”
“Yes, Sir.” Her heart sank. He knew. She had in some manner exposed her true
feelings. He isn’t going to accept me as his sub. Morgan fought back the tears that
sprang into her eyes, closing her lids tightly.
But, now...now, he announced her training complete. She’d known it was near but
she had pretended that if she didn’t give the knowledge any validity they would go on
forever. Morgan didn’t want to leave him. Ever. She wanted to continue to serve him.
She knew without reservation that he possessed the traits she sought in a Dom.
She drifted back to reminisce about their sessions. They had been professional and
thorough. The small amount of affection he’d graced her with had been in the form of a
smile or laughter, which spurred her on all the more to please him. Morgan thought of
them as gifts. Sparingly, but they were gifts of himself that she treasured. Those
moments where he showed her a part of himself came at the end of each training
session. After-care. On more than one occasion, he had stressed the importance of after-
care. Any dominant that refused or ignored this important part of the lifestyle wasn’t
worthy of the submissive’s gift. His stance on the topic had bordered on obsessive.
While he freely acknowledged each of her accomplishments, rarely did he expose his
thoughts or emotions on his face. She adored this about him because it created an aura
of mystery around him. And that mystery captivated and intrigued her.
She heard the rustle of his clothes and the shuffle of his shoes against the floor once
again. He moved closer. She opened her eyes; a tear slipped down her cheek. His fingers
pushed away her long black hair and grasped the lock on his collar at the nape of her
neck. The familiar jingle of his keys sounded in her ears.
Her stomach knotted, and a wave of disappointment washed over her when the lock
clicked open. The collar fell away, and cool air brushed against the naked skin of her
throat. In moments, his hands deftly removed the leather and silver band.

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 On Bended Knees

Emotions flooded her. Abandonment. Regret. An unbearable sense of loss. Failure.

She struggled to contain them deep inside her. He’d taught her patience and self-worth.
She should be rejoicing, she thought, reprimanding herself. She had reached her goals
through his guidance and expertise. The end of her training should have been a
celebratory moment. Shouldn’t it?
She vowed in silence not to disappoint him. He deserved her best. He’d earned her
deepest respect. Any sign of weakness now would reflect poorly on him. Or, at least,
that’s what he would think. She would not displease him. Not now. Not when he was
satisfied with her progress. If only he will accept me once I’ve offered my gift to him.
Metal clinked against a glass shelf. Without a doubt, she knew the training collar
would soon be locked in the display case along with his wide array of play and training
collars. His collection immaculate and displayed for those allowed to enter his dungeon.
Every time she had stepped into this room, her attention always gravitated to the top
shelf. Bathed in spotlight and encased in a special glass box, and hugging a black
necklace bust was the coveted formal collar. The silver band etched with ‘Lord Evan’
shone like...well...like the pure silver it was. Polished and beaming to all, boasting its
importance in silence. A trophy to behold.
To each side on lower pedestals sat his Collar of Intent. He had explained its
significance as being the equivalent of going steady or even that of a pre-engagement
ring. The other collar boasted a silver plate on a two-inch wide black leather band.
Engraved in simple block lettering with LE’s property, this was his Collar of
Consideration, the engagement ring of the lifestyle.
His fingers cupped her chin, once again drawing her back to the present. She lifted
her gaze to meet his.
“You may rise, little one.”
She wanted to scream ‘no!’ at the top of her lungs. Although his collar no longer
encased her throat, she was compelled to do his bidding.
He extended his hand to her and assisted her rise from the floor. Offering a tentative
smile, her gaze remained fixed on his, and she whispered a small prayer that he wouldn’t
notice the tears she struggled to withhold. Pain crushed her chest. Her heart ached. She
needed him. She wanted that coveted position at his feet.
“I have trained you well, I see.” The corners of his mouth lifted, and his eyes
softened.
“Very well, Sir.”
“Tell me what troubles you.”
His knuckles grazed down along her cheek, and she pulled on all the strength she
had to keep tears from slipping past the fragile barrier.
“I don’t want to disappoint you, Sir. You have been an excellent teacher and have
earned my highest respect.” She paused. The lump in her throat made it impossible to
continue.
The silence stretched uninterrupted, and she twisted uncomfortably in place. He did
not prompt her to go on, but she knew he expected her to fully communicate her feelings
and thoughts. Her heart raced, and her palms grew damp. I should just kneel and offer
myself to him. She shuffled her weight to the other foot.
“Sir...if you will allow me to speak and act freely.”
“Of course, dear.”

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 On Bended Knees

She inhaled deeply while taking a small step back and slowly lowered herself to the
floor at his feet once again. With her chin lowered, she took a silent, stabilizing breath,
again. He remained silent and unmoving. He knows what I am about to do. I know he
does.
“Sir,” she began, her voice soft and breathless to her own ears. “Over the past four
months, you have shared your knowledge and stretched your patience with me. I know
you could have ended our sessions at any time, and I’m forever grateful and indebted to
you for persevering. I have blossomed under your care and guidance. I can only hope
that you are as pleased with my progress as I am.
“While I am sure others before me have offered their gift of submission at the end of
their training, I must impress upon you that I am totally without direction since the
removal of your training collar. I have realized in these last few weeks that I crave your
happiness. It makes me complete and very comfortable with life. Now, I feel as though
I’m floundering.
“Sir, I wish to serve you. As your submissive. You have become the center of my
existence. To know that I have pleased you, now pleases me. It is those moments that I
live for. The trace of a smile on your lips. The way you tilt your head to one side and
wink as if we share some intimate secret. You have always been fair and consistent with
punishments.
“For me, I could find no other dominant even if I searched the world over, that could
satisfy my needs as you do. Therefore, Sir, I humbly beg you to accept my gift of
submission and allow me my heart’s and soul’s desire to spend my life in your service.”
Morgan fell silent and waited. And waited. She grew nervous, her body trembled
inside. Anxiety became a crumbling wall, and her dream of his acceptance began to
suffocate under the debris. Oh dear God, please let him want me. Her mind raced back
over the previous months she spent under his tutelage.
She’d been new and just learning about the lifestyle. All her life she had known she
was different. She craved pain. In her early puberty, she would inflict her own forms of
pain just to see how much she could tolerate. She’d experimented in the shower, hot
water spilling over her tender skin until she could no longer stand the burning. In her
mid-teens, her pain tolerance moved in a new direction. Along with her sexual
awareness came a new craving for pain, and she began pinching and twisting her breasts
and nipples whenever she masturbated.
Even the guys she dated in high school seemed inadequate in lovemaking. There was
little attention given to her desires. Hopping on and getting off had been their only goal.
Or, so it seemed to her. Nothing they did ever brought her close to orgasm, unless they
performed oral sex. Their technique lacked...something. During that time, she’d had no
idea what that something was other than her body craved more. She wanted more. She
needed more.

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 On Bended Knees

Chapter Two

Her friend, Celeste, had introduced her to the dominant and submissive lifestyle.
Morgan latched on to it with both hands and held on as if it were a lifesaving device. She
devoured books and information on the Internet about the lifestyle. She found a local
club near her home and immediately joined, attending munches, play parties, and
demonstrations.
It was through one of the club’s demonstration seminars that she first met Evan.
Tall, dark, and utterly vogue. With a devilish grin, he was the opposite end of a magnet
that all the submissives gravitated towards. Handsomely dressed in the most impeccable
style, he towered above the other dominants. His presence rippled throughout the room.
Exuding dominance, he commanded all to bow to his whims without uttering a single
word. And without arrogance. In fact, she didn’t think he realized the air of authority
and importance that cloaked him. Submissives swooned at his feet wherever he
happened to be. They clamored for his attention and enthusiastically volunteered to
participate in any demonstration he conducted. Just to be in the realm of his world for
only a short span of time created a fireball in the pit of a girl’s stomach, sending
delicious quivers of excitement straight to the apex of her thighs.
Larger than life, she thought.
Every hair in place. His beard and mustache neatly trimmed. His hands. Oh, those
hands, she mused. Large hands. And sure. Steady. Perfection with a capital ‘P’.
She had stood in silence. Her gaze soaked in every detail of the striking portrait he
presented to the world. She’d noticed the leather crop in his hand. An extension of the
man himself.
Her gaze lifted back to meet the dark, intelligent eyes trained on her, she gulped in
air. It lodged somewhere between her mouth and her lungs. Unable to break away from
his intent stare, Morgan struggled with her constricting throat. He inclined his head just
enough for her to see it. With one raised brow, he’d rattled her quiet corner. There had
been no trace of a smile on his lips.
She dipped in a curtsy and lowered her gaze. She regained her erect stance, once
again meeting his gaze. Without further gestures or words, his eyes directed her to join
him. With no hesitation, she stepped forward out of the crowd, immediately taking a
kneeling position at his feet.
“Very good, girl,” he murmured.
His hand stroked the top of her head, and she shivered from the point of contact all
the way down to her toes. Morgan had no recollection of stepping forward, much less
kneeling at his feet. What in God’s name had possessed her to come forward in the first
place? Startled at the idea that perhaps he held some type of power over her, Morgan
searched her mind for answers. Something in his eyes beckoned to her inner submissive.
“I would like your assistance and assume you have consented by your position. Am I
correct?”
“Yes, Sir.” What! Am I out of my mind? What the hell is he doing? How the hell was
he managing to elicit her darkest responses?
“Rise.”
She raised her chin just enough to see his extended hand. Placing her fingers in his
palm, she trembled. The warmth of his hand as it closed around hers startled her. A
keen sense of their bodies merging engulfed Morgan, and she gulped. Her stomach

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 On Bended Knees

knotted. For just a fraction of a moment, their thoughts appeared to mesh. Her hand
had been swallowed in the largeness of his. Warm. Comforting. Dominant. His grasp
was firm, and she rose from the floor, moving to stand behind him, off to his side. Had
she witnessed a wisp of a smile? Had the corners of his mouth tipped up ever so slightly
in that nanosecond?
“Lesson one for each of you.” He spoke in a tone so low that an avalanche of silence
fell over the group. “With all your begging and pleading to serve, I chose none of you.
And without uttering a single command, the chosen one knew to step forward.
Immediately, she kneeled at my feet without my direction. Each. One. Of. You,” he said,
his gaze raking over the submissives, “could learn from her example. Without verbal
instruction, she took her place behind me. But, not out of my peripheral field of vision.”
Evan stepped aside, turning to cast his gaze upon her once again. She lowered her
eyelids, her chin dropping just enough to exalt his position and that of her own.
“Raise your eyes and tell me who has trained you, girl.”
She did his bidding, her gaze meeting his dark eyes. Her voice muted and husky, she
replied, “I haven’t been trained by anyone, Sir.”
“Tell me who it is that you have served?”
“No one, Sir.”
Silence. His gaze remained transfixed on hers, and her body hummed from the
nearness of his. She shivered. That same feeling she’d experienced earlier when he had
stroked her head.
“Tell me your experience in the lifestyle.”
“I am relatively new, Sir. I’ve read books and information online. I joined this club to
be around others that I could observe, and those who share my preferences.”
“And for what length of time does ‘relatively new’ translate in to?”
“Almost two months, Sir.”
“Only two months?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Exposed and on display. But his persona commanded nothing less than openness
from her, which she found hard to deny. Part of her struggled against the undeniable
urge to bare her soul to him. The other side wanted to share everything within her.
Morgan realized her body was perfectly at ease. No stressors raged through her.
His nearness created a warmth and familiarity, although she knew nothing about
this man. Other than his dominant history among the patrons of the club, she had little
personal information about him. But that didn’t deter her inner core from reaching out
to him. She was drawn to him on some unexplained plane.
His gaze grew darker. Still leveled on her, and without a single syllable or movement,
the heat between her legs increased. Morgan trembled. Flames licked up from her pussy,
swallowing her whole and creating waves of pleasure that seeped into every crevice of
her. Tingles danced, and she sucked in her breath, holding it until the dampness spilled
out to moisten her inner thighs. The heat in her cheeks seared her face. Even her ears
burned, and she knew the blush was crimson red. Positive that everyone saw the
physical reactions of her body to him, she willed herself to maintain her place on wobbly
legs.
Evan placed his hands at her waist and held her steady. His uncanny ability to read
her like an open book amazed her. He leaned in close, and his breath washing across her
cheek rustled the hair next to her ear.

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 On Bended Knees

“You will never come again without my permission. Is that understood?” His deep
voice held a husky, yet disciplinary, quality.
Her legs buckled, and he pulled her to him, cradling her against the hard wall of his
chest. She sank into his arms and recovered slowly from the orgasm.
“I heard no response,” he said.
His impatient tone shoved her out of her euphoric state.
“I understand, Sir,” she mumbled over the constricted muscles in her throat. Morgan
thought she’d choke on each word. Her voice sounding strangled to her own ears.
“That’s good, girl,” he said, pausing. “Are you better now?”
She tested her legs and nodded. “I believe so, Sir.”
Gently, he set her away, a smile teasing his lips. He held onto her a moment longer
before he removed his hands and broke eye contact.
Never in all her life had she been so embarrassed. To orgasm in front of a crowd with
nothing more than a look from a dominant that she didn’t even know. She’d just put the
term ‘slut’ in a whole new category, she thought.
He rotated in a smooth, measured spin to face the spectators in the room. How did
he do it? she wondered. He appeared so unaffected by what had just transpired.

***

The swish of his crop brought her out of her ruminations and back to the present.
Evan remained silent, and she supposed he was deliberating. More than likely, he was
weighing every word she had spoken. Morgan knew it had not been perfectly executed
the way she had planned it. But, it came from her heart. From the deepest depths of her
soul.
“Your words were well chosen, girl.”
Finally. She restrained herself from jumping up and screaming ‘yes’ at the top of her
lungs. He was pleased with everything she had said. That’s one obstacle out of the way.
“Thank you, Sir.”
Silence. Pregnant pauses killed her. Patience wasn’t one of her strong suits, and he
had recognized it early on. A lot of his techniques during the training had centered on
that one fault.
His hand brushed the top of her head. “Your devotion to me is quite evident, girl.
Any Dom would be proud to call you his property.”
The room grew heavy under the lack of sound. He’s choosing his words too carefully.
He isn’t going to accept my submission. She wanted to cry. Nothing hurt as much as the
pain in her chest at this moment. She wanted to speak her safe word to let him know she
was no longer capable of tolerating the pain. It was too much to handle. Red. Red. Red.
Oh dear God, please.
“Morgan.”
Her name ushered past his lips to her ears, startling her. He never called her by her
name. Ever. It sounded alien coming from him. She trembled, and a tear slipped in
silent resignation down her cheek. It was over. Her dreams shattered with the utterance
of her given name.
“Stand and look at me,” he said.
Like a thousand times before, Morgan placed her hand in his, and he helped her to
her feet. With all the strength she possessed, she lifted her gaze to his. His eyes kissed

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hers in somber waves. Evan placed his palm against her cheek, a tender smile playing at
the corners of those soft, strong lips.
“I am honored that you have offered your gift to me.”
Morgan heard the ‘but’ loud and clear and the pain in her chest made it impossible to
breathe.
“Before we discuss this, you may retrieve your clothes and return here.”
“Yes, Sir.” Morgan curtsied and spun away on her heels to go dress. Once in the
bathroom, she leaned back against the door. Clinching her eyes closed tightly, she
fought back the wave of disappointment. Thousands of agonizing little knives, each
cutting away at her soul couldn’t have hurt more. He didn’t want her. She had
completed her training under him, but had failed to please him enough that he would
want her forever.
She pushed off the door and swiped the back of her hands across her cheeks, wiping
tears away. I won’t allow myself to disappoint you, Evan. Even with your rejection,
pleasing you is my goal. I’ll abide by your wishes with every heartbreaking breath I
take. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she wondered what it would have taken to
reach that part of him that he kept so protected. So hidden from those around him.
Realizing he would be displeased if she took too long dressing, she splashed her face
with cold water and donned her clothes.
Minutes later, she stood before him. The end at hand, she willed herself to remain
the strong submissive he had trained.
“Would you care to sit?”
“No thank you, Sir.”
His gaze lingered on her mouth. Then leisurely followed the curves of her body,
returning to her face moments later. The smoldering embers of passion in his eyes made
her breath catch in her throat.
He cleared his throat. “My intentions have always been professional. While I’m not
inhuman, I not only control my subs, but myself as well. I have known many subs that
have fallen prey to the emotional roller coaster they experience at the end of training.
It’s not that I am saying you don’t feel everything you do right now, because my
experience over the years has shown me that once a submissive fully understands
themselves, they have given over to their true self.
“You experience emotional and physical aspects of relationships on a whole different
level. Starting with this one. You’ve reached your inner self, and the thoughts and
emotions you feel are much more intense. And, they are much more intense because
they are no longer superficial or hidden. It goes much deeper and encompasses a
broader area of your soul. Do you understand?”
I understand you are turning me down as gently as possible. How’s that for
understanding? Her heart was breaking, and right now she saw no means for repairing
it.
“Yes, Sir, I do understand.” There, she said it. It was what he needed to hear to know
he had done his job well.
His stare intensified. The scrutiny of her face, her eyes, her mouth through that dark
gaze was going to be her undoing. She didn’t want to disappoint him. Not even now with
his rejection. His happiness meant everything to her. She would deal with her pain once
she had gone home.

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“Good, girl. This is what I want you to do,” he said. “Go home, and I will contact you
in several days. I want you to keep a journal of all your emotions until I make contact.
Understood?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Will you be okay driving home, or would you like me to call you a cab?”
“I’m fine. Really.” She forced a grin to her lips.
“I will be in touch,” he said. And, leading her upstairs, he saw her out the front door.
He stood waiting, framed in the doorway, until she was safely inside her car. Once
her motor purred to life under the hood and her headlights splashed the front of his
house in brilliant blue-white beams, he disappeared behind the door.
Morgan stared at the brick façade blinded by the tears pooling in her eyes. Would she
ever see him again? The idea of never having the opportunity to please him after tonight
brought a fresh stab of pain to her chest. Now I’m just like the others. A submissive
lucky enough to be trained by the best.

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 On Bended Knees

Chapter Three

Morgan twisted the key in the lock and pushed open the door to her small cottage. It
had always been her refuge. A place of comfort. A place to shut out the rest of the world.
Closing the door behind her, profound loneliness swept over her. Isolated. Emptiness.
She pushed herself to move and flipped the light switch. This isn’t how he trained
you. Evan would be disappointed in you...and with himself. He expected so much from
himself. To be perfect. The epitome of what a dominant should be. If she allowed herself
to wallow in self-pity, it would be a mark on his capabilities.
“I won’t do that to you, Sir.” Just the thought of any displeasure that she may cause
him sent chills down her spine. And he had requested she keep a journal of her emotions
over the next several days. Until he called.
“Can’t have a subbie fall into a depression from separation anxiety,” she muttered.
“Common sense would dictate to anyone who had a brain as to the need of keeping a
journal. Evan’s just making sure I have a reason to keep going. Obviously, he’s witnessed
other submissives going through separation anxiety after spending months training
under him. He wants me to know that tomorrow will definitely follow today and the next
day. He’s wants to make sure I realize that there is life after the Lord Evan.”
Yeah. Right! Like I don’t already know that! It was not so much the life after Lord
Evan. It was the quality of that life. Without the honor of kneeling at his feet, what
possible good could come of it?
Morgan was sure he believed her to be star-struck. The first dominant to take her
under his wing, she had just gotten caught up in all the attention that is lavished on a
trainee. Evan would label it ‘infatuation with domination’. She grinned.
“Well, you’re wrong,” she said.
She moved across her living room, heading straight to her at-home office. The room
held a plethora of bookshelves along two walls, and she’d spent hours cataloging the
wide range of books which filled every nook and cranny. From fiction to technical to her
college textbooks, Morgan knew she could walk in and place her hand on any book she
wanted blindfolded. The closet housed her office supplies. She pulled the door open, and
her eyes immediately focused on the dozen or so journals standing upright on the shelf
before her. Taking one from the stack, she stepped back and shut the door.
“If a journal is what you want, Sir, a journal is what you shall get.”
Grabbing a pen on her way out of the office, Morgan retraced her steps to the living
room and plopped down in her cushy hunter green recliner. She curled her legs up into
the seat and flipped open the cover, staring at the blank, ruled page. Nothingness
grasped her mind. Fifteen minutes later, she wiped at tears dripping from her chin. The
date stared back at her from the top of the page. Her handwriting filled the once empty
sheet but she didn’t recall writing anything. Morgan’s gaze scanned the words, some of
them blurred. By tears, she thought, and her heart ached. She returned her attention to
the top of the page.

i hurt. i’m scared. The center of my world and all that could make me happy
appears to be gone. The dominant of my dreams sent me away tonight without
acknowledging my submission. Without saying ‘yes’ or ‘no’, He escorted me
from His home and watched me get into my car. Then turned and disappeared
behind His door as if i never existed. As if i was nothing more than a solicitor.

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How do i live now? Is there life after Lord Evan? i think not! The days ahead no
longer hold hope or promise. He exposed me to my true self. i know i am strong.
He nurtured me with tenderness and a strong hand. Because of Lord Evan, i am
so much more aware of myself. Of where i belong in this fast-driven society that
i live in. And, i know without a doubt in the deepest recesses of my soul, my
place is at His feet. For the past four months, i have been happier than i’ve ever
been in my life. Pleasing Him. Seeing His approval of my progress in those
dark, sensual eyes lifted my heart beyond mere accomplishment. i know i will
never serve any other. Whether Lord Evan accepts me or not, i will be faithfully
devoted to Him for eternity. While i may go through life without Him, i will not
displease Him by begging Him to accept me as His property. However, i will not
forsake my own heart and go in search of another. He is my destiny. He is the
Man…the Dominant…the only Master this girl can kneel before in servitude and
truly be the submissive He cultivated. While i may shed tears in the coming
days, i will treasure every breath i took while in His presence.

***

Morgan stared at the numbers in front of her. Concentration on her job demanded
her full attention. Thoughts of Evan never invaded her thoughts during these times. But,
once she stepped out of her office for lunch, breaks, or to go home at the end of the day,
the memories of their time together attacked with a renewed furor.
Curled up in her favorite chair with a bottled water sitting on the table next to her,
Morgan flipped open her journal. The entries were always difficult to begin. She longed
to say so much in each one, knowing at some point, he would read them. She struggled
to put her inner turmoil to paper. The aching need in her heart and soul grew more
pronounced with each passing day.
She reached for her throat and enclosed it, her fingers tightening. Tracing her
fingertips along her skin, Morgan could almost feel the familiar leather of his collar
where it had once been. Her fingers trembled, and tears pooled in her eyes. Morgan
dropped her hand to her lap and sniffed, her shoulders stiffening. She pushed back the
tears, and the pen she held tapped lightly against the journal’s open pages.

Two days have passed and not a word from Him. He always said pain
begets pleasure. Dear Journal, if that is so, i should be in sheer ecstasy by now.
Yet, pleasure escapes me, and i’m floundering. my world is empty, although i
get up every morning and begin my normal routine. Sometimes i swear i can
smell His presence. His cologne. His male scent. The taste of His skin. The
musky aroma of His come. But still there is no word from Him. He will call, and
i know this in my heart. This pain is torturous. Is He testing me? Is that why He
hasn’t called? Is He hoping my devotion will falter? He will see by the time He
chooses to contact me that He is my Alpha and my Omega. Only through my
submission and servitude to Him can i be set free from the bondage that has
held my heart and soul prisoner for the past 48 hours.

***

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 On Bended Knees

The workweek helped keep her mind occupied. Well, most of the time. Sitting down
in her recliner, she kicked back with her favorite dinner. She had stopped by the store
and picked up two stuffed salmon pinwheels. Fifteen minutes in the oven, and they
would be ready to eat. Comfortable, she listened to the local news and sipped on cold,
bottled water.
Five days, and he still hadn’t called as he had said he would do. Whenever her phone
rang, she anxiously grabbed it, checking the incoming caller ID only to have
disappointment consume her each time a friend’s number glared back at her eager eyes.
Still, she continued to make daily entries in her journal. Evan would never not keep a
commitment, she reminded herself yet again. She grabbed her water and swallowed.
The phone rang, startling her. With trembling fingers, she picked it up and flipped it
open, refusing to allow her gaze to fall on the lit window.
“Hello?”
“How are you, little one?”
Evan’s voice filtered through the line to her ear, and heat shot through her. A wild
fire erupted in her veins, licking at every inch of her skin until she felt engulfed. Setting
the bottled water down with a shaking hand, she almost tipped it over. Her body
immediately straightened, and her feet touched the floor. The authority in the sound of
his voice practically put her on her knees in her own living room. Morgan’s spirits
soared. She knew the grin that stretched across her lips must have covered the lower
half of her face.
“Hello, Sir. I’m better at this moment than I’ve been all week. How are you, Sir?” The
racing beats of her heart thrummed in her ears, drowning all other sounds with the
exception of hers and Evan’s voices. Gooseflesh prickled her skin, skimming down over
her shoulders and arms to the pit of her stomach. She quivered.
“I’m quite well, thank you. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
Bad time? Was he out of his mind? He could call her in the dead of night and she’d
be thrilled about it.
“Oh, no, Sir. Never.”
“Good. Have you been writing in your journal as I requested?”
“Every day, Sir.” She stood on wobbly legs and paced across the room to the window.
God, how she would love to see him again. Even over the phone, he affected her. Just the
sound of his voice reeled her senses. Ripples of desire surged through her, teasing her in
the most delicious spots. Morgan ached to feel his touch. Memories of his hands sliding
over her skin, pinching and twisting, flooded every crevice. Moist heat dampened her
thong, and her clit tingled, begging for his fingers to caress her mound. Or even his
tongue. She stifled a moan at the thought.
“Perfect. I want you to continue writing in it every day. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir,” she said, her excitement waning a little. He wasn’t going to ask her to
come to his home tonight.
“I’ll be at the Club Friday night. I’m doing another demonstration. Are you
available?”
“Of course, Sir.”
“Good.” She heard the smile in his reply. “I want you to arrive at ten o’clock, and
make sure you bring the journal with you. You are to dress in black thigh high stockings
with a black garter belt. Wear the purple leather skirt and the matching halter-top. Do
you know the outfit I’m speaking of?”

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The sound of his voice coated her in a blanket of warm caresses. Her palms grew
damp, and she prayed she didn’t drop her phone. “Yes, Sir.”
“You are to wear the black four inch stilettos and nothing else. I want you accessible.
No jewelry other than your rings, earrings, and watch.”
Morgan trembled with anticipation. Her nipples perked into rigid little pebbles, and
the moistness between her thighs coated her inner thighs. Her lids drifted down, closing
out her surroundings, and she imagined his tall, dark figure standing before her.
“I won’t disappoint you, Sir.”
“I know you won’t, Morgan,” he said. The soft, husky tone tickled her eardrum.
“There’s one other thing.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“At the club, I want you to come straight back to my office. It’s the last door on the
left down the corridor off to your right as you enter the front door. I’ll be sure to inform
the guys at the door. I’ll be waiting there for you.”
“Your office, Sir? At the club?” She was confused. Why would he have an office at the
club? God, she was so out of line with her questions.
“Ah, I see. I suppose being a silent partner there remains as such.” Evan chuckled.
“A silent partner, Sir?”
“I am one of the owners but choose not to get involved with the operations or
business decisions. Therefore, I invest in the club. Hence, I am a silent partner.”
“Oh,” she replied. Lame!
“So, you are to meet me in my office.” He paused. “At the club.”
Morgan wanted to scream at the top of her lungs. Alone with him again. Yes!
Ohmigod, she thought. Excitement and tension coiled into a tight spring deep inside
her.
“I can barely wait to see you, Sir.”
Evan chuckled. “Perhaps you will change your mind once you are privy to what I
have planned for you.”
“If it will please you, Sir, I will do whatever you ask of me.”
“Of course you will. I would expect nothing less of you, girl.”
Neither of them spoke, and the silence made her uneasy until his voice touched her
ear again.
“Morgan?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Have you come this week since leaving my home?”
Sensations sprung into spiraling tremors between her legs, and with the utterance of
one word from his lips, she knew she’d collapse to the carpet in a trembling mass of
orgasmic ecstasy.
“No, Sir,” she choked out. But, God, I want to now!
“Don’t.”
Stumbling over the word in her mind, she struggled to understand the single syllable
he’d uttered. Morgan was afraid to move. She had waited days to just hear his voice
again. She’d dreamed he would say that one word, granting her the orgasm her body
craved. And now, here he was denying her that single pleasure.
“Did you hear me, girl?”
“Y...Yes, Sir,” she stammered. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

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“I want you to use your vibrator tonight. At precisely nine o’clock, you are to go to
your bedroom and strip naked. Lay spread-eagle on your back with your ass propped
upon a pillow. Use the vibrator on its highest setting, teasing your clit only.
Understood?”
“Yes, Sir.” Did he have any idea what he was doing to her? If he didn’t stop, she’d
come right there while on the phone with him.
Turning away from the window, she leaned against the ledge for support. Morgan
straightened her legs, locking her knees to avoid falling to the floor. Perspiration trickled
down between her breasts, tickling the sensitive skin.
“You are to bring yourself to the edge three times in fifteen minutes, but you are not
allowed to come. If you do, I will know Friday night and punish you for the
disobedience.” He paused. “Would you like to know what the punishment will be if you
disobey?”
She didn’t want to know, but she would never tell him that. He expected her to say,
“Yes, Sir.” Which was exactly what she did.
“I will choose another submissive from the crowd and allow her to please me instead
of you. And, you will watch in silence with the knowledge that it could have been you in
her place.”
Morgan snapped to attention, and her pussy clamped violently. The small of her
back ached from the sudden strain of her muscles. “I will not disappoint either of us,
Sir.”
“I feel certain that you won’t, little one. You have been an excellent study and learned
well.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Now,” he continued, pausing. “Once you have done this, you are to write in your
journal everything you did. How it made you feel, and what your thoughts were while
masturbating. I want to know details, girl. I want it explicit. So explicit that as I read it,
it will be as if I stood right there and watched you. I want to feel every emotion. I want to
be so drawn into your description that I can close my eyes and see it. Smell it. Taste it.”
“Yes, Sir.” Her body shuddered, and she willed back the orgasm that threatened to
tip her over into the sea of rising and falling waves, each lapping on the beach of her sex.
“We will discuss several things before the demonstration, Morgan. It’s important
that you do exactly what I have requested of you tonight.”
“I will, Sir.” And she knew she would. Masturbating with thoughts of Evan and all
the delicious things he made her feel whenever they were together. Determined to make
him salivate, Morgan set out to write the hottest, most erotic description she’d ever
written in her life.
“Then I will look forward to seeing you Friday night, girl.”
His voice held a smile. She could almost visualize the slight curve of his lips. Lips
which drove her mad once placed against hers. Or, wherever he happened to place them.
The devilish thought brought a grin to her mouth.
“It will be the longest two days of my life, Sir,” she said. Gawd, was that ever an
understatement.
Saying their goodbyes, Morgan snapped her phone shut and stood staring at...well,
nothing. How the hell was she going to keep from coming tonight? Following his
directives—and I will to the letter—was going to be a test of his training. She knew it.

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And, she knew he knew she knew it. Morgan giggled at herself. I’ll be half out of my
mind by Friday.

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 On Bended Knees

Chapter Four

Lying spread-eagle on her bed later that evening, Morgan propped the pillow under
her rear and grabbed up the hot pink vibrator next to her. Lavender scented her room,
and her eyes drifted closed. The tranquil aroma filled her lungs with each breath, and
she allowed herself to relax. With a little luck and a lot of hope, she needed the lavender
to keep her calm enough to avoid coming.
“Oh well, he didn’t tell me I couldn’t use counteractive measures.”
Twisting the black base of the vibrator, it hummed in the palm of her hand. Already
wet, this was going to be difficult, but Evan had trained her to come only with
permission. She’d done this before and she was going to do it now. Just the thought of
Evan pleasing some other submissive while she watched was unbearable. Not that she
was jealous. Threesomes were okay with her. They’d done it several times, but the idea
that she wouldn’t be included Friday night in the scening...
Oh, hell no, she thought. She took a deep breath. “I can do this,” she said to the
empty room. “If I just keep that in mind, I’ll make it through this.”
As if challenging her resolve, the vibration in her hand sped up a notch or two. Oh
God. Her determination wavered. The vibrator created tingles that danced from her
fingertips up along her arm, which fanned out over her shoulders and tickled her
breasts. Morgan glanced at her nipples, now pencil-eraser peaks. She groaned at the
thought of his tongue lashing across them.
Morgan clenched her eyes shut and bit down on her lower lip. Evan sprang to life in
her mind playing out against the back of her lids. His dark gaze soaked her in raw
hunger. His dark pink mouth a thin line encircled by his dark beard and mustache. His
neck tapered off to broad shoulders that merged into a vast expanse of a muscled chest
sprinkled with dark waves of hair. Juices seeped from the hot depths of her sex,
lubricating her pussy.
Stop! How the hell was she going to do this? She glanced at the clock and the
brilliant blue LCD display flashed nine. Taking a deep breath, she braced herself for the
initial touch of the tremors that would radiate from her clit up into the pit of her
stomach.
Placing the vibrator between her thighs, the tip grazed along her wet slit. She
stiffened.
“Him with another sub and me watching. Him with another sub and me watching,”
she repeated out loud.
Morgan placed her fingertips on her mound, spreading herself open. Her nails dug
into the tender, sensitive flesh, and she began the slow, exquisite descent to that place
where only physical sensations existed. Sliding the vibrator back and forth, the hum
transposed itself into little wisps of pleasure that skipped and teased her skin. The
tingling, shimmering tip of the vibrator mingled with the hum and began to stir deeper,
more powerful, sensations.
Her hips gyrated. Breathing became a race to inhale and exhale in sequence. Morgan
pursed her lips just before a moan feathered past them. Bending her knees, she left her
feet flat against the mattress and pushed her ass off the pillow with each motion of the
vibrator. Perspiration dampened her skin. Sensual heat erupted beneath her fingers,
radiating over her abdomen to the pit of her stomach where it grew into a tight hot
fireball. Flames licked over her moist skin, tickling and teasing her nipples.

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 On Bended Knees

“Sir.” The plea slipped past her lips, and his image sprang to life behind her closed
lids like that of a movie projected upon a screen. God she wanted him. She wanted to
serve him in every way, if he would but accept her submission.
A moan of pleasure followed by a hiss between her clenched teeth filtered out into
the darkened room. Tension tingled, and her clit quivered beneath the vibrator. So close,
she thought. Oh God, I want to come. His vision still in her mind’s eye left her powerless
to do anything but watch in silence.
Her body trembled, and she dropped the vibrator to the mattress. She laid her palm
over her wet mound and squeezed her legs together, willing the orgasm to recede.
Please, don’t let me come. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, disappearing into
the hair at her temples. Struggling with the desire to please Evan and herself come
Friday night, and the erotic gratification that lay so close at hand right at this moment,
she dared not move.
Morgan took several deep breaths, inhaling and concentrating on the lavender scent.
Some help that turned out to be, she thought. The tightness and longing between her
legs eased, and a sigh of relief murmured from her throat. She’d made it. The urgency of
the moment had faded. Thank God! The smile that tipped up her lips fell flat. She
remembered she had two more to do and the clock was ticking.
Glancing at the clock, she’d already used up six minutes. That left nine minutes to
get through two more. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her confidence slipped just a
little at the prospect of adhering to Evan’s directives. To falter on this would surely
disappoint him. And, come Friday night, even herself. The thought of watching him with
another, and her unable to even participate, hurt. Even now.
Raising her shoulders from the bed, she looked for the vibrator. Finishing this was
just as important as his command not to come. She’d do this. She was not going to allow
some other submissive the pleasure of being Evan’s center of attention.

***

Walking down the corridor to Evan’s office, Morgan smiled. Finally, she would be in
his presence again. The click of her heels echoed around her until she stopped just
outside his door. Placing her fingers around the doorknob, she took a deep breath to
steady her trembling body. Excitement coursed through her veins. She raised her hand
and knocked lightly against the hardwood door.
“Come in.”
The deep timbre of his voice sent shivers cascading over her. She placed the palm of
her hand against the door, closed her eyes, and inhaled a steadying breath. Her stomach
flip-flopped. Thoughts tumbled, spinning and weaving a confused mass that she failed
to comprehend. What if he didn’t think her journal or the assignment he’d given her was
adequate? She wanted him to be impressed, but now she wasn’t so sure. The pounding
of her heart radiated to every nerve in her body until her skin pulsed with each beat.
“Deep breath,” she murmured.
Twisting the doorknob, she stepped into the office. Not sure if it was the overhead
lighting or the bright aura that surrounded the man seated behind the desk, Morgan
blinked. She shut the door behind her, walking immediately to his side, and dropped to
her knees next to him with her eyes downcast to the carpeted floor.
“Hello, little one. How are you this evening?”

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She heard the smile in his tone. Elation - the only word that came to her mind at that
moment to explain her feelings.
“Hello, Sir. Very well, Sir. Thank you for asking. And, yourself, Sir?”
“Quite well. Have you brought your journal with you?”
“Yes, Sir, if I may retrieve it from my purse for you now.”
“Yes, of course.”
Maintaining her erect posture, she opened her purse and extracted the journal.
Without looking up, she held it up for him to take.
“Before I read this, is there anything you need to say?”
“It was a most difficult directive, Sir. The past forty-eight hours have been hell, but
now it is better.”
He chuckled. “I didn’t expect it to be simple or easy, Morgan, but you know that
already, don’t you, girl?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Silence. The ruffle of paper filled the room, and Morgan knew he was reading the
words she had written from her most inner self. She had poured her every thought and
emotion into those two pages. Thinking back, she had laughed, sighed, and even shed a
few tears while she wrote. She so loved the gamut of emotions he could invoke and
evoke. It made her feel alive.
“Morgan, please rise.”
Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, she stood to her full height, keeping her
gaze focused at her feet.
“Remove your coat and turn around slowly so that I may inspect you.”
“Yes, Sir,” she said. Her fingers twisted the buttons loose, and her coat fell open.
Gripping one sleeve, she divested it and dropped it onto the chair beside her.
Slowly, she turned a complete circle. He had shifted in his chair, and both feet flat on
the floor far enough apart that she could easily step between them.
“You have done an excellent job on all counts, girl. You look ravishing, and I am as
hard as a rock after reading your descriptive. Step forward and place one foot on the
chair between my legs. You may grasp my shoulders if you need to steady yourself.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
Oh. My. God. I’m going to come right here. She did as he requested, making sure not
to look upon his face while hiking up the tight leather skirt in an effort to raise her leg.
Morgan watched his fingers curl around her ankle, and fire streaked up her leg to the
juncture of her thighs. Her juices flowed, dampening her slit. His hand slid slowly over
the curve of her calf towards her knee. Evan paused to tease the sensitive skin behind
her knee before traveling to her thigh. He slipped his fingers under one of the garter
straps and stopped.
Reaching out, she gripped his shoulders and held on. She struggled to maintain her
balance. Closing her eyes, she breathed in deeply, and his scent mingled with the musky
odor of her arousal. Her body quivered. Flames of desire licked and stroked her between
her legs in anticipation of his touch. She’d dreamed of this moment, awaking wet and
drenched in sweat. Emotions. It was all she knew whether he occupied her thoughts or
sat in front of her as he did now. His hand smoothed over her skin to her ass cheek and
gripped firmly. She wavered unsteadily
“Look at me, little one,” he commanded. She raised her lids to stare into his dark,
sensually charged gaze.

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Her breath hitched. Dark beacons of passion glowed up at her, striking her with a
force so strong that Morgan swallowed the lump in her throat with visible effort.
His fingertips dug into her flesh, pulling her closer. So hard was his grip, it pinched
her soft, sensitive skin, and she bit back the yelp of pain. This is heaven, she thought.
Evan dropped his gaze to her pussy, and he leaned forward until all she could see was
the top of his head. She heard him inhale a deep breath just before he slipped his finger
along the valley of her sex to tease her clit.
Morgan’s heart leaped in her chest. Gasping for air, she threw back her head and
succumbed to the wildfire licking and sucking at her body. Her knee buckled as Evan
guided one finger to the opening of her tender, pulsing pussy, teasing with short strokes
but not entering her. Fingering her. His tongue grazed her clit. The warmth of his breath
and the heat of his hand permeated her flesh. She was going to melt into a puddle soon.
“You are very wet this evening, girl. That is good.” His words tickled against her slit.
He buried his finger in her heated canal. The muscles immediately clenched, wrapping
around it to savor his welcomed intrusion.
Morgan’s feminine juices scented the room. With every thrust of his hand, his finger
driving deep into her body breathing accelerated. Her pulse raced in a maddening rush.
Desire for completion catapulted inside her. An inferno of molten fire stormed from the
pit of her stomach to ignite and explode in her clit. Sensitive beyond any prior memory
she had, Morgan wanted to fall into the blackness of subbie space. That treasured period
when nothing existed except feelings. Nothing else touched her.
“Oh, God, Sir. May I come?” she blurted out in broken gasps for breath. But no
sooner had the words left her lips, Evan withdrew from her.
“No, you may not.”
She whimpered, and tears spilled silently down her cheeks as he pulled her down
onto his lap. Evan held her close, cradling her against his shoulder.
“You will be granted release later this evening, little one. This I promise you, but
first, there is the demonstration.” Evan cupped his fingers beneath her chin, urging her
to look at him. “I am so very proud of you. You have been a most deserving and devoted
pupil. Your reward awaits you. But first, the demonstration. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.” Morgan smiled up into the face of the man she would lay down her life for
should the need arise.
“Are you ready to go, or do you need a few minutes more?”
“I’m fine, Sir. Thank you.”
He helped her up from his lap, his hands clasped firmly on her waist, making sure
she was capable of standing on her own. Evan rose from his chair behind her and leaned
close to her ear, his breath tickling the sensitive skin.
“You are quite beautiful tonight. Perfect for the evening’s demonstration.”
Evan stepped around her and over to the door. Holding it open, he nodded for her to
follow.

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Chapter Five

She walked into the dimly lit club room. Music and voices filled the hall from wall-to-
wall. Blackness swathed one end of the staging area. Strange. They always have it well
lit before any guest speakers arrive. Obviously, somebody wasn’t informed of the
proper etiquette.
Several people spoke to Evan on their walk to the back of the hall, shaking his hand
and tossing her a cursory glance. She didn’t care. Evan was the attraction. Wherever he
went, people gravitated towards him. The mystery that surrounded him created an
energizing field. She was so proud to be with him.
If he had only accepted her submission, she thought. A tinge of sadness struck her
heart, but she quickly banked it. Right now, she shared his space. That was gift enough.
She could drown in her sadness later, alone inside the walls of her home where no one
could witness the despair she had hidden all week.
Her attention returned to the man whose pace she kept stride with. Evan nodded
towards a man at the side of the stage just as he placed a foot up on the first step. A
gentle blue swath of light flooded the stage. Evan turned to her, extending his hand for
her to take, and aided her climb.
Morgan maintained her place. One step behind him, to his right, and they turned to
face the audience. Her gaze lowered to the floor and would remain there until he gave
her permission to raise her chin.
“Tonight, my friends, is a special demonstration. One that I have saved over the
years until the time was right. Tonight you will all witness the Ceremony of the Roses.”
Morgan’s heart thudded. Stopped. And thudded again. She couldn’t breathe. He
couldn’t possibly mean this demonstration would be their Ceremony? How could he be
this cruel? Never in her life had she thought him capable of this level of sadism. After
pouring her heart and soul out to him in submission and sending her home with no
response. That had been torture. The whole week had been painful. And now this? Still,
she remained mute. He had asked her to be here tonight. She would not dishonor him in
front of so many, but this was just downright evil.
The lighting brightened overhead.
“Under normal circumstances, this is a very private exchange between the dominant
and the submissive,” Evan continued. “Only a few close friends are ever invited to attend
an actual ceremony. Because of this, many have never witnessed the power and beauty
of the ritual. Tonight, I have chosen to make this public. The splendor of the ceremony
itself in all its simplicity, coupled with the deep emotional ties that take place will
forever leave an indelible memory. I ask that you each refrain from speaking while the
ceremony is being conducted.”
No way! He couldn’t possibly be saying this was the real thing. Morgan heard the
swishing of cloth behind her. Shoes tapped against the stage flooring while people
bustled around behind them.
“Now, before I begin, I have unfinished business with this submissive that must be
taken care of at this moment. Silence is required, because many of you who are still
fairly new can learn from this as well.”
Evan turned to face her. His finger lifted her chin until their gazes met. A smile like
none other she had witnessed before revealed an even line of white teeth.

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“You have pleased me in the past months more than any submissive I have ever
known,” he said. His voice was lowered in muted tones. “You offered your gift to me last
week, and I sent you home without a response. You deserve to know why.”
Morgan stood perfectly still, her heart beating in thundering spasms.
“I have loved you from the beginning. The night we met here for the first time you
knew to come forward with nothing more than a look and a nod. A door to my heart that
has been closed for a long time creaked open. Over the months, you proved over and
over again your devotion to the lifestyle. You accepted your punishments with the soul
of a submissive. You celebrated your accomplishments as though they were my own.
That evening which I ended our training,” he hesitated, his eyes intent on hers, “it was
then I realized I did not want to let you go. But, I sent you away because I wanted you to
be sure I am what you want. While this is not something any dominant would even
consider, I will grant you a chance to rescind your submission. If you have not changed
your mind, I will accept you now. And this Ceremony of the Roses will be ours. So, speak
now, girl.”
Her throat constricted with the force of emotion that bubbled to the surface. Her
heart begged to burst with happiness. Tears ran unheeded down her cheeks.
“I gave my submission a week ago, Sir. If it will please you, I will gladly do it again
here. Right now.” She watched the curve of his mouth broaden.
“I accept your gift with pride, girl. From this day on, you will be known among the
patrons and our friends as evanescence. I will be your Master from this day forth.”
“May I speak freely, Sir?” His brow arched over one eye, and Morgan immediately
realized her error. “I meant, Master. Forgive me, please.”
“Tonight, I forgive you.” His grin warmed her in its glow. “And, yes, please say what
you wish.”
“Just that you have made me the happiest submissive in the entire world. I have
loved you for so long and am honored to take my place at your feet.”
“As it should be. So, tonight we shall begin our life together for all eternity.” Evan
turned to face the crowd. “This ceremony you are about to witness is in fact our
Ceremony of the Roses. From this moment, Morgan is now known in the community as
‘evanescence’. She is my property.”
Smiling, Morgan heard the collective gasps before the applause and whistles
followed in echoes throughout the room. It died quickly to absolute silence the moment
Evan spun on his heels, his eyes finding her waiting gaze.
“Come, pet. It’s time.”
Standing before a long, skinny table draped with a white lace cloth, Morgan stood
proudly facing Evan. His closest friend and owner of the club, Drake, stood on the
opposite side facing them. With trembling fingers, she took the white rose he extended
to her while Evan took the red one.
Three thick white candles burned in the center of the table, and a small link chain lay
doubled and stretched along its length. The coveted silver collar rested on Evan’s end of
the table. Tears blurred her vision. He actually removed it from its prominent position
just for me. Morgan choked on the overwhelming emotion at the reality of the moment.
Evan reached for the collar, passing it through the flames of each candle swiftly.
Facing her, his smile broadened, and he slipped the silver metal band around her throat,
latching it at the nape of her neck. His thumbs trailed along the sensitive skin just above
it while bringing his hands back to the front. He stared at her neck momentarily.

