The Playboy's Proposition (15 page)

He groaned.

I said, “I want it. Please, take me.”

And then he did.

The specifics of what happened next didn’t matter so much,
not in the way that moment in time did, when I begged my master to take me and
he did it. The memory sent a zing through my womb and a throb in my clit.

Surprise startled me back into the present. I needed to
think. I put down the phone and went and lay down on my bed, closing my eyes,
remembering. Feeling.

I mentally played out the events of the night before. Being
dragged into Michael’s playroom. The total blackness of the hood. The unnerving
and deafening music. Yanking on the chains. Kneeling on the floor with come
dripping off my chin. The deprivation of the completed hood. The penis gag. The
inability to move at all. The fucking. The butt plug.

The pain.

I took my punishment. I survived. I was proud to have done
as well as I had. But the memory didn’t much arouse me.

Then I recalled the shower.

I saw myself splayed out on the floor while a greedy Michael
humped me. I saw my closed eyes and heard my cries of no and please, the
whimpers, the other kind of pleas. And Michael. Relentless. Taking what he
wanted. No reason, no why for the hurt. Just because he wanted.

I had cried no. But I had remembered my safe word, and
didn’t use it. I had agreed to it all.

At this memory, I felt a thudding down low in my belly, a
contraction of muscles, an electric jolt in my clitoris.

When I remembered later that night, being taken in his bed,
I got an identical erotic response.

The acts of this very morning, when I remembered the details
of what was said, what I had given and what was taken, I became aroused to the
verge of orgasm. Only the soreness of my clitoris kept me from stroking myself
over the edge.

I remembered how, when I was in Michael’s shower, I had felt
a zip or two of excitement, and a dulled undercurrent of erotic charge. The
feeling had returned when, later, he took me again and again. But those had
been brief little zings, nothing to get carried away with, nothing at all to
the intensity of my arousal right at this moment, long after everything was over.

Mild excitement then. Remarkable excitement now.

I lay there, in wonderment. I didn’t know what to make of
it. What was it? Some kind of weird kink?

Did I want to be used? Was that was this was about? In the
moments before listening to Michael’s voicemail, I had felt like I had been
used, been taken advantage of in a time of extreme fatigue and sensory
overload. I had been coerced into doing things I didn’t actually want to do.

That is what had happened, wasn’t it? Michael had abused his
power, his position, his clarity of thought when I had none.

Regardless, apparently I liked it. Apparently, it turned me
on. Made me hot as hell.

It made no sense.

I couldn’t accept that line of reasoning.

I had left my husband because he had done nothing but use
me, and that man had never, not even once, gotten me hot and bothered. Not
then, and damned sure not now.

I squeezed the bridge of my nose. I had a headache. None of
this made any sense. I felt confused, shocked and mostly, overwhelmed.

And then there was Michael to consider. What was his
culpability in all of this? He said I surrendered, that my submission to him
was driving him wild. That must be how he saw it, that I was doing my job and
submitting.

So then, maybe it wasn’t some desire on my part to be used.
Maybe I was just a sub, like I had suspected all along, wanting to satisfy the
wishes of my dominant.

No, that wasn’t right. While it was true that I was aroused
from submitting to Michael’s desire to over-fuck me, I had also submitted to
the three terrible punishments, and they definitely didn’t arouse me, neither
at the time, nor in recollection.

I lay there a while longer, debating with myself. Ultimately
unable to reach any conclusions, I forced myself to stop thinking. Maybe I
would have better luck figuring this thing out when I was better rested.

I got up and sent Michael a short email telling him I was
sore but otherwise okay. I would reserve any lingering anger at him until I was
more certain of exactly what he had been guilty of, if anything at all.

 I cleaned up the pizza remains, wrinkling my nose at
the mess. With bits and pieces of pizza scattered all over the couch, floor and
coffee table, it resembled the scene of a fresh lion kill. I found the
two-liter bottle of soda, half empty, under the couch. Well, I thought, at
least I had put the lid back on.

