Evening . . .
T
here were hardly any customers in the gallery, so I had to cold call and try to get people into the store. Mary was busy preparing for a private party being held at the gallery tomorrow night. She wasn’t happy that I didn’t want to help. I think she gets some sort of bonus for booking these events, and I think it motivates her more than the art. And it’s not that I don’t want to help. It’s simply not a smart use of my time. Booking a ten-thousand-dollar event that we net only five thousand on doesn’t equal selling one expensive piece of art. So today I was snubbed by a famous artist and Mary was irritated at me. And now I’m staring at the contract.
Somehow, I don’t think tonight is the night to call my would-be “Master” and tell him I can’t let him tie me up and have his wicked way with me, no matter how tempting that sounds at this moment. I’m not sure what that says about me—that I want to be tied up and at his mercy on a night I feel weak. Maybe it’s what he said. That I need a safe place where I can just let go. The problem is, the contract makes that incapable of truly happening.
And on that note, I’m going to end this day the only way I can. I’m going to eat an entire bag of potato chips to go with my box of cereal. I’ll regret both in the morning, but at least I’ll still be in control of me.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Lunchtime . . .
M
ark called me into his office this morning, before I left for a private showing at Ricco’s gallery. I wasn’t sure what to expect. I always steel myself for the impact of being alone with him. He owns you when you walk into the room. He owns you when he walks into a room. And while I’m not immune to the impact he has on everyone around him, I’ve often been challenged by him, eager to prove I can hold my own. Today was odd for me, because I never had a chance to do that. But it really shouldn’t surprise me, I guess. I’m still rattled by the way he confronted me over Josh and Ricco.
He didn’t get up from his desk. He simply steepled his fingers together and ordered, “Shut the door.” I did as he said and he added, “I know you’re leaving for a meeting, so I’ll make this quick. You do know Ricco doesn’t allow private showings?”
“No. I didn’t know.”
“He doesn’t even allow us a full collection here.”
“Why?” I asked.
“He’s all about leverage. And to be clear, Ms. Mason, I will not allow him to use his art to manipulate you. We do not need his business—not with our Riptide connections. And you do not need his commissions. Not with the potential Riptide offers you.”
“But you said you don’t want to lose him as an artist.”
“I repeat, I will not allow him to manipulate you,” was his only explanation of the conflicting messages.
“I won’t let him.”
“I won’t let him. Do you understand, Ms. Mason?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“You aren’t convincing me.”
“Yes,” I said more clearly. “I understand.”
I left his office confused and bemused. I’ve gone from having virtually no men in my life to being surrounded by powerful, talented, rich, controlling men, and it’s messing with my head. I can’t seem to figure out where I stand and where I belong.
When I took the client to Ricco’s gallery, the woman didn’t make a purchase and I felt embarrassed. I wanted to impress Ricco and Mark with a sale. I wanted Ricco to know I am not wasting his time. He looked at me with gentle, understanding eyes that twisted me in knots. There is nothing about him that says manipulative to me. Nothing that says he is what everyone else says he is.
I left with my client, wishing I could have stayed and talked to Ricco. I didn’t call him later in the day, either, though I was tempted. I don’t know what it is about him that sets everyone else off, but it doesn’t happen to me. If anything, he relaxes me. Well, when I put aside how talented and famous he is.
I’m feeling very out of control. I need to figure out what is wrong with me. I have a dream job. This is what I’ve always wanted. I need to snap out of whatever is bugging me, and I’m hoping the weekend will give me time to think.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Evening . . .
I
decided what was bugging me was the contract, and my constant distraction due to the ideas it represents. No matter how tempting the man, the agreement is simply a deal breaker, and I think its being up in the air is influencing how I react to everything. Saying no to this contract is a good thing. This man is barely in my life and he’s already taken it over. He can be in my life without taking it over if I take this off the table.
So . . . I emailed him the instant I got home, before I could talk myself out of it. The subject line was: Contract is a deal breaker. The content of the email read simply, “While you are more than a little tempting in all kinds of ways, I’m not slave material.” That was an hour ago, and I keep checking my email—which is telling, isn’t it? Clearly I don’t want this to be over, or I’d consider it done now.
Someone just knocked on my door. It’s eleven o’clock at night. Who the hell is here?
Sunday, February 27, 2011
I
could barely believe it when he showed up at my door in response to my email. I just stood there, staring at him, wrapped in a robe and horrified that I had on my ugly fluffy pajamas underneath.
“Invite me in, Rebecca.”
Obediently, I stepped back and let him inside. He shut the door and locked it. Now he just stood there, staring at me, and curiously, I thought I spotted a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. He’s not exactly what I would call uncertain. He’s not exactly what anyone would call uncertain. That I could make him feel such a thing told me what I needed to know. The outcome of what was between us wasn’t simply a contract to him. I didn’t realize until then how much I didn’t want to be that to him.