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“Pet?”
Morgan smiled at him. “Yes, Master?”
“Your right hand please. I will prick your finger with a thorn on my rose. I’ll allow
two drops of your blood to fall on the petals of your rose. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master.”
She quickly offered her hand to him and watched in fascination as he stabbed the
pad at the tip of her middle finger. He squeezed it while allowing her blood to pool.
Morgan held out her rose, and two drops of bright red blood dripped and stained the
pure white petals.
Evan took the rose from her and pricked his fingertip with a thorn from hers. Using
his thumb and ring finger, a drop of his blood landed alone on a partially opened petal,
while a second drop covered one of hers.
“Hold up your pricked finger, Pet, and press it against mine. You may say whatever
vows you wish to express.”
Morgan raised a trembling fingertip, pressing it against his as instructed. Their blood
mingled in the symbolic joining of their souls. His smile melted her heart. Bound to one
another for eternity, she thought, her gaze transfixed on their hands. The pad of his
index finger was much larger, and the skin tone darker than her own. His strength and
power now became her protection.
Breaking her gaze, she raised her chin, her vision taking in all the contours of his
face. Debonair and class fit him like sheep’s skin gloves. Dark eyes framed in black
lashes met her gaze. Morgan’s heart lurched.
Not once in the past week had she believed this moment would ever be hers. Truly
humbled in his presence, the idea that she was, in fact, his chosen one moved her
beyond description. She prayed her words would convey the deep love she harbored for
him. Not knowing what she would say, she contemplated the moment. Listening to her
soul and heart, she realized they would provide her with all she wanted and needed to
say.
Choked by emotions, her voice quivered. Her thoughts calmed and easily
transformed into words that drifted off her tongue. Although shaky, her speech was
clear and coherent. “My eternity awaits in the depths of your gaze. Unspoken promises
lay bare for me to see at this time, bathed in a light that shines from the very ends of
your soul. You have made me realize who I am and where I belong. Forever in deepest
gratitude, Master, I humbly accept this esteemed honor. I give to you every part of me,
both physical and emotional. From the darkest recesses of my soul to the fullest capacity
of love in my heart, I will always remain faithfully devoted to you. With all the respect
and admiration I possess, I am yours from this day forth. I promise to serve your every
want, need, desire, and whim. I place my life in your capable care knowing you will
make the right choices for me. You are the center of my universe, Master. Because of
you, my life’s dreams have become reality. For this, I, your submissive and servant,
humbly thank you.”
Brought back to the moment by the tender touch of his knuckles gliding along her
cheek, she smiled.
“My pet,” he spoke. Silence engulfed them, his gaze caressing her face. “Words I have
never spoken to any other until now. I have chosen you from among many. And I know I
have chosen well. I will provide you with all that you need which will enable you to serve
me to my heart’s desire. In return for your gift, I will provide you my protection, care,

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respect, and above all, my love. No other shall lay claim to neither my heart nor my soul.
These things I give to you freely and without reservation. You, in your most devoted
actions and words, have made me whole. For this, I am grateful. You will serve me
proudly as you have in the past. I harbor no doubts. You are mine. My property.
Forevermore.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. His property, she mused. The two most wonderful
words in the dictionary. Drake walked around the table, taking his place between them
and the table. Standing in the center, he lifted the length of chain outstretched in his
hands and passed it through the candle flames. Facing his friend and Morgan, Drake
carefully wrapped the links around their shoulders and stepped back.
Evan smiled. “I pledge myself to you in front of all who are gathered here to witness
our joining for now and eternity.”
“I, too, pledge myself to you, Master, in front of everyone here today from this day
forward and throughout eternity.”
Evan tipped his red rose towards her white one, and she touched the blood stained
petals against those of his rose. He reached for hers, taking it from her hand, and offered
his for her to take.
Drake removed the chain that bound them, carefully folding it and placing it inside a
black velvet jewelry cloth for safekeeping. Drake moved back to the side of the table.
The couple turned, placing their roses in a single vase.
Once again, Drake stepped forward with two wrapped gifts, handing one to each of
them. Morgan followed Evan’s lead, opening her gift. They each revealed sterling silver
boxes, their names and the date inscribed on both.
Drake stepped forward to the front of the stage. “This concludes the Ceremony of the
Roses. Any questions can be answered with the programs you found at your tables. Now,
Lord Evan and his pet, evanescence, will retire to their private home. Thank you for your
cooperation during this momentous occasion because, quite frankly, I never thought
Lord Evan would give up his bachelorhood.”
The crowd laughed, breaking out into cheers and well wishes which resonated from
every corner in the room. Morgan never let her gaze waiver from the man who stood
next to her. Her Master. She basked in the moment. The feel of his collar encasing her
throat sent shivers down her spine. This is heaven, she thought.
“Pet, I have another gift to bestow on you,” he said.
Diverting her attention back to him, her surprise must have been evident as her gaze
landed on the silver length of chain he held. Reaching out, Evan clasped the leash to his
collar that adorned her neck. Unadulterated passion flared in his eyes, and she shivered
from the shock of such blatant hunger.
Morgan trembled from her head to her toes. Juices slipped from her pussy, coating
her inner thighs as his gaze devoured her. His lips curled up in a knowing grin, and he
leaned in close to her ear.
“I will allow you to come to my heart’s desire tonight, little one. And I will allow you
to pleasure me just as fully.”

***

Divested of her skirt and halter, she kneeled at his feet in the privacy of his bedroom.
Ornate and drenched in royal blue velvets, his room befitting of a king. Morgan had little

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time to take in her surroundings before he commanded her to repose. She’d never seen
any part of his home other than the entry hall and the dungeon in his basement.
“You made me proud this evening, girl.”
“Thank you, Master. It is my life’s goal to always make you proud.”
“Is there anything you would like to say before we begin our evening?” he asked. The
end of his crop tapped repeatedly on her erect nipples.
Desire fanned out from between her thighs with each stinging tap from his crop. She
wanted him to use her in any manner he chose. If it pleased him, she would be willing to
breach her limits just to let him know how happy he had made her tonight.
“I heard no answer, girl,” he said. The sting of his crop landed with a bite between
her thighs, making contact with her aroused clit.
“I was only thinking that if it would please you, and you desired to do so, I am willing
to remove my limits for the night to show my appreciation for all you have given me,
Master. To be here, at your feet, on bended knees. I give you my all tonight.”
Evan remained silent, and the awkward pause rattled her. Did she say something
wrong?
“Your offer is accepted, little one. And tonight I will take you to a deeper and more
powerful subspace. Your devotion and trust will be rewarded.”
She exhaled the breath she’d been subconsciously holding, and the tension of the
moment evaporated.

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 On Bended Knees

Chapter Six

Morgan stood in the center of the room in awe. Evan picked up a small metal box
and pressed a button on top of the panel. The lights dimmed to a warm, cozy, golden
glow. He pressed another button, and a panel in the ceiling slid open above her. A black
spreader bar suspended on chains lowered. The soft whirring of a motor, barely audible,
stopped. And, so did the bar. She stared in silence. It hung a foot over her head. She
swallowed past the lump in her throat, and her heart pounded louder.
She heard the box being replaced on the dresser. Her attention immediately returned
to her Master’s tall frame. He turned to face her, and his expression struck her a blow.
Her dominant appeared dark. Even sinister. She gulped. Fear raced through her,
bouncing and churning. What the hell have I gotten myself into? Morgan retreated with
a tentative step back.
“Your fear is quite intoxicating, girl. I already feel my cock responding. I can even
smell your reluctance now that you have granted me full control of your body.” He
hesitated, and a corner of his mouth curved up. “Of your mind.” He paused again. His
pace slow and steady, he approached her in measured strides. “Of your soul.”
“I – I…”
“Silence!” he growled. “I have not given you permission to speak. You are no more
than a slave this evening. You have no rights. You have no freedoms. I accepted your
submission of no limits which you freely proffered.”
Evan suddenly reached out and grabbed the front of her blouse and with one swift
jerk had her up against his body. He leered down at her. She trembled. She’d never seen
this dark side. Had never sensed it in all the months they had been together. This was
not the controlled, responsible dominant she knew him to be.
“I’m going to make you scream in pain, my pet. You will beg me to stop. Your body
will beg me to set you free. And I will. I will set you free to a new level of ecstasy. One
that will change you forever.”
“Please…”
“I said silence, slut!” His voice lowered, and his tone punctuated each word.
Morgan lowered her eyes. This was not what she had envisioned. Trapped in a
relationship that now frightened her.
Evan released her blouse and grabbed her wrists, stretching her arms above her head
while dragging her back to stand directly under the spreader bar. With little time to
react, she found her wrists encased in wide black leather bands on each end of the bar.
With no escape possible, she watched him move back to the dresser and press a button.
Tension tightened every muscle in her body. Perspiration beaded her skin and slithered
down her back.
Slowly hoisted upwards, her arms ached from the strain. Her feet left the floor and
the pain compounded. The whirring of the motor stopped, no longer lifting her. Morgan
focused her attention on the man who had become her Master earlier that evening. He
opened the doors of his closet, swinging them wide from the center. Inside each door
were rows of all the implements of torture any dominant would be proud to own.
He returned moments later and dropped down on his haunches in one fluid motion,
clasping the black metal spreader bar securely to her ankles. The metal clink of the cuffs
reverberated through the room. A chill shimmered over her flesh. Morgan clinched hers
eyes tightly, shutting out the world around her, withdrawing into herself. What had

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possessed her to toss away her limits so recklessly? Even for one night. No experienced
submissive in her right mind would have granted such unrestrained power to any
dominant.
His breath warmed her cheek. His body brushed against her suspended frame. There
was no escaping this mess she now found herself immersed in with a man who had
declared her his property.
“Fear. It’s an emotion so volatile and so ingrained in human nature that it rivals even
pure anger and hatred. It comes from the depths of one’s unsuspecting soul.”
Morgan whimpered, refusing to look at him.
The air stirred while he moved in silence, his fingertips trailing along her exposed
waist.
“You should think your concessions through before voicing them, girl.”
His fingernails pinched her nipples, she screamed, he gave a rough twist, holding
onto the tender buds. Her body jerked away, inflicting even more torture.
“Open your eyes and look at me, slut. I want to see the fear in your eyes. I want to
smell it…taste it…feel it. You will do well to obey me tonight without hesitation.”
“Yes, Master,” she mumbled. Her gaze fell on the silver metal of a switchblade that
he held open in front of her. Startled. She could feel the blood draining from her face,
and the tingling sensation of terror flooded over her skin. Perspiration bubbled on the
surface and trickled down between her breasts. “Please, Master…”
“Silence! I have not given you permission to speak!” his gruff voice demanded.
Maniacal even as he pressed the tip of the blade against her cheek. Dragging the sharp,
cool metal down along her cheek, under her chin, along her throat, he finally paused
over the rapid pulsing of her jugular vein. The blade stung as he pressed harder.
“I have so many things in store for you tonight,” he whispered in sinister breaths. His
lips only a fraction from her own, she breathed in his essence. “I’m going to torture you.
Listen to your screams, because they will excite me. And no one outside these walls can
hear your pleas. So, you may scream, beg, and cry out as loud as you wish. My cock is
already rock hard. Harder than it has been in a long time. And I’m going to fuck you in
every hole you have. Thrusting into your tender body until I’m sated and tired of you.
Yes, you will please me tonight. My every desire for the darkest pleasures that pain can
produce will be mine.”
Without warning, the blade slashed down through her blouse, scraping against her
skin, and the material fell away revealing her heaving, sweating breasts. She didn’t even
have time to release the scream lodged in her throat before her skirt dropped to the floor
under her. Although she cringed at the loss of her three-hundred-dollar outfit, Morgan
tossed the thought aside when the knife grazed against the inside of her thigh.
“I know what is going through your mind. You are questioning my sanity. Wondering
just how demented and sadistic I am. A side of me you have never seen before,” he
crooned against her mouth. “Do you wonder now why no one has ever been my chosen
one? For all you or anyone else knows, there could have been others. Others that
disappeared and never found. Now you wonder if perhaps that is to be your fate, but fear
not, girl. I am still entertained by you. Until I have my fill of you, you will not
disappear.”
He raised his lashes to look up at her. Struck by the force of something so evil in the
depths, her heart beat erratically in her chest.
“Please, Master. Let me go.”

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Stepping away, he threw back his head, and laughter rumbled from his chest. Horror
engulfed her. This was not the Lord Evan she knew.
“Let you go? But this is what you craved,” he hissed. “Just like all the others, you
wanted me to be your Master. You wanted to be my chosen one.” He paused, his eyes
locked with hers. “And now you are.”
The switchblade slipped across her mound, and she inhaled sharply. He wouldn’t,
would he? Tears slid down her cheeks, and she prayed silently. Cold steel rested against
her labia between her spread legs. She had no way to protect herself. Withdrawing the
knife, he held it up to his nose and sniffed. His tongue swiped along the blade.
“Mmmm. You are wet. You love this, don’t you, slut?”
“No, Master.” She shook her head in denial.
“Let’s find out just how wet you are.”
“Please, don’t!”
He dropped his hands, and the knife once again caressed her pussy.
“It’s time to see how wet you really are.”
“Don’t! Please don’t do this to me!” she screamed out.
The blade grazed against her clit as he spread her labia.
“You want to please me, don’t you, girl? Isn’t that why you threw caution to the wind
and granted me full control of your body tonight?”
“Not like this,” she mumbled. “This isn’t what I thought you were capable of.”
“A little late to come to that realization, wouldn’t you say?”
The tip of the knife teased her opening, and she prayed for unconsciousness to claim
her. He thrust suddenly into her, and a scream tore from her throat. Terror ripped
through her, and she waited to feel the gush of her own blood trail down her legs. He
pushed in and out of her with unrelenting force and dropped to the floor in front of her.
His mouth laid claim to her clit, and he sucked it hard. His tongue swirled around it and
teased mercilessly.
Her body convulsed with the first spasms of an orgasm she knew would rack her
flesh. The burning sear of pleasurable pain raced up from between her legs, and she
arched violently into his torturous assault unable to stop her response. She screamed in
pain. She screamed at the release of her pent up need to climax for more than a week.
Her body shuddered uncontrollably. The cuffs holding her prisoner pinched and rubbed
against her tender skin. Lord Evan continued to pound into her clinching, writhing
body, and his mouth held tight to her sensitive clit. Wave after wave of pure ecstasy
crashed through her. Warm, sticky juices slid down her legs. There was so much. Too
much, she thought. She must be bleeding. Dear God, she was going to bleed to death.
Utterly exhausted, blackness engulfed her.

***

“Pet. Baby girl, wake up.”

Lord Evan. Fear raced through her, and she flung her hands and legs in desperation,
fighting him.
“Let me go!” she yelled, flailing against his massive chest.
“It’s okay, little one. You’re safe.” His voice soothed her raw and terrified nerves. He
sounded just as he always had. Not that hideous man who had threatened her life. He
wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close to his chest and cuddled her there,

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 On Bended Knees

whispering words of love and devotion. She calmed, and the tears came. Unsure how
long they sat there, she dosed in and out of a fitful sleep.
“Pet. We have to talk.”
He set her away, his fingers cupping her chin and raised her gaze to meet his. He
stared in silence.
“I was very disappointed in you tonight. In myself, also.”
“I’m sorry, Mast…”
He placed his fingertips over her lips and shook his head. Her heart dropped to her
feet. Their first night together, and she had displeased him. Tears pooled, and she
thought she would choke on the lump forming in her throat.
“Silence. Allow me to finish. There is a lesson here which you must always
remember. And I have to make sure from this point on that it will never happen again.”
She nodded, and the pad of his thumbs brushed gently across her cheeks taking
teardrops along with it. His gaze searched hers intently.
“I neglected a very important aspect in my training of you these past months.” With
the slightest shake of his head, he took a deep breath. “Never, ever relinquish your limits
for anyone or for any length of time. Never grant another individual full control of you.
That was a hard lesson, but one I hope you will never forget. I would never harm you.
But, the moment you told me you would remove your limits for the night, I immediately
grew upset. I thought I had trained you better than that. Don’t ever do this again, girl.
Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master. I’m so sorry to have failed you on our first night together.”
“Dominants who seek submissives seek them for a reason, pet. If we wanted slaves,
we would never waste our time with a subbie that restricts the total control for which we
seek. I derive little pleasure from that type of relationship. There is no challenge.
Whenever a Dom accepts a submissive’s gift of submission, we know there are
boundaries. Those boundaries are challenges, and a good dominant will push those
boundaries all in good time. Each limit that is pushed and conquered is a trophy of
sorts. Dominants strive to take the relationship further than its current level. And a
submissive’s limits allow us that challenge. So, granting me total control tonight you not
only threw caution to the wind, but also took away that challenge. I’m the Dominant. It
is my responsibility to heighten your awareness. Your pleasure. Which, in turn, will
please me if I can break down those barriers that I initially accepted. But it is never done
in a few hours or weeks. And certainly never done in the manner in which I acquired
them tonight.”
“I didn’t mean to…”
“I accept the responsibility of your not knowing, pet. But, after tonight, I have to
make sure you will never commit such a faux pas in the future. It’s dangerous.”
“I understand, Master. It will never happen again.”
Pulled onto his lap, he wrapped his arms securely around her, cuddling her close.
Morgan rested against his chest listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. His fingers
smoothed over her head and entangled in her hair.
“I know I scared you tonight, little one. It was my intention to do so. I wanted to
make my point crystal clear. However, I would never damage my possessions. And you
are my most prized possession.”
His lips brushed the top of her head, and they sat there in silence.

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 On Bended Knees

“You have endured a lot tonight. Crawl into bed and cover up. I need to get my leash
for you.”
Morgan wiggled out of his lap as he released her. Leash? For what? It didn’t take
long to find out the ‘for what’. He walked around the bed, and the metallic purple leash
he carried snapped to the “D” ring on the front of her collar. He slipped the leather hand
strap over the bedpost above her. She let her gaze meet his.
“At night, you will be leashed to the bed. You are not to leave this bed without first
asking me. Is this understood?” His fingertips glided lightly along her cheek. “I love you,
pet.”
“Yes, Master.” She smiled. “And I love you.”
“Now sleep. Tomorrow, we will begin our lives as I see fit.”
She smiled, her eyes soaking in inch-by-inch of naked skin revealed to her as he
stripped off his clothes. He settled onto the mattress beside her. His hand fisted in her
hair while his other arm wrapped around her waist before pulling her against his
masculine length. Lord Evan planted a light kiss against the back of her neck, and a soft
sigh escaped her throat. Contentment soothed her, and her eyelids drifted closed.

38
Little Book of Fantasies

by

Miranda Heart
 Little Book of Fantasies

Chapter One
She screamed behind the tightly bound gag—desperately tried to push it from her
mouth—to no avail. His arm wrapped around her chest, as her boyfriend all but dragged
her along the gravel path. Her bare feet caught every jagged rock. She tried to free her
arms, but could not.
Fresh tears ran down her cheeks. Nausea welled up inside her. She tried to pull from
his grasp, but his arm tightened around her chest, cutting off her oxygen. Her legs
weakened, her lungs ached, and she saw no way out of her present situation. Her
boyfriend of three months had turned into a maniac within seconds.
“You know, the more you struggle and the more upset you become, the hotter it
makes me.” He breathed against her ear, his voice thick and rough.
She shuddered. His voice shouldn’t sound reassuring. It shouldn’t sound like it did
when he made love to her. He repulsed her. Anger replaced panic and made her body go
limp.
“Seriously, Kaitlyn?”
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Steven yanked her arms apart, and held tightly to
her wrists. She sank to the ground as he resumed dragging her across it. She screeched
in pain, her silk-clad ass scraped against the rough ground.
When the gag slid further to the back of her throat, she choked. The taste of her floral
fabric softener made her gag. By now her voice had become so hoarse nothing came out.
In a moment of clarity, she scanned their surroundings.
Trains. She tried to stand, her feet couldn’t catch hold of the gravel, and she slid back
down again. With all of her strength, she struggled to pull free of his hands.
“Please!” The gag muffled her pleas.
They stopped abruptly. From behind her she heard the sound of a door sliding on a
track. She sobbed. Oh God, this is how I’m going to die. Suddenly, she became
weightless, her body lifted into the air. Confused, she stared up at her captor. A loving
smile touched his lips.
She blinked. He’s insane.
“You’ll think I’m a little less crazed here, shortly.”
Too weak to fight, she just lay in his arms. How many times had he carried her
upstairs, just as he did now?
“I know you’re scared, but it will all be over soon. You like being frightened, don’t
you?”
Her eyes widened and she shook her head fervently.
“No?” he asked. “That’s not what I remember. Look around.”
Slowly, she scanned the room. A lone lamp sat at the back of the train car. The car
couldn’t have been more than fifteen feet across. A bed with white cotton sheets sat in
the corner of the room, a chair in the other corner. Something glittered in front of her
blurred vision. Stunned, she followed the length of chain dangling from the ceiling.
What is he going to do? Tie me, and then beat me to death? Rip all my skin from my
body while I’m still alive? She trembled as he set her feet down onto the ground. She
whimpered when her bruised soles made contact and her legs faltered. He caught her
against him. Tears welled again, and her knees collapsed. Everything turned black.

***

40
 Little Book of Fantasies

Slowly, awareness returned to Kaitlyn, and she cringed in pain. Her eyelids stuck
together. A hard, warm male chest supported her body. Cold metal encircled her wrists.
A resounding clink echoed inside her frazzled mind. Surprised, she looked above her to
see a long silver chain dangling from the ceiling. The metal shackles hung from the end
and trapped her wrists.
“Please,” she said through her gag.
“You keep begging, Kaitlyn, but it won’t happen. This time you aren’t getting free.”
The quiet of his voice against her ear almost soothed her. She shook her head and
reminded herself to stay alert.
He pulled away then, leaving her toes to graze the floor. The weight of her body
forced her forward until she regained her balance on her toes. She winced in pain. She
heard something drop behind her and she flinched. It sounded like a bag. A second later,
she closed her eyes at the sound of a zipper.
All I wanted was a quiet night at home with a bottle of wine, some music, and my
nighty.
Her body started to shake, again. What did he mean this time? Had she ever tried to
break free of him? She’d done nothing but submit to his wishes, wait on him hand and
foot. What did it say about her? Her eyes burned. She shut them tightly to prevent more
tears.
His fingers wrapped around her ankle. She tried kicking back, to surprise him, but he
held fast. She screamed into the gag.
“Kaitlyn, I want you to know, I won’t hurt you. You asked for this. I’m giving you
what you want.”
His stern tone set her on edge. She had no idea what he was talking about. Who asks
for a kidnapping? She shook her head.
He laughed behind her. Something cool poured over her feet, it stung like hell. He
wanted to clean her wounds?
Completely caught off guard now, she just waited. Maybe if she stayed silent for a
while she’d eventually understand. He might tell her what this was all about. She should
still be scared, but he did promise he wouldn’t hurt her. Was all of it just some fantasy
come true for him?
Mentally she shook her head to clear away images of being flayed alive.
“The bag you heard hit the floor is full of toys for you. The next few days will be so
much fun, you aren’t going to know what to do. However, this won’t be very pleasurable
until you realize why we are here.”
“Ya think?” she asked, her voice still muffled.
He got it, though; a hard smack to her ass said he understood her words. The slap
was painful. He moved in front of her.
“Let’s see if you’re still such a little smart ass with your clothes off.” In one quick
move, he reached up and ripped her gown from her. The spaghetti straps gave way. The
garment slid from her body like tissue paper.
Could he humiliate her anymore? She looked up into his eyes and saw the humor
shimmering in their dark depths. Kaitlyn wished she could pull the long, gorgeous hair
out of his arrogant head—anything to wipe that smirk off his face. He shifted from her
view. Her own reflection stared back at her in the full-length mirror. In horror, she
closed her eyes.
“Open your eyes, Kaitlyn.”

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 Little Book of Fantasies

Using the mirror to help her, she searched the room looking for him. Her gaze
collided with his, when she saw him standing behind her.
“The mirror was my own little addition. You’re my captive, but I want you to watch
your reaction to everything I do to you.”
Although his words were strange, his voice held an erotic lilt to it that made the
tension in her stiff body loosen. If he wanted her to enjoy their night, why did he have
her strung up so uncomfortably? Where were the fuzzy handcuffs he used to strap her to
his bed? She blew out a long breath through her nose.
He reached around in front of her with a hanky, and dabbed the moisture from her
cheeks. “When I’m sure you’ve calmed down, I’ll take the gag off. After all, soon you’ll
need to guess what’s going on. Though, I will tell you before you even start, I’m very
disappointed in you right now.”
Her shoulders would have drooped, if she could have managed it. At a complete loss
as to what might be going on, she stayed silent. She didn’t understand either his rough
treatment, or his disappointment. None of this made sense. An overnight trip to San
Antonio seemed more appropriate.
“Recently, I read about some of this. It said if you can focus on my voice, my actions,
you’re less likely to notice your own discomfort.”
Read about what?
He must have seen her confused look. “Did you think I knew how to use all these toys
already?” He ran a hand down her back. His fingers traveled over her ass, making her
shiver in response. “No, I had to go read about them. I wouldn’t want to hurt you, or
cause you any undo stress.”
Her eyes looked heavenward to indicate her restraints. He laughed in response.
“Trust me, it could be much worse.”

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 Little Book of Fantasies

Chapter Two
Sweat broke out on her brow. She didn’t see an air conditioning unit anywhere. He
left her hanging to go sit down on the bed. He fumbled through his bag, laid several toys
out, but she didn’t recognize even one of them. Well, she did recognize the feather. She
grimaced. Tickling wasn’t her thing. Then he pulled out a small, glass, phallic object
with a wide base. A glove made of fur. She closed her eyes, embarrassed.
“You know this was your idea. I don’t know why you have to act all shy about it.”
She looked at him one brow raised and mumbled, “I have no idea what you’re talking
about.”
“Evidently, you didn’t when I asked you before about it.”
They settled into silence. The fullness of her bladder began to bother her. She looked
around, but there didn’t seem to be anywhere she could go. She pressed her legs
together. No way would she pee on herself. She fidgeted some more.
“What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. He stood up from the bed. “That isn’t an answer. What’s
wrong?”
All she could do was hang her head and cross her legs, one over the other.
He looked her up and down. “So you still can’t even manage to hold it for two hours,
can you?”
She stared at him. Her jaw ached from the force of the gag in her mouth.
“No. You can’t pee until I give you permission.”
She pleaded with her eyes.
“No. And the more you think about it the worse it’ll get.”
She huffed and pressed her thighs together. She snuck a glance in the mirror. What a
strange sight to see herself like this. Almost like everyday, without the chains of course.
It wasn’t like the times he had turned her around in bed to face the mirror, grabbed hold
of her hair, and told her to watch herself getting fucked.
This was different. She felt vulnerable like this. She stared at herself, more out of
curiosity at this point, or maybe because there was nothing better to look at. She had to
admit she looked pretty good with her arms pulled tightly above her head. It gave her
small breasts a perkiness they lacked when her arms were down, her stomach long and
lean. Her cleanly shaven pussy hid between her thighs. Just to play she moved them
apart. Her thighs resembled the trim and attractive girls from the sports catalogues that
he liked so much. She scoffed. As if one of those girls would ever be found in this
position.
Kaitlyn cocked her head to the side. Dangling from iron shackles, she resembled
someone from another era. Kidnapped for his pleasure. Hadn’t that been a fantasy of
hers for a long time? For whatever reason he did this, he didn’t seem to mean her harm.
Right?
She couldn’t deny her body’s reaction to the eroticism of hanging, shackled and
bound. Her nipples hardened at the idea of staying strung up and forced to accept the
pleasure he wanted to show her. Frustrated with herself, she turned her head away from
the mirror. Her pulse sped up. Only a freak would want such things. She dared another
glance from the corner of her eye. Her flushed cheeks were only a small sign of the
things going on inside her right now. Her swollen labia would not go unnoticed by

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 Little Book of Fantasies

Steven for long. She clamped her mouth tight around the gag. Wrong. This was just
wrong.
She saw him look up from his spot on the bed. He unraveled something, but she
didn’t see what it was because she ducked her head.
“Still too shy to look at yourself, eh?” He stood up from the bed. Thankfully, he
hadn’t seen her staring at herself in the mirror. She avoided his eyes as he walked up
behind her.
He reached out a hand and slid his fingers down her rib cage. She giggled and tried
to move out of his way. “Feeling a little better?”
She nodded and tried to wiggle her tongue out of the gag. Both of his hands came
around to her front, grazed over her breasts. She watched, noticing how much more tan
his skin was next to her own.
He tweaked her nipples. “I love your tits. I love how my hands are larger than them.
Gives me so much power over you, when you know that I’m bigger than you.” His large
hands slid over her taut stomach and pulled her back against him. “To know how
helpless you are to escape me.” He breathed against her ear, his tongue flicked out to
test the lobe, and she shivered against him. “I also love how easy you are. So easily
aroused, to bring to orgasm. I bet you really need to pee now.”
The steady drum of her bladder came knocking. She gritted her teeth, dragged from
her haze. “Asshole,” she muttered.
He slapped her ass. “You are in no position to argue with me right now. That will cost
you another five minutes of holding it.”
She whimpered and tried to kick him, but he had already moved out of the way.
“I’ll tell you what. You promise me no more bitchy comments, and I’ll take the gag
off.”
She paused for a moment before she nodded. The worst that could happen was that
the gag would be replaced, right?
He stood in front of her, but reached behind her to untie the gag. He dropped the
white cloth to the floor. “I’ve dreamed of making you wear that gag. You’re a smart ass
when you’re PMSing. I could only imagine how you’d act being kidnapped without
explanation.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she opened her mouth to protest. That mocking smirk on his
lips, the raised brow, and his arms now folded across his chest, all just dared her to test
him. Prove him right. She clamped her mouth shut.
“Attitude counts double. You might keep that in mind for future reference. You still
have three minutes.”
She willed herself to breathe through the throbbing of her bladder. The thought of a
possible bladder infection as a result of this crossed her mind, and she groaned. “Why
don’t you just tell me why I’m here? I thought you meant to kill me, but I don’t see any
torture devices.”
He laughed and kissed the tip of her nose. Kaitlyn scrunched her face. “I know how
much you hate it when I do that, but I like it. To answer your question, no, I’m not going
to kill you. This is for you and, evidently, I don’t play a very big role in it except as
tormentor. So, we’ll be improvising a little. And no, I’m not going to tell you anything.
You have to guess.”
“Can you give me a clue?”
“Yes.”

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She waited. He said nothing. Her bladder began to pound in earnest. She crossed her
legs back and forth. Trying to think past her need to pee became more difficult by the
second—her hands were beginning to tingle and the cuffs were becoming painful. “Why
couldn’t you have chosen padded handcuffs, or something?”
“Because that wouldn’t make you think. Besides, these are more real.” He stepped
around her, back to the bed again.
“I need to pee.”
“One more minute.”
“I need to pee now.”
“Gag?”
She shut her mouth. Guessing was not easy for her. “You keep saying I wanted this. I
don’t remember ever telling you that.”
“You’re right. You didn’t. Hence the reason for my disappointment.” He pulled a
coffee can from the bag, and walked over to her.
Her eyes widened. She tried to move backwards. “I am not peeing in that can.”
He cocked his head to one side. “That’s up to you. You can pee on yourself, but I’m
not going to clean up the floor.”
“Ewww.”
“Now, spread ‘em.”
She spread her legs just far enough so that he could press the can between her
thighs, under her pussy. “Can I have a little privacy?”
“You don’t want privacy. So, no.”
She turned her head and scratched her chin against her shoulder, closed her eyes
and hid her face. Whether she wanted to or not, urinating without assistance or
permission was not an option, so she proceeded to drain her full bladder. To her
amazement, her nipples pricked beneath his scrutiny. She finished and he removed the
can, never saying a word.
She snapped her eyes shut when she saw him come back to her and kneel at her feet.
He used a wet wipe, between her legs, to clean her up. He kissed the top of her shaved
mound. “You will have to excuse me if I make any mistakes in this fantasy. It might not
be very dominant to kneel at my girlfriend’s feet; however, I find the sight of you like
this to be very beautiful.”
She wanted to know what he meant by that, so she opened her eyes. He still knelt at
her feet. His dark head bent back to show the love and affection in his dark brown eyes.
There wasn’t the smart-ass smile from before. Instead, it was a smile of adoration. It
made her nervous, her heart fluttered strangely in her chest. In three months the two of
them had never said I love you. The two of them here together, the way he looked up at
her, made her think of how sweet he was every other day of the week. She needed to tell
him how she felt.

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 Little Book of Fantasies

Chapter Three
The moment ended swiftly and he stood once again. “Would you like to guess, or
would you like me to just embarrass you, here and now.”
Did he just want to humiliate her? “I just don’t know. I wish I did, none of this makes
sense. I’ve never said this is what I wanted, or needed, at any time that we’ve been
together.”
He looked disappointed again. “It’s ok if you don’t want to play. I’ll tell you why
you’re here.”
With her eyes, she followed his confident steps back to the bed, where he held up a
plain, leather-bound book. He opened it and read aloud. “I’ve had this fantasy for a long
time that I don’t dare tell anyone. Either from fear they will run, or fear they might try it.
I’ve always had this strange fantasy of being kidnapped. Really kidnapped. Preferably by
someone I don’t know very well. But, someone who had the right amount of control to
keep pushing until I could enjoy it. I want to be cuffed from a ceiling in real iron
handcuffs so that way I can feel the bite of the sharp edge into my wrists. There needs to
be a bed in the room, so my captor can lay me down and make love to me, after teasing
me with all sorts of sensual devices.
“This all started because of a dream I had many years ago. This dream was of me
being kidnapped and taken to an old, run down train station. It wouldn’t matter if I
screamed or tried to run away; no one would hear me, and no one could help. I was at
the kidnapper’s mercy for days on end. It seemed like weeks when it was probably only
one. He used me and brought me pleasure, day in and day out. He fed me, washed me
and, to my chagrin, made me pee in a can. I could keep nothing from him. I was his
captive. As his captive, secrets were not allowed.
“The dream was fascinating. It stayed with me for many years. I’ve dated many men,
but none that I felt could hold a candle to this sort of fantasy. Steven, on the other hand,
seems like the perfect guy to see this through. He is more strong willed than I. He loves
to try new things, and he fascinates me even more at every turn. I find I truly want to do
things for him, cook for him, clean for him, whatever it is that would make him happy.
Considering what I do for a living, this sounds strange. I’m constantly in control, yet
when I’m with him, I want to lose all that control.” He took a deep breath and
continued.
Her mortification grew with each word. She’d denied knowing what was happening,
refused to remember those words she’d written in her diary and her culpability of this
whole experience. Now they haunted her.
“I think I should stop now. I’m getting turned on just writing this.”
Shameful tears coursed down Kaitlyn’s hot cheeks. She turned her head away from
the mirror, too horrified to look at herself. “I can’t believe you read my diary.”
“You should believe that I would read your diary. As you even said, I’m more strong
willed than you. I knew you were keeping this from me. Why didn’t you tell me about it?
We could have done this easily.” His voice sounded soothing. But, there was nothing
soothing in knowing that her deepest, darkest secrets had just been laid out in front of
her.
“Get me down from here. I don’t want to talk to you right now.”
“Wrong answer, Kaitlyn. May I remind you once again, that you aren’t in any
position to argue with me?” He walked up to her, and thrust his hand between her legs.

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To add to her shame, she had grown wet with the idea of him knowing everything about
her. Seeking out his answers, even when she would not give them to him.
She clamped her legs shut. “Stop it. I said I don’t want to talk. That also means I
don’t want you to touch me.”
He licked the tips of two of his fingers. “Too bad. This says otherwise. There is
nothing wrong with what you wrote. We haven’t been together long, this would have
made the perfect scenario for the two of us.” She didn’t say anything so he continued. “I
guess it wouldn’t have been much of a fantasy had I dragged you here with your
knowledge, would it?” Still she said nothing. “So, does the man in your fantasy tie you
up everyday, or is there something different he does?”
Bile rose in her throat, no answer would come out. Complete humiliation finally set
in. Her arousal only made it worse. Her tears wouldn’t stop, her frustration built. “Just
get me the fuck down from here, and leave me the fuck alone,” she demanded.
He turned on his heel, opened the rail car door, and stepped out into the night,
leaving her completely alone and still tied up.

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Chapter Four
“ARGH!” She kicked her legs in frustration, and pulled at her wrists until her arms
ached.
“Bastard!” She screamed at the closed door. She wished she couldn’t see her
reflection in the mirror. Tears burned her eyes. She had no idea if he would come back
tonight, or not. What if he left her here for the night and went home? “Who the fuck
leaves someone hanging?”
She kicked again. “Get me down from here!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.
“Of course no one is going to hear me screaming. Wasn’t it my fantasy to be tied up in a
place where I couldn’t get out?” Tears of pain, and anger, coursed down her cheeks.
“Stupid diary. Stupid fantasies. Stupid men who can read.”
A little voice in her head rang out as her voice of reason. He did everything you told
him to do.
“Yeah, but he didn’t have to do it so well.”
You never would have bought it if he had discussed it with you first. That’s your
problem, Kate. You lose men constantly over things they should have known, but never
would have, if they hadn’t looked for the information themselves. He’s only doing what
you wanted him to do.
“He still shouldn’t have read my diary. That is none of his business.” Her argument
started to sound lame even to her own ears. It’s not like she kept the diary hidden. It sat
on the nightstand, pen in place where she left off. Why? Because she was always too lazy
to put it away.
Secretly, she had wanted him to find it. If he found it that meant he’d probably read
it. Then he might do it. At least he wasn’t like her other, wimpy boyfriends, who would
have run at the mere thought of being asked to give instruction. Or worse, if she’d tell
them what she wanted, they refused to do it because it wasn’t their idea.
No, Steven was different. He could handle it. He could take as much as he gave. The
day they started dating, he had said to her, “Always be honest. I hate liars.”
She had been honest, except for this. She couldn’t tell him, but couldn’t let go of her
little fantasies. In her fantasies, she had full control. There were no surprises. It just
never occurred to her that her fantasies could ever be reality.
She looked in the mirror and saw her cheeks red from crying, but her vision blurred
as exhaustion began to creep in. Her arms and shoulders ached, and now even her wrists
hurt. Her rib cage strained with each breath, and she had to pee again. No privacy for a
full weekend. No way out. The second he had told her he wouldn’t hurt her it changed
everything. In the mirror she could see that her vulva was still puffy–it was obvious that,
although her arousal had somewhat faded, she still wanted this. Needed him. “It would
be like me to fall in love with a man who won’t take no for an answer.”

***

Steven kicked at a rock as he stormed around the abandoned train station. It wasn’t
truly abandoned. He waved to the train station manager. He was a kinky old fellow
himself, so when Steven had asked about the possibility of using the train yard, the man
just laughed and handed over the keys.

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Something had broken him and that something was Kaitlyn’s submission. He’d
worked so hard over the years to keep his dominant nature a secret. He’d done
everything within his grasp to see that she wouldn’t have to go through the same
humiliation, and awkward friendships, that so many others had. Yet Kaitlyn—innocent
little Kaitlyn—had written countless tales in her journal. All of them giving her
submission to her partner.
He’d seen it in her from the moment they met. The way she didn’t hold eye contact
for very long. The way she did as he asked without question or grumbling. He loved
testing the waters a little in bed, and with little things outside the bedroom. “Honey,
could you get me a glass of water?” or “I bet you could serve up a really great dinner.”
Sneaky yes, but it was all he could have. Now, the more he got to know his Kaitlyn,
the more he wanted to control her, dominate her, show her everything in her little book
of fantasies, and explain the details. He shoved his fingers through his hair. This was a
bad idea. The whole weekend was a bad idea. Too close. He was just too close to sitting
her down and asking her to wear his collar.
He would just go back in there and tell her flat out he couldn’t do this. Take her
down from her bondage and send her back home. She deserved that much. She didn’t
deserve his hand reddening her ass, or his commands on how to behave, react, what to
say, and how to say it. His groin tightened at the thought of her on her knees in front of
him, awaiting his demands. He turned around mid-stride and stalked back to the train
car.

***

Kaitlyn had been silent for a few minutes. Talking to herself had solved nothing.
Everything depended on him. When Steven returned, she would apologize and be the
woman she wanted to be for this night. A woman at his full beck and call.
The rattle of the sidecar door grated as someone pulled it to the side. Steven’s dark
hair was mussed from running his fingers through it. The dark circles under his eyes
told her it the lateness of the hour. He was usually in bed by eleven; it had to be well
after by now. His booted foot stepped up onto the wooden floor. His eyes never met
hers.
“I have to pee.”
He sighed. His shoulders slumped. “Here, let me get you down so I can take you
home. I understand this is a bit much for you, and I should have thought about that
first. I apologize.”
As he reached above her head to grasp the cuffs, she slid her foot up the inside of his
thigh. “Please don’t.”
He lowered his head and met her gaze. The pain was clear in his dark gaze. It took
her breath away. He seemed to be searching for something. Honesty? “You don’t need to
do this.”
Emotion, guilt, and remorse rode heavily upon her, hampering her speech. “It is you
who didn’t have to do this. You are offering me a chance of a lifetime, and I’m being a
total bitch over something that really isn’t that big of a deal. Just…when I heard my own
words tonight it scared me. I felt as though you were prying, but how else could you
have pulled this off without doing just that. No, I should be thanking you and I
want…no, I need, you to continue.”

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She blinked away tears as they threatened to fall again. Instead of replying, he
grabbed her face between his large palms and brought his head down for a fierce kiss.
He inhaled sharply and pushed his tongue past her lips. She allowed the invasion,
weakening to his demands. His tongue pushed her own back in her mouth. He bit at her
bottom lip, kissed the tip of her nose, her closed eye lids, which only made them heavier
with desire.
“If you don’t do something with me soon, I might just explode here and now.”
He kissed her cheek, his palms moved down the side of her face to her neck, where
he thumbed the pounding pulse ever so softly. “Does that mean you have to pee? Or
cum?”
She giggled, the last of the tension ebbing away. “Both.”
He moaned against her lips, their eyes opened at the same time. “I like it when you
need to pee and cum at the same time. We’ll work on that later though. Your arms have
to be hurting by now. We’ll practice more tomorrow. For now, I want to take you to
bed.”
She stared up at him, dazed. “Are you sure? I can handle a little more.”
He laughed lightly. A key in one hand, he wrapped the other around her wrist and
undid the cuffs. Her arms fell to her sides, weak and tingling. Her legs trembled with the
effort to hold her body upright. She leaned against him for support. The precious man
that he was, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. “You’re still my
captive, and I’m still going to have my way with you. Some things you won’t like, and
some things you will. That’s the only promise you get from me.”
She grinned against his chest. “Oh please don’t, sir,” she said, feigning as much
innocence as she could muster.

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Chapter Five
The musty smell in the old train car overwhelmed her. She coughed and pulled the
sheet closer to her body. With her nose against his chest, she inhaled his cologne. The
scent washed over her, creating a warmth deep inside her. She curled closer to him to
absorb his heat into her chilled body.
He breathed deeply, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Remember I said
there would be things you wouldn’t enjoy?” His deep, sleepy voice kept her from going
back to sleep.
“Mm hmm,” she murmured.
“Get up—we’re going to hang you back up again.”
Her shoulders dropped. “I know it’s no where near sunrise yet.”
“Your point?”
“Nothing,” she muttered, and rolled over to get out of bed. She grabbed the empty
can and took care of the only business she wanted to take care of at that time of night.
She waited patiently, shivering in the damp car. He flipped on the light and cleaned her.
A task she could no longer perform on her own. It felt strange, but comforting in a weird
sort of way.
“At least, you’ve stopped fighting me on something.” He grinned and took her hand
to walk her over to the middle of the room.
Her arms, although still sore, had healed considerably through the night. She said
nothing but allowed these ministrations to be performed. Kaitlyn yawned and wished
she had it in her to shoot daggers at him with her eyes. Her wrists secured, he gently
tugged at her nipples. She concentrated on nothing more than him.
“I’m really proud of how well you’re doing so far. Haven’t asked me any questions, or
belittled our weekend once.”
She smiled. “There is nothing to complain about. After all, if I were to look at the
situation, I did ask for this.”
“Now you’re getting it.” He tapped the end of her nose with his finger.
What was the deal with her nose? She bit back the laugh that threatened to bubble
over.
His fingers danced across her abdomen. Ripples of pleasure coursed through her. He
cupped her breasts, then pulled them gently away from her chest. Mesmerized, she
watched as he lowered his head and flicked his tongue across each nipple.
The pleasure he created in pulling her breast away from her body had her pussy
swelling in seconds. His teeth nipped over the hardened bud of her nipple. His tongue
continued its onslaught; it wrapped around each areola, laving circles around each one.
He squeezed her breasts and worked her nipples. Her head fell back between her
shoulders. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she could no longer suppress a whimper.
“Do not cum until I give you permission.”
She panted her answer, unable to form a response. She shivered, trying to block the
sensations. The hot, wet tip of his tongue glided over her neck. Her pulse jumped and
sent electric currents through her body. He dropped her breasts and pulled her in close
to his half-dressed body. Her thighs rubbed against the soft twill of his slacks; his chest
hairs tickled her breasts.
She groaned, helpless to relieve the tension building in her body. The bulge in his
pants pressed between her legs, and his teeth nipped at her neck. Again, he kissed his

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way farther up the side of her neck, swirling the tip of his tongue in her ear, nibbling her
ear lobe. She squirmed against him, panted, and whimpered, “I can’t take much more.”
His low, throaty laugh made her shiver. “Oh, I think you can handle much more.
You’re just being bratty.”
Her head swam when his fingers slid down her back. Something cold and hard
pressed against her back entrance. She stiffened against him, her eyes found his. He
grinned down at her. That lazy grin made her shiver in pleasure.
“What are you doing?”
“A little toy I just bought.” He dipped his little “toy” down, slid it into her wet
channel. She gasped when he hit the right spot, then he removed the object to press
against her anus once again. This time she refused to tighten knowing that, no matter
what, it was going in.
“Just relax baby. I’m not going to play with it, just leave it inside you while I make
you cum.”
That word again. She groaned. Her body throbbed with need. Her heart rate was so
high she thought it would leap from her chest. She pressed her buttocks back, as if
reaching for the rounded head. “Then please, get it over with.”
He leaned forward and pressed her hips back against his erection. “How would you
feel to have two men taking you at once. One from behind, one in front, filling both your
holes.”
Her knees buckled, and she groaned. Shaking from the inside out, she could barely
speak. “Yes.” Like a cat mewing, she begged. “Please.”
Still he rubbed the hard end against her hole, teasing her, melting her, testing her.
“Don’t want me to be gentle, do you?”
She shook her head violently. He thrust the object deep inside her ass. Her muscles
reacted, spasmed around the smooth, phallic toy. The pain engrained itself into her
head, and she shuddered, desperately holding onto the orgasm she wasn’t allowed to
have. “Oh, God, Steven. Please…please…I need to come.”
Shamelessly she tried to lift her legs, press her sex against him. Filling her ass with
the toy only made her beg more. His fingers found her tight, wet entrance and slid
inside. He curled his fingers upwards, meeting her most sensitive core.
“Come,”he breathed against her lips.
His fist held tightly to her hair, his lips crushed hers with unrestrained force, pushing
his tongue past her teeth. She could only whimper and follow his command. She
screamed in his mouth unable to return the kiss as he tongue-fucked her mouth.
When the shudders of satisfaction finally passed, she slowly brought her legs from
around his body to allow them to dangle below her. She didn’t even have the energy to
form a well-balanced pose. Her head rested against her arm. Her juices ran down the
inside of her thighs. “Oh my God, Steven. Where did you learn how to do that?” she
asked, trying to catch her breath.
He laughed and let go of her enough to run his hands down her back and over her rib
cage. “You make it easy to please you, sweetheart.” His voice deepened, thick with
passion.
She knew she should offer him something but couldn’t muster the energy to move.
Even his tickling didn’t seem to elicit the same laughter, her muscles clenched and
released as he stroked her.
“You’re so cute. It’s like petting a cat.” He dug his nails in, stroked down her back.

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Just as he said, she followed his movements and sighed. “Steven.” She breathed his
name. Her ass clamped down on the toy. Her pulse raced, sweat beaded her brow, her
feelings of trepidation gone. Her frustration at being woken up, to play in the middle of
the night, continued to fade. More than awake now, she sank into his control over her
body. He moved around to her back and grated his nails over her buttocks. The heat of
his scratches cooled, she spread her legs wishing to feel his fingers deep inside her
aching core once more.
“I never knew you wanted two cocks inside you, Kaitlyn. That’s very interesting to
know.”
She tensed. “Steven, I don’t. I don’t really want two real cocks inside me.”
He breathed against her ear. “So only me and a toy?”
She swallowed hard and nodded. His fingertips cascaded over her skin. His free hand
was everywhere. Over her breasts, down her back, around her ribs, and over her thighs.
She trembled all over, begged for more with her whimpers.
“So easy to please. So responsive.” He whispered in her ear. “This is what attracted
me to you.” He breathed. His nails glided around to her front, and gently twisted her
nipples. She came upright, instantly. Her muscles tensed beneath his ministrations.
“Look at yourself.” He commanded.
Slowly, she opened her eyes and watched his long fingers manipulate her nipples.
One hand slid upwards to her neck, the other between her spread thighs to play with her
wet clit. As it was slipping and sliding over her clit, she couldn’t help but gyrate against
his hand. Her eyes, only half open to follow his movements, watched her own body react
with abandon.
“When I first met you, I saw the excitement in your eyes. You enjoy new
relationships. You love to get to know a man inside and out. Remember when I sat next
to you on the bench in the park?”
She nodded and blew out a long breath trying to control her orgasm. His hand
around her neck applied a small amount of pressure. Her sex tightened.
“Your nipples were hard as rocks when I sat next to you and asked your name. You
practically begged me to take you right then and there. But you wouldn’t do that would
you? Good little Kaitlyn made me wait and wait.” His fingers moved faster against her
clit, slipped inside her pussy. She groaned and pushed down on him to no avail. “You’re
soaking my hand,” he whispered again. “When I finally coaxed you into bed, it turned
out to be the hottest sex of my life. I’d never had such a responsive partner. So willing
and eager to play.”
She whimpered. “Please, Steven.”
“Please what?”
“Please let me come,” she begged, with a shaky cry.
Only one of his fingers moved slowly, in and out of her pussy, but it was enough to
drive her mad. She needed to be filled, stretched, the way it was every time they made
love.
“Not until you admit to me that you want to be my good, little slut.”
She cried out, not wanting to admit anything of the kind about herself. She panted
and squirmed against his hand.
“Look at yourself, Kaitlyn. Look how much you beg with your body, not just that
sweet, little mouth.” He frigged her clit again, and she jumped trying to break away from
him.

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Frantic to get away, she pressed her buttocks against him, but only met a rigidness
that had her soaking his fingers even more. The squishing of her juices against his
fingers made the moment even more humiliating.
“Admit it, Kaitlyn, you strive to be a good girl, but deep inside you’re nothing more
than an eager, little slut needing to play. Needing a man to take control.”
Her eyes closed. “Please, Steven, I need to come. Please don’t make me say it.”
“Open your eyes, sweetheart. Tell me.”
His fingers stopped their torture. Needing to come more than she needed her
dignity, she opened her eyes and met his determined expression. The look on his face
was her undoing. Her pussy sucked his finger. “Steven, I want to be your good, little slut.
Please let me come.”
“Come.”
She cried out, her thighs spread as wide as she could force them. Her body
shuddered and shook uncontrollably. Her orgasm had never felt like this before, so
freeing, so utterly amazing. His hand gripped her neck tighter and thrust deeper into
her, this time not removing his finger as he played with the bundle of nerves. Her legs
sought him out, straining to wrap around something, anything. And then the most
unexpected response came from her. She cried. All the stress, secrets, and the lies she
told to keep her secrets came flowing from her in a sob.
His arms wrapped tightly about her waist and pulled her close in to his body. “You
were perfect, baby, just perfect.” He whispered against her neck where he kissed her
repeatedly. “You’ve shown me more than I could have ever thought to have from you.
Beautiful, beautiful.” He stepped in front of her and gathered her against his chest not
releasing her bondage. She rested her head against his shoulder until the emotions
passed.
“I can’t believe I just did that,” she finally said, heaving a heavy sigh.
He comforted her by petting her head softly with his hand. “It’s okay, baby. That
happens from time to time when a person finally lets go.”
Tenderly, he undid her restraints and carried her back to the bed. She fell into a deep
sleep, almost immediately.

