Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (26 page)

There were
moments when I enjoyed the power I had over him. Times when I reveled in the
heady sensation of total control.

André studies
me, aware of my thoughts. His slow smile is warm and friendly, but his eyes are
knowing.

“But of course,
for you, it was only a game, no?”

“It was.”

“Perhaps we can
continue, as long as you feel yourself to be playing a game. What did I tell
you about submission?”

“If I give up
control, in part it’s an illusion. I have the power to say ‘no.’ I can safeword
at any time.”

“C'est très
bien,”
he murmurs. “That is very good,
ma petite souris
.”

André reaches
over and trails a finger from my forehead, down my nose and past my lips. His
firm palm is warm as he inches forward to cup my cheek.

“In life, there
are always power dynamics. The supervisor is above you, yet there is a
supervisor above him, no? The rich person has more power and confidence than
one who is struggling with debts. When I look at the world, I see power and
control. Vast power inequities are wrong,
n'est-ce pas?
Such create
injustice. You have experienced this.”

My brows pull
down as I recall my father, as well as the bullying I received at school. I was
a child, under the control and mercy others—people who did not have my best
interests at heart. People who callously hurt me.

“Yes, I know all
about that,” I say.

“But you learned
the wrong lesson!” he protests. “Not all control is
bad
control! Not all
power is
bad
power! These are the truths you need to understand.”

I frown, trying
to process what he’s telling me.

“Ma belle,
decide to return to a state of helplessness—but this time, enjoy it! Become
familiar with vulnerability
by choice!
These emotions are neither wrong
nor right. They create sensations and feelings one can experience in life. Be
at the mercy of someone you trust, someone who you
know
will only give
you pleasure.
Then
your fear of such powerlessness will be banished.”

A moment of
fresh panic washes through me.

Dread.

A stab of pain
in my chest.

I blink and
stare at him, but say nothing.

I don’t know
what to say.

“I was pleased
to have you as a Mistress,” he murmurs. “No harm would come to me by your hand,
for you care for me, no?”

Nodding, I
swallow nervously.

“When it comes
to power, there are people who have it, people who want it and those who wish
to relinquish it.”  The sexy cadence in his voice beguiles me, distracting me
from the disquiet in my heart.

André smiles.
“Many find it exhilarating to simply let go.”

His easygoing
manner changes completely. Suddenly, he’s
in-charge.
I gasp, giddy with
sensation. The frightened mouse in me reads his intent.

“Dominance and
submission are not about overpowering one’s will,
ma petite.
They are
about having fun and satisfying
needs
.”

Raw power shines
through him in every possible way. It's in his expression, in his manner and in
how he holds himself.

Dominance.

Mastery.

His eyes are
hard upon me as his solid male body presses against mine. His hand leaves my
face—one long finger trails down my neck and continues down along the valley
between my breasts.

I bite my lip.

“To give up
control can be rewarding,” he says, his accent is thick, sultry and seductive.
“And empowering.”

He rests his
palm casually between my breasts, a sign of both possession and ownership. Raw
sexual heat radiates from him in palpable force, while his hand ignites my
flesh with passionate fire. My breathing and heart rate speed up.

André’s entire
demeanor is imposing. It excites me, yet it scares me, as well. I thought I was
paying attention to him before.

He has
all
of my attention now.

“You have taken
your pleasure in dominating me,
ma petite.
It is your turn to know and
embrace the joy of submission. Spread your legs for me.
Now!”

I can’t fight the
almost harsh authority in his command. Instinctively, I do as he asks—but I
don’t like it. Arousal and anticipation mix with fear and discomfort. It's
confusing and unsettling, to say the least.

Drawing in a
deep breath, my head spins with a kind of drunken lightheadedness. André says
when BDSM is done correctly, it can be excellent therapy. We’ve discussed this
so many times and in so many ways. If there was a university degree on BDSM,
I’d probably be a PhD by now.

André won’t
attempt to bind me or force me to do anything—he knows better than that. He
wants to control me. I trust him. I know he won't hurt me.

Why then, am I
so frightened? Do I really want to face this fear?

“Very nice,” he
croons softly when I obey him. His voice rolls across my skin like a loving
caress.

