The Playboy's Proposition (20 page)

Smack! Smack! It was harder those times. But I could handle
it.

He ran a finger under the center strand of the thong,
pushing lightly into my crack.

He said, “I forgot to ask about anal. I recall you didn’t
have much interest in it. Are you okay with things in your ass now? Say, my
finger? Or two?”

I squeezed my eyes shut. Breathe, Nonnie. Breathe. It’s just
a finger. You’ll be fine. I ground out a “Yes, Sir.”

Smack! He nailed my other cheek. Hard as hell that time.
Nasty, nasty sting.

I yelped out, “Ow!”

Gibson grabbed me by the waist and before I could process
what he was doing, he pulled me up and lightly tossed me onto the couch,
leaving me sitting pretty much where I had been to begin with.

I looked at him. He was livid. His brows were drawn together
and he was glaring at me like I had done something terrible. His mouth was
pressed into a hard straight line, and a muscle twitched in his cheek.

His voice harsh, he said, “Button yourself up. Straighten
yourself.”

I was so surprised I did as he asked automatically. I wasn’t
afraid of him, but I sure as hell didn’t want to make him angrier.

While I put myself back in order, Gibson stalked over to the
bar, poured two drinks, then returned to the sofa. He plunked one of the drinks
down on the coffee table hard enough to make some of the liquid slosh over the
edge. The other drink he set down more gently.

He went over and opened a door to a closet, pulled out a
fluffy blanket, then came back to the sofa and spread the blanket over my lap.

Even though the cover of the blanket was comforting, I was
stumped for an explanation of why he had given it to me and of what was
happening. Why was he so pissed? Had I done something? Maybe he’d gone crazy.
Maybe I should be worried.

Gibson sat down on his old spot on the sofa and took a long
drink. Then he turned and looked at me. He was clearly still angry, but there
was less of an edge.

He asked, “How far, exactly, where you planning on letting
that go?”

I said, “Letting what go? Sir?”

“You can drop the sir, Nonnie. It’s not necessary anymore.”

“Um, okay.” I was thinking, placate the crazy man.

He said, “Back to my question. How far would you have let me
go before you said no? How much would I have had to do before you told me to
stop?”

“I don’t know how to answer that. I mean, I would have told
you no when ... if you did something I wasn’t okay with.”

“No, you wouldn’t have. I bet I could have stuck three
fingers in your little asshole and you still wouldn’t have told me no.”

“Yes I would have. I’m not ready for three. But one or maybe
two ...” I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation.

He snapped back at me, “There shouldn’t have been one or two
fingers. There shouldn’t have been anything at all. You were obviously, beyond
question, an unwilling participant tonight. You should have told me no as soon
as we started negotiations.”

 I said, slowly, “And you don’t like unwilling
participants.”

“Of course I don’t!”

I held up my hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you
angry.”

His expression softened. Then he sighed, loudly, and rubbed
the back of his neck for a moment. He said, “I’m sorry, Nonnie. Truly. I am.
I’m not mad at you.”

I said, “Uh, okay.”

He said, “It’s Weston. He’s the one I’m mad at.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just waited.

He continued, “Weston hasn’t taught you how to say no. It’s
wrong. It’s the first thing he should have done with you.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Michael doesn’t have anything to
do with this. I know how to say no. Every two-year-old knows how to say no.”

“You don’t understand. You can’t. Weston should have
explained all this to you, helped you. But let me guess, he exploited it
instead. That’s how he does things. I had hoped that with you, maybe he’d ...”

The more he spoke about Michael, the less I wanted to listen
to him. Who the hell did he think he was? Telling me I was too stupid to say
no. Accusing Michael of exploiting me somehow. Gibson didn’t know me. And he
certainly didn’t know Michael; Gibson had never cared enough to bother.

I said, “You need to back off now.”

He drew a deep breath, then leaned back into the sofa. He
gave me a steady look. “You were ready to be on that stage tonight. It was
obvious. I wasn’t surprised. You have a powerful exhibitionist streak in you.
But you’re still learning your limits. And there’s a difference between being
seen by strangers and being touched by them, being intimate with them.”

I couldn’t miss the irony that he was making the point I’d
tried to make with Michael earlier.

He continued. “You weren’t ready to be bought by a stranger.
I thought that Weston had likely set up a deal with someone to win the bid, so
when the auction was over, I asked to see the results before they were posted.”

I said, “So you never actually bid for me.”

“No, not until I saw who the winner was.”

