The Fantasy Basket
By Esme Incognito
Inspired by Stephenie Meyers' Twilight series. No infringement intended.
Posted 8/22/12. Re-posted 2/1/14.
Chapter 13—Esme: Bad Boy
March 1991
I wasn't too sure about this one. It made me a little nervous. As I got dressed in a tight, black, stretchy, lace slip dress, studded black high heeled shoes, and that silly studded collar I'd bought at Christmas time, I tried to put myself into the right frame of mind: Tough Esme. Aggressive Esme. Dominatrix Esme.
It was hard. I didn't want to come across sounding like a nagging, bossy mother. Ha—his mother! Now, there's a mean, tough lady if I ever saw one. Maybe I could act like her. No… I neededaggressive, not passive-aggressive. I read the fantasy again:
You've been a bad, bad boy. It took a lot of courage for me to go into a porn shop, talk to the creepy guy there, and get you some fun new toys for your birthday. But you haven't even used them yet—not once! Tonight that's going to change. You will be punished and taught to appreciate what I do for you. Be in the bedroom tonight on your knees, with your hands behind your back, wearing nothing but your black underwear at 10:00 pm. No talking.
OK—Strong Esme. Disciplining Esme. Teach Him A Lesson Esme.
Ready or not, here I come.
Carlisle sat on his haunches on a pillow from the bed, waiting. I didn't give him time to react to what I was wearing, I just launched into it.
"Nothing stated that you should be kneeling on the comfort of a pillow. Give that to me and get up on your knees, now!"
He handed me the pillow, wide eyed as he looked me up and down, from my hair that was pulled back severely to my black painted toenails peeking out of my studded sandals.
"Let's get a few things clear. I am in charge tonight. You do not speak, you do not touch, you do not come without my permission. And you do not make yourself comfortable," I sneered and threw the pillow pointedly to the bed. "When asked to respond, you reply respectfully with 'yes, Mistress' or 'no, Mistress.' Do you understand?"
Carlisle looked at me, shocked.
"Speak."
"Yes, Mistress?" he whimpered.
"Good. Eyes on the floor! Now, we're here tonight because you've been a very naughty boy and I need to teach you a lesson. Do you recognize this?" I held the unopened box of 'Bondage for Beginners' restraints in front of him. "Speak."
"Yes, Mistress."
"And when exactly did you get this?"
"On my birthday, Mistress."
"Was your birthday not SIX MONTHS AGO?"
"Yes, Mistress." I could tell he was holding back a nervous laugh.
"Do you think it's funny, to ignore a gift that I worked hard to get for you?"
"No, I guess not."
"No, WHAT?"
"No ma'am. Sorry Mistress."
"That's better. Now, since you've neglected my gift for over six months, it's my duty to punish you. How old were you on your birthday?"
"41 Mistress."
"41. Very well, you'll have to receive 41 spankings."
"What?" Carlisle looked at me like I was crazy.
"Stand up, strip, and put your hands on the bed." He did as he was told, eyebrows knit with uncertainty. This was so completely out of character for me. For both of us.
"This may hurt just a little. If you need a break, say 'yellow.' If you need me to stop altogether, say 'red,' just like a traffic light. Do you understand? It's called a safe word."
He snorted, trying not to laugh. "Ok."
"Shut up! I don't know why you think this is funny. Maybe you want me to punish you more. Now bend over." I pushed his shoulders toward the bed. "And NO LAUGHING!"
That broke the dam. Carlisle couldn't hold back his chuckles, so I smacked him on the butt. "One, two, three, four, five."
I didn't want to hurt him, but I had no idea how hard to hit. I've never even spanked the kids, except for that time when Emmett was three and took a red Sharpie marker to the carpet in his room while I was downstairs on the phone. Oh, I was furious. But I couldn't hit my baby hard. I just gave him three quick swats and a long time out in the corner while I scrubbed and scrubbed until the ink scribbles turned to a pink haze. I was so ticked off!
Right now, Carlisle was ticking me off, laughing through his spankings. "Sssh! Just play along, would you?" I whispered. Jeez, this was hard enough without him mocking me.
"Sorry, it's just…" He started laughing outright, so I gave him five more swats, harder this time.
"Ow!" he complained through his giggles and rubbed his hand where it stung.