“Now put your
hands above your head. I wish to see you open and exposed to my fingers, my
teeth, my tongue and my cock,” he says in his firm voice of command.

I freeze. My
arms remain firmly at my sides, my fists clenched. My heart skips a beat—I feel
a large extra thump in my chest, then my pulse
really
begins to pound. A
strange noise fills my head, a silent scream of panic.

I feel trapped,
anxious and afraid.

I can’t do this.

I don’t like
this feeling.

I don’t want to
be ordered around or forced to do things that are not my choice.

André shifts
upwards, his body above mine. He’s so much bigger than I am. So much stronger.
Like my father. An intense urge to run and hide slams into me. I feel like a
frightened child again as his piercing gaze locks upon mine.

“I… I… I don’t
like this, André,” I stutter in protest, my voice raised high from nerves.
“You… you want to take all my control away from me!”

His genuinely
startled look stuns me.

“Mais non!”
he says. “
Je t'assure,
I have no wish to
take
your power and
control from you.” He inches away, giving me space. His striking features break
into a broad grin, while his dark eyes sparkle with amusement.

“You don’t?” I
ask timidly.

“Non,”
he
mutters, cursing under his breath rapidly in French.
“
Am I a thief? This
is what you think of me?” He asks, clearly insulted. “That I would steal
something so valuable through force or from a sly attack in the dark?”

André rubs his
knuckles along my cheek, an intimate and loving gesture.
“My petite souris,
never. Never! I vow, I have no desire to
take
your power from you.” His
features are beautiful, his expression angelic. “I wish for you to
give
it
to me freely.”

“We are what
we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”

