4. Trust

As the afternoon progresses, I show Christian around the warehouse. The plank floors creak beneath our feet as we traverse the narrow paths, everything silent within the brick building. He sees Dimitri's workshop; its tabletops strewn with incomplete projects. Lastly I show him the dank basement where rows of white porcelain clawfoot bathtubs are stored.

"The tubs are too heavy for just you and Anthony to carry. I hire moving men to bring them upstairs and load them into trucks."

At the top of the basement stairs, I shut off the light and close the door.

"Anthony. Who's Anthony?" Christian asks, pausing to look at me directly.

"He's the nice young guy who works with me," I answer blithely, not interested in going into those specifics right now."He does most of the physical work. You'll be working with him sometimes, depending on your availability."

"Uh-huh," Christian says and turns away. His senses are disturbingly acute.

"How often do you think you can work here?" I ask.

Christian considers that gravely. "My availability is very uncertain. When you phoned last night, my parents and I had just finished a long and solemn conversation about what lies ahead for me."

"Yes, I thought you sounded a bit down."

"I just feel badly. Grace and Carrick are such good people. They deserve better. They took a chance on me and I turned out to be such a shit. Such a fuck-up."

"Hey," I whisper and he looks at me. "Your parents love you. Don't ever doubt that."

"I know where I come from. Maybe that's where I belong. Maybe I behave like trash because I am trash. My parents will come to the end of their patience."

Those words out of this amazing young person break my heart. I remember feeling that way about myself. Christian needs to get through this dark time without self destructing. My mind is a frenzy of ideas, remembering myself at his age and the drastic measures it took to redirect me. But I don't want to think about that now. Tonight, when I'm alone in my room. That's when I'll think about him. My forever Master, through whom I found who I truly am. And was saved.

"The year was going pretty well," Christian continues,"except for the Homecoming incident. And then this latest brawl, as they call it. Carrick pulled a lot of strings to keep me from being expelled when that happened in the fall. He also managed to keep me from being thrown off the soccer and cross country teams."

I lead him back to the Edwardian stage set where I clear up in preparation for our departure.

We fall silent for a few minutes. The radio's classical music continues to float through the warehouse. We settle in our leather chairs, turned toward one another.

He's calm. Better than calm, he's at peace.

"Do Grace and Carrick suggest a plan for the remainder of this school year?" I ask.

"Yes. Tutors. I'll be home-schooled for the rest of the year. They already started making arrangements for tutors to come to the house. I guess they were waiting for something like this to happen. And why shouldn't they? This is the eighth fight."

"Eighth?" I repeat, astounded.

"Yes. Four school expulsions, four probationary incidents. I'm really such an asshole," he adds, shaking his head.

"Chistian," I sigh. "This time wasn't your fault. You were provoked by the sounds of it."

He holds my gaze directly. "What am I going to do in life when someone provokes me during a business meeting? Start an all-out rumble in the board room? Chairs fllying, blood everywhere, glass shattering?"

He smirks and I giggle. It's a funny image really; grown Christian in a suit, climbing across the boardroom table and throwing punches at the other suits.

"No," I reply but can't control my smile. "That would never do."

"I know. They talk about sending me to military school. They also talk about boarding school in France."

What?!"Why France?"

"French is the language class I've taken since grade school. And Grace's sister has a home in Lyon. Last year she and her husband offered for me to spend the summer there. Maybe I should have gone."

"Oh," I dejectedly respond, feeling that my new best friend is going to leave me. Already.

Christian's assessing gaze at me is concerned, but he knows the situation is out of his hands.

"Do you have a stereo in here?" he asks brightly, changing the subject. "I like listening to music when I'm working on something."

"Yes, sure. It's over there on the shelf behind the register," I say, pointing. "Bring CDs. If you're here after closing, play whatever you want."

He goes to look at the stereo's multiple CD changer, then walks toward the stairs that lead up to my second-story office.

"What's up there?"

I look up the stairs to the shut door at the top.

"An office. With a bed and a half bathroom."

He turns inquisitive gray eyes to me. "A bed? You sleep here?"

"Sometimes."