"No talking! No laughing! And keep your hands on the bed." I pulled the restraints out of the box, slapped the velcro around his wrists and knotted the long ties together. I smacked him ten more times.
He tried to stifle his laughter, but his body was still shaking with it and tears started to flow from his eyes.
I took ten more swings, one hand after the other as if I were playing the bongos. "Stop laughing at me!" Carlisle held his mouth shut, laughing through his nose.
"Would you shut up?!" I was frustrated, but his laughter was infectious and I let out a snort or two as I quickly got through another ten—they weren't hard at all—bringing the spank count to 40. At this point, I just wanted to get this failed fantasy over with. Whatever this is supposed to do to turn people on, it really wasn't working for us.
"You are in so much trouble, Buster. You'd better brace yourself for this one." I brought my hand way up behind me, preparing for a big, powerful 41st spank to end this mockery.
I swung my arm down quickly and could see him tense up in preparation for a painful one, but I stopped my hand an inch from his skin and lightly tapped my fingertips in a tiny, soft, staccato-like motion on his right cheek which I quickly followed with a peck from my lips, a giggle, and a caress of his slightly pinked backside. I felt him relax under my hand.
"I'll give you something to laugh about, Mister!" Suddenly, I launched an all-out tickle attack against his naked body.
He jumped with a squawk and tried to crawl up the bed to escape, hindered by his bound hands. But I was relentless, attacking the soles of his feet as he tried to get away, laughing hysterically.
He rolled over on his back and wrapped his legs around me, continuing to roll both of us until he was on top.
I didn't let up with my hands, tickling wherever I could reach even though he held down the lower half of my body. He moved both bound hands to one of mine, pinning it above my head while I kept tickling him with my other hand. Somehow, he caught my free hand under his knee and pinned it to the bed.
I struggled and squirmed, trying to break free until he bent down and gave me a searing kiss. I was instantly overcome, relaxed, docile beneath him. He came up for air and I smiled up at him.
"Hey, I'm supposed to be in charge here," I teased.
"Baby, you are in charge. You have no idea the power you hold over me. Every inch of me. Every minute of the day. You are in complete and absolute control. He rolled us over as he spoke so I was back on top, his bound hands resting helplessly above his head.
"You laughed at me," I pouted.
He smiled. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. You're just so cute; so sweet," he laughed and rubbed noses with me. "And that was so far off base for you. I couldn't… I couldn't wrap my head around it. It was like watching a soft little kitten trying to be king of the jungle."
I smiled. "It did feel pretty awkward. I really had to psyche myself up for that, and your laughing did Not. Help. One. Bit!" I poked him in the chest and pursed my lips, pretending to be angry.
"That's not who you are, Ezzy. I like my sweet, cuddly kitten."
"But what if I want to be tough once in awhile? That's what a fantasy is."
He looked at me thoughtfully, realization dawning on his face. Suddenly, he relaxed underneath me. His knees which had been hugged tightly around my hips, slackened. His fists unclenched as he rested his arms idly above his head. His face smoothed away any tension.
"As you wish, Mistress." He smirked at me. "Just please… no more tickling?"
I giggled and kissed him. "As long as you behave."
"Yes, Mistress."
He let me take complete control of our lovemaking. I used him well, no spanking required.
We lay, snuggling and spent afterwards.
"Did I tell you? I visited the gallery today."
"You did? That's been awhile."
"Yeah. It felt good, like going home or something, you know? Laurent was there and he started talking to me as if I'd never left, asking my opinion of some of the work he has there now and everything. We just picked right back up. It was really nice."
"That's great."
"He invited us to a show on Friday. Are you free?"
"I'll have to check my planner in the morning."
"Ok."
"Are you sure you want to dive back in? That was such a stressful job. You don't have to, you know. We don't need the money."
"I know. But I need to do something. I don't know what that is, yet. The boys are getting older and needing me less and less though, and I need to find something productive to do."
"You want to be in control, huh?" he taunted.
I rolled my eyes at him.
…
I was talking to Laurent, my old boss, at the gallery show the following Friday night. Carlisle had paged me "20-30" to tell me he was running late. "Esme, you've steell got it, Cherie. You always had zee best eye, zee best interpretation of our artist's veesion. Eet ees a gift. You are but a guest tonight and yet people are buying paintings because of your delightful conversations. Tis magnifique!"