“You cheated.”

“Everyone cheats at the newbie auctions. Or, nearly
everyone. Only the trained subs are sold straight up, and even some of them
have ringers in the bidding.”

“I don’t understand this. What’s the point in it? It’s all
just a show then.”

He answered, “Yes, it’s a show, meant for fun. A sexy show
for the crowd and for the subs and masters and mistresses. And it raises money
for a good cause.”

“Why did you cheat to win the bid?”

“Because you aren’t ready to be with the dominant who won
you.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s been around a long time. A serious sadist, who should
only be with hardcore masochists.”

“What’s his name?”

“You won’t know him. But you probably remember him in the
crowd. He was wearing a death mask.”

I did remember him. He asked about caning. I thought he may
have said something about bullwhips, too. I shuddered.

“Good,” said Gibson. “I’m glad to see you realize what could
have happened.”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking.”

“Then let me tell you what would have happened. Weston would
have left you alone with him, like he left you with me. It could have been ...
disastrous for you.”

“Oh come on, now. What, the sadist would have injured me or
something? What goes on in this place anyway?”

“No, he’s a responsible sadist. But you would have let it go
too far before you stopped him, assuming you would eventually stop it. It could
have potentially driven you away from BDSM.”

“Okay, so let me get this straight. I’m an idiot who can’t
say no, and you’re my self-appointed savior who’s come to rescue me from an
irresponsible master and a responsible sadist.”

“You’re not an idiot, Nonnie. It’s the dominant’s role to
protect you, to see to your safety and needs before seeing to his own. Does
Michael Weston fill that role for you?”

“You don’t know anything about my relationship with
Michael.”

“You’re right. Why don’t you fill me in? You can start by
telling me what caused the tension between you and Weston tonight. I know some
of it came from me being the winner, which wouldn’t have pleased him. But there
was more to it than that. What’s going on?”

The man didn’t know when to quit. “That’s none of your
business.”

“You asked to be alone with me, and you knew how Weston
would react. Why did you do it?”

“Again, it’s none of your business.”

“It is, though, Nonnie. Weston isn’t doing right by you.”

“And you’re stepping in to save the day, is that it? Or are
you more concerned about unfairly criticizing Michael, trying to run him down
and turn me against him?”

Ah, that stung. He stiffened, his posture rigidly upright,
his eyes cold. “I’m trying to help you.”

“Of course you are. You’re big on helping people.”

“I try to do the right thing, yes.”

“Do you only champion half-naked women, or do you also help
fully clothed people, like say needy friends ...” I paused and gave him an even
look, “or family?”

And just like that, Gibson became the Gibson I was
accustomed to. Expressionless, inscrutable. A half-dozen heartbeats later, he
said, “I apologize if I’ve offended you.” Polite.

I said, “Thank you,” and left it there.

We sat in silence. I sipped at my drink and tried to look
casual, but inside I was everything but. My heart thumped hard in my chest.

I had thought the only repercussion of my revenge on Michael
was having to scene with Gibson. I had been wrong. So wrong.

The truth, the only repercussion that mattered, was that I
had betrayed Michael. I saw that now.

Every time Gibson said Michael’s name, every time Gibson
criticized him, belittled him, I was reminded of their history. How Michael had
gone without, while Gibson had everything. How Michael had been denied, when it
would have been so easy for Gibson to help. Michael’s mother ...

When Gibson said he tried to do the right thing, I couldn’t
believe it was possible for someone to be so boldly dishonest. It was as if he
had convinced himself it was true.

And this was the man I had chosen to wreak my petty revenge
on Michael. I felt sick. This was shame.

I didn’t want to think about what Michael must have felt
when I said I wanted to stay with Gibson, or to think about what he was feeling
now. Anger, yes, an obvious reaction. But I had betrayed him by using his enemy
against him. There would be far, far deeper emotions than anger.

Why hadn’t I thought this through? How could I make it
right?

What would I say when I saw him again?

Thank God I hadn’t done anything with Gibson. I don’t know
how I could have borne it if I had.

I hadn’t forgotten that Michael had lied to me, and that he
had much to answer for. Now, I too had much to answer for. I couldn’t imagine
how this could be settled between us.

Gibson drew my eye when he stood up. He said, “I don’t see
any reason to wait out the whole hour in here, if that’s satisfactory to you.”

Yes, I thought, it would be good to be away from him, even
though it meant facing Michael.  I said, “That’s fine with me.”

