La Brat (10 page)

Instead, she turned to face him. “I do not want to do this.”

“I know that.”

“But still, you insist. You are a mean bastard.”

“I do insist. And in the circumstances, I’m going to let that last remark go, but watch it, Eugenie. My patience is not limitless. So now, safe word or bend over.”

Her eyes blazing, Eugenie leaned forward. She took her time, but at last she was positioned across the tabletop, her arms outstretched in front of her. Her chest lay flat on the smooth surface, her back and hips ramrod stiff. Tension and—unless he was very much mistaken—fury radiated from her in waves.

“Your skirt, please. Lift it up around your waist, if you will, and bundle it underneath you.”

He swore she growled, actually snarled as she obeyed his last instruction.

At last, she was ready, or as much as he supposed she was ever going to be. Her buttocks were pale, quivering and utterly beautiful. Despite her willful nature, he couldn’t recall a woman who turned him on nearly as much as Eugenie.

She was scared, but was masking that beneath a veneer of simmering and very far from submissive rage. Oh yes, today’s events were clarifying his view of what his little Genie’s true nature was, and that being so, he was by no means convinced any more that he could, or should, continue. A submissive personality would accept what was about to happen. She might hate it, might scream and plead and struggle, but ultimately she would accept his right to discipline her and she would learn from it. If that was not Eugenie’s innate character, her reactions would be different. Unpredictable even. Worse still, if he was correct in his suspicion that she was not submissive at heart, then what he was about to do would be no more than abuse?

And if he was right about that, what the hell had they been doing these past few weeks?

He reached for the cane and opened his mouth, intending to tell Eugenie that she could leave. He never got the chance.

Afterward, he would reflect that whatever tenuous hold she had on her self-control snapped in that instant.

“No!” Eugenie screamed the word as she grabbed for the cane before he could get his hands on it. She pushed herself from the table, whirling to face him as she did so. She hurled herself at him, slashing at his chest with the cane. She landed one searing stroke before he grabbed her wrist. There was a brief struggle before the rattan clattered to the polished wood floor, but Eugenie was not done. She continued to fight him, flailing her fists, kicking at his shins with a ferocity he would not have dreamed she could lay claim to. Acting on pure instinct, he wrapped his arms around her, preventing further damage, eventually wrestling her to the floor and pinning her there.

She lay under him, bucking against his weight, her expression furious. “Let me go, you vicious bastard. I hate you. You can go fuck yourself.”

“I’m beginning to think it may come to that, love. I’ll let you go, but no more throwing punches. Right?”

“Lâches-moi. Je te deteste.”

“Evidently. Okay. You can get up.” He released his grip on her wrists and levered himself from her, paying close attention to those lethal feet of hers.

As soon as she was free, she scrambled to her feet, breathing heavily. She fixed her eyes on the cane, lying underneath the table now.

“Oh no, don’t even think about it.” His tone was low, ominous and sufficiently commanding to get her attention. She seemed to abandon her plans to resume her assault on him with his own cane and started to back away instead.

“Eugenie, we need to talk about this, about what just happened.”

“I do not want to talk to you. I never want to see you again. You are cruel, and…and a bully. I loathe you.”

“Genie, sit down, please.”

“No. No. No! I am leaving. Now. You cannot stop me.”

“Honey, you’re free to go, though I think you should stay. At least until you feel more calm.”

“
Bâtard!
”
She turned on her heel and flung herself toward the door.

Aaron made no move to stop her.

She clattered upstairs to emerge a couple of minutes later with her bag. Aaron was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when she came down. Eugenie barged past him without a word, heading for the front door.

“Genie, please.” Aaron knew their relationship lay in tatters. There would be no coming back from this. Even so, he would have preferred her not to leave in this mood. Short of manhandling her to the floor again, though, the choice wasn’t his. She flounced out of his house, slamming the door behind her. A few seconds later, her car roared from his driveway.

That was the last time he saw her.