***

Kaitlyn tried to bring her arms to her sides but, instantly, came up short. She came
fully awake with a start and stared around the darkened room. Nothing. Steven wasn’t
even around. She remained still, listening for any sound of movement or breathing. It
wasn’t long before she became acutely aware of a weight at the end of the bed. The
mattress dipped just enough to move her leg. Before she could respond, his hard wet
tongue delved between her ass cheeks. The tip of his tongue worked around her tight
hole, driving downward every few strokes to penetrate her pussy.
She sighed. She lay her forehead back down on the bed and wiggled her wrists to test
her restraints. Much more comfortable than the chains. “I should really rethink my
fantasies.” She thought aloud.
She could hear his slow throaty laugh from behind her. Then his tongue dipped
down further to taste her. “This is much more comfortable, huh?”
She nodded, then realized he couldn’t see her. “Yes, it is. And your tongue feels
amazing.”

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She gasped when he swirled his tongue around her pussy and she pressed her
buttocks towards his face. Something soft and delicious roamed over her back, relaxing
her downward again. He rubbed the object over her back in big slow circles, and down
her buttocks; all the while his tongue played havoc with her dripping pussy.
“It’s going to be my turn to take you this morning, finally my turn to come,” he said
against her mound.
She squirmed against his hot mouth, wishing he’d just be quiet and work. An
unbidden image of him standing at the head of the bed, pressing his cock between her
lips, had her moaning for more. His other hand slapped her ass hard enough to make
her cry out, the soft fur glove that covered his hand soothed away the sting.
His teeth nipped at the back of her thighs. The bed dipped when he sat up. His firm
hands spread her cheeks. Cool air caressed her exposed anus. One finger slid down
between her cleft and circled her tight hole. She squeaked and tried to move away.
He slapped her ass again. “Don’t move. Don’t ask questions. Just trust me.”
She calmed, hoping he wasn’t going to put anything in her ass. He lowered himself
fully over her body, gave her a peck kiss to the corner of her mouth, and retreated. In his
place, he set something soft and silky against her cheek. The heavy scent of rose filled
her senses. The petals tickled, but she focused on the perfumed smell.
The velvet head of his cock pressed against the entrance to her ass. She forgot about
not wanting him inside of her and strained to meet him as he slid fully into her,
stretching her as far as possible. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head. Her moan of
pleasure filled the train car.
“You’re about to get the spanking of your life,” he said against her ear. As he pushed
himself upright, he slapped her backside even harder. Two pains at the same time, both
burning, both forcing her to go deeper inside herself to accept what he offered. His hand
smacked her ass to the same rhythm of his strokes. Her face buried in the pillow, to
lessen her screams, as he fucked her hard and fast. She arched her burning ass towards
him, begging for the pain.
He panted above her, muttering things she couldn’t understand. The fur glove
stroked over the welts, cooling her. She couldn’t keep up now as he started on the other
cheek. The scent of the rose distracted her; he knew it was her favorite. She groaned in
pleasure, lost her ability to meet his thrusts. Her hips stopped moving, her muscles
tensed as she tried to hold back her orgasm. He removed the rose from her face, and a
thick rubber object was placed against her lips, he pressed it past her teeth without
saying a word. She latched onto it and sucked. She groaned, needing to come, but not
without permission.
The sting turned into a slow burn inside of her. Sucking on the rubber dildo left a
terrible taste in her mouth and did nothing to cool her ardor. Somehow the thought of
sucking cock, while being drilled from behind, was more than she could take.
He must have registered her thoughts, because his guttural command of “come” sent
her spiraling over the edge. He dropped down onto her, his chest flush with her back,
their hips meeting in time. Their sweat mingled as he joined her in a final orgasm. He
clung to her wrists; his feet slid against the bed as he tried to push himself deeper inside
of her. All she could do was lay there and shudder beneath him. Helpless to pull him
deeper inside her. Helpless to do more than sigh her satisfaction and drift back into
sleep.

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***

Steven stared down at the woman in his arms. She nuzzled her cheek against his
chest, her yawn interrupting his thought. He’d turned the three-way lamp on low, so
that when she awoke, she could have her senses back. Fifteen very long years of interest
in the lifestyle, and he was finally getting his feet wet.
She ran her hand down his chest. “I’m hungry.”
He laughed, sitting up to retrieve some snacks from the bag and two bottles of
lukewarm water. “Yeah, me too.”
When he handed her a package of dried fruit and crackers, he couldn’t take his eyes
off her. She gave him a nervous smile and averted her gaze to concentrate on opening
the packages. He felt lame. Like a schoolboy losing his virginity. Her dark brown hair
was matted against the side of her head, her cheek red from sleeping so hard on one
side. Her thick lashes outlined sleepy blue eyes. In short, she took his breath away. And
she didn’t deserve to be with a man like him.
“How is your backside?”
She blushed and ducked her head. “If I told you it felt great, would that sound odd?”
He reached out and caressed her cheek. “Not in the least, sweetheart.”
She took a few bites, a thoughtful expression on her face. He reached down to grab a
few snacks for himself. When the words finally came out of her mouth, he couldn’t help
but feel even more connected.
“This whole weekend has been strange. But, not in the sense you think it might be. It
just feels right. I’ve never thought of myself as a person who would enjoy these sorts of
things, but it’s like I’ve been missing something my whole life.”
He gave her a gentle smile. “It’s always nice to find what you’ve been missing.”
She set down her snacks. “Do you ever feel that way?”
“I have everything I need right here.” He patted her knee and leaned forward to give
her a quick kiss on the lips. “Ready for sleep? Or round two?”
“Definitely sleep.” She grinned.

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Chapter Six
“Come on sleepy head, it’s time for us to leave.” His voice made her limbs tremble
again. A cool hand stroked down her back.
She whined. “Do we have to?”
“Of course we do. We need to be out of here before the station manager’s shift is up.”
She rolled over and smiled in his direction. Once again, it was black as night in the
train car. “Are you sure you don’t want to tie me up and slap my pussy with that little
slapper again?”
He nuzzled her neck, and she wrapped her arms around him. “If I did that, we would
be here the rest of the day.”
She held more tightly to him when he would have retreated. “When you take me
home then?”
He kissed her forehead, and finally she released him with a sigh. “When I get you
home, I want you to sleep. You’ll need it.” His hand rested on her bare belly, his long
fingers spanning her waist. “You know I like a woman who’s greedy for sex.”
Slowly, she sat up, her heart still light despite having to leave. “Then you’re going to
like me a lot.” She laughed.
He left the bed. She heard his feet padding across the car floor. The flick of the light
on the lamp stole their solace. She stared sadly at the bag of toys and tried to shake the
odd sensation of loneliness now seeped its way into her bones. She looked up and caught
him gazing off somewhere above her head. Even relaxed, his naked body resembled an
Adonis.
His staring did not cease. Kaitlyn stood from the bed and walked over to him. Did he
feel the same withdrawn feelings she did? Did he feel just as empty? Without saying a
word, she wrapped her arms around him and clung to him as though she’d seen a scary
movie. She trembled, even when his arms came around her. “Are you alright?”
He kissed the top of her head and cradled her closer to his warmth. Her heart ached.
Something was off.
“I’m fine, sweetheart. We just had an intense weekend is all. I think I need some
sleep and cool off time, as well.”
He didn’t let go of her though. If he had, it would have been her clue that something
wasn’t right. I could tell him I love him. When she looked up, she disentangled her arms.
He was smiling down at her with such adoration she didn’t want to add anything else to
their intense weekend.
They dressed in relative silence. Kaitlyn assisted Steven in taking down the bed and
packing it in the bed his truck. She had never noticed that it was right next to the train
car. “You said your car was in the shop.”
He winked and opened her door. She laughed and climbed into the cab. During the
ride, they both fell silent. She stole glances his way, but they revealed nothing of how he
felt. He knew she’d enjoyed herself this weekend, knew she didn’t have to tell him so.
Her fingers twisted in her lap. He held her clasped hands in one of his, draining away
her worries with his quiet strength.
“I’m a little confused, Steven.”
His gaze, briefly, left the long strip of highway to look at her. “Why is that?”
“Is there something wrong with people who enjoy this? I mean, it’s a full kidnapping
that I fantasized about.”

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One corner of his lip lifted. “If there is something wrong with you, then there is
something wrong with me. And we’ll be wrong together.”
They laughed. It was cheesy, but he was right. They’d figure it out together.

***

Steven watched Kaitlyn cross the threshold of her front door before slowly pulling
away from her home. Their houses were only ten minutes apart, which made him glad.
Any longer, and he would have too much time to think.
He needed downtime; he needed space. He felt edgy, lonely, and frustrated. He
couldn’t shake it. His fingers gripped the wheel when he turned out onto the main road
and pressed the gas, watching the speedometer slowly move up toward sixty. Then he let
up again. He didn’t want to lose his guest bed.
He just couldn’t hurt her. As much as he wanted to torture her, control her, it
wouldn’t do. She had no idea what she was getting into. And who was he to initiate her?
Fifteen very long years, waiting to find that woman who would understand his needs,
and he didn’t have the courage to take it. All the lonely nights, misguided girlfriends,
somehow seemed worth finding Kaitlyn. She made the ones who thought it was fun and
games, and those that thought it was sick, seem like nothing in comparison. Kaitlyn was
much too open to keep her lifestyle a secret. He knew all too well how difficult it could
be to hide your true self from friends and family.
To make matters worse, over the short time they had been together, it had become
increasingly difficult not to dominate her. Every fiber in his body screamed for him to
take control. He knew, from his limited contact at clubs and from his friends in the
lifestyle, that this would not happen unless the other person was also willing.
Submission was written all over her. From the way she quietly stood during a meal to fill
his drink to the way she allowed him to control her in the bedroom.
There were days she refused to meet his gaze, sought out his needs and desires,
would seem content to just curl up in his arms. Nights she had ended engagements with
friends to spend the evening with him. The breathless way she answered the phone, as
though she’d run for it. She wanted to please him.
Then, there were those days that her headstrong nature would rear its head, and he
couldn’t even so much as step left without permission. She could meet him word for
word, curse him to hell and back again. Still, there could be no telling what her response
may be. Without talking to her, he’d never know. He couldn’t take being rejected. Not
again. Not from the woman he loved and wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
“I just need a few days to recoup. That’s all. Just a few days.”

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CHAPTER SEVEN
He hadn’t called in three days. The high Kaitlyn had been on slowly registered as the
worst low ever. She felt cold at night, weepy during the day. The previous day at work,
she had cried at her desk. The overwhelming sense of abandonment kept her on shaky
ground. His not calling made it worse. Kaitlyn wondered if the barrage of emotions had
anything to do with the intense level of play she’d just experienced. She wrapped her
sweater more tightly around her body and hunkered lower into her desk, staring at the
numbers in front of her.
Her gaze traveled to the bent red rose drying on her desk. A rose she would keep
forever. One that held memories of everything she never thought she’d experience again.
A knock sounded near her open door. She looked up. Janine, a woman who worked
two offices down stood there with worry written clearly on her face. “How’s it goin’,
hon?”
Kaitlyn shook her head, and tears formed in her eyes. Her friend shut the door and
crossed the room. Bending low, she gathered Kaitlyn to her in a bear hug.
“Janine, I don’t know what’s going on.”
“What did he do? Tell me about it.”
Kaitlyn pulled away and wiped at her eyes. She felt her experience might be too
difficult for others to accept, so she kept her answer short. “He hasn’t called in three
days. We had an amazing weekend, and then he just disappeared. No phone call, no
note, and no flowers. Nothing.” She sobbed, buried her face in her hands.
“Oh, Kaitlyn, I’ve never seen you so worked up about a man before.”
“I’ve never been dumped before.”
Janine laughed and, when Kaitlyn shot her an angry scowl, she tried to apologize.
“Oh sweetie, I don’t think you’ve been dumped. What happened this weekend? Maybe I
can help.”
Kaitlyn’s face heated all the way to the roots of her hair. “I don’t think I could tell you
about it. You would think I’m weird.”
Janine snorted. “With everything I’ve been through in my life, I doubt you could
surprise me.”
Kaitlyn sighed and gave Janine a sidelong glance. She couldn’t hold eye contact for
this conversation. She told the story slowly, leaving out very few details.
Janine listened intently, never said a word, until Kaitlyn finished. “You two certainly
had a very intense weekend”
“Wouldn’t it mean he’d want to talk to me? I always thought the more I allowed in a
relationship, the more the man would want me. I’ve never opened up like this before to
anyone.”
“Maybe it isn’t you he’s scared of. Maybe he’s scared of himself. What you’ve told me
about Steven suggests he isn’t the sort to just walk out on a woman without an
explanation. Maybe he just needs some time. Maybe he has no idea how he’s to top this,
and freaked out.”
Both of them laughed, and it eased Kaitlyn’s tension, slightly. “I think I’ll call him
again.”
Janine patted Kaitlyn’s knee. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off and go see
him instead. Sounds like you two need to sit down to a heart-to-heart.”

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Kaitlyn nodded. The client she was setting up the advertising campaign for could
wait, there were much more important matters to take care of.

***

Nervously, Kaitlyn knocked on Steven’s door. His job as a loan processor allowed
him to work from home. A perk she didn’t have. His modest, suburban home engulfed
her in loneliness, but she smiled remembering the times she’d played housewife.
Just as she was about to knock again, the door swung open. A bleary eyed man she
barely recognized, stood at the door with a cotton robe wrapped loosely around his
body.
“Kaitlyn.” He breathed her name.
A need to be the assertive one came over her, and she pushed past him into the
house. His normally immaculate space lay completely disheveled. Empty beer cans,
plates, cups, even cigarette butts lay in ashtrays. The place smelled like a bar. Instantly,
her hand came up under her nose as she surveyed the damage.
“Steven, what is going on here? Did you have a party last night?”
He stepped around her and picked up some of the mess that surrounded them. “Not
exactly. Just me on a weekday.”
She raised a brow and set her hands on her hips. Unable to handle the stench, she
opted for staying busy and opened a few windows instead. “Yeah right. As anal as you
are about tidiness, I don’t believe a word of it. Try again.”
“Kate, there are some things you don’t know about me. I don’t want to talk about
them.”
Kaitlyn shook her head. “Not going to work, Steven. You’ve left me hanging for three
days now. I’ve been an emotional wreck over things I don’t understand. It would have
been nice to have you around to help me through it. Something.” Tears burned her eyes
again, and she fought them back. “Now tell me, what the hell is going on.”
“Kaitlyn, it isn’t that easy. This weekend. What we did…” His voice trailed off.
“Did I scare you? Did you not enjoy it? Am I not the type of girl you take home to see
Mom, anymore?”
“You know my parents are dead. There isn’t anyone for you to meet. No, you didn’t
scare me, and I think it’s quite obvious I enjoyed it.”
“Then what is it, damn it?” Her voice rose with each syllable. “I laid everything out
for you last weekend. Your not calling has done nothing but make things worse.”
“Kate, I’m sorry. I needed some space.”
Kaitlyn only glared at him.
“You have no idea what you’re getting into. You have no idea how much it turns me
on to tie you up. To see you begging me to make you come. How good it feels when you
serve me.”
Goosebumps rose on her arms. Her body felt sucked into his words, melting her
core. “You have no idea how good those things feel to me too,” she whispered. “So, you
left me hanging because it felt good?”
“Sort of.”
“You better start talking, pal, because I don’t have all day.”
“I lost my last girlfriend over this. She wanted to have a kinky night, but not the way
I wanted it. She left a few weeks later. Couldn’t even look me in the eye. She thought I

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was a domineering asshole, if I’m quoting her correctly.” His tone changed to smug, but
he brightened when he made eye contact with her again. “Kaitlyn, I want you with
everything that is in me right now. I’ve never met a woman like you. But the things I
want to do to you—to make you do—I’m just not sure you’re serious about this.”
“Why not? And what do you want to do to me?”
He reached for her then, cupped her cheeks in his damp palms. “I want to do things
like tie you up and torture you mercilessly. Make you beg to come, make you give up all
your control to me. I want that ass of yours not pink, but bright shining red from my
hand print. I want you walking around town with a butt plug. I want you to serve me day
in and day out. I want to be the one you look to for support, love, happiness, sadness. I
need to take care of you. Physically and emotionally.”
“I have a job,” she answered, breathless. Could she have put it any better?
He smiled a loving smile. A smile that said she just didn’t get it. “A job would not
hinder our home life. I work too. We have the same schedule. You would come home to
serve me. I can’t accept just a bedroom submissive. I want all of your submission when
you are in my presence. When you aren’t in my presence, you should be thinking of me.”
He dropped his hands from her cheeks, and she felt cold inside. “I can’t ask you to do
those things. You have a life, friends, and family. You have your freedom to go out as
you please. Many of those rights would be taken away. Given over to me.”
He must have seen her confused expression. “We’ll talk more in-depth about it
sometime. It’s hard for me to even imagine that I would actually get to live the life I’ve
always dreamed of. Yet, without that, I need some time to get my bearings straight. You
bring out a side of me I’ve kept very well hidden for most of my adult life.”
Everything he said was everything she felt herself. She loved to serve him, loved the
way he tortured her. “Stop pushing me away. Steven, I’ve never felt more right about
anything in my life either. Everything you talk about sounds utterly fascinating.
Wonderful. Freeing. Why can’t we be like that? How come it has to be that complicated?
And understand, I’m not even sure I know that I can do this. There is fear on both our
parts. I risk the chance of screwing all this up and losing you.”

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Chapter Eight
“I’m sorry it’s that complicated, Kaitlyn. Truly, once rules are established it becomes
the everyday. You couldn’t imagine yourself in any other position. It’s okay to be afraid.
I’m sorry I’m pushing you away. I’m just scared you’ll learn I’m a freak.”
She laughed. “Well, if you’re a freak, then so am I.”
He laughed with her, then sobered. “Most in this lifestyle have had tendencies their
whole life. Their fantasies speak of it at every turn. I’ve never met anyone with more
natural submissive tendencies than you. And I’ve met a lot of women. Most of them had
to be trained. You’d only need to learn to control that mouth of yours. When I read your
diary cover-to-cover, I saw a side of you that you had never shown before. Yet, for some
it’s just fun, it’s a little bedroom kink for them. I needed to be sure if there was more.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her little leather bound notebook. “Still can’t
give up my diary?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “I’ve enjoyed reading your entries.”
“I’m glad they’ve entertained someone. Some had been in there for so long, I was
sure the paper would yellow before I was able to experience any of it.”
He smiled at her answer and turned to pick up more of his mess. Frustrated, she
followed him.
“So you think I could be a natural, huh?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then why aren’t we doing this now instead of arguing about how much we like it?”
He turned to her, his expression so serious she stood rooted to the spot. “Tell me,
Kaitlyn, exactly how it feels to know that you would be a true submissive. Not just some
kinky sex toy.”
Her hands shook as she fought for something to say. He was testing her loyalty to
their relationship, wondering how committed she would be to giving herself over to him.
To finally give to him everything she had held back from every boyfriend she’d ever had.
She rambled the words as quickly as possible. “I feel like I would finally be coming
home. Everything you’ve said sounds so wonderful. I’ve had boyfriends break up with
me for being too dependent. For wanting and needing to do things for them that they
could do for themselves. I’ve had others take advantage of me and I’ve had to leave. I’ve
never known anyone in my life that could appreciate what I have to offer, and think of it
as a good thing. My fantasies have always been that. I’ve been too scared and ashamed
to share them with anyone. So to finally have someone that I could open myself up to
completely…it’s a huge burden off of my shoulders. And if you rejected me now, it would
break my heart.”
He grabbed hold of her. His hand gripped the back of her head. Pupils dilated, his
head descended, his hard lips making contact with her soft mouth. She moaned and
leaned into him. Her heart skittered in he chest as she grabbed for his shirt to pull him
closer. Not nearly enough, she wrapped her arms around his back. Her tongue darted
into his mouth to meet his thrusts. Everything around them stopped except for his
breathing and the movement of his mouth on hers.
With a groan, he pulled back.
Dazed, Kaitlyn just stared up at him. “What was that for?”
“For being so perfect,” he answered gruffly. Kaitlyn remained quiet, unsure of what
to say and he continued. “I’ve seen what being in this lifestyle has done to friends of

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mine. How they are ridiculed by family members, ousted by friends. How they have to
keep their lives secret from everyone they know. I already live my life in hiding. You
would have to too.”
She nodded. “I understand, Steven. Not everyone would understand an attraction to
being dominated. I promise I won’t blab my mouth to everyone.”
His hand cupped her cheek, and she pressed into his palm. “You’re such a good girl,
Kate, that’s why I love you so much. Everything is just so uncomplicated for you.”
Her heart skipped a beat. He loved her? She tried to concentrate on everything he
was saying. She felt so giddy inside she just wanted to hug and kiss him. “Things just are
what they are, honey. Nothing wrong; nothing complicated.”
“I’m talking about you wearing my collar with my initials on it. I’m talking about you
being my submissive. I would own you. Mind, body, and soul. As far as I’m concerned,
it’s the closest two people could ever get to one another.”
Kaitlyn nodded. The idea sounded intriguing. “Let me get this straight. You would
own me…you’d have full control over me at all times. Do I get a say in anything?”
He grinned, dropped his hand, walked to the couch, and sat down, one ankle crossed
over his knee. “You get a say in everything, Kate. It’s about us. Our rules, our lives.”
She scratched her head. “Tell me how that is different from anything else we’ve been
doing?”
His shoulders dropped. “It’s just different. Everything is different. Everything
changes. It’s a mindset, it’s a feeling, and it’s a lifestyle. Right now you have a say in
everything from the get go. I would have you fill out paperwork with likes and dislikes,
down to the smallest of details. I would get to know exactly how you liked things and
offer up new suggestions for your enjoyment and mine. And there are things you might
not like so much, but I want to show them to you anyway. Unless it’s a hard limit of
yours, you have very little say in the matter.” He searched her face before continuing.
“Your only way out is a safe word, you would use it wisely because, to use it improperly,
would break trust. You would trust me to see to your needs. We would work on
boundaries together. We would work together to be the couple we want, and need, to be.
We would find balance, unity, love, trust, respect and we would be closer than any two
people you’ve ever known. Anything you enjoy is yours. Assuming it doesn’t cross my
own boundaries.” He smiled. “It’s not like in past relationships where something is too
strange to be discussed. We could have that threesome with the bondage, dildo and
forced sex experience you want. And you would never have to ask me for it. Just wait
until I bring it to you. You could communicate anything to me without feeling
humiliated, because here, what we have, there is no guilt. Nothing is taboo and nothing
is wrong.” He said the last words quietly, reverently, as if this was of the greatest
importance to him.
Her heart filled longingly for a love like that, a relationship of no-holds barred.
“You would wear my collar. That mouth of yours would be punished for smarting off
to me as often as you do.” He grinned. “It’s about us. Our rules, our lives.”
Kaitlyn swallowed hard. “This would all take a lot of trust on my part.”
“On both our parts,” he said softly.
She nodded. He would have to trust she would follow directions, and not let him
down.
“What about our sex life?”
“What about it?”

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“What happens with that? I’ve heard a little of what you’re talking about. I do have
the Internet, and a very kinky best friend at work. She talks about spankings, whippings
and such.”
He smiled. “Personally, I have a thing for nipple torture.”
Her eyes grew big, and she grabbed her breasts. “These puppies are way too sensitive
for torturing.”
He had a devilish grin. “Then here is your first lesson. Is nipple torture a hard limit?
Or is it something we could work towards, gradually?”
Kaitlyn thought hard, but could never imagine it. She shook her head. “I don’t
know.”
“Come here, sweetheart.” He kept his voice low and seductive.
If she were a cobra, she would have been charmed by now. She tried to laugh off the
situation, but couldn’t. Already her palms were sweating, her heart beating so frantically
in her chest her legs shook.
“Kneel in front of me.”
She did as he said, her eyes never leaving his.
“Lower your eyes.”
She did as he told her.
“You’re wearing buttons on your shirt. I like that.” His calm demeanor relaxed her
rigid back. “Now, when I want to get to you, I just have to tell you to open your shirt.”
She didn’t move. She felt heady and weak. “Open your shirt, Kaitlyn.”
Her jaw trembled, weakly. She opened each button of her shirt, exposing her breasts
in her pushup bra.
“I love these bras you wear. They display your breasts like a table. I’ll have to eat a
piece of that chocolate pie you make so well off here one night.”
She smiled, but said nothing.
“When you’re given a compliment, it’s customary to say, ‘Thank you, Sir.’”
She cleared her throat and blushed. “Thank you, Sir.” Her voice was hoarse even to
her own ears. Her breath shallow.
“Pull your bra down and offer your breasts to me.”
Without hesitation, she reached for the demi-cup edges and pulled them down until
the cold air caressed her nipples rock hard. As if to make her offering more complete,
she thrust her breasts out towards him.
“Hands behind your back.”
She complied.
“You offer your breasts to me in invitation, to do whatever it is I want to do to them.
This is implied, but whatever boundaries you set would be followed explicitly.”
He reached forward and cupped her breasts, his thumbs stroked softly over their
sensitive tips. “You see, you never start off rough. You raise the body temperature. Raise
the breathing. You’ll feel yourself sort of floating after a while.”
She took a deep breath. Everything he said slowly happened, one degree at a time.
She felt dizzy, weak, her mind fuzzy. He withdrew his hand, and when he touched her
again, his fingers were wet. He squeezed just enough to lull her into a sense of security
and rolled them ever so gently between his fingertips.
“You see, the torture could be almost anything. I could command you not to come. I
could make you come until you beg me to stop.” He squeezed a little harder. “Or the
torture could simply be something wonderful and beautiful.”

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Her breathing became shallow as she concentrated on his words. She rocked back on
her knees. Not once did he let go, pulling her by her nipples until she was forced to
follow his movements. She heard him slide off the couch and sit in front of her. “Sit back
on your heels. It will be difficult for your first time.”
She trembled as she did as he said.
“Spread your thighs.”
She did. Her skirt bunched at her hips opened an entirely different feeling. She was
vulnerable to him now. He had access to her.
“How does it feel?”
“Amazing. I’ve never been so light-headed.” She kept her eyes closed. Her hands had
stopped twisting behind her back.
Without warning, he pinched her nipples, just a little until she winced. The pinch
stopped, her pussy drooled, and she shuddered. So close to orgasm.
“For now, you can come as much as you want. But know, as you start to come, the
pain will increase.”
She nodded. Thus far, what he described as pain was nothing more than a prick of
pleasure. He quieted and manipulated her hard nipple—he twisted, pulled, rubbed his
thumb over the raw flesh. Her breathing escalated. Blackness settled over her where she
felt everything, but nothing hurt. She didn’t know what it was. She tried to fight it, shook
her head.
“Don’t fight it. It’s subspace—the place where pain and pleasure meld together. The
place where there will only be you and I.”
He held tighter to her nipples until she whimpered in pleasure and thrust her breasts
out farther. She panted now, barely felt her body being moved to straddle his lap. The
pressure of the head of his cock pushed towards her entrance, passed through her tight
barrier, and she fully sheathed him. He gave one hard twist to her nipple, and her world
exploded. She rocked against him, bounced on his lap so hard and fast that, before she
had an idea of what was going on, his hot cum spurted inside of her, sending her over
the edge again. She couldn’t hold herself upright, and he caught her against his chest,
his arms encircling her back.
She continued to ride him, her nipples aching from his so-called torture. She
trembled in his arms, suddenly cold, as reality settled back in.
“Beautiful, Steven,” she said wistfully. “Please, I want to work to be your submissive.
I know I could do this. We already do. It just gives a name to how I feel. I need to
submit to you. Please don’t turn away out of fear.”
He sat her up and stared into her eyes. His eyes clouded with pride and pleasure. “I
want this as badly as you do, Kaitlyn. I love you so much. I don’t want to frighten you.”
“Steven, I love you too. I want us to work. Work the way we want it. We’ll make some
adjustments, but I could see this working.”
She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard.
“That’s the first time you said you loved me.”
She smiled. “I wanted to tell you at the train, but I couldn’t get the words out.”
“I think we’ll do well together, sweetheart. We just need some practice,” he said.
“I agree, Sir.”

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A Scandalous Arrangement

by

Kayleigh Jamison
 A Scandalous Arrangement

Anna blinked back the tears that clouded her vision and shook her head. Chin high
and back straight, she followed the other woman down the hall determined to keep her
poise—as well as her pride. If there was a way out of this wretched situation, she would
discover it, and then she would find her brother and pay him back.
The madame’s heels clicked smartly against the tiled floor as she led the way through
the labyrinthine corridors of the brothel, a not so discreet boarding house in the east end
of the city. The main parlor stood just off the entranceway with several divans
upholstered in red, burgundy, and black, set throughout the room. The open doors
revealed small rooms, dominated by oversized beds covered in silk drapery. The décor
exuded opulence, but to Anna it might as well have been covered with peeling paint and
moldy carpet. The very notion of what went on behind these walls was enough to make
the place seem filthy to her.
“First, we change your name,” Girou spoke over her shoulder as she walked, her
French accent as sharp as the rap of her footsteps. “All of my girls are named after
flowers; the men like it that way. You will be Rose.”
“Rose what?” asked Anna, wrinkling her nose. With light brown hair and blue eyes,
she didn’t see herself as a Rose.
“Just Rose. The clients don’t care what your lineage is. For that matter, they may not
care what your name is at all. If they do not ask, you do not tell. Speak only when spoken
to. Ask no questions. Do everything they request of you. They pay money, and demand
satisfaction. You provide it.”
They entered a small bedchamber with a large bed, an ornately carved armoire, and
an overstuffed chair. Rose-patterned wallpaper matched the fabric in the room. The
irony wasn’t lost on Anna. She walked into the room and set her small suitcase on the
mattress. She had not been permitted to bring much—clothing, she had been told, would
be provided—but the madame had allowed her to bring a few personal keepsakes. Again,
she blinked back tears.
“You sleep here,” Girou announced. “I will send another girl in to help prepare you.”
“When do I start…um…” Anna trailed off, gripping the handle of her suitcase with
nervous fingers.
“Working?” Her eyebrows lifted, and she smirked. “Tonight, of course.”
Anna’s stomach lurched and bile rose in her throat. Turning to voice her protest, she
found herself alone, the click of heels fading in the distance. With a sigh, Anna returned
to the task of unpacking her scant belongings. Just this morning she had been a naïve
but relatively happy part of England’s elite. She’d wondered about her future—whom
she would marry, where she would live, what she would name her children. Now, she
was a common whore with a ridiculous name and all of six possessions to call her own.
She’d known for years, of course, that her brother’s gambling and whoring had
slowly eaten away the family fortune. But she hadn’t realized that for the past seven
months the Viscount Falmouth had been living exclusively on borrowed money, having
sunk so far into debt that his name alone was near worthless.
Until, of course, his largest creditor—and Madame of the most notorious brothel in
all of London—came to collect. The gutless, spineless swine struck a deal. His recently-
of-age virginal sister, in exchange for forgiveness of his debt. ‘She would fetch a pretty
penny in my service,’ Madame Girou had exclaimed with glee as she’d examined a
trembling and enraged Anna. The Viscount had only been too eager to agree.

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To call the situation unfair would be an insult to traditional notions of moral offense.
She recalled her brother’s tearful promise to their father on the older man’s deathbed to
always care for her. “Father, I wish you could help me now,” she whispered softly.
“So, you’re the new girl,” came a deep, silky voice.
Anna spun on her heels to face the visitor. In the doorway stood a petite woman a
little older than herself. She brushed long blonde hair back from her pixie face with a
grin. Anna blushed as she surveyed the woman’s attire. A tight-fitting gown of almost
sheer fabric showed the dark tips of her large breasts.
“I’m Lily,” the woman said, striding towards her with steps that radiated seduction.
“I’m An—Rose,” Anna corrected.
“I’m to help you prepare for your first night.” Lily’s gaze swept down her body in an
unabashed assessment. She lifted a lock of Anna’s brown curls and twirled them around
her forefinger. “We’ll give you a bath, choose a dress for you, paint that pretty face of
yours, and of course, remove your hair.”
“M-my hair?” Anna’s hands went to her head protectively.
Lily laughed. “That’s right, Madame told me you’re a virgin. No, sweetheart, not that
hair. The hair around your pussy. Men don’t like it.”
“My what?”
“You’re pussy, sweetheart.” Lily’s hand slipped between Anna’s legs and gave an
irreverent tap. “Down here.”
“Good God,” Anna shrank away from the other woman, her eyes wide.
“It will feel strange at first,” Lily seemed unconcerned by Anna’s discomfort, tossing
her hair over her shoulder, “but you’ll grow to like it. Trust me, the slide of a nice big
cock against your bare skin is divine.”
Anna started to cry again. Just when Anna thought it impossible to be shocked any
more, the little blonde said something even more scandalous.
“You know,” Lily told her with a half smile, “there are things women can do that feel
even better. It might help ease your fears a bit. I’d be quite happy to teach you a trick or
two.”
“No!”
Lily laughed and sidled up to Anna, taking hold of her arm. “Just a thought. If you
change your mind, do let me know. Now, let’s see to your bath.”

***

Evening arrived all too soon. Anna didn’t know what humiliated her more. Being
bathed, shaved, and dressed by the provocative, shameless Lily, or sitting here now in
the lounge of the establishment, put on display like a new hat in the milliner’s shop. To
her credit, Lily did not make any more sexual propositions and even offered a few gems
of wisdom on how to survive what she termed “those awful fucks,” although she’d
speculated that Anna wasn’t likely to have one of those her first night working. Madame
Girou, she said, would be looking to sell her off to the highest bidder for the largest
amount possible, and men with money “did it better.”
She sat on a lavish red chaise, trying to ignore the fact that her gown was made of a
sheer, dusty pink fabric that brushed the floor. The outrageously low neckline displayed
the tops of her breasts, and a slit up the gown’s side revealed the entire length of her left

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leg. Underneath the dress, she wore a black silk corset, cinched painfully around the
waist and nothing else.
She managed to seat herself in such a way that she hoped concealed as much of her
body as possible. In truth, she would have been mortified no matter what she’d been
wearing. She kept her eyes downcast, flitting them back and forth across the floor,
tracing the patters of the hardwood flooring. Her fisted hands clutched her gown,
wrinkling it. The prostitutes had regarded her with interest when she’d first been
brought into the room but had quickly dismissed her presence, talking amongst
themselves. Anna was grateful for it—she wouldn’t have known what to say to them,
anyway.
Men came and went, though Anna pointedly avoided making eye contact with any of
them. Rules of the establishment forbade the gentlemen from touching her or speaking
to her. Occasionally, she overheard a customer negotiating with Madame Girou over her
price, but she was never presented to any of the men, who ultimately it seemed, couldn’t
afford to purchase her.
Some time later, she became aware that someone important had arrived. The other
girls whispered excitedly between themselves, and while some of them seemed hopeful
to be selected, others appeared fearful.
Anna prayed that this new client was not someone she knew, or who knew her. She
tried to tell herself that it didn’t much matter now, but her socialite upbringing wouldn’t
allow this destruction of her reputation without a fight. She caught sight of a pair of
polished black boots as the man approached her. His strong, defined legs were encased
in equally black breeches.
“She’s new,” the man commented with a nod in Anna’s direction, his voice deep and
rich. Intrigued, she ventured a glance at the mysterious customer. His breeches gave
way to more lustrous black with his coat and shirt; the pristine white of his cravat
provided a stark contrast at his throat. His head turned away, but his profile was oddly
familiar.
Her heart sank as he turned, and she caught sight of his face. She most certainly did
know him. The Earl of Westmorland, Vere Fane, was both devastatingly handsome, and
according to the rumors, unerringly cruel. The handful of times she’d seen him, she’d
found his good looks and cool demeanor fascinating. Once, her Aunt Elizabeth caught
her staring and told her what people said about the earl and about the things he
purportedly enjoyed doing to his lovers. The information had been more than enough to
dissuade her from her girlish crush.
“Oui, just arrived today,” the madame said. “You do not want her, Monsieur. She is
far too inexperienced for your expert tastes.” She regarded her companion with a
sideways glance and smiled when he took the bait.
“Inexperienced?”
Under his scrutiny, she averted her eyes, but not before she had a good look at the
sideburns that accentuated his chiseled, masculine jaw. Jet-black hair, pulled back at
the nape of his neck, gave him an air of dominance. Even in her sitting position, she
could tell he was much larger than her own petite form. The very idea of him doing
unspeakable acts with her made her shudder.
“She is a virgin, my lord.”
His head snapped around to regard Girou with surprise. “Are you certain?”
“Quite.”

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“Then I want her.”

“It will cost you,” the woman said.
“How much?”
They lowered their voices, so Anna was unable to hear the madame’s asking price.
From time to time, she caught a word or phrase, but not enough to decipher their
conversation. She wrung her hands in her lap and waited for what seemed like hours
before they turned back to face her again.
At least he is good-looking, she told herself, trying to find something positive to cling
to lest she go mad.
“Rose,” Girou barked. “Come here.”
Anna rose to her feet and approached them with trembling legs. She met the earl’s
gaze once, his expression so stern and intense that she quickly looked down again.
“The earl has purchased you.”
She couldn’t think of anything to say, so remained silent.
“Have her things packed and sent to my townhome, please, Madame.”
“I have perfectly suitable rooms here for your use.” Girou’s eyebrows rose a fraction.
It was clearly a challenge, and the earl accepted it with an austere glare.
“She is mine and mine only. I intend to ensure that it stays that way,” Vere declared.
“I am nothing in this business without my word, Monsieur,” Girou said with a smile.
“No one else will have her, I promise. I have always treated you fairly in the past, no?”
“All the same, Madame,” he replied, “for the amount of money I am paying you, I
could have ten girls. We will do things my way.”
The major domo considered this a moment and sighed. “Rose, go retrieve your
things. The earl and I must negotiate privately.”

***

Reluctantly she returned to the parlor. Westmorland stood at the door, hands
clasped behind his back. She approached him and stood several feet away with her head
down.
“Let’s go,” he grunted and turned, striding out the front door with measured,
confident steps.
Anna followed, too intimidated to linger, and was nearly forced to run to keep up
with his lengthy stride. The carriage waited in front of the door, and the earl climbed
inside without a word. The driver appeared and helped Anna clamber inside, before
clicking shut the door and hurrying back to his perch.
She sat across from him inside the carriage and still kept her head down. The clack of
horses’ hooves against the cobbled lane beat an insistent tattoo in time with her
pounding heart. Several times she felt his gaze on her, but each time she snuck a glance,
he just stared out the window as if she were not there at all. One hand extended, his arm
draped over the back of the seat with ease, the other rested on his muscular thigh. She
couldn’t deny that he was handsome.
He emanated confidence, intrigue, and danger. Reputation not withstanding, Anna
felt some of her old fascination return. All of the time she spent daydreaming about the
man, and now here she was, bought and paid for by the very object of her wayward
obsession.
Property. She was property.

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What Anna did know about Vere was that, like most titled gentlemen, he maintained
a large family estate in the English countryside, but spent most of his time in London.
The carriage rumbled down a narrow lane. Anna tried to take deep, calming breaths,
fighting the panic that grew as they drew closer to their destination within the city.
Moments later, they reached their destination. The carriage rolled to a stop, and her
companion opened the door, disembarking without a word to her. Stunned, she sat
there for a moment before the coachman appeared at the open door and helped her
down. She saw Vere’s broad-shouldered silhouette ascend the front steps of the
townhome, then disappear through the door that opened at his approach.
Anna lingered behind, clutching her bag in her hands.
The coachman nudged her gently towards the steps. “’E don’t like to be kept waitin’,
Miss,” he whispered to her. “Best go inside quick.”
Squaring her shoulders, Anna strode up the walk and inside the open door. The
interior of the home invoked warmth and comfort. The walls were decorated the same as
the floor, with rich mahogany. Brightly lit pewter sconces lined the walls and bathed the
entryway in soft, yellow light. A long side table sat against one wall, adorned with a
miniature grandfather clock and a beautifully painted oriental vase.
To her left, a set of doors stood open, providing a glimpse of a modest dining room,
complete with a wide hearth and a long rectangular table. A wide staircase curved
upwards directly opposite the front door, gilt paintings of Vere’s ancestors were placed
tastefully about the walls. The Fane family crest adorned the top of each frame, a bull’s
head atop a three-point crown. Anna saw that it had changed over time, subtle
adjustments having been made by each successive heir, including Vere himself, whose
own image hung just to the left of the dining room. The painting showed him standing
against the mantle of the dining room fireplace, a half-smile graced his lips that looked
both playful and stern at the same time. She saw him in much the same pose now.
Vere leaned against one wall, right hand on his hip, watching her with a bored,
expression. She met his gaze with what she hoped to be an equally bland look of her
own, waiting for instruction. Moments passed, during which he clearly meant to make
her uncomfortable. He succeeded, and she looked away. Though she refused to look him
in the face again, she sensed he smiled.
“There is a room up the stairs, down the left hall, and the last door on the right. Go
there now, and I will join you shortly.” He disappeared through a set of double doors off
the right side of the foyer. She caught a glimpse of a large desk as the door swung closed.
His office, she concluded.
Anna ascended the stairs calmly; some of her anxiety disappeared at seeing the
rather normal interior of Vere’s townhome. Following his instructions, she entered the
last door on the right and found herself in a small bedchamber. At first glance, the space
seemed like a simple guestroom with a chest, armoire, bed, and two wooden chairs set
around a small breakfast table. A cloth-covered bench sat against the wall, parallel with
a wide bay window. A fire crackled cheerily in the hearth, bathing the room in soft,
orange light. Upon closer inspection, though, the room was anything but ordinary.
A short chain was attached to each of the bed’s four posters with a metal shackle.
Several large hooks hung from the ceiling. The walls were affixed with large metal hoops
at regular intervals. They reflected the light of the fire with a sinister gleam, taunting her
and her ignorance. She didn’t know what those were for and she didn’t want to find out,
either.

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Someone coughed behind her, and Anna jumped, whirling around to find Vere in the
doorway, his shoulder propped against the jamb, one booted foot crossed in front of the
other. He’d removed his jacket and cravat, and his unbuttoned shirt revealed a smooth,
sculpted chest, hairless except for a dark trail that began just below his navel and blazed
a suggestive path down his abdomen to disappear beneath his breeches. He tucked his
unbound hair behind his ears. Despite her predicament, Anna’s breath caught in her
throat. He emanated raw, masculine power that mesmerized.
“So,” he began, stalking forward and circling her like a predator, hands behind his
back. She saw a riding crop gripped loosely in one hand. “You truly are a virgin?”
Anna said nothing, kept her gaze forward, and clenched her jaw in defiance. She
vowed not to show her fear. After listening to Aunt’s stories, she had a good idea what
the crop was for. Perhaps he only wished to intimidate her with it.
Perhaps…
“Darling, this won’t do.” With a flurry of movement, he stood beside her, the riding
crop snaking out to deliver a sharp smack to her rear.
She yelped in protest, more from surprise than pain, and dropped her bag onto the
floor. Even having seen the crop, she hadn’t expected him to use it, and she jumped, her
head snapping around to look at him in shock. The sharp sting faded quickly but left her
on alert, waiting for the next blow.
“I asked you a question.”
“Yes,” she spat.
He struck her again. His calm demeanor never changed, his patient expression never
wavered. They could have been discussing the weather for all the emotion he showed.
“That won’t do, either. For the time being, I am your lord and master, and you will
address me as ‘milord’. Now, let’s try again. You are truly a virgin?”
“Yes…milord.”
“Better.” He grinned, and his gaze dropped to the swell of her breasts visible above
the line of her gown.
“You’re spirited; I like that. You’ll learn very quickly that if you please me, I will
reward you. And if you vex me, you will be punished. Don’t forget your place in all this.”
She opened her mouth to retort, but snapped it shut again, thinking better of it. Her
bottom stung, and she had no desire to provoke him further.
“You wish to say something, darling?” he offered with a lift of his brows.
“I am not a whore, milord.” But you are, her mind whispered. Whatever you were
two days ago no longer matters, you are now, and will for the rest of your life, be
ruined.
“No, you’re not,” he agreed, studying her. His gaze bore into her, seemed to
penetrate through her. “And I find that very curious. Tell me, who are you? You
look…familiar to me.” Fortunately, he didn’t wait for her reply before issuing his next
order. “Remove your clothes.”
She shook her head. “No.” Despite the inevitability of her deflowering, she wouldn’t
let it happen here, like this. Not if she could help it.
“What was that? Did you tell me no?” Grasping her waist with one hand, he bent her
body forward and launched a volley of blows upon her rear.
She squirmed and tried to escape him, but he tightened his grasp.
“I think you like the sting of my crop, sweet Rose,” he murmured in her ear. “Why
else would you disobey me?”

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“Please,” she whispered, blinking back tears.

“Please what?”
“Please stop, milord.”
“Will you remove your dress for me, then? If you make me tear it from you, I won’t
be pleased.”
Anna took a shuddered breath. “Yes, milord.”
She slipped out of her gown with trembling hands and clumsily undid the stays of
her corset. Vere crossed the room and picked up the padded bench by the window. She
watched mutely while he positioned it beneath one of the hooks that dangled from the
ceiling. Once nude, she stood with one hand covering her sex, the other crossed over her
breasts in a pathetic attempt to shield herself.
“Come here,” Vere ordered over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around. “Kneel
on the bench.”
Anna dutifully walked over and climbed onto the bench, keeping her head down. She
didn’t want to see his expression when he looked at her. He disappeared from her
peripheral vision, and she heard him move behind her and felt the coarse scratching of a
rope around her ankle. “What are you going to do, milord?” she ventured.
“You’ll see.”
He continued to twist the rope along her prone form. He wound the rope around her
other ankle. His thick arm rested between her knees, her chest tightened when she felt
the rough rope pulled between her elbows and wrapped around her wrist. His breath
fanned her ear, and she shivered. With each new twist, her movements were further
restricted, her breath coming faster as she systematically lost control. She twisted,
testing her range of motion, and found it nonexistent. He ignored her struggling,
pushing first one arm, and then the other, into the air.
Some time later, Vere stepped back and admired his handiwork with a perfunctory
nod. Anna sat rendered completely immobile by the intricate series of knots and loops,
which began at her knees and worked their way up her body and around the hook
hanging from the ceiling. Her arms were raised above her, tied together at the wrists,
and suspended; the rope twisted down her arms and looped twice around her neck, then
down her chest under each breast with a knot at her back. The coarse material
crisscrossed her torso before wrapping around her waist and around each of her thighs,
which were securely knotted to the loops around her respective ankles. Anna was forced
to arch her back slightly to relieve the strain on her arms, pushing her breasts forward,
and she kept her legs spread wide to avoid toppling over. She felt thoroughly, shamefully
exposed.
“This works nicely, don’t you think?” Vere asked, circling her with measured steps.
“Yes, milord,” she mumbled, eyes downcast.
“I like this,” he commented, pausing at her front. One large hand traced the mound
of her hairless sex. “Madame Girou’s doing, I assume?”
She nodded.
“Very nice, indeed. If you’re a good girl, perhaps I’ll enjoy a taste later.”
A taste? Horrified by his implication, her head snapped up, and she met his gaze.
Her aunt had educated her on the basics of sexual intercourse, but the older woman
never mentioned that. Was it just another of the earl’s abnormal preferences, or was this
something she would be forced to endure with all the men she was now expected to
service?

