Author: Tara Sue Me

Chapter Eleven

The sound of running water gradually trickled its way into my consciousness and I slowly pulled myself upright. Once again, it seemed, Abigail had proved herself stronger than me. When told to clean her face and go to her bedroom, she went with no hesitation. Unlike me. I had languished in my room, wallowing in self-pity.

An inner voice whispered that I should go to her. To give her the aftercare she so desperately needed. But my pride kept me where I was.

If I went to her and broke down, as I feared I might, she would want to know why a dominant of so many years’ experience would fall apart after punishing her. One thing would lead to another and she would discover the truth—that I knew of her long before her application crossed my desk.

I waited until the water in her bathroom stopped running, then paused, listening, a few minutes longer before walking into the hall.

She was crying.

Again.

I walked to her door and the crying stopped.

I put my hand out to turn the doorknob, but guilt prevented me from turning it. I knew what she would look like.

Runny nose. Wet eyes. Tear-streaked cheeks.

But worst of all, what would her expression hold? Hatred? Fear? Pain?

If I reached for her, would she shy from my touch? If I talked, would she listen?

I sighed.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t face her.

I reached and placed my hand flat against her door.

I can’t, Abigail. I’m not strong enough. Forgive me.

It was too early to go to bed—not even nine o’clock—and the house was too quiet. I started to regret my decision to kennel Apollo for the night.

I walked into the kitchen and picked up my phone to check on him.

“Hello, Mr. West,” the receptionist said after I introduced myself. “How are you?”

Not in the mood for small talk.

“How’s Apollo?” I asked.

“He’s doing very well, sir. So much better than last time.”

I couldn’t even muster up the energy to be happy.

“You’ll be picking him up tomorrow at ten thirty?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And you’ll be dropping him off again next Friday.” I could hear the smile in her voice. “Assuming we win this weekend, of course.”

This was where I was to engage in witty banter about football. Unfortunately, I had no witty banner in me.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said and hung up.

I walked through the house, double-checking locks and security codes. I listened for footfalls from upstairs, but none came. Which was fine. If only one of us slept that night, I wanted it to be her.

Without thinking, I made my way to the library and my piano. I felt a stab of pain as I thought about how I had wanted the weekend to go. If I was lucky and Abigail stayed with me, maybe I would show the library to her later.

I sat at the piano, trying to decide what to play. The song I’d composed last weekend, the one inspired by Abigail’s beauty, mocked me. How dare I play about her beauty? What right did I have after what I’d done?

I had no right.

Anger surged through me and I let my frustration out on the piano keys, playing the furious notes that pounded through my head. For a long time, I was lost in the anger, but as always, playing helped restore my calm. Eventually, the sweetness, the very essence of her took over, and I found myself unable to do anything but allow it to overtake me.

I wasn’t a coward, I told myself the next morning. I was giving Abigail time. Time for what, I couldn’t say. I only knew I wasn’t ready to face her, and I suspected she felt the same.

I left the house shortly after six and drove into the city to my office. Three hours later, I had accomplished nothing. I thought back to the note I’d left in the kitchen. Would Abigail have found it? Would she still be at my house when I returned at noon?

I had to talk to someone, someone who would understand. I looked at the clock, grabbed my phone, and did something I hadn’t done in months—I called Paul.

“Hello,” a cheerful feminine voice said on the other end of the line.

“Christine, hello,” I said. “It’s Nathaniel.” Christine and Paul had been married for three years. She was also his submissive.

“Nathaniel. It’s been too long.”

“I know,” I said, still not ready for small talk. “Is Paul around?”

“He’s right here. Hold on.”

I heard muffled speaking and then the unmistakable sound of a kiss.

“Nathaniel,” Paul said. “What’s going on?”

It all came out then. I talked at length about Abigail, that she was inexperienced, that I’d taken her on as a submissive, and finally I went into the details of the previous night—the rules I had, how she’d broken one, the punishment.

The entire time, Paul let me talk and made appropriate comments. Yes, the punishment had been needed. Yes, it was always hard to punish a sub. Yes, I was normal. Yes, I would get over it. Yes, our relationship would only grow from here.

Trust Paul to know exactly what I needed. I felt better within minutes.

“What did you do for aftercare?” he asked.

“I’m talking to you,” I said without thinking. I realized my mistake as soon as the words left my mouth.

“I got that,” he said. “What did you do for her last night?”

I couldn’t talk. For the first time in my life, I had no words.

“Nathaniel,” he said as the silence dragged on. “Please tell me I’m interpreting your hesitation the wrong way. How did the aftercare go?”

“I didn’t . . . I mean . . . I couldn’t . . .”

“Aftercare, Nathaniel,” he said more forcefully. “What did you do?”

I closed my eyes. “Nothing.”

“You took a leather strap twenty times to an inexperienced submissive and did nothing for aftercare?”