― Kurt
Vonnegut

~~~

Two years
later…

Renata
Koreman

I’m seated in
the airplane beside Grant, my shoulders hunched, eyes averted and my hands
clasped tightly together. I’m freaking out, partially because I’m out of my
comfort zone—new situations and new people make me nervous.

But that’s not
my only problem.

Grant is acting
really strange.

We’re sitting
only a foot away from each other, but the vast distance between us might as
well be measured in miles. It’s as though I’m not here with him at all.

Isolated and
alone—that’s Grant. It’s probably how he’s been all his life. He’s wearing a
tough, untouchable façade as protective armor. This must be the face he usually
shows the world.

If only I were
enveloped by the comforting safety of my dark box. It’s packed away somewhere,
in the baggage area of the plane along with my medication. I wish I were down
there, curled up in my little box.

Mitten is in a
cat carrier, pushed under the passenger seat in front of me. My sweet cat,
trusts me completely. He was content to be put in a box and transported. In the
mysterious way of cats, he knows he’s safe, so he’s sound asleep.

What the hell
is wrong with Grant?

I’m edgy,
anxious and strangely numb as we travel together on the way to his home in
Dallas. Grant has taken the window seat, so his facial scars are turned away
from me. I’m sure he does this on purpose.

Is he thinking
of friends lost in the war or perhaps of his most recent battle? How did he get
that terrible injury? I hope he confides in me eventually.

There was a
point yesterday when he forgot about his scars.

He’d had such a
breakthrough. I met the
real
Grant—a gentle, honorable man who could
finally
be himself. No longer schooling his face into something he wasn’t, while
struggling to hide his feelings, he was able to let go.

We formed a
bond. Grant opened up to me.

I study the man
now, while taking slow, deep breaths to manage my own nerves. He’s looking out
the window, staring into space. His body is stiff, his back straight. Grant is
a solid ball of building intensity, yet there’s an air of denial about him.
He’s pretending he’s fine—and he
so
isn’t fine.

Today, I’m
sitting next to a stranger.

I recall my
phone conversation with André yesterday when I asked him about traveling to Dallas.
I wanted his advice about helping Grant care for his brother’s child.

“
My petite
Souris
,” he said. “Be very sure. This desire you have to help Grant. It is
for him, yes, yes, of course… but is it also for you? This must be something
you
wish for. In this, you must not be the rescuer who denies her own needs for the
benefit of another.”

“I want to go,”
I assured him.

“For yourself?”

“Yes, very much
so.”

Since Grant was
within earshot, I began speaking French so I could say, “I have a ridiculous
crush on the guy, André. It’s even worse than the one I once had on you.” We
both snickered at that.

“I’ve never felt
like this. Sure, there’s sexual chemistry which, which—may I emphasize, is
completely off the charts. But somehow by helping Grant, I feel as if I'm
helping myself.”

“
Cést très
bien
,” he said. “And so, you must go on this adventure, of course,
ma
petite
. You will be far from those of us who love you, yet we will be only
a phone call away.”

How certain I
was then, so sure of myself and my decision.

Today it’s all
different.

This
Grant is foreign to me. I don’t know this man. Obviously, something dark must
have kicked in overnight, overtaking his every thought. Some demon from his
past, or maybe something as simple as self-doubt or anxiety. I can relate to
that.

I wish he’d talk
to me.

Just what could
be absorbing his attention? There he sits, burdened with the oppressive weight
of the secrets he keeps. The man is totally preoccupied. His body is beside me,
but his mind is somewhere else.

What did I do
wrong? Is he sorry he asked me to come to Dallas with him? He was thrilled when
I offered to help yesterday. What's changed?

I attempt to
shut down this unproductive line of thought and try not to take his behavior
personally. Rationally, I know I did nothing wrong—it just
feels
that
way. Unfortunately, when he’s like this, I fall into self-doubt too.

Uncertainty can
be contagious.

I’m leaving the
safety and comfort of my home, my job and the people I love. Until now, I never
recognized how reliant I am on them for a sense of security and happiness.

I feel so lost.

So alone.

With Grant
behaving like this, it's worse than if I
were
alone. He’s upset, he’s
sad and he’s suffering. The darkness that envelops him has swallowed me as
well. I'm sharing the same hellish angst.

I slant a look
at Grant. Man, it’s like staring into a mirror.

Tension
palpable, barriers up, we’re both surrounded by shadows. He may as well be
wearing a neon sign with big red letters saying,
Keep back! Go away!

He’s the male
version of me, only
his
scars are obvious. We each have moments when
we’re not at our best. But why must we both be in a mind-fucking mess at the
same time? Why can’t we take it in turns so we can be there for each other?

A strong memory
of André’s recent furious reprimand flashes through my mind:

“Regrettably,
healing cannot occur unless at least one of you can remain rational! You cannot
both be the client! Non! Such can be of no help to either. It is for you to be
the capable, professional woman I know you are. Your attention must be on him!
Listen, look and learn from him.”

I inhale a deep
breath, squeeze my eyes shut and remind myself of the reason I’m here. I can do
this. I am
not
the client.
Focus on him. Be in the present. Be the
counselor. This is not about you.

I open my eyes
and steel my nerves, forcing myself to rise to the occasion. “Grant?” I say. My
voice sounds strange to my ears.

The plane
