Unraveled by Him (20 page)

“To my shock she flung it to the floor, burst into floods of tears, and ran out of the dungeon without another word.

“As you know only too well, Miranda, I don’t take kindly to a woman defying me.

“And Pamela’s refusal to take the money I was offering her incensed me beyond belief.

“In a fury, without even a glance toward the den where she was probably sobbing in Murray’s arms, I stormed out of Le Château and into the street, where I hailed a cab, still incandescent with rage.

“By the time I came to my senses and returned to Le Château, it was too late.

“Pamela was gone.”

Chapter Eleven

I toss and turn all night, wracked by thoughts of Pamela. Does Robert still know her? Does he still love her? And does my level of submission live up to hers?

In the end, I give myself a stiff talking-to, banish Pamela from my thoughts, and catch a few hours’ sleep.

I wake up feeling nervous and excited.

Where will Robert take me today?

What will we do together?

And afterward, how will I cope with my third test?

I take a bath, do my hair, and get dressed.

I’m just in the midst of finishing my makeup when there is a knock on the door.

One of the valets with a note, from Robert. As I open the envelope, I catch myself hoping that his note will include another invitation to an elegant social event, a luxury hotel, a casino.

But no, to my disappointment, just the words:

Breakfast at 10.

Dungeon 3 at 11.

Don’t be late.

R.

With it, another box from Bergdorf’s. Inside, a gold lamé satin corset, gold fishnet stockings, a gold Dior gown, and gold lamé Dior stilettos.

I am happy that I’m still so strongly on Robert’s mind that he takes the time to pick out sexy lingerie for me, but I can’t help feeling a fraction disappointed that there is no casino for me today, no lunch at a luxury restaurant. No million-dollar auction.

Nothing.

Just like in Monopoly, I must go straight to jail and not collect two hundred dollars . . .

At breakfast I force down a piece of toast with jelly and a cup of black coffee, but the thought of eating anything else makes me want to throw up.

Ten forty-five and time to make my way to Dungeon 3 to endure whatever fiendish trials Robert has in store for me.

The dungeon door is unlocked.

I slip inside, only to be confronted by the image of myself in the mirrored wall opposite me. In fact, every single wall in the dungeon is mirrored, as are the ceiling, and even the floor.

The only piece of furniture in the dungeon is a massive iron four-poster bed on a platform.

I look around for Robert but don’t see him.

Then I hear his booming, gravelly voice.

“Remove your dress, Miranda,” he says from somewhere or other, but I’m not sure where. I have a sudden vision of the Wizard of Oz emerging from behind the screen and revealing himself. But then I remind myself that the Wizard was a tiny, ineffectual man and his power was just an illusion.

Whereas Robert is a tall, handsome, dashing man whose power is immeasurable.

I quickly follow his orders, take off my dress, and, when I don’t see a closet, place it on the floor in the corner of the dungeon.

Then one of the mirrored walls slides apart, and there is Robert, dressed in black leather pants and a black silk shirt that accentuates his muscular torso.

His masculinity, his swagger, almost takes my breath away and I can’t believe that I even know him, let alone that I’m here with him, and at his invitation.

He clicks his fingers for me to kneel, and I do.

“Today’s test will be far more rigorous than the tests you have undergone before, Miranda,” he says in his authoritative voice, and for a second he morphs into a stern Supreme Court judge, handing down a harsh sentence.

“Today, I plan to test the extent and quality of your obedience. And I warn you that if you fail to obey me to my satisfaction, this will be your last and final test.”

I look up at him, my eyes big with a combination of fear and admiration. Fear of his power, and admiration for the man, his strength, his aura, his godlike manner and appearance.

“There are many ways in which a submissive’s obedience can be tested, Miranda, some simple, some challenging,” he says.

He doesn’t have to tell me which his way is going to be, because it’s obvious to me.

He pauses for a moment, looks me up and down like a slave owner surveying a possible piece of property at an auction, and I start to throb with excitement. His piercing gaze intensifies, and I flush.

“Today, Miranda, I intend to exercise my power as a dominant to use your weaknesses against you,” he says.

What weaknesses? My insecurity? My jealousy of Lady Georgiana? My addiction to chocolate?

“Your impatience, Miranda, your hatred of being made to wait,” he says, and I know at once that I’m in for big trouble. At the same time, I admire his dedication to testing me to the max.

He takes a step toward me, then, in a swift movement, cuffs my hands behind my back so that I am trussed like a chicken, my big breasts more pronounced than ever.

Then he points to the mirrored wall of the dungeon.