After I completed that and a few other little chores, I
crawled back into bed and read a novel that kept me distracted until I fell
asleep.

If I dreamed, I didn’t remember it.

Chapter 10

Thanks to having called in sick the day before, I was buried
at work the next day. I was also rushed because I needed to have everything in
order for my co-workers for the following week, when I would be going on
vacation.

Three of my closest friends and I had been planning the trip
for months. None of us had the money to travel far or luxuriously, but one of
my friends had pulled the old “I know someone who knows someone” trick and
managed to procure, for practically a song, a week’s stay at a lovely beach
cottage only about a three hour drive from the city.

The four of us had oohed and ahhed over the photos of the
cottage that the owner had posted on a social media site. The plan was to
sunbathe and frolic in the surf during the day, and to revel in the local
nightlife after dark.

The vacation would be the highlight of my year, -- or so I
thought, before I met Michael Weston.

Some of the excitement surrounding the trip wore off when I
considered how it would take me away from Michael for a week. But there was no
way I could cancel and disappoint my friends; I would simply have to miss him.
Perhaps our separation, and quiet time in the sun, would give me the chance to
really think about everything that had happened to me of late.

And I did need to think about it all. I particularly needed
to think about my bizarre arousal issues.

As the week wore on, and my aches and pains faded away, I
found that my need to figure out the mystery of my latest kink had faded as
well. The more time passed, the less I cared. My anger with Michael had utterly
disappeared.

Michael and I spoke and emailed several times during the
week and he made plans to see me Thursday evening. He later cancelled those
plans because of being called away on a last-minute business trip.

I wasn’t terribly disappointed since I had yet to fully
recover from Monday night. We made plans, instead, to meet Saturday evening.

By Friday, when every part of me felt back to normal again,
Michael placed me back under orders to masturbate three times a day, maintaining
the command that I include in my fantasies an observer and some anal play. This
time, though, he specified that I must visualize him actually sticking
something in my ass.

His new specification posed no problem for me. All I had to
do was remember. Remember the shower and Michael looming over me, what he did
to me. I only needed to throw in the outline of a stranger standing on the
other side of the shower’s glass walls, and I was obeying Michael’s every
command.

It had never been so easy to bring myself to orgasm.

The shower. His bedroom. My bedroom.

All so similar. All at my mental fingertips to choose from
at will, a guaranteed quick ride to the most powerful orgasms I had ever
experienced at my own hand.

I went out with my friends on Friday night, a last
get-together to finalize the details of our trip. Everyone was excited and
impatient to be on our way.

They bemoaned that, thanks to Sherry’s weekend schedule at
the hospital, we couldn’t leave that very night. I had a hard time joining in
their disappointment. Sherry’s blessed schedule allowed me a chance to spend
one last night with Michael before we’d be forced apart for an entire week.

My friends noticed my reserve, and asked me what was wrong.
Nothing. Nothing was wrong, I assured them. They didn’t believe me. Said I
looked flushed, distracted, and dopey, and ... in love.

No, no. Not in love, I told them. They teased me some more,
how if I wasn’t in love then I must be in lust. I insisted I wasn’t. They said
if it wasn’t love or lust, then I must be pregnant or I won the lottery or I
had been recruited by the CIA and so on and so forth, until I was laughing
along with them and their ridiculous conjectures.

On my way home, I wondered at what they had seen in me, to
believe me to be in love. Was I in love with Michael Weston?

I couldn’t wait to see him again. When I heard his voice on
the phone I got that tell-tale funny feeling in my stomach. I thought he was
sexy, clever and charming. Was this love?

Well, if it wasn’t love, it sure as hell was lust. That
night, I completed my day’s homework then added in a bit more for extra credit.

Michael called me around noon on Saturday. He told me I’d be
receiving an email with specific details regarding what preparations I needed
to make for that evening.

When I complained that he still hadn’t told me what we’d be
doing that night, he said, “I told you it was a surprise. We’re going to the
Summer Charity Ball at Private Residence. Surprise!”

“Oh,” I said. “A ball. A big event, I presume?”