“Let’s sit,” he ordered, no uncertainty left in his voice or his expression.
I wet my lips, his eyes following my tongue, and my nipples tightened and my sex clenched with the small, sensual act. With all the things that happened afterward, you’d think that would be the last thing that I’d keep replaying in my head. But it was that, along with the instant of uncertainty I’d seen in him, that told me he wanted me as much as I wanted him. These two things set the scene for what was to follow.
“Sit, Rebecca,” he ordered again, and I was jolted from his spell and walked to the couch. My tiny box of an apartment embarrassed me; it’s a shack compared to his gorgeous place. If he noticed, though, which of course he did, he didn’t show it. He was looking at nothing but me.
He sat down on the couch, leaving the middle cushion between us free, and I got the impression he felt that I needed that space. He was right. I needed it—but I didn’t want it. I wanted to be close to him. I wanted him to touch me. I always do when he’s nearby.
“The contract was to be negotiated,” he reminded me. “I told you that when I gave it to you.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Yet you simply said no.”
“It felt overwhelming.”
He considered me for such a long moment, I was about to go nuts. “You want this,” he finally said.
“I want you,” I surprised myself by admitting. I just couldn’t live with the terms required to have him.
“Then you have to trust me with your pleasure.”
“That contract asked for far more than my pleasure.”
“And why is that bad?”
“You want too much.”
“How do you define too much?”
Sharing me. “The unknowns,” I said, which was still an honest answer. “I don’t even understand what a lot of the things in that contract truly mean.”
“And if we can take away the unknowns?”
“How can I know, when the
y mean nothing to me now?”
Before I knew his intent, I was on my back, and his big body was sliding over mine, the scent of him insinuating itself into my nostrils. God, I love how that man smells. I can still smell him in my apartment now as I write this.
“I’ll teach you what they mean,” he promised.
The idea of him teaching me was/is unbelievably arousing, as was the thick press of his erection against my stomach that assured me he wanted me that night.
Still, I have limits. And Dr. Kat had told me to tell him my limits, so I said, “There are things in that contract I’ll never agree to.”
“Then we take them out.”
“What if they’re things you want?”
“We’ll negotiate. One of the best parts of the contract is openly discussing what we both want. It’s about trust. You tell me what’s okay. You know I won’t cross that line, and you always have your safe word. You’re the one in control.”
“How am I in control?”
“You set the limits and we stop when you say stop. That’s total control, something you don’t have in a different type of relationship.”
This was news to me. I hadn’t thought about this relationship in that way until then.
“You have your safe word,” he added. “You say it—I stop whatever I’m doing. You remember what it is?”
“Red,” I said, breathless. He’s good at making me breathless.
“Good,” he approved and his eyes glistened with desire. “I’m going to do something I’ve not done in ten years. I’m going to set the contract aside for now. We’ll go one lesson at a time, and I’ll teach you what everything means.”
Ten years? “Why would you do that?”
“Because I want you as my sub, Rebecca, like I haven’t wanted another sub in a very long time. Say ‘yes’ and we’ll go one lesson at a time. I’ll be the teacher and you’ll be the student.”
Suddenly I had the hope I wanted, the confirmation that I wasn’t just a contract. I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
I felt his instant approval, saw it in the darkening of his eyes. “Good girl.”
He undressed me then, and I let him. Then, he undressed himself. I wasn’t shy about watching every delicious inch of skin appear, nor was I shy about my appreciation of his jutting erection as he put on a condom.
When he came back to me, pulling me beneath him again, I was already lost in desire and ready for him. Of course, nothing is fast and simple with this man. I should have known that. “There’s a few more rules,” he said, and his breath was warm on my neck, his lips by my ear.
“Rules?” I asked, feeling nervous all over again, some of the haze of desire slipping away.
“You call me ‘Master,’ so you can get used to it.”
This I could do. It was the one thing in the contract I found the least intimidating. “Yes. Okay.”
“Say it.” He caressed my breast and teased my nipple, as if encouraging me.
Like I would deny him his title while he was doing that to me? I’d been easy prey. “Master,” I whispered with surprising comfort.
He slid down and licked my nipple. “Again,” he commanded.
“Master,” I panted. I’ve never been a panting person, but this man makes me pant. He makes me do a lot of things that I’d never do for another man.
And since he’d rewarded me for my compliance by suckling and licking my nipples, I was pretty sold on the “Master” title. If it makes him happy, apparently he’ll make me happy.
Well, mostly happy. I do keep finding little things that worry me. Like how his mouth had moved to linger above mine but he hadn’t kissed me. And I realized that he hasn’t kissed me many times at all.
“You will call me ‘Master’ when we’re alone,” he instructed next. (Still no kiss.) “In public, we remain as we are. What we are beyond that is between us.”
My heart sank. My conclusion then, and now, is that he wants to basically own me without claiming me. And how am I to separate the times we meet for work with this?
