Chapter 26

"Are you sure you want to pursue this end, Ana? It's not too late to change your mind. I think you should."

Going for levity, I snap my fingers and wag one at him as I plop on his luxurious sofa. "Oh no you didn't. Don't be trying to bail out now, Christian. You agreed to use and abuse me."

Mind doesn't triumph over matter as a small smile breaks through the mask of consternation on his face. "Tell me something, Ana, would you really have watched me with another woman? If I chose to allow you to watch rather than bringing you into the role?"

I purse my lips, unsure as to whether or not to give him an honest response. "Truthfully? I was hoping it wouldn't come to that…"

"No? Why would you even bring it up?"

I rise and start to very slowly walk closer to him, swinging my hips in exaggerated fashion to distract him. The way his gaze is pulled directly to my hips like a powerful magnet makes me want to crack up: it works like a charm every time. "You utterly refused to bring me in there and I was desperate to know more about it, to see you do it. I thought offering to watch might persuade you to instead take me in there..."

He makes a diligent effort to drag his eyes away from my sashaying hips. "And it worked. But… you know, in a very real sense it would be better for me to allow you to watch me with someone else acting as sub."

"Why?"

Inhaling deeply through his nose, he briefly closes those enigmatic eyes. "Ana, it's more about mind control than physical domination. I'm afraid it will—I will—scare you."

"I'm tougher than you think, Christian." I shift my weight to one hip and cross my arms. "Let's stop talking about it and just do it. You're making me more nervous with your reservations than I am with any of my own."

He stares at me for a moment, saying nothing—just staring, his front teeth bouncing off his bottom lip as he contemplates his decision. Two interminable minutes later, without uttering another syllable, he stands and extends his hand to me. I take it and he brings it to his mouth, kissing my fingers so gently that I barely feel his lips flutter on my skin. "So eager to rush into darkness with me, aren't you, sweet Ana?"

"Darkness? Is that how you would characterize your own proclivities?"

Hiking his left brow, he smirks. "Without a doubt. This is about sex, yes. Raw, primal sex… but it's also about control, domination, complete submission—mind and body. Exploring one's limits by pushing at them hard. Blurring the line between pain and pleasure. All of it, Ana. Yes, it's definitely part and parcel of the dark side of human sexuality. The only darker is torture and abuse."

I shudder despite myself and I know he feels it since he's holding my hand. He only arches his brows in response. He turns and begins to walk, leading me down the steps to the lower level of his apartment where the dungeon is located. That's when my knees begin to knock together though I try like hell to keep my composure. I can't believe he's really taking me in there—right now—and a fleeting regret streaks through me as I wonder why I begged him to do it. Am I insane?

When we get to the locked door, he stops and looks at me. "Last chance."

Puffing out my chest in false bravado, I say, "Let's do this."

He nods solemnly and points to the door. "Once we cross that threshold, we step into and fully inhabit our roles. Yours is contained in a very small circle. If you step outside its bounds, you will be quickly punished and it will hurt. Are you prepared to accept that consequence?"

I nod, my mouth going as dry as the Sahara.

"Ana, I require you to verbalize your responses so there's no room for confusion."

"Yes," I manage to push out, "I'm willing to accept that consequence."

"So be it," he says and unlocks the door, pushing it open for me to step inside first—just like in my dream. Feeling both brave and stupid, I cross the threshold into the dark, cool recesses of my lover's dungeon. Now that sounds just so wrong.

The room is painted a very dark color—I can't tell if it's a very dark brown or black. Since the floor is also dark—it's the gleaming, ebony-stained hardwood that runs through the entire apartment except for the kitchen and baths—there's little contrast for comparison. The lighting is fantastic: there are copper sconces perforated with tiny holes that sit high on the wall and punctuate it every few feet all around the entire large room. Tiny pinpoints of light shine through the small openings, casting a glow around each fixture. Rope lighting hides behind a strip of crown molding on the ceiling and behind the baseboard so it illuminates the floor—lighting the way for anyone dumb enough or mean enough to be caught in this room. Of course I jest. Mostly.

I look at Christian and his eyes are trained on me with unholy intensity. "Look up," he whispers.

I do and gasp. The ceiling is breathtaking: it looks like an oil painting, with images of… I'm guessing Bacchus and his drunken women all around him at play.

"Tell me about it."

"Dionysus… also known as Bacchus. He is the god of the grape harvest. What's especially meaningful is that he also is the god of the epiphany—something many find in a room such as this one. He is always arriving from elsewhere, his origins differing depending on the ethnic source."

