The Submissive's Last Word (The Power to Please #4) (4 page)

It was more. It represented the beginning. I wouldn’t be
sitting on the floor in that closet if it weren’t for that tie. Without that
piece of blue silk, I never would have gone looking for the Businessman and
found Michael Weston instead, the man who ruined me.

As I shoved the tie back into the box and crammed the lid on
top, I remembered that no Michael would have also meant no Gibson. If I could
do it all over again, I wondered, would I sacrifice knowing Gibson to escape
knowing Michael?

I opened another box. There wasn’t much in it. I pulled out
a few items and for a moment didn’t recognize them. A sweater, an old lipstick,
a hand mirror, a desk calendar. My stomach tightened. These were my belongings
from my old office, from my former job at Linton Cosmetics.

My boss, Isabel Vinson, had packed all of these things up
for me, then had the box delivered to the Hoytes’ home where I was staying at
the time. I didn’t do more than glance inside it the night I received it,
finding the prospect of sorting through the sorry leavings of my career more
depressing than I could bear.

I folded the sweater and set it aside; fall was coming, and
I might need it. I extracted a few other items that might be of use and tossed
them next to the sweater.

I pulled out something that, oddly enough, was wrapped in
tissue paper. I carefully pulled back the paper and found a small figurine
tucked inside.

It was small, about three inches tall, delicate and
adorable. An exquisitely-carved kitten dangled from a stubby branch of a tree,
hanging on by the claws of one lone paw. The kitten’s eyes were circles of
surprise, its mouth open and rounded. A single line of text ran across the base
of the figurine: “Hang in there, baby!”

This figurine wasn’t mine, but I knew its owner. It belonged
to Isabel, and always sat in a prominent place on her desk.

I remembered how once, many years ago, she noticed me
looking at the figurine. She’d picked it up, studied it, gave a little laugh
then handed it over to me to inspect more closely.

She smiled. “Corny little thing, isn’t it? My mother gave it
to me. She knows my sense of humor. I can’t count the number of times I’ve
looked at that cat and laughed.”

I thought it was cute, but I couldn’t see what was so funny
about it. To me, it was a standard inspirational kind of knickknack. Hang in
there, you can do it, rah rah rah. That kind of thing. I handed it back to
Isabel, who set it on the desk, facing me.

She pushed her glasses up, one of her habitual gestures.
“Look at how hard that cat’s hanging on, doing everything it can not to let go.
Seems like a heroic effort not to fall. But here’s the thing, Nonnie. Its hind
feet are almost on the ground, and there’s nothing waiting underneath that
might harm it. So why is the cat afraid of letting go?”

I studied the silly piece. She was right. Why didn’t the cat
just let go?

“It’s a lesson for us,” she said. “Sometimes we hang on to
things in defiance of all reason and sense, simply because it’s familiar. We
wear ourselves out allowing our fears to keep us clinging to illusion.”

Isabel tapped the head of the kitten. “Our challenge is to
know when the time for hanging in there is over, when simply holding on is no
longer good enough. The trick is knowing when to let go.”

That had been years ago when she told me that. I sat on the
closet floor in Gibson’s cottage, holding the goofy little figurine and
thinking about how Isabel had wrapped up her favorite kitten sculpture and
given it to me. All this time, it had been waiting in the box for me.

I felt a burning behind my eyes, and a lump rose in my
throat. I studied the kitten that clung valiantly and pointlessly to the
branch. Hang in there, baby.

I heard Isabel say again, “The trick is knowing when to let
go.”

A gift, for me.

And that’s when it happened. Everything, all of it, swelled
fresh inside of me, filled me, overflowed, the fear, the hate, the frustration,
the anger, and most of all, the unbearable sorrow of everything that had
happened to me.

I felt as if it were a fresh wound. My humiliation. My loss.
My fear. My grief. It was a burgeoning force that wouldn’t be restrained. It
demanded acknowledgement, release, wouldn’t accept even a moment’s hesitation.

It would have its day, its overdue moment. No more delays.

And so, at long last, I cried.

For the first and only time since I learned my life was
indelibly damaged, I cried. Sobbed. Loud wracking cries. Great gulps of air. I
sobbed and held nothing back.