"Perhaps you should pay me my old commission? I've been thinking about coming back to work, you know." I replied in his native French.
"Is that right? Please… have lunch with me on Tuesday. We will discuss possibilities, though I cannot promise anything. We have no open positions now, with the economy, you know, but perhaps something soon."
"Of course. I understand. Tuesday would be great, thank you. Oh, here's Carlisle."
My husband approached, kissed me on the cheek, and extended his hand. "Sorry I'm late, Love, traffic was a mess. Laurent, it's been a long time. Nice to see you again."
We chatted with my old boss until he was called away to help a patron. Then I guided Carlisle around the gallery, describing the paintings just enough to help his untrained eye understand them but not so much that my opinions would influence his own interpretations of the works we viewed.
A few other patrons tagged along with us, listening in. I don't know if they thought I worked for the gallery, but by the time we'd seen everything we had amassed a following of five or six people, drawing the attention of the handsome young artist headlining the show. We talked with him and Tia, who works at the gallery, for a few minutes before I passed the onlookers off to them and turned my attention back to Carlisle.
"You really love this, don't you?" he asked, lifting an arm around my shoulders.
"I love the art. Though I was happy to hand those people off to Tia. I never liked the sales pitch part."
We were getting ready to leave when Laurent bustled up behind us, gushing about how excited he was that one of the gentlemen who'd been following me was going to buy piece #12. "Number 12! That was the riskiest piece we put in the show. The artist insisted, but I didn't think it had a chance of selling. Whatever did you say about it?"
"I didn't say anything special. I just call them like I see them, Laurent."
"Oh, Cherie!" He kissed me on both cheeks. "You're brilliant. Brilliant!" He hurried off to help someone else. "Tuesday!" he turned to remind me.
"What's on Tuesday?" Carlisle asked as he helped me on with my coat. I described my meeting-that's-not-an-interview as we walked down the icy street and into the restaurant where we'd made dinner reservations. "Just make sure you keep it public, Es, I don't trust that guy."
"What? What are you saying? It's Laurent! We worked together for years. He was never a problem." I couldn't believe Carlisle's request.
"Well, that's when he was married. I didn't like the way he was looking at you. Or the way he kissed you." Laurent had mentioned that his wife left him a few years ago, taking the kids back to France. He was planning a trip the next month to attend his younger daughter's graduation.
Oh my gosh, was Carlisle jealous? "Oh, Carlisle. He's French. It's a cultural thing. You know that."
"I don't trust him." Those were harsh words coming from Carlisle, who's known for his compassion and understanding. We moved on to another subject and enjoyed our dinner.
His fears were unfounded. The meeting went great. Laurent had warned me that there were no openings, so I'd really just hoped for recommendations to some of his friends at other galleries. However, he offered me the chance to cover for him during his four week trip to France the following month, and hinted that he would consider me to replace Tia in the fall. She would be leaving for New York to study for her MFA.
I was so excited. I hurried home and got right to work trying to find arrangements for the kids' after school care during the month I'd be working full time. I pulled something quick out of the freezer for dinner so that I'd have time to assess my wardrobe and see if I had anything appropriate to wear to work at the gallery. Most of my old work attire was hopelessly out of style now and a lot of what was left didn't fit anymore.
While I was busy planning what I'd need on a visit to the department store, it hit me that I'd neglected to plan for that night's fantasy. He'd chosen one today that required a trip to the store, and I didn't have time now to go, with all the shuttling of kids to and from school and practices and scouts I had this afternoon.
Oh no! I didn't want to let Carlisle down. We were doing so much better lately. So I thought and thought about what I could do, and decided to surprise him with an alternate fantasy, celebrating my new (albeit temporary) job.
I got out my paints and brushes, an old sheet to protect the floor, and a large canvas I'd gotten on sale and had been saving for a rainy day when I had time to paint. I put everything in the bedroom, found a smock and a beret, and smiled at the thought of painting each other and rolling around on the canvas. I couldn't wait to see what kind of art we would create together.
Luckily, Carlisle wasn't upset at the change and the painting turned out to be very interesting. It was abstract, obviously, with subtle hints of body parts and a lot of movement. I hung it above our bed.