I nod and smile—I was right. I know a little about Greek mythology, having once dated a guy who was obsessed with it. Christian points to a bearded man-horse figure. "Those equine-looking figures are satyrs. Plenty of erect penises and other phallic symbols abound, as you can see."

"It's beautiful. Who painted it?"

"I commissioned it from an artist friend who has experience working in frescoes. It's become something of a lost art."

"Ah, so it's done with plaster," I say, once again glancing about the room. Scattered around are naked branches, some resting on surfaces and some hung on the walls, that are dotted with tiny white and red fiber optic lights, casting eerie shadows everywhere.

Now for the furniture: a huge x-shaped cross with bindings sits prominently on the rear wall. Gallery lighting shines down on it. There is a padded bench on one side of the room and a table with an ugly contraption nearby. In the middle of the room a long chain dangles ominously from the painted ceiling and it's reinforced with heavy iron brackets. The overhead fixture looks like something out of an authentic medieval dungeon and it has candles rather than electric light so it just might be. On the opposite side of the padded bench is a huge bed covered in blood-red satin sheets. Naturally it is a four-poster with restraints mounted on each post.

It's what is featured on the front wall that grabs my attention and refuses to let go: a rack that stretches from wall to wall is mounted near the ceiling, and every kind of implement you might imagine you'd find in a torture chamber is hanging from it: whips, canes, floggers, chains, crops, and things for which I have no frame of reference to begin to identify.

"A little fear is good but don't be overwhelmed by all the equipment. There's only one thing you need be afraid of, my sweet, young thing."

"Which?" The word emerges from my throat like a croak.

In answer he merely points to his temple, as in indicating his brain. "Within these walls you must address me as Master or Sir. I will accept nothing else. Do you understand?"

"I do but which one do you prefer?"

"It matters little. Second, whenever you are in this room, you are either naked or in clothes of my choosing. If I find you with any contraband clothing, you will be—"

"Punished?" I interrupt.

"Yes," he said without a hint of a smile.

I better watch my jokey tendencies otherwise I'm going to be constantly punished. Speaking of which… I raise a finger in query.

"I will allow you questions when I'm done with my demonstration, Ana." He holds out his right hand and I take it, allowing him to lead me to a shadowy corner of the room—another similarity with my dream.

"This corner is where you will wait for me, on your knees, whenever you are instructed to enter this room. As I said before, you'll be naked but for any time I ask you to wear something. Kneel now."

I step over and drop to my knees. Ouch. There is no padding or rug on the floor and it hurts. My eyes flash to his but find no comfort there.

"You are supposed to be uncomfortable while in this position. It is one of submission and supplication. You may, however, sit on your feet."

I quickly comply.

He steps closer and using the toe of his shoe, he kicks my knees apart, just like… yeah, in my dream. That book Minx loaned me was like a how-to manual in BDSM. When they are spread wide, he crouches down and grasps my hands, resting them on my thighs, palms up as if in true supplication. "Chin down," he whispers, "never look up unless you're told to. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir," I reply, keeping my eyes on the floor. It's harder than it sounds.

"Very good, Ana. I'm impressed thus far at your control over your body and mind. Stay in position."

He walks away. I cannot see where he goes but I can hear him moving around and opening drawers or cabinets. I have no idea what he's doing but the suspense adds to my general unease and I'm quite sure he knows that. His excessive calm does too, oddly enough. After a few moments, music fills my ears, a bolero of some sort. When he reappears in my line of sight I manage to keep my eyes on his shoes. "Hold out both of your hands, please."

I do and he clips padded leather cuffs to each wrist,

"Stand."

Once I'm vertical, he begins to remove my clothing. I'm struck by the impersonal nature of it—it's hot but somehow not intimate. He's undressing me to get me naked but not enjoying the unveiling, if that makes sense. Since I am still wearing my swimsuit with just a short sleeveless sundress over it, it takes only half a minute to divest me of all clothing. Then he clips my cuffs together behind my back.

"Very pretty." He lifts my chin with one finger and looks into my eyes. "Can you begin to see how this is about much more than sex?"

"Yes," I whisper and for some strange reason I feel like crying all of a sudden. I'm not sure I like Christian like this: he's too cold and unaffectionate. A loud crack erupts in the silent room and I feel concomitant fire on my rear end. I scream at the top of my lungs, both from the white-hot pain and the shock. He stands calmly, looking at me, his face devoid of expression.

How could I have forgotten? And how dare he punish me before explaining about the punishments? "Sir! Yes, Sir."

"Discipline, Ana. Over mind and body. That's what it's all about."

"Sir, I wanted to ask you about the punishments but you wouldn't let me. It's not fair to use them before warning me about them." I manage to keep my voice from whining, which is what I really want to do—my ass fucking hurts.

