Three and a Half Weeks Page 4

  He stood up. “Remain in position until I instruct you otherwise,” he said sternly, and left the room.

  I couldn’t tell how long he was gone. Time is elastic and can stretch or contract, depending on one’s state of mind. Heightened anticipation makes time stretch into oblivion so it seemed an eternity before he came back. By then I was intensely anxious but also brimming with excitement. I wondered about my sexuality, then: why was this so damn exciting? Was I some kind of pervert?

  He walked over to me. I remembered to keep my eyes down so I could see only his lower legs and feet. He lifted me up by my elbow. I let myself go limp so I could allow him to guide me. He brought me to a wooden thing, about hip high and covered in leather.

  “I’m mindful that this time will be only your third time out, sexually speaking, so I don’t want to go too far in this room tonight. We’ll take things slowly. But I’d like you to become familiar and relatively comfortable with the equipment. This,” he patted the leather-covered wood thing, “is a sawhorse. Normally you’d lie on this bench, face down and straddle the end with your legs, your bottom hanging over the edge by a few inches. However, because you’re so green, I’m going to put you on it on your back.”

  I didn’t respond so as to avoid using any of those terms of address that made me squeamish. Placing his large hands around my waist, he lifted me onto the horse.

  “Lay down and draw your knees up,” his instructions were swift and terse, as if we weren’t in this compromising position together—clinical, I suppose would be an apt description for his attitude. Where was the charming man I met in my shop?

  It’s not that I didn’t appreciate this dark, exotic male in front of me. I was just confused by him.

  He buckled cuffs on my wrists and ankles and chained each wrist to the corresponding ankle so that I was on my back, all fours in the air, in a fetal position. Then he reached for a strap on the side of the horse, pulling it over my abdomen and securing it on the other side so I was held tightly in place.

  He was wearing black: a black silk shirt and black trousers. Shit, that’s where he went—to change into his Satan outfit. Without removing a single article of his own clothing while I was stark naked, he calmly unzipped his fly and unfurled a condom over his impressive erection. There wasn’t even a trace of good humor on his face; his countenance was sternly arrogant. I couldn’t take my eyes off the transformation in him.

  “Do you recall, Ariel, that I instructed you not to look at me while we assume these roles?”

  Oops, I forgot. I quickly averted my eyes but I heard a bitter chuckle. “Too little, too late, I’m afraid. You’ve already seen too much.”

  Nervously I glanced back, just in time to see his hands reach toward my face and slide a blindfold over my eyes. As soon as I lost my sight, everything else became instantly more intense: the music playing, the sounds of him moving and breathing, and even the cinnamony scent of the room. In that moment I knew that when he began to touch me, that sense would be magnified too. My innards instantly contracted sharply in anticipation.

  I swear I almost came the moment his warm hands touched my legs. He pulled my knees apart so that I was in a most unladylike position. Almost simultaneously the music became louder, with the booming bass resonating through my body, pumping through and with my heart.

  His hands skimmed over my skin lightly, giving me goosebumps, and then landed on my breasts. I felt his fingers circling my nips and in response they began to tingle and burn. What the hell? He must have put something on them. The sensation grew more intense—almost uncomfortable. Next, his hands moved lower and other things began to tingle and burn. I squirmed, trying to evade the sensation but I couldn’t move much: not only was the strap pinning me down but he was now holding both my knees and my limbs were chained together. With no warning, he thrust himself fully into me, while at the same time sliding a hand down to pinch my backside: pain and pleasure merged, hot and instant, and I climaxed immediately. I heard his deep-throated laughter then but he was just beginning the ride. By the time he was through with me, I couldn’t easily close my legs nor could I walk very gracefully.

  Good times.

  Afterward, as we lay in his understated but still sumptuously comfortable bedroom, I asked him about his past.

  “Have you ever had a normal relationship?”

