I rang the doorbell.
The door opened slowly and Nathaniel waved me inside.
“Abigail.”
I nodded. Why were we standing in the foyer? Why was he looking at me like that?
“Did you have a good week?” he asked. “You may answer.”
“It was fine.”
“Fine?” he asked, both eyebrows going up. “I’m not entirely sure fine is the appropriate response.”
I thought back over the week. Trying to see where this was going.
Nothing out of the ordinary sprung to mind. Work was the same. Felicia was the same. I did all the jogging. All the ridiculous yoga. I got eight—
Oh, no.
Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, noooooo…
“Abigail,” he said calmly. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”
“I only got seven hours of sleep on Sunday night,” I whispered, looking at the floor.
How the hell did he know?
“Look at me when you speak.”
I looked up at him. His eyes were blazing.
“I only got seven hours of sleep on Sunday night,” I said again.
“Seven hours?” He took a step closer. “Do you think I put together a plan for your wellbeing because I’m bored and have nothing better to do? Answer me.”
My face was hot. I was certain I’d pass out any moment. Passing out would be good. Passing out would be preferable. “No, Master.”
“I had plans for this evening, Abigail,” he said. “Things I wanted to show you. Instead we’ll have to spend the evening in my room working on your punishment.”
He looked as if he wanted me to say something. I wasn’t sure I could speak. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Master.”
“You’ll be sorrier still when I finish with you.” He jerked his head toward the stairs. “My room. Now.”
I’ve always wondered what it felt like for a condemned criminal to walk to their execution. How did they get their feet to move? Did they look over the streets or cells they passed and remember better times? Could they feel the eyes of the observers watching them as they passed?
I’m not saying it’s the same. I know it’s not.
You can only die once. You don’t feel anything after you’re dead.
I would feel what was coming my way.
But I made up my mind on the way to Nathaniel’s room that I would take my punishment without complaint. He’d made the rules and I’d agreed to them. I’d broken one. There would be consequences. I could accept that.
I wasn’t surprised to see the whipping bench back out. I took a deep breath and stripped my clothes off. I trembled a bit when I stepped up to the bench and leaned over it.
But where did my hands go? Crossed under my chest? That didn’t seem right. I hung them down. That was uncomfortable. Above my head? No, that probably looked stupid.
I heard Nathaniel enter the room and, all of a sudden, my hands didn’t matter anymore.
Part of me wished I could see his face, but another part of me was glad I couldn’t. I was acutely aware that I was n**ed and exposed to him.
A warm hand touched my bottom and I jumped.
“I use three different types of spankings,” he said, stroking me. “The first is an erotic spanking. It’s used to heighten your pleasure, to excite you.” His hand swept down my bottom and landed between my legs. “The riding crop, for example.”
His stroking got progressively rougher and he pinched me. “The second spanking is for chastisement. You won’t feel any pleasure. The purpose is to remind you of the consequences of disobedience. I make rules for your wellbeing, Abigail. How many hours of sleep are you supposed to get Sunday through Thursday? Answer me.”
“Eight,” I choked out. Could he not get on with it?
“Yes, eight. Not seven. You obviously forgot, so perhaps a sore backside will help you remember in the future.”
He was silent. The only sound I heard was the beating of my heart thumping in my head.
“The third spanking is a warm-up spanking. It’s used before a chastisement spanking. Do you know why I have to use a warm-up spanking?”
No, I’d never heard of a warm-up spanking. Damned if I’d say anything, though.
He placed a leather strap by my head. Right where I could easily see it.
“Because your ass can’t handle the chastisement spanking first.”
My hands groped madly for something to hold me to the bench.
“Twenty strokes with the leather strap, Abigail.” He stopped. Waited. “Unless you have something you’d like to say.”
He was goading me into saying my safe word! The nerve of him to think I’d give up so easily. I forced myself to remain completely still.
“Very well.”
He started with his hand, smacking me lightly at first, and it wasn’t too bad. It was almost pleasurable, actually. Nothing worse than the riding crop. But he kept on. And kept on. And kept on. It started to get uncomfortable and my body strained with the effort to hold still.
After a while, perhaps about five minutes, I started tensing before his hand landed and dreading when he’d strike me again. Because, damn it, it hurt and he hadn’t even really started.
Tears sprang to my eyes. How long was this going to last?
Again and again his hand came down. Over and over. And, damn, this was only the warm-up.
He stopped, ran his hand over my backside as if he were gauging something on my skin. Then he took the strap from beside my head. “Count, Abigail.”
Without warning, the strap whistled through the air and landed on my sore butt.
“Ow!”
“What?” he asked.
“One. I meant one.”
Again it came down.
“Shit! I mean, two.”
“Watch the language.” Harder this time.
“Th…three.”
Four hurt so badly, I reached out to cover myself. He stopped for a second and leaned over to whisper in my ear, “Cover yourself again and I’ll tie you up and add an additional ten.”
I crossed my arms and put them under my chest.
I was sobbing by eleven. Had a hard time catching my breath by fifteen. By eighteen, I’d decided I’d get ten hours of sleep. Every night. Just, please, stop.