“Good. Then if you’re ready, I’ll escort you to the ballroom
and return you to your escort.”

I stood and lay the blanket on the sofa. “That won’t be
necessary. Michael will be waiting for me in the hall.”

“They won’t allow that.”

I walked to the door. “It won’t matter. He’ll be there.”

I opened the door and stepped into the hall, Gibson close
behind me.

And Michael was there, leaning against the far wall, waiting
for me.

When I saw his expression, a hard lump rose in my throat. I
could only read his look as vulnerable pride.

When I faltered in my step, Gibson walked around me and said
to Michael, “We talked. That’s all.”

I thought, at least Gibson had done one genuinely charitable
thing tonight.

He turned back to me, said goodnight, then left, back
straight, not a wrinkle in his impeccable tuxedo as he walked away.

I met Michael’s eye, but could only hold it briefly before
looking away.

He asked, “Is that true? You only talked?”

“Yes.”

Strain apparent in every word, he asked, “What did you talk
about?”

I looked at him, trying to convey my sincerity with every
part of me, and I said, “Nothing important. I only thought of you, telling you
...”

He let out a long breath, a release of tension. “Not here.
I’ve had enough of here.”

The ball had ended for me a long, long time ago. “Me too.”

“Are you ready to go?”

I searched his face, looking for a sign, any sign that might
tell me what our futures held. I believed I saw a need there, a willingness, a
relief.

I said, “Yes, let’s go.”

He placed his hand gently on the small of my back and guided
me out of the maze of halls, to the elevator and the coat check room.

Then out into the cool night air.

Chapter 13

We didn’t speak while Michael drove. I took a few moments to
send a text to Elaine letting her know we had left, but other than that, I
spent my time thinking of everything I wanted to say to Michael.

When he pulled into the parking lot of a late night diner
and asked if I wanted some coffee, I agreed readily. The diner would provide a
much-needed neutral ground.

We found a booth in the back corner and sat across from one
another. I kept my summer coat wrapped around me since my dress was beyond
inappropriate here. Michael hadn’t altered his attire at all, and when the
middle-aged waitress came to take our order, she gave him a bored look that
said, “I’ve seen it all, buddy,” and took our order.

We waited quietly until the waitress returned with our
coffee. Then the silence stretched between us. Who would speak first?

Tick tock. Tick tock.

I caved.

I said, “I’m sorry, Michael. I shouldn’t have gone with
Gibson. I did it because I was mad, and I didn’t think it through ... what I
was doing. I am sorry.”

He kept his eyes on his cup and nodded.

I thought, well, is that it? I said, “I was so mad because
you lied to me, and then you were saying all of those things while we were
walking, setting me up so I couldn’t say no. It doesn’t excuse what I did. I’m
just trying to explain.”

He looked at me, the first time he had done so since we left
the ball. I couldn’t read his expression, only that it was steady and serious.
Whatever it was I had seen in the hall at Private Residence, that touch of
vulnerability, was long gone.

He said, “I accept your apology.”

That was it. He kept looking at me.

I said, “Umm, thank you.” And then I waited. Waited for his
apology.

He continued to watch me. I met his gaze, grew increasingly
uncomfortable. I glanced down at my coffee, once, then back up into his face.
No change. Looking back down at my cup, I fiddled with the spoon.

Finally, he said, “I’ve made my decision.”

My response was a cautious, “Okay.”

He said, “Like you, I made a mistake tonight.”

I nodded.

He continued, “I never should have lied.”

I blew out a breath. “Thank you,” I said. “I needed to ...”

“Wait,” he said. “I’m not finished. I had good reasons not
to tell you what was going to happen, or I thought I did. The lie itself wasn’t
wrong, though. It wasn’t the mistake, technically.”

I felt my face growing warm, but kept my mouth shut. The
word “technically” bounced around inside my head.

He said, “I did it to make the decision easier for you,
since you’d be aroused from the auction. And ultimately, even if your arousal
wasn’t enough, I thought you would choose to please me.”

I stared at him.

He said, “That was my mistake -- thinking you want to please
me.”

My stomach turned over. “That isn’t true. That’s not what
this was ...”

“It is exactly what this is about. I thought, after your
punishment, everything that happened, the way you submitted to me, I thought
you understood this dynamic. I was wrong, apparently. That means if we’re going
to proceed with this, we’ll have to go back to basics.”

I said, “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

He said, “I know you don’t. So I’m going to make it very
simple for you.”