“Face the wall. Legs spread, breasts against the mirror,” he says; then he presses a quarter up against the mirrored wall.

“Hold it in place with your forehead, and keep it there,” he says.

I do what he asks and shiver at the coldness of the quarter on my heated brow, and at the vulnerability of my ass and thighs pressed out toward him, and the strain of having to keep the quarter against the wall.

“Let the quarter drop, or move even an inch while you are holding it there, and you’ll suffer serious consequences,” he says, then lounges on the bed and flicks through one of his infernal newspapers as if I didn’t exist.

I concentrate with every cell in my body on not letting the quarter drop from the wall, and on not moving even a fraction, for fear of bringing the full force of Robert’s wrath down on me like a ton of bricks.

Meanwhile, the effort of pressing the quarter against the wall with my forehead, and not moving in the process, is causing me to break out in a cold sweat.

Apart from which, the tension of staying in position is making me wriggle despite myself.

How long does he expect me to stay in this ridiculous position, how long? Minutes go by . . . it feels like hours.

The sheer tedium is starting to make me so furious that, before I can stop myself, I stamp my foot in frustration.

And the quarter immediately falls to the floor with a clatter.

“Not very obedient, are you, Miranda?” Robert says with a sigh.

Then he gets up, comes over to me, picks up the quarter, and puts it in place again.

“You’ve earned yourself an extra ten strokes and another ten minutes,” he says, and I am seriously scared that I won’t be able to cope.

But what choice do I have?

And how to survive without moving?

How to survive without letting the quarter fall again and earning another ten strokes?

And more to the point—ten strokes of what?

My face is pressed against the mirror, my mind is reeling, and my eyes cross with the effort of focusing hard enough to keep the coin in place.

“Enjoying this test of your obedience, Miranda?” Robert says suddenly, and the unexpected sound of his voice makes me start. The quarter falls to the floor again.

“Twenty strokes, and another twenty minutes,” he says.

Twenty more minutes? With my mouth pressed against the mirror, my arms behind my back, my breasts pressed hard against the wall, my legs aching, my mind is in turmoil with the effort of concentrating on obeying him.

Obey my Master.

Or fail, and be labeled a fraud and sent away from him forever.

Fifteen minutes later and I am soaked in sweat, dizzy with the effort of what he has demanded of me; then, all of a sudden, he moves close to me.

And abject as I am, terrified as I feel, the heat of his body still arouses me sexually.

He unbuckles my cuffs.

“Drink some water, Miranda. Your ordeal has hardly begun,” he says, handing me a glass.

I gulp down some of it, but the grim expression on his face throws me off-balance.

“Your performance has been decidedly lackluster,” he announces, then goes on: “Your disobedience in dropping the quarter twice, and in wriggling your bottom through most of the test, has earned you . . . let me see . . .”

Damn you, Robert, for putting on a show, for pretending to calculate my punishment when we both know exactly what I’m due.

“Ten strokes for the first infraction. Twenty for the second. And another ten just for wriggling so disobediently,” he goes on.

But I wasn’t disobedient, I wasn’t!
I did my best,
I want to scream.

But I know that I mustn’t. Talking without permission will only bring me more punishment, and may even lead to my failing this third test.

Three tests, the third not even midway done, and four and five still to come. How shall I ever endure it?

“Over to the desk, Miranda,” he commands.

I walk over and he hands me a school notebook.

“Write the following ninety times: ‘I, Miranda Stone, must bow to the following: Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience.’ Number each line. And don’t make a single mistake. Or else,” he says.

I am really starting to hate him.

He hands me a thick, black Montblanc pen and I begin writing.

Only problem is, I’ve been using a Mac since forever and I’ve practically forgotten how to write by hand.

Which, of course, he knows only too well, having seen my almost illegible deal memo.

But no point in protesting at his unfairness, as being unfair is clearly his prerogative right now.

So I start writing out his stupid lines and feel as if I’m climbing a mountain, carrying a hundred pounds on my back, it’s so tough for me. And with each line I am getting angrier and angrier at the stupidity and the futility of what he is forcing me to do.

“You see, Miranda, a submissive’s obedience doesn’t just consist of pleasuring her Master orally and getting a pat on the head for it,” he says suddenly, then goes on: “It’s about obeying him automatically without thinking first, obeying him without hesitation, without question, however much that might frustrate and anger you. But if you give in to that anger, that frustration, for even a second, Miranda, you will have failed your third test,” he ends, giving me a look that makes me quake.

“And another thing,” he continues, “never question or contradict your Master. Never. Not if he is wrong. Not if he is unfair. Not if you simply disagree with him. Never.”

I wasn’t planning on it.