  He was back to his charming self and kissed the tip of my nose. “This kind of relationship is normal to me.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  He reared his head back in irritation. “Ella, I’m nearing thirty years old. Of course I’ve had relationships. It’s just that I prefer this type of one. Let’s move on.” He looked at me from down his nose and I quickly averted my eyes. His hand reached over and grasped my chin, turning it toward him. “I’m uncomfortable speaking of other women to you, Ariel, but if you must know, I had a bad experience when I was young. I prefer relationships with some emotional distance, but I’m not willing to give up the physical intimacy. Does that answer your question?”

  I nodded, now more addled than ever. What kind of bad experience did he have?

  “For what it’s worth, I will admit to one little concession: you are special. I’ve never had to pursue a woman as I’ve pursued you, but I think you’re very much worth it.” He rubbed the end of my nose with his and kissed me again.

  Those few sweet words of his proved stowaways on my eventual flight to the UK, staying with me for weeks afterward as I tried to muddle through the motivations and feelings of this most frustrating man.

  On the second visit to his dungeon, we had more fun. At least he thought it was fun. That time, he used toys: a vibrator he called a butterfly—I was rather fond of that one and I wouldn’t mind getting one for my very own—a type of fluffy feather, a vibrating thing that looked like a massager, and tiny metal balls that are strung together and are inserted into various orifices and pulled out slowly during climax. He also used a flogger on me. Over our last two encounters, he gifted me with multiple orgasms. This time he denied me even one.

  I was so frustrated, I was whimpering. Ian just watched me closely, occasionally offering me a wicked grin. I couldn’t believe he was being so mean. Sexual frustration is cruel and it had been going on for what seemed like hours. I was about to really lose it when he finally gave in.

  My wrists were restrained to a chain that dangled from the headboard on the dungeon bed. He flipped me over onto my stomach so suddenly that I screamed out loud but the loss of balance caused my face to smush (that’s smash and mush) into the pillow, muffling it. He didn’t stop there: he slid both of my knees up the bed until my backside was up in the air and then he slapped me so hard, once, twice, and then a third time, pinching my nip before slamming himself into me. I came so hard and so instantly (and so amazingly) that I managed to scrounge up enough humanity to forgive him the previous torment. But he kept pounding into me, right through my orgasm, and, exhausted, I realized he wanted me to come again.

  “I can’t,” I whined.

  “You can,” he snarled, “and you will, Ariel. I want you to give me more…now!” He leaned over, pulled my head back by my hair, and bit my neck as he hammered at me and his fingers did a reach around.

  So I did. Come. Bombarded by sensations everywhere at once, I caved to his dominance and fell before the altar of his alpha-maleness. My body was in control, relegating my mind to the backseat—my body was proving to be such a slut. The idea unsettled me but I tried not to dwell on it.

  After he hit his orgasm, he stilled, remaining on his knees, and looked down at me, while I peered up at him from the corner of my eye.

  “How was that, baby?” His eyes were shining with triumph.

  I sighed heavily. If I had to die young, this was as good a way to go as any I could think of.

  Then there was the third visit. On my third and last trip into that room, he whipped me.

  He. Whipped. Me.

  He used what he called a single tail and it
left hot-pink stripes up and down my thighs, and rear end. He’d promised me he’d only do as much as he thought I could take, that he wouldn’t exceed my so-called limits, but he breached that boundary and then some. Under the haze of shocking pain, I finally remembered to use my safe word, shouting it at the top of my lungs. When I said the word, he stopped instantly and cast the whip on the floor. Yet I still have nightmares where I scream out the safe word but it falls on deaf ears and the forceful blows keep raining down on me.

  Afterward, he was apologetic and so very solicitous—and out of breath. We were both panting but for very different reasons. But no matter how deep or heartfelt his apology, the line was most definitely crossed and I was done. Why did I ever even entertain the thought that I was up for it? When I got home that night, I swallowed some ibuprofen and went straight to bed, sore, shocked, and mourning the loss of what never would be—my fabulous fairytale romance with the dashing Dorian Blackmon. Like his namesake Dorian Gray, his beautiful face hid something ugly underneath.