It's not entirely untrue. I've napped on the murphy bed a few times.

With the drapes closed and lighting low, it becomes my playroom. My inventory of implements is purposely minimal. I don't require a vast variety. It's only the truly zealous sadists who will display racks of their instruments of pain like trophies. They'll visit them when alone, touch them, truly hearing and re-experiencing the screams and cries.

In my underground world of domination and submission, I have not become acquainted with a single dom who doesn't connect a specific submissive's identity to each cane, whip, belt or flogger in their arsenal. Tethers are multi-use and can be seen as part of the apparatus and furniture. But the actual implements… the instrument that physically links a dom's hand to the sub's tender skin and elicits those coveted cries we so lust after, each is selected for our specifically chosen devotee. They are chosen with care and thought, then after the arrangement has expired, they are displayed and retired. But each item continues to provide pleasure in its untouched, inert state.

All of my implements are up there I reflect as I look up the stairs. Carefully stored is a museum of my history in domination and submission. Favorites remain, like religious artifacts.

I look at Christian. Yours will be there too, baby, once I've decided upon them. Your name will be written on them in a way only I can see and associate.

Christian isobviously interested in seeing my private space and asks for me to take him up there.

I consider…and hope I can behave myself better than I did at the Grey's New Year's Eve party. This may push my limits of restraint perilously. At very least, it will provide some much needed fantasy material for later tonight.

I hold out my hand to him and say, "Yes. Come."

He takes my hand and we ascend the stairs to my loft/bedroom.

I open the door. The room glows softly with late afternoon light. Its cozy but spacious enough with the full mattress stored upright in the murphy cabinet.

"This is your office?"

"Yes."

"Where's your computer?"

I'm startled. "I don't have a computer. All book-keeping is done the old fashioned way, using bound leather ledgers. My husband doesn't think computers are necessary in business."

Amused, Christian shakes his head and I faintly hear a derisive reaction. Maybe he said, "Moron."

"Yeah, I smell leather," he says. "But the ledgers are on the counter by the register downstairs."

What you smell are leather restraints, baby, and a neck collar.

"Is that your bed?" he asks, glancing at it.

"Yes."

I'm looking up at him, still holding his hand. Tonight, alone in my bedroom at the Lincoln estate, remembering standing here with Chrstian, my toys will take no time at all to get me there.

Christian turns to face me fully. "I like the scent in here. It's pretty and sexy. It smells like…like spring flowers and…" He leans into me, close to my neck so that I feel my hair move. "…and you. It's stirring."

"Stirring?" I smile. "Where did you see that word used?"

He shrugs. "I've only every heard or read it used. Now I know what it means."

The silence draws out.

"Yelena," he whispers, looking down at me, and then looks further down at the front of his khakis. My eyes follow his, and I can see the evidence of Christian 'stirred.'

"Is that all the scent you can detect in here?" I ask, unadvisedly.

Shut up, Elena.

His eyes are on mine, then sweep around the room. "No, there's something else. It's… male. And musky. Leather and…?"

Good boy. What you smell is sex, Christian. And my crop and whip. And maybe the scented lube used so liberally on Anthony's ass two nights ago.

Shall I open the cabinet and lower the mattress? Only to remove the sheets….

Danger alarms are going off in my head. He's fourteen! I have set a strict age limit and must fight not to breach it. In another two months he will have reached my personal minimum age of consent, though he is very clearly consenting right now. Yes, undeniably.

Looking up at him, and my eyes linger on his lips. Swollen from the fight as they may be, I am overcome with the beauty of their shape and my desire to kiss them. Someone punched them two days ago. I want to be the antithesis to his pain and bring my lips and tongue to comfort them.

The danger alarms blare more insistently. This can't happen, not today. Not yet. I must bring him home and leave him there. Christian, too, must consider what he thinks of our newfound connection. It's all too much, all at once.

"Baby boy," I whisper up to him. And in lieu of a much desired kiss I raise my hand to my mouth, lick my thumb wet, then smear saliva across his lower lip. Immediately his tongue licks my thumb and lips close around it, his tongue swirling over the soft pad as he sucks.