engines drone on, but Grant doesn’t respond. I gently touch his hand, which
lies motionless on the armrest between us. The moment I do, he stiffens.

“Are you OK?” I
ask, in a loud and carefully measured tone of voice. I’m a counselor, and I
refuse to permit my nervous tongue to stutter.

Not here.

Not now.

“I’m fine,” he
says, continuing to stare out the window. His voice is flat and emotionless.

“No, you’re
not,” I snap back, surprised at the anger in my voice.

The
non-communicative
I’m a brick wall
treatment he’s giving me is beginning
to piss me off. At least I’ve got his attention, because he turns toward me.

“You are
so
not
fine,” I tell him.

Face impassive,
Grant says nothing.

“I don’t mind
you being moody,” I say. “Everyone has moods, but I think we need to establish
some ground rules in our working relationship.”

He remains
silent, but I don’t mind. At least he seems to be listening.

“Will you please
nod your head if you’re open to setting ground rules?”

There’s the
slightest twitch of a smile at one corner of his soft, sensual lips as he nods.
I smile because I’m clearly getting through to him.

Encouraged, I
continue, “I have a strict rule when I work with someone. I never lie to them.
If my client asks a question I can’t answer, I explain that I’m unable to talk
about it. Secrets are OK—everyone has something they want to keep private. I
don’t expect you to bare your heart if you’re not up to it. But you just told
me you were fine. I know you weren’t
trying
to lie to me. I know ‘I’m
fine,’ is a normal social response when a person doesn’t want to engage. Well,
that’s all right, however I
expect
the truth. If you can’t tell me
something, I accept that. Just don’t lie to me. Can you agree with that rule?”

Grant’s body
relaxes—just slightly. “Yes,” he nods. “I’m sorry for being an ass. I’ve got… a
problem and I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Did something
happen after you left me last night?” I ask.

He stares at me
with his grey, unblinking eyes, then slowly nods.

It kills me just
how alike we are. When I’m upset, I withdraw, preferring not to speak to anyone
until I sift through my emotional shit. I run, hide away in my little box and
lick my wounds.

A part of my overly responsible mind worries that Grant is upset because
of something I’ve done. Blaming myself for everything is just one of my Big
Flaws. I can be too open and trusting. I don’t have strong boundaries—I’m often
a pathetic people-pleaser who seeks acceptance and fears rejection.

Whatever his issue is, it has nothing to do with me. What a relief!

My confidence returns.

“Alrighty then,”
I say cheerfully, curbing a desire to grin. “Are there any ground rules you
want to add?”

“No.”

“OK. You’ve
hardly said a word since you picked me up this morning. Can you at least give
me an idea of what the plan is for today?”

His takes a deep
breath. “I’m thinkin’ we’ll pick up my car at the airport and stop at an infant
accessories store on the way home. We could order a crib and stuff over the
Internet and get it delivered, but I think we’ll do better if we buy everything
we need on the way home.”

“Can’t we just
move Briley’s things to your house?”

“No. This is
going to be hard enough for Alex and Sky as it is. Trust me—it’s better this
way. Those two don’t need to live in a house devoid of their son’s
possessions.”

Wow.

What kind of guy
thinks of things like that? He's so caring and considerate. He must genuinely
love his brother.

“That’s
incredibly thoughtful of you,” I say.

Grant ignores my
compliment—another response I identify with. I’m also uncomfortable with
praise.

Why?

Who knows?

As far as I can
tell, there’s a stupid, irrational voice of conscience inside of me, telling me
I don’t deserve it. If I ever get the chance, I’d like to grab that nasty,
nagging, negative bastard by the throat. Then I’d cheerfully wring my
conscience’s neck.

“We’ll go home
and set up Briley’s room,” he says. “My lawyer arranged for child welfare to
bring him to my house at 5 p.m. this afternoon.”

Grant’s
expression remains composed, but there’s a shadow of despair in his eyes I
don’t understand. Is it fear? I think he’s really worried. About Briley? About
his brother? Or what?

I reach over,
squeeze his hand and quickly let go. I know he doesn’t want to be touched.

“We’ll figure it
out, Grant,” I say.

The stewardess
stops by. “Sir, would you like a beverage?” she asks Grant.

“No, thank you,”
he replies woodenly, without turning his head to look at her. It’s probably
unconscious, but Grant is still broadcasting invisible signs that say, ‘
keep
away!’

Poor Grant. He’s
in such a dark place right now.

I force myself
to meet the stewardess’ eyes and ask for a Mountain Dew. It’s icy cold and I
enjoy sipping it.

The inability to
accept human touch is just one of Grant’s issues. For a moment, I recall him
swinging me up in the air so joyfully yesterday. He’d been buoyant and happy.
Lifelong barriers had simply fallen away.

Those honest
moments of connection are so rare.

So vital.

When Grant told
me,
I love you,
he didn’t mean love, marriage and 2.5 children. The guy
can’t even be naked with a woman. What he meant was, “I saw myself through your
eyes, and realized I can love myself.”

It was a BIG
thing. An epiphany.

Time passes on
our journey. I try to read, but find that I'm reading the same paragraph over
and over again. My heart aches knowing Grant sits, silently suffering. I wish
he’d talk to me. I’m helpless in the face of his pain.

“It’s gonna be
OK, Grant,” I finally say, desperately grasping at the trite saying.
“Everything’s going to work out fine.”

My heart jumps
as he turns to me, nods and gives me a small twisted smile.

I can see he
doesn’t believe me.

I’m not sure I
believe myself.