  Arriving like a gift from the universe, the next morning a letter came in the mail: I had been awarded a fellowship to Cambridge University to study under the renowned historian Charles Norwood-Finch. I would continue my studies in art history, specifically the Protestant Reformation’s impact on art in 16th century England. I had exactly two weeks to pack and get there. I only needed two days.

  I never saw Ian Blackmon again.

  I was in Cambridge when Christmas rolled around. Britain is so very charming during the holidays but I felt desolate. I began to write my book on Thanksgiving Day, only it wasn’t Thanksgiving in the UK, so that led me to have a one-woman pity party before sitting down, pen in hand, to the real tears. I thought perhaps I could exorcise the memories that tormented me by writing them down, seeing the man in brown in black and white.

  Now, I’m no writer: my interests and strengths lie in history—its details and facts, its fascinating evolution. But I had read enough literature in my life to fake it. I tried to channel the bleak despair of Dostoevsky, the witty repartee of Noel Coward, the happily-ever-after of Cinderella. Granted, I knew nothing about pacing, character development, point of view, omniscience—I mean, people who aren’t professional writers have no idea how complicated writing a good book can be.

  Still, the one thing I had going for me was that I was, in fact, recording history, not writing fiction. And it was my history—who better to write it? So I knew it would be in first-person. And I knew it would be a character-driven story. Finally, I knew how it began and ended. Plus, only a handful of people would ever see the book, so I was safe.

  I went to one of those print-on-demand publishers and had my book bound, printing up a batch of 25 copies, though I only needed eleven. I wrote a pithy dedication to all my girls—the gift recipients—and patted myself on the back for coming up with the best inexpensive gift ever.

  But the morning after I finished writing my book, I woke from my dreams to discover I still had my friendly demon around my neck for constant company. I couldn’t rid my soul of Ian Blackmon, no matter what I did to try to banish him.

  I know it sounds stupid because intimate though we were, I only knew him for a few weeks… but I missed him… so, so much. Like any despair-inducing loss, the pain penetrated to the center of my soul. I wanted to run back to him but I forced myself to be strong, to do anything but dwell on him: crochet, run, study, take up synchronized swimming—anything. But in any and every quiet moment, scenes from our time together would suddenly drop in to revisit me, causing me no end of anguish. Like the time he almost got me fired…

  After our second night together, he dropped by the store unexpectedly while I was working. I just so happened to be waiting on a young male customer who was hitting on me big time. Ian strolled in through the door just in time for the grand finale. That’s when I learned how jealous and possessive he was. I’d been showing the guy possible gifts for his mother: scarves, bracelets, and wallets, I think. The customer, a mid-twentyish, blond athletic type in a tight tee-shirt, jeans, and leather coat had finally selected a sterling bracelet, I believe. That’s when the fun started.

  “Would you like it giftwrapped, sir?”

  “Absolutely. But before you ring it up, I’d like to make another purchase.”

  “Yes?” I asked politely, happy for another commission.

  “My girlfriend is just about the same size as you and I’d like to buy her some lingerie. Would you mind trying on a few pieces for me?”

  I was stunned by the man’s audacity. “You want me to try on lingerie?”

  “Would you, please? I wouldn’t want to misjudge her size—that could get me into all kinds of trouble,” he laughed, flashing a row of straight, white teeth with sharpened incisors. Predator teeth.

  I had seen Ian walk in a few seconds before but he’d begun to browse while I finished with the customer. Just his exalted presence in the small shop made me nervous but now that the man was flirting with me—beyond flirting, really—I could feel Ian’s eyes boring into me as he watched the scene unfold. I wondered if he’d take any action or not.

  I forced a laugh. “I don’t think that’s possible. Sorry.”

  “Oh, come on, be a good sport. You work on commission, don’t you? This sale is going to go over five hundred if you’re a good girl and help sell me the sexy lingerie.”

  He was there in a flash, a collage of dark suit, white teeth, and deadly aim. “Get the fuck away from her and out of the store if you value your miserable life, you piece of shit cretin.” The words streamed out of his mouth like ammo from an AK-47.