Fucking hell. I inhale sharply, absolutely taken.

Christian and I are going to have some fun together.

"I need to bring you home now." My voice is strained and unrecognizable.

He steps back, a wry smile on his lips. "Okay, El. Another time perhaps."

I don't trust myself to speak. We need to exit this space. This seductive cove is rife with the echo of passionate cries and pleas. I can feel the dizzying inspiration of my most limit-pushing explorations here.

I take Christian's hand and we exit my office/bedroom, then lock up the warehouse.

"When do you think you can give me a couple of hours of work?" I ask minutes later, on the drive back to the Grey mansion.

"Tomorrow. No arrangements for tutors will be made yet. I'll call you and let you know."

I like Christian's direct responses. No hesitation. No doubt. Self-assurance will serve him well in the business world.

It's late afternoon, and I will have him home well before supper time. Grace will be pleased.

A thought comes to me.

"Christian, there are times when I'm home alone. I have my own bedroom and sitting room. Will you visit me there? I'd like for you to come watch some videos of dance competitions. And maybe we can have a lesson. We'll work on the waltz."

I glance at him beside me and he's looking down at his hands, smiling.

"Yes, I can do that," he replies.

"Where will you tell your family you've gone?"

He shrugs. "It depends. I have a lot of privacy. My parents are very sociable and go out for the evening frequently. Elliott is left in charge of me, but as soon as Grace and Carrick are gone, he gets in his car and disappears. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Davis, is one year younger than God and naps like death. She's supposed to watch Mia, but you know Mia; she doesn't need watching."

We pull up into the Grey's turn-around, but I stay well back from the house. He takes off his seatbelt but doesn't exit the car just yet.

"Let me see your phone," Christian requests authoritatively.

I hand over my Nokia.

He looks it over. "We're compatible. Good. You can text me. But you should upgrade. Did your husband buy you this phone too?"

I smile at his bold, commanding tone. "Yes, he did."

Christian hands it back. "This will be obsolete in another year. In a museum in another ten years."

I'm incredulous. "What? You're crazy," I protest with a tsk. "What more does anyone want a phone to do than make calls and text? Next you'll be saying you can shop for shoes using your phone."

"El, your phone can interface with computers via cellular data card. It can…"

"Ok, fine! Thank you. Too much information for one day, boy wonder. God, you're such a geek!"

He pauses, assessing me. "I'm a techie for sure. But stay tuned, Elena. The world is changing by the minute. Be on the forefront or get run over. I choose to be on the forefront. And tell Mr. Lincoln to buy you an Apple iMac. Your business should be computerized. I'll get you set up and sorted out. "

I turn my body toward him, quickly glancing down at the open V of my t-shirt, determined to keep the purpose of our friendship on track.

"Okay, Christian. At any rate, thank you. I've enjoyed our afternoon together, very much."

He looks in my eyes fully. "No more than I, surely."

An expectant silence befalls.

I take his hand and again bring bruised knuckles to my lips, glancing at the house and hoping we are unobserved. I softly kiss his knuckles and subtly lick his skin. His gray eyes heat and intensify, fixed on mine.

I'm reminded of a thermometer on a hot day; of mercury, the only liquid metal, rising. Rising.

"So, hands are fine for touch?" I offer, curious as to where else is okay. "And lips apparently."

He nods. "Don't worry. I'll stop you when you get too close to my no-touch zones."

This is another matter we need to get straight. "Christian, nothing and nowhere will be forbidden to me. If we play, and I fully intend to play, then I'm going to have it all."

He gasps. The fire in his stormy eyes turns up several notches.

The front door opens and little sister Mia comes bounding out. I release Christian's hand.

I can hear his low, frustrated growl.

Mia appears at the Lexus' driver's side window. "Hi, Mrs. Lincoln!" Mia says in her piping voice.

"Well hello, Miss Mia!"

"Chistian, Dad's looking for you."

The child and I exchange pleasantries, she telling me about her latest ballet lesson. Meanwhile Christian climbs out of my car. He leans down to the window and mouths "text me." I nod, then he saunters off to the house, disappearing through the front door.