Wretched, wretched sadness. My head pounded and my stomach
ached and I gasped for air, gasped for what I had lost and would never recover.

I hung my head, letting the tears run unchecked, dripping
onto my chest, splashing in fat drops onto my hands and legs. I clutched the
tiny cat figurine as if it could hold me in return. I shook all over and hugged
myself.

Then, miraculously, other arms reached for me. Strong arms
came from nowhere and folded around me, pulled me against a sturdy chest and
squeezed me tight. I knew him from his spicy scent ... Gibson.

I didn’t ask how he got there, how he knew I needed him. I
simply accepted that he was there, wrapped around me, allowing me to fall apart
while he held the pieces together.

He tucked my head under his chin and rocked me gently, side
to side, side to side. He didn’t shush me, or tell me it was okay. He simply
let me cry.

And so I did. On and on. I mourned my loss. Finally.

I let go.

Chapter 4

Much later, Gibson and I sat in a pair of comfortable chairs
on the back deck of the cottage. I sipped the tea Gibson made me, and we looked
out over the expanse of manicured grass and small gardens that stretched to the
edge of the lake and beyond. The air smelled fresh and clean, the scent of
country air.

It was late afternoon, and the insects were in full-on buzz
mode, probably hailing the unseasonably warm weather. I could barely hear the
sounds of Paulina’s crew slaving away distant and unseen on the south lawn.

I noted Gibson’s frequent glances in my direction. “I’m
okay,” I said.

“I’m glad.”

I wasn’t sure he believed me. “I mean it. I feel better,
lighter.”

He gave me a long look. I must have passed inspection,
because he said, “Good.”

“I think I’m ready to talk about this thing,” I said. “No, I
know I’m ready.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Not today.”

“No. Really. I’m ready.” And I meant it, was sure of it. The
tears had drained away much of the heaviness that had been holding me down. I
was ready to create forward momentum. I wanted to know what Gibson thought I
needed to know.

I knew Gibson was ready to talk. It was why he had come to the
cottage. When I didn’t answer the door, he got worried and went inside, sought
me out, found me in the closet.

“You’re certain?” he asked.

“I am.”

“Then we can at least give it a try. Remember that we can
stop at any time.”

“I will. I’m not watching the video though.”

“Then I don’t know what it is you’re wanting —”

“I’m hoping we can come to an agreement about this. Meet in
the middle.” I sent him a hopeful look.

“Okay. Explain.”

“I’d like to try just talking about it, about what happened
that night. I was there, so I already know, sort of. And what I don’t know, you
can tell me if it’s important. It’s the only way I can do it. Can we at least
try?”

He mulled it over for a few moments. “If you’re more
comfortable that way, then yes. Certainly.”

I smiled at him and he gave me a small, business-like nod in
return.

“Are you ready right now?” he asked.

“I think so. Yes, I mean. I’m ready.”

“Okay then. Let me think about where to begin.”

I took a sip of my tea and gave him the quiet he needed. I
tried to sound confident about discussing this with him, and as much as I
wanted to make progress, I was still scared. It wasn’t only because I didn’t
want to relive that night; a big chunk of my discomfort came from not wanting
to discuss with Gibson what I had done with Michael. I couldn’t imagine that
Gibson was thrilled at the prospect of hearing it, either.

I closed my eyes for a moment and promised myself everything
would be fine. Elaine had assured me that Gibson wouldn’t ask this of me if it
weren’t important. Trust Elaine. Trust Gibson.

I opened my eyes and turned to him. He watched me with a
shuttered expression.

“I’m hoping,” he said, “that you won’t mind answering some
questions. Because the video is dubbed over so much, I’m not clear on certain
details. For instance, were you actually being punished that night, or was that
just part of the fictional story line?”

“I was being punished, for three things I’d done wrong.” I
kept my voice steady and firm, unemotional.

“What were those things?”

“They happened at the restaurant, the Millhouse. It was the
night I saw you, and when Michael caught us together in the coat check room.”

“I remember. He punished you for that?”

“Kind of. The first punishment was for removing a toy from
... I did something without permission, removed something he put inside me.”

“What was it you removed?”