His eyelids lowered slightly, and his voice grew deeper in
tenor. “I’ve decided to give you a last chance to make this work because I
still have an interest in you, and because we agreed to five nights. Tomorrow
will be our fifth night, should you decide to follow through on our agreement.”

He continued, “Tomorrow, you’ll to come to my apartment.
I’ll have a friend there, a male friend, and you’ll come prepared to submit to
us both. The only promise I’ll make you, in regards to what my friend will be
doing to you, is that he won’t be putting his cock in your pussy. I don’t want
someone else fucking you ... not there ... not yet anyway.”

My pulse pounded in my ears and at my temples.

He said, “I’ll send you a text tomorrow afternoon, asking
for your decision. There are only two possible answers -- yes or no. If you say
no, then we can part friends. If you say yes, then I’ll send you further
instructions.”

I floundered. “I ... I don’t ...”

He shook his head. “No. We’re not going to discuss it.
There’s been too much discussion between us, and that’s been the problem. Either
you want to please me or you don’t. Bottom line. You have until tomorrow to
decide.”

I stared at my coffee cup. This was an abrupt turn I hadn’t
expected. Understatement.

He said, “I’m ready to take you home now. Let’s go.”

A hundred different thoughts swirled around in my head, most
of them questions. Many of them, complaints. But he obviously was finished with
discussions, even truncated, one-sided discussions like this one. If he was
finished, then so was I.

I followed him out of the diner and rode home in silence. He
escorted me to my apartment, and once I had the front door open and was inside,
I turned to tell him goodnight.

But Michael wasn’t quite ready for that. He took me by the
shoulders and pushed me backwards into my living room, kicking the front door
shut with his foot. He took me with him as he turned back around and shoved me
up against the closed door.

Pulling my arms up over my head, he held me by my wrists.
With his free hand, he made quick work of releasing the belt on my coat and slipping
his hand under the stiff fabric. His hand closed over my breast, squeezing hard
until I gasped.

His voice was low and gravelly. He said, “This might be
goodbye for us. Just in case it is, I want a last kiss.”

He claimed his kiss, a long and thorough farewell. By the
time he released me, I was panting.  And then, without another word, he
was gone.

What the hell was that? And why was he throwing down the
gauntlet? All of this “yes or no are the only two options” stuff.

And what the hell was I going to do about it?

By noon the next day, I still hadn’t decided. I spent the
morning packing for my vacation and fielding calls from my friends, all of whom
wanted to finalize our plans for the next day ... again. Finalizing what had
already been finalized. Oh well. It was just excitement, and it wasn’t their
fault that my mind was on other things.

Elaine called to find out how my auction had turned out, and
to tell me how the evening had gone for them after Michael and I left. I didn’t
want to go into everything with Elaine, so I was vague. I think she knew
something was up, but she was the kind of friend who understood the value of
giving a woman her space when she needs it.

I realized after we hung up, that Elaine was rapidly becoming
a dear friend.

As for Michael, I didn’t know what to think. Part of me
believed I was owed an apology for the way he tried to manipulate me. Another
part of me realized that the need for that apology was useless when Michael
didn’t see any of it as manipulation.

What was the point in feeling owed something that another
person couldn’t even acknowledge as a debt?

Besides, he had a point. This thing we had, this
relationship, whatever it was, it was supposed to be about doing what Michael
wanted. I knew that. I truly did. I couldn’t grasp how it kept being brought up
as something I wasn’t properly understanding. I would think I understood it,
and then blam! It would turn out I had missed some crucial point again.

I wanted justice, but I also appreciated the simplicity of
Michael’s approach, the way he seized control and broke down a complicated
issue to its basic parts.

As the clock ticked toward 1 p.m., I knew a decision would
have to be made, soon. Then it was 2 p.m. Then 2:15.

My phone chimed. I had a text. It was Michael.

The message simply read, “Yes or no?”

Well hell. It was all so ... so ... it was just so, that’s
all.

I typed in “no.”

My finger hovered over the send button.

Could I do it? Was I done with him? Was I prepared to give
him up?

I thought of his hand closing on my breast during our
goodnight kiss. I flashed on his sexy smile when he first saw me at the ball. I
recalled how it felt to have him inside me when I was past sore, the pain of
it, and the satisfying sound and feel of his excited breathing hot against the
back of my neck while he pumped into me.

My stomach tightened. I remembered what it was like to be
cradled in his arms ... and that I might be in love with him.

