Saturday, May 22, 2011 00:34am
"This is a nondisclosure agreement," I say upon returning to the living room, documents in hand. I can't deny it, I'm a little ashamed, for whatever reason. "My lawyer insists on it."
I hand it to her, and she looks completely bewildered.
"If you're going for option two, debasement, you'll need to sign this." I swallow.
"And if I don't want to sign anything?" she asks, her eyes on the paper.
"Then it's Angel Clare high ideals. Well, for most of the book anyway." I gaze at her intently, strung tighter than I've ever been strung before.
"What does this agreement mean?" she asks. She's still not looking at me, though her eyes don't scan the words of the document. Is she even reading it?
"It means you cannot disclose anything about us. Anything, to anyone." I sit.
Finally she looks at me, and stares. Really stares. I see the alarm in her gaze, and maybe, finally, she's catching on to the seriousness of this all. After a moment, she seems to reign in her expression.
"Okay. I'll sign," she says.
Cautiously, I hand her a pen. I know for a fact she hasn't even scanned the document. It's very important to me that she knows exactly what she's getting herself into. This is no blasé, casual manner. "Aren't you even going to read it?"
"No."
I frown. "Anastasia, you should always read anything you sign."
"Christian," she returns, and her tone is emphatic, "what you fail to understand is that I wouldn't talk about us to anyone anyway. Even Kate." Even Kate? "So it's immaterial whether I sign an agreement or not. If it means so much to you, or your lawyer… whom you obviously talk to, then fine. I'll sign."
Well, then. She does have a point. "Fair point well made, Miss Steele."
She signs, both copies, and hands one back to me. I watch her fold the other and slip it into her purse. She takes a large gulp of wine. Nervous, are we?
"Does this mean you're going to make love to me tonight, Christian?"
Holy fuck. My jaw drops slightly, but I force composure rather quickly. She needs to come into this without any of her ideals. She needs to know exactly what I do, and how I do things.
"No, Anastasia, it doesn't. First, I don't make love. I fuck… hard. Second, there's a lot more paperwork to do. And third, you don't yet know what you're in for. You could still run for the hills." The thought sobers me. "Come, I want to show you my playroom."
The reaction I've been looking for: Her mouth drops open. She looks absolutely shocked.
"You want to play on your Xbox?" she asks.
My Xbox? I howl with laughter. She has not an earthly clue.
"No, Anastasia, no Xbox, no PlayStation. Come." I stand and offer her my hand. She takes it, and I lead her up the stairs, down the hall. We stop outside of the playroom, and a boa constrictor curls around my intestines and clenches, hard. If I were any more anxious, my hands would be shaking.
I pull the key out of my pocket, and unlock the door.
I take a deep breath.
"You can leave anytime. The helicopter is on standby to take you whenever you want to go; you can stay the night and go home in the morning. It's fine whatever you decide." But is it really? I'll never let her know. She needs to make a decision about this without any bias from me.
"Just open the damn door, Christian," she demands.
I do, and then I take a step back, so she can step inside first.
She gazes at me for a long moment, draws in a breath, and steps inside.
Shit, shit, shit.
I step into the room after her, gaze fixed firmly on her face, watching her take it all in. She gazes around the room—the dark red walls, the varnished parquet floor, the Saint Andrew's Cross affixed to the wall across from us, the iron grid on the ceiling. The paddles, the whips, the crops, the floggers by the door.
The chest of drawers that hold my sex toys.
The whipping bench across the room, the canes. The table, the couch, the bed.
Everything she looks at, I imagine her affixed to, or underneath the use of.
I'm going insane standing here, watching her look around the room, imagining her, here, naked, restrained.
Oh fucking fuck me.
The thoughts are distracting in the least.
I watch her expression change from shock to concentration, to amusement, to awe…
Finally, she turns to look at me. She looks so inquisitive. It's beyond hot.
For someone who's never been involved in something like this, she's taking it surprisingly well.