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“Oh yes, darling, I promise you’ll like my tongue between your legs,” he laughed
darkly. “But only if you behave.”
Despite her mind’s revulsion to the idea, her thighs quivered. His laughter deepened,
indicating that her reaction had not gone unnoticed.
“You have much to learn, sweet Rose. You should thank me for being such a willing
tutor.”
“Thank you, milord,” she replied dutifully.
“You’re quite welcome.”
Anna heard the riding crop cut through the air a moment before the blow landed on
the small of her back. Another struck her, this time lower, followed by a flurry of strikes
to her buttocks and the soles of her feet. Her eyes filled with tears, and she cried out; the
pain radiated outwards from her abused flesh and warmed her skin.
“Why?” she shrieked, the harsh surface of the rope cutting into her wrists as she
attempted to twist out of his reach.
“Why?” Vere repeated, slightly out of breath from the exertion.
“I did what you asked, milord!”
“You did,” he confirmed as the crop landed with another thwack, “you did very well.”
“Then I don’t understand!” The tears ran freely now, cooling her flushed cheeks and
splashing onto her breasts, her breathing erratic and labored.
“Your job here is what?” he asked patiently, circling around to face her. He removed
his shirt and she took in the sight of his strong, muscled arms, the crafted perfection of
his chest. Even bound and at his complete mercy, she found him heartbreakingly
attractive. The tongue of the crop touched her chin and lifted her head, forcing her to
meet his gaze. He traced her jaw with the slip of leather but paused to brush a strand of
hair from her eyes.
“To obey you, milord,” she whispered.
“Yes, and what else?”
“To please you, milord.”
“Precisely. And it pleases me to see you this way, sweet Rose.” This time, the crop
dipped lower over the swell of her breasts. He traced one nipple, then the other. The
pebbled flesh tightened traitorously, causing her to shiver. “Does it not please you as
well?”
“N-no, milord,” she stammered. Liar, her heart whispered.
Vere leaned forward and murmured in her ear, “It will.”
She bit her lip and took a deep breath, mentally bracing herself for the next blow.
He didn’t strike her.
“Kiss me,” he ordered.
He must have seen the uncertainty in her eyes because he softened his expression
and cupped her cheek with his free hand. This was the first time he’d touched her
without the crop, his skin surprisingly smooth, his caress unexpectedly gentle.
“Have you ever been kissed, Rose?”
“No, milord,” she admitted, her cheeks burning.
“Good.” He brought his face closer. “Close your eyes.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she complied, afraid he would change his mind and
strike her again. His lips brushed hers, soft and full, just the lightest of touches. He
made contact a second time. This time, the touch lasted longer, a light sweep of his
tongue across her bottom lip. He licked the corners of her mouth before capturing her

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bottom lip with his teeth and bit gently. She tried unsuccessfully to keep from moaning
and felt his lips tighten in a smile.
She heard the riding crop fall, and a moment later, his hands covered her breasts,
lifting the pliant weight in his palms. His thumbs brushed her nipples and she moaned
into his mouth. He chuckled in response, but did not break the kiss, probing her mouth
with his skilled tongue. Trapping the tiny nubs between his fingers, he rolled them first
in one direction, followed by the other. Anna arched her back, pushing into his caress.
Without warning, he gave her left nipple a vicious twist.
He alternated between gentle and rough, one moment stroking her, the next
squeezing until she cried out. The unique sensation caused pleasure and pain
indivisible. Somehow, the pain seemed to heighten the pleasure, for when he relaxed his
grip on her nipples, she felt a rush of moisture between her legs, increasing her desire
with methodical calculation.
Vere’s right hand dipped between her legs and probed her sex with one long finger.
“You say you don’t like what I do to you, Rose, and yet here you are, positively soaking
my finger. What do you have to say to that?”
She bit her lip, ashamed. “I don’t understand it.”
“You don’t have to. Just enjoy it and know that I have made you feel this way.” He
shifted his fingers upwards and rubbed them in a gentle circular motion.
“Oh,” she cried out, her senses reeling.
“That’s my girl,” he whispered against her cheek. “Give in to it. Let go.”
She surrendered completely to the acute pleasure he created as he manipulated the
tiny sliver of flesh upon which her entire being seemed dependant. His fingers moved
faster, and faster still, until her moans became an unbroken chorus, echoing off the
walls of the small room.
When she thought she’d reached the height of her pleasure, he withdrew his hand
and delivered a sharp smack to her sex with his open palm. She shrieked and bucked
against him, pushed her hips forward as best she could within her restraints. She
wanted—no, needed—more. She lost control of her body and her mind. Whatever he
wanted from her, she would give. Whatever he wished to take was already his.
“Come for me, darling. Now.”
She didn’t know what his instruction meant, but a moment later, as he plunged two
fingers inside her body, she shattered. Any final vestiges of control slipped away, and
she plummeted into an abyss of sensation, the ecstasy so keen she thought she might die
from the sheer intensity of it.
“Did you like that?” He pressed a kiss to her cheek and withdrew his fingers with one
final, gliding caress.
“Oh, yes, milord.” Her body still quaked with tiny aftershocks of pleasure. Too weak
to hold up her head, she dropped it to his shoulder, panting. Her wrists burned from the
strain of being held above her and from the coarse rope bound so tightly around them.
Now that her pleasure subsided, her discomfort surfaced. She wanted him to release her
arms so that she might cling to him, but he showed no intention of untying her.
“You see? I do reward you when you please me.”
“Thank you, milord.” The genuine gratitude in her voice surprised her.
“Would you like me to do it again?”
He kneaded the raw flesh of her bottom, soothed away the hurt he had so
systematically inflicted. It felt…divine. The memory of the pain faded. A languid

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satisfaction replaced it, something akin to pride at having pleased him and having
earned such a glorious reward.
“Yes, milord. Please.”
Vere chuckled. “Tomorrow.” His touch disappeared as he worked the knots at her
wrists. His gentle hands massaged the abraded skin. She collapsed against him, asleep
in moments within the comforting warmth of his embrace.

***

Anna woke to the sound of curtains being opened. She slitted one eye open with a
groan and saw a young serving girl bustling about the room. In the same room as the
night before, nestled between the red silk sheets of the overstuffed bed, she took in her
surroundings, which looked decidedly different in the sunlight.
“G’mornin’ Miss,” the girl chirped. “I’ve put yer breakfast on the table an’ yer bath is
bein’ drawn. I’m to take ye to the earl as soon as ye’re ready. Best not dawdle.”
Anna mumbled a groggy response and pulled herself upright. Hearing the soft rustle
of fabric, she looked down and found herself in a luxurious nightgown of black satin
with tiny beads sewn into the sleeves and neckline. Vere must have dressed her in it
after he had untied her. Her memory had faded some after collapsing, sated, in his arms.
Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, a dull throb radiated from her lower back.
Her wrists, too, felt mildly sore.
Oddly, the physical reminder of the previous night’s activities did not hold pain, but
almost pleasant reassurance. She shuffled over to the small breakfast table set against
the window, the padded bench mysteriously absent. Slowly, she nibbled at the sweet roll
and gazed sedately out the window. The small garden below looked relaxing and gave
her something to stare at while she mulled over her present situation.
She thought of the previous night, both surprised and relieved that she’d truly
enjoyed their time together. The memory of Vere’s hand between her legs brought a rush
of heat to her cheeks. Their time together had been just the opposite of the grueling
experience she had expected. But why? How could she have enjoyed such an unnatural
thing? He wasn’t her husband, would never be her husband now that she was a common
whore, and more importantly, natural sexual relations did not involve restraints and
instruments of torture.
Did this make her wanton? Abnormal? Did other women enjoy similar things or was
she truly a freak? Anna thought back to the other women in the brothel and their
reactions to Vere’s entrance. They obviously knew, some of them perhaps firsthand,
about his practices. Their responses to him had been divided, some excited, others
nervous, even frightened. So, some of them enjoyed it like her, and others apparently
didn’t. If she could find the nerve, she’d ask Lily upon her return to the brothel.
All the while, the maid continued to scurry about, supervising the boys who brought
in a basin and water for her bath, setting out soaps and oils upon the wire tray she laid
across the tub’s length. Next, the young woman moved to the armoire and produced an
elegant, cream-colored gown.
“Whose dress is that?” Anna asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
“Yers, Miss,” the maid replied, depositing the dress on the bed and smoothing the
fabric with one hand.
“I mean, who was it made for?”

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“As I said, Miss, t’was made for you. ’Is lordship sent me to the seamstress yesterday
wit’ yer measurements, made me wait fer this one in particular. A few others should be
delivered in a day or so. Paid a pretty penny to have them made so quickly, I might add.”
Her stomach full, Anna stripped out of her nightgown and sank into the sweetly
scented water—scattered, appropriately enough, with rose petals—the water soothed her
tired and aching muscles. Closing her eyes, she relaxed as her companion washed her
hair. Vere had ordered several dresses made for her? What a strange way to treat a
common whore. I am your lord and master, he’d told her. From that statement, she’d
expected to be treated like a slave, not a lady. But then again, the things he’d done to
her…and the way she’d reacted certainly hadn’t been very ladylike at all.
She sank deeper into the water in an attempt to hide the flush in her cheeks. The
maid either didn’t notice, or didn’t care, and began rinsing the soap from her hair.
Once clean, her companion helped her to dry and dress. Finally, the maid styled her
hair, leaving the bulk of it loose and flowing down her back. She led Anna downstairs
and into Vere’s office. He sat behind a large cherry desk, an ink pen in one hand, a sheet
of paper in the other. She stood in the center of the room, wringing her hands, unsure of
what to do.
“I trust you slept well,” Vere stated finally without glancing up at her. “Come here,
Rose.”
She complied, moving to stand at his side. His hand came up to caress the outside of
her thigh, sending a delicious current through her. Would his touch deliver pleasure or
pain? The uncertainty excited her.
“Sit.”
“Where, milord?”
“At my feet.”
She obeyed without question and sank to her knees, one hand braced against his
thigh to control her descent. It was an odd place to sit, half under his large desk, knees
tucked beneath her. It should have been degrading, yet it wasn’t. Being close to him
after what they’d shared the night before, she realized, was something she desperately
wanted.
“Do you like to read?”
“Yes, milord.”
“You may go pick out a book, then,” he told her. “Bring it back and sit again.”
She did, perusing the myriad of titles lined neatly along the far wall before selecting
one she’d never seen before and settling down at his feet once more.
“How does your back feel?” he asked, stroking her hair. She heard the shuffle of
papers above her, followed by the scratch of his pen.
“It is fine, milord.” She laid her head against his thigh and closed her eyes, enjoying
the feel of his caress. “I expected it to hurt, but it doesn’t. I can’t quite describe how it
feels, but it isn’t pain, not really.”
“You’re a natural, darling, as I knew you would be.”
It was perhaps an odd compliment, but she smiled. His satisfaction was as important
to her as her own, for reasons beyond her understanding. The most difficult aspect of
this situation was by far her acceptance of what she felt when near him. Excitement,
happiness…but not fear. No, she’d been afraid only briefly. She began to drift in thought
and didn’t notice that the scratching of his pen had ceased.

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Anna felt something cool settle around her neck, followed by the click of a lock. She
opened her eyes and brought her hand up to feel the metal ring he placed there with a
tiny padlock in the front.
“What is this, milord?”
“Your collar. An outward sign of my ownership of you. Anyone who sees you will
know you belong to me now. It pleases me to see you wear it.”
Then she would do so happily, she decided, tracing a finger along the smooth steel.
Its weight against her skin was oddly comforting. Her submission. She’d never been in
control of her life, not really. First, it was her father, then her brother. Then, for a brief
time, Madame Girou had controlled her. Now, it was Vere who did so.
But for how long? Eventually, he’d grow tired of her and send her back to the
brothel. It was a disturbing thought, and she shivered.
His hands were on her instantly, tilting her chin up to face him. “What is it?”
“I don’t want to go back there, milord,” she whispered. “Please, don’t make me.”
He traced her lips with his thumb, his expression gentle. She saw something flash in
his eyes—affection? She didn’t dare think it. But in spite of the reason, the faintest
glimmer of hope sparked within her heart.
“We’ll see.”

***

She spent the day like that, sitting at his feet, reading as he worked. Sometimes he
would speak to her, but for the most part, they existed in silence. Occasionally, she
would feel his fingers in her hair, stroking her curls, reassuring and strong. Mid
afternoon, the same maid that assisted her earlier appeared bearing tea for her and
brandy for her lord. Sitting on the floor, Anna sipped the steaming beverage, book in
one hand. After she finished, Vere extended his hand, and she placed the empty cup in it
without a word.
He sent her upstairs just after sunset with instructions to first eat and then be ‘ready
and waiting’ for him when he arrived. Supper waited on a small table, and as she ate, she
mulled over his cryptic instructions, wishing he’d been a bit more explicit.
She guessed at what he’d meant and stripped off her dress. She struggled out of her
corset and undergarments—no easy feat to accomplish unaided. Nervous, she paced
about before something lying on top of the dresser caught her eye. Anna thought of how
Vere had made her sit at his feet that day and how he’d required her to undress the night
before. He liked her willing and passive. An idea came to her, and she settled into
position with a smile. He would be pleased with her choice, she was certain.
Moments later, the door opened. Anna heard Vere’s sharp intake of breath as he saw
her. She knelt naked in the center of the room, her head bowed, and the riding crop
lying flat on her palms, offered up to him in supplication.
“Perfect,” he breathed reverently, shutting and bolting the door behind.
She desperately wanted to look at his face, to see his expression and if she could
gauge any emotion from it. She struggled to remain immobile. Strong hands grasped her
hair and pulled her to her feet. He covered her mouth with his, the kiss hungry, and
almost violent. Oh yes, she thought happily, he is pleased.

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“We’ll start with this since you offered,” he said once he finally pulled away and took
the crop from her. “But we’ll continue with this.” He showed her the whip coiled in his
hand and grinned.
She gasped. “Milord, I don’t think I can—”
“Take it?” he supplied. “Of course, you can.”
She eyed the instrument dubiously and chewed her lip.
“I won’t know your limits unless we try, sweetheart. I’ll go easy on you. All you have
to do is trust me, yes?”
“Yes, milord,” she answered, though she still wasn’t convinced. Such things were
used to torture men; how could she be expected to endure it?
“Turn around, Rose. Now.”
She complied. He nudged her forward until she was flush against the wall, her
breasts pressing against the smooth wood, which felt cold and rough against her flesh.
Vere positioned her hands just below two of the metal loops that protruded from the
paneling.
“You may brace your hands against the wall, or grab onto the rings if you like. But
other than that, you are not to move. Do you understand?”
“Yes, milord.”
The crack of the whip caused her to jump, muscles tensing in anticipation. Vere
uttered a throaty laugh, but Anna couldn’t tell if he was amused or annoyed by her
disobedience. “I told you not to move,” he warned. He tapped her thigh with the crop
once. “Besides, I promised we’d start with this. Relax.”
The first blow landed squarely on her rear with a snap. The rhythmic cadence of
leather striking flesh and the stinging slap of pain and the rush of relief that followed
lulled her. Like the previous night, her sex grew wet, and she began to moan softly.
Perhaps, she reasoned, it was only the promise he’d made the night before of pleasuring
her once again that excited her so. Or, perhaps she already succumbed to the reality that
her own desires were as unnatural as Vere’s.
Once she finally settled into that elusive place inside her that allowed her to take the
pain with relative ease, Vere stopped. He moved next to her, pressed against her side.
She felt the hard ridge of his erection against her hip and sighed.
“Hold on now, darling,” he whispered.
She grasped the cold metal rings and took a deep breath. His left hand slipped
between her legs, probing her moist cleft. He pushed one finger inside of her and reared
back with his right arm. She heard a crack, followed by the kiss of the whip against her
back. It was a different sensation than that of the crop, far more intense. Unlike the
crop, which would first sting, and then begin to throb, the pain hesitated for a moment
before blooming across her skin, spreading like fire. But not, she realized, as awful as
she’d expected it to be.
Anna moaned and squeezed her eyes shut. She focused on her breathing, regaining a
measure of control over herself. With each breath, her tense muscles relaxed, and she
stopped anticipating the blows, sinking into the moment. At the same moment, the whip
lashed a second time, and he inserted another finger into her aching sex. He struck a
third time...a fourth, as he pleasured her, working his fingers in and out of her tight
heat. She lost count of how many times he struck. Her backside on fire, tiny pinpricks of
pain radiated through her body, and still he pleasured her. Still he tortured her.

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Just as they had the night before, the sensations merged until she could no longer
tell where one began and the other ended. Was it her back that hurt, or was it that
gloriously sensitive space between her legs? Did it matter? She threw back her head and
cried out, an animalistic, guttural scream.
Anna’s knees buckled and she lost her balance, falling backwards as climax overtook
her. Vere’s strong arms came around her, held her upright until her shudders subsided.
Groggy and satisfied, she wanted to curl against him and sleep, but it seemed her
tormentor had other plans. He didn’t allow her any respite before issuing his next order.
“On your knees, sweet Rose.”
She sank down before him, wincing as her heels smacked against the abused flesh of
her rear. Holding her face with one hand, Vere unbuttoned his breeches with the other
and withdrew his erection. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of his long, pink
cock, the flared, weeping tip curved upward, both impressive and intimidating in size.
“Take me in your mouth,” Vere commanded, grasping his wide shaft at the base and
taking a step towards her.
She opened her mouth, leaned forward, and wrapped her lips around the plum-
shaped tip of his cock. Her tongue traced the crown, enjoying the silky smoothness. He
groaned in approval and pushed his hips forward. She concentrated on working her
tongue back and forth along the underside of his shaft, eliciting another satisfied sound
from him.
Vere’s hand tightened in her hair. “Suck,” he grunted.
She hollowed her cheeks around him, ignoring the discomfort as he moved back and
forth in her mouth. She gagged when he hit the back of her throat, and he chuckled. Her
eyes watered, but she pushed the ache away, concentrating on her task with renewed
zeal and was rewarded with a groan of approval from him.
“That’s my good girl,” Vere gasped as she increased the pressure yet again. “Just like
that.” His moans encouraged her, and she worked his shaft with unabashed enthusiasm,
needing to pleasure him as he’d pleasured her.
With a final thrust of his hips, he tensed, grasping her face and holding her
stationary. A moment later, a hot rush of fluid filled her mouth, salty and sweet.
Greedily, she swallowed, unable to prevent a moan of her own.
Withdrawing, Vere bent down and scooped her into his arms, depositing her onto
the bed with finesse. “You deserve a reward for that, darling,” he growled, snapping first
her wrists, then her ankles into the shackles. “Are you ready for another lesson?”
“Yes, milord.”
He laughed. “I believe you’ve been looking forward to this, sweet Rose. Have you
been thinking about me tying you up all day?”
She blushed. “Yes, milord.”
His fingers brushed her shoulder, and he leaned in close. He pressed a kiss to her
jaw, traced a path along her neck to her ear. His tongue slithered inside momentarily
before he caught her earlobe between his teeth. “So have I. Would you like your reward
now?”
“Please,” she breathed.
“Then you shall have it.” He disappeared from her line of sight and moved to the
corner.
Anna watched him carefully through lowered lashes as he approached the bed once
again. In one hand, he held the whip. In the other was a lit pillar candle, wax pooling

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around the wick. Lights burned all around them, it was clear from his hungry gaze that
he intended this particular candle to have a much different purpose. Her heart skipped a
beat, and she felt her sex moisten again.
The candle tilted, and a small stream of wax poured onto her stomach, hot but
instantly cooling. She hissed at the flash of pain, clenched her jaw, and grasped the
chains connected to her shackles. Vere drizzled the wax up the plane of her stomach and
onto one taut nipple, then the other. As the wax cooled, it tightened the pebbled flesh
even further. She arched her back, a strained moan emanating past her lips.
He climbed onto the bed and settled between her legs with a wolfish grin, running
his hand across her now-covered torso. “You look gorgeous, Rose. Soft and sweet, like a
defiled angel.”
Turning his head, he grazed his teeth along her inner thigh, nipping and biting at
random intervals, at times hard enough to make her wince. Vere dribbled a trail of wax
down her left leg; at the same moment, he lowered his head and licked the length of her
cleft. Anna gasped and thrust her hips forward, grinding her sex against his open mouth.
His laughter rumbled against her sensitive flesh, heightening her need further.
As he continued to tease her slick folds with his mouth, his hand kept up the task of
coating her legs and abdomen with the hot wax until it slid from her skin to cover the
bed linens. He traced the outer lips of her sex with his tongue, sliding up one side, and
down the other. When she tried to rock her hips, he pulled back just out of reach.
A frustrated moan passed her lips, and once again, she lay still. He rewarded her by
pushing the tip of his tongue inside her slick heat before moving to the ultra-sensitive
sliver of flesh at the apex. She shuddered as he slid one finger inside her to probe her
passage, followed by a second.
She screamed something unintelligible when his fingers hooked upwards and began
to piston in and out, his tongue swirling in tiny circles with increased suction over its
target. Without warning, he shifted his mouth a fraction and bit down—hard. She came
immediately; her head thrashed from side to side. Her hips bucked, and she felt her
womb constrict around his fingers holding them in place. She was certain she would
pass out or simply faint dead away from the intensity of it. The waves of her climax
subsided, and she rested her head against her arm, panting.
After she finally regained some semblance of control, she opened one eye to find him
stretched out next to her, watching with an arrogant smile.
“Welcome back.”
She yawned, the temptation to sleep so overwhelming that she didn’t care if he
untied her or left her that way all night.
“Oh, no, darling, we’re not done,” he said with a carnal grin. “We still have to clean
you up.”
Anna drifted in and out of sleep as he cared for her. After releasing her bonds, Vere
scraped the wax from her skin with the backside of a small knife, pausing to massage her
sore muscles here and there, occasionally pressing a kiss to her cheek or forehead. He
disappeared from the room, and she curled onto her side closing her eyes with a sigh,
only to be roused once more when he returned a moment later, followed by a line of
servants bearing hot water and a bath, who set down the toiletries and departed without
a word.
Vere gathered her in his arms and set her into the steaming water. He didn’t speak as
he washed her, kneading her scalp with a sweet-smelling shampoo. Anna reveled in his

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tender care, soothed as much by his presence as she was by the warm bath. She leaned
against him when he lifted her to her feet and placed her back in the bed, wrapped in a
warm towel. Smoothing her damp hair back from her forehead, he placed a tender kiss
to her forehead.
“Sleep now, sweetheart,” he murmured.
“Stay with me,” she said sleepily.
He didn’t answer, and a moment later, she heard the door open and close, followed
by the click of his boot heels down the hall.

***

The next morning, Anna hoped that Vere would send for her again, but he didn’t. She
was somewhat grateful that he let her sleep. She had been truly exhausted after the
intense night they’d shared. She finally roused herself from bed well into the afternoon.
The only indication that he remembered her at all was the food sitting on the table by
the window. Next to the tray lay the book she’d been reading the previous day and a
single red rose.
As she shuffled toward the table, she felt a twinge of pain and winced. Lifting up the
hem of her nightgown, she saw a collage of brightly colored bruises across her thighs.
Inspecting further, she noted that her stomach and breasts equally mottled, peppered
with bluish purple marks where he had bitten and struck her. Her back probably looked
much worse, as it had born the brunt of Vere’s whip.
She closed her eyes and savored the dull throb, mentally reliving her latest
experiences, cataloguing her emotions. She relished the ache, was grateful for it as it
provided her with a constant reminder of her experiences. She shuddered, the phantom
memory of his hands and mouth on her skin so vivid that it almost seemed real. Almost.
It was impossible to analyze her situation with any sort of objectivity. Perhaps the
most curious piece of the puzzle was that she was, technically, still a virgin. How much
things had changed in the matter of just a few short days. The innocent debutant that
she had been seemed a distant memory. All the things that she once found important
seemed so trivial now. She could hardly be called an innocent any longer, but for
reasons unbeknownst to her, Vere left that portion of her sexual initiation untouched, so
far, anyway. She certainly didn’t feel like a virgin. She wondered when he would take
their relationship to that final step.
I hope it’s soon.
With a sigh, Anna sat down, opened the book, and flipped to the page where she’d
left off reading. As she did so, a slip of paper fluttered to the table beside her. Opening it,
she saw a single word scrawled in an elegant, but clearly masculine script.
“Tonight.”

***

Just before sunset, the maid arrived with a bath for her, a new gown, and an
invitation to dine with the earl that evening. The bath Anna had been looking forward
to. The dinner invitation took her completely off guard. The deep purple gown possessed
a high empire waist and scooped neckline, trimmed in silver. However, she had no idea
what formal dinner with Vere might entail; knowing him, it could be anything.

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Descending the staircase at the required time, she felt elegant and ladylike; shards of
her former life poked back through her newly awakened psyche. Her lord waited at the
base of the stairs for her, his dress equally refined and, as always, impeccable. Her
memories flashed back to what seemed like a lifetime ago, at some now unimportant
gathering of the Ton, when she had caught her first glimpse of the infamous Earl of
Westmorland. She had been descending the stairs into the garden; her arm locked with
her aunt’s, and had seen him at the base of the stairs waiting patiently for…someone.
Their gazes had locked, and for a brief moment, she had thought him waiting for her,
but Aunt Elizabeth had tugged at her arm and she’d been whisked away. Vere couldn’t
possibly remember that meeting. Or could he? Her heart countered.
He offered her his elbow with a bow. “Shall we dine, my lady?”
Anna nodded demurely and slipped her hand through his arm. “I’d be honored,
milord,” she replied, peering at him through lowered lashes. What sort of game was he
playing now?
She allowed him to lead her into the dining room, unsure if he would have her sit at
the table, or at his feet. He released her to pull out a chair to the left of the table’s head
and motion her into it. Once he took his own seat, the staff appeared on cue, bearing
trays of food so lavish her mouth watered at the savory aromas.
At first, sitting with him in such a civilized manner felt awkward, almost unnatural.
She had the clear impression that he was testing her yet again, observing her clinically
as she gripped her silverware and sipped her wine. What did he care about the
refinement of her table manners? Yet, it seemed he did.
“I still find it curious,” Vere said finally, grasping his wine glass with elegant fingers,
“that a woman so clearly schooled in refined mannerisms is under the employ of
Madame Girou.”
“In times of crisis, a person often makes decisions that are not wise, milord. It is then
that most fail the crucial test of survival.”
“Only those who deserve to fail do so,” Vere countered. “On the contrary, the truly
strong ones choose correctly when faced with such tests. It’s that which defines them
and makes them even stronger, sets them free.”
“I find my current situation to be the unfortunate repercussion of another’s decision,
and I must live with it,” said Anna with a shrug. “The decisions which affect us aren’t
often left in our own hands.”
“I disagree. We all have choices to make, we need only recognize them.”
She considered his words in silence. What choices had she been given? Or did he
refer to a choice yet to come?
“Never let anyone tell you that you are weak, darling. You’re far from it.”
“My family is dead,” she said quietly. “I am alone.”
“No, not alone.” He shook his head and stood. “Come, let us retire,” he told her,
extending his hand.
Anna also stood, slipping her fingers into his. She felt a tremor of excitement at his
expression, hungry and impatient. Vere ushered her upstairs and into her bedchamber
and bolted the door. She stood in the center of the room and waited for his instruction.
It seemed her lord was too impatient even to give her orders because he crossed the
room in two lengthy strides and, grasping the neckline of her dress with both fists, he
rent the fabric in two. The gown tore with an unceremonious rip and fell from her
shoulders to the floor. Her undergarments soon followed, and before she could even

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feign protest, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. Vere stripped off his
own clothes with equal carelessness and joined her, stretching his lean body next to
hers, his impressive erection pressing insistently against her thigh.
“I was too rough with you last night,” he commented, tracing a finger across the
bruises on her thighs.
“It’s not bad, milord,” she protested.
“If I use the whip on you tonight, I’ll break the skin. You’ll have scars from it,” he
shook his head.
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
“The crop?” she pressed.
“No, sweetheart. Not tonight.” He pulled her closer and brushed his lips against hers.
“Don’t worry, I’m not leaving.”
That declaration did put her at ease somewhat, and she relaxed, melting against him.
His strong, needy kiss overwhelmed her, tongue delving into her mouth with an
insistent, steady rhythm. Not used to being unrestrained, she found herself unsure what
to do with her hands, but finally settled on lacing them through his hair, tugging it free
so that it fell forward and brushed against her cheeks. His hands roamed over her,
pausing to tweak a nipple, slipping down to stroke her thigh, whispering, “What would
you like me to do?” across the plane of her stomach.
“Whatever you want to do, milord,” Anna gasped, clinging to him.
He grinned. “Ordinarily the perfect answer. But this time I do want to know what
you would like.”
She was at a loss. Being asked to voice her own wishes was so foreign to her by now
that she didn’t have a clue as to what she wanted. She was used to him being the
decision maker, and she realized that there was comfort in it. She bit her lip. “I don’t
know,” she admitted finally, somewhat ashamed by her indecision. How had she lost her
own voice so quickly?
“Yes, you do,” he pressed.
She tried a different approach. What did he want? His hands continued their
leisurely exploration, one slipping between her legs before ghosting away again. “I want
you to take me,” she said finally.
“Do you? How would I do that, darling? Don’t be shy. And don’t be vague, either.”
Anna let out a frustrated moan. She thought back to what Lily had told her, the
words the other woman had used. “Put your cock in my pussy,” she whispered. Heat
raced to her cheeks in time with her pounding heart.
Her answer seemed to please him, and he rewarded her candor by sliding his hand
back up her thigh. His fingers glided teasingly over her sex and paused, hovering just
out of reach. “Is that really what you want, or what you think I want?”
“Both.”
“That’s my girl.”
He rolled her beneath him, settling his weight between her spread thighs. She sighed
and ran her hands across his strong shoulders, tracing the corded muscles of his neck
and the defined planes of his chest. Anna loved the sight of him above her: strong,
domineering, commanding.
“If you give this to me, it’s forever, darling. Your innocence will always belong to
me.”

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“It’s already yours, milord,” she replied. As am I. His cock nudged against her folds,
a wicked glide of flesh through moist, velvety flesh, and she moaned.
His breath felt like an inferno against her damp cheek. “Another thing we’ll do
differently, just this once. When you come, darling, I want you to scream my name. Sing
it to the heavens, loud as you can. Do you understand?”
“Yes, milord.”
“But not,” he added casually, “until you’ve been given permission to do so.”
She was panting, clutching his shoulders. He’d already managed to work her into a
frenzy with only the lightest of contact, his mere presence enough to have her half out of
her mind with lust. Vere seemed perfectly content to watch her gyrate beneath him. His
eyes flashed and his look shifted from amused to ravenous.
“I think you realize it’s not in my nature to be gentle, sweet Rose,” he told her,
positioning himself at her entrance. “And quite honestly, I’m not in the mood to try.”
With that, he surged forward, destroying her maidenhead in one savage motion, burying
himself fully within her tight passage.
She choked on a sob, the pain so intense that for a moment, she worried he’d torn
her in half.
“You feel so hot and wet and tight, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Like satin wrapped
around my cock.”
His words soothed some of the hurt away, and she felt a rush of satisfaction at the
knowledge that she pleased him, his enjoyment fueling her own. She felt wonderfully
filled, complete in ways she hadn’t known existed before, but she needed something
more. She needed him to… “Move,” she whispered aloud.
“What did you say?” Vere asked.
“Please move, milord.”
“Move where?” he teased. “To the corner?”
“Inside me.”
“As the lady wishes.” He gave her what she wanted, pulling out of her tight heat and
surging forward, the delicious friction of his cock sliding in and out, sent her racing
towards climax with startling speed.
“Are you close, darling?”
“Yes!” she shrieked, leaving off his requisite title. “Oh God, please!”
“Please what?” he ground against her, circling his hips, filling her to capacity. She
couldn’t hold back any longer.
“Please let me come!”
“Yes, now. Now!” he roared.
“Vere!” She dug her nails into his back, bucking beneath him. She climaxed hard,
and as he surged forward one final time, he went still, flooding her womb with his seed.
They clung to one another, trembling, riding out the tide together.
He withdrew and took her with him, gathering her into his arms. Exhausted and
satisfied, Anna settled in against his side.
“Milord?” she ventured. If she didn’t tell him now, while she drifted to sleep, she
would lose her nerve and never say it. And she wanted to say it. She wanted him to
know.
“Hmm?”
“I think I love you.”
He sighed and pulled her closer, cradling her head against his chest. “I know.”

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***

Anna’s consciousness crept from the protection of slumber slowly and regretfully.
She sighed and tried to roll over, but found her movement restricted. Her eyes flew open
in surprise. Vere still lay there with her, his strong arms locked around her waist,
holding her against his chest possessively.
Anna felt him stir, and she nuzzled her cheek against his chest.
“Good morning, milord,” she murmured.
“Good morning, darling.”
She thought back to what she’d said to him the night before, before she’d drifted to
sleep. The fact that he’d stayed in her bed all night must mean that he wasn’t angry, but
she remained afraid to look at him, lest she find something she didn’t like in his
expression.
“Look at me,” he instructed without harshness.
She shook her head and choked back a sob. She couldn’t look at him now; she just
couldn’t.
“Anna, look at me.”
She did, eyes going wide with horror. “How long have you known?” she whispered. If
he knew her first name, he knew her identity.
“Since the beginning. Since before that, actually. Your idiot brother owes me a
considerable amount of money as well. When I paid him a visit to remind him of his
debt, he lamented that he did not have another sister to trade away.” He paused, and his
green eyes flashed.
“That’s how you knew my measurements for the seamstress,” she mused. “I
wondered about that.”
“I remembered you. And I found the idea of some ridiculous fop robbing you of your
innocence entirely repulsive. I took nothing from you that you did not freely give. Or will
you try to say now that when I fucked you, you didn’t want me?”
He was right, of course. She had wanted him. Even now, after learning of his deceit,
she wanted him still. She’d learned much in the days they’d spent together, and when
she returned to the brothel she’d no longer be so naïve, or so...
The brothel. Anna shuddered. She wondered when she would have to return to that
awful place. “How long have you…purchased me for?”
“I haven’t. The money I paid Madame Girou bought your freedom.” He said it so
unceremoniously that it barely registered at first.
Anna gaped at him. “You mean I’m free to go?”
“Or to stay,” Vere countered. He took her hand in his and dropped something hard
and jagged into her palm.
The key to her collar.
She stared at it for a moment; a myriad of sensations threatened to overwhelm her.
This was her decision, the one he’d told her she would face. Taking a deep breath, she
steeled her resolve…and made her choice.

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Unwrapping Amy

by

Emily Ryan-Davis
 Unwrapping Amy

Chapter One
“If you were mine, I’d beat your ass.” Wine glasses clinked together as punctuation.
Amy Corcoran, spaghetti noodles twirled around her fork and poised on the brink of
a bite, gaped at her dinner companion. The tall, polished woman sitting opposite her
speared a buttery, garlic-fragrant shrimp and popped it in her mouth. She arched her
eyebrows, chewed, and asked, “What? Dishonesty by omission is still dishonesty. If you
want him to take control, you have to give him a seed to nurture and grow.”
A slender red candle stood between them. Its flame danced a slow waltz, each dip
marking off the seconds that slipped away while Amy scrambled for a response. Neither
her brain nor her lungs cooperated, one failing to think and the other failing to process
oxygen. She lowered her fork to the plate to buy time. A slow count to ten helped her
fight off a panic attack.
“He doesn’t believe in submission,” she finally said, sucking breath through her
nostrils, slow and deliberate. She despised the wimpy, weak quality of her voice.
Elizabeth Very, Amy’s closest friend and an unashamed dominatrix, pointed a stick
of soft, warm bread at her. “Don’t get that look on your face.”
“What look?”
“The one you get when you’ve made up your mind about something and you’re
determined not to be influenced.”
“I can’t tell him.” Stomach tight, Amy pushed her plate away. Anxiety and tomato
acid met together in battle, and she couldn’t eat anymore. She and her husband were
already estranged. Their marriage wouldn’t survive the addition of moral and religious
convictions to their problems. Elizabeth didn’t understand; her lovers were casual
events, impromptu birthday parties, whereas Mac was Amy’s debutante ball, planned
for and once-in-a-lifetime.
“I can’t,” she repeated. Her throat shrank and she focused on breathing. She hadn’t
brought her asthma inhaler.
Elizabeth’s gaze burned into her forehead. Amy couldn’t meet her friend’s eyes. She
stared at the wound-up noodles, glistening with tomato and olive oil, and imagined her
life like that, all wrapped up around Mac and at risk of coming undone if the fork tilted
at the wrong angle.
“Do you love him?” Elizabeth pressed. “Do you want to be with him?”
Amy nodded.
“Want him to stop sleeping on the couch?”
Failure threatened to suffocate her. Elizabeth emptied their shared bottle of cabernet
into Amy’s glass.
“Drink that,” she instructed. “You look like you’re going to pass out. The maitre’d is
giving us concerned glances.”
The first gulp of wine stung her throat, which was raw from fighting sobs. She slowed
to steady sips and set a rhythm: sip, breathe, sip, breathe. Gradually the glass emptied.
Alcohol warmed her ears. Elizabeth motioned for another bottle of wine.
“He loves you,” she said. “From what you’ve told me, he probably feels like you’re
shutting him out. You know him—he doesn’t force himself anywhere. He’s giving you
the space he thinks you want.”
“I don’t feel well.” Amy lowered the empty glass to the table. Her hand shook.

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“That feeling is awareness that you’re being a coward. It’s self-shame. It’s not going
to win you a ‘go home sick’ note.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Tell him you want to give him control. You need his strength to support you.” The
waiter arrived with a new bottle of wine. Elizabeth paused, waiting for him to clear away
the empty bottle, and said, “Tell him the same thing you’ve told me.”
“You don’t understand! We almost didn’t get married because of this. He asked our
officiate to change the ceremony, getting rid of submission and obedience. The reverend
refused. He called off the wedding until his mother promised him that a civil ceremony
wouldn’t disgrace him.” Amy poured herself another glass of cabernet, downed it in two
swallows, and said, “He didn’t even want me to give myself to him in the ceremonial
sense. He certainly won’t put a collar on me and let me call him ‘sir.’”
Elizabeth snorted. “You know the submissive/dominant relationship is more than
that.”
“I do, but Mac doesn’t. He is equality through and through. Equal obligations, equal
responsibilities—even equal turns for being on top.” She’d asked her husband, once, if
he’d tie her up while they made love and he withdrew completely. They weren’t intimate
for three weeks afterward. “I just need to learn to deal with it on my own,” she said,
dejected.
“Or you could be honest with him.”
Amy shook her head. “He’ll leave.”
“He’s on the verge of leaving now.” Impatience sharpened Elizabeth’s tone. Amy
winced.
“There must be a way to let him know without confronting him. Writing a letter
seems weak.”
“In this situation, it is weak.”
“I don’t want to trick him.” Trickery and deceit would sever the fragile bond they still
shared. She didn’t want to put their marriage vows on the line.
Elizabeth’s smile caught Amy’s attention. She narrowed her eyes. “What are you
thinking?”
“Seduction isn’t trickery. Figure out a way to introduce him to what you’d like, using
your physical relationship as a doorway to your emotional relationship.”
“I don’t want ‘kinky sex,’” Amy whispered, glancing to her left to make sure the
nearest dining couple wasn’t listening. She hesitated and added, “Not just that.”
“I know. My point is that some people are more comfortable with physical stimulus
than verbal, emotional, or mental stimulus. Maybe Mac isn’t thrilled with the idea of
discussing your submission. That doesn’t mean he can’t be excited by it. Introduce him
to it by touch, and investigate the possibilities later, if he’s more agreeable.”
“Should I use some sort of toy?” Amy ventured, uncertain. “I don’t even have a
vibrator.”
Elizabeth eyed her askance. “You’re thirty-two years old. You’ve been having sex with
the same man for far too long.”
She blushed. Sixteen years had passed since the first time she and Mac were
together, on his parents’ living room couch while they were away for a wedding. They’d
both been teenagers. Sex had been the same ever since—intense, hot and fantastic, but
not adventurous at all.

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***

Mac worked the nightshift and hadn’t come home by the time Amy left their
apartment the next morning. She’d hoped to see him on his way in, but work called her
out too early. It had also presented her with an idea that wouldn’t leave her be.
As she sat in her car, waiting for it to warm up, she dialed her husband’s dispatcher.
Mac worked for a corporate systems support firm that ensured round-the-clock tech
support, and she had to reach him through the office if she wanted to reach him at all.
A woman’s cheerful voice came on the line and asked her to hold. Amy pushed her
glasses up into her hair, lifting the deliberately wispy strands of magenta away from her
face. She angled the rearview mirror to examine her hairline, making sure the temporary
dye hadn’t stained her scalp pink. The morning’s photo shoot requirements included
magenta hair, not magenta skin, but she hadn’t had time to visit a salon. She’d had
barely enough time to race to the pharmacy, still in pajamas, to buy the hair color kit
after her agent’s 4 a.m. phone call.
Satisfied her skin was the right hue, she dumped the contents of her cosmetics bag
on the passenger seat and started the car. Mellow music played in her ear, thankfully
unobtrusive, and she applied her makeup. The receptionist returned to the phone,
chiming a cheerful, “Hello, thanks for holding! What’s your account number?”
Amy almost stabbed herself in the eye with an eyeliner pencil; a navy blue streak
jogged down the side of her nose. Her stomach knotted up at the question. Her plan
could be dead in the water. She grimaced at her reflection and tossed the pencil aside. “I
don’t have it on me,” she bluffed. “I’m not in the office yet. I’ve worked with Mac before.
Is he available?”
“One moment please.” The receptionist put her back on hold. Amy distracted herself
from nervous anxiety by rifling through the assortment of creams, cloths, powders and
brushes on the seat until she found a wet wipe. She carefully cleaned the blue streak
from her nose, keeping an eye on the dashboard clock. The receptionist was gone so long
she began to wonder whether she’d been disconnected; the hold music had cut out ages
ago. No, it only seemed like ages ago. Amy had painting her face in the front seat of a car
down to a science, and she could get from foundation to lip gloss, all layers between
included, in seven minutes—coincidentally the same amount of time it took the rear and
front windows of her car to defrost in the winter.
“Hello, Miss? I need your account number in order to determine which of our
technicians has worked with your company before. Once I have that information, I can
send somebody out.”
“Not ‘somebody.’ Mac. Is he available?”
“Who we send depends upon the nature of the problem,” the receptionist said
politely.
Amy rolled her eyes. Procedure drove her nuts. “Look, it’s very important that I have
Mac.”
“Oh, um.” Another phone line started ringing on the receptionist’s end. “Can you
hold again?”
“No. I’m running late. Please send him to 1743 Franklin Boulevard, Suite 25-C. It’s
on the third floor.”
“Can you call back as soon as possible with your account number, Miss…?”
“Corcoran. Amy Corcoran.”

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“Oh! Are you-”

“I really need to go; please send Mac as soon as possible.”
“Of course, Mrs. Corcoran. Have a good morning!”
“You too.” Amy exhaled slowly and pulled the wire clip off her jacket and plucked the
ear bud from her ear. She fastened her seatbelt and, moments later, pulled into traffic.
She preferred to show up for photo shoots early, and this morning, she’d need the extra
time to compose herself. “Flustered” wasn’t a good look on camera.

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Chapter Two
Mac Corcoran checked the code on his pager twice, once with disbelief and the
second time with resignation. He’d just finished troubleshooting a chain of hardware
problems for a minor celebrity who had decided 2 a.m. was the perfect time for
recording his new album. His ears were still ringing from the client’s music (literally his;
the guy was some kind of character, piping his own tunes into every one of the eleven
rooms in his downtown brownstone) and he stank of cigarette smoke. He wanted a
shower and a long sleep.
The timing for both couldn’t be better; his wife left for work every morning at 6 a.m.,
leaving Mac with a quiet house and a warm bed, both empty of the woman he couldn’t
face. These days, he slept on the couch when they happened to both be in at the same
time.
The last-minute assignment that came across his pager blew his sleep plans right out
of the water. Mac dialed the dispatch office. Renee, the new receptionist, answered the
phone.
“I’m off-shift,” Mac barked, rougher than he’d intended. “Give the call to one of the
guys coming on.”
The new girl, halfway through her automatic hello-thanks-for-calling greeting,
stammered to a stop. She was quiet a long moment before venturing, “Mac?”
“Yeah. You just paged me with a new assignment. I’m off as of fifteen minutes ago.
I’m going home. Give it to someone else.”
“The client requested you,” she said. “She’s one of your regular customers.”
Mac rubbed his jaw, which was scratchy with the beginnings of a beard. Shower,
clean clothes, sleep, maybe breakfast—they were all he wanted. That wasn’t asking too
much, was it? He and his wife weren’t speaking, and his assignments lately were shit
jobs. He deserved a little luxury. He didn’t say any of that to Renee, though. Instead, he
asked, “What are the specifics?”
“Um. She didn’t say.”
Code phrase for “the receptionist didn’t ask.” Mac bit back his irritation. “Who’s the
client?”
“I, uh…”
“You did get her name, right?”
“Someone else took the call and set it up,” Renee said, rushing the words. “All I have
is an address and a time.”
Mac’s jaw clenched. “When’s the job?”
“Forty-five minutes from now.”
He swore. “Location?”
Renee named a site downtown. With the morning commuter traffic in full swing, it
would take him the entire forty-five to get there. “I’m going to be late,” he said. “If she
calls back, tell her I’m on the way. And try to get a name, will you?”
“S-sure.”
Mac disconnected the call and pocketed his cell phone. He needed a cup of coffee,
the bigger and blacker, the better. No, he thought, as he navigated commuter traffic and
tried to shake off exhaustion. What he needed was his wife. The coffee was a poor
substitute.

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Chapter Three
Amy had creamy, freckle-free skin. It was perfect for this assignment because it
showed every little mark any toy could possibly make, and the photographer didn’t even
have to employ the merchandise very heavily to get the desired effect. That’s what her
agent said, anyway. He assured Amy the whole affair was product photography for an
adult toys mail-order catalog was on the level. She had to sign release paperwork,
stating that she wouldn’t sue the distributor for sexual harassment. In turn, the contract
promised she wouldn’t actually be penetrated or beaten, and any clamps or other
potentially bruising items wouldn’t be realistically employed.
Strictly on the level, Amy told herself as she walked into the studio, which was set up
in a leased office space. Framed photographs, all figure work, adorned the beige walls.
The receptionist wore a tidy black skirt and blazer. She smiled when Amy checked in
and retrieved her paperwork. The professional smile and lack of piercings were a plus.
Professional artists who dressed professionally earned points.
Amy checked her wristwatch repeatedly as she filled out the forms. Every time
somebody in the corridor walked by, she jerked her head up.
“Relax,” the receptionist said.
Amy glanced at the young woman, who smiled and added, “Christophe is a great
photographer. Very professional. And you look fantastic, just like you’re supposed to.
It’ll be fine.”
“My agent told me I’m supposed to bring an assistant,” Amy said, a lilt to the last
word, making it a question. “I’m worried he’ll be late and hold things up.”
“A third person in a session is standard procedure. Somebody has to arrange the
props so he can take pictures. Given the subject matter of this spread, we’ve found most
models are more comfortable with their own people. If your assistant’s late, I’ll stand in
temporarily. Christophe wants his models to feel safe and secure. It’s all fine to
acknowledge liability claims on paper, but paper is no substitute for having a physical
presence to ensure that all dealings remain satisfactory for both the photographer and
the model.”
“Ah,” Amy said. She didn’t have much more to add to that, except “Thanks.” She
even managed a smile, however insincere. She honestly wasn’t as concerned about the
shoot as she was about Mac’s reaction. She was gambling her entire marriage on an
impulsive decision to bring him into her work life, to show him that she needed him. To
show him how she needed him. If it backfired, if he was offended that she brought him
into this situation, if she lost him, she didn’t know what she would do.
She’d never loved anybody else. She always knew Mac was the one. From the day his
family moved into the vacancy across the hall from her family’s apartment when she was
thirteen and he was fifteen. She fell in love with his sullen mouth and wanted to make an
ice pack for the black eye he’d earned in an alley brawl with the tougher boys from the
complex.
The office door swung open. Amy’s head jerked up, and her heart leapt into her
throat. Mac stopped on the threshold, gaze locked on hers. Confusion, followed by
anger, sparked in his eyes. “What is this?”
“I’m sorry I tr—didn’t call you directly,” she said in a hurry. “I didn’t know if you had
your phone with you.”

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He glanced at the receptionist, who had half-stood to greet him, and withdrew into
the corridor.
Amy murmured a wordless reassurance to the photographer’s secretary and followed
Mac.
“Renee said that a client had phoned in an emergency,” he said. He squinted at the
lettering on the name plate beside the door. It bore the photographer’s name and
profession and nothing else.
“You don’t need me here,” Mac said, voice flat. He looked past her head, not even
acknowledging her with his eyes.
Amy flinched. “Need” was the verb that had begun their current estrangement. His
tone imitated her own perfectly, just as it had been the night she had spat out those
words during an argument about work. She had told him she didn’t need him. Mac
hadn’t looked her in the eye since. That was months ago, and she still didn’t know how
to take the words back.
“I need an assistant or I can’t have the job,” Amy whispered, striving to keep the
exchange private. She tried to catch Mac’s gaze, but he didn’t give an inch.
“Work that out with your agent.”
“The job started five minutes ago. Please stay.” Her voice hitched on the last word.
She couldn’t bring herself to finish it, to add, “with me.” Instead she said, “You have to
stay.”
“Amy, I’m tired.” He rubbed his moist and blood shot eyes. Tired tears, she thought,
and almost gave in. The strain of the job, of months of working graveyard, marked his
rough features with purple shadows and new lines at the corners of his eyes and lips.
The rugged quality of his face, the way his jaw showed strength and his brow showed
dedication, perfectly fit her definition of beauty. She spent hours and sometimes whole
days with men who met the polished standards of male beauty, but Mac was her David.
She knew every inch of his face by touch alone.
“What is this really about?” he asked wearily. “You could’ve brought anybody else.”
Amy swallowed. “I want to show you things. To show you me.”
The door to the studio opened. Christophe, the photographer, stood in the doorway.
“Is there a problem?”
Mac’s eyes were inscrutable. He set his jaw and moved past the slimmer man into the
studio. The photographer raised his brows expectantly at Amy. At a loss, she followed
her husband.
Tall, spindly lamps, some illuminated and some dimmed, marked different areas of
the room, itself the size of a large corporate office. It could have held a big boardroom
table or a few small cubicles. Christophe had divided it into three different sets. He had
not, Amy noted, provided even so much as a privacy curtain for disrobing and changing
costumes. She briefly considered asking for one. Mac’s presence suddenly made her feel
small and shy. Vulnerable. She chanced a quick check of his face and regretted it. The
tendons in his neck strained, and his cheeks were pale. He was furious; she’d made a
stupid, stupid mistake. Her breath shortened and she looked away.
Impervious to the rage heating the space between them, the photographer
gestured toward the wardrobe corner. “Amy, let’s get started.”
The wardrobe was a rolling rack of costumes against the wall opposite the windows.
The rack tempted her to run and hide behind it. She could move it a little, use it as a
makeshift privacy wall and hide from Mac’s glare. Not that she would have privacy once

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she left the safety of the wardrobe. The straps and buckles, stockings and cups without
bras, peeked from amidst an array of role-play costumes were designed to expose rather
than conceal. Amy eyed the assortment of fetish wear, trying and failing to picture
herself in even the tamest French maid get-up. Maybe if she found something modest,
Mac would calm down a little.
God, this was such a mistake. Any minute now, Mac would walk out and she’d get
home to find him gone forever. Maybe she should call it off, run out to the office and
tear up the release paperwork, call her agent and cancel the job. Gripping the top edge of
a straight back chair, upon which the photographer or his assistant had dropped a short
dressing gown for her comfort, she willed her knees to stop shaking. She’d had to
remove her wedding ring for the pictures, but the white band around her finger
reminded her well enough where her priorities lay. She couldn’t back out. This was the
only way she knew to show Mac what she wanted. If she called it off now, she wouldn’t
have another chance.
She dug deep for strength and headed for the costume rack, shedding her coat. Mac
moved into the opposite corner of the office.
She positioned the rack at an angle and edged behind it to unbutton her blouse. The
short rack left her shoulders and upper chest visible over the hanger hooks, and she
could see Mac clearly over the walls of the cubicle dividers. He stared at her, lips drawn
in a tight line. She was so startled by the direct eye contact that she looked away. The
first garment that came to hand was a shimmery mermaid costume. She flipped it over
her head and emerged a moment later in a shell bra and an iridescent skirt that didn’t
reach her thighs.
”Which set?” she asked, directing the question to Christophe, who was sorting
through camera lenses. He lifted his head and frowned.
“Costumes are for another shoot. I need you to work with accessories today. Start
with the strap-on harnesses.”
Heat suffused her cheeks. This was hell, and she’d chosen it for herself with a
ridiculous scheme to win back her husband by appealing to his libido and macho
sensibilities instead of just talking to him. Disgusted with herself and avoiding Mac’s
gaze, she yanked the little green and pink costume over her head and grabbed the first
tangle of black leather and steel buckle that she laid hands on. A heavy pink dildo,
obscenely long and designed specifically for wearing with a harness, dangled from the
crotch ring.
Amy hid behind the costume rack. Buckles and grommets clinked against one
another. Her untrained hands made a mess of the interconnected bits of leather. Whole
minutes ticked away. The photographer flashed light from different angles, preparing
his set. She caught him darting an impatient glance in her direction, and frustrated tears
pricked the backs of her eyelids.
“Stupid and impossible,” she mumbled beneath her breath, struggling to disengage
her wrist from the snaky leather.
“Hold still.” Mac, suddenly standing at her elbow, took over. He pulled the harness
from her hands and deftly shook it into submission. “Step in,” he instructed, bending
and holding it low so she could slip her feet through the loops.
She hesitated. He had lowered his head and angled his face away from her. She
couldn’t even see the set of his mouth. His tone was too neutral, too flat, for her to pull
any meaning from it. He’d made himself deliberately unreadable.

