Unraveled by Him (7 page)

Then there is always my safe word, which he, an experienced player of some repute, is honor-bound to respect.

Of course, it’s up to me to use it.

Or not.

I, and I alone, am responsible for my fate.

“And so you are, Miss Stone. Very evocative writing, though . . .” Robert Hartwell says.

Suddenly, his eyes appear to have taken on a deeper darker shade of green than usual . . . but I decide I must be imagining it, and go on reading.

The Master pinches my nipples again.

“Grind them into the rug,” he says. “Grind them hard.”

I comply, and the sensation is painful.

More shameful is my awareness of the humiliating spectacle that I am making of myself.

But I do what he asks.

Then he kisses me bruisingly.

And I love it.

Robert Hartwell shifts slightly in his seat.

I hear the pop of a champagne cork.

The Master is beside me again.

I hear the faint impact of something metal put down on the rug.

“Drink,” he says, “Drink.”

He pushes my face down into a bowl of liquid.

The champagne fizzes up my nose, and I recoil, but he smacks my ass and orders me to keep drinking.

I slurp and lick, acutely conscious that my face and hair are drenched in champagne.

“Hungry now, sweetheart?” he says.

He picks up the phone and orders supper, while I stay still, aware of the consequences if I dare move even a fraction.

Then I feel a tug on my leash.

He drags me to another place in the suite and commands me to resume my former position.

I obey.

Suddenly, I feel a leather tongue trail the back of my buttocks and my thighs.

I hear the crack of the crop a moment before the pain blazes through me.

Again and again, the pain reverberates through my ass, my thighs, my whole body, while I writhe and whimper.

Only a small amount of time has passed, but I am already reduced to a craven object, thrashed over and over like a dumb, mindless animal, as the pain doubles and redoubles.

I take it all, suffer it all, hate it all.

Meanwhile, my body betrays me, and I am wet.

“Louder, Miss Stone! You’re mumbling,” Robert Hartwell says, and I could strangle him.

The suite bell rings.

The Master strolls to the door.

I hear the waiter say good evening, and the sound of a trolley being wheeled into the suite.

I remain on all fours as I have been instructed, terrified to move.

Crimson with shame, I don’t know exactly where I am in the suite, or where exactly the waiter is.

I hear him put down dishes, serve food, pour drinks, chat to the Master interminably about the blizzard.

I shrink into the floor and pray that the waiter can’t see me.

Surely if he could, he would say something?

Or would he?

He’d probably just continue with his duties while I remain here, groveling on the floor, naked, mortified.

I start to consider my options.

But as I do, I am compelled to admit that I would sooner throw myself out the window than rip off my blindfold, bolt for the bathroom, and break my covenant with the Master.

So I remain in place, my entire being aflame at my abasement.

Finally, I hear the waiter say good night and leave the suite at last.

I am led across the cold marble floor.

The Master tethers me by one ankle to what I assume is a table leg.

Then he immobilizes my arms behind my back by attaching the two leather cuffs to each other.

My hands are no longer my own.

Nor is my body.

I am immeasurably aroused, yet afraid.

I bask in the white heat of the dramatic contrast in my emotions, all part of the lure of what I am doing, what is being done to me.

My mind is a blank now, obliterated by my fear, my anticipation, my wantonness.

My breathing slows.

My heart quickens.

Outside, the snow slashes against the windows.

The Master has me rise to my knees and he feeds me.

I slurp lobster bisque from the spoon as tarragon teases my tongue.

Then shrimp cocktail, luscious and juicy.

He feeds me gently, painstakingly, almost lovingly.

Nevertheless, some of the food spills over my chin, and he licks it dry.

For a moment, I flush with shame at the intimacy of his gesture.

“So intimacy makes you feel ashamed, Miss Stone, does it?” Robert Hartwell says thoughtfully, and gives me a piercing look.

I push back my chair and smash my glass of Cristal in the process, so the champagne spills over my dress. But I am far too incensed to care.

“I can’t stand another second of this, Mr. Hartwell!” I say, leaping to my feet.

He grabs me by the wrist, pulls me across the table so that we are eye to eye and I can feel his hot breath on my face.

“Walk out now, Miss Stone, and you’ll never see me again,” he says.

“Can’t wait to celebrate!” I say.

I look into his eyes, and suddenly, I can see in them the sad, lost little boy he once was, alone and lonely. And that touches my heart.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hartwell, that was out of line. I really didn’t mean what I said. Let me go on reading.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it,” he says, and for a moment the arrogant, all-powerful, aggressive Mr. Robert Hartwell actually sounds as if he is genuinely grateful to me.

There is more food, more gentleness, more licking.

Then dinner is over.

Despite the position the Master has put me in, eating starts to bring me back to reality, as does the music.