On auto-pilot—because if I let myself think too hard, we won't be leaving the playroom clothed—I follow her further into the room. She reaches out to touch one of the floggers. The sight has me hard. I imagine her skin flushed and over-sensitized from the whip of it…
"It's called a flogger," I tell her.
She doesn't say anything, barely even seems to regard my words. Maybe she's in shock. I can't even see the fear on her face, though it has to be there, somewhere…
She moves over to the bed, running her hands down one of the posts.
"Say something," I beg. She's killing me.
"Do you do this to people or do they do it to you?" She speaks, finally, and relief floods my body.
"People?" I take a moment to consider my answer. Finally, "I do this to women who want me to."
Does she want me to do this to her? Even a little bit?
"If you have willing volunteers, why am I here?" she asks. Her voice is low and soft, and surprisingly composed.
"Because I want to do this with you, very much." I gaze at her intently. I'm laying it all out there for her. Will she take it? Will she accept it?
"Oh," she gasps, and her shock—or is it consternation?—is evident.
She strolls across the room, to the whipping bench and strokes her fingers across the leather pad. My cock twitches at the sight. Oh, how I'd love to bend her over, and—
"You're a sadist?" she asks.
"I'm a Dominant," I correct her. She's functioning, and she's asking questions, so the whole idea of this can't turn her off too much, can it?
"What does that mean?" she whispers.
Patiently, I explain, in the simplest of terms. "It means I want you to willingly surrender yourself to me, in all things."
She frowns at me. "Why would I do that?"
"To please me," I whisper, and I am strangely shy about my words. "In very simple terms, I want you to want to please me." Here. Now.
"How do I do that?"
"I have rules, and I want you to comply with them. They are for your benefit and for my pleasure. If you follow these rules to my satisfaction, I shall reward you. If you don't, I shall punish you, and you will learn."
She glances toward the canes, and as she does, I imagine her, bare, sprawled across the whipping bench, the cane coming down across her backside, leaving red, delicious streaks in its wake… Fuck…
"And where does all this fit in?" she asks, gesturing around the room.
I force myself to concentrate. "It's all part of the incentive package. Both reward and punishment."
"So you'll get your kicks by exerting your will over me," she assumes aloud.
Kicks? That's not what the fuck this is about. Irritation rises, but I push it down, reminding myself she has no clue about any of this. I need to be patient with her. She needs guidance, and teaching.
"It's about gaining your trust and your respect, so you'll let me exert my will over you. I will gain a great deal of pleasure, joy even, in your submission. The more you submit, the greater my joy—it's a very simple equation."
"Okay," she says, "and what do I get out of this?"
I shrug, and I almost feel… attritional. "Me."
She just stares, and suddenly I'm frustrated. I push my fingers through my hair. "You're not giving anything away, Anastasia. Let's go back downstairs where I can concentrate better. It's very distracting having you in here." I offer my hand to her, and she hesitates for just a second. A thrill of dread courses through me. I hurry to reassure her. "I'm not going to hurt you, Anastasia."
This seems to work. She takes my hand, and we exit the playroom. Relief hits me like a brick wall once we're back in the hallway.
An idea dawns. I may as well show her everything before she signs, so she'll know exactly what she's getting herself into.
"If you do this, let me show you." We turn right, and I guide her down the hall, to the very end. I open the door for her and show her the bedroom. Pale creams and whites, a blank canvas, if you will.
"This will be your room," I tell her, "You can decorate it how you like, have whatever you like in here."
"My room?" I can hear the horror in her voice. "You're expecting me to move in?"
"Not full time," I assure her, "Just, say, Friday evening through Sunday. We have to talk about all that, negotiate. If you want to do this." Does she want to do this? She hasn't told me yes or no, yet.
"I'll sleep here?" she asks.
"Yes."
"Not with you." Her tone is hesitant.
"No. I told you, I don't sleep with anyone, except you when you're stupefied with drink." The turn the conversation has taken leaves me tense, and I hear the shortness of my words.
