The Contract (2 page)

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Morning . . .

I
dreamed of
him
. . . . He’d tied me to his bed again, only this time I was facedown, unable to see him. I wanted to see him but I didn’t feel a fear of the unknown. He wasn’t touching me, but as crazy as it sounds, I could feel him. There was something about him in that dream that just reached inside me and slid straight to my soul. I had no idea what he was going to do to me. I was certain, though, that he knew best. He’d make whatever we did, whatever he did to me, pleasurable. He’d know what I needed.

I know it wasn’t real, but it seemed like it was, and I’ve never felt that with anyone else except my mother. It’s odd to compare my mother and a Master tying me to a bed, I know, but I have nothing else to compare it to. There is no one who has ever been close enough to me to gain my trust but these two people.

In the dream, and it was a dream, not a nightmare, I waited with breathless anticipation for what he would do to me. He spread me wide, his fingers sliding intimately between my thighs, stroking me, teasing me. I cannot believe how vividly I can remember the feel of him touching me. He’d been gentle in a way I didn’t expect, taking me to the edge of orgasm and then abruptly withdrawing.

He’d returned to snap a crop against the mattress, making me jump. He’d warned me he wasn’t going to be as gentle with me from that point forward. He’d told me it was time to leave it behind, to experience more. I’m surprised to remember how much that warning pleased me. And even more surprised at how I’d welcomed the snap of the crop on my backside, and reveled in how it became harder with each touch. I’d been shaking and panting with the sting of the leather, but I’d been aroused. And when finally (and yet too soon) it had been over, he’d kissed me from top to bottom, licking every spot he’d used the crop on. He’d been gentle again and he’d ended up between my legs, pressing my backside in the air and lapping at me until I came. And then he’d been inside me, filling me, stretching me, and it had been glorious until the dream had shifted and faded.

Suddenly I was inside my recurring nightmare of my mother, but I can’t remember what happened. I just know there had been icy water, and I’d sat up in my bed gasping for air. Then the smell of my mother’s perfume had permeated my nostrils. And the sense of doom I keep trying to escape returned, and now it won’t go away.

To have the dream become this nightmare is unsettling. What does it mean? Is it my mind warning me that my mother betrayed me, and he will, too?

Evening . . .

I
’m sitting at my kitchen table with the contract by my side and yet another box of cereal in front of me. I’ve just hung up from a disastrous call with Josh and I feel sick to my stomach. Since nothing else has worked, I told him I was seeing someone new and I couldn’t see him anymore. He’d asked who it was and then got pretty ugly with me when I wouldn’t say. I’m shocked at how he talked to me; the things he said were just unbelievable. He was nothing like the sweet guy I feared I was going to crush. His anger was downright vile. It scared me, and I don’t scare easily. Really, it’s been a bad day overall. I’m ready for it to be over.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

B
efore going to work I stopped at the coffee shop, and Chris was there, sitting at a table sketching. I see him there several times a week, but I still get an adrenaline rush every time I do. He’s just so damn talented and cool.

I stood in line, my eyes drawn to Chris, watching him work. It’s a gift to see an artist involved in his craft. His head was down, his longish blond hair touching his collar, his expression one of deep concentration. I could have stared at him forever, watching the creative process, and didn’t even realize when I was next in line until Ava joked that she often got lost watching him herself. I imagine she does.

I left and I don’t think Chris even knew I was there. I was invisible. No, that’s not right. He has too much control to not have known when I walked in and when I left. He simply didn’t want to invite conversation or attention. I guess it’s about being in his creative zone, because when he comes into the gallery, he’s very friendly. But he’s hard to figure out, and I didn’t expect him to notice me. I never do. But . . . for some reason, today it bothered me.

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 they 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.