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“You don’t have to stay,” she whispered.

Mac tensed. “Yes, I do. Step in.” A growl lurked beneath his even words.
Amy clutched the shoulder of his jacket and stepped into the leather circles he held
stretched between his hands. He pulled the harness up roughly, adjusted the length of
the leg straps, and tightened the waist buckle to fit around her hips. Cold metal nestled
below her navel.
“Fix this,” Mac said, tapping the bulbous head of the dildo that jutted away from her
abdomen.
She stared at him. “How did you know how this works?” she asked, low so
Christophe couldn’t hear.
He turned away instead of answering and retreated to a corner of the conference
room turned studio. Stamping down her curiosity, she fumbled the latex phallus into
place. The rubber-spongy texture made her skin crawl. Her stomach rebelled at the
unfamiliar girth of the synthetic shaft. She’d never wrapped her hand around a penis,
fake or otherwise, that didn’t belong to Mac.
The flat butt of the dildo pressed against the narrow strip of blonde hair curling
between her thighs, snagging the curls and pulling every time she moved. She tried not
to wince as she approached the photographer, dildo and breasts bobbing every step of
the way. Mortification set her chest and face on fire.
Christophe examined her with a critical eye, made notes on a yellow legal pad, and
went to set up the camera in the station nearest Mac. “Kneel upon that table on your
hands and knees facing away from the camera,” he directed.
Blood pounded sluggishly between Amy’s ears. She always thought the metaphor of
moving through molasses was a hillbilly grandma saying, but she suddenly knew how
appropriate it could be even in her urban environment. She placed one foot in front of
the other until she reached a table draped with midnight blue velour. Mac’s gaze seared
her skin, driving hot pinpricks of awareness into every muscle from her shoulders to her
calves.
She didn’t know how to mount the table gracefully, given Christophe’s failure to
provide a step for her benefit. The table hit her at waist height, forcing her to hike
herself up until she could catch the surface with her knee. The bulbed end of the strap-
on smacked the edge of the table, and the impact knocked the synthetic shaft askew. She
had to readjust it.
“Put your feet together, but keep your knees apart,” the photographer instructed, and
came close to place a prop between her feet. Amy glanced down between her thighs, past
the strap-on, and raised an eyebrow at the long-stemmed pink rose nestled against her
ankles. Artists were so bizarre.
The air conditioner blew cold air through a vent directly above her, and she swore
she could hear Mac breathing as well. His breathing was one of her favorite sounds,
whether he was asleep or finishing a workout or in the midst of sex. Especially during
sex. The way he inhaled and inhaled and inhaled, short little pulls of oxygen all in a row
without breathing out, always signaled his approaching climax. She listened hard,
craving the sound, and shivered as he inhaled.
Was he still angry? That little edge of growl that had kept his voice from being
completely flat gave her some small bit of hope that she might survive this display. She
wanted to look at him. She could casually flip her hair out of her eyes and sneak a
glance, attempt to gauge the expression on his face. Fear kept her from doing it. She’d

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find out what he thought later, after the photo shoot was finished, when she didn’t need
to focus on retaining her composure.
Bad enough that she was certain Christophe had noticed her scent, as nervous
anxiety and embarrassed arousal battled for dominance of her body’s responses.

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Chapter Four
Mac spent too much of his life looking at his wife, wanting her, loving and sometimes
hating her, but never knowing how to touch her. Really touch her, inside, make her
really open her eyes and see him. Amy existed in a fog that he couldn’t penetrate. He
was tired of fighting it. He should stop hedging and get the divorce papers together, but
every time he tried to imagine life without her, his system locked up.
Nothing affected her. She maintained a neutral mask in every situation except sex.
During sex, she was a different person; shy, vulnerable, intensely attentive once she
warmed up. Her face was a fluid portrait when he brought her into that deep space of
lovemaking. Throughout the duration of their marriage, though, he’d been unable to
pull the mask away permanently.
The meaning behind the array of props spread across the different photo sets had
slapped him in the face the minute he entered the studio. The curling tongue of a riding
crop threw him into a terrifying memory spin. Only an instinct to protect Amy had kept
him from bolting.
Once the first wave of fear passed, and he forcibly shoved aside the sickening
memories of his parents’ relationship, Amy drew him in. He strove to ignore the familiar
stiffening she cajoled from his dick. He didn’t want to be aroused by the picture of her
submission. The photographer afforded him a focus. Mac’s hands balled into fists of
their own accord, craving permission to break the photographer’s pompous nose. The
pretty man hadn’t earned the privilege of Amy. He concentrated on his rage instead of
the more visceral urge to dominate his wife, and fantasized about plowing the other
man’s face with his fists.
The photographer snapped several photos of her ass, her cheeks parted just enough
that the tight pink pucker was visible along with the clipped blonde down furring her
lips, spread wide by that ridiculous strap-on. The black leather harness wound around
her hips and framed her thighs. Soon, Mac could smelled as well as saw her body’s
reaction, rosy pussy wet and glistening, but he couldn’t tell whether it was a result of
conscious arousal or Pavlovian response. As he drew in his fill of her lush scent, his
nipples drew tight and the nature of her arousal ceased to matter.
His gaze drifted out of a sense of self-preservation, and he searched for something
else upon which to focus. He would control himself.
“Lift your hips and lower your shoulders.”
The instruction drew Mac’s attention back, away from a neutral spot on the wall
where the paint had chipped away. Amy’s shoulders tensed as she repositioned her
body. Christophe directed her to lift her shoulders higher—he wanted to get her nipples
in the photo. Her knees were too close together. She needed to bring her feet up, hold
the rose between them but lift them off the table.
Amy obeyed every instruction, adjusting her pose to accommodate Christophe’s
desires. She may as well have been a puppet. Her willingness to display her body
confused Mac because she was so modest in every other situation in life. Even with him,
she requested low lights, wore lingerie to bed, and managed to hold onto at least one
article of clothing in the most intimate of engagements.
He didn’t know what was worse: that another man manipulated his wife, or that she
wordlessly obeyed. He’d never asked anything like this from her—didn’t need kinky sex,
racy poses, or dirty language. She was enough for him in and of herself.

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She rested her cheek on her forearm, facing him. He’d never seen her eyes so dark
before, soft and languid and sultry. Begging for his attention, for his approval.
“You’re too wet,” Christophe abruptly announced. He threw a rough rag at Mac.
“Wipe her with that.”
Amy’s thighs clenched. Her hair hung in her face so Mac couldn’t tell whether her
expression changed at all, but he was humiliated and angry on her behalf. And he hated
that damned pink rose propped between her little feet, thorns dangerously close to
pricking the tender skin. White roses were her roses. He had never given her any other
color, and he wanted to jam that pink one up the photographer’s ass.
Instead, he strangled the rag he’d been given and moved behind Amy, blocking her
from Christophe’s view.
“Are we here because this is an assignment you want, or because you’re trying to talk
to me?” he whispered, spreading his fingers across the small of her back. This close, her
fragrance drugged him. Something stronger than gravity tried to drag him to his knees,
to bring him to a level more conducive to planting his face between her thighs and
licking until his tongue wore raw.
“Quickly!” The photographer heaved a disgusted sigh behind Mac and swore beneath
his breath. “We’ll never make deadline,” he muttered.
“Amy, answer me.”

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Chapter Five
Mac’s question reached down deep into the warm pool of fantasy that bound Amy.
His voice broke the promise of the dark and offered something new, if only she could
claw her way free and grab it.
Somewhere, an unfamiliar voice asked, “Amy, what is this?”
“Back off.” That was Mac. “She’s sick.”
His gruff tone alarmed her. She wanted him tender and attentive, not angry, but the
gentling filter of fantasy unraveled faster than she could wind it back up. She surfaced
through layers of sensation. Numbness pricked her shins. The still-unfamiliar weight of
the harness she wore skewed her balance. She drew her knees together, closer to her
chest, and something sharp stabbed her ankle.
Big, warm hands cupped her shoulders and drew her upright. A heavy weight draped
across her back. “Mac?” she asked, blinking at the expanse of wrinkled fabric, the single
row of buttons that marched down the broad chest that blocked her view of the room.
“I’m taking you home,” he said. He fumbled with the buckle of her harness. Her hips
shifted toward him of their own volition, responding to her sensitive, aroused body’s
needful cravings for his touch.
“What are you doing?” the other voice in the room asked. His irritation stung her
ears. “We’re not finished!”
“Yes, you are,” Mac said. “Find someone else.”
A door opened and slammed shut. Amy jumped.
“I love you,” she murmured. She pressed her forehead to Mac’s chest. “I do.”
“You need to get dressed.” Mac’s voice, low and rough, made her shiver and tremble
all at once. Her head wasn’t where it should be; she couldn’t quite focus properly. He
moved away, but came back moments later and dressed her. She tried to help but her
arms and legs refused to cooperate.
Mac pushed her feet into her shoes and pulled her up and out of the studio. The
timing didn’t seem right. How much time had passed? She couldn’t remember most of
the job, didn’t remember it ending at all, and had no idea whether it was a success or a
failure. Her recollection didn’t improve as they walked. Shame joined arousal and
together they drummed a rhythm she couldn’t break, an over-and-over again cycle that
held tight and wouldn’t let her go.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. His grip on her bicep tightened and relaxed, but he
didn’t say anything.
The high-rise office building’s lobby was deserted. Rain sluiced down the big
windows that formed the front. She balked.
“I didn’t bring an umbrella.”
Shedding his coat, he draped it over her head and around her shoulders and guided
her into the deluge.
“You’ll get sick.” Wet, icy fingers snuck beneath the makeshift umbrella, stinging her
cheeks. Mac ignored her protest and hurried her to the parking garage half a block down
the street.
They ducked out of the rain, and he escorted her to his car, guiding her into the
passenger seat. Water dripped from his nose, splashing on her lips. “We’ll get your car
later.”

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Amy licked her lips dry and worried her thumbnail. He positioned himself behind
the wheel. Now that his focus had been redirected and wasn’t aimed entirely at her, her
head started to clear. The rain had also helped, rinsing her clean mentally even as it
destroyed her makeup.
His shirt was soaked through. Wet and transparent, it clung to his skin. She wanted
to touch him—every cell ached for some contact, something to bring her away from the
edge of shattering. Bringing him into the studio was a tremendous mistake. Mac as an
audience was supposed to arouse him, not open a floodgate of raw desire in herself.
Desire was a small, paltry word for it. Need came closer. Urgency put it in the same
general context. Compulsion? No—that was wrong too. She had nothing with which to
compare the experience, but she could guess, and her guess was that she had discovered
sub space. She hadn’t wanted it this way, unexpected and unfulfilled. Her heart
pounded, turning the rhythm of desire into a rhythm of fear. What would Mac say?
He turned on the radio. The monotonous British accent of the public radio
newscaster filled the void between them.
“I’m sorry.” Again.
“We’ll discuss it later.” Rivulets of water cascaded over the windshield as he nosed
into traffic. The thump of the windshield wipers shaped her racing pulse into a new
pattern.
Maybe he hadn’t noticed that she mentally evacuated the scene, earlier. Better if he
hadn’t. She wouldn’t have to explain it to him, or convince him that it had been for him,
not for the photographer and his props.
“It wasn’t him,” she blurted.
“Amy. This topic is off-limits until tomorrow. Don’t push it. Am I clear?”
A sidelong glance at his profile showed his jaw set hard, his gaze straight ahead
through the rain. Instinctively, she knew that he knew. She couldn’t help herself—the
two little words just slipped out. “Yes, sir.”
He shot a dark, heavy look her way. She knew that look—had known him too long to
not know it—but she hadn’t expected want in his eyes. Anger, hurt, disappointment, but
not lust so blatant that the inside of the car was suddenly as hot as a steam room.
Mac dropped her off in front of their building and headed for the parking garage.
Knees shaking, she took herself up to their apartment.
She had no idea what to do. Attempt to seduce him? Hide from him until tempers
cooled and they could talk about it tomorrow? She needed to explain, no matter that
part of her believed they would be better off ignoring it.
Five minutes became fifteen, and she dialed Elizabeth’s number.
“I’ve made a mistake,” she confessed first thing. “I don’t think he’s coming back.”
“Where are you?” Elizabeth asked.
“At home. Mac dropped me off and didn’t come up.”
“Are you safe?”
She squinted at the locks and bolts on the front door. “The chain’s not put up,” she
said.
“But are you safe? Not suicidal or murderous or anything in between?”
“I think my heart’s breaking.”
“Honey, if you’re safe right now, I have to call you back. I can’t talk.”
Amy blinked at the rain sluicing down the windows, stunned. “But I need you.”
“Somebody else needs me more. I’ll call you back.” Elizabeth hung up.

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***

“I’m sorry.” Elizabeth’s voice interrupted the ghost-reel playing in Mac’s head. He
latched onto her voice and shoved his father’s shouting into the back of his memory.
“Was that her?” Mac asked. He huddled in the alcove of a corner grocery, trying to
stay out of the way of rainy-day shoppers ducking in and out of the store.
“I would no more tell you if she called me than I would tell her that you did,”
Elizabeth said sharply. “I take confidences very seriously.”
“So you won’t tell me whether you’ve known about this or not.”
Elizabeth’s silence spoke up loud and clear. Mac shook his head at the rain and
closed his eyes. “Is this something she needs in order to be a whole person?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. You need to find that out on your own. She’s reaching out to
you and asking you to help her determine the answer.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“You’re not supposed to right away. Your job is to find out what to do. You can’t
know what she really needs until you convince her to talk to you.”
“But-”
“Listen, she’s taken a huge step in opening up this much to you. The next step is
yours. If you want to walk away, if you can’t deal with a wife who needs to surrender
control, you should tell her that. If you want to try to be what she needs, explain to her
that you’re willing to try but you need time to learn.
“You have to go and tell her something, though. She’s okay right now, but she’s
stripped off all her clothes and planted herself in front of you, naked and vulnerable, and
she’s in a scary place. The longer she’s alone, the more frightened she’ll get. Go home,
Mac. Don’t torment my friend with silence.”
He swallowed. “Okay.”
“Call me if you need anything. Advice, or…anything.”
“I will. Thank you.”

***

Amy eventually stopped watching the door and reaching for the telephone. She
showered so she could pretend she wasn’t crying, but she couldn’t trick herself…and she
couldn’t fool Mac anymore, either. Now he knew, too, that she wasn’t the same woman
he married.
He wouldn’t have betrayed her by marching her out in the middle of the street and
calling her on her ability to love him. She’d committed a grievous wrong by doing that to
him. Needles of water dashed over her skin, punishing her for such vast stupidity.
The bathroom door opened, interrupting her self-pity. The shower curtain swayed
close and sucked against her soapy skin.
“Do you still love me?” he asked.
Yes caught in her throat. She struggled to force the word to her lips. Why was it so
hard? What if she said yes and he didn’t love her anymore? Then what defense would
she have? Silent moments slipped through her fingers like soapy water, escaping and
swirling down the drain. The bathroom door closed, and for a single, terrifying moment,
she thought he’d given up and gone away.

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“You have to answer me, even if the answer hurts.” He paused and asked, “Do you?
Yes or no.”
She pulled the curtain back a few inches. Mac’s reflection in the steamed up mirror
was only a blur, devoid of facial features or texture or color. His hand came out of
nowhere, folding over hers. The simple touch shook “Yes” past the block in her throat.
She said it again to be sure.
“Yes. I still love you.”
Mac blew out a breath that she could hear even over the patter of water on the
shower tiles, and his relief gave her anxiety permission to pull back. The tight knot in
her stomach eased.
“Your hand is cold as ice,” she said. “There’s still hot water. Do you want the rest of
it?”
He pulled the curtain back, removing her plastic wall of defense. Cold air rushed over
her wet body. She shrank against the wall, covering her chest.
Mac was a mess. Rain had plastered his hair into a dark, dripping cap. She could see
through his shirt, which was so cold his nipples pressed hard against the transparent
fabric. He had two buttons free, but he stopped on the third, and narrowed his eyes.
“Don’t ever hide yourself from me again.”
Amy reluctantly uncrossed her arms. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, or,
for that matter, her body’s responses. He had never stripped her of every single hiding
place before now.
“What are you thinking?” she ventured. He peeled the sodden shirt from his
shoulders and dropped it in the sink. His pants followed, and he climbed into the tub,
pulling the curtain into place.
“That there’s no way I can be gentle with you right now.”
His erection reached her first, hot and heavy as it nuzzled the cleft between her
thighs. He ducked his head, burying his face against her throat and biting. At the same
time, he grasped her bottom and lifted her. The grout between the tiles, jagged in places,
scraped her shoulders as he slid her up the wall. Amy automatically wrapped her arms
around his neck and spread her legs.
Her eyes closed against the deluge of hot water raining over them, and she rocked
her head back against the wall. Gentle or brutal didn’t matter; she exulted in the
physical contact, the solid assurance that he still wanted her. She hiked her legs up high
around his waist and dug her heels against the small of his back, ensuring that he
couldn’t rescind his claim.
He pumped hard and fast half a dozen times and growled, “Mine” in her ear as he
came. After, with the water pounding cold over their heads, he whispered, “I love you.”

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Chapter Six
Once wasn’t enough. His manhood stirred again, rising against her thigh; even the
chill that had set into her skin didn’t diminish his desire. He kissed the side of her neck,
her cheek and turned off the water. He ignored the urge to take her a second time. The
shell-shocked look in her eyes worried him, even as her fragility turned him on.
“Come dry off.” He dragged a towel off the rack hanging over the laundry hamper
and rubbed it over her shoulders.
Amy squeezed her eyes shut and drew a corner of the towel up to dry her face and
ears. He started to scrub at her hair and hesitated. “How long until the dye fades?”
“Not long. A week. It’s temporary.”
“Good. Don’t do it again.”
She lowered her eyes. “I won’t.”
He dried her hair and drew her from the tub, carefully blotting the water from her
legs and feet.
“Can I have my robe?”
“Do you want it because you’re cold or because you’re naked?”
She frowned, relieving his worry that she was retreating from him. A frown was a
sign of emotion, something besides meek surrender.
“I’m cold because I’m naked,” she said.
Mac dried himself with the damp towel. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Then I don’t understand the question.”
“Do you want to be warm, or do you want to be covered up so I can’t see you?”
She bit her lip, which was answer enough for him. Mac dropped his towel on the
floor, pulled her purple bathrobe off its hook, took her hand, and led her into the
kitchen.
“Throw it away,” he instructed, pushing the bundle of cloth into her hands. “Turn up
the heat if you get cold, but you will not wear clothes when we are alone in our home.”
Her breath quickened, and her chest flushed pink. She shook as she obeyed him and
discarded the robe.
“You hide from me too much.” He caressed the curve of her back, stroking from her
nape to her hips as she bent over the trashcan. “I don’t want to play hide and seek. I
want to reach out and find you where you’re supposed to be.”
She struggled with figuring out how to hold herself, straightening and folding her
arms across her chest only to realize what she’d done and drop her arms to her sides.
She laced her fingers together over her mound and aborted that in the next motion.
Distress pulled at her mouth.
“You can always hide behind me if you really need to hide,” he reminded her, trying
to make the words gentle, to hide the pain of knowing she needed a reminder. “Just no
more hiding from me.”
“Will you hold me?” Her voice was so small he ached.
“If you come to me.”
She moved, leaning into him chest to thigh. He tried to adjust himself so he didn’t
jab her with his persistent erection and hugged her close. Her soap drew him into its
clean, floral bouquet. He cradled the back of her head, pressing her cheek to his
shoulder.
“Now what?” The question kissed his skin. He shivered.

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“Now we figure out what’s gone wrong and work on making it better.”
“What if it takes too long?”
“I promised you forever.” He squeezed her briefly, then turned her around and
nudged her toward the bedroom. “Do you want the heat up?”
Amy paused at the thermostat on the wall between the kitchen and the bedroom, and
shook her head. She eased back half a step until the head of his cock rubbed her hip and
looked back at him over her shoulder. Her eyes smoldered. “I’m not cold anymore.”
Indecision caught and held him fast. He wanted her, but he didn’t want their
relationship to turn from sexless to sex-based. Besides, the direct approach wasn’t in
character for his wife. She didn’t initiate. She gave little signs, hugged and cuddled, but
she didn’t turn around and rub up against his dick and say “do me,” even in a subtle
fashion. Unless he read her wrong, though, that’s exactly what she had just done. The
change in her was too fast, too abrupt. A single instance of taking charge couldn’t have
spurred that kind of a transformation.
Uncertainty cooled his arousal, and his energy faded along with his erection. He’d
been awake too long, between his shift and Amy’s session. The fingernail of sky visible
between the kitchen curtains attested to the passage of time. It wasn’t storm-dark
anymore. True dark had taken over.
He took too long to respond. Amy ducked her head and half-turned toward their
bedroom, ringing her hands. Shit. He didn’t want to make a poor judgment call and lose
her again. If he were honest with himself, he didn’t know how to proceed anyway.
Amy’s stomach rumbled.
“I’m too tired, and you’re hungry,” he said by way of rejecting her offer. “Call in
something for delivery and come lay down with me.”
She missed a beat responding, probably because she hadn’t expected to be turned
down. He hugged her and cupped her breast possessively. “Do you have any jobs
scheduled tomorrow?”
“Nothing yet. It’s my day to be on call at the agency.”
“Cancel your day. You’re mine tomorrow, and I don’t feel like sharing.”
“Are you going to work tonight?”
“Night off.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize.” Her shoulders hunched, a certain sign of shame.
“We haven’t paid attention for a long time.”
She jerked a nod, blinking rapidly. Tears.
“Don’t cry.” He kissed her ear and let her go. “I feel like Mexican.”
“Tacos and margaritas?”
“If they deliver this far.”
He left her to take care of dinner and her phone calls and switched directions to the
laundry room. All his clothes were in baskets near the dryer, these days, a symbolic
material separation. He gathered an armload of underwear and t-shirts and took them
back to the bedroom, determined to reclaim his half of the bureau.
Amy’s voice murmured in the other room. He was tempted to boot the computer and
do a quick Internet search for advice on handling a submissive woman outside the
context of fetish sex, but good sense told him to put it off until a less emotionally-
charged time. Instinct would have to do. In the meantime, he wasn’t entirely ignorant.
He at least had his parents as examples in how not to behave.

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As an attempt to keep his libido in check, he pulled on a pair of flannel pajama

bottoms. When she padded into the room, damp pink hair curling around her ears and
pale little nipples hard, he was glad he’d had the forethought to cover himself.
Horniness was giving his good sense a run for its money.
“Forty-five minutes.” She worried her lip. “I hope shrimp is alright. I didn’t know
what you had yesterday. Did you have seafood?”
“No. Shrimp is fine.”
“Can I ask a question?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you want to have sex again?”
“Because I don’t know what to do for you.”

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Chapter Seven
Mac turned his face up to her. Vulnerable. She never thought of him as vulnerable.
He was tall and broad, strong and masculine. He was a protector, never one who needed
protection. Viewing him this way, though, seated on the edge of the bed, blue and white
pajama pants barely covering the physical manifestation of his need—this way, she was
inspired to protect him.
I’m his only natural predator. He could defend himself from everything but her. She
never realized how much power she held over him, not until that thought dropped down
heavy on her mind.
“I’ve been hurting you.”
Puzzlement creased his brow. He slid his hands around the backs of her thighs and
pulled her between his knees. “You agreed to save this talk for tomorrow. I promise it’s
no hurt we can’t heal.”
He kissed her stomach, nipped at the fragile skin above her navel. Amy shivered, and
goosebumps spread out in waves from his kiss. Her breasts firmed, her toes curled. She
wanted to work through their emotional baggage, but more, she wanted him to take her
a second time, to slam into her body over and over again, once more promising that he
wouldn’t leave. That he’d take her as she was.
“Mac,” she whispered, fingering the hair waving at the nape of his neck.
He tilted his head back, met her eyes with a question.
“We have half an hour,” she said. “More.”
His fingers flexed, squeezing her thighs. She ran her fingernails around the curve of
his ear, and it was his turn to shudder. “Amy-”
“Please.”
“I don’t have toys.”
“I don’t need them.”
“I can’t hit you. I can’t hurt you.”
“It isn’t about kinky sex.”
He smoothed his hands up to cup her bottom, kneading and tickling the crease
between her cheeks. Amy closed her eyes and bent over him, hiding her face in his hair.
“Please,” she repeated. “It’s been so long. I need you again. You don’t have to be
gentle. Or perfect. Just deep inside.”
He groaned. His shoulders tensed beneath her hands, and he jerked her abdomen
against his chest, twisting and dropping her onto the bed before she had a chance to yelp
in surprise. She grabbed his head and drew his mouth down to hers as he pulled her
knees up and pushed them apart. He adjusted the fly of his pajamas, a quick movement
before his tongue and cock rammed into her.
Mac’s mouth barely muffled the animal groan that clawed free of her throat, driven
out by his invasion. Each thrust hit her harder, lifting her hips off the bed. His sac swung
against her wetness, slapping noisily. She tried to hook her hands beneath her knees, to
pull them higher and wider and let him in even deeper, but he snatched her wrists and
stretched her arms up along the length of the mattress. Pinned, she was helpless to do
anything but lock her legs around his waist and hold on.
She stole breath when she could, but Mac didn’t want to let her mouth go long
enough for breathing. His short, late-night beard stung her chin and irritated her lips.

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Her breasts bounced against him. The still-damp hair furring his chest abraded her
nipples. She couldn’t even swallow.
Mac didn’t burn out fast. Their shower interlude had prepared him for something
longer, given him stamina that drove him inside over and over again. He fumbled to
hold her wrists with one hand and grabbed her left ankle, pushed her knee against her
chest and angled her ass off the bed. The muscles of her inner thighs burned, protesting
the unnatural position. She tried to reposition herself, but Mac didn’t give an inch of
wiggle room.
Soon, the angle forced the ridged cap of his manhood back and forth across her g-
spot. She gasped at the shock, eyes flying wide, and found him watching her face. He
smiled against her lips and drew his hips back, holding the wide head of his cock just
against her entrance.
“Want it there again?” he asked, thrusting shallowly, drawing back again. Her hole
clenched, muscles contracting of their own accord, trying, and failing, to hold his length.
“Yes.” She tightened her stomach until the muscles ached, arching up to impale
herself. Mac held back.
“Yes, what?” Shallow, stretching, he drove in and retreated.
“You’re teasing me.” She craned her neck, trying to see his length between her legs.
The dark hair at the base of his cock shone, sticky and wet from her arousal. It made her
mouth water. “Mac, please!”
“Please what?” He used her ankle to maneuver her body, lowering the angle of her
hips so he sank deep without connecting with her g-spot. The scrape of coarse hair over
her clit made her whimper. She bit her lip, panting and trying to hide that her control
was diminishing. She would have closed her eyes, if his weren’t so intently locked on
hers, ordering them to remain open without a single word spoken.
Praying she didn’t stumble over the three little syllables. “Please fuck me,” she
whispered.
Mac didn’t respond. His fingers flexed around her ankle, and the pulse at the base of
his throat jumped as he swallowed.
She tried again, barely breathing the word, “Sir?”
He groaned and sank into her, the weight of his chest and shoulders pressing her
down into the blankets. Amy bit his shoulder, “Oh God” long and drawn out against his
skin.
“Not fucking,” Mac panted, levering himself impossibly deeper. “Loving. That’s the
word you use.
“Amy, say it.” He buried his face in her hair, drawing short little gasping breaths.
She couldn’t. She hadn’t earned his loving and couldn’t bring herself to ask for it. If
she asked, he would give it unconditionally. Instead, she moaned and rocked her hips,
squeezed his cock with her body, and raked her fingernails down his back. Mac exhaled.
His shoulders shook. She prayed he wouldn’t realize she’d faked it.

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Chapter Eight
Dinner arrived before his heart rate slowed, and before he could puzzle through the
nagging sensation that something was wrong. He reluctantly pushed off the bed,
pausing to suck the sweaty skin between her breasts, and grabbed a towel to sling
around his hips. Amy reached for a blanket. He didn’t have time to stop her because the
doorbell rang a second time.
“Meet me in the kitchen,” he said on his way to the door.
Amy obeyed. He carried a bag of tacos and box of margarita into the kitchen to find
her waiting, naked thighs tucked primly beneath the table and arms folded atop it,
shielding her breasts from view without actively covering them.
“Still hungry?”
“Yes.” She unpacked the bag, discarding wax paper wrappings, and arranging taco
shells and fillings on the table. She didn’t look at him.
Mac stood behind her, watching her pry the plastic cover from a dish of sour cream.
She sat on edge, back straight as a post. He ran his hand between her shoulder blades,
relishing the texture of her skin, the silkiness of the tiny, short little blond hairs that he
could feel but not see. Her pulse stepped up a beat, fluttering against the heel of his
palm where it rested beneath her left shoulder.
“Are you going to sit with me?” she asked, hunching forward to reach the margarita
glasses he’d provided.
He didn’t like the distance in her voice and withdrew to wrap his hands around the
upper slat that crossed the back of her chair. He couldn’t hurt wood by squeezing it too
hard in frustration. Striving for an even tone, he said, “You’re not comfortable.”
She set the glasses back down and ducked her head. Mac closed his eyes and tried to
untangle the knots of fear twisting in his stomach.
If they made it through the night, they could both face the rest of their lives with
emotions made calmer by a little sleep. And a lot of sex, although he wasn’t sure now,
that he should have allowed their physical intimacy to proceed before getting their other
issues under control.
If they didn’t make it through the night, if he tripped up and scared her, or said the
wrong thing, he feared he would wake up to find her gone. He couldn’t burden her with
his worries, though. She needed him to help her with her own, not add to them. He drew
a deep breath and tried to blow his anxiety out with it.
“I’ll pour.” He sat to her right and filled both glasses halfway, enough to relax but not
intoxicate.
“They didn’t give any of the green salt this time.” A wistful smile touched her lips.
Mac watched it closely, refreshing his memory of her smiles.
“We have food coloring?”
“I used all the green for St. Patrick’s Day.”
“Beer?” he asked, puzzled.
She shook her head and busied her eyes and hands with assembling a taco. “The
cupcakes for your office.”
Shit. He’d thought the little shamrock sweets came from one of the receptionists. It
hadn’t even occurred to him that Amy would’ve spent time on minor holiday treats.
“Oh.” He paused and added, “I didn’t say it before, but thank you.”

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She smiled, but it was brief, and they went through the remainder of the meal in
silence. Tension stretched tight as tripwire between them. Amy eventually broke the
silence.
“You look tired,” she said.
“So do you.” Passion had temporarily tinted her cheeks pink, but the afterglow had
faded during the course of dinner. Amy’s shoulders drooped, and purple circles showed
beneath her eyes. Mac pushed away from the table.
“Leave the mess for tomorrow.” He hiked up the towel he still wore around his hips
and held out his hand. “Let’s go to bed. It’s been a long day.”
A hopeful light brightened up her eyes. “Together?”
“You’re my wife, and that’s our bed. I’m not sleeping on the couch anymore.”
“I didn’t want you to leave it at all,” she confessed.
“I know.” Separate rooms had been his idea. He’d thought privacy would make her
happy, since his presence didn’t. If the way she eagerly tugged him to their bedroom was
any indication, he’d been mistaken.

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Chapter Nine
She woke up to an empty bed and a note from Mac.
I need to take care of a few things. I’ll be back. Remember, no clothes.
Amy crumpled the sheet of stationary and threw it in the bathroom trash. She’d been
preparing for their promised talk, had barely slept all night for trying to figure out how
to verbalize what she wanted. And what had he been doing? Making a mental list of
morning errands to run? Fine. If he didn’t have to keep his word, she didn’t have to keep
hers. Frustrated and hurt, she defiantly dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. So much for
working out their marital problems; he had “things” to do.
She distracted herself by cleaning up the mess left from dinner and any other mess
she could find. The living room looked much more presentable once she stripped his
linens from the couch and stuffed them in the laundry. She brought out the vacuum and
started in the living room, moving from one end of their apartment to the other. She had
to get down on her knees and duck her head under the dust ruffle in order to vacuum
beneath the bed, but she didn’t mind. The electronic whir of the upright gave her much-
needed mental white noise.
Hands on her hips, jerking her shorts down over her bottom and pulling her bodily
from beneath the bed, startled her into a scream. She kicked out of instinct, to no avail.
Mac’s expression was thunderous as he hauled her to her feet and pushed her onto the
mattress, wrestling her shorts free of her feet and tossing them aside. He knelt astride
her hips, pulled the vacuum hose from her hand, and whipped her shirt over her head.
“We had an agreement,” he said, breathing hard above her. His hands came down on
either side of her shoulders, and his gaze fastened on hers. “Why did you break it?”
Her temper prickled to life. “You said you’d take the day off with me,” she accused.
“I left you a note explaining. Why are you wearing clothes?”
Denim rubbed her abdomen roughly where he straddled her hips. Amy swallowed,
unsure how to answer him. Her body wanted to arch and distract him from the anger in
his eyes, to turn the hot emotion into a different heat. Her rebellious tongue wanted to
point out his erroneous memory of events the night before.
“You can’t expect-”
“When you’re in our home, you won’t hide yourself from me. You agreed to that.”
Mac’s jaw clenched.
“I’m not perfect,” she snapped. She turned her head away so she wouldn’t have to
look into his eyes. “You can’t expect that from me.”
“I can expect you to follow a simple directive. Or have I misunderstood what you
want from me?” Mac turned her face back to him. He didn’t squeeze, but the heat of his
palm against her pulse promised that he would force her to meet his gaze if she didn’t
comply of her own volition. Heat coiled deep inside, responding to his power.
“Is this how we’re going to have our talk?” She searched his eyes intently, picking out
layers of emotion when she could read them. Frustration, helplessness, desire, love, fear,
all made a puzzling combination. Regret surfaced as well. If she hadn’t been paying
attention, she would have missed all those layers, for as soon as she identified them they
vanished behind a neutral mask.
“No,” he said evenly. “It’s not. Get up and come with me.” He backed off the bed and
left her there, clearly expecting her to follow.

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She didn’t have to do it. She could change her mind. Retain the upper hand in their
relationship, stay with the safety of knowing their marriage would be over soon. One or
the other of them would eventually file for divorce. Their separation would hurt, but it
would be comfortable, and she wouldn’t be vulnerable to anybody but herself.
A rustle of paper reached her ears, coming from the vicinity of the living room.
Would divorce paperwork sound like that? Her throat convulsed on a silent sob, and she
covered her ears to block the sound. She sat abruptly and forced herself off the bed to go
to him.
He sat on the edge of their sage, microfiber couch. She studied him from the
doorway. Morning beard shadowed his jaw, and strain creased his brow; he held his
head in his hands and rubbed his temples with his thumbs. She couldn’t imagine a home
without him.
Breathing deep to brace herself, she said, “I’m not perfect.”
Mac’s hands stilled. He looked up at her and frowned. “I never demanded that you be
perfect.”
“You tell me I am, and I have to live up to it. I can’t do that. I can’t be flawless, never
making mistakes. I’m going to make you mad. I’m going to do the wrong thing
sometimes. I’m going to have to fake an orgasm once in a while, and every now and then
I forget a check I’ve written and overdraw the checking account. I’m going to get pissed
off at the world and take it out on you. I’m not perfect.”
“Amy-”
“Please let me finish.” She scrubbed at her cheeks. Her fingers came away wet with
tears. Mac dragged his hand through his hair, but nodded permission to go on.
“You can’t let me make mistakes without pointing them out to me—without some
kind of punishment. I know you don’t want to hurt me, but I need you to acknowledge
that I’ve done something wrong. If you don’t—if you just take it, roll over and go on with
your life, never telling me to stop being a bitch or stop being selfish or whatever it is I’m
doing—if you don’t make me stop when I do it, then I don’t know I’ve done it at all until
you’re hurt.”
Her voice broke on the last word. She hid against the doorjamb, clutching the wood
as if it was a life raft and she was drowning. “Mac, I love you more than life,” she
whispered.
“Come here.” It wasn’t a request. His voice was thick and rough and it cut through
her tears. She didn’t want to leave the safety of the door, but she’d asked him to be the
order-giver, the law enforcer of their household, and she forced her feet to move. She
stopped with the coffee table between them.
“Not there. Here.” He pointed to the space between his denim-clad knees.
She moved again. He leaned back and looked up at her. “You understand what you’re
asking of me?”
She nodded.
“You’re asking me to give you rules and decide whether your choices and behavior
are wrong or right. You’re asking me to punish you if you’ve been bad, reward you if
you’ve been good. To shoulder the responsibility for your physical comfort as well as
your mental and emotional wellbeing.” He exhaled slowly and said, “To make you
happy.”
“Yes. No. You already make me happy-”
“No, I don’t. Stop lying to yourself and to me.”

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“I want both of us to be happy. I want you to show me how to make you happy.”
“By abusing you.”
The flat quality of his voice interrupted her anxiety. That was his injured voice,
withdrawn and lacking intonation, and it hit hard. She sank to her knees between his
legs and reached for his hands. “It’s not abuse!” she promised. “You won’t be hurting
me. You’ll be helping.”
“Helping this way can turn into hurting very easily.” He rubbed the tips of her fingers
against his own and held her hand up, showing the difference in their sizes. “It’s not just
a physical risk. It’s an emotional risk, too. You’re inviting me to overpower your body
and your emotions.”
Another protest came to her lips but she silenced it. Mac balled his hands around
hers, molding them into fists, and rested his forehead atop their joined fingers. “Amy,
my mother didn’t fight back when Dad hit her. Not because she was weak or afraid, but
because she’d given him responsibility for her life. She promised to obey him and be
what he needed, and figured if he needed a punching bag, that was her role. I don’t want
to be him. I don’t want to turn you into her.”
“You’re a different man,” she whispered.
Mac lifted his head. “Because I haven’t allowed myself to become him. I’ve removed
the situational conditions that could give me the opportunity. And you want me to make
myself vulnerable.”
“Vulnerable isn’t the same thing as weak. You’re the strongest person I know. You
can handle this,” she said, willing him to believe in his own strength.
He closed his eyes and pressed her fingers to his lips. “Last night I gave you your first
rule.”
Amy’s chest tightened. “About wearing clothes.”
“That you are no longer allowed to wear clothes when we’re alone, meaning without
guests, in our home. Did you misunderstand the rule?”
She hadn’t misunderstood it. It was a childish, peevish fit of temper. She said as
much to Mac.
“You’ve been talking to me about mistakes,” Mac said. “And you’ve told me what role
you want me to fill in your life. Is there anything else you want to add?”
She shook her head and stared at his knees, unsure what the flip-flop in her stomach
meant. Nerves, not fear. She wasn’t afraid of him.
“Okay. Do you understand the difference between a mistake and an act of defiance?”
“Yes.”
“Explain it to me.”
“A mistake is a genuine error. Maybe caused by forgetfulness or distraction, or just
not having the information needed to do the right thing.” She shifted her weight and
clasped her fingers together, uncomfortable standing over him. “An act of defiance is
deliberately breaking a rule.”
“Very good,” he said slowly. “I am willing to accept this responsibility you’re asking
of me, but not before I make myself clear on issues of rules and punishments. First,
mistakes are not punishable offenses. If you find yourself making a mistake, we will
work on correcting the conditions that led to it. Defiance will be punished, and
afterward we will work on correcting the urges that prompted you to break a rule. I will
never admonish you for a genuine error, but I will not be lenient with deliberate
willfulness.”

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He drew a deep breath and said, “As we grow into this, we will mutually decide in
which areas you need guidance. For now, though, you will follow one rule, and that is
that you are to give me every emotion you have. No hiding sadness. No pretending
confidence. No faking sexual arousal. No faking orgasms. That’s not a mistake. It’s
deliberate.”
She flinched, but didn’t refute his words.
“I realize now that you faked it with me last night,” he said, confirming her sudden
suspicion that she’d been found out.
“You claim that you don’t want to do things that will hurt me,” he continued. “Revise
your thinking and change ‘hurt’ to ‘deceive.’ Get in your mind and heart a dedication to
being truthful with me. If you give me false responses again, you will have a long, long
time without a genuine orgasm in which to reconsider your decision.
“Are you unclear on anything so far?” he asked. “You may answer me as ‘sir.’”
“No, sir,” she whispered. The small word danced in her stomach like startled
butterflies.
He stood and pulled her to her feet, keeping her so close that his thighs brushed hers
and the fibers of his shirt teased her nipples. The butterfly dance increased its tempo.
“So you know what to expect now, and in the future, never forget that in this household,
the punishment will fit the intent of the crime.” He put his foot on the edge of the coffee
table and shoved it back. “Bend over, Amy.”

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Chapter Ten
Shock widened her eyes, and the color drained from her cheeks. Her lips parted,
some words forming to forestall him, no doubt. Mac touched his finger to her lips. “You
admitted to breaking the rule. Bend over.”
She stepped back into the space he’d cleared for her and bent to hug his thigh. He’d
expected her to turn away from him and brace herself on the coffee table; this choice put
him at a loss. He focused on controlling himself, but the prospect of spanking his wife,
his best friend, made him tremble. Amy wouldn’t miss that, not with her arms wrapped
around his thigh and her cheek on his hip. She wouldn’t miss the rock hard bulge that
betrayed his arousal, either. Her shoulder, wedged against his groin, would tell her
everything.
He caressed the length of her back, stroking from her shoulders to the crest of her
bottom. He’d forgotten the silky texture of her skin, she had a fair complexion, pale and
prone to bruising. He squeezed her left cheek and his thumbprint showed white, then
red, against her skin. He didn’t want to hurt her—hitting was synonymous with abuse in
his mind. The first slap was light and tentative and it landed closer to the small of her
back instead of square on her behind. Amy jumped, but didn’t cry out.
Her heartbeat accelerated beneath his free hand. Mac widened his stance and
cupped her hip, repositioning her at an angle that gave him access to the full roundness
of her ass. The second slap connected with a resounding crack of flesh on flesh and left
his palm tingling. He flexed his fingers and marveled at the sensation of needles
pricking his palm. Sharing her discomfort anchored him more firmly in the moment. It
created a strange connection. Amy whimpered, and the vibration of her small sound
shot through his wrist. Mouth dry, he brought his hand down again, glorying in the hot
sting that spread across his palm. She tightened her grip on his thigh, and his cock
jumped.
He spanked her again, half a dozen times in deliberately timed succession, fascinated
by the progression of color from pale cream to deep, angry pink. Her gasps echoed every
smack. Amy shook, but except for sharp little breaths and the occasional mew muffled
against his hip, she remained silent.
He could spank her until she cried out and begged him to stop. The urge crept in the
back of his mind, so strong it made him catch his breath. The prospect of reducing Amy
to a red-assed, quivering mess jacked up his heart rate. Would she enjoy it? He balled
his hand into a fist, resisting the urge to strike her again, but couldn’t chase off a
curiosity. His fingers relaxed, slid over the friction-heated curve of her bottom, and
brushed her curls in what he hoped was a discreet touch. She arched her back and
rubbed against his hand.
She was wet. The discovery nearly undid him.
“Let go,” he said, suppressing a fantasy of slipping behind her, unzipping his fly, and
ramming into her. God. Her ass would be so warm against his groin. “Stand up.” His
breathing was shallow, testament to his excited state. He prayed Amy didn’t
misunderstand his arousal for an interest in abusing her.
She didn’t respond immediately. He patted her hip, and when that didn’t work,
delivered a sharp slap to her left ass cheek. The blow startled a jerk from her. “Amy.
Stand up.”

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Sluggishly, she loosened her grip and straightened. She lost her balance, and he
caught her before the slight sway turned into a full-out fall. Supporting her with one arm
around her waist, he cupped her face and investigated her eyes. The glassy quality and
dilated pupils made him frown. Salty tears reddened the rims and made her eyes puffy.
He’d made her cry. The realization shook him down to the soles of his feet.
Gradually, her pupils returned to normal and awareness came back to her features.
She focused her gaze on his. A flush crept and spread beneath his hands, staining her
face in shades of rose. “Mac?” she whispered.
“I’m right here.” He felt foolish saying that, knowing that she was looking right at
him and knew exactly where he was. He needed to reassure her, though. She looked so
fragile and dazed.
“That hurt.”
His throat tightened. “It hurt me when you decided my explanation for being away
wasn’t good enough, and broke your word to stop hiding from me.”
She flinched and dropped her gaze. He steeled himself against the instinct-voice
screaming at him to hug her close and whisper apologies, and instead took her
shoulders and turned her to face away from him. “Go sit in the corner until I call you.”
Amy hesitated. He gently pushed her toward the east corner of the room. “Nose to
the wall,” he added. She sniffed and wiped at her cheeks as she moved to do as he’d
instructed. His shoulders slumped, the muscles releasing physical tension he hadn’t
been aware of until that moment. While Amy cooled her heels and her reddened behind
in the corner, he went to splash cold water on his face. Her arousal perfumed his fingers.
He didn’t wash it away.
Mac braced himself with both hands on the bathroom counter and stared at his
reflection in the mirror. He didn’t see a monster. That was his normal every day face
looking back at him, minus the lines of a sleepless night. He rinsed away the beads of
nervous sweat on his forehead. Before he went any further with Amy, he needed to do
some research. He couldn’t fumble blindly forever and do the job right.
He carried Amy’s laptop to the living room and set it up on the coffee table where he
could keep an eye on her. She knelt stiffly, her hands on her thighs and her nose in the
corner as he’d instructed. Her buttocks and upper thighs were still a bright, angry red.
His erection, gone soft upon discovering her tears, roused itself and pressed eagerly
against his fly. Just the sight of her skin, hot from his hands, infused him with a surge of
power that he’d never known before.
He cleared his throat. “Are you thirsty?”
She nodded. He retrieved a bottle of water for each of them, careful not to touch her
when he placed her water on the floor beside her. He moved the tissue box over so she
could reach that, too, and settled in to boot up the computer. He’d never typed “BDSM”
into a search engine before, and didn’t know what to expect.