Her lips smooth into a hard line. "Where do you sleep?"
"My room is downstairs. Come, you must be hungry."
"Weirdly, I seem to have lost my appetite." She's annoyed, defiant.
"You must eat, Anastasia," I snap, and lead her back downstairs, into the kitchen.
"I'm fully aware that this is a dark path I'm leading you down, Anastasia. Which is why I really want you to think about this. You must have some questions," I assume. I let go of her hand in the kitchen and head over to the fridge.
She doesn't say anything.
"You've signed your NDA," I remind her, "You can ask me anything you want and I'll answer."
I pull open the refrigerator door. On the shelf sits a cheese plate. I pull it out and set it on the counter. Giving her a moment to assemble her thoughts, I begin to slice a French baguette with a serrated knife. I can slice bread, and reheat things in the microwave, but that's about as far as my cooking abilities go.
"Sit," I say, gesturing to one of the bar stools.
"You mentioned paperwork," she finally says, as she takes the seat I've pointed to.
"Yes."
"What paperwork?" she inquires.
"Well," I say, "apart from the NDA, a contract saying what we will and won't do. I need to know your limitations, and you need to know mine. This is consensual, Anastasia."
"And if I don't want to do this?"
My heart skips a beat. "That's fine," I say to her, careful to keep my tone neutral. Because, really, it's not fine. Not to me. I need her to want this.
"But we won't have any sort of relationship?" she says.
"No."
"Why?" She sounds… sad.
"This is the only relationship I'm interested in." The only way I know. I think back to my conversation with Elliot this afternoon. I can't do more.
"Why?"
I shrug. "It's the way I am," I tell her simply. It's the truth.
"How did you become this way?"
"Why is anyone the way they are?" I demand, "That's kind of hard to answer. Why do some people like cheese and other people hate it? Do you like cheese? Mrs. Jones—my housekeeper—has left this for supper."
I pull a couple of plates from the cupboard and place one in front of her.
"What are your rules that I have to follow?"
"I have them written down. We'll go through them once we've eaten."
"I'm really not hungry," she whispers.
"You will eat." Shit, what is with this woman and food? "Would you like another glass of wine?"
"Yes, please."
I pour her some more, hoping the added alcohol will fuel her inspiration to eat, and round the counter to sit with her. She takes a sip of the wine.
"Help yourself to food, Anastasia," I offer. Ladies first. My eyes narrow as I watch her take the most miniscule bunch of grapes.
"Have you been like this for awhile?" she asks before I can push the matter.
"Yes." Have I ever not been like this?
"Is it easy to find women who want to do this?" she asks, curious.
"You'd be amazed," I tell her.
"Then why me?" she demands, "I really don't understand."
Neither do I, Miss Steele. "Anastasia, I've told you. There's something about you. I can't leave you alone." I feel myself smile, though it's humorless, "I'm like a moth to a flame." I watch her bite her lip, and I feel my gaze darken. "I want you very badly, especially now, when you're biting your lip again." I force myself to take a breath. Paperwork first… But all I want to do is bend her over and fuck her like mad… Control yourself, Grey…
"I think you have that cliché the wrong way around," she mutters.
"Eat," I snap. We need to eat. This will delay my wants for a short while.
"No," she tells me indignantly, "I haven't signed anything yet, so I think I'll hang on to my free will for a bit longer, if that's okay with you."
Oh, Miss Steele. You and your smart mouth. I feel myself smiling. "As you wish, Miss Steele."
"How many women?" she suddenly blurts.
"Fifteen," I say without blinking.
"For long periods of time?" she asks.
"Some of them, yes."
"Have you hurt anyone?"
"Yes," I admit, thinking back to Amber, and anger flares inside me at the memory. I was new, and I restrained her too tightly.
"Badly?"
"No," I assure her.
"Will you hurt me?" I see the trepidation in her eyes.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"Physically, will you hurt me?"
