The Trip

Epilogue



Curled up on a huge, velvet cushion on the floor, Shawna flipped through the pages of her diary. Months of pain, of being lost and alone, and after only a few weeks she could honestly say that was all behind her. The safety and security she'd assumed came along with marriage vows finally felt real.

Mark had been a player in the lifestyle when they met, but he'd never shown any interest in going further than light bondage and rough sex. Since she'd never experienced either, she hadn't even considered wanting more. Yet she developed a taste for the formality imposed during the intensive, weekend-long submission workshops they'd participated in. She fell even more in love with the man Mark became when he took his dominant role seriously. But he always left that man in the dungeon, along with the whips and chains. At home he wanted to be "normal."

Which made her feel like her fantasies, the ones in which he tied her to their bed to flog her and f*ck her, were wrong. They'd always communicated well, so she tried to explain, but he simply teased her and scheduled another "play session."

Tired of playing, she spoke to one of their instructors at the club, wondering if maybe something was wrong with her. She couldn't enjoy what they called "vanilla"

anymore. The Domme asked her how much control she wanted to give up.

Her answer? All of it.

"You want to be a slave, pet," the kind Domme had said before bringing her to the dungeon where Mark waited. "Tell your Dom. He loves you, he'll understand."

But Mark hadn't understood. Instead, he'd canceled their memberships and signed them up for marriage counseling. The counselor tried to convince her she didn't really want what she thought she wanted. All the books she'd read, all the roleplaying she'd seen in the club, had created an elaborate fantasy world. Her demands on her husband weren't fair.

She couldn't help but agree. So she turned her focus to painting and did her best to content herself with this boring life she hadn't signed up for. Once her paintings started selling well, she'd immersed herself in advancing her career, and the distance between her and Mark grew.

Not to say he hadn't tried, but his offers to bring her back to the club were too little, too late. Feeling like she was cutting her own heart out of her chest, she'd taken off her wedding ring and asked for a divorce. Then she moved out.

The trip to Detroit was her first step toward really letting go of the man she loved. Because, as the counselor had convinced her, that man didn't exist.

Socks scuffing the carpet near her head startled her, bringing her back to the present. She tried to sit up, and the big cushion flipped out from under her. Her back hit the ground, and she looked up at Mark, stunned.

"Clumsy, pet." He clucked his tongue and put his hands on his hips. "I rented that new movie you wanted to see, but perhaps we should go down to the dungeon for another lesson."

Heat pooled in her core even as a chill crawled up her spine. The room he'd fixed up in their basement wasn't a "dungeon" by most lifestylers' standards, but the sawhorse he'd bought and the Saint Andrew Cross he was building were a good start.

There were chains, ropes he'd been using to practice the technique he'd learned in their latest workshop, and, best of all, plenty of space for him to use his new whip.

Punishments never took place in the dungeon, so she didn't fear being brought there, but her "lessons" were rarely pleasant. Even though Mark always massaged her sore muscles after, spending hours moving from one formal position to another so she wouldn't forget—not fun. But the day Mark had proudly displayed her flawless knowledge of high protocol in front of a group of new subs at the club made the training worth all the aches and pain.

His approval meant more to her than any amount of pleasure. Rolling onto her knees, she bowed and stretched her arms out over her head.

Mark chuckled. "Suck up. Come, love. Sit with me."

On the sofa? She pressed her lips together, careful to keep her expression neutral as she sat up, and then stood with all the poise she could muster. With even steps, she moved to join him on the sofa.

"Stop." His hard tone struck her like the lash of a whip. Only with no warm up to make the kiss of leather erotic.

She automatically stood at attention, arms at her side, fingers slightly curled.

What did I do?

Her Master didn't wait long before answering her unvoiced question. "I expect you to follow my orders without question."

"I—" She cut herself off and had to resist slapping her hand over her mouth.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! She didn't have to be told this was a situation where she didn't speak unless spoken to.

"The question was in your eyes, Shawna." He stood, jaw clenched, and she winced. He hardly used her name anymore unless he was angry. Usually, he called her


"pet" or "love." "Voicing it would have been honest at least."

This, this was the man she loved. The one who knew her so well nothing she did escaped him. Her body, her mind, her soul belonged to him. Why had she doubted that?

At his hand gesture, down with two fingers apart, she lowered to her knees.

Sitting on her heels, she spread her thighs and rested her hands on them, palms up.

"I've told you before, and I'll tell you again. I will not suddenly stop being your master. But, being your master, I decide whether I want you at my feet or curled up by side."

He reached into the top drawer of the antique end table and pulled out the tawse. It seemed like he kept the damn thing close at hand no matter where they were.

Did he have more than one?

"Twenty is a good number, isn't it, slave?"

Twenty? Holy shit. The last time he'd given her fifteen, and she'd cried every time she sat down for days. She'd earned the punishment by swearing at him just to get a reaction. Didn't take her long to realize he knew the difference between bratty behavior for attention and straight out insolence. He'd figured out quickly that insolence was her way of testing him.

Which he told her again and again he had no tolerance for.

"I expect you to answer when asked a question." The disappointment in his eyes hurt more than the tawse ever could. "Let's not add rudeness to your offenses."

"Yes, Master."

His tone turned cold. "Yes, twenty is a good number?"

She closed her eyes. "Yes, Master. Twenty is more than reasonable. I deserve it."

"Really? And what makes you say that?" He put his hand on the back of her neck. "Stand before you answer."

When she stood, he circled her. She had to fight not to turn with him as she spoke. "I promised I would trust you, but I have a lousy way of showing it." She swallowed at his dark look. "Sir."

"Eloquently put." His sudden smile warmed her like the sun did when she stepped out of her cold office in the summer. He returned to the sofa. "Now, strip and come sit with me. You will be denied clothes for this weekend and whipped with the tawse in . . . let's say four intervals of five strikes each."

As she stripped, she tried to figure out what the amusement in his tone at the mention of the "four intervals" meant. That he didn't sound mad anymore was good, but what was he planning?

Snuggling up to his side on the sofa, she rested her head on his chest and peeked up at him. "Permission to speak, Master?"

"Granted." His hand slid down her arm, up her ribs, and then settled on her breast. "What is it, pet?"

He rolled her nipple between his fingers, and little sparks of lust zipped down to her *. She almost forgot what she'd wanted to ask.

Then he pinched her nipple, and she jumped.

"Yes, pet?" He asked again.

"Will we be doing something different this weekend?"

He laughed, and the sound rumbled right through her. Flipping her onto her back, he loomed over her, lips twisted in a positively evil smile.

"You could say that." He reached between the cushions and pulled out the cuffs attached to chains bolted into the sofa's wooden frame. After they were around her wrists, he sat up and pulled her feet onto his lap. He massaged the sole of her foot with one hand while he idly fingered her with the other. "Is that a problem?"

She thought of the list he'd made her fill out and sign, of the few things she'd checked off as hard limits. Since neither of them would consider pushing those limits for another six months, she didn't have to worry about that.

Whatever he chose to do to her, she'd love. Or learn to.

"No, Master." She groaned and lifted her hips as he pumped his fingers deeper, adding a third, then a fourth. "No problem at all."

~The End~