“One of the biggest of the year, in the local BDSM scene.”

“A real fancy event?”

“Very fancy.”

“Lots of people?”

“Hundreds.”

I said, “Well that’s just great, Michael. I’ll pick out one
of my favorite ball gowns and brush my hair and be ready to go in fifteen
minutes.”

He chuckled. “No hurry. It doesn’t start until eight-ish.”

“I’m kind of hating you right now.”

“I’m used to that, Sweet.”

I huffed. “Honestly, I don’t know how you can be so out of
touch. This can’t be done. There’s not enough time. I don’t even know where to
get a stupid ball gown and ...”

“Shush, Nonnie. Quit panicking. You don’t need anything
formal. This is a kink ball after all.”

“Great, that’s even worse. What do you wear to a kink ball?
I have no ...”

“Don’t you know by now that I’ll take care of you? You’ll be
getting a delivery soon. It will be everything you need for tonight, all of it
chosen especially for you, by me. Feel better?”

“Well ... yeah, some. But you shouldn’t be buying me a bunch
of stuff. It’s not right.”

“The ‘stuff’ isn’t for you. It’s for me. I can’t wait to see
you in the outfit I chose. If you like it, too, that’s just a bonus.”

“Hmm, when you put it that way. I don’t know. Why do you
have to be such a jerk? Getting me freaked out like that?”

“Because you’re beautiful when you’re panicky?”

“Like I said ... jerk.”

“Probably. But there’s a more serious reason why I didn’t
give you much warning.”

His change of tone put me on alert. I said, “Okay. Why?”

He said, “There are a number of activities at the ball,
obviously dancing is one. There’s also a big buffet, and special stages for
people who want to participate in public displays. Then there’s the silent
auctions. We all pay a cover charge that goes to the designated charities, but
the biggest contributions come from the silent auctions.”

“Oh, okay,” I said. Where was he heading with this?

He continued, “Toys, tools, different apparatus, all the
gear associated with BDSM is donated then auctioned off. One of the most
popular and profitable events, though, are the sub auctions.”

“Wait. What?”

“The sub auctions. Four groupings. Trained females, trained
males, newbie females and newbie males. People place silent bids on their
chosen sub to win one hour with him or her that evening, in one of the club’s
private rooms.”

I said, “I’m pretty sure that’s got to be illegal. Sounds
like prostitution.”

“No, it’s not. No promises of services are made. Anything
that happens during the hour is negotiated between the parties, and sex is a
no-no. Now, what might happen after the official hour is over ... that’s a
different matter.”

“I see where you’re heading here, Michael. I’m sorry, but
... no wait, I’m not sorry. I simply won’t do it. I won’t be auctioned off to
the highest bidder, some stranger, who can paw me or do whatever to me just
because he’s got a fat wallet. Charity or no charity. Not gonna happen.”

“I know that, Sweet.”

“Ummhmm.”

“I do. That’s why my plan is something a little different.
Will you keep an open mind and not automatically dismiss it?”

“I hate it when you’re condescending. You act like I’m some
kind of prude. Of course I’ll keep an open mind.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, and I could almost picture him
holding out his hands in appeasement. “What I want to do is give you the
experience of public display, up for purchase, without having to worry about
actually following through on the sale.”

He continued, “All subs in the auction are displayed on
small stages for a half hour. The stages are usually for scening, but they
co-opt them for the sub auction. I believe you’d enjoy standing on that stage
with all those strangers eyeing you. I know I’ll enjoy being up there with you,
your owner, so to speak, proudly showing off my wares.”

“Try to imagine it,” Michael said, “all those eyes on you,
so many people wanting you.”

I thought about it. Okay, there was something to what he
said. I might like that. I might even really like that. But the thought that
anyone could buy me and ...

Michael interrupted with, “You can fantasize that someone
might buy you, while feeling safe that they won’t have a chance -- because I’m
going to rig the auction.”

“How can you do that?”

“I’m going to have a friend place the winning bid.”

“How will you know it’s the winning bid?”