"I will punish you when you require it, and it will be painful."
She swallows another sip of wine. She still hasn't said no.
"Have you ever been beaten?"
Damn, all of these questions. This woman beguiles me. She's so quiet, so introspective, so closed off, and then suddenly she opens up like a burst dam.
"Yes," I answer her honestly. "Let's discuss this in my study. I want to show you something." Many of her questions, I believe, can be answered by the contract. But right now, I want to show her my rules.
When we enter my office, I gesture to one of the leather chairs in front of my desk, and hand her the piece of paper I've printed off with the NDA.
"These are the rules. They may be subject to change. They form part of the contract, which you can also have. Read these rules and let's discuss."
I watch her eyes scan the page. Finally, she's reading.
After a few moments, she looks up.
"Hard limits?"
"Yes. What you won't do, what I won't do, we need to specify in our agreement." I appraise her, waiting for the next question. It feels so good, to have nothing more to hide. Now it's a matter of her making a decision.
"I'm not sure about accepting money for clothes," she says now, "It feels wrong." She shifts in her seat, clearly uncomfortable. I haven't the faintest clue why.
"I want to lavish money on you," I tell her, "Let me buy you some clothes. I may need you to accompany me to functions, and I want you well dressed." Her Walmart and Old Navy brand clothes will just not do for that sort of thing. Besides, she deserves to have nice clothes. Internally, I shake my head at the thought. What possessed me to say that? I've never taken any of my other submissives to functions before. But there's something about Miss Steele… I want to show her off. "I'm sure your salary, when you do get a job, won't cover the kind of clothes I'd like you to wear."
"I don't have to wear them when I'm not with you?" she asks.
"No." I suppose in her free time, it's up to her what she wears.
"Okay," she acquiesces. She seems satisfied with my answer. "I don't want to exercise four times a week," she continues.
"Anastasia, I need you supple, strong, and with stamina. Trust me, you need to exercise." My mind drifts, thinking of all the things she'll need strength and stamina for… Hmm.
"But surely not four times a week. How about three?"
"I want you to do four." She has no idea how exhausting this can be.
"I thought this was a negotiation?" she counters.
I purse my lips at her. She's quite the stubborn little thing. Though, she's right. "Okay, Miss Steele," I relent, "Another point well made. How about an hour on three days and one day half an hour?" I can deal with that.
"Three days, three hours." She's firm on her counter offer. "I get the impression you're going to keep me exercised when I'm here."
I grin wickedly. How right she is. "Yes, I am. Okay, agreed. Are you sure you don't want to intern at my company? You're a good negotiator." I know I've told myself not to fuck the staff, but for Miss Steele, I could make an exception. There's something thrilling about knowing she'd be available at my every beck and call.
"No, I don't think that's a good idea," she mumbles, staring down at the list of rules.
No, it's probably not.
I move on.
"So, limits. These are mine." I hand her another document.
She reads them through.
"Is there anything you'd like to add?" I inquire. This is important. I would never want to overstep any of her bounds.
I watch her, waiting for her to speak, but the longer I stare the more she looks… well, a little lost. I feel my brow furrow.
"Is there anything you won't do?"
"I don't know," she mumbles, and all of a sudden, she's very shy again.
"What do you mean you don't know?" I'm confused.
She shifts in her seat and bites her lip.
That lip…
"I've never done anything like this," she says.
Well, obviously. "Well," I push, "when you've had sex, was there anything that you didn't like doing?"
She turns pink. I try to imagine what she could be so embarrassed about. I thought I'd covered just about everything in my hard limits. There's nothing left to be ashamed of.
"You can tell me, Anastasia. We have to be honest with each other or this isn't going to work."
She wiggles again and stares at her fingers, all knotted together.
"Tell me," I demand. This is starting to get on my nerves. If she can't communicate with me, this won't work either.
"Well…" she begins, "I haven't had sex before, so I don't know."
Holy motherfuck.