The job, he wasn't so sure about. When I told him Laurent would be in Paris the whole time I was working, he relaxed a little, but I wondered where his hesitation was coming from. "Just a feeling, Es. I get a bad vibe from him," was all he could tell me.
Weeks passed, and I started at the gallery. Tia was very helpful, showing me the computer systems and the voice mail, and teaching me to use email and the fax machine, though I could detect an air of superiority. I caught her rolling her eyes a few times when I wasn't catching on quickly enough. She thought I was an imbecile to not know how these things worked.
I loved working with the artists and the patrons again. In that area, my knowledge far surpassed hers and I felt very comfortable.
One day, a familiar name came across my desk. Siobhan O'Leary had made an appointment for the following afternoon. Where had I heard that name? I wondered all day and the next morning, trying to place the name with a face. Was she a parent at the kids' school or on one of their teams? No. Had Carlisle mentioned her? Maybe we had met her at one of the hospital fundraisers. Hmm…
Curiosity was plaguing me until a confident and very well dressed plump woman approached the desk at the gallery, leading a wealthy-looking couple who clearly didn't know what they were doing. She handed me her business card: "Siobhan O'Leary, here to meet with Esme at 3:00 o'clock."
I looked at the card and read "Siobhan O'Leary Interior Design" and it hit me. Victoria! I shook off that image and greeted Siobhan and her clients warmly, asking questions to get a feeling for their taste and what they were looking for.
Siobhan was good. The comments and recommendations she made to her clients were just what I consider when choosing art for my home. And I could tell she knew how to assess the pieces I displayed for them. I was thrilled when the couple bought two paintings and a sculpture for their new home.
After writing the check, the couple left, leaving Siobhan behind to make delivery arrangements and we got to talking. She asked about Laurent and when I explained that I was only covering during his short absence and was looking for a permanent position, she kindly offered to introduce me to other gallery owners around Seattle.
We got along great and I was surprised that she'd worked with Victoria. She didn't seem to be her type at all. "You know, when you called yesterday, I knew I'd heard your name but couldn't for the life of me place where I'd heard it. Then, it came to me when you brought your clients in. An acquaintance of mine had mentioned that she'd worked with you to design her home. Victoria Hunter. She seemed very happy with your work."
"Ppffft, she did? She didn't seem happy with anything while we were working on it."
"Well, she was happy to boast about your reputation, anyway. Like I said, she's an acquaintance, not really a friend."
"Good. I didn't think you seemed her type." Siobhan echoed my very thoughts back at me. "She's… challenging. I hesitated to accept the engagement with her, but she kept throwing more money at me, so against my better judgment…" she shook her head. "I earned every penny of that one!"
I laughed. "I'm sure you did. And I'm sure her house turned out to be beautiful, despite the difficulty. It was so nice to meet you. Thank you for bringing your clients in to Laurent's."
That was one of my best days at the gallery. Most were a lot more stressful. Sales were hard to come by with the struggling economy. Tia proved herself to be quite conniving and competitive in her quest to win the few commissions there were to be had.
My knowledge and experience couldn't match her youth and sex appeal when it came to wooing the male patrons. Not that I wanted it to. I hope I had never acted that way when I worked here in my 20s, and I wondered if Laurent knew his gallery was being represented that way. Well, she'd be gone in a few months. Perhaps he was just waiting for her to step aside.
On Friday of my third week at the gallery, I received an urgent phone call from the wife of Emmett's baseball coach. He'd hurt his ankle on a slide into second base at practice and it seemed to be pretty severe. The coach thought he should have it x-rayed.
Carlisle was in surgery and couldn't pick him up. I couldn't reach the friend who was supposed to pick Emmett up when practice ended an hour later. My best friend Carmen and her family were out of town at a wedding. I couldn't leave work—Tia was on her dinner break and I had a follow up appointment scheduled 20 minutes later with a patron who was close to making a purchase decision.
So, I did the unthinkable. My last resort: I called Carlisle's mother and asked if she could pick Emmett up and take him to the hospital.
She was happy to pick him up and take care of her poor, dear, grandson, but her voice dripped with disdain toward me, the neglectful working mom. I knew before I called her that I'd have to deal with her wrath, but the anticipation of it didn't make it any less painful.
I was just worried about my little boy and I felt sick that I couldn't take care of him myself. To have Betty rubbing salt in the wound made it that much harder.
