Authors: Joey W. Hill
Ice Queen
“Does it matter?”
She finished the pour, set the kettle aside, and covered the steeping pot. “It matters.
It all matters with tea. The amount of moments you steep it may be personal preference but the container, the water you use, the color of the teacups, it’s all important. Tea is a touchstone, a way for my clients to reclaim their balance. I try to give them that.”
“Do I look unbalanced?”
He looked as though he wouldn’t show a line of hull in a full course gale. Instead of answering, she picked up the tea strainer.
“Sounds like you’ve studied this from the Zen perspective.” Tyler’s attention drifted back over to the single orchid on the table. It sat in a small clay container lined with smooth stones carefully arranged on the surface, wet with a shallow amount of water. He noted that the gray glaze of the pottery shone softly in the muted light from walls sconces on either side of the heron.
“Yes. And there are Taoist principles involved as well. Even when the leaves are picked and rolled, every degree of breakage creates a change in flavor, in pleasure received.”
“You could say the same about a cherished submissive.” Her nod appeared to acknowledge appreciation of his insight. He was beginning to be fascinated with her economy of movement to convey a wealth of response. Or, he mused, she could be conveying very little. The potency of her slightest movement allowed the one in her presence to conjure all manner of meaning into it.
Raising the white teapot in one hand, a matching porcelain strainer in the other, she began to pour the tea into the teapot he assumed they were going to be using, a Chinese porcelain with a bright design of green leaves, red blossoms, and gold work.
“May I pour you a cup?”
She could do anything she wanted for him, Tyler acknowledged dryly to himself, though he gave her a simple nod. He noted the lack of teacups on the table at the same moment she turned back to the side table, bent and opened what appeared to be a dish warmer from the waft of warm air that drifted from it. She brought two teacups of a matching design and poured.
“Keeping the cups warm also affects the flavor?” Her lashes flickered. “Yes.”
“You know,” he observed, “the perception of D/s is that every interaction is rigidly controlled by either the Dom’s Will, or rules both parties have set up. Or even the rules of the environment, like The Zone.” He watched her sit in the chair next to him, adjust it out so she was facing him. She picked up her cup, examined the bright red contents, then raised it to her nose, inhaling. He watched with interest as the tension in her shoulders eased a fraction. That she was listening to him, he had no doubt. He could count on one hand the times he’d actually seen Marguerite meet another person’s eyes for more than a second at a time, if at all, but she still managed to convey her absolute 19
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attention. As if she was meditating on the words as they were spoken. It made it easy to pause and collect one’s thoughts, for he’d never known her to interrupt someone before they were finished. It was as if she was tuning into something that wasn’t the speaker’s voice but the place the words came from, knowing when the thought was complete, the well empty.
“But that’s just the perception, the rules of engagement. Inside those boundaries, there are no boundaries. A simple sexual encounter can become a much deeper, more meaningful interaction, going in ways neither sub nor Dom expects.”
“It’s similar,” she said, picking up on the direction of his thoughts as if she were inside his mind. “With tea, it’s the preparation, the selection that centers the mind, the spirit, opens the tea drinker to a much wider experience once you sit down in the embrace of those preparations.”
“What is it you like about that photo, the one with the women walking with the baskets on their heads?”
His abrupt change of topic didn’t appear to surprise her. “It captures a moment, a single expression of the complexity of their lives.” He thought about how she’d prepared the tea, the simple sensuality of it, and thought about the beauty of this single moment, its complexity.
“It makes sense now,” he mused. “I’ve seen you spend an hour prepping a sub mentally. Your audience is riveted all that time, not a shift among them, a cough, a murmured comment. It’s a miracle to watch.” He raised his cup. “So. To the preparation of tea.”
She touched the edge of her cup to his, and then they drank for a moment in silence.
“I invited you here to talk about the mentoring requirement at The Zone.” He nodded. “I figured as much.” At her startled look, he explained. “Not many people know it, and I’d appreciate keeping it that way, but I’m a thirty percent owner of the club.”