What was a misunderstanding, when compared to all of that?

I hit backspace on my phone, typed in, “Yes,” then I hit the
send button. Decision made.

Per Michael’s instructions, I arrived at his apartment at
3:30. Like the last time I had been there, the door was left unlocked for me.
This time my preparations were simpler. I only had to undress, leave all my
things under the small table, then kneel in the entryway on the hard marble and
wait for my master. I hardly had time to start mentally complaining about my
knees hurting when I heard the sound of Michael’s footsteps.

He stopped in front of me and said, “Look at me.”

I raised my head, feeling strangely shy about it. When I saw
the wide smile on his face, I relaxed. He was happy to see me. I needed that.
No grudges. Moving on. It was the best thing to do.

He lightly stroked my cheek then held out his hand and said,
“Come on.”

I rose and accepted his offered hand.

He led me through his apartment. I loved how he looked
today, simply dressed in faded jeans and a white cotton shirt. Casual wear for
a casual Sunday.

I noticed more of the apartment this time, but mostly I
noticed that something was missing. What was different? I realized finally that
it was the absence of the incense that had been so powerfully present
throughout the place the last time I was there. On this day, the apartment had
a light and pleasant smell of furniture polish and leather and something
floral, probably an air freshener.

Michael took me into a mid-sized room with an overstuffed
sofa, a pool table, a big flat-screen TV, a bar, and assorted other furniture
like chairs and end tables. It was a masculine decor and obviously served the
purpose of being the cozy man cave within the larger man cavern.

Michael had me stand in the middle of the room while he
turned up the lights to full brightness level. He put me through several poses,
inspecting my body closely and carefully.

I shuddered powerfully when he had me bend over and touch my
toes. His fingers slid over my ass then between my legs, running from my clit
to my pussy and up to my anus. He stuck one finger in my pussy.

He said, “Good, you’re already getting wet.”

He pushed another finger inside me then began stroking me,
in and out. I fought for balance. Inhaled sharply. The power of his touch ever
amazed me.

Then, as if he hadn’t just aroused me to the point that I
had tingles dancing between my legs, he told me to stand up and led me to the
bar, telling me what he expected of me that evening.

I managed to pay enough attention to learn that my job was
to serve the drinks they requested and refill snacks as needed, snacks that
Michael had already fully stocked at the bar.

He showed me where and how he wanted me to kneel when I
wasn’t wanted for something, or when I hadn’t been instructed otherwise. He
told me it was crucial that I call him Master and that I not speak unless
spoken to. My job was to serve, and to accept whatever was asked of me with
grace. To be polite, patient and obedient.

In short, to be a good sub.

I answered, “Yes, Master,” over and over again, while
silently inside I chanted my hope that I would be able to do as he asked.

I was practicing my waiting pose, nervous under Michael’s
scrutiny when I heard the sound of a chime. Oh, God, it was the door. A tremor
passed over me. Michael told me to wait where I was, and to remember all of his
orders, then he was gone.

I waited, my ears straining to hear whatever I could. Soon,
too soon, this unknown man would be in the room with me, and I would be
expected to do things with him, to him, and have things done to me. I hoped and
hoped that it would be someone I could desire, someone who ...

I stopped myself. Wait a minute. Already, I was thinking
incorrectly. I chastised myself. It didn’t matter who the man was, if I found
him attractive or not. I already knew everything I needed to know about him. He
was Michael’s friend, and Michael trusted him with me and wanted to see me with
him. What else was there to know? The only thing to hope was that I didn’t fail
Michael.

I took some calming breaths. Said silently, “I can do this
thing.”

It helped. When I heard their approaching footsteps, I made
a promise to myself that I would succeed. And I reminded myself that even if I
didn’t find my own pleasure today, in this moment, then perhaps it would be
like the night of my punishment, and I would find pleasure later, when I
remembered what happened, the heady memory of complete submission.

I focused on my pose, grateful for the carpet under my
knees, holding my back straight, keeping my hands flat on my thighs, my eyes
turned to the floor.

And then Michael was entering the room with his guest. I
couldn’t make out any details about the newcomer above his legs. He was wearing
blue jeans, like Michael, and a pair of worn brown boots. On top, I could make
out a blue shirt. He appeared lean, leaner than Michael.

Michael told the man that they still had a few minutes
before the game started. I thought, oh, so they’ll be watching a ball game
together. That was a relief, learning that their sole attention wouldn’t be on
me.