The sale I made was bittersweet.
I rushed home to find Carlisle there with the boys. Emmett had a pretty bad sprain and would have to sit out the rest of the baseball season, but thank goodness it wasn't broken. I still felt terrible for not being there for him.
Sunday at church, Betty was at her passive-aggressive worst. Emmett, being on crutches, was a main topic of conversation among the congregation, and Betty made a point to note that she'd been the one to pick him up and take him to the hospital.
She proudly proclaimed to her friends that she had never let Carlisle participate in any dangerous sports like baseball or football when he was a boy. She'd guided him toward safe activities like track and tennis.
Yeah, and did you know he still resents you for that, Betty?
She made it quite clear that she didn't approve of the way I parent her precious grandsons, especially now that I'd made the selfish choice to go back to work.
We got home after hours of her verbal lashings and I was completely worn down. I felt so guilty about Emmett. I was doubting myself and my decision to leave my children in the care of other people.
Was I being selfish? Probably.
After we'd tucked the boys into bed for the night, I was in the kitchen planning dinners for the week and prepping tomorrow's meal. For some reason, I got really upset when I discovered that I was lacking two ingredients for the meal I planned to prepare on Wednesday.
I put my head in my hands and started crying right there at the kitchen table. Carlisle looked up from the medical journal he was reading in the family room, perplexed.
"Esme, what's the matter?" he came to me and started rubbing my shoulders.
"I… Can't… Do this… Anymore." I choked out between my tears. "I tried… and I'm a big, fat… failure. I can't even make dinner on Wednesday. Tia's only 23 and she knows how to do everything. I suck! I totally suck! I had to resend the fax three times before it went through. And while I'm there failing, my kids are getting hurt.
I wasn't even there for him. I'm so selfish… Your mom is right… He needed me and I wasn't there." I burst into sobs thinking about Emmett.
"Ezzy, Emmett's accident was not your fault. You couldn't have prevented it even if you were there at the practice with him. Don't be so hard on yourself." He rubbed my shoulders for a few minutes, as my sobs subsided, trying to massage out some of the tension. "At least you're almost done at the gallery. And now you know that going back to work wasn't such a good idea. It's nice that you had this short assignment to test that out."
I shook his hands off me, walked across the kitchen to the center island, and glared at him, shaking my head slowly at the realization of how insignificant he considered me to be.
"What? What's the matter?"
"You don't believe in me either."
"Don't be silly, Es. You're great at whatever you do, but maybe this is too much, too soon. You don't need to go back full time. We don't need the money or the benefits. So why torture yourself? Just wait awhile longer. Then when you're ready, maybe you could look for something part time. Maybe you could volunteer for the museum or something."
I tried to be strong and firm, but my traitor eyes teared up again. "God, don't you get it?" I sobbed. Obviously he didn't. He looked completely clueless.
I put my hands on the countertop in front of me and looked down at one of the swirls in the granite. I realized I had a choice. I could cry and get angry and storm off to read one of my romance novels, where men treated women they way they needed to be treated or I could communicate, try to teach my husband why he offended me and how he could understand me better.
I sniffled, took a deep breath, and prepared to delve into "Women 101." He deserved to know and it would help us both in the long run, right?
"Carlisle…" I still looked down, tracing swirls in the counter. "I want to tell you what's going on in my head. It may take me awhile to figure out what to say, to verbalize, so can you just… listen and not get upset and not offer any solutions while I'm trying to help you understand my perspective?" I turned to face him, leaning back against the counter.
He breathed sharply through his nose and pulled out the kitchen chair I'd vacated, turning it to face me as he sat, arms crossed over his chest. "Ok." I could tell by the tight line of his mouth and his clipped answer that he was delving into his defensive, arguing persona.
"I can tell you're getting upset. Please don't. I just want to talk to you and help you understand how I see things sometimes. You were being nice, but I got upset about something you said and I want to help you understand why."
I took a deep breath to help calm my nerves.
He relaxed a bit, crossed an ankle over his knee and rested his forearm on the kitchen table, drumming his fingers on the wooden tabletop. "All right."
I talked and talked and he listened. I explained, sometimes struggling to find words to describe the feelings and thoughts that went through my head, about how I was so conflicted between needing to be there for my family and also needing to feel validated. Needing to feel that my life was worth something more.