“My friend knows one of the women who’s on the organizing
committee. She gathers the bids and records the winner. My friend will place a
bid with his name on it, but leave the bid line blank. The woman will fill in
the line later with a number higher than the winning bid, making my friend the
winner.”

He continued, “He’ll claim you as his prize, then we’ll all
go into the playroom together until the organizing committee leaves, then we
can hang out until the hour is over. Simple.”

“I see. That’s cheating.”

“Exactly.”

“It could go wrong. Something might happen, like your friend
forgetting, or the woman getting a conscience.”

He snorted. “My friend isn’t going to forget. And this isn’t
a matter of conscience. There’s always auction-rigging going on. Everyone
expects it. Some people want to assure a certain winner for whatever reason.
That’s all. No one cares about the cheating. It’s all for fun, for charity, so
who cares?”

Hmm, I thought. If it went the way Michael planned, it was a
tempting idea.

I asked, “What will I have to do when I’m on the stage?”

“Be displayed.”

“Be more specific.”

“No, that’ll ruin some of the fun of it.”

“There won’t be any sex up there, right? Or like whipping
and stuff?”

Michael snorted again. That was twice now, and it was
starting to get on my nerves. “No, Nonnie, I won’t fuck you or beat you when
you’re up there. Feel better?”

I hesitated. Thinking.

He said, “You need to trust me, Sweet. Trust that I know you
well enough now that I can do what will make this special for you. To push your
limits, but not break them.”

His voice dropped lower, “I want this to be sexy for you. I want
you turned on, and I want you to store up all that desire while you’re on the
stage and unleash it on me when we’re alone, later.”

Well now. Hmm. That might work.

I wanted to do it. I knew I did.

I said, “Okay, but there can’t be any mistakes.”

I could hear Michael’s smile in his tone. “There won’t be.
It’s going to be a wonderful evening.”

“As long as nothing goes wrong.”

“Quit worrying. I command you to stop worrying.”

I laughed at his mock ferocity. “Yes, Master. Whatever you
say, Master.”

He said, “Be careful, Sweet. You’re offering carte blanche.”

Before we ended the call, Michael told me that the Hoytes
would be going with us and they would all come to pick me up at eight o’clock
(planning a fashionably late entrance, I presumed).

I was surprised that Elaine hadn’t mentioned the ball since
I had spoken to her several times that week, but Michael told me he had asked
her to keep it a secret.

Even though my friendship with both Elaine and Ron had been
growing, I was embarrassed to have them see my bare little apartment, so I told
Michael to text me when he arrived and I’d meet them in front of my building.
He didn’t argue, and I was glad I didn’t have to explain myself.

As soon as we hung up, I went into overdrive prep time.
There would be hours of plucking, shaving and waxing ahead of me. No end to the
steaming of pores, the soaking and pumicing of elbows and heels, the
moisturizing and skin tighteners. Then there was all the time needed for
fingernails and toenails, the trimming and filing, buffing, and polishing.

I loved it all. Without hours and hours of prep time, how
can a woman really know she’s got a big night coming?

Michael’s delivery didn’t arrive until after four, when I
was starting to get worried. It was three boxes, one large, one the size of a
shoe box, and one smaller one.

I put them all on my dining room table and tore open the
dress box first.

A card lay on the tissue paper. It read, “Newbies wear
white.”

I pulled back the top paper. I found a satin white push-up
bra, covered in lace. Beside the bra lay a thong, little more than strips of
satin and a swatch of white, lace-covered satin. I held them up and thought
them pretty. For once, I would be wearing underwear while out with Michael.
What a novelty. I set them aside.

Under another layer of paper was the dress. I pulled it out
and held it in front of me. It was all white lace, the stretchy, softer kind.
And it looked more like lingerie than a dress. I thought of the blue satin
number Michael had given me for our night out at the restaurant. If I hung out
with Michael much longer, I’d have quite the collection of lingerie/dresses.

This lacy dress had long sleeves, and a low neckline. It had
an empire waist with the rest of the dress falling to the floor in a slim line.