That seemed to give her pause. “Did you help create The Zone?”
“No. But a couple years ago, when they wanted the major renovations they’re working on now, they needed more capital. It’s a good investment.”
“But you’re more than just an investor, if you know about my mentoring requirement.”
“I choose investments carefully, and I monitor them. It’s one of my conditions for turning over my money. It came up because it was a management oversight, and they wanted me to be aware of it. It’s not a grand concern, obviously, because you’re an accomplished Mistress, always very careful to protect your subs and play within the rules of The Zone.”
“Despite that, I’m required to endure a checklist of submissive experiences and a mentoring period under another Dominant.”
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Ice Queen
He met her gaze. “It’s policy for all Masters and Mistresses. It was supposed to have happened during your first ninety days at the club. When you came in, you didn’t list whether you were coming in as a sub or Dom, and it didn’t get flagged in the computer when your preference became obvious. It wasn’t your oversight,” he added. “I spoke to Perry Stevens, the club manager, and the other owners. We agreed the Dom mentoring is pointless. You’ve proven yourself enough in that area to satisfy policy. We just need you to do the submissive training.”
“Well.” She put her cup down. “Knowing that you’re part of the operating decisions makes this easier than I anticipated.”
“Less to explain, certainly.” He leaned back in the chair, stretched one long leg out so it was parallel to the outside of her chair.
“And possibly less of a problem for both of us.” She tented her fingers over the top of her cup, and he watched the steam warm her skin, create moisture. “Tyler, we’re both well-known Dominants at The Zone. As you said, I’ve never had a single rule infraction or complaint from anyone I’ve handled. I obviously know how to care for a submissive. I’ve been going to The Zone nearly two years. Is it possible that whatever box on my record that needs to be checked can be checked, and we can call this done?” The glance flicked up again, the pale blue eyes holding his for three blinks. Then her gaze shifted to the window, contemplating the view, waiting for his response.
Tyler thought the matter through from several angles. There was no one more accomplished than Marguerite at bringing a sub pleasure, and yet he’d never seen her dig into the “why” of a submissive’s desire to submit, as if that was something private she did not feel she had a right to know. It had to be a precise art akin to surgery, managing to navigate a person’s psyche to the point she could leave untouched that deep emotional core, so closely integrated with a sub’s response. And perhaps she chose to leave it untouched because a Mistress could not touch the emotional core of a submissive without impacting her own psyche.
“You’ve disappointed me, Marguerite.”
Marguerite stiffened. “I’m not seeking your approval, Tyler. If I’ve offended you, I apologize. I’ll simply withdraw my membership from The Zone and go where they’ll accept my current level of expertise without challenge.”
“Is that what you think the sub session requirement is about? Confirming your expertise?” His brows rose. “This mentoring requirement is more than about understanding how to safely treat a submissive, Marguerite. Oh, that’s the liability matter, and I don’t mean that in the legal sense. The Zone takes its responsibility to keep everyone safe very seriously. But by walking in a submissive’s shoes, you’re able to understand some of the emotional transitions that occur.” He nodded to the table, gestured around them. “You take such care to prepare for something as simple as a meeting with a casual acquaintance. I thought that you’d appreciate the opportunity to see more deeply into a submissive’s heart, so that your future sessions as a Dominant could try out even more extensive territory.”
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“Maybe you think about me too much.”
Tell me about it.
One of Tyler’s closest friends and a Mistress at The Zone, Violet Siemanski, now Violet Nighthorse since she’d ensnared and married Mac a couple years ago, had told him as much. Often.
“What I think is that leaving The Zone wouldn’t be as easy for you as you’re making it sound. It meant enough to you that you called this meeting between us, took the time to offer me your gracious hospitality.” He fingered the cup, looked at the orchid sitting in its carefully placed isolation on the table, nothing to disturb a contemplation of its solitary beauty. His gaze shifted, and he wondered if she was aware of the same effect she had, her body straight and outlined only by the monochrome gray wall, her features pure and elegant.