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Chapter Eleven
A ringing telephone startled him from his immersion in open letters to new
dominants, essays on “what it means,” and Web sites offering advice on purchasing
more kinky toys than he could count, let alone read in one setting. His gaze immediately
went to Amy in the corner. She flinched as a second ring pealed through the apartment.
“I’ll take care of it.” He rose to disable the ringer on the living room phone. He did
the same for the kitchen and bedroom, and on impulse disconnected the bedroom
phone altogether. Whether they were sleeping or otherwise engaged, bedroom
interruptions would henceforth be unwelcome.
Amy shifted her weight as he returned to her. Her toes curled, and she inched her
feet closer together. His stomach rumbled, and he checked his watch. She’d been
kneeling in the corner for only half an hour. It had seemed more like hours. He crouched
beside her and stroked the back of her head, permitting himself a slight smile for the
way her short curls wound around his fingers.
“You’ve been here long enough. Come talk with me.” He pressed one of his t-shirts
into her hand.
Amy straightened away from the wall. A quiet sigh slipped past her lips. She glanced
at the folded square of black cotton, but didn’t put it on. “I’m not comfortable doing
everything naked,” she said.
“I know. You’re not comfortable doing everything clothed, either. Your physical
nudity is a symbol of being emotionally naked. Emotionally open.”
“Being naked for you in any way is hard. There’s nothing to hide imperfections.”
He frowned. “I never wanted a perfect woman. I wanted you.”
“I wanted you to have a perfect woman.” She braced her hand against the wall for
support and unfolded her legs. “My feet are asleep.”
“I’ll rub the needles away.” Mac rose and held her elbow as she hobbled over to the
sofa. She swung her feet up onto his lap without a second prompting. Red nail polish
caught the light and made her small feet seem delicate.
He studied her toes while he talked. Working the soles of her feet with his thumbs
provided a meditative peace he hadn’t expected to find in an action so simple. “I realize
in retrospect that I set a rule without giving you an opportunity to negotiate the terms. I
didn’t really explain the purpose, either.
“Your nudity is not only a symbol of your own openness, but a symbol of my
attention. If your breasts sway when you bend over to pick something up, you’ll
remember that I gave your body freedom to move. You’ll remember me. More
important, you’ll remember that you’re mine, and you’ll remember that I have taken
away all of your obligations to be perfect in any regard.”
“You don’t want an unequal marriage, though.” Her toes curled against his wrist.
“I’m confused. I wanted you to want this, but I didn’t really expect that you’d change
your mind. I shouldn’t have put you in that position,” Amy said. “I was trying to
manipulate you. Not to make you jealous,” she clarified, “but to make you want me
again. I’m sorry.”
He gently pinched her Achilles tendons and moved on to massage her ankles. His
gaze strayed up the pale, shapely length of her legs. She held his t-shirt, still folded, over
the apex of her thighs. Unsure what to make of her continued nudity, he refrained from

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comment on the shirt, and instead met her eyes. “I can’t remember a single day in the
last twenty years that I haven’t wanted you.”
Her eyes widened. “But-”
“No buts, Amy.” He gave her a quick, sheepish grin. “You’ve been the object of every
jerk-off fantasy since the day you picked up that Mets hat for me. Remember that?”
She flushed. “Mac, I was thirteen!”
“So? Not much younger than me. You expected a fifteen year old punk not to notice
when a pretty blonde bent over and flashed her tits? You’re the one who wasn’t wearing
a bra,” he pointed out.
Amy snorted and rolled her eyes. “I was practically flat ‘til I went to college. You were
stroking it to a trick of the light.”
The crude phrase rolling off her lips nudged his now-aching dick into a third-wind
hard on. It reminded him of serious business on the table. He shifted her feet off his
thigh and onto the sofa. Best if he didn’t tempt his hands.
“I need to know exactly what you want from me,” he said. The smile that had been
playing at the corners of her mouth vanished. “If it’s physical punishment, I can’t do it.
What I did—I enjoyed it too much. I was too tempted to keep hitting you. I didn’t even
know I’d pushed you to the point of tears until I decided enough was enough and saw
your face.
“Spanking for play…that’s something else. I think I could do that if you wanted. But I
can’t be a physical disciplinarian.”
She averted her eyes. Shades of pink spread over her cheeks, down her shoulders and
across the tops of her breasts. He would’ve given anything to know what thoughts were
running through her head and making her small nipples bead up into hard little buttons.
He could order her to tell him, but he made himself give her time to share on her own.
“Can we have a cooling-off time?” she finally said.
The quiet query hit him like a punch in the gut. The last thing he wanted to do was
give her leave to go off on her own, but he acknowledged the wisdom of time apart. They
would both benefit from solitude in which to consider their new roles, and he could use
the time to grow into their changing relationship. He put his own wants into the
background and nodded his assent. “If you’d like.”
The moment he uttered the words, weight lifted from his shoulders and his head
cleared of the arousal fog. Amy’s frown deepened, however.
She cleared her throat. “I have a fantasy,” she said, so low he wasn’t sure he heard
her correctly.
She rocked up to her knees and cupped his erection. A current of shock-sensation
charged into his balls. He caught her wrist and held her gaze. “Fantasies aren’t exactly
conducive to cooling off.”
“This isn’t good for cooling off either. I want to relieve you.”
“Not until you set some boundaries. I refuse to hurt you out of ignorance.”
“You know what my limits are,” she said. “You know me.”
Mac inched away and stood, suddenly claustrophobic and nervous. “I don’t know
this aspect of you.” He cringed at the edge in his words. Amy’s face fell. “I want to,” he
clarified, “but I don’t yet, so you have to tell me.”
She settled back on her heels and tipped her head back, looking up at him. Her eyes,
the anxious set of her mouth, pleaded with him. “I don’t want to be blindfolded.”

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The dark frightened her. He knew that. He didn’t realize it extended itself to a
controlled blindfold situation, though. “What else?”
“Nothing…dirty.” She squirmed. “No golden showers, or anything like that.”
“What about handcuffs?”
“I’d like those.”
“Anal sex?” He’d never penetrated her there, but asked for safety’s sake. Amy’s flush
surprised him.
“Not yet,” she whispered. She lowered her eyes.
Mac raised his eyebrows at her response. He’d only asked for sake of thoroughness
and hadn’t expected a midway response. It drove home how little he really knew his
wife. Would he be taking advantage of her wishes if he used her submissive desires to
quiz her about all the things he never knew, but wondered? The prospect of being let in
on her fantasy made him eager as a kid. Every conversation with her could be like
Christmas morning. A huge adventure in unwrapping Amy.
The thrill of a sneak peek prompted him to continue questioning. He racked his
memory for situations he thought of as kinky and asked, “Do you want me to gag you?”
She hesitated. “What about a safe word?”
“You could have a safe object to use if you can’t talk. Something you hold onto and
drop if you’re uncomfortable.” He’d come across that suggestion in one of the Internet
articles he had skimmed while she knelt in the corner. It bolstered his courage to have a
solution that he didn’t have to fumble to find.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Not yet. I need to be able to talk to you.”
Her words, small and vulnerable, hit him hard. Again. The phantom pain sobered
him somewhat, gave him a line to climb up from the quicksand pit of want. “I want you
to talk to me about everything in our lives. Right now, I need to know whether you really
want time to slow down, think, and cool off, or whether you want something else. I don’t
understand your signals.”
“I don’t want to be apart from you. I don’t want to cool down.”
“Why did you suggest it earlier?”
She shrugged. “It seemed like a responsible thing to suggest.”
“It was. It’s still a good idea. Do you feel at all unsafe?” he asked, watching for any
truth that might hide behind her lips. She shook her head. He didn’t see any hesitation
in her eyes.
“Do you?” she asked.
Did he?
Mac glanced away, disentangling himself from the power her face held over him. He
rubbed his hand over his chest but couldn’t placate the anxious thud of his heart. Did he
feel unsafe?
He’d asked the question with the intention of determining whether she felt
threatened. It took on a different meaning redirected toward himself. Was he a threat?
An unsafe, dangerous element in her life? The earlier thrill of spanking her was not a
thrill he’d wanted to experience. He doubted his self-control. In that sense, yeah, he felt
unsafe. He was the predator. She, with her fragile wrists and big unsuspecting eyes,
would crumple beneath him if he attacked.
He had to touch her.
Careful to touch, not attack, he went to his knees on the floor and pulled her from the
sofa. Taking her by the thighs, he guided her over to sit astride his lap. The position

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opened her up to him; the fragrance of her arousal was a drug. “Tell me your fantasy,”
he commanded, shifting to brace the small of her back against the edge of the seat
behind her.
She flushed and averted her eyes. She still held onto his shirt. He caught her hand
and pulled the cotton from her grasp, discarding it on the floor.
“Look at me when I’m asking for your attention, Amy.” Her stomach flattened as she
exhaled a long breath. Her eyelashes fluttered reluctantly, but eventually she met his
eyes.
He kissed the corner of her mouth and murmured, “Good.”
“I don’t know how to start,” she whispered.
“Start with yesterday. I lost you somewhere in the studio. I want to know where you
went.” He nosed behind her ear, seeking the fragrance of shampoo and skin and the heat
of her pulse. Her hands moved restlessly against his chest and eventually found their
way to his shoulders.
“Amy,” he persisted. She shifted her weight.
“I’m uncomfortable.”
“I know. It’ll get easier.” To ease the physical strain of her position, he cupped her
hips and drew her higher onto his lap, giving her room to move her legs and brace her
feet on the floor. She made use of the new arrangement by pressing up against his belt
buckle. Mac smiled and kissed her ear. “Tell me.”
Amy buried her face against his chest. Hiding behind him, not from him. He slid his
arms around her waist, squeezed her close, and kissed her shoulder.
She shivered and confessed, “When I was in the photo shoot, I pretended you were
behind me with all those toys and that camera.”
“You wanted me to pose and photograph you?”
“Yes. No.” Her breath caught and turned the words choppy.
“Then what?”
“I wanted you to expose me,” she whispered.
The admission drew him up, startling in its similarity to his own desire to get past
her mask. Amy had given him her heart and body, but never such free, uninhibited
access to her body. He’d never experienced this rush of complete, unlimited license to
explore and provoke reaction from her.
“Can I touch you?” she asked, interrupting his awe.
Mac groaned and pushed her fingers against his fly. “Unzip me.”
Amy complied without a moment’s hesitation. She lowered his zipper and laid the
folds of denim aside and stopped. The slick, swollen head of his cock poked through his
underwear and nuzzled her wrist. He groaned.
“Mac?”
That brought his gaze back to hers. Wide, dark eyes welcomed him. The welcome
was so tangible it robbed him of coherent thought for a moment and delayed his
response. Eventually, he asked, “Yes?”
“I’m having trouble breathing.”
How had he missed the shortness of her breath? The rapid rise and fall of her chest
tightened his throat. “I’ll get your inhaler,” he said, alarmed, and moved to shift her off
his lap.
She forestalled him. “It’s not that. It’s—I’ve never been this hot before.”

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He smiled and kissed her right breast, but struggled to his feet nevertheless. Amy
squeaked breathlessly as he swung her up into his arms and carried her across the room.
“Point me to the camera,” he whispered against her ear.

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Chapter Twelve
Later, Amy sprawled exhausted in their bed. Mac had covered her with sheets, but
her skin was too sensitive for any covering and she’d kicked them off. He sat beside her,
his erection still spearing the air, and trailed his fingers up and down her back.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said.
“Not thinking anything,” she lied.
“Nothing at all?”
She smiled and rubbed her cheek against his thigh. “My brain is mush.”
He chuckled. “All the more reason you should tell me now what you’re thinking.
You’re not clever enough to disguise anything with double-edged words.”
“I don’t use double-edged words,” she said, peeping up at him. “They’re just carefully
chosen.”
“I’ll have to work on making you talk without screening yourself.”
“Some men would give anything if their women would think before they spoke.”
“I’m not some men.” He finger-combed the hair away from her forehead. “And I
want you to talk to me about what you feel before you have a chance to overanalyze and
second guess it. So tell me what you’re thinking.”
She hid her face in the pillow. Mac pulled her hair gently, dragging her head up and
forcing her to turn her cheek into the pillow instead. “Don’t hide from me,” he
reminded.
“I’m afraid.”
“Of me?”
“Of saying the wrong thing. Sounding too grateful or something. Like a kinky girl-toy
who was only out to get spanked so she could get off on dirty sex.”
Mac cocked a thick eyebrow. “I’m starting to rethink my stance on kinky girl-toys,”
he teased. “Tell me, though—is this really about sex?”
She shook her head and lowered her lashes. “No. I’m just not sure how to articulate
how I feel.”
“Why not just say it?”
“Because you might think it’s stupid.”
“Amy, I’ve known you forever. I’ve witnessed every dumb thing you’ve ever done and
I still love you. I’m still here with you. You’re still the most precious gift I’ve ever been
given. Tell me.”
She curled her fingers around his, clinging to the rough calluses that marked his
hands and holding onto the security they provided. “I was thinking that I’m really
selfish, making you take on this role. Wondering whether I should apologize.”
“You are selfish, but it doesn’t change the fact that I love you. I want to give you
everything. I always have. If I can give you some kind of freedom this way, I will do my
very best to give it completely.”
“Why?”
“Because your happiness is mine.”
She rolled toward him and propped herself against his thigh so she could kiss his
stomach and nuzzle the dark hair that furred his abdomen. He smelled faintly of her
body, but not enough. “Make love to me?” she asked shyly, rubbing her cheek against his
hardness and flicking the tip of her tongue into his navel. He shuddered, and she hid her
smile against his stomach.

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“No.” He tugged on her hair again, and threads of desire uncoiled between her legs
like marionette puppets responding to their master’s touch. Who knew “no” would make
her so hot, so fast?
Amy hesitated. Should she insist? Accept his refusal quietly? Uncertain, she met his
gaze. The slow, lazy heat in his eyes stopped her breath.
“Why not?” she whispered.
“Because I’m a little selfish too.” Mac dragged her closer, shifting on the bed until his
knee rose high against her mound. He splayed his fingers over the back of her head.
“And this isn’t only about your fantasies.” The tips of his thumb and middle finger
pressed behind her ears, another pair of wicked response buttons that elicited a new
surge of heat in her veins. His hand tensed, slid down to cup the nape of her neck. Amy
barely had time to suck in a breath before he pushed her mouth down onto the head of
his cock. She opened up eagerly, determined to deliver a very sincere thank-you for his
generosity.

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Efflorescence

by

Katrina Strauss
 Efflorescence

With frail and trembling arms, the woman diligently rolls her wheelchair across the
linoleum floor. Triumphant, she comes to rest at the metal bureau, which she shares
with her roommate. Studying the spines of the books stacked on her side, the titles
ranging from hardbound classics to paperback romance, she spies the one she wants.
Her hands shaking, she tries to lift the heavy tome. Her strength fails her, and she eases
the book across the bureau an inch at a time until it drops onto her afghan-draped lap.
She thumbs through the medical journal, the pages yellowed, the scent of aged paper
wafting toward her. From behind her bifocals, her wearied eyes skim outdated charts
and ink-sketched illustrations, glossing over symptoms of deadly diseases since
eradicated with a simple prick of the needle. She shakes her head at entries for
consumption, dropsy, and dysentery, the conditions still in existence but their names
fallen out of use.
Toward the center of the book, her gaze lights on what she seeks—one blue rose,
dried and pressed. Her hand trembling, but her grip firm, she gingerly retrieves the
memento between her fingertips, the petals as crisp as the pages within which it has lain
in wait for over eight decades. She holds it to her nose and inhales gently. The preserved
bud still bears a hint of fragrance, a refreshing change from the ammonia-tainted air of
the nursing home.
Recently, she has read an article describing how Japanese scientists have cultivated a
blue rose straight from the seed due to genetic manipulation. But this rose hearkens
back to the days when the process, though simpler, yielded results no less miraculous.
She looks up at the 30x20 inch photograph mounted on the wall above her chrome-
railed bed—the Eiffel Tower at dusk, the diamond grids silhouetted against purpled sky,
the base circled by prismatic streams of traffic light—a time-lapse image taken when
color photography was a rare and innovative wonder. She had returned from that trip
with an award-winning masterpiece; but for all her success, her heart had ached with a
sense of longing, for an ulterior purpose had lain behind her visit to the City of Light, a
purpose, which had gone unfulfilled.
With a wistful sigh, she presses the bud to her breast and closes her eyes. Softly, she
recites a stanza from a Kipling poem.
“Roses red and roses white, Plucked I for my love’s delight. She would none of all
my posies, Bade me gather her blue roses...”
Today is her one-hundred and fourth birthday, yet her memory remains sharp and
clear. With a smile, she remembers. Another time, a different place, a younger woman…

***

As Hannah waited in line, she glanced down at her attire. While the other girls wore
navy or checkered serge dresses, their flounced skirts belted at the waist, Hannah’s
orchid linen suit with straight, fitted skirt and double peplum stood out as horribly
dated. A few of her peers even wore the newer-styled pumps, baring their shapely
ankles. Court shoes, one model had called them, pointing her right toe, pivoting her left
heel, as she’d flicked a disdainful glance at Hannah’s worn kidskin boots.
Yet Hannah had continued to receive assignments for the past two weeks now. She
tilted her chin and stood straighter as the matron stopped before her.
With her refined, elegant manner and coifed, silver pompadour, the elder woman
sorted through the cards for the day, squinting at them from arm’s length through her

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monocle. With a brief appraisal of Hannah’s figure, she passed the younger girl a card
and then silently moved on.
La Doña, they called the matron, for she was of Castilian descent and came from a
famed artisan family. Her parents had left the mountains of Spain for the French
countryside, where her father had painted alongside Degas, and because of this
connection, she had sat for many noted Impressionists in her youth.
As La Doña made her way down the line, Hannah eavesdropped on the two girls
beside her and watched them furtively as she pretended to study her card.
“Who did you get?” asked the first girl. In a white lace frock with sailor collar, her
long tresses pulled back in a large bow, the model’s appearance was nearly as
unfashionable as Hannah’s; yet somehow, she shone as the most stylish girl in the room.
Hannah detected a trace of an accent—French, with Spanish inflection, a reversal of La
Doña’s origins. Having grown up in the Village, Hannah had grown good at guessing
mixed heritage.
The second girl, as tall and lean as a man, with her black hair bobbed high, narrowed
her eyes at her card. “Pavel Ruka—Rukavish—”
“Rukavishnikov,” offered the first girl, her pronunciation fluid.
“Of course,” said the short-haired model stiffly, as though she hadn’t needed any
help. “It says he is starting a new series for a private client.”
“Oh yes, Pavel, the Russian émigré. He came here after fleeing to Paris a few years
ago.” She smiled mischievously, and then offhandedly added, “He is a Marxist, you
know.”
At the tall girl’s wide-eyed shock, the first girl laughed, a soft, sing-song titter, and
continued.
“I assure you, Pavel is quite harmless. I have posed for him twice. Very quiet,
although his English is good.”
Intrigued, Hannah interrupted. “We are told not to talk with the painters.”
Where other modeling houses had been exposed as fronts for prostitution, La Doña
was known for a respectable operation with wholesome girls under her charge. To
ensure her professional reputation remained intact, she had laid down strict rules
regarding her employees’ association with the clientele.
The shorter model smiled and shrugged, cocking her beribboned head to one side.
Not a classic beauty by any means, the petite waif still carried herself with delicate,
swanlike grace. The girl’s brunette coloring, paired with a pale, heart-shaped face and
slightly prominent nose, made for an exotic subject who could portray a variety of looks.
Hannah, herself, did not meet all modeling standards, though her painters simply
changed the details, perfecting nature’s mistakes with the magical stroke of the brush.
“I always speak with the painters,” said the girl. “I wish to be a writer, and so I think
of our conversations as interviews.” Craning her neck, she looked to the taller model. “I
would gladly trade cards, but I am in the middle of a catalog set.”
Hannah spoke up again. “I’ll trade. Mine is for a Coca-Cola advertisement. I’ve posed
for three already.”
And it was no wonder. At the age of nineteen, with a more voluptuous figure than the
other girls on the roster, Hannah’s blonde curls, azure eyes, and rosy cheeks lent her the
cherubic look still perpetuated by the soft drink merchant. One of her painters had told
her she would have made the perfect Gibson girl if she’d been born two decades earlier
and trained to wear a corset. This same painter had asked if Hannah might consider

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modeling corsets for the next Montgomery Ward catalog, as older women still insisted
on wearing the monstrous garments, but young, full-figured models to wear them had
grown harder to come by.
As much as Hannah wished to try something new, modesty had gotten the better of
her. She had politely demurred, though she knew that underwear ads entailed extra pay.
Of course, private client left the table open for all sorts of scandalous possibility,
despite La Doña’s rigid screening process. However, Hannah was admittedly curious
about this artist Pavel. She had never met a Marxist.
The short-haired, long-limbed girl traded cards without question. As she strutted
away, the brunette laughed and shook her head. Turning back, she grasped Hannah by
the hands and smiled warmly. “I am Anais. What is your name?”
“Hannah.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Hannah,” she said, a twinkle in her expressive brown
eyes. She squeezed Hannah’s fingers and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial murmur.
“When we next meet, you must tell me of your session with Pavel.”

***

Hannah rapped the brass knocker, the red paint cracked and peeling from the
paneled oak door. She shifted in her boots and winced. After taking the trolley down
Sixth Avenue, she had gotten off at Bleeker Street and walked several blocks to the row
of brownstones, then ascended three flights of stairs to the top floor. She lived in such a
place with her mother and sisters, but her family claimed all four floors of their northern
Greenwich home, with the ground floor let out to two boarders since her father’s death.
The houses, which bordered the lower Village, such as the one she stood in now, had
been divided into several small flats.
The arches of her feet ached, her heels throbbing from the stress. She wondered,
wistfully, if pumps might prove more comfortable. Perhaps she could set aside a portion
of her earnings for the black satin pair she had admired in a shop window along the way.
At least her lightweight dress had proven suitable for the unseasonable February
morning, so much that she had removed her shabby Empire lamb coat with its passé leg
o’ mutton sleeves, now draped in disgrace over her arm.
Nervously, she tucked one stray fringe curl beneath the rolled grosgrain brim of her
straw hat. Checking the card to ensure she had arrived at the correct apartment, she
knocked again, louder.
A muffled baritone sounded through the door. “Yes, come in, come in.”
As she entered the flat, the familiar scents of paint, linseed oil, gum turpentine, and
fresh linen canvas assaulted her senses. The sounds of the street drifted through two
tall, narrow windows, the shutters opened to accommodate the fresh breeze.
Before closing the door, Hannah took a quick survey of the sparsely furnished, one-
room studio. A modest kitchen took up one corner of the flat. Mason jars filled with
paintbrushes sat on the shelf above the deep-basined porcelain sink. Some jars were
filled with turpentine, the bristles immersed downward for cleaning, a layer of pigments
filling the jars where they had sunk to the bottom of the transparent solvent. In the
remaining jars, the rinsed, squirrel-haired tips of the brushes stood upward for drying.
Beside the sink, the embers in the potbellied stove burned low, enough to warm the
two porcelain teapots set atop it, one large, the other small. As the current from the

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windows wafted past the stove and around the small, two-chair dinette, Hannah caught
a whiff of strong tea.
Her hand still on the doorknob, her fingertips absently worrying at the beveled glass,
Hannah’s gaze strayed across the room to the opposite corner. She noted a twin, iron-
framed bed, the threadbare patchwork quilt thrown like an afterthought across the
mattress. On the nightstand, the twin-bell alarm clock ran about half an hour slow,
while the dingy shade of the tassel lamp needed dusting. Near the bed stood the cedar
armoire; beside the armoire, a narrow door opened to a small washroom with a private
toilet.
Next, she took in the numerous canvases stacked against the walls in varying
dimensions. Though her uncle’s attempts to teach her to paint had proven unsuccessful,
Hannah recognized the different stages of canvas preparation. Some were freshly cut
and in the process of being stretched on their wooden frames. Others had been treated
with size—animal glue—followed by a primer coat of lead white. Preliminary sketches
were outlined faintly in charcoal on a few of the canvases. Half-completed paintings
featured the typical assortment of the commercial artist, with less focus on imagery than
on lettering and logos.
One finished ad depicted a Pyralin vanity set, complete with comb, brush, handheld
mirror, powder box, and picture frame, the details rendered so painstakingly that the
smooth, sleek contours of the fake ivory looked real where the light reflected off them.
Hannah thought the artist’s careful efforts on such a banal subject to be both a waste of
paint and talent.
Another ad proclaimed the benefits of cocaine teething drops, guaranteed to soothe
distressed infants and parents alike. Use of the drug had been outlawed, once and for all,
just a month before along with alcohol, so she supposed that was why the ad remained
in the artist’s possession.
Finally, Hannah glanced toward her employer for the day. Hidden behind the easel,
he sat on a high stool, one foot propped on the stretcher, the other leg extended straight
to the paint-splattered muslin drop cloth on the floor.
Impressed with his work, and satisfied that she was safe, Hannah shut the door. At
the sound of the click, a wide yet elegant hand gestured around the canvas toward the
center of the room.
“Please. Make yourself comfortable.”
Hannah hung her coat from the spare peg on the wall beside a long coat of brown
gabardine lined with fur. She then carefully removed her hat so as not to dishevel the
topknot twisted at the crown of her scalp. Unsure as to where to leave the hat, she
stopped as she walked past the kitchenette and set it on the dining table beside a vase of
small, tight roses, the buds still green, cut prematurely from the vine. The late morning
light from the window touched the tender shoots and shone through the clear glass of
the vase. Curiously, she studied the blue-tinted water.
“The old woman who lives below me, she grows potted roses on her fire escape,” the
artist explained, still seated at the easel. He continued, his accent thick, but his English
good, spaced with the deliberate enunciation of foreigners. “The roses bloomed too
early. I asked her to cut a bouquet before the final frost.”
“How kind of her,” Hannah commented quietly.
She strode across the studio. Her spool heels echoed crisply off the floor, the planks
creaking beneath her feet, the wood scuffed and in need of a good polish. She took her

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seat in the maple bow-back chair centered in the room. Her posture prim, she crossed
one knee over the other while discreetly tugging her lisle stocking straight.
The painter rose. Hannah tried not to stare, but she had never seen a Marxist in
person.
He looked decidedly Russian, his white shirt in need of pressing, tucked into brown
tweed trousers supported by black suspenders beneath his open vest. Errant strands of
slicked, brown hair, shorn close at the neck but long at the top, fell into his eyes. A thin
layer of stubble shadowed his stern features. Tall in height, he bore the broad chest and
wide hands of a laborer, not an artist. She might have found him handsome if not for his
age, which she placed around thirty-four or thirty-five.
He stopped just inches from the chair, arms crossed, studying her in turn. His brow
knitted, forming a deep crease between dark, piercing eyes, so dark they were almost
black. A long, clean paintbrush with small, rounded bristles was tucked behind one ear.
“Good morning,” he greeted her, his voice gruff, his tone polite.
She swallowed, shifting in the scooped seat of the chair. She peered up at him, her
fringe curls shading her eyes.
“Good morning.”
“What is your name?”
“Hannah,” she murmured.
One thick brow lifted, and his lips curved at the corner. “La Doña, she tells her girls
not to talk to the painters, no?”
Hannah smiled down at her hands, folded demurely in her lap. She shook her head.
Smooth, supple fingers brushed her jaw line. Pavel tilted her chin back up, angling
her face from one side to the other, scrutinizing her with the cool, detached manner of
the artist with which she had grown accustomed; yet unlike previous painters, his touch
warmed her, leaving an odd flutter in the pit of her belly.
“I have a new client. He wishes for paintings that are, how would one say
it…suggestive?”
Hannah jerked her head straight, her pale cheeks instantly scalding. La Doña had
assured she could say no if she did not wish to participate in any project that went
against her morals. In fact, she was to report any request or action that left her
uncomfortable.
On the other hand, she had traded cards behind La Doña’s back. And some girls had
whispered more provocative sessions proved a good way to earn extra money, which a
model might then stash in her pocket unbeknownst to their mistress.
Hannah flushed harder and forced herself to speak. “You will pay extra?”
Pavel chuckled heartily. “Ah, there. You are ten times more striking with color to
your face.” Though his laugh sounded casual, he averted his gaze, his dark features gone
ruddy. “Of course, I will pay extra. But please, do not worry. I will not ask you to fully
undress.”
Hannah detected his mutual embarrassment. A few painters had left her vaguely
unsettled during the most pristine of sittings, yet she sensed no lechery on Pavel’s part,
only professionalism. She exhaled slowly and willed herself to relax.
Pavel returned to his stool. He took a tin tube of paint from the easel tray and
squirted a dollop of red on the palette. Brush in hand, he began dabbing and mixing the
fresh paint with a spot of blue. The color orchid, the same shade as her dress, gradually
emerged.

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“Perhaps you might wish to sit more, er…comfortably? Turn around in the chair, like
a man sits.” He waved his hand, gesturing with his rainbow-splotched palette. “Go on,”
he assured her, “I will not watch. I will be a gentleman and mix my paints.”
Hesitant, yet somehow excited, Hannah rose and turned. Awkwardly, she straddled
the seat, then lowered back down with caution so as not to tear her skirt. Her hem eased
up, exposing her stockings where she had rolled them right above the knees. Her cheeks
blazing hotter, she clutched the arc of the backrest.
“Good, good,” said Pavel, glancing at her absently as though it were nothing.
And indeed, it is nothing, she told herself. He was an artist, she was his model, this
was the twentieth century, and she was mature enough to show a hint of flesh.
A good model was expected to hold a pose for half an hour at a time. Hannah
attempted to find her space, as the girls called it. She stared out the window and
watched a small flock of pigeons where they had roosted beneath an eave of the building
across the street. Yet after ten minutes or so, her spine and shoulders ached mildly from
holding the same position, one that her body was not accustomed to.
“You must relax,” said Pavel. “Your posture, it is too rigid.” Or ree-geed, as he
pronounced it.
“My apologies,” Hannah murmured, embarrassed that he had noted her discomfort.
She took a slow, steady breath, then eased her grip on the chair. One hand slipped down
the curved wood. Quickly, she resumed her hold.
Pavel clucked his tongue. “No, that will not do. Stand up.”
Hannah rose, prepared to leave, believing she had just been dismissed from the
session early. She smoothed her skirt back into place.
Pavel set his palette aside and gestured toward the squared dining table. “Come,
have a cup of tea, and then we finish.”
Surprised, and grateful, Hannah took her seat at the table. Pavel placed a cup and
saucer before her, then one at his place. The floor creaked as he strolled to the stove and
retrieved the smaller teakettle.
She watched him pour only an inch of tea into her cup; the brew so dark, it was
black. He did likewise with his own cup, and she sniffed at the strong aroma. Curious,
she raised the cup to her lips for a tiny taste.
She jumped as Pavel softly gripped her wrist. He smiled down at her and shook his
head with a low chuckle.
“No, you do not want to drink the zavarka. Your heart, it will beat so hard, you will
think you are dying.” Releasing his grip, he lifted the lid and tilted the kettle to one side.
He sloshed the liquid, revealing a thick sludge of compacted tea leaves which filled half
the pot.
Hannah’s eyes widened at the strong tea. She laughed and shook her head, yet inside
she trembled at the lingering warmth of his touch upon her wrist.
Pavel returned to the stove for the larger kettle. Slowly, he trickled clear, hot water
into her cup, diluting the concentrated tea. “This is how we drink tea in Russia,” he
explained. “I do not have the proper pots, but I make do.”
Hannah sweetened her cup with two sugar cubes, then added a third after the first
sip made her wince. She did not understand how Pavel could drink his black. After they
had finished, they resumed their stations. Less embarrassed, Hannah recreated her pose
as closely as possible.

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Several minutes passed. Her shoulders began to ache again, along with a new tension
in the seat of her thighs.
“You are tired?” Pavel’s question shattered their mutual silence.
She nodded. “A little. My arms, and my back—”
Pavel held up one hand, indicating no further explanation was necessary. He set the
brush and palette on the tray and walked to a cedar armoire. He rummaged inside.
He came toward her, a coil of shiny brown jute in his hands. “We will tie your hands
in place,” he said casually.
For a moment, Hannah found his suggestion alarming. Yet artists tended to be
eccentric—foreign artists more so. And really, his idea seemed practical.
As he secured her wrists to the narrow, whittled spindles of the backrest, Pavel
talked with her, putting her more at ease.
“Why do you model?”
Hannah peered up at him through lowered lashes.
“My mother needs help with the rent and my sisters’ schooling,” she said. “She’s a
music teacher, but she can only take on as many students as time allows.”
“You have lost your father?” he asked.
“Yes, he passed two years ago.”
“And he left no money?”
While Hannah’s family found her father’s lack of success embarrassing among their
social circle, which included successful Broadway playwrights, she knew an artist who
lived as modestly as Pavel would understand.
“He wrote and directed plays for one of the theatres here in the Village. He left—
debts—and the royalties are modest at best.”
“Ah, I see. But why do you model? A nice, pretty girl like you could find work at one
of the shops, no? Ride the new subway up the street to Macy’s?” He smiled down at her.
“Do not tell me a starving artist pays more.”
Hannah laughed, her self-consciousness waning. “I watched the front counter for a
milliner. La Doña came in to buy a hat.” And what a hat it had been, the wide horsehair
brim decorated with the plumage of an entire pheasant! “She invited me to work for
her.”
Pavel concentrated on the knot he was tying. “You found work as a salesgirl tedious.
Her proposition intrigued you.”
“Yes,” Hannah nodded, surprised he understood. She also inexplicably found herself
charmed with the way he drew the short i sound in to a long ee. Sensing a kinship, her
comfort growing, she opened to him more. “I come from a family of artisans—writers,
musicians, painters. I am the only one who does not bear a natural talent. I thought
modeling might prove a way to contribute to the arts.”
Pavel grunted. “My father was a farmer, and his father before him. And yet I paint.
For you, it is different. It is in your blood. In time, you will find your talent.”
The final knot cinched, Pavel knelt to inspect his handiwork. His face drew level with
hers. His breath bore a hint of alcohol, while his hair smelled of macassar oil, and his
shirt of light sweat. She caught herself inhaling and deep, savoring his masculine scent.
Perhaps it was the lingering effects of the strong Russian tea, but her face grew hot once
more, and her stomach quivered. She shifted her gaze, shy and timid all over again.
“I do not wish to staunch the flow of blood,” he explained. “Is the rope too tight?”
“No,” she answered. “It’s fine.”

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Hannah loosed her grip, her forearms hanging limp. The coarse fibers of the jute cut
slightly into her flesh, but did not prove uncomfortable. The strain on her shoulders
lightened, which in turn alleviated the pressure on her spine.
She stared back out the window. The pigeons had taken leave. With her posture
relaxed, and nothing to focus on, her eyes swam and her vision blurred. Instead, she
focused inwardly, at the strange tickle of heat growing between her legs.
He is painting me, she thought. He is painting my thigh where my dress has ridden
up, painting the strip of flesh between the hem of my skirt and the top of my stocking.
She thought of both his eyes and the brush following the path up her hip, over the
curve of her buttocks, up the arch of her spine. A light throb began to pulse between her
legs, and her cotton knickers dampened against the seat of the chair. She squirmed,
attempting to quell the pleasant yet discomfiting sensation, which bordered on the need
to urinate, yet she sensed her body sought some other form of release. To her dismay,
her movements only served to exacerbate the strange palpitations.
“The first layer is finished,” he announced at long last. “Do you wish to see?”
“Yes,” she muttered, her throat gone dry while elsewhere she had grown quite moist.
By the time he had finished unknotting the jute, she found herself badly in need of
another drink. Legs trembling, she rose and followed Pavel to view his side of the easel.
While he had conveniently left out any signs of her ligatures, he had included more
honest details than any artist she had posed for. Stunned, a tiny shock coursed through
her as she viewed herself through the émigré’s eyes.
He had tinted her blonde hair a rich shade of gold, depicting her fringe curls exactly
as they fell into her eyes, the blue orbs brilliant as sapphires. The angle of her face
emphasized the cut of her cheekbones, chiseled high beneath her cherubic cheeks. And
where others had painted her lips in a puckered Cupid’s bow, Pavel had captured the
natural shape of her wide, overly-generous mouth, and somehow made it flattering.
Her gaze drifted downward, and she saw he had indeed painted her lower torso as
she had envisioned, lending her curves an elegant grace rather than grotesque
exaggeration.
“I will add more color over the next few days,” he explained, almost apologetically.
Hannah nodded, familiar with the layering technique of oil painters. She wondered if
Pavel’s work was this vivid and beautiful already, how the portrait might look once the
final layer was set.
“Is that really me?” she asked before she could stop herself.
“It is what I see, yes,” he said. His tone was not flirtatious, but objective, and yet it
was the kindest compliment a man had ever paid her.
She bade him goodbye with five wrinkled, paint-stained bills in hand—two for her
employer, two for her mother, and one precious dollar to spend on herself as she saw fit.
She promised that yes, should Pavel specifically request her, she would be most happy to
pose for him the following week.
As she strode down the sidewalk, she rolled her hips, just a little. Men openly turned
and watched as she walked past.
She waited at the curb, observing that the automobiles had begun to outnumber the
carriages. For the past year now, a rumor had circulated that horses on the street would
soon be outlawed under the premise of a health ordinance.
Up until a few weeks ago, Prohibition had been a rumor as well, with liquor
merchants certain The Volstead Act would never be enforced by the Constitution itself.

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Overnight, the ban had become reality, with stores boarded up, saloon owners serving
soft drinks, and delivery boys forced to empty their oak kegs into sewer holes. The
streets had reeked of discarded alcohol for days.
The traffic guard blew his whistle and ushered Hannah and her fellow pedestrians
across the cobblestone street.
“G’day, lass,” the Irish officer winked at her, tipping his hat with one white-gloved
hand. Hannah smiled back and delicately sidestepped a pile of manure crossed with tire
marks. Safely reaching the opposite curb, she rubbed her wrists, the flesh marked by the
twine. The spot between her legs tingled in response, while she knew the Irishman’s eyes
were on her backside.

***

When Hannah next returned to the studio, the roses had begun to open, the veins of
the petals gone purple where they had absorbed the blue-tinted water.
In her new satin pumps, her feet ached.
“Let us try a similar experiment as before,” Pavel said.
Hannah complied as he tied her wrists behind the chair. Recalling her reaction from
their previous session, the feel of the jute incited her arousal as it wrapped against her
flesh. In an attempt to allay further stimulation, she relaxed the small of her back and
slouched down, transferring the pressure of the maple seat against her sex to the
cushion of her rump. Her shoulders curved against the spindles, lending her further
comfort.
Her wrists secured, Pavel knelt to her side as he bound her left ankle to the baluster-
turned chair leg.
“Your feet are swollen,” he observed. He loosed the ribbon that held her shoe in place
and then slipped the shoe off her foot. As his fingers gently enclosed her ankle, a
pleasant shiver ran up the back of her leg and thrilled through her spine. She wiggled
her pinched toes in gratitude.
“The silk stockings, they are nicer than cotton,” he commented, “but I liked your
boots better.” He followed suit with her right foot, the effect of his touch upon her no
less scintillating.
Her feet relieved, she relaxed her calves, then her thighs, which in turn eased the
weight on her buttocks, deepening the curve of her spine. Her breasts thrust forward,
straining at the buttons of her dress.
Hannah had recently tried on her slimmer sister’s brassiere, but the undergarment
had proved too binding and uncomfortable. She had resigned herself to a bust bodice, as
her mother wore, the whalebone seams lifting and shaping her bosom rather than
compressing it as her orchid dress had been cut for.
Pavel took note of her predicament. His eyebrows arched a moment, though he
maintained his composure. “May I?” he asked, levelly. “Only one or two.” He wetted his
lips with the tip of his tongue, then quickly added, “I will pay more, of course.”
“Yes,” she murmured, the heat growing between her parted thighs.
Pavel reached out toward her breasts, then drew back. He pulled the paintbrush
from behind his ear.
“My one sable brush,” he explained. “I have never used it. I am saving it for my
masterpiece.”

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With the tapered end of the wooden handle, he popped the first two buttons of her
dress free. The top of her breasts swelled forth.
Tied, unable to get away, she closed her eyes. She leaned her head back, resting the
base of her skull against the arc of the chair.
“Yes, like that,” Pavel said excitedly. “You are a natural model.” He stepped around
her.
The tension on her scalp dissipated as he removed the two tortoiseshell combs from
her topknot. Lock by lock, her curls tumbled free of the tight coil. Languidly, Pavel raked
them with his fingers. The scent of elderflower oil enveloped her.
That past Saturday, she had taken advantage of the warm weather and washed her
hair. She had then reclined on the settee under her bedroom window and read Kipling’s
The Years Between for two hours while her locks hung out the window to dry. With
much of the collection influenced by the loss of the poet’s son to The Great War, she had
paid particular note to his lamentation, “Russia to the Pacifists”. Afterward, she had
used the fragrant elderflower oil to smooth her curls where the soap had left them
parched like dry wool. Overwhelmed by Kipling’s imagery of the horrors of war, she had
shifted her thoughts and considered perhaps it was time to brave the barbershop and
request a Castle clip. Enough women did it now that the barbers no longer refused them
service.
“Your hair brushes the floor,” Pavel said, his tone one of admiration. “It is good you
do not cut it like many of the girls do now.”
Hannah stifled a gasp. It was as if Pavel had seen into her very thoughts!
His touch lingered against her scalp, and she felt his gaze upon her, knew he stared
down her bodice where he had unbuttoned her dress.
“Perfect,” he murmured. “We will make beautiful work today.”
As he painted, she began talking, no longer lending credence to the rules set forth by
her employer. Her speech drifted, slow and languid, reflecting her mellowed state as her
repose deepened.
Inadvertently, she mimicked his speech pattern. “The other girls, they say you are a
Marxist.”
“Yes,” he answered. “Does this bother you?”
“No.” She meant to lie, so as not to offend him; but as she answered, she realized no,
Pavel’s political leanings were truly of no consequence. “I have wondered, why have so
many Marxists left Russia and gone on to Europe or America?”
He did not answer right away. As the sunlight danced behind on her closed eyes, she
heard him dabbing and mixing the paint, followed by quick strokes against the cloth of
the canvas.
“We do not agree with the Bolsheviks,” he finally said. “We were to declare rule by
the people. Instead, the Bolsheviks declared a new order. They are nothing more than
little tsars in disguise.”
“So you are an anarchist?” she asked.
“You ask many questions today.”
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
He chuckled softly. “I do not mind, Hannah. No, I am not an anarchist. I am an artist
first, a Marxist second. We were told we must devote our work to the new State. I wish
to create of my own…how do you say in English, to act of one’s own will…”
“Volition?” she offered.

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“Yes. Of my own volition.” He pronounced the short i with his usual ee. His tone
grew tense. “I have a friend back home, a poet. I do not even receive half of her letters
now. When I do receive her letters, she speaks of how difficult it is for painters and
writers in the Motherland. They are no longer granted exit permits because of the
émigrés who denounce the Bolsheviks from abroad.”
“And you are free here in America to paint as you wish?” she asked.
He waited a while to answer again. “No. I paint now to survive.” She sensed the
discord in his voice, heard the brush tap impatiently against the palette. “Though I enjoy
my work with you. It is true to my vision.”
Her scalp suddenly warmed, and the light brightened. Infused by the solar
onslaught, the scent of elderflower cloyed around her.
Pavel gasped. “The Muse smiles upon us today, Hannah. Wait a moment longer, I
must add a new layer of pigment to your hair.”
Eventually, her face cooled, the sunlight having passed over, though bright spots still
danced in front of her eyes. She heard Pavel’s footsteps approach, detected his shadow
where it passed her. Opening her eyes, she stared up at him a moment. He stood above
her, tall and lofty, as she sat in a position of vulnerability. A brief vision played through
her mind, of Pavel stroking her hair once more, then leaning down to kiss her.
With a surge of alarm at such wayward musings, she tilted her head forward. Her
curls, still warmed, caressed her flushed face like a curious lover.
She waited patiently while Pavel unknotted her wrists. He came to kneel between her
knees. As he unbound her ankles, he seemed to focus deliberately on her feet, ignoring
the way her legs parted and her skirt rose. His breath tickled against one calf, sending a
thrill through her, heating her further.
Mutely, one tortoiseshell comb pursed between her lips, she twisted her hair back
into place and then she followed him to view their work for the day.
She stared at the image in awe. The sun had rendered her curls a lustrous shade of
titian, and lent the visible flesh of her scant profile a radiant peach. Pavel had detailed
the taut sinews of her arched throat, her skin pale and smooth where the deft stroke of
his brush dipped down to the ripe swell of her breasts. She flushed at the hint of pink
where the rounded edge of her nipple lay exposed. Her blush deepened at the peak of
her nipple outlined between the whalebone and against the sheer fabric of her bodice.
The slight inclination of her face rendered the subject unidentifiable, lending the image
a mysterious, secretive feel.
As she walked out onto the street, she thrust her bosom proudly. Her stance did not
go unnoticed. She laughed at one gentleman who walked straight into a lamppost, so
intent was he on studying her unfashionably plump form.

***

For their third session, Pavel had draped a platform with luxurious red velvet. Still
wrapped in her coat, Hannah shivered and set her hat on the table. She paused to
consider the roses. The blooms were halfway open, the petals taken on a pale, aqua hue.
“You are growing blue roses,” she observed, finally expressing her curiosity regarding
this oddity.
Pavel smiled, blending the pigments of his palette. The windows closed, he had
rearranged their studio setting to better utilize the dim light from the one bulb hanging

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overhead. With his stool placed near the table, Hannah found herself conversing with
him at eye level. She resisted the foolish urge to lean over and greet him with a kiss on
his beard-stubbled cheek.
“You know the story of Baba Yaga?” he asked.
“Yes,” Hannah replied. “The old wise woman who lives in the woods.”
Pavel nodded. Touching a fan brush to the canvas, he made several long, quick
sweeps of muted taupe to set the background. “The Slavs, they say if one brings a blue
rose to Baba Yaga, she will grant any wish. You see, when someone knocks on her door
and bothers her with a question, she ages another year. She brews tea with the roses to
stay younger.”
“Blue zavarka?” Hannah teased.
Pavel chuckled, his voice more languid and husky than usual. The timbre of it caused
Hannah’s already-cold skin to dimple.
She added her own knowledge of the subject. “I have read Belgian botanists once
offered 500,000 francs to the first gardener to grow a blue rose. Perhaps their offer still
stands?”
Her laughter lightly fogged the air. She tightened her coat around her.
Pavel joined in her laughter. “The money would be nice, yes! I could rent a larger
room and paint you everyday. For now,” he said, gesturing toward the disused stove, “I
cannot even afford coal. I knew the cold would return, but I set the money aside to pay
you.”
Bending to one side, he reached under his stool and fumbled for something, He sat
straight and held out his hand, producing a bottle of clear liquid. He winked.
“Today, we stay warm the Russian way.”
Hannah’s eyes rounded. “Where did you get that?” she asked in a loud whisper.
Though she and Pavel were alone in the room, she peered guardedly over her shoulder.
“I stocked my cabinets months ago,” he explained with a broad, impish grin. “I saw
the dry laws coming. I remembered when the tsar outlawed spirits in Russia before the
Revolution.”
“Really?” asked Hannah, surprised.
“Yes, and the Bolsheviks, they have made no move to repeal. But then they are too
busy fighting amongst themselves to enjoy a drink together.”
Hannah pondered this. She had not realized that America and Russia shared
common ground in regards to Prohibition.
Pavel rose. He brushed past her, pausing a moment as his arm made contact with her
shoulder.
“Excuse me,” he mumbled, staring down at her. A guarded expression passed over
his eyes, leaving Hannah vaguely unsettled.
He went to the kitchen cabinet. The neck of the bottle clinked against glass as he
poured Hannah a small serving of the vodka. When he passed the heavy-base tumbler,
his fingers lingered against hers, causing her heart to leap, her stomach to lurch, her
knees to nearly give. Her exterior composed, Hannah gagged at the sour bite of vodka,
but drank it down. Fire instantly emanated from her belly, indeed leaving her warmed
all over.
She turned and allowed Pavel to help her from her coat. His hands smoothed down
her arms, and she found herself wanting to melt back against him.
How might he react if I did? she wondered. Would he spurn her? Embrace her?

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“You have bought a new dress,” he said, noting her black serge suit, turning to hang
her coat on the peg.
“Yes,” she said.
“I like your purple dress better,” he snorted, looking back upon her in playful
disapproval. “This one, it makes you look like a widow in mourning. But I see you have
worn your boots.”
“Yes,” she said. “Because of the cold.”
Secretly, she had worn them for him.
“Ah well, your dress, it does not matter,” he said nonchalantly as she followed him
across the studio. “If you agree to my idea today.”
Hannah halted mid-step. Her lips pursed, she studied the velvet-draped platform set
in the middle of the floor. Pavel froze, aware that she had stopped moving. He turned
and met her silent question.
“I wish to paint a classic pose.” He paused, and she distinctly heard him swallow, saw
his prominent Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Your backside. If you are willing…”
Hannah considered him a moment. Her cheeks blazing, she nodded in assent.
Pavel’s eyes shifted nervously toward the partition screen, a cream lace shawl draped
over one corner. “Keep your hair up. You may leave on your…undergarments. You will
wrap into the shawl.”
At her hesitance, he returned to the kitchen and poured each of them a second shot
of vodka. “Drink. It will help you relax.” He drained his in one gulp, plunking his glass
back down. As she sipped daintily at her own drink, he licked his lips and looked
straight at her. His eyes darkened, and his polite reserve dropped. “Leave on your boots
and your stockings.”
His tone bordered on commanding. Hannah’s body responded with a flash of
excitement tinged with nerves, fueled with anticipation.
Behind the screen, she unbelted her dress, then clumsily undid the buttons in the
back. She tugged the tight bodice past her wide hips, the wool pooling to the floor,
followed by her camisole. Bearing in mind every famous nude she had ever viewed, both
in books and at the museum, she removed her bust bodice. She pondered whether to
remove her knickers, and decided to take them off. Her nipples perked and her skin
tightened in the chill air of the room, and yet her limbs tingled with a growing liquid
heat.
She hugged the shawl around her shoulders and clutched the lace at her bosom.
Lightheaded she emerged from behind the screen. Feeling detached from her own body,
she placed one foot in front of the other and strutted across the floor in deliberate
promenade, her spool heels clicking and echoing as though from a far distance. With
caution, she eased herself onto the platform. Her back turned to Pavel, she curled her
legs to one side. The new taupe silk stockings paired with her old boots made for a
strangely sensuous effect.
Pavel’s footsteps approached. Perhaps it was wistful thinking, but his touch seemed
to linger deliberately as he slid the shawl from her shoulders. The lace whispered down
her flesh, followed by the smooth palms of his artist’s hands, burning a trail on either
side of her spine. The lace draped at the dip of her waist.
Hannah wondered if he could see her bared chest from where he stood. She found
she did not care that he saw—and in fact, hoped he approved.

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“Hold your hands behind your head,” he said, his voice lower and more gruff than
usual, likely due to drink. She thrilled at the familiar feel of jute as it wrapped about her
wrists.
“Be still,” he instructed.
Something smooth and round slid through the crooks of her arms. From the corner
of her eye, she observed a long, wooden pole, like a sawed-off broomstick, stained with
layers of paint on one end.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She could hold the pose
indefinitely this way. Transferring the stress from her upper back to her lower spine, she
breathed slowly, in, then out, aware of his eyes upon her exposed backside, and the
shawl where it clung just above the swell of her buttocks. She arched her spine, knowing
it would accentuate her shape.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
At some point, she heard the brushstrokes slow, and his breath grew labored.
“Pavel?” she asked, turning her head.
“No, be still,” he gasped.
“Are you all right?”
“I am fine,” he said. “Please…be still…do not turn your head…”
Something clattered to the ground. Alarmed, Hannah disobeyed and peered over her
shoulder as far as her bindings would allow. Straining her eyes, craning her neck, she
saw the palette dropped to the floor, the paint splattered around it. The door to the
washroom slammed shut.
Minutes later, Pavel returned to free her arms. He did not speak. As the wooden pole
slapped the floor, the silence grew uncomfortably tense, as taut and tangible as the
stress coiled in Hannah’s gut.
After she had dressed, he thrust the money at her, looking away, his expression blank
and unreadable. She opened the door to leave then she turned back and looked at him,
concerned by his shift in mood.
Pavel studied the painting, one elbow braced in his cupped hand. He scratched at his
chin, his face pensive. She noticed his shirttails, which he had failed to tuck in during his
brief visit to the washroom.
He had not even offered to let her see their work for the day.
“You cannot come back,” he said quietly.
Tears blurred Hannah’s sight. “Why?” she asked. Her voice cracked. “Have I
disappointed you in some way?”
“No, Hannah,” he said sadly. “No. I disappoint myself.” Still refusing to look at her,
he walked to the sink. With a squeak of metal, he pumped a steady stream of water.
Reaching up, he grabbed a handful of turpentine-soaked brushes and began rinsing
them. The water ran in colors, in shades of red and blue and green, blending into an
indigo whirlpool in the basin of the sink. “I am on my last ruble. I cannot afford to pay
you anymore.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head. “What about your client?”
“He has refused the last two paintings. He demands full nudes. He does not
understand my vision.”
“What of today’s painting?” she asked.
He heaved a sigh and looked heavenward. Guilt twisted his features.
“I will pose fully nude next time, then,” she said with determination.