“I couldn’t face her . . . I didn’t think she’d want—” I stopped. There was no excuse for my behavior.

“I, I, I,” Paul said, mocking me. “This is not about you, Nathaniel, and if you don’t understand that, you have no business having a submissive.”

He was right. I couldn’t argue with him.

“That woman gave you her submission, and it’s your responsibility to treat that submission with the respect it deserves.” I heard him slam a fist on a table or countertop. “Fuck, Nathaniel. I trained you better than this. Have you treated all your submissives with the same lack of care? Forgotten that your needs are second to theirs?”

“No,” I whispered.

“I want you to understand something,” he said in the cool, calm voice I knew he used to convey his displeasure. “The only reason I’m not hopping on the next plane to New York to strap your ass forty times with a leather paddle is that Christine is days away from delivering our first child.”

He would have done it. I knew he would have. And though he had never been my master, I’d have let him. It would be preferable to the pain eating away at me. Forty straps with a leather paddle would have been over and done with. It wouldn’t leave a gnawing ache.

“I can’t believe you. I really can’t.” He stopped for a minute. “Where is she? Let me talk to her.”

“She’s not here. I’m at my office in the city.”

“You left her alone? By herself?”

“Yes.”

Silence on the other end of the phone, then finally: “Part of me hopes she’s not at your house when you get back. That she leaves you.”

My biggest fear.

“But part of me,” he continued, “thinks that would be entirely too easy for you. I want her to be there, and I want you to have to deal with her.”

I remained silent.

“What are you going to do?” he asked. “How are you going to make this right?”

I took a deep breath and described my plans for the day. After detailing everything, I finally hung up, promising to call back later in the day.

I picked Apollo up from the kennel and drove home, relieved when I pulled up to the house and saw movement from the kitchen window. I let myself into the house quietly, but Apollo nosed his way past me and ran down the hall to the kitchen, toe-nails scraping on the hardwood floor. A muffled shriek came from down the hall, followed by a loud “woof,” and I smiled in spite of myself.

She was still in the house. In the kitchen, even. Making lunch. Bread, if I’d identified the smell wafting down the hall correctly. That alone told me what I’d feared—she probably hadn’t sat down all day. And she needed to. She needed to sit down and see that her backside wasn’t as sore as she made it out to be in her mind.

I walked into the living room and took a pillow from the couch. From the downstairs linen closet, I took a pile of towels and set them to warm in the dryer. Then I went into the dining room and set the pillow on the chair next to mine.

I needed to get my focus back on her. Immediately.

My heart plummeted when she walked into the dining room at noon. Plummeted because I knew suddenly that there were worse things in life than Abigail’s face showing pain, fear, or even hatred.

The worst thing was Abigail’s face showing nothing.

Her hands shook slightly when she put my plate in front of me, but her eyes were empty.

See what you did? You killed her light.

“Eat with me,” I said, because it was the only thing I could force out.

She walked back to the kitchen, and I took a second to close my eyes and gather my thoughts.

She was still here. She wanted to stay. She still wanted me to be her dominant.

She returned to the dining room and stopped for just a minute when she pulled the chair out and saw the pillow.

Sit down, Abigail. You need to see that it’s not as bad as you think it is.

She took her seat slowly, testing herself. I could almost hear her sigh of relief as she sat.

If I had been the dom I needed to be, I would have been home for breakfast and had her sit down then.

We ate in silence. Of course, we ate in silence—she wasn’t going to speak at this table. Why had I chosen to eat here instead of the kitchen?

Because you’re a coward. Because you didn’t want her to speak her mind. Now, suck it up and talk to her.

“Look at me, Abigail.”

She jumped.

Fuck. We were back to that.

Her empty eyes looked at me, and I mustered the strength to continue. “I didn’t like chastising you.” Understatement of the year. “But I have rules, and when you break them, I will chastise you. Swiftly and soundly.”

As much as last night hurt us both, she needed to understand that point if we were to continue. “And I don’t give gratuitous compliments, but you did well last night. Far better than I thought you would.”

My words struck a chord, for something flickered in her eyes for the briefest of seconds.

I didn’t deserve the flicker.

“Finish eating and meet me in the foyer in half an hour in your robe.”

I left the table, took the towels outside, and turned on the hot tub. Once I made it back inside, I changed into my robe and waited for Abigail to join me.

“Follow me,” I said when she met me.

Her eyes were full of questions, but she didn’t say a word as we walked through the living room and made our way outside. She didn’t even hesitate when I opened the door—she just walked through as if it were completely normal to be outside in a bathrobe in January.

She stood and waited for instructions when we reached the hot tub. I took a step close to her and inhaled her wonderful scent. Yes, she was still here. Yes, we could make this work.

I untied her robe, anxious to see if the punishment had left any lingering marks.

Please don’t let there be any marks.