“You take tremendous care in all that you do. I look around and see this beautiful tearoom, all these details, everything paradoxically invested to create one special, incredible moment, not just for the guest but for the proprietress feeding off that moment. That one amazing moment where everything is clear, fine, everything gone but the purity of the soul. Wouldn’t you like to see it through a sub’s eyes, just once?” She smoothed the tablecloth, moved the teapot. “I’m where I want to be on that, Tyler.”
“If the issue is you don’t want to risk emotional exposure, that’s normal. Most Doms are apprehensive about this part of the requirement but I can tell you from experience you come out on the other side of it more enlightened and a better Mistress.
And we set the rules up front. What you can handle, what you can’t.”
I can’t handle any of it.
She forced herself not to move the teapot again. Instead, retrieving her cup, she took a sip and closed her eyes to absorb the taste. Waited until the sensation reached her toes to raise her lashes again and respond.
“That may be true but this isn’t something I’m willing to do, Tyler. There are clubs that don’t have this requirement.”
He nodded. “But I’ve always felt that one of the strongest qualities of The Zone is that it’s not about tricking. If that’s all you’re looking for, the one-night stand thrill, then The Zone isn’t the right home for you.”
“Tricking. That was a low shot.” She cut him a glance beneath her lashes.
“So is asking me to lie for you, and expecting I would do it. But while we’re on it, what do
you
call taking a different partner each week, not committing or emotionally investing yourself?”
“I call it none of your business. This isn’t about how you can play with my mind.
Curb your Dom’s natural tendency to expose my vulnerabilities, or it will end here with a cup of tea, and a very expensive bill for it.”
“Cost doesn’t concern me.” He took a sip, mirroring her. “Especially when it’s worth the price. I believe your private Japanese tea ceremony is your most expensive service.”
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“It’s only offered to the guests I choose. It’s a privilege.”
“A privilege that must be paid for.”
Her blue eyes were frost. “Yes. As all privileges are.”
“A good Dom doesn’t ever play with his sub’s mind. But he does seek out the vulnerabilities.”
“You’re casting stones in a glass house, Tyler. You take students, not lovers. You teach them everything about being a sub, and then let them go.”
“You don’t know anything about what goes on emotionally between me and those women.” He kept his tone mild, though he felt the surge of temper, and acknowledged the effectiveness of her strike. She handled herself well when cornered. “While I have them, they’re mine.”
“My experience is no less emotionally intense for being more brief.”
“What is it they can give you in that brief time?” He asked it, genuinely curious.
“Enough.”
“You don’t achieve the bond you think you do. If you truly reached it, your sub wouldn’t let you go.”
She blinked at him. Once, twice, three times. Slow, deliberate movements that reminded him of a cobra’s regard when rising out of a snake charmer’s basket. “Would you like to know the history of this tea caddy?”
“Pardon me?”
“A brief subject change. You’ll note it’s made of ivory.”
“I noticed that,” he acknowledged, watching her closely. Something had shifted between them, and he was not certain where the tide of the conversation was going.
“It’s over a hundred years old,” she said. She stared at him another silent moment, then continued. “I keep it to remind me that beauty and cruelty often go hand in hand.
Even with the knowledge that it was taken from a creature whose wisdom is far more ancient than ours, I feel pleasure in its beauty. The duality of human nature. We’re savage artists.”
She lifted her cup, held it poised just beneath her lips.
“You know how people pretend things aren’t awful that really are?” She took a sip, and Tyler marked how steady the motion was. Almost uncanny in the preciseness with which she took it to her lips, put it down on the saucer again. “Like going for an annual physical. We all pretend it’s something civilized. We joke with the nurse or doctor but the stark reality is that we go to a room with no windows, and we strip off our clothes for strangers. We lie on a table with our legs in the air or bent over a table so they can shove things into our most intimate areas.” The cup went up again, then down. Tyler’s gaze followed it, noted how her hand lay next to it, perfectly still, her manicured nails gleaming in the light so her fingers reminded him of polished silver at a table setting.