I waited for what seemed like hours. Based on past experiences, the tension between us wouldn’t go away until my actions had been dealt with. Our lives were governed by rules that were not followed by the world at large. They were there because it was what we needed. It didn’t mean they were always pleasant.
“Go stand and face the wall,” he finally said.
I swallowed a groan before he heard it. I hated standing against a wall. He’d had me do it only a handful of times before. But in looking over my options, I reminded myself it was better than the cane.
I rose to my feet before he could accuse me of stalling and walked to the back wall opposite his desk. It was possible he’d want to sit and observe me while I stood. On the way, I made certain not to look his way. He’d probably be standing with arms crossed, or wearing that cool, distant look. Probably both.
I stood an inch from the wall with my hands by my side. Too late, I realized the spot I’d picked was under an air vent blowing cool air. Or maybe he’d known I’d pick that spot and that’s why he chose to have me join him here instead of in the living room. Who could ever tell with him?
The cool air danced along my exposed back, instantly making my skin pebble with gooseflesh. I wouldn’t get too cold, but it certainly wouldn’t be comfortable.
“You are to stand as still as possible,” he said. “And because you’ll probably be tempted to think only about how cold you are, I want you to think about how I felt when you walked into our house with a strange man. Then I want you to imagine how scared I was when I realized the danger you’d been in.”
If I knew him at all, once he allowed me to move, he’d ask me to write down the thoughts I’d had while I stood. Anytime before when I’d stood against a wall, he’d tell me how long he was going to have me stand.
“I haven’t decided how long you’ll be there,” he said as if reading my mind. “Time begins now,” he said.
At first it was difficult to think about anything other than the discomfort of the air temperature. But I focused on his warning and forced my mind to imagine his thoughts last night.
As I stood there, the image that kept coming to my mind was a picture of him arriving home with a strange woman after I knew he’d been out partying. The impact of that image gutted me. Just thinking about it, even knowing it was only make-believe, hurt. How in the world must he have felt last night not knowing what was going on?
Then I made myself explore the idea of how it would feel to know he was in danger and be unable do anything about it. The terror of knowing everything was fine would be only marginally lessened when the potential outcomes were considered. And those feelings would be only intensified with him. As a Dominant, it was part of who he was to be a protector.
Then, to add insult to injury, I’d been drunk. That was another circumstance that was completely within my control. No one forced me to drink; I’d made the choice to continue.
When I combined all those things together and looked at them objectively, I began to see outside of my perspective and understood his wrath and fear. And I hated the way my actions made him feel. One of my greatest joys was serving him: anticipating his needs and meeting them. Last night, even though it had not been my intention, I’d failed miserably. The problem was, I’d been distracted by the thrill of my new job and had let myself forget I was first and foremost his sub.
Just as I had that heart-wrenching thought, I felt the surprising touch of his warm thumb wiping away tears I didn’t know were falling.
“Why the tears, my lovely?” he asked. His voice was gentler than before.
“I’ve realized how much pain I caused you last night.” I blinked away the wetness still gathering in the corners of my eyes. “And I know what I’ve imagined in no way comes close to what you actually felt, because you had to live it.”
He brushed the other cheek. “I would give up all I have to keep you safe.”
I nodded, unable to formulate words that could convey the true depth of just how sorry I was.
“Look at me,” he said, cupping my chin in the palm of his hand. When I met his eyes, he continued. “You’re going to write lines.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Two hundred times: ‘I will not drink irresponsibly and I will not go to a club without being in the presence of my Master.’ ”
I hated writing lines. It was humiliating because it made me feel like a ten-year-old. And the tediousness of it, the same one line two hundred times? But the reality was it sounded reasonable and he was really letting me off rather easy. The encounter I had must have really thrown him. “Yes, Sir.”