I described how his very masculine reaction to fix things—in this case, telling me it was ok not to work—clashed with my innate, admittedly female desire to be appreciated and valuable, to be recognized and praised, to feel a sense of accomplishment; that I wanted to work not for the money but for the sense of value and worth it would provide me.
I shared my fear that the longer I waited for "the right time" to pursue these things, the more obsolete I would become and the harder it would be.
"So, why didn't you just say that?"
I huffed. "I just did! That's why I asked you to sit still and listen, so I could get it all out!"
He let out a little scoffing laugh and scratched the back of his head. "Um… oh-kay." He knit his brow and looked at me, a little confused.
As uncomfortable as our talk started out, it turned into a really great conversation about how we communicate and interact with each other, about our needs and wants and goals for the future, about how we were raised so differently and the ways that affects us now. After over an hour, I felt that we'd achieved a lot, we understood each other so much better.
He referred back to my stressed-out breakdown that had started the whole thing and he complimented me, reassured me, told me he'd support me in whatever came next. It was exactly what I'd needed to hear earlier and it gave me hope.
Carlisle checked his watch and said he needed to get to bed. He had an early surgery in the morning. He surprised me by picking up the phone before going upstairs. He just smiled when I knit my brow to question whom he would be calling at 9:48 on a Sunday night.
"Dad, it's me. Sorry to be calling so late, but there's something that came up today that I need to talk to you about. No, Emmett's fine. Everyone's fine. Is Mother awake? Can you have her pick up the extension, please?"
As he waited for his mom to pick up the phone, I shook my head and waved my arms at him, encouraging him not to say anything to his folks. I didn't want to make even more trouble with them. He just blew me a kiss.
"Hello Mother. I wanted to talk to you both about something I should have brought up a long time ago."
"You know that I love Trinity and I'm happy to help with all the services and events when you need me, but there's an element within the congregation that is very hateful toward my wife and I won't subject her to that any more, so…"
They must have interrupted him. "Well, you're my parents, yes, but Esme and the boys are my family now. I'm responsible for them, and I won't continue to put them in harm's way, so I'm sorry to say that we won't be back until I'm certain that things have changed."
My eyes grew wide. Carlisle grew up in that church—literally. It was a big part of his life.
"No, Mother, Esme had no idea I was going to call you. Out of respect to you, she hasn't said anything for years, but after today I've decided that enough is enough. I won't stand for any more poor treatment of my wife. So, please clean up this mess, apologize to Esme, and if that's done within a reasonable amount of time we won't have to look for a new church."
I gasped.
"I'm sorry, Dad. Good bye."
The following weekend, we went camping with the boys' Cub Scout pack. It was fun and relaxing to get away, a fitting end to my month-long stint as a working mom.
I squeezed Carlisle's hand as he led a non-denominational religious service called a Scout's Own on Sunday morning for our tired group of campers. I knew he was thinking about the blow he'd delivered to his parents. After a few moments of silent contemplation, he put his arm around me and smiled as he led the group of boys and their families in a song of thanks and praise.
That night after we'd returned home, unpacked, and washed the campfire smell out of our dusty hair and clothes, I found a piece of paper from the fantasy basket on my bathroom sink.
Sundays are for you, my love. For years, you've worked hard and put up with my parents every Sunday. To thank you, I want you to take Sunday afternoons for yourself. Do something you enjoy every week. And if you so choose, I'll be waiting for you every Sunday night to give you a massage and make sweet love to my wonderful wife.
A/N
sigh Wouldn't we all like to have a Carlisle? If you liked the brief glimpse of him as Cub Scout Dad, you'll love the new story I'm working on, called The Cub Master. It's about love, friendship and second chances. It may be awhile before I post it, since I like to finish stories before I start to publish, but follow me and you'll know as soon as it's ready.
Thanks to the lovely Besotted. One day in 2011 I sent a message out to the fandom asking for a beta, wondering if I should post this little story I'd been writing. No one would be reading The Fantasy Basket today if Besotted hadn't replied. Hugs and thanks for everything, my friend!
I'd love to hear your thoughts on Domme Esme, Laurent, Tia, Siobhan, going back to work, Betty or whatever else strikes your fancy. Please leave a review!
Jen