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He threw the brushes down and shut off the water. He gripped the curled lip of the
sink. He turned his face to her, scowling. A dangerous chemistry charged the air
between them.
“I painted you today for myself!”
“What—”
“Do you see now why you cannot come back? It is unnatural for me to—” his features
contorted as he sought the words “—to desire you in such a way!”
“Unnatural?” she cried with a stomp of her foot, a ball of her fist. “For a man to want
a woman? One who wishes for him in return?”
“Your hands tied together? Your feet restrained with rope? Yes! That is how I want
you! That is why you must go, now, and do not return!”
With a sob, Hannah turned and fled the apartment. Her heels clicked madly down
both flights of stairs, through the parlor floor lobby, down the granite stoop to the
sidewalk outside.
She ran the entire way to the trolley stop, weaving through pedestrians, ignoring the
way they gawked in passing.
She did not flee because Pavel’s desires alarmed her. She ran because in that
moment of Pavel’s confession, she had wanted to rush to him, fling herself at him, tell
him it did not matter, she would do anything he asked, allow him to take her in any
manner which he desired, convention be damned.

***

For the next week, Hannah hoped Pavel would call for her, but not a word. She
inquired with the other girls to see if he had requested a new model; to her relief, he had
not.
The first day, she sat for a Coke ad. The middle-aged painter droned on about his
early boyhood on an Irish potato farm, before the blight forced his family to immigrate
to America. He spoke of how his father had worked in a factory and his mother had
scrubbed floors, until they’d saved enough money to purchase land out West and start a
new farm. They were stunned when he announced he never wanted to eat another
potato in his life, and he wished to stay and paint in the sooty, crowded den of New
York.
Leaning toward the table, her shoulders still straight as befitted a lady, Hannah
listened with half-hearted interest, lost in thoughts of Pavel as she stared off into the
corner at colorful bolts of calico stacked against the wall. Her chin braced against one
hand, her rounded lips an inch from the straw floating in the trademark contoured
bottle, she nodded off a few times, dozing in and out, her attention suddenly caught
when the painter hinted that the handsome Swedish dressmaker, with whom he shared
the studio space, to be his lover. She had heard of such relationships, and found the
concept intriguing. Fully alert, she studied the painter. He bore the genteel demeanor
common to the artist, but he did not look or act any different from the average Irishman.
Marxists and homosexuals, she mused to herself. Modeling had certainly broadened
her social scope, more so than her bohemian mother, even.
The second day, she was surprised to meet a female illustrator, though this gave her
a sense of comfort as she posed in various corsets, chemises, bust bodices, and a new
device called a girdle. Supposedly, the girdle would replace the corset as it lent the

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wearer more comfort and ease of movement, but she found the monstrosity to be just as
restrictive and nearly swooned once due to her inability to take a full breath.
She was further surprised when, after having dressed, the sketch artist brought out a
camera and asked if Hannah might pose for a few stills. Hannah agreed and watched
with curiosity as the woman stretched out the accordion bellows, setting the lens in
place for proper focus. Crouched beneath the black curtain, the artist told Hannah
photography was fast replacing painting, allowing the working class the luxury of
portraits once reserved for the rich and elite. Because of this, she would soon be opening
a photo studio to advance and profit from this trend.
The flash powder fired, temporarily blinding Hannah. She remembered not to blink
and remained perfectly still so as not to blur and ruin the image.
“Do you model on weekends?” the woman asked Hannah as she started to leave.
“No,” Hannah replied, her vision still readjusting, stars dancing before her eyes.
“Only Mondays through Thursdays.”
“I will need an assistant. Perhaps you would like to earn some extra money on
Fridays and Saturdays? I may open on Sundays, too, as I’ll be a block from the Jewish
district.”
Hannah walked out the door, tucking the small card with the new shop’s address into
her purse along with the few extra dollars she had earned that afternoon.
The third day, she modeled nightgowns. The session started innocently enough, with
Hannah wearing floor-length flannel gowns that buttoned high under her chin. When
the painter offered her additional pay to try on a black lace-dressing robe which he
called a negligée, she shrugged and agreed. Posing for Pavel had lent her greater
objectivity, and because she felt no attraction for this artist, she suffered no qualms over
her state of half-dress.
She was less agreeable, however, when he took liberties and blatantly fondled one of
her breasts through the sheer brocade. She slapped his hand away and curtly told him,
“No.”
He left her alone the remainder of the session, instead sharing his recipe for
homemade bathtub gin, then regaling her with tales of a secret saloon, opened in the
storage basement of a German delicatessen, with rumors of more popping up
throughout the city. His attempted pass forgotten, Hannah hung on to every word,
utterly fascinated to learn otherwise law-abiding citizens were engaged in the nefarious
underworld of contraband activities. She refrained from reporting the artist’s brief
indiscretion to La Doña.
By the fourth day, her patience had worn thin.
“Who did you get?” Hannah asked Anais, peering over the other girl’s shoulder.
“A sculptor. I have posed for him several times now. We are doing a figure study.”
Anais cocked her head and considered her a moment. “You have waited the entire
week.”
Hannah studied her own card. Another Coke ad with the homosexual, who seemed to
have taken a fraternal liking to her.
Anais turned and snatched it from her hands. “This painter works only two blocks
from the sculptor.”
“We can walk together then,” said Hannah.
“No,” said Anais with a sly smile. “I will pose for both of these artists today.”
Hannah’s eyes widened as she comprehended the other girl’s implied suggestion.

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“I can’t,” she whispered. “He explicitly stated he would send for me.”
Anais gripped her shoulders. She pressed her mouth to Hannah’s ear. Her chestnut
hair smelled of perfume, her porcelain face of talcum. The furtive whisper came in short,
hot puffs, sending cool, pleasant shivers through Hannah’s limbs.
“Darling, can you not see? His silence speaks volumes. It cries for you! It begs you to
come to him.”

***

Hannah clinked the tarnished brass knocker against the red-chipped oak. Pavel
answered, opening the door a scant crack, one elbow braced where he slouched against
the wall. He wore a long-sleeved undershirt tucked in one side of his trousers. With his
beard thickened, his hair in his eyes, and the lucky sable brush tucked behind his ear, he
looked quite the eccentric. His sweat smelled of vodka, enhancing the effect, one which
only drew her to him all the more.
“I did not send for you,” he said gruffly.
“I know,” she muttered. “I skipped my assignment today. I want to pose for you.”
He opened the door wider, her entrance still blocked.
“I have lost my client. I am awaiting word from a publisher. They need illustrations
for children’s books. I will send for you then. It will be…nice work. Clean work.”
Hannah repeated herself with emphasis. “I want to pose. For you.”
He studied her, then looked away. He stroked his beard with one hand. “I cannot pay
you.”
She peered past him at the roses, now in full bloom, the blossoms a luxurious shade
of lilac in the morning sun, the fringes of the petals darkened to royal blue.
“Then we shall negotiate,” she decided.
“With what tender?” he asked. His eyes sparked, his posture straightened, and
Hannah knew she had snared him.
“You may pay me in roses.”

***

Fully unclothed, Hannah lay stretched on the bed, the tick mattress draped with a
fresh, starched sheet. Her wrists had been bound to either side of the iron headboard,
her ankles bound to the foot board, knees bent, thighs parted, her womanhood exposed.
With her tresses fanned across the goose down pillows, she felt wanton and sensual in
her role of hapless maiden.
Pavel stood over her, silhouetted by the lamplight as it shone at an angle from the
tilted tassel shade. One by one, he crushed and tore at the blossoms, scattering blue
petals around her. The petals tickled softly where they lighted upon her skin; the
fragrance of roses filled her senses.
The remaining blooms intact, he spread them around the mattress, displaying the
biggest and most beautiful across her navel, just above the tendrils of curls, careful not
to prick her with the thorns, more careful not to brush her with his fingertips.
He stood on a step stool, looking down upon her as he painted upon the canvas, the
easel raised high with an adjustable wooden tripod. As his eyes roamed her form, she
felt the burn of his desire mingle with hers.

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In meticulous detail, she imagined him painting her, envisioned the stroke of his
brush as it trailed down the length of her taut limbs, the curves of her arched breasts,
the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips. When his eyes reached the juncture between
her thighs, the torturous pulsation building there increased triple-fold. She squeezed her
buttocks to assuage the pressure, but her agony only deepened.
“Pavel, touch me,” she begged in a hoarse whisper.
“No,” he shook his head. “I cannot. You are good girl. A good American girl.”
“No, I’m not!” she lied. “I have had lovers. I am experienced.”
“You are a bad liar,” he smiled sadly. “Virgins always are. Now hush. I cannot
concentrate.”
Hannah pouted like a child. “I thought you enjoyed talking with me while you work.”
“Today is different. Your pose, it is distracting enough.”
Desperate, knowing only the fever inside her demanded to be quenched, she blurted.
“Then touch me with your brush, as you do on the canvas.”
With a frustrated snort, he left his brush and palette on the tray of the easel and
climbed down from the stool. As he reached for her, she thought, for a fleeting, hopeful
moment, he might accede to her wishes.
With a stern glare, he took the rose from where it lay across her navel. Using his
fingertips, he snapped and peeled off three of the thorns, dropping them to the floor. He
leaned over her and, despite the scowl on his face, gently caressed her cheek with the
petals of the rose.
“Close your eyes,” he instructed. She did.
“Open your mouth,” he said. She complied.
Her heart raced, and her mouth went dry. Did he mean to kiss her?
She felt the stem between her lips. Instinctively, she took it between her teeth.
“Do not lose the rose,” he commanded.
Her eyes flew open. She glared back at him, but made no move to disobey his order.
With a wicked, satisfied smile, he stood straight and patted her on the flank of her thigh.
He climbed back up the stepladder and resumed painting.
An hour or so passed, yet Hannah’s desire remained unabated. At long last, Pavel set
his tools aside. Chin cupped, brow furrowed, he evaluated his work. Hannah watched
with bated breath, trying to read his expression.
Pavel reached behind his ear and retrieved his lucky brush. With the handle pinched
between thumb and forefinger, his shortest finger extended with elegant grace, he
reverently applied the brush to the canvas and made one swift, single stroke.
“It is finished,” he murmured.
He touched the brush to his lips, the bare tip of the sable tinged cobalt. He wet the
bristles with his mouth, leaving the brush clean. He then dried it on the inside of his
shirt, exposing the dark smattering of hair that trailed down his lower abdomen. The
heat inside Hannah rose as her eyes roamed downward, knowing where the path ended.
It was then she noticed the bulge through his trousers.
He sat on the bed beside her. The mattress shifted, and the springs creaked. Slowly,
he began tracing her limbs with the tip of the brush. Soft strands of sable tickled
pleasantly as they followed her veins, from the delicate flesh of her wrist to the sensitive
spot at the crook of her elbow, then to the hollowed, downy patch under her arm.
His eyes intense, his mouth pressed in rapt concentration, he circled her breast,
slowly working inward, until he lighted on her nipple. He traced the stiffened peak,

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sending another current to where she yearned most for the stroke of his brush. He
drifted over her navel, then down her thigh, following the delicate tendon to her knee.
Slow and sure he drew back up. At last he brushed the pink, swollen bud which
quivered above her entrance.
Hannah sighed, clenching her teeth against the rose stem, shifting her buttocks upon
the mattress, guided by the waves of pleasure that coursed through her. As the brush hit
a particularly sensitive spot, she gasped and bit the rose harder. The stem snapped
against the tip of her tongue, but still, she held it in place.
Pavel now concentrated on that spot, circled faster, pressing the brush harder with
each concentric motion. Hannah’s pulse pounded in her ears, and her ribs heaved with
short, shallow breaths. Deep inside, her womb began to flutter, and then palpitate. As
the pressure increased, hot fluid gushed forth.
“God forgive me,” he muttered. He cast the brush aside, and then he buried his face
between her thighs. She melted, the heat of his mouth engulfing her. His beard
scratched against her buttocks, heightening the delicious rise of her climax. She threw
her head back and cried out for him, the broken rose falling to either side of her face.
Her wrists and her ankles strained against the binds, the jute cutting into her flesh, the
outer fibers shredding into torn threads. Light filled her vision as the room spun.
Pavel slid his body against hers, a smoldering trail of kisses left in his wake, until he
came to rest, his wide palms cupped around her breasts, his weight crushed against her.
He ground his hardness between her legs, the coarse fabric of his trousers threatening to
send her into fever-pitched frenzy once more.
“Pavel, take me,” she begged, her body yielding beneath him.
“You taste yourself, no?” He traced the tip of his tongue across her lower lip and
breathed lightly into her mouth. The essence of her desire flavored his kiss, the scent of
her passion lingered upon his beard.
“Yes,” she sighed.
“How does it taste?”
“Sweet. Like cream.”
“That is the taste of innocence,” he murmured. “It is why I cannot take you.”
“I do not wish to stay innocent,” she argued.
“No,” he said firmly, though his breath came in ragged pants. “I will not spoil you.
You must wait…until you are married…to a good man, a respectable man—”
“I will wait for no man,” she declared. Her tone grew taunting, daring. “I will choose
of my own vo-lee-shun.”
Knowing the source of his weakness, she bucked her pubis against him. He groaned,
his face contorted in agony, and then she saw his lust, now unrestrained, and his dark
eyes flared like hot coals. Sitting back on his heels, he hurriedly slid his suspenders
down and then fumbled with his trousers. He slipped them past his hips, exposing his
manhood, the engorged veins as violently purpled as the roses scattered around them.
Hannah eyed his length and his girth with trepidation. Before she could protest and
voice second thoughts, he was back upon her, teasing her entrance with the bulbous tip
of his shaft.
“Ask me again,” he breathed in her ear. His breath scorched against her throat, his
stubbly chin scraped her collarbone.
“Take me,” she whispered, her boldness returned.
“As you wish, my precious Hannah.”

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He tore past her barrier, hurting her, filling her. Yet even as she cried in pain, her
keen wails of pleasure echoed throughout the studio. Hitting crescendo, her cries
blended with those of Pavel, his grunts lower, guttural, backed by the wild symphony of
the bedsprings.
The neighbor on the opposite side of the wall banged loudly. Pavel ignored them and
took her all the harder. Hannah gasped, but quickened her pace, meeting him thrust for
thrust, delighting in the sounds and sensations as he slid in and out of her, the pain
lessening and her pleasure increasing by the second.
The neighbor knocked again, insistent. Pavel slammed one fist against the wall.
“Otva`li!” he cursed back. The neighbor quieted. Some words needed no translation.
In the cold of the room, the lovers broke into a sweat. Pavel’s groans deepened, his
eyes reflecting Hannah’s own delicious torment. Her muscles constricted, gripping him
tightly, and the world spun once more. With a gasp, he pulled away. Hovering over her,
he worked himself with his hand; his hooded gaze never leaving hers, until hot drops of
fluid splattered against Hannah’s belly. Spent, he collapsed against her, his face
burrowed in her hair, the evidence of his release slick and warm between them.
As they coasted down together from their shared ecstasy, he murmured to her in
Russian, the rhythm of the words flowing like music. Though Hannah did not speak his
language, she sensed his affection and sighed in response.
Afterward, she lay curled in his lap, her head cradled against his broad chest, the
cotton of his sweat-soaked undershirt damp against her cheek. He rubbed her wrists,
then her ankles, where the jute had burned into her and restricted the flow of blood.
“My client, I think he will pay a pretty penny for this one,” Pavel said. “Yes, I am sure
of it. I will split my commission down the middle. You must give me your address. I will
mail you half of the money.”
“Mail?” she asked levelly, hiding her alarm. “Can’t I come by the studio and pick it
up?”
“Hannah, you must listen, I must tell you.” He held her closer, stroking his fingers
through her hair. “I am returning to Paris. My friend, the poet I have spoken of, she has
fled Russia. She has formed a secret group to help others escape. She has asked for my
help.”
“That is most noble of you,” said Hannah, her heart swelling with pride even as it
broke at his news. “Take me with you.”
“No, my precious little one, I cannot.”
“Why?” she sniffed. Perhaps he and this poet had once been lovers, she silently
surmised.
Pavel cupped her chin and inclined her face to his. Tenderly, he traced the pad of his
thumb down her jaw line. “Hannah, it is not safe. The Bolsheviks, they go abroad in
secret now. They find and murder those who speak against the State. The émigrés are no
longer protected under foreign asylum.” He paused, his stern features gone soft. For
once, the crease between his brows eased. “Neither are those whom we cherish.” He
looked at her pointedly. “That is to say, those whom we love.”
Hannah’s heart leapt at his confession. Free of any binds, she straightened in his lap
and kissed his lips, one hand against his chest, the other twining his disheveled hair. On
instinct, each hand skimmed down to where he had grown hard for her again.
He curled his arms above his head and allowed her to remove his undershirt, then he
helped her free him of his trousers. With hooded gaze, he lay back and permitted her

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hands and mouth to roam, to touch, to explore, as though she were the artist, and he,
her subject of study. His body, still fit from his youth on the farm, was as toned as the
finest, classic sculpture. His sweat tasted of salt and vodka; the wiry thatch of hair at the
base of his shaft smelled of her defiled innocence. Filled with a desire to pleasure him, as
much as he had pleasured her, she took him into her mouth. He encouraged her,
gripping her by the hair and facilitating her movements.
Abruptly, he jerked her head away and drew her face back up to his, the harsh pull
against her scalp exciting her at some base, primitive level. He threw her back on the
bed and rolled on top of her. Understanding, she crossed her hands above her head. He
grasped her wrists, encircling both in one palm alone, as with the other hand, he
smacked her plush, rounded rump with a loud crack and then clutched and spread her
wide.
Responding to his rough demand, guided by her own unsated need to satisfy his
whim, Hannah parted her thighs to receive him anew. Pinning her firmly, her wrists
held in place, Pavel pressed her into the mattress and possessed her a second glorious
time.

***

She sits outside on the patio, where the nurse has left her wheelchair so that she
might enjoy a bit of sun and fresh air. It is the first day of spring, a temperate, clear day.
The rose bushes have begun to bloom, but Hannah is oblivious to these, for she hides
her own special rose in the palm of her hand.
She is one-hundred-and-four years old today. She has survived one stroke—a mild
incident, the doctors told her. She has outlived two husbands and both of her younger
sisters. She has buried one of three children, a memory which still haunts to this day;
though her son passed away over two decades before at the age of sixty, with grown
children of his own, she still felt it should have been her, not her child, who they laid in
the ground that day.
Yet for all the funerals and heartache, she has witnessed countless births, of
grandchildren, great-grandchildren, nieces and nephews, and recently received a
photograph of her newborn great great-granddaughter.
When Hannah celebrated her first centenarian birthday, her photograph appeared in
the local small town newspaper, and her image has appeared in the paper every birthday
since. It is always mentioned that she, herself, was formerly an accomplished freelance
photographer who balanced a career and motherhood well before the Sexual Revolution.
It is never mentioned that, somewhere along the way, age had forced her to put the
camera aside, or that after her stroke, she had voluntarily moved into the nursing home
so as not to burden her loved ones.
Her family teases her that her yearly newspaper appearance has, at long last, made
her a celebrity. Little do they know during her travels, she once came across one of her
old Coke ads, reproduced on a tin serving plate and auctioned to a collector for a sinful
amount of money.
And they know nothing of the 20x30 inch portrait, which hangs in a museum back
home in New York, the painter and the model both unknown. Hannah is looking at the
image now, centered within the latest issue of Time magazine which lays open across
her lap.

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Soon, her family and the reporter will arrive with the decorated sheet cake, laden
with candles. They will bring a bouquet of flowers and bunches of balloons. She will
open brightly-colored packages wrapped in shiny foil with endless curls of ribbons,
though she receives the same gifts every year—new nightgowns, a robe, slippers, and
homemade cards drawn in crayon by the children, along with a box of large-print
paperbacks, and a bundle of movies to watch on the DVD player she received for
Christmas a few years before.
She loves her family. She is always eager for their visits, to hear of their
achievements, some of them creative endeavors, others pursuits in the working man’s
world, the joke in their family being that one rebels by attending law school instead of
taking up the arts. Though they do not ask it of her, she is quick to offer matronly
wisdom on their woes. Always, she is both pleased and saddened to see how much the
children have grown. She is proud, of each and every one of her descendants, the
musician and the stockbroker alike, and would not change anything that has transpired
in her life.
Hannah had thought she loved her first husband; the marriage lasted all of two
years. She still mourns her second, the one she raised her family with; though their
passion had faded somewhere along the way, it had been replaced with a healthy
respect, and when he’d passed on, she’d lost not only a spouse, but a friend.
Yet in her heart, she holds a secret place for the first man who ever loved her. A small
part of her will always wonder—what if? What if she had gone abroad with Pavel? What
if she had at least stayed in touch with him and been reunited with him at a later time?
She had traveled throughout Europe, visiting the City of Light several times. She had
once spent a week in the Eastern Bloc, in the days before the Wall had fallen, granted
permit behind the Iron Curtain along with a West German journalist. In her journeys,
she had kept her eyes open for one certain face, hoping by some God-granted miracle,
she might find him in the crowd.
What became of her émigré? How many artists did he aid and abet before the Great
Purge of the 1930’s, when countless artists and intellectuals—the intelligentsia—were
censored, imprisoned, or executed for daring to speak against the Stalinist state? Had
Pavel died in the process, a martyr to his cause? Or had he gone on to live his remaining
years in peace, perhaps starting a family, as she had, with children left to carry his
name?
In pondering Pavel’s life, Hannah has had many years to think on other aspects of
her brief but unforgettable time spent with him. Not once had she asked either of her
husbands to try the things she had done with Pavel, but in recent decades, it has
gradually come to light that a certain tangent of society embraces such taboo practices.
She and Pavel had simply partaken of what came naturally to them, and she knows,
now, there was no shame or vulgarity in what she and her Russian lover once shared.
It is with this informed retrospect she looks down at her lap and studies the image
before her—a portrait of a buxom, fresh-faced girl, stretched naked on a bed of cerulean
rose petals, her golden tresses surrounding her like a shining halo, one flower clenched
between her teeth. In a state of comfortable repose, the casual observer would never
guess the curvaceous model’s wrists and feet had been bound.
In the lower right corner, the inset notes that the paint pigments have been dated
between the late 1910’s to the early twenties, and the frame traced to a merchant in
Greenwich Village who supplied the area artists. The text also states author Anais Nin

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modeled for painters in the Village during that time, and surmises that perhaps she
might have met the girl in the portrait while they were making their modeling rounds.
The journalist goes on to say that, according to legend, a blue rose will grant its
recipient eternal youth. It is due to this legend that the painting has been named by the
museum curators as Efflorescence, the short-lived peak of bloom that all flowers enjoy
before they wither and then die.
Staring at the young girl displayed before her, her time of bloom immortalized by the
brush, never to wane, never to fade, Hannah now sees what Pavel had tried to show her
so long ago.
“I was beautiful,” she murmurs. Why had she not seen it back then?
Oh, but if her artist could see his Muse now, fallen prey to the ravages of time—her
hair gone white and her face a patina of lines, her once-supple skin weathered and
parched; the extra pounds which she had fretted over, but he had celebrated, all melted
away; the limbs he bound now crippled and useless.
A shadow passes over her, blocking the sun. She catches a whiff of paint and
macassar oil.
“You are still beautiful, my precious Hannah. The roses, they worked their magic that
day.”
She jumps, startled by the low, gruff accent, letting the magazine slip from her lap.
Trembling, she looks up to see her dark-haired artist. With his left arm behind his back,
he bows and extends his right.
“Will you pose for me?” he asks, a wicked gleam in his coal-black eyes. “I can pay you
in roses.”
She opens her fist, and the crushed, dried petals are released. Blue powder swirls in
the air and is carried off by the light spring breeze.
Hannah takes Pavel’s hand. For the first time in years, she stands, straight and
strong and proud. Amazed, she looks down at herself and sees she is young again,
dressed in her orchid linen suit, paired with her tall boots.
Pavel eyes her hair and clucks his tongue with disdain. Smiling, Hannah reaches up
with her free hand and pulls the tortoiseshell loose. The combs clink and clatter upon
the concrete patio. One by one, her golden curls tumble and spill to the dip of her spine.
“Ah, much better,” he grins.
From behind his back, Pavel produces a coiled strand of jute. He wraps and knots it
around first her wrist, then his, alternating back and forth until the strand is spent.
They walk together, bound hand-in-hand, leaving the husk of her body behind. The
magazine on the ground by the wheelchair flutters in the rose-scented breeze, one
tortoiseshell comb tucked mysteriously within the fold of the center pages.

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Touching Down

by

Joe Wilson
 Touching Down

What Became

She dropped smoothly to her knees before him in the yellow mist of a Georgia
morning, naked except for her collar and cuffs. He smiled affectionately. Naked like her,
he relaxed in a wicker chair on his front porch. After so many years, neither of them
preened nor hid with the other. Water from a summer shower, still dripping from leaves
and branches around the cabin, made the only sound. He sat forward to focus on her.
Her knees were spread, and her hands lay on her thighs so the palms faced upward.
Her head tilted down, as if she did not want to be thought presumptuous. He looked at
her tenderly.
She did not speak, maintaining her peace while she awaited his direction. His voice
caressed, deep and affectionate. “A beautiful morning.”
“Yes, Sir,” she responded. “I suppose …”
“How can you doubt it, little one?”
“It is beautiful,” she admitted hesitantly, “but I hate it that I’ve lost the bracelet.”
He listened carefully and reminded her of what he’d already explained. “It’s
somewhere in the house, I’m sure.” For years, since Pita received his collar, Joe used
their morning conversation to comfort and observe any discontent. If possible, he
anticipated her needs. “It’s not like you to be so upset. We’ll find it,” he assured her.
She shook her head slowly. Her damp, red hair shone in the sun as it shifted side to
side on her shoulders, and light sparkled from her collar. “It will be what it will be, Sir.
It’s possible we’ll never find it.”
His brow creased. The furrows in his forehead had grown deeper over the years, but
his eyes still penetrated. More than once, he overheard her remark to friends that the
gray wolf pictured on the wall in their den reminded her of him. If he fixed his eyes on
her, she said, he knew everything. She bowed her head further, and her breath came
faster. She once asked him what made him look at her that way. “I own you,” he replied.
This time he said, “Perhaps you should spend a few minutes in your room, Pita.” His
voice gently assured her. “You are unsettled,” he explained. “I’ll call you in a bit.” He
knew she liked the way he saw so easily into her, but if she felt unsettled, his look could
be bewildering.
She stood gracefully and padded into the house with short, silent steps. She opened a
door off the living area into a room, which once had been a large closet. The room
became her private place.
He provided a room like this for her everywhere they’d lived. Like the others, pink
filled the room. It had a pink rug, a chair that he offered when she joined him, and a
white and pink stuffed rabbit. The room focused on a picture of a child ballerina who
still looked wistfully through a window. Joe gave her the picture with her first room with
an explanation that it could tell her everything she needed to know about submission.
Each time they moved, she packed the girl herself.
On the porch, Joe finished the mug of chai she’d brought. He stood and stretched in
the yellow light, his lean and weathered body freeing itself from the gray night he
carried from bed each morning now. His brow furrowed as he thought about the turmoil
he sensed in her.
Often, when she was unsettled, Pita could fix it herself, and he preferred that; but if
she didn’t understand her turmoil, like this morning, she’d hint for help to find her focus
and natural docility.

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He moved with ease, arranging furniture for space around the large, white column at
the corner of the porch. From there, they could see three counties. He quickly arranged
loops, cuffs, and hooks that tinkled and rattled from heavy eyehooks at the top, middle,
and base of the column. He returned from a trip inside with a black snake whip curled in
one hand and a pitcher of ice water and a towel in the other, ice rattling against the glass
of the pitcher. He placed them on a table next to a holder of straws. Finally, he cleared a
path to the hammock suspended at the shady end of the porch.
Glancing over his preparations, he nodded and returned inside. At Pita’s door, he
quietly asked her to come out. Once in the living room, her hands fluttered like birds;
she seemed even more anxious. She turned toward him, her head down. “May I request
your help, Master?”
“Of course,” he said with concern. “You know I am yours.”
Pita returned to her knees. “It’s not serious, Master,” she said, speaking clearly. “I
am full of hormones and crazy energy. I feel scattered and self-absorbed.”
Joe reached down to take her hands. As he straightened, she raised her head to look
into his eyes for the first time since she knelt before him on the porch.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked her.
“If you would touch me with your whip, Sir…” She bowed her head again, and Joe
nodded and kissed her forehead; he helped her to her feet, and they walked, he a step
behind her with his palm placed lightly on the cool skin just at her waist, back onto the
porch. There, she faced the corner post and took a deep breath.
She snugged his cuffs at her wrists and ankles. He snapped a quick release link from
the ceiling through the cuffs on her outstretched wrists, gently spread her ankles, and
latched the left end of the lower chain through the “D” ring of her ankle cuff, and the
other end of the chain through the right ring.
He moved up her body. He designed the restraints so she would have maximum feel
and a little control over the sensation she received. Small rings pierced through her
nipples and each of her major labia; he hooked the small chain around the column at the
height of her hips to the labial rings, and then the chain at chest height attached to the
nipple rings. She became quiet, her eyes closed, head tilted back and her lips slightly
parted. She waited patiently for what would be. She betrayed neither need nor desire to
struggle.
As he finished, he stood by her and bent to kiss her open mouth. His sex stirred. He
gave her a sip of the water, and after he set it back on the table, picked up the whip.
The leather lash whispered through the quiet air. Against her shoulders it made little
sound. At first, each time it touched her, she softly cried out and her body writhed. His
motion flowed as if choreographed, athletic and under control. He moved the lash
gradually lower. Carefully watching each throw hit its target. Her bottom became lined
with pink and then a series of crisscrossing welts lifted on her skin. He listened to her,
and with each stroke, he scanned her body and face for signs of what she wanted and
needed.
Again and again, the whip hummed and cut through the air. After awhile, Pita no
longer cried out but softly moaned and then became silent. She stopped writhing and
seemed instead to push into the whip and against the nipple and labial clamps.
A drop of spittle trickled from the corner of her mouth. His sex hardened with the
energy he felt at owning her this way. His rhythm never varied, and he began to see
small spots and streaks where blood had begun to seep on her shoulders and hips.

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He still observed her carefully and watched for the signs of what some call subspace,
a trancelike euphoria where she would be incapable of good judgment while she floated
on waves of sensation, like a hawk on high winds soaring and riding far above sparkling
trees and grasses. Her head rolled in circles from shoulder to shoulder. From the first,
subspace had been easily won, but still they cherished it.
He allowed her to remain in the subspace she loved, a space free of the need to be
locked into herself or her stresses, for as long as he felt he safely could.
Then Joe changed his rhythms, interrupted throws, paused, and gave rapid, staccato
flourishes until he saw he disrupted her stupor. “Pita,” he said, and stopped the
whipping. “Pita,” he said again, louder.
Now he moved quickly and loosened her fastenings. He began with her feet and
ended with her hands, after turning her toward him and against his shoulder so that she
would lean on him as he freed her.
He carried her to the hammock, gave her water to drink, and unwrapped a large
piece of the dark chocolate she loved. While she nibbled on it, he spread cool lotion on
her welts and on abrasions from the whip. While he tended her, he noticed the morning
birds seemed to sing louder. Late,r he would apply an antibacterial cream.
For now, he reclined into the hammock and held her, her face against his throat, and
she cried with the release of the emotions that had unsettled her. At first, Pita cried
sporadically, then with a burst, she sobbed and settled to a low, soft keening. He held
her and called her his good girl.
After a time, she dozed. He found himself dozing, too, grateful his tired arm no
longer needed to be under constant control. He visited the place inside where his own
darkness often hid and decided it once again had retreated, perhaps into the forest
across the field. He felt the muscles twitch in his triceps, and muscles rippled in her back
as she, too, relaxed.
He listened to the birds and thought “This is what a day should be” while the
hammock barely moved. The sun climbed overhead, and he knew Pita awoke when he
felt the touch of her fingers on his penis. He stirred at her attempts to arouse him and
teased her: “What’s a fatalist like you doing in a nice hammock like this?”
She became playful. “I’ve told you, my submission is what I am, Sir.” Her hand and
fingertips brought him, quickly, to full erection. Her insistence worked magic, and his
cock twitched on its own. She caressed him for a long time. Finally, she raised her head
and asked: “Sir, will you come for me this beautiful morning?”
“No, Pita,” Joe said, smiling at her. “Your submission is beautiful, and you, and your
lust…but I’ll give you that some other day perhaps.”
“It’s a long day, Sir,” she said, “and it will be what we make of it.” But her fingers
slowed, and minutes later, he became aware of a soft breeze at his loins. He wondered
whether her breath or a lost breeze found him.
“I wonder,” she reflected quietly, “about Alexi’s new doctor boyfriend.”
Her comments often sounded irrelevant. “Are you worried he won’t know what to do
with her?” he guessed.
“Oh, I still think she’ll be the dominant.” She paused, and then thought out loud. “I
hope my sister finds someone who will fly a thousand miles to give her a pink rose.”
She stopped abruptly. “Oh my,” Pita laughed, “I just remembered where I put my
bracelet.” She started to get out of the hammock.

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He pulled her against him. “Sshhh,” he said. “You can get it later.” She curled into his
side. He listened to her breathe as she slowly drifted to sleep. Her shoulders rose and fell
in rhythm with the slight motion of the hammock.
Joe watched where cottonwoods across the field at the edge of the woods shimmered
in the sun. Beyond them, from a tall, shadowy oak, a hawk leapt forward and climbed to
search for prey.
He smiled as he recalled, as he did nearly every day, the woman who taught him to
love, and he thought, too, about the woman sleeping on his shoulder who had brought
him back to it.
From the line of trees, a mockingbird began its list of songs. Joe knew the darkness
deep in the woods and imagined gray shapes moving silently from shadow to shadow,
the souls of wolves who once hunted these fields. He wondered what a wolf would do on
such a beautiful morning.

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 Touching Down

Touching Down

What is desire?—
The impulse to make someone else complete?
That woman would set sodden straw on fire.
—Theodore Roethke, “The Partner”

“Touch yourself. Sit where you are, Pita, and lift your skirt.”
“I’m in the front hall. Someone…”
“Sit on the steps.”
“The guy next door is paint...”
“Pita, no one can see. Touch yourself.”
“Yes, Sir.” He heard her sigh but ignored it.
“You don’t have panties on, do you? Are you aroused?”
“No, Sir. And no, I’m not.”
“I want to tell you about your spanking bench… I finished it.”
“Thank you… Sir, what is that?”
“Yours is like a saw horse with leather cushions for the sides and top. The wood is
cherry. There are shackles for your ankles and wrists and a collar.”
For a second, he heard silence on the phone. “It sounds lovely, Sir. Will you punish
me on it?”
“Probably not. It’s for my pleasure, Pita, but I think you’ll like it.”
“Why, Sir?”
“If I bend you over it, you can be spanked. If you straddle it, I can have your bottom
or pussy, or I can use your face.”
“Sir…” She said nothing, but from her throat he heard her heat rising. “How does
it...” She became quiet.
“A dildo is harnessed to the top. I can put a butterfly against your clit, and you can
mount the bench and lower yourself onto them. They both have remote controls.”
“Yes, Sir…” Her voice fell nearly to a whisper. He smiled, thinking what her mind
imagined.
“Are you wet now?”
“A little. Sir.”
“Is your clit enjoying the spanking bench?”
“Sir, could I come today?” Her breath became deeper, eager.
“I thought you weren’t aroused,” he teased, and then spoke succinctly. “Am I your
dominant, Pita?”
“Yes, Sir, of course.”
“Then I’ll decide if you need to come. Isn’t that the way it works?
“For now, keep touching yourself.” His voice growled, but he smiled. Through his
kitchen screen, he could hear crickets chirping and the motion of wind in maple and
cottonwood leaves.
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Imagine you are in my house; the shirt I told you to wear is off. You have cuffs on
your ankles and wrists, and the training collar is snug. You are being my good girl.
You wear a butterfly and straddle the spanking bench, waiting, my pussy an inch
above the dildo. Your hands rest on your thighs.”

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She hummed, “Yes, I await your pleasure.” He listened to her breathe.

“I will use you, Pita. Someday soon. I promise.”
“You know I want that, Sir.”
“I’ll blindfold you and lock your ankles to the bench and your wrists together. I’ll
have you lower yourself gently until pussy’s lips touch the dildo. You will move your
ass forward and back, so the dildo just slips past your lips and begins to open you.
“Are you still wet, Pita?”
“Yesss. Sir.”
“You will lower yourself slowly, dear one, onto the dildo, just an inch. Then rise up,
and again down. Each time go deeper, until the dildo is buried and pussy is pressed
against leather.” Her breathing followed the motion he imagined; she inhaled as he
described the dildo sinking into her, and she exhaled as he told her it withdrew.
“Umm,” she sighed.
“Are you comfortable, Pita? Your hands are on the bench?”
“Yes, Sir, for balance.”
“I’ll put a line through the rings in your cuffs to a ceiling shackle. If you put your
weight against the rope and hang from it, you can press yourself against the butterfly
and the dildo.”
He heard her moan, a little louder. He kept his eyes closed to imagine both the scene
he described and the submissive on the other end of the phone as she touched herself.
“Think of the touch of the floggers, Pita. Imagine the soft deerskin stroking your
flesh, over your hips to your shoulders, and back down, caressing like warm night
wind. I will heat your skin. The suede will pink your pale flesh quickly. And when I lash
you hard, first your shoulders, then across your ass, you will begin to lean into the
whips on each stroke.
“I know you are wet now. Feel the sweetness that will seep past the dildo. Are you
wet, Pita?”
“Ohhh.”
“I’ll turn on the butterfly so you can grind pussy against your bench. Hear the buzz
as it boils against your clit. Does the vibration feel as delicious as you taste?”
“Yesss,” she hissed.
“And as I turn on the vibe in the dildo, feel it curve into your G-spot. You’ve been
moving your hips to touch it harder.”
“Ohhhh, yes, Sir, yesss.” Her breathing sounded shallow.
“You’re a good girl, Pita. You’re getting turned on for me.”
He waited. Pita said nothing except for the soft coo of her arousal. Then he heard a
quiet, nearly silent whisper: “Please,” she said.
He ignored her. “You will be ready for the whip, Pita. The blows will fall across
your shoulders. Feel the heat, and in my opposite hand another flogger, this one rabbit
fur. I will stroke it over your breasts, then slap them with it. How your nipples will
stand out! What a pretty sight.”
He heard her say it again, louder: “Please, Sir.”
“Please what, Pita?”
“I want to come,” she said. “Please, Sir.”
“No, Pita,” he said, the growl back in his voice. “Wait.” He went on. “I want to whip
your breasts and move my deerskin lashes down to your ass, and turn the butterfly

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and dildo to a higher speed. If you are my good girl, you will press down against them,
and let your weight carry you so they will make you come, but not until I say you can.”
“Ohhhh,” she moaned, then: “Yes, Sir.”
“Does it feel good, Pita? Do you still want to come?”
“Ohhh, Sir, yes.”
“Can you ask, nicely, Pita?”
“Please, Sir.”
“You don’t sound serious, Pita. It doesn’t matter to me if you come. Maybe you
would really want it if I made you suck on my cock. I’m very hard. If you really
wanted to come, you’d beg me.”
“Oh, my Joe. Please let me come. I need to come so bad. Please, Sir. Please, my Joe,
I want to come. Ohh, fuck, fuck.”
“Pita,” he said to her over her chant. “Pita …” and he counted slowly to ten while she
moaned, listening and straining against her own desire. Perhaps a sheen of sweat
glazed her forehead.
He snarled: “Come hard, slut. Come for Me. Now. Right now. Come for me, be my
slut.”
She erupted, her voice a shrill cry that fell to a squeal and then a soft keening.

Whenever he prodded her, her lust replied…eagerly, her voice full of heat even by
phone, and then she would catch her breath with no inkling of her effect on him.
He couldn’t be sure of what dragged him from the memory right now. It could have
been a stewardess’s voice, his erection, or the woman in the blue hat glancing his way.
He wondered if she noticed his lust, but the woman kept looking across the aisle at his
hand.
He held a snapshot and knew he was staring. He took a long breath, seeing an
angelic and mischievous look in the .jpeg he downloaded one night with her joking
assurance that she looked “better than usual.” The image showed her in a gown as
maitresse de maison and hotesse at “The Boheme,” upscale dining and debauchery at
Orlando’s Westin Grand Bohemian. She stood erect, smiling, confident, charming,
beautiful…her eyes bottomless and wanting.
She managed the wait-staff, but she didn’t enjoy that. She liked the rest of her job.
“It’s given me a good crap detector,” she said. “People talk like I’m not there.”
After one bad night, she rasped, “Money doesn’t make them nice; they just look
nice.”
Blue hat turned again, and he raised his eyes—Pita hadn’t met Joe in person but
commented that on a web cam his look “penetrated”—the woman turned away. If she
recalled later, blue hat would describe a man in his fifties, too tall for airline seats,
maybe handsome except for old scars on one side of his face—his “bad skin”—and black,
wire-framed glasses. She could see his neatly pressed suit and black shirt, a small silver
pin of a wolf in his collar, the way he smiled as he looked into space, but did she notice?
He looked like a man who dealt with boards of directors, but surely that man would
travel first class. Perhaps she noticed the deep lines that gave him a look of grief.
His acquaintances, if she met them, knew little more than she did, except for the few
who knew his “exotic tastes.” He kept friends for years, but they seldom saw him. As
much as he liked control, he disliked being in the public eye.

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The hat turned to look again. She didn’t look especially perceptive, but if his feelings
showed on his face, she might imagine him suddenly devouring the photo. The delicate,
little-girl image had lured him for weeks. He thought of Pita’s face as angelic—and
deceptive. Sometimes his breath caught when he imagined her. Nearly a year before,
only weeks after meeting her on a message board where she asked for money advice
after an “ugly” divorce, he caught himself hoping their “relationship” might make it
through more than a week of exploration in a hotel. But he knew reality spoiled dreams.
He needed to be sure the woman and submissive she wanted to be could exist in her
before he sank too much of himself into the sensuality of her voice: deep, soft, and
southern. Her laughter carried the sound of truth. Weeks after she sent the picture, a
dream awakened him with lust and anticipation, eager and unsettled. In it, the angelic
part of her disappeared. The next morning, the dream itself hazed over. He dreamed
rarely. Usually they woke him as nightmares.
Pita got home late from work that night, and he told her the bits he could recall. She
laughed as he told her about the fierce erection when he woke up. The next night, he
dreamed and woke again, ill at ease and aroused. So he told her again. This time she
said “I know about it. I had the same dream.”
He replied archly. “That’s not possible.”
But she sounded confident. “It’s my dream, too.”
He chuckled. “And what might it be, Pita? Look deep in the crystal ball.”
She forgot her submission: “I’ll wait. If you figure it out, it won’t matter. If you
don’t…there will be a right time. Sir.” She didn’t back down. He liked it; her self-
assurance intrigued them both.
“How are you so sure, Pita?”
“You know my mind, Sir. I know yours, too.”
Caution learned from disappointment taught many submissives to be strong, and
careful. Being lied to and used became familiar. Each day she asked him if he still
planned to come. Her incurable need to hope frightened her.
Real trust didn’t just spring up. It took time, together. When he landed, she would
know he acted as well as talked. Once she fretted to him about her inexperience. “I
played with a flogger once,” she said, “but just a toy Philip got at Spencer Gifts. I saw a
real one the time Alexi and I stopped at the adult store. I liked it, but I wonder if a real
one would be so painful that I’d be frightened and ruin it.”
“Pain is just one sensation,” he told her. “How you react depends a lot on how your
top handles it,” he told her. “And fear is part of the experience and pleasure.”
“Sure,” she admitted. “But there’s fear, and then there’s panic. What would you do if
I panicked? Or,” she added an afterthought, “tried to fight you.”
“You have a safe word at first,” he said, “and if you started to panic, I’d calm you. But
sometimes resistance can be fun.” She didn’t say anything, and he added: “If I didn’t
want you to resist, I could restrain you. But your safe word stops me.”
The banter in her voice disappeared. “How do I know,” she asked, “you will listen?”
“You have to risk trusting your top. It’s a matter of trusting your instincts until you
learn you can trust me,” he said. “I’ll challenge, but I won’t push too far…you would
need to take a chance.”
“Oh, I know.” Now she charged ahead again. “And I want to believe it.” Her words
rushed. “It’s hard to believe the words men use with women. My father and Philip both
said one thing and did something else, and at work, I constantly see men lying: waiters

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with bullshit excuses, married customers who tell the girl they’re with that they’re
single. She believes ‘this guy is different,’ not seeing he’s an obvious jerk who will leave
her crying just because he can. It’s disgusting.”
He waited. She said: “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I hope.”
“You needed to say it,” he said. “I know I have to earn trust…But I won’t lie to you,
Pita.”
“I don’t think you will,” she said. She paused and said sheepishly. “You look honest
and I believe your face, so I trust my instincts.”
That made Joe raise an eyebrow and peer into the cam—you could tell many things
by looking, but he knew ‘honest’ did not show in faces, especially in his aging face.
“Seeing is believing” could be a dangerous cliché. He reached for his soda and sipped
without comment. He said: “My question is whether you can obey and submit.”
“And what do you need to trust me?” she asked. Her voice masked no sarcasm.
“Actions, not words. For both of us.”
He flew to her now as an act to begin building trust. He needed her to act, too, and
he liked the simplicity of his plan; she knew his flight number and shared his eager
anxiety…and she naturally assumed they would stay in Orlando. But she did not know in
fact where he would take her, and his tickets included hers to fly with him to New
England.
She would be surprised and unable to escape it; she would have to release control to
him or back out and stay in her life. If she wanted an excuse to back out, she would have
it. But if she decided to risk trust and to step, alone, onto the plane, it would be an act
that she willed…and in that instant her life could start to move ahead rather than
continue to trickle out into the dry streambed of her divorce. He called her as his plane
reached the gate.
“Are you here, Sir?”
Doubt springs eternal. “You’re ready to leave? Dressed as I said?”
“Yes, my Joe.” Even softer than usual, her voice quivered.
“You’re frightened, Pita.”
“Not much, Sir.”
She took a breath. “I’m worried about work, I guess. And about Philip. A little, Sir.”
She had reason to fear her ex-husband, a self-absorbed bully who once threatened
menacingly to ‘keep her.’ She had a restraining order.
Surely, Pita’s worry about Philip covered him, too. It would be strange if she didn’t
wonder whether he might be another belligerent and ego-centered tormentor who
wanted to hurt her to keep her weak. She would learn trust, and he would earn it. But it
could only be done a step at a time.
He reviewed the call forwarding for her phone then made her hang up and called her
house to be certain it connected to the cell phone he’d mailed to her. That reassured her
for the moment. Philip wouldn’t know she’d left. He told her to meet him and to park in
the long-term lot.
“Why?” she was puzzled.
“It’s what I want. Trust me, Pita.”
She knew to meet him at the Southwest ticket counter, traffic willing, in forty-five
minutes.
“Call me if you can’t be on time,” he said. “I’m feeling responsible.” She laughed
nervously. He could hear her breathe. She stayed on the line.