You can do this, I told myself. “Ben Wa balls. I took them
out at the restaurant without permission because I thought it would be okay. He
was mad at me for talking to you, and I didn’t see any reason to keep them in
there when we were leaving anyway. But that was wrong, and I wasn’t supposed to
do it, so that was the first punishment.”

“I see. Thank you for telling me,” Gibson said, the
non-judgmental warmth of his voice soothing my nerves. “What was the second
punishment for?”

 “For going into the coat check room with you.”

He visibly flinched, looked taken aback. “He punished you
for that?”

“Yeah. He said I endangered his property by being in a room
with another man without his permission.”

The muscles twitched in his jaw. He sat up straighter and
looked away for few seconds. “And the third punishment? What was that for?”

“I disrespected him in front of another dominant.”

“In front of me?”

“No, not you. It happened before I ran into you. It was Ron
Hoyte.”

“What did you do?”

“He wanted to show Ron my breasts, there in the restaurant.
We were in this secluded booth in the back. Michael wanted to lower my dress
and show me off. I stopped him, grabbed his hand and told him no.”

“And?”

“That’s it.”

“I thought you said you disrespected him.”

“Right. I told him no in front of Ron. I embarrassed him.”

A distinct shade of red was starting to climb up the sides
of Gibson’s neck and face. He was tense, smoothing the fabric of his pants over
his knee. “You told him no because you were uncomfortable being undressed in a
public restaurant.”

“Yes, and because Ron is Elaine’s husband, and I didn’t
understand then about their open relationship.”

“You told him those things.”

“Sure. But he said I was being ridiculous and had behaved
badly in front of Ron.”

“Was Hoyte there during all that? While Michael told you
these things?”

“No, when he saw how mad Michael was, he stepped out to call
Elaine.”

“At least that’s something.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m glad Ron didn’t hear that, because otherwise I’d
have to reconsider my opinion of him.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“God, no, Nonnie. No. Not you. I’m sorry.” He rubbed the
back of his neck. “I shouldn’t be reacting this way. I’ll do better. I promise.
Just give me a minute.”

I nodded and watched him stare off toward the lake, his face
and neck muscles working as he tried to calm himself.

I understood that what I told him had upset him. What I
didn’t understand was why. I had doubted many things about Michael, but I
hadn’t much doubted the legitimacy of his punishments. I doubted the ferocity
of the punishments, thought they might have been excessive for my misdeeds, but
I hadn’t ever considered whether or not they were misdeeds to begin with.

When the lines of his face smoothed out again, Gibson turned
back to me. “How would you feel about walking while we talk? I think it might
help.”

I agreed, thinking it would release some of the tension we
both felt. We headed down the stairs of the deck, and made for a walking path
that wound down through a grove of trees then toward the lake.

We settled into an easy stroll.

“Do you believe the punishments that night were
appropriate?” Gibson asked, his voice thoughtful now.

“I was thinking about that a minute ago. No. Not now. But
back then, I didn’t know what to think.”

“I see. And did Michael tell you ahead of time not to remove
the Ben Wa balls?”

“I don’t remember. I don’t think so.”

“Did he warn you to never be alone in the company of another
man?”

“No.”

“Did he give you a safe word to use if you were ever
uncomfortable with what he was doing?”

“Only once, on the night I was punished.”

“But not at the restaurant?”

“No.”

Gibson clasped his hands behind his back and half-turned to
look at me. “Then it’s important that you understand Michael never should have
punished you for anything you did that night. Nothing.”

“I thought, as my dominant, he had the right to punish me
whenever he wanted, for anything he wanted.”

“Not all D/s relationships involve codes of conduct and
systems of punishment. In those that do, if a dominant has laid down certain
rules for his submissive’s behavior and she disobeys those rules, then he has
the right to punish her if he chooses. But he doesn’t have the right to invoke
rules arbitrarily after the fact. It’s not fair, or sane, or safe for that
matter.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “I can see that. I didn’t realize it
though.”

“Also, you always, always have the right to say no.” His
dark eyes were deeply intent, as if he couldn’t emphasize the point enough.

“I don’t think he was mad at me for saying it. I think he
was mad about the way I said it, how I did it in front of Ron.”

“It doesn’t matter. He didn’t give you a safe word. You did
what you had to do, exactly as you should have. You stopped him. Never, and I
do mean never, should you be punished for using a safe word or for saying no if
you have no safe word. This is a sacrosanct rule. Period.”