Chapter Seven

Now

Back in her apartment, Eugenie lay in her bed and stared at the ceiling. She’d arrived home around midmorning the day after her interview, and had gone straight to bed. She’d managed a couple of hours sleep on the Eurostar crossing, but was still exhausted. Now, it was late afternoon. She was awake, more or less, and felt utterly miserable. The loss of the shining opportunity at TFS Paris was painful, intensely so, almost like a bereavement. Her entire glittering future canceled. She knew she should never have allowed her imagination such free rein, should never have fallen into the trap of actually envisaging herself in Paris, working in those elegant surroundings.

She should not have let herself dream. And she should definitely never have let herself believe, not for one moment, that the dream could become real.

Except it had. Almost. She knew in her heart that she’d nailed it. She’d been sure, quietly confident as the interview drew to a close, that they were likely to offer her the job. Her efforts had been worthwhile, she’d done the work and the prize was hers—until she had turned and seen Aaron Praed standing behind her. Her nemesis.

As she lay there, contemplating the pattern on her wallpaper, she remembered her sheer terror as she had faced him across his dining room three years earlier, her eyes drawn to the cane he’d apparently intended to use on her. His handsome features had been so calm, so implacable as she’d pleaded with him.

But he had been so merciless, intent on meting out the punishment he’d decided on. She vaguely recalled that he’d offered her the chance to use her safe word, and she was not entirely sure why she hadn’t taken him up on that. He would not have forced her. Nothing ever happened in a BDSM context that the submissive did not consent to. She knew that, had known it then, but somehow none of that had registered.

She’d been scared, rigid with fear, then furious. She had been enraged by his arrogance, his sheer bloody-minded conviction that he was right and that he was entitled to punish her as he saw fit. The precious law he worked for would have been far less harsh—a fine and a couple of points on her license at the most. But no, he was judge, jury and fucking executioner.

She had been confused too. She had thought she’d known the rules, understood their deal, but apparently not. He’d continued to punish her, first by banishing her to the spare room then with his cane. It had been relentless, never-ending. It had seemed to her she could do nothing right, could find no way to atone for her mistakes. Or that’s how she had seen it then.

Not now. If she was entirely honest, she knew he had been right. His actions that weekend were stern but not disproportionate. Such a pity she hadn’t seen it that way at the time.

As she’d bent over his dining table, her bottom bared for the caning, she had been overtaken by what she might now describe as some sort of red mist, a sense of righteous anger, bitterness at his intransigent attitude and an overwhelming urge to retaliate. Some sort of temporary insanity had taken over and she had struck him in anger, several times. First with the cane, then, when he’d disarmed her, with her fists and feet as she fought him. He’d overpowered her with ridiculous ease, which had enraged her even more. She had felt impotent, vulnerable, a coward, afraid. All of those things had bubbled and boiled within her, until they’d erupted in that burst of white-hot fury that had resulted in her striking out at her Dom as she had.

She had fled his house, sobbing as she’d driven away, whether from rage or grief, she had no idea even now. She’d gotten as far as the end of his road before she’d stopped and curled up in her seat to let her emotions flow freely. She’d wept for what had seemed like hours, but in reality, it must have been a few minutes. Eventually, her face a red, blotchy mess, she’d managed to drive herself home. Once there, she’d locked herself in and turned off her phone. Three days later, when she’d returned to work and had had no option but to switch it back on, she’d found she had three missed calls from Aaron. He’d left two voicemail messages, each one asking if she was all right and to please call him. She’d deleted the messages, and his number for good measure.

A week later, she’d bitterly regretted her decision. As her temper had cooled, and the shock of what had happened in his dining room receded, she’d begun to realize that she missed Aaron.

Emotionally, physically, intellectually—she’d loved his company and finding herself alone was like having a limb missing. He might scare her, but shit—he excited her too. As Eugenie began to view the incident more rationally, she’d overreacted. And how.

Eugenie couldn’t explain, even to herself, why she hadn’t safe worded when he’d given her that chance.