  The blond man got red in the face and whipped his head around to find a fuming Ian Blackmon towering over him. “Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, but his voice lacked conviction in the face of Ian’s black fury.

  “Who am I? That depends. If you don’t disappear in five seconds, then I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you. Clear enough, douche bag?”

  The man turned and stomped out of the shop letting the door bang behind him, his potential purchases forgotten. I studied Ian, watching him try to wrest control of his ugly temper. Well, now I knew the answer to the question, was he jealous?

  “You just cost me a hefty commission, Mr. Blackmon. Plus, my boss lost a big sale.”

  “Really? Well, it’s no problem since you’re quitting your job today anyway. Right now in fact.”

  “Quitting? Are you nuts? I need this job; not all of us are obscenely wealthy dilettantes, you know.”

  “Dilettante? Either you don’t know the meaning of the word or you have no idea of who I am, Ms. Strong. But you are quitting this job: I assure you.”

  I was flabbergasted. Who the hell did he think he was? “I am not quitting, Mr. Blackmon. Now that that’s settled, what can I do for you?”

  Transforming from angry, protective lover to smooth, powerful CEO, he smirked and pulled out his phone, watching me intently while he swiped in a number. “Claudia? I want you to contact the owner of Archipelago… yes, the boutique near the Barnes & Noble in the University district? I believe her surname is Vickers. Please inform her that I planned to make a very large purchase in her store today but was displeased with her salesperson, a young woman named Ariel Strong. Correct. Yes, thank you, Claudia.”

  The gasp that came out of my throat could have drowned out a fire engine’s screaming siren. I could not believe he just got me fired. What a dick.

  Smirking, he grabbed my hand and kissed it before I could snatch it away.

  And snatch it away I did, so violently I nearly fell backward when he released me. “I never want to see you again, Mr. Blackmon. I can’t believe you just did what you did. I happen to need my job to pay my bills!”

  He was so cool, his eyes hard like chips of flint. “Not anymore. I’ll see to all your needs, Ariel.”

  “I am not a prostitute, for your information.” My voice was trembling with unspent rage. “Call her back and tell her not to do it. I’m se
rious.”

  He was stubborn but I could see his pigheaded resolve crumbling. “You can work for me, Ariel. I’ll pay you considerably more than you earn here in your best week and you’ll be safer.”

  I stamped my foot in frustration. “I’m perfectly safe here. That guy was an idiot but I could handle him. Please call her.” I couldn’t help it: tears were pooling in my eyes. His audacity was without bounds.

  Sighing, he made the call. “Claudia, disregard my last request. Sorry. Yes, I’ll be back in the office shortly.”

  Ironically, that ended up being my last day at the shop anyway. The next day started my boss’s three-week buying trip to Europe and Indonesia, a yearly tradition of hers when she closes up shop. Consequently, I had a forced vacation of three weeks and then all that darkness went down with Blackmon and I left the country.

  Life in Cambridge dragged by as I studied diligently and missed my friends. Weeks passed. In early February, I finally heard from a couple of my girlfriends who had received the book. They loved it and said it was the best present ever. Jade even said she was inspired to buy a bigger vibrator after reading one of the steamier scenes and I laughed hard enough to earn myself a stomachache, picturing the petite Asian beauty at the sex shop browsing for naughty toys. Mariah had passed her copy around to other friends and so had Kayla. I had a moment of panic when I heard that.

  “How well do you know these people?” I asked Mariah.

  “What difference does it make? It’s a great read, Ella. Just calm yourself and go have a cup of Earl Grey or something. I think I may come visit before your semester is over. Would that be a good idea?”

  Kayla was just as savoir faire about the whole thing. “Oh, Ella, this novel is a surefire winner. I think you should try to have it published and—”

  “No!” I screamed across the Atlantic into her eardrum. “Are you insane? I’m not a writer. Please, Kayla, don’t lend it around or you’ll embarrass me. I need my name to be respectable, after all, if I want to be taken seriously as a historian. The book is filled with kink, for God’s sake. Damn, damn, damn, if I had known how inconsiderate you all would be, I would have used a pseudonym. Damn.”