Gibson stopped walking, met my eyes. “You said he gave you a
safe word the night of your punishments.”

“Yes.”

“I have to know, at any point or points during that night,
did you use that safe word?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Not even once?”

“No.”

He started walking again and we headed into the shadowy
grove of trees. “Why didn’t you use it? I can’t believe that you weren’t
overwhelmed by what was happening. You couldn’t have been prepared for the
intensity of it. In particular, the hood. It was too advanced for your level of
experience.”

“It was hard, but he told me he had to use it to make
everything feel worse. He couldn’t strike me as hard as I deserved since I was
so new.”

“Did you consider using your safe word when he put the hood
on you?”

“No, not really. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t realize how
it would change things, either.”

“Okay.”

He thought for a while before continuing. We strolled
side-by-side through the clump of trees, blotches of light dappling the path.
Squirrels chattered in the branches, warning us away from their stores.

“I want to make sure — you never, not once, used your safe
word?” Gibson asked.

“I said no.” I felt a little annoyed all of a sudden by his
tone. It seemed like there was something of an accusation in his question.

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t. Because I handled it, like I was supposed
to.” I picked up the pace, the increase of speed in my stride matching the
rapidity of my defense. “I took my punishment, and yes it was hard and yes it
was painful and awful at times. But I did it. And I was proud of it. If it
weren’t for Michael’s video showing me up as a gullible fool, I’d still be
proud of it.”

Gibson touched my arm, effectively slowing my pace. “Don’t
misunderstand me, Nonnie. You have every reason, then and now, to be proud of
how you coped that night. I’m not sure how you did it. Everything was against
you. You were honest, sincere and brave. You weren’t a fool. Do you have any
idea how much you must have surprised Michael with how well you did?”

Maybe it was strange, but Gibson’s compliments made me feel
good about myself. “I think I have some idea,” I said. “He told me he didn’t
expect me to be able to take so much. Maybe he actually meant it. I don’t
know.”

“So, tell me if I’m correct. For you, that night was a point
of pride. You pleased Michael, did everything he wanted, even though it was
difficult for you to do.”

I nodded.

“And the fact that Michael set you up, videotaped the whole
thing and had other people present, all of that destroyed the honesty of the
events and wiped out your sense of pride in the night.”

I swallowed hard. Yes, he summed it up correctly. I nodded
again.

“You’ve had two different concepts of what happened that
night,” he said. “One involved honest atonement and forgiveness, the other
duplicity and ridicule. You think the second kills the first, but what if I
were to tell you that you’re wrong? That there was a third truth present that
night?”

“I don’t understand,” I said. He’d gone too deep for me.

We were leaving the small woods, then, heading back out into
the open ground, following the path down to the lakeside. The afternoon sun
warmed my face and arms. Our strides were loose and easy, but inside I was
tense, stinging from the recollection of Michael’s deception and what he
destroyed.

“I’ll explain it,” Gibson said. “It’s one reason I wanted to
talk about this with you, why I wanted to watch the video with you, to show you
the proof. But I’ll try to work around that.”

He paused before he asked his next question. “Have you
considered what Michael’s intentions were that night?”

I thought about it for a moment. “Apparently, to film me so
he could sell the video online.”

“I think you’re right about that. I’m certain he had
everything planned out. He went to some trouble to arrange everything, hired a
crew, had Kamun there. He probably had a script that detailed what was to
happen.”

I shuddered at the thought, a familiar nausea churning my
stomach.

“It must have thrown him when you didn’t follow the script,”
said Gibson.

“But I did. I stupidly did everything he asked of me. I was
a total dupe.”

“No, Nonnie. You weren’t. Everything that happened after the
first punishment was never in his original plan. I’m certain of it.”

We stopped next to a small flower bed loaded with colorful
mums. They could have been any kind of flower, for all the attention I paid
them.

Gibson’s voice was steady and clear. “Michael is a bad,
sometimes dangerous dominant, but he isn’t without experience. He knows what
can reasonably be expected of a new submissive; they’re who he’s usually with,
after all. He would have assumed you were like the other women he’d been with,
and that your limits would be similar.”