They would have talked, compromised. Or maybe Aaron could have convinced her to go through with it. He might have been able to find the words to boost her confidence enough to be able to accept his discipline.

Her instincts had screamed at her to apologize, to ask if he’d let her try again. It would involve groveling and that ten strokes of his cane would no doubt multiply. She hadn’t cared. She’d do whatever was needed to get him back.

Deleting his number had felt good at the time but it meant she hadn’t been able call him, or send a text. She’d known where he’d lived, though, and in desperation, she’d gone to his house. He hadn’t been there so she’d pushed a note through his letterbox. She’d written that she was sorry and wanted to meet him to talk things through.

Three hours later, her phone had pinged with a text from Aaron.

Thanks for your note. Glad you’re calmer now and OK. Not sure it would be a good idea to meet, though. We clearly have different needs. Be happy, and good luck for the future.

Eugenie had stared at the screen. She hadn’t been able to believe it—he was dumping her. The polite finality of his text had chilled her. It had left no room for negotiation. Different needs? What the fuck did that mean? She’d texted him back.

Please, Aaron. Sir. I am sorry. Please let me have a chance to explain.

I’m sorry too, but no.

She’d left it a few days before trying to contact Aaron again. The outcome had been the same. He did not want to meet her, and neither was he interested in her explanations or apologies. He’d wished her well and advised her to think carefully before embarking on another D/s relationship. She needed to be sure this was really the lifestyle for her.

It was this final piece of unwanted advice that had set Eugenie on the self-destructive course that resulted in
La Brat
. She’d applied for membership of every fetish or BDSM club within a hundred miles of Newcastle, not all of them especially salubrious, but she didn’t care. She’d known Aaron was likely to avoid The Basement, as he might expect to run into her there, and clearly, this was not on his agenda.

But he was a Dom, and Eugenie reckoned he had to go somewhere. He’d be out there, active in the fetish scene, and sooner or later, she’d meet him again. This time, she’d make sure he had no illusions about what he’d given up, what he was missing. She’d be the sexiest, most desirable submissive on the scene.

And she’d make sure he knew she could have been his. He’d be left under no illusion about what he was missing, what he’d thrown away when he refused to give her a second chance.

Most weekends she’d haunted kinky clubs, parties, munches. She’d widened her networks and played with any Dom who had invited her. She had not been short on offers. At least, not at first. She hadn’t set out looking for a replacement for Aaron, or not consciously. Even so, she’d compared every other Dom she’d scened with to him and they had all come up wanting. Too harsh, too soft, the wrong voice, the wrong physique. She’d been looking for her idea of the perfect Dom, and that was Aaron Praed. Others were pale imitations.

Her quest had become more desperate. She’d tested her Dominant partners, acting up to provoke them, to manipulate them into punishing her. She had been looking for someone who could affect her as deeply as Aaron had, a Dom who could bend her will and gain her unfailing obedience. So she’d disobeyed to force their hands. She was the ‘make me’ girl. She’d earned herself punishment spankings, paddlings, even on one occasion a public caning.

She couldn’t believe she’d done that. The one thing that had so freaked her out when Aaron had been about to do it, she’d eventually submitted to in full view of dozens more kinksters. It had hurt like fuck, but she’d weathered it.

None of the Doms she’d tried out had impressed her, and it hadn’t been long before she’d stopped impressing them. She still got her kink, but increasingly at the impersonal hands of a house Dom or dungeon master.

She was unfulfilled, at last realizing what she needed and craved wasn’t the sex, or the play. It was the D/s relationship itself. She desired the intimacy, the trust, the permanency of a real connection with another person. She wanted a Master. She’d had one, but had thrown it away.

Maybe she’d been too young when she and Aaron had gotten together, certainly too inexperienced. And now it was too late. Despite her frantic searching, it seemed he was nowhere on the scene, and her reputation as
La Brat
had pretty much destroyed any chance she might have had of truly connecting again.

Basically, she was stuffed—until Paris—and now that dream was wrecked too.