“Quit begging.”
I’d been talking out loud. Begging. I didn’t care. The strap landed again. I blurted out something that might have been nineteen.
One more and it’d be over.
“How many hours of sleep are you to get, Abigail? Answer me.”
I took a deep breath. Choked on snot. “Ei…ei…eight.”
One more and it would be over.
“Twen…ty.”
The only sound in the room came from me. Sobs and snorts. My body shook. I wasn’t sure I could move off the bench.
“Clean your face and go to your bedroom,” Nathaniel said. He wasn’t even breathing heavily. “You have sleep to catch up on.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The face looking back at me from the mirror was red and splotchy.
Well, Abby, I told my reflection, no more bonding time with Felicia, huh? Or if there were, it would end well before my ten o’clock bedtime.
I hobbled to the bedroom and lay on my stomach. I certainly hoped Nathaniel wouldn’t want to do any…experimenting…this weekend. Plug or not, I was too sore even to think about it.
And what if he did? Would I say my safe word? The spanking, okay, I could handle that. I’d messed up. He’d let me know tonight, in no uncertain terms, that rules were rules were rules. But what if he wanted to try anal sex?
I just didn’t think I could do it—not tonight. Not this weekend. I’d have to use my safe word.
I decided then and there, that was my limit. You needed to have limits. Had to tell yourself how far you’d go. And that was mine. No anal sex this weekend.
I thought about leaving Nathaniel.
And I got sad. Whether it was disappointing Nathaniel, the spanking, the thought of never seeing him again, or all three, I started crying. I pushed my face into the pillow—I didn’t want him to hear. What if he came in?
As I cried, I heard footsteps echoing in the hallway. I stopped and held myself still. Had he heard? The steps stopped. I saw his feet underneath the door.
He continued walking.
I let out a shaky breath and forced myself to go to sleep.
The dream came back that night. The one with the music. It started out faster this time. Angry. Fierce. Then gradually grew into the same sweet longing of the song I’d heard the previous weekend. Sweetness laced with a hint of sorrow. In my dream, I ran from room to room. Desperate. I would find it this time. I would find out where the music was coming from. I pushed open door after door after door. But, like before, each one opened to another hallway and each hallway ended with a new door.
The music stopped. I reached another door and shoved it open. Only to see that it led to nothing…
Another Saturday morning. Another early alarm clock wake-up. As I got ready, I thought about facing Nathaniel. What would he say? How would he act? What did he have planned for the weekend? Would the day see me saying my safe word and leaving?
I walked gingerly to the kitchen, my body achy all over. No sounds from behind the door of the gym. The kitchen was empty. My eyes swept over the room. There. On the table. A folded note.
On the outside, in neat script, was my name.
I opened it.
I’ll be back for lunch in the dining room at noon.
I took a deep breath. He wasn’t telling me to pack up and leave. Some part of me had feared he would.
I fixed a quick breakfast of oatmeal, stirring in a few nuts and diced bananas. I ate standing up, staring at the cabinets that lined two walls of the kitchen. I decided to dig through them after I’d finished eating. It would give me something to do, since I didn’t feel like jogging, and yoga moves were out of the question.
I took some ibuprofen and then explored for an hour. Nathaniel had a wonderful selection of cookware, gadgets, and dishes. And his pantry was well stocked. Four deep shelves contained a chef’s dream world of supplies. The top shelf, I couldn’t reach. I’d investigate it later.
I decided to make bread. Kneading dough would be the perfect way to work through my feelings. And it had the extra bonus of being work I could do standing.
As I pounded the dough, I went over and over my feelings for Nathaniel. I had been stupid last week to think—to hope—that he was falling for me. I was his submissive. For now, that would be enough. I wouldn’t think about the future. Just the here and now. Besides, after seeing him again, maybe I would discover my feelings toward him cooled.
I took a cold cooked chicken from the refrigerator and cut it up. Chicken salad would go nicely with the fresh bread. I’d serve it with grapes and carrots.
The morning passed quickly. I heard Nathaniel return at some point. Apollo ran into the kitchen. He spotted me, let out a ‘woof’ and jumped up to give me a sloppy kiss.
At noon, I carried a plate into the dining room, where Nathaniel sat waiting. My heart pounded. I hoped he didn’t see the way my hand shook when I set his plate down.
“Eat with me,” he said simply.
I didn’t feel liking sitting down, but there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell I was going to disobey him. I made a plate, carried it into the dining room, sat it on the table, and pulled out the chair across from him.
It had a pillow on it.
I hesitated for just a minute. Was he trying to be funny? Because there wasn’t a damn thing funny about anything. I shifted my eyes over to him. He was staring straight ahead, chewing.
No. He wasn’t trying to be funny. The dining room chairs were hard. He was being considerate.
I sat down cautiously. Okay. It hurt a bit. Not too bad. Nothing I couldn’t handle.
We ate in silence. Again.
I didn’t mind silence normally. Silence was good. Silence gave you time to think. But I’d had nothing but silence this morning and I was tired of thinking. I was ready for noise.