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“I want you, Pita,” he said. As he clipped the phone to his belt, he smiled. He walked
down the concourse to the area for Southwest. He spoke with a skycap, a small black
man, eager to please, who became even more obliging as Joe handed him two twenty-
dollar bills along with an envelope. The skycap’s eyes focused on Joe as he gave
instructions. The black man nodded enthusiastically.
The little man’s eagerness made Joe smile while he walked to the VIP lounge to look
for the bartender. This time, he passed three twenties to the pretty Asian woman and
gave instructions. He pointed to a table with a chair facing large windows looking out on
the concourse. Leaving the lounge, he took an escalator to the mezzanine where he could
look down on the main floor to wait for his new, nervous submissive to arrive. He saw
the bartender put a ‘reserved’ sign on the table he had pointed out.
He watched the travelers. For as long as he’d been aware of BDSM, Joe H-for-
Harrison Wilde played with people-watching to guess who might be part of ‘the life,’ or
might want to be. He knew the exercise just excused the fun of looking for women who
might like life under the whip. A tall redhead walked into the terminal, and his heart
spiked, but then he realized she didn’t share much with Pita. She walked up to a man
and embraced him; as they separated, the man’s hand brushed her bottom, and she
stiffened, obviously not welcoming his possessive touch.
Joe recalled awkward moments with Pita. She thrilled to fantasies she’d enjoyed
privately for years but never discussed; the idea of realizing them made her insecure.
“Do I have to give up my limits?” she wondered.
“I want to know your hard limits,” he told her, repeating the conversation and
reassuring her once again, “and I want to know what you think are soft limits. At the
start, I won’t accept no-limit play. That might come later, or never.” The pain didn’t
frighten her, but being naked made her self-conscious. He teased her and reassured her.
She sent pictures. He reassured her again.
She said, “I worry about you seeing me naked. You say I’m beautiful, but I don’t feel
beautiful, I feel fat.”
He pushed: “Since this is so important for you, maybe I should challenge you with it
as soon as we meet.” She laughed as if he were joking. “You are beautiful. If you are
collared, it will be because you accept my world and the way I see it. And that includes
yourself.”
Even if fear threatened to control her, she wanted to submit. “I don’t want questions.
I want to accept,” she told him one night, late enough that crickets outside had turned
quiet. It must have been dawn in Florida. He asked about her fear of exhibitionism, and
she told him: “I don’t want to give you a list. I want you to help me break down my limits
and beat my defenses. My fantasies and fears control me now; I don’t want them
anymore.”
Joe kept his eyes on the crowd hurrying beneath the mezzanine. He saw Pita, directly
in front of the ticket counter, and his breath caught. The tall redhead glanced eagerly
right and left, a stunning and entirely confident woman who would intimidate men who
liked ‘perky’ waifs. She did not look submissive, whatever that meant; in fact, on
occasion, the ferocity in her beauty led him to call her ‘little red tiger.’
Right now she looked only for him. She didn’t notice, or ignored, the glances and
outright stares from men, and from some women, around her. He felt his hands
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He’d told her to wear the forest green dress he sent. The skirt swirled silk each time
her body turned right or left to look for him. Sometimes she touched her choker, black
leather with a heart-shaped padlock and a tubular sterling slider engraved in script with
the name he gave her as a joke: “Pita.” He sent it months earlier, and the name stuck.
Now he found himself hoping that promise was a forecast.
The eager skycap hurried up to her. He handed Pita the envelope from Joe. He said
something, hopefully what Joe told him: “your Sir wants you to read this.” She looked
confused. As the little man scurried away, she opened the note and caught her plane
ticket as it fell out. She read the note, then looked around frantically.
She looked confused and ready to cry. Joe pressed the speed dial, then her cell phone
rang, and she pressed her bag against her stomach so she could get at it, her hair getting
in her way. She nearly dropped the phone.
“Hello, Pita,” he said. He kept his voice steady and, hopefully, calming.
A middle-aged businessman walking past her noticed her cleavage and kept on going
but looked back. Joe saw the lace on the merry widow in the plunge of her dress, and he
knew pale green garters held up her lace-topped stockings. She looked delicious.
“Sir, where are you?” Her voice bordered on shrill.
“I’m here, Pita. Don’t be frightened. I’ll take care of you.” The familiar phrases settled
her a little.
“Sir, I can’t leave …”
He interrupted her gently. “Be still, Pita. Listen to me.” He could see her fidget and
then bite a fingernail. “Take a deep breath and let it out, Pita.
“Are you listening?”
“Yes,” she said, “Sir.”
He felt his own tension. “You want to belong to me,” he said. “To please me.”
“Sir, this is crazy. I have work and Alexi. Someone could recognize …” Her voice fell
off.
“OK, Pita. I’ve told Alexi, and she’s fine with it, even excited for you. And leaving isn’t
as dangerous as staying. If you remain here, someone Philip knows could see you.” He
took a breath. “I’m thorough. I’m done explaining. You have a choice to make.
“On the left side of the ticket counter there is a door to a VIP lounge. Go in. Sit down,
and I’ll call. You can decide then.”
“Yes, Sir,” she said and started to close the phone.
“And Pita,” he caught her. “You look fantastic.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Do you have a bra or panties on?”
“Just the corset, Sir, like you told me.”
“Quit chewing your fingernails, Pita.”
Through the large windows bordering the concourse, Joe could see into the VIP
lounge and the table he reserved for her. The only two customers were businessmen in
love with their cell phones. She entered and went to a table as one, the lanky blonde,
watched her closely. Joe waited for the bartender. Pita fidgeted in her chair, with her
hair, nibbled at a fingernail. Skittish and purposeful, full of spirit and intelligence, Pita
bored easily and needed challenge. She had a challenge now.
She must be mulling all the possible bad endings. Of course friends and family
secretly feared they’d both lost their minds. Some of them didn’t keep their opinion
secret or tactful. Alexi wondered to Pita if Joe would show up. Pita’s brother exploded

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and stormed out, ranting about an ‘infuckingsane’ plan. Alexi came around, but no word
arrived from Stephen, an older brother.
Only the night before he left to prepare the suite for their week, Joe too received a
call from a woman, a friend who worried he ‘might be doing the wrong thing’ in meeting
a girl he knew only online. He’d gone over the same arguments on his own…more than
once…. The idea he might make a dream become real befuddled friends who couldn’t
wrap their heads around second chances until the headline risks fell behind. But right
now, dreams were still dreams. Anxiety formed their reality, hers especially.
Pita stood up quickly and walked to the bathroom. The watchful businessman’s eyes
followed her high heels and the dark seams of her stockings across the hard floor. Joe’s
pulse followed the sway and flip of her green dress hem and, knowing she wore nothing
beneath but a sea foam green corset and stockings, his breath stopped again. He
suddenly needed to be waiting as she came from the restroom, to catch her by
surprise…to grasp her hands and hold them hard against the wall above her head, to
grind his mouth against hers, to push his tongue between her lips. He took a step.
But with his impulse, a dark door in the back of his mind fell open, and the dream he
told her about—the arousing dream he couldn’t recall—fell into consciousness with a
rush. He stopped. In the dream, he stood behind her, reaching for her arm and spinning
her around. He closed his arm tight around her waist. Strangers rushed by. She looked
up at him, her mouth shaping words. He grabbed her arms and clamped them to her
sides and pulled her against him.
Impassioned and aggressive, she leaned into him, pressing her mound against his
thigh, and her hand suddenly cupped him. He felt his sudden erection, and surprise. She
whispered into his mouth: “Please, Sir. I need you to fuck Pita.”
The surge of images and emotions from the dream stopped him. Pita came out of the
bathroom and, by the time Joe’s head cleared, she’d approached the table and her seat.
He watched the pretty bartender finally arrive and steer her to the table he picked. The
bartender placed a napkin in front of Pita and offered a drink. Pita nodded.
Gradually, Pita settled, her cell phone next to her hand on the table. The bartender
brought her order, tall and dark in the glass, probably Pepsi and Cap’n Morgan’s. Pita
reached for her purse and looked surprised that she did not have to pay.
She finished rummaging in her purse and put it aside. The blonde businessman
approached, smiling broadly. She saw him and smiled back but then shook her head
enchantingly at whatever he said. Self-consciously she raised her left hand to the choker,
and Joe quickly understood her retreat to a touchstone, to a talisman of comfort. His
heart warmed. The businessman smiled some more and left.
He called her. The phone waited in her right hand, and she answered it immediately.
“Where are you, Sir? I’m frightened.”
“Nothing bad will happen, Pita. Be patient.”
“I don’t feel so well, Sir.”
“Breathe deep and slow, Pita. Say your mantra, three times, slow.” He could hear her
reciting the poem and saying his name.
Finished, she said: “Where are you, Sir?”
“Tell me about the man you spoke to, Pita.”
“Please let me see you, Sir.”

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He didn’t answer. After a pause, she said: “I think he liked me, Sir.” Her nerves
didn’t make her forget to tease. He could feel her voice’s smile. “He wanted me to go to
lunch.”
“Did you want to?” She needed a distraction.
Her tone turned serious. “You know I don’t… “
“All of this stress and teasing. Are you aroused, Pita?”
He watched her shift in her chair. “A little bit, Sir.” She drew a breath. “I want you,
Sir.”
He took a breath of his own. “Let me answer some of your questions, Pita. You won’t
need many clothes, but I’ve brought things for you. If I forgot something, I’ll get it later.
I’ve spoken with Alan and Ronal at the restaurant. They’re ready for you to be gone
more than a week. Alexi knows and wants you happy. Your sister is a good friend. You
need to call her later.
“Are you listening, Pita?”
He listened to the silence as her mind spun for a heartbeat. “Sir, it’s amazing.”
“Pita, if you want, you can turn around and go home. That way your fantasies remain
imaginary. Or you can get on the plane with me. If you use the ticket, you trust me with
your safety, but your dreams have a chance. It’s time to decide.”
She let silence hang. Her answer came slowly and thoughtfully. “I want you, Sir. I
want to be owned, possessed, cared for. By you. And I want to serve.”
He found he’d been holding his breath. He let it out. “In ten minutes, go through
security, and go to gate B5. You are in the “A” group. Stand by that sign at the gate. Take
a seat in the back of the plane and save the aisle seat for me.” She didn’t say anything.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” she said.
“Does thinking of the next week excite you?”
“Yes,” she breathed, “Sir.”
“Check with your fingers, Pita. Are your nipples hard?”
“Here, Sir?”
“Now, Pita.”
She looked quickly around the room and raised her free hand to one breast and then
to the other. From the mezzanine he could see the green silk momentarily wrinkle. He
could hear her inhale through the phone.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Do you want me to come to you?”
“Oh, yes Sir, I do. Can I see you now?”
He knew she would hear the firmness in his voice. “I want you to get on the plane
alone. You have to make your decision with action, not words. And it must be your
choice. Do you have any questions, Pita?”
He paused to wait.
“Where am I going?”
“With me, Pita.” He closed his phone and went down the escalator to follow her.
Pita’s body relaxed as she walked. She touched the choker, and he could feel his
pulse throb. She watched the crowd for him and drew glances from men. At gate B5,
sunlight flooded the waiting area, and her auburn hair glowed in the late-morning sun
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He needed to wait to see for sure that Pita would fly. He knew she didn’t like air
travel. Joe felt his heart steel. He wanted her to come with him, but without promises,
without softening the magnitude of their actions or desires. He wanted her to come, not
because she thought she loved him but because she wanted to find out about herself,
and him, and if she had the heart of a slave.
He stood across the concourse. She looked over her shoulder, right and left. A
teenage boy maneuvered behind her, transparently adjusting his angle for a close-up
glimpse of her breast pressing against the side of her dress.
Her head tilted and look at a bank of monitors with arrivals and departures next to
the gate. She rummaged in her purse. He thought she might call him to make sure of the
gate, but she took a note pad and pen from her bag. She turned and said something,
smiling, to the teenager, who nodded and blushed down to his neck. Then she moved in
front of the monitors and wrote something down.
Joe understood in a rush. The arrival times of planes arriving from Providence
displayed just above her head, and she needed a buffer, a hedge, between her risk and
possible disaster. She made a choice to submit but listed options in case her future fell
through.
Her simple act made him suddenly certain she would board, that she would come
with him, that she accepted the risk that Joe would be what he appeared. Emotion stir
hard in him, and he recalled how Lydia, a friend and consensual slave, explained how
the submission felt to the heart of the slave. She said it felt like a step that might fall off
into bottomless space, or like walking a tightrope might feel without a net other than
hope and promises.
The burning in his eyes cramped at his throat. He knew he would be there for her.
He wouldn’t fail…and it seemed increasingly likely that she herself would be what she
seemed, and seemed for months to him. But their week would be about that: the reality
of actions.
Boarding began, and he saw her draw a breath and move to the gate. No longer
surprised, still his heart leapt. He hadn’t understood the extent of his own uncertainty.
He went to a kiosk to buy a pink rose, then moved forward to the end of the line.
He bent getting on the plane to keep from hitting his head. Nearing her seat, the
auburn sheen of her hair gleamed and sun glinted off her choker. His hands gripped the
flower in a clammy embrace. He smiled grimly and whispered, “Here we go, Pita,” but
he knew he spoke for his own comfort. She had been looking sadly at the ground crew,
but she glanced up and knew him immediately. Her face went pale, tears came to her
eyes, and she staggered to get out of her seat.
“Oh Sir, I thought you weren’t coming.” He reached down, put the rose in her
outstretched hand, closed his fingers over hers tightly, and gently pressed her back into
her seat. She didn’t look at the flower.
“Let me put my bag up, and I’ll hold you.” She eagerly smiled, the first time he’d seen
her smile in real life, but she also looked on the edge of tears. Joe folded his jacket to fit
the overhead and took a blanket. He lifted the chair arm between their seats and put his
arm around her. She tilted her head eagerly and kissed him.
The energy in her lips signaled the easing of tension: fear, joy, waiting, fantasy, and
the release of suspense bundled in her kiss. He tasted the salt of her tears. Gradually her
lips relaxed, and her cool palm, damp from nerves, came up against his cheek.

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As he drew back, she looked down at the rose and unclenched her fingers; she
gripped it tightly, and three tiny drops of blood gathered where thorns punctured her
fingers. “It’s pretty,” she said.
Joe plucked a petal from the flower to wipe away the specks of blood.
“Even the thorns,” he said.
She began to babble, embarrassed, gesturing. Her eyes were full. The stewardess
stopped beside them: “Are you alright, ma’am?”
Pita looked up, surprised to be noticed. “Yes, she’s fine,” Joe assured the stewardess.
“We’re just excited.”
Pita began to giggle and said, “May I have something, Sir?” He nodded and placed a
drink order. The stewardess gave her best professional smile. Joe unfolded the blanket
and spread it across Pita, pulling it up to her breasts. She chattered, replaying the
boarding adventure as if he hadn’t been watching.
She didn’t mention writing down the inbound flight schedule.
Beneath the blanket, he held the inside of her wrist. “Hush, Pita,” he said in her ear.
Then, “Be quiet, Pita,” as she continued to babble, and finally he gripped firmly and said
“Shut up.” She jumped but immediately went quiet. He took the rose and inserted it in
the seatback pouch in front of her.
“Put your head on my shoulder. Whisper your mantra.”
He heard her recite with her soft, southern drawl at his ear. Her breath settled
against his cheek and, in person for the first time, he felt a familiar, direct connection
between her voice and his sex.
“I felt so afraid,” she said. “I wanted you with me.”
“I know,” he said, “and I’ll take over for awhile now. You can let go. After you’re
calm, tell me anything you’d like. You haven’t flown much lately. Maybe you’d like to
look out for the takeoff.” He rotated his thumb slowly over the quick pulse in her wrist,
then down into her palm, calming her.
Once she breathed evenly against the side of his throat, he moved his hand to her leg
and began to stroke her stocking beneath the blanket. He moved his fingertips in small,
slow circles. The plane taxied and lunged into the air, pressing them back against their
seats, but he continued to claim her and moved his hand up her leg. Joe felt her twitch,
as if surprised. But her eyes remained shut as she focused on his touch.
“You didn’t get to see the take off,” he said.
“Your hand is cold,” she whispered. “Put it between my legs.” He felt the lace on her
stocking and the garter. She didn’t move her head from his shoulder but returned to the
mantra, whispering slowly, her hot breath on his skin sometimes repeating a line of it as
her mind slowed. When he lifted the hem of her skirt and drew it up, she tensed. He
took it to her waist.
“Please stop,” she whispered.
He raised an eyebrow and thought, “So we begin.” The risks of exhibitionism often
worried her. Beneath the blanket, her bare sex must have made her feel vulnerable. He
continued. He felt the hardness increase between his legs.
She said firmly, “What do I have to say?”
“A safe word,” he said, just as firmly. His hand caressed her thigh, an inch or less
from her sex. She began to bring her legs together, and he moved quickly, squeezed a
tuft of her pubic hair between his thumb and forefinger and tugged sharply. Pita

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squealed, and her legs flew open, but she started laughing with embarrassment at the
sharp noise she made and brought her hands to her face, laughing into them.
The stewardess, arriving with their drinks, suddenly appeared above them. “Are you
sure you’re okay, Ma’am?”
Joe laughed with Pita. “She’s just embarrassed with all the excitement,” he said.
Pita’s blush covered the pale skin of her face. She nodded vigorously and reached for the
drink in the stewardess’ hand.
The stewardess pretended to understand the humor of the situation and left. He
continued to stroke Pita’s thigh on the soft skin inside of her leg. His tray was down, and
Pita opened his spring water for him while he continued, letting each stroke of his
fingers graze her sex. “People…” she began.
“…are my concern,” he finished her sentence. “Let go,” he added. She looked at him
and took a breath. She closed her eyes.
He let his hand wander; drifting from the inside of her knee up her smooth stocking
and her taut garter to the softness of her skin and fuzz. The people around them dozed,
read, peered at laptops. Her occasional muscle spasm returned; he decided her sexual
energy made the twitch.
She whispered, “I want you, Sir. But would you please stop?” Her eyes sparkled.
“Please?” she repeated.
“Would Philip?”
“Of course,” she said.
He laid his hand directly on her sex. He felt her grab her breath. “I’m not Philip,” he
said looking hard into her eyes. Then he raised his palm an inch and slapped her pussy.
She jumped, even though it didn’t hurt, and her eyes widened. He spoke firmly and
punctuated each word with another slap. “I’m. Your. Sir.” At each slap of her labia, she
inhaled sharply. Her head fell back, and her lips parted. He felt her moisture on his
fingers.
Pita shifted to spread her legs. She responded as quickly now as she would have on
the phone, moaning softly and, this time, pushing toward his fingers. He felt her tense.
He turned and whispered into her forehead. “Tell me, Pita.”
“Sir,” she said, haltingly, “I want you.”
He continued the maddening strokes. She tried harder to move onto his fingers. She
cooed in his ear, “Sir…Sir…Sir, please.” Her muscles jumped.
“Tell me.”
“Sir, touch me. Please, I’m so turned on.”
He growled, “Tell me what you want.”
Her breath chopped and shivered. She didn’t answer. Her thigh twitched. Then she
rushed: “Touch me…my clit, oh God, my, everywhere, go inside. Make me come.”
He stopped.
“Sir, for god’s sake, please, Sir.”
He breathed passionately into her mouth. “I’m going to touch my pussy, and I want
you to come. I’m going to fuck you with my fingers right now and, for the next week,
with my cock. We’ll see if you can learn to be My slut.”
He dipped into the heat and slick flesh of her cleft. Her body jerked and pressed
against his hand. Slick and rigid, her small clit passed beneath his touch, and Pita
flinched. He circled her opening and her flesh yielded. Joe adjusted his position to drift

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his fingers down the soft, damp skin of her perineum. He wondered if her skirt would
get wet.
He took the handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped her sex. Even the soft
cloth seemed to shock her into greater arousal. He relished her eager sexuality. He
tucked the piece of cloth beneath her legs and slowly swirled his finger back up her slit.
She placed her hand on his thigh, and her grip tightened. Her other hand clenched
the armrest. The bright light of the sky fell across her; her tight grip turned her knuckles
white.
He rested his finger on her clitoris for a slow count of ten.
Pita whispered, “Sir, please. Let me come. Touch me, Sir.”
Joe began to tap, maddeningly, against her.
She replied each time his finger tapped, mewling softly “oh, ohh, ohhh, oh…” and her
muscles clenched.
When she pressed her pussy forward again, he pressed down on her mound. He
wanted her to come to release her tension, but he knew she could come with abandon,
and he didn’t want her embarrassed. The pressure provoked enough; his finger pressed
her clit, and her orgasm released, intense but silent. He watched her bite down on her
lower lip, heard her inhale hard, and watched her breasts lift as she swallowed air to stay
on top of it. She exhaled and slumped against him. Joe took the handkerchief from
between her legs.
After several minutes she said, “Sir…”
“Yes?” he asked.
“You’re already training me, aren’t you?”
“The week will be short,” he said.
“I’m thinking,” she paused, “of how you’ll keep pushing me farther than I’ve been,
like you just did. I’m wondering how hard you’ll beat me, or if you’ll try to share me…”
“You wonder if I’ll respect your limits.”
“Yes, Sir,” she said quietly.
“Talking about limits online is like fantasy. In life, it becomes real, doesn’t it?” he
asked. “It’s my job,” he whispered, “to challenge you and your limits…to see if you want
to grow and submit, not just in fantasies. Listen,” Joe said, turning to hold her hands,
“we’re starting over. But I remember exhibitionism is a soft limit, something you do only
to please,” he said. “And I love to share beauty, so I challenge you.
“But you also said giving you to anyone is a hard limit, and so that is just not
possible, even if I wanted it, because it’s a hard limit—unless you change your mind and
encourage me to think about it. But in play, each time is different, and I have to decide
how much is enough.”
“What if I can’t do it?” she asked.
“You find it hard to believe, don’t you? If you say your safe word, I’ll stop. The first
problem we have is your difficulty with trust. And like all problems, we’ll deal with it.”
She peered into his eyes, quietly looking for what lay ahead.
He continued, “I won’t tell you everything. I don’t ask permission.”
“How do you know what to do?” she asked.
Joe settled into his seat. “It’s in the Dom’s Manual,” he smiled. “Now relax, Pita. Get
some sleep.”
She rested her head on his shoulder. He wondered if her orgasm stirred her up so
much she couldn’t relax, but her head turned heavy, and her breath softened. The stress

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of getting this far built intensity for weeks, and she’d done well. He reminded himself
not to hope for too much, too soon. In spite of her shy streak and his moments of
control, they just began. Pita wanted love; for now, for Joe, enough challenge came from
D/s. Submissives usually said D/s could not happen without love. He sometimes
wondered if they might be right.
He closed his eyes and put his head back. He brought the handkerchief to his face. If
the blue hat lady still sat across the aisle, she would have seen him wipe his nose. He
inhaled Pita’s scent. He knew that before they landed, he needed to settle the turmoil
rippling through his body. His breath still shook, and he put the handkerchief back in
his pocket. He felt the plane enter its long descent.

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His Leather Kisses

“I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes
enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does
not believe me naive or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.”—
Anais Nin

“Ohh, can we gamble, Sir?” she asked as the rented convertible pulled under the
immense portico at Graywolf.
“I thought we were, Pita.”
She laughed. The valet rushed to open her door. She waited, like Joe told her, so he
could hand her from the car. They entered the casino’s cavernous lobby through a rush
of air that provided its front door. Graywolf served as New England’s bow to
extravagance and greed; it looked strange among the green Connecticut hills, a hotel
resort designed around a thirty-three story, black trapezoid meant to overwhelm
visitors.
Pita gawked, but she moved steadily through the lavish lobby because Joe’s fingers
pressed gently at the small of her back. She enjoyed a moment of feeling owned, but he
said nothing all the way across the lobby and, as she stepped onto the glass-walled
elevator, her fear returned.
The elevator rose, the countryside dropped away, and the distances of woods and
hazy, blue mountains stretched into the distance. Pita followed her own thoughts while
the butterflies in her stomach got used to new heights. She looked at the control panel
for a destination. The only lit button glowed at the top, “P” for penthouse—weakness
overtook her, and she leaned back against Joe’s arm. It tightened around her, and his
strength comforted her.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered. “Trust me.”
She took a deep breath and nodded. She wanted to learn to trust him, so much so
that she again willed herself to take risks. The elevator stopped, and he held her around
her waist to walk her through a spacious lobby to the double doors that opened on their
room…or suite, perhaps five times the size of a hotel room. One windowed wall showed
a panorama of green countryside. Opposite the windows, a mirrored wall ran the length
of the living area so the sky and rolling hills appeared to surround the room. An
immense bed waited in shadow behind a wall. Overwhelmed, she felt relieved to just sit
on the sectional and sip the wine Joe handed her. Her excitement took shape. “Sir, this
is incredible.”
“What we’re doing this week is important,” he said and sat next to her.
They talked, and her stomach settled. The desire to get started welled up as she
looked around. A mahogany table by the windows displayed toys:
cuffs…whips…clamps…oils…vibes… The large pillar in front of her, impressive for its
immense girth in any case, was circled at the ceiling and floor with chain and shackles.
Joe’s gaze bored into her. She reached for his hands and found them damp. He shared
her nerves. She bent her forehead to rest against his shoulder.
His voice sounded gentle. “Any questions?” he asked.
She kept her forehead against him but shook it “No.” With a deep breath, she asked.
“What should I do?”

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Joe took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. He stood and walked to the
table, then returned with fur-lined cuffs and knelt before her. He handled her gently, as
if helping her try on shoes. The cuffs pulled snug on her ankles, and her heart rushed
ahead. Her breath shrank. She tried to slow her breathing. The locks snapped shut, and
something new and unexpected unfurled inside her—a gathering sense of peace. She’d
been close to hyperventilating, afraid she’d faint, but as he locked the wrist cuffs, she felt
safe. She hadn’t anticipated comfort and security. She wanted more.
“Oh, these feel terrific,” she said and heard her own voice crack.
“Good,” he said but put a finger to her lips. Joe stood, took her hands, and raised her
to her feet. His breath swirled around her, and she tilted her face, wanting his kiss to
settle her. Instead, he slipped the cardigan she wore in the car down her arms. She still
marveled that the cuffs settled her. He spread the sweater sleeves gently to pass over the
cuffs and tossed the cashmere to the floor. He slipped a hand behind her neck and
tugged the bow free that held her halter-top. Arousal simmered in his eyes. There
seemed to be nothing to say.
He lowered the top of the dress. His gaze traveled over the swollen tops of her
breasts and down the pale green of her corset. He went to his knees again and looked up
at her. She would be completely vulnerable the next time he moved his hands, her sex
naked before this stranger. He urged the dress over her hips. The silk rushed into a
puddle about her feet. Joe sat back on his haunches to look at her, and she relaxed at
seeing excitement and a flush flood his face.
Pita used her toe to lift the dress to one side. Suddenly intense, he grabbed it up and
flung it on top of the sweater. Seeing his passion, she found it oddly comforting to be
stripped so carefully. Her heart beat a ragged tattoo as she stood before this man she
loved but didn’t know, whom she willingly risked with her hope but hadn’t learned to
trust. He released the garters stretching over the flesh he’d fondled passionately on the
plane. She turned for him to release the pair in back and closed her eyes at his caress of
her bare hips. The corset and hose clothed her, but in every way that counted, she
already had been stripped naked. Cool air assaulted her skin as Joe rolled down each
stocking, and she leaned on his shoulder, lifting her feet so he could take each little wad
of hosiery and lob it onto the growing jumble of her clothes.
Joe stood and kissed her softly. For a moment, she thought he’d lunge and take her
immediately, but he restrained his passion and remained gentle. It did worlds for her
confidence in him, but she saw the truth in his dark, hot eyes. He undid the snaps on the
corset. Each made a small sound in the quiet room, and cool air washed over her skin.
At the end, it fell away and landed behind her with a thud. Her warm flesh cooled
quickly at the touch of the air conditioning, and her nipples responded. Except for the
cuffs, she truly stood naked. She thought it odd that the cuffs comforted her and found it
surprising that being nude didn’t make her self-conscious.
Joe brought a leather collar from the toy table and buckled it on her. It felt like a
snug hand against her throat. She remembered her fantasies about collars and about
being owned. So, that’s it. She touched the black leather and smiled. He checked the fit
carefully and gave it a playful tug. Excitement lunged inside her again. She liked the way
he checked everything and tended to details.
“I feel like I’m being prepared for something special,” she said. The sudden sound of
her voice in the large room surprised her. She giggled.
“Do you like the feel?” Joe asked.

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Suddenly shy, she nodded. “Yes, Sir. It’s…I don’t know. I like it.”
He nodded, and she smiled bashfully up at him.
“Come with me, please,” he said. He took her hand and led her to the pillar in the
center of the room. Beaded walnut from ceiling to floor paneled the huge, main support.
The shackles at the floor and ceiling attached to the cuffs. Pita’s mouth went dry, and
her anxiety surged. Her stomach did flip-flops as Joe arranged her.
Oh, my god. She would have said something out loud but didn’t know what. The
thought of pain didn’t bother her. She worried about looking fat and feeling silly and,
suddenly, she became self-conscious. She’d anticipated the naked part and prepared
herself for it, but naked and chained made her wish Joe would let her wear something. If
only she’d lost the last fifteen pounds. He would think her ridiculous if he could read her
anxious mind. He bent to attach the shackles to her ankles, held shoulder-width apart.
His hands ran slowly up her legs, to her ass, to her shoulders. He massaged her tight
muscles and whispered in her ear, “Trust me, Pita.”
Yes, she thought. That’s the reason for the risks. She wanted to trust him. She
wanted to believe him different from the men she knew, and she ran risks to find out.
She concentrated on her breathing, as he taught her. Once more, she resolved to
succeed. He lifted her right hand to attach its cuff. He attached the second cuff to the
shackle on her left, and her arms spread wide above her head. She had never been so
entirely vulnerable—in more ways than just the physical—but her vulnerability became
the point, didn’t it, she told herself. Naked and fat, chained to a pillar, and this Joe about
to do things to her she only dreamed about. Oh God, what am I doing here, she
moaned, nearly thinking out loud.
“You’re anxious,” Joe said. “Are you alright? Are you frightened?”
She couldn’t possibly tell him she felt fat. Pita knew the real issue centered on trust
and the strength of her need and will. She took a breath. “I’m alright,” she said and
looked down because she didn’t want him to see her fear, or that she just told a lie. But
the fact he noticed and asked made her feel better.
“If you need to stop, Pita, we will do that. Do you want to go ahead now?”
She thought frantically, but the need in her kept surging. Yes, it said. Yes. I want this.
She said yes to herself and heard her voice say it out loud.
“Breathe, Pita. You’ll be fine.” His voice, low and steady, washed over her in a low
rumble like a summer rain soothes an overheated heart. “I know what I’m doing. You
can trust me.”
Then she discovered her trust in them both hidden where she left it: under her hopes
for the future. She relaxed…sort of. In the mirrored wall, she saw herself: her hands over
her head, her legs spread and cuffed. She stared at herself while Joe moved about,
preparing. For the first time in a long, long while, she nearly recognized her beauty.
What an odd and empowering sensation for a woman! She arched her back—she
thought he would like that—and watched her bottom stick out, round and full. Her
breasts pressed against the pillar. Her nipples felt hard as pebbles against the cool wood.
In the mirror, the wood struck a dark contrast with her pale skin and red hair.
The excitement of anticipation aroused her. Something in her demanded this
experience and made her want to succeed. She’d wanted it for as long as she could recall.
The mirror reflected the intensity on his face as he observed her pondering what lay
ahead. She wanted to do it for him, too. Her gaze met his and held for a long moment.
He stooped to the sectional and picked up the pink, long stem rose he gave her on the

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plane. He stood behind her and, in the mirror, she watched him reach out. The petals
floated down her spine, over her cheeks, and continued down her left leg. She closed her
eyes. The soft petals gently traveled up her right leg and, at her shoulder, the rose
touched her lips and rested. A thorn pricked her shoulder, perhaps to hint at what lay
ahead, but she breathed its fragrance, and it offered tenderness, too.
Joe rested his hand on her opposite shoulder. From behind, he gathered her into his
embrace. Using his body like a gentle hand, he pressed his length against her, head to
foot. His warmth claimed her, and a sigh of contentment escaped her lips. He shared
what she felt, and she no longer feared failure. His self-assurance and sense of purpose,
his physical presence gave her confidence in him and in herself.
“You are so beautiful. Good girl,” Joe said in her ear. Pita’s heart beat faster as he
chose a flogger. She remembered a visit to the dungeon store with Alexi and recalled the
sensuous feel of the black, suede falls. She’d run them through her fingers, wondering,
while her sister rambled on about how she didn’t understand people who found ‘that
perverted stuff’ erotic. Now Joe chose leather for her. As he approached, she knew with
new certainty that she wanted him this way: his pain and leather kisses. He promised
this in an email.
He also brought a black satin blindfold. “A blindfold will let you focus. I don’t want
you distracted from my voice or from what your body feels.”
She nodded and swallowed. The brush of fear shimmied up her spine as everything
turned black. He caressed her, and she gave herself over to his hands and voice.
“Lose control,” he said. “Don’t fight, or try to limit yourself. Whatever you feel, let go,
accept. If you want to cry, then cry. If you want to laugh, laugh. If you want to scream,
scream. Give me control. Let me have you. Do you understand? Will you try?”
“Yes, Sir.” She heard herself whisper.
“Do you remember the safe words, Pita? What are they?”
“Red, Sir. And yellow.”
The falls of the flogger draped softly over her shoulder, and she twitched, surprising
herself with her arousal. They slid down her bare skin.
“Good girl. This will warm you up.” She braced, expecting hard, sharp blows. But the
first stroke landed like another caress, and the second stroke fell just as gently. She
relaxed and let out the breath she held.
Blindfolded, she couldn’t know where a blow would land, but he began on her
shoulders, and her muscles learned to anticipate his methodical rhythm. She lost count
quickly. The lashes went on and on, and she began to notice little things. The suede falls
dragged across her skin. A slight breeze forecast each blow. She heard the falls brush
Joe’s leg. She heard them whisper in the air. The whip gave a sort of deep massage. She
began to lean back, relaxed, wanting the blows. The flogger went on and on, and
gradually the strokes became more insistent. Her breathing followed the rhythm.
Except for the regular sound his body made with the motion of the throws, Joe made
no noise; Pita began to feel alone with the flogger and turned inward. She gave herself
directions. Breathe, she thought and, Relax. She became lost in sensation and, once,
wondered if Joe left. Then she remembered, and the flogger went on, first one shoulder,
then the other, then on her ass, one side after the other. Breathe. Let go. Relax, she told
herself.
“You are doing well, Pita.” Joe’s voice startled her, and she jerked. His approval sank
in and seeped into her like cool water sinking through her heated skin. She welcomed

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his voice. It stretched from a shoreline where he reached out with a helping hand, and
she held onto his words.
“Thank you Sir. It’s good,” she murmured.
“Good. I’m going to raise the pace. And the force. You remember your safe words?”
“Yes, Sir,” she said, a quiver of anxiety sifted into her consciousness.
“If you safeword, I stop. Trust me.”
She wished he would quit talking about stopping. After waiting for months, she
didn’t plan to use her safe word unless hell froze over. She wanted to take what he gave,
just so they both knew she could do it, but especially so he knew it. He needed to believe
in her and in her submission as much as she needed to believe in him and his
dominance.
His voice reached from the shore again. “Relax, Pita. Let your muscles go loose.” The
rhythm started again. “Don’t be anxious. Let go. Give it to me,” he said at the end of each
set of lashes. “I want you to become an extension of my control. Be mine.”
She concentrated on relaxing. Inside her mind, the voice said, Relax. Breathe. I love
you. Joe continued his leather kisses with a suede whip across her bottom, back, and
legs. He found a sweet spot where her ass joined her thighs. Both hard and soft, the
suede sent commands through Pita’s body: to the part that knew pain, to the part that
feared it, to the part that wanted it, to the part that thought about love, to the part that
felt strong, to the part that replied with sex…and seemed to have something to say about
everything that went on.
Pita concentrated, sheltered by the blindfold, on savoring each touch like a taste of
chocolate. She noticed a sound she hadn’t heard, a brushing sound after each slap.
Breathe. I love you. Relax. She thought about how the strokes hurt, not like something
to avoid at all costs, but punches that made her body sway. Her pussy tingled, and she
knew Joe heard her moan.
“It’s time for a little more,” he said.
“Yes, Sir.” She didn’t know what he meant but felt ready.
The blow that came drove Pita against the pillar and left her squirming. She clung to
the cool wood for refuge. In her surprise, she didn’t cry out.
But the next blow challenged her just the same, and she yelled. “Oww! Why the hell
are you doing it so hard?”
A barely disguised grin hid in Joe’s voice. “I control to satisfy me, Pita. You’re all
warmed up. Delightful as it is, massaging you isn’t what I have in mind.”
“But, Sir…”
“I thought you hated whining,” he interrupted. She often complained about whining
from the waiters who worked for her. The pain faded quickly behind each blow, but it
irritated her to be pulled from the sensuous daydream he’d been letting her float in.
“You’re learning,” he said. “Absorb and accept. Let yourself go. Let the feeling flow
through you.”
She let out a deep breath. “Yes, Sir.”
The lash fell across the backs of her legs. She imagined the pain rising from her skin
like heat, or light, and stood her ground.
“Good,” Joe said. “Concentrate on absorbing the ripples of feeling and emotion.
Breathe the sensations in, and breathe them back out.”
She pictured the pain and impact like water as if it flowed through her. The more
demanding impacts of the flogger made it feel entirely different. It struck her bottom,

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then her back, her legs, her shoulders, and returned to her ass. Over and over, the
flogger sprung, and she thought of snakes, hot in the sun, crossing her naked flesh. She
told herself, Fall open. Open.
She thought she got used to it…or at least learned to tolerate it. She felt hot and
tingly through her body. Breathe, she demanded of herself. Relax. She wondered what
she looked like and wished she could see the mirror, her skin heated to at least bright
pink with Joe watching her and stalking, his arm lashing out. Breathe. I love you.
She remembered her fear of ‘wrap around,’ but none of his strokes strayed. She grew
confident that he knew how to use the flogger the way it should be used. Relax. As pain
turned harsh in one place, he seemed to know, and he moved. She could weather his
storm…rather, she believed Joe would bring her through it. She felt her arousal and
knew she had become wet and noticed how the whip continually increased her desire.
How could pain and violence be so sensual? she wondered With every slap, a fire lit,
and her body glowed with lust.
She discovered already that she loved it. She knew, more than ever, that wanting it
had been right. But no online description explained the depths of what she felt. Relax,
she chanted, over and over. Accept. She fell deep into herself and found herself looking
forward to the lashes, even when he deliberately made her cry out. A rhythm of lighter
blows came between, and energy slowly built as she waited for the heavy blow to come
when she could let go and hear her own voice cry out. In between, she thought of the
relief she found as her dreams became real! Love curled up tighter inside her around a
core of newborn trust.
“Take my pain,” she said, but she didn’t know whom she said it to. She wanted
everything he gave her, and she wanted to see what she could take. She concentrated on
the pulse of his blows and tried to move into them. In the part of her mind that still
answered to reason, she felt like she moved against her love and began watching it
uncurl and start to rise up. She wondered if he read her mind because he stopped and
touched her. His hands felt cool on her hot, sparkling skin. She followed his caresses
down her back and ass.
“Pita, you are a good girl. You please me.”
“Mmm,” she moaned and pressed to his hand.
He slid his fingers between her thighs and touched her soaking pussy. He took a
deep breath. “Ohh, you are a good girl. You like it under the whip.”
Her throat caught and let tears come into her eyes behind the blindfold. She said
nothing but arched her back and spread her legs as far as the shackles permitted. A
sudden desire to absorb his fingers in her took hold of her lust. She wanted an orgasm.
She wanted more of his delicious whip. She amazed herself.
But he took his hand away. She leaned against the pillar and breathed hard, gripped
by frustration, exertion, and want. She heard him moving and shuffling something.
What next? She wanted more, more of him, his dominance, and her submission. Time
stopped. She leaned against the chains, feeling a little room for motion between her
knees and her shoulders. Then something cool and stiff stroked her shoulders. She
heard silence in the room. She held her breath.
“Pita, I’m going to use you with a crop.”
“Ohh.” She wriggled away even though it felt cool against her heated skin, and her
anxiety soared. “I don’t know, Sir. Sir, if I….” Google images of horrible welts and red
abrasions strobed across her mind.

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“Pita. Steady. Shh.” Her pet name, his hand on her, his breath on the side of her face,
settled her. “That’s my good girl,” he said. “We can stop. Say the safe word.”
No. She didn’t want that. Pita wanted more, but her desire to explore ran up against
fear. She wanted to trust him again and wanted her body to tingle again. She wanted Joe
to help her let go. She shook her head no. “I want to try,” she said aloud. “Sir.”
“Good. We’ll begin then, slowly.”
Joe touched her shoulder with the crop. It tapped her, light and sensual, just as he
began with the flogger. She wondered how he understood what it took to handle her,
how he knew what to do. It felt like lovemaking. He felt like a lover, but Joe controlled
rather than seduced. How different that made it, she thought. Pita knew he didn’t hurt
her to cover insecurity or show manhood. It didn’t feel anything like the “normal”
manipulation she’d experienced. He used her and took her beyond boundaries. Her job
became to submit, to accept, and not merely to enjoy. She suddenly realized she already
liked the harsher touch of the riding crop. His pace increased, and some of the blows
came harder.
Then Joe began to target the same places on her flesh repeatedly. As the shock and
sting built up across her cheeks, Pita felt quiet at heart but surprised herself again when
she heard herself gasp at each stroke. First, the crop focused on one cheek, then the
other. She squirmed, but the chains didn’t leave that much room. Joe spoke to her: “Let
it go, Pita. Breathe and relax.” Each time she moved, the crop still found its mark.
She started to cry. He continued. She wondered if he would stop because of her tears.
She knew she wouldn’t be the one to stop. If he would just stop, she thought, just for a
minute. Stop, she demanded within herself. Why is he hurting me? What did I do? She
strained against the chains, but the cuffs allowed no relief. Could he be using less force,
or could she be getting used to it, but she still felt pity for herself and sluggish. “Let it go,
Pita,” she heard him repeat. “Give it to me.”
“Ohh, Sir, please!” She wailed and hugged the pillar.
“Say your safe word, Pita.”
“NO, dammit!!!” she snapped, loud enough that Joe faltered. She could feel her
muscles rigid with determination. Her mind wished for an end, but Pita’s heart and soul
knew Joe wouldn’t take her further than she could go. She outvoted her mind. And
something more came to her, an understanding of what the moment meant: her chance
and her submission. She wanted him to decide.
“Alright, Pita,” he said. She heard the energy in his voice right next to her ear. “You
can do this. Accept it. Breathe.” His words came softly, a low rumble and a counterpoint
to the pop of the crop.
His next stroke outdid the others. The sensation clearly moved from sting to a
searing pain. To her fevered mind, it seemed like a hot knife sliced into her bottom. She
shrieked and writhed. “Ohh God!”
“Relax, Pita. Breathe,” he insisted. He stopped and touched her shoulder. “You are a
courageous good girl.” Joe quit speaking, as if he found something to think about. “As
long as you’re with me,” he promised, “I will not let harm come to you.” His voice
quavered. “I will own and care for you.” His voice soothed her heart like a balm, and she
felt his words become her strength.
“Say your mantra, Pita. Say it.” His crop cut through the air and exploded on her,
this time across her shoulders, and again she screamed. “Say it, Pita.”
“Sir will own his Pita.” Another blow cut into her shoulders, and she cried out.

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“Yes. Sir will own his Pita. Good. Keep going.”

Another blow rushed through the air and cracked against her flesh, this time her
sore, hot bottom, and she saw white light behind the blindfold. Pita heard herself cry
out. She tried to remember the next line.
“I…will serve…my Sir,” she struggled. Deep inside of her, she felt defeat swirl. She
wondered how to go on. She thought of her safe word, bobbing nearby, and wanted to
reach for it.
But Joe barked near her ear, taking over for her and pushing them both toward some
goal she couldn’t see. “Finish it!” His demands were as relentless as the crop. She’d
never experienced pain washing over her this way. Her mind fuzzed. She wanted him to
stop and couldn’t think of the last line.
“Breathe, Pita. Say the mantra. Together…”
“Together we…ohh God, I can’t.” Her voice came as a moan. Her voice sounded so
weak. Anger rose within her and surge at him, at herself. He pushed her relentlessly
toward some momentous thing.
“Yes, you can,” Joe said. “Focus on the words. Say it. Together we….”
“Together we are whole.” She blurted the words, sobbing into the wet blindfold.
“Good girl, Pita. Again, say the mantra,” Joe commanded.
This time, a victory behind her, she obeyed unthinkingly. She reacted to each blow.
She recited the words that described her heart. “Sir will own his Pita….” She took a blow.
“Pita will serve her Joe….” She cried out, or just cried, but the hypnotic rhythm of words
eased the hard rain pouring onto her body. “Together we are whole.”
She heard triumph in the finish to her mantra, and Joe’s voice filtered into her
triumph. She could hear him saying her words with her! She reached out for his
strength, listening for him, and let his voice lift her whenever her own faltered.
“Sir will own His Pita.”
“Pita will serve her Joe.”
“Together we are whole.”
Something important just happened, she knew. Her reactions somehow changed.
She still absorbed blows, knew pain, but it didn’t swallow her. She heard her own voice
humming the mantra, or perhaps she heard Joe’s voice. It didn’t matter. It felt to her, in
the euphoria of subspace, like song rather than speech. She stopped struggling and quit
crying. She found herself breathing with the rhythm of the crop and the words they sang
together. She floated, soaring above air currents, tethered by chains to a pillar. She felt
high above herself, as if she looked down from a far height above tall pines. She heard
his voice beneath, holding her aloft. His voice swelled in her. Loved washed over her,
and trust. She knew he changed her, and that she changed herself. She felt new.
“Pita… hold me while I undo your hands.”
“My hands,” she thought. What had she done with her hands? “Ow!” She winced as
blood rushed to her arms while he helped her lower them. “They’re so heavy and sore,”
she said. She felt like stone, and tired...all right, exhausted. Joe removed the blindfold.
She pressed her eyes shut against the light. He picked her up like a doll and carried her
to the bed they would share. She wrapped her arms around him and relaxed into his
embrace. His sweat made his skin slick, but she didn’t care.
She cared only for the kisses raining down on her face like the flogger and crop
rained on her body. Her skin still burned. He kept saying, “Good girl,” and Pita cried
against his chest. He stroked and comforted, saying she’d done well. She felt joy and

174
 Touching Down

peace beside her love and new trust. She knew Joe loved her in a way no other could
claim from her, and he opened depths in her she didn’t know existed. She wanted to fall
into them. He would be there to catch her, she knew.

175
Definitions

Collar, Collared – this is a symbol worn by a submissive or slave that means

they are owned by a Dominant. (See Formal Collars and Play Collars.)
Consensual – Any activity or behavior that has been agreed upon by the
individuals involved.
Contract/Negotiation – a written agreement that lays out the
boundaries/limits of a BDSM relationship between the individuals involved. All
must accept the terms of the contract prior to scening/play or entering into a
formal BDSM relationship.
Dominant, Dom, Top – can be either male or female but is dominant by
nature.
Dominatrix, Domme, Domina, Top – a female dominant.
Edge Play – erotic scening that is borderline to the submissive’s limits that
may or may not carry an increased element of risk.
Formal Collars – there are three formal collars within a BDSM relationship.
1) Collar of Consideration: generally given at the beginning of a relationship, it is
usually some shade of blue. It is similar to a pre-engagement ring; 2) Training
Collar or Collar of Intent: The Dominant and submissive have generally explored
the basis of a more permanent relationship and found their tastes and ideas are
very similar. This collar is given in the same respect as an engagement ring. It is
either black or red leather; 3) Formal Collar or Slave Collar: the final of the
three collars, this symbolizes the commitment between the Dominant and the
submissive that the relationship is very serious. It is only offered by the
Dominant when s/he feels the bond between them has grown much deeper on an
emotional level. This collar is similar to a wedding ring and is either black leather
or metal. These collars are always the property of the Dominant, and should the
relationship end, it is the responsibility of the submissive to return it to the
Dominant by placing it properly within his/her hands. (Note: Play Collars are
not grouped in this category because they hold no special meaning between the
individuals other than as equipment for scening. See Play Collars.)
Lifestylers – those who live a BDSM lifestyle within the Safe, Sane, and
Consensual creed.
Limits, Boundaries – these are normally negotiated prior to any scening/play.
If entering into a formal relationship with a Dominant this is agreed to prior to
the acceptance of a submission. It’s important as it protects the submissive and
the Dominant. It also insures a compatibility between the partners.
Master – a male Dominant that has (owns) a collared submissive or slave.
Mistress – a female Dominant that has (owns) a collared submissive or slave.
Play Collars – a Dominant may have any number of these collars in his
collection for use during a scene or role play. They hold no significant meaning
other than for use during an activity.
Safe Word/s, Action/Signal – essential prior to scening/play. These protect
the submissive from mental or physical pain that has become unbearable for
whatever reason. The use of any of these immediately halts or slows down the
activity.
 Scening – a romantic interlude or erotic encounter between the dominant and
the submissive.
Subspace, Brain Fade – most recognize the word subspace. It’s the altered
mental state of a submissive/slave/bottom during scening/play. This is where
they have little to no conscious recognition of what is going on around them.
Sensations and emotions are prevalent which is generally the result of
psychological dominance.
 Excerpt from

The Insubordinate

by

Miranda Heart

A BDSM Bites
 The Insubordinate

Her eye painted a picture on the wall in front of her. Wrists pulled above her head,
his large body lying atop hers and that soft peppered beard tickling her breasts. The
thought quickly vanished when she squirmed against a renewed wetness between her
thighs. Am I just a glutton for punishment or what? Her cheeks burned with her
embarrassment. The sound of the lock turning in the front door brought her straight up,
hands behind her back and nose facing squarely in the corner.
Her palms instantly moistened as she heard the door open and quietly close behind
her master. The almost silent tread of his soft-soled dress shoes filled the air around her.
Ears pricked, she tried to discern where he stood and realized he had left the room. With
nervous anticipation, Trisha wondered what he planned as her punishment. Her earlier
light attitude towards the situation dissipated to anxious twisting of her hands.
"I would really dislike being you tonight, pet."
His deep stern tone interrupted her thoughts. But, she stayed quiet, afraid answering
might make what he intended worse. Taking a deep breath, she prepared herself for the
worst.
"So what do you think," he stood right behind her, soft material tickling her
shoulder, "a proper punishment for a disobedient submissive should be?"
Trisha swallowed hard, bowing her head. She wanted to answer but found her voice
uncooperative.
His voice came right next to her ear, the masculine scent of his cologne filled her
senses, and she closed her eyes fighting the urge to lean back against his chest. “I’m not
sure, Master. I know I’m sorry for disobeying you this morning,” she answered quietly.
He chuckled softly, the deep sound tickling her ear. “I would like to believe that,
truly, I would. You know it took you two years to finally submit to me without anymore
defiant acts. I planned something special for us last night, so that our anniversary is
important to the both of us.”
To stress his last words, he gripped both hands into the firm flesh of her ass, and she
winced against the sensitivity of the area. Yet, somehow, the action only heightened her
desire for him. “A simple phone call asking to see me today would have sufficed. You
would have gotten your way.” His warm fingertips drew a line straight down her spine.
She swayed as the timbre in his voice resonated through her body.
Master was so close she could feel his beard tickling the side of her cheek, his soft
lips brushed against her delicate lobe.
“And then I could have had my way.”
Before she even had time to respond, the soft material that grazed her flesh earlier
was now placed across her eyes, her world shuttered into complete darkness.

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