I’d been back to feeling like there was a contract, but he’d distracted me. His mouth had gone back to my nipple, his tongue swirling and teasing. His cock slid against my slick, swollen body, and I forgot what we were talking about for a few minutes.
Only the talk wasn’t over. “Final rule,” he said, teasing me with the promise he was going to enter me to the point I couldn’t think. “Until we sign our contract, your safe word is everything. Use it liberally. Use it, and I’ll stop whatever I’m doing. Say it now.”
“But I don’t want you to stop.”
He laughed, soft and wicked, the first time I’ve ever heard him laugh. “I just want to know that you know what it is.”
“I do.”
“Use it and no matter what we are doing, no matter how intense it is, no matter where we are, I’ll end whatever we are doing. You have my word. But you won’t need it tonight. I’ll guarantee it.”
And oh, how true that guarantee had been. My “Master” proceeded to show me a side of himself I wouldn’t have believed existed. I hesitate to say that he made love to me, because “love” is a word that scares the hell out of me. And he’s not a man to fall in love with. I’ve been reminding myself of that fact ever since I met him.
So maybe he didn’t make love to me, but it didn’t feel like fucking, either. There were no floggers. There were no ropes or ties. Just his mouth, his hands, and my pleasure. He didn’t ask anything of me, but . . . he didn’t let me touch him, either. It was all about him touching me—not that I can complain. I’ve never felt like I did last night. Every lick, from my nipples to my clit, was a soft, delicious, seductive stroke that turned me inside out.
But he also left in the wee hours of the morning, leaving me alone in bed. It had felt bad. Alone has always felt safe, not bad, so I’m not sure what it means that it no longer does.
Maybe it’s the nightmares messing with me. Maybe it’s my worst fear—that he’s going to make me forget how to be alone. Yet didn’t he quickly remind me I am alone?
Worse, I’ve agreed to lessons on how to be submissive, but I have no idea when we will have our meeting. He promised to be in touch. I am totally at his mercy.
He says I have ultimate control. This does not feel like control.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Nearly lunchtime . . .
A
fter a sleepless night, I headed to the coffee shop before work. Ava was chatty. She wants to talk men and personal lives every time she sees me, and I’ve never felt less like connecting with someone else about my personal life than I do now. I prefer to write down my thoughts. Writing lets me think out what I feel without anyone else influencing me, and that isn’t likely to change. I’m beginning to want to avoid the coffee shop. In a space of ten minutes, Ava has asked me about Ricco, Mark, Chris, and another artist who apparently comes into the gallery sometimes, but hasn’t since I arrived.
While I was still there, the client I took to Ricco’s private gallery called my cell phone to see if she could take a relative by to see a work she was thinking of buying. Ava was all over my reaction, which was pure dread, and wanted to know what was wrong.
I didn’t tell her. She truly was nothing but friendly, but I don’t even share my worries and concerns with long-term friends. Besides, she’s gorgeous and composed, ten years older than me, and apparently from a wealthy family, from what she said today. What do we have in common?
Oh, right. The men in our lives that she knows well and I don’t. Finding out that she has bedded, or could bed, all of them won’t help me. In fact, it might really mess with my head. I’d rather not know.
When I arrived at the gallery, it took me half an hour to make the dreaded call to Ricco to ask to drop by with my customer. I kept thinking about Mark telling me that Ricco never does private showings,
and how this would probably feel very intrusive to him.
What if he refused? I’d have an unhappy customer and an unhappy artist, which meant an unhappy Mark. An unhappy Mark isn’t on my list of things to do, any more than wasting Ricco’s time again is. I was actually relieved to get Ricco’s voicemail and be forced to leave a message.
But what made me open my journal right now to write is Mary. She’s bothering me beyond her basic bitchiness, and something very odd happened today with her. She was in Mark’s office for about fifteen minutes and then stormed by my office in an obvious hissy fit. Apparently she left the gallery, and no one knows where she is. I’d thought from the beginning that her job was on the line, but since then I’ve gained respect for how well she handles the special events. I’m just not sure she wants to handle them. Maybe the new intern who started today was brought in to replace that part of her job, and I’m handling the sales aspect?
I have a customer. More later.
Evening . . .
I
’m still in disbelief. I can’t believe I did what I did today. In a public place! After I finished with my customer, Mary returned to the gallery all smiley and happy, in a way she never acts. I’m not sure what that means, but when I volunteered to pick up sandwiches for me, Amanda, the new intern, and Ralph, she not only wanted to join us, she offered to pick them up. A very odd offer from her, and way too nice to fit her personality. Somehow, though, the sandwiches turned to pizza, so I headed to the sandwich shop on my own.
Truth be told, I needed some fresh air. All morning I’d been thinking about Saturday night, and how I’d actually said “Yes, Master” in hopes of being rewarded with another lick or flick or touch, when I should have been focused on work. And when I wasn’t thinking about sex today, I was overanalyzing everything in my life in a way I’ve never done before.