"I told you any missteps would result in punishment. I'd already warned you about failing to address me with proper deference. That's a basic tenet of D/s.

"Follow me." As I trail him, I notice that his bearing is markedly different in this room: his carriage is more erect, making him look bigger. He holds himself more stiffly, as well. The only thing I can liken it to is the way someone might act at a formal event as opposed to hanging out with friends.

He comes to a sudden stop at the padded bench and I almost crash into him. Slightly turning his head so I might hear him, he says, "Always anticipate your master's actions. You should have been watching me closely enough so that when I stopped, you could have also done so—much more gracefully than you did."

I'm beginning to think I suck at submission. Oh well, that's life.

He turns, grasps my waist and I flinch, earning me a stern, disapproving look. "Your body belongs to me inside these walls. You should be readily accessible to me, no matter what I do. Understood?"

"Yes." Oh shit. "Sir! Yes, Sir," I say frantically, so I don't get another belt across my hindquarters.

"Turn around," he orders and I comply very quickly. He lifts me easily and places me, straddled, on the padded bench then pushes me down, holding the nape of my neck until I'm prone. A strap across my lower back secures me in place. My wrists are still cuffed behind my back and I'm hanging off the end of it, my legs dangling. He adjusts the bench so that the front end is lower down than the back, thrusting my behind in the air. The bench is high enough and on a small raised platform so my feet are about four inches from touching the floor.

Four snaps later, my legs are locked into place on either side of the bench with a padded knee rest on each side. He stands back to assess his work. I can see most of what he does through the many mirrors he has positioned strategically throughout the room.

"If I didn't already tell you—or even if I did, it bears repeating—I am going to treat you as I would a sub and not my girlfriend so you can get a genuine idea of what the role entails, Ana. Agreed?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. So understand that punishment consists of pain but so does discipline, albeit a less intense kind. Discipline is meted out on a regular basis. Then there's pain for pleasure. Accordingly I will let you taste the bite of a few of my implements before I give you pleasure."

I say nothing in response.

"Still with me?"

"Yes, Sir. If I'm not, I'll use the safe word." I'm starting to feel just a little bitchy.

"Very good."

And that's the last thing he says for the next half hour or so. I lie there wondering what he'll do, trying to brace myself for something I don't know is coming, when a satiny cloth is placed over my eyes and secured to the back of my head. Now the music seems louder and rustling sounds more enhanced. Something incredibly soft shimmies up my left leg, crosses my rear and then goes down my right. A feather maybe? Then something silky whispers across my arms and back. I fall into the sensation and just as I'm being lulled into a near-catatonic state, something sharp tracks across my posterior and I jerk. I can't move more than an inch or two, however. My mind tries to identify the implement but cannot. All I know is I feel about a hundred sharp teeth parading over my sensitive skin. Next, vibrations start: it feels good, like a massage.

I'm drifting in a state between sleep and wakefulness when the strands of a flogger flick lightly across my backside. It doesn't hurt; in fact, it sort of feels pleasant. It moves up and down my legs, and begins to lull me into a rhythm when out of nowhere it slams into my backside. Whap! A shriek bubbles up out of me and sounds strange to my own ears, knowing it came from my throat. He slows down the intensity of it as he moves lower across my upper thighs and calves. Then it inches up and up and up, and, slam. Again the many strands of leather or suede attack my poor sore butt. I can't help it: I yell out again.

"Quiet! Take everything with grace, Ana. That's a basic tenet of submission. If the pain is unbearable, you know what to do. Otherwise, accept it in silence."

"I'm trying, Sir," I spit out the last word from between gritted teeth. It fucking hurts and I want to hit him now. Before I even have a chance to collect myself to focus on the next sensation, it comes barreling at me. This time it's a single whip and it dances across my skin, leaving a pinprick of pain here and there. The pain is sharper for sure but it's not spread out over a large area as with the flogger… but it hurts. If he hits my sore butt…

It bites at my right calf, my left thigh, my right knee, my left hip, and then, crack! It rips into my right buttock, scoring the flesh, and in white-hot pain I let out a scream that could wake the dead. "Christian, yellow. Please."

"First off," he says, his voice strong and cold, "do not use my given name inside these walls. That is a punishable offense, Ana. Second, are you calling yellow or red? I won't stop at yellow."

"Will you pause and talk to me at yellow?"

"Yes. What is it?"

"I don't know if I can take much more of this… discipline. It hurts quite a lot."

"Ana, what we're doing here is child's play compared to what I normally do with a sub. On a scale of one to ten, we're at one or two right now."

"One or two?" I croak out. "Not even three?"

Shit.