I get all of him or it’s time to say goodbye.
I just hope this is a new hello.
Maybe I won’t even have sex with him. That would truly be a fresh start.
Saturday, seven am
I haven’t slept. I’ve been with him. And I have to work today so I can’t write much now but I need to get at least some of my thoughts down. Remember when I said I wouldn’t have sex with him? I did. Of course, I did. I mean that’s how he hides his emotions so maybe I shouldn’t have, but how could I completely remove his shield? How could I completely strip him bare? It’s a decision I made almost the first moment our eyes locked last night.
He came to the door. Normally, he commands me to a car with a driver who delivers me to him. But no. He came to me. He knocked and I stood at the door, adjusting my little black dress, wondering if the shade of pink lipstick I’d chosen said “do me” or “love me.” I think maybe it said both. I’d taken a deep breath and opened the door. He stood there, in a gray, custom suit, looking like every woman’s fantasy, his eyes steel heat when they met mine.
“Rebecca,” he said softly, his voice a rasp of emotion, and in that moment, I flashed back to intimate moments where I’d been naked and in his arms. When I’d given myself to him as I have no one before him and I doubt anyone after. I could taste him on my lips. Feel his hands. And yet he hadn’t moved and neither had I.
I knew then, that we would be intimate that night, but I knew, too, that it would be different. And it was. It was different. It was…so very different. I need to think about exactly what that means. I need to write out every moment and I will. Just not yet and not just because I have to go to work. I need to think. I need to process every touch, taste, and caress I experienced last night in my mind again before I put it on the page.
More soon.
June 2011
Saturday, six pm
I’m supposed to write about my date last night but right now I’m riding this high that I can’t let go. Maybe I don’t want to write about that date. Maybe some part of me knows I handled the night wrong. Maybe I know I sealed the deal that means THE END. Or maybe I really am just excited about today. I sold a hundred thousand dollar painting today. I almost thought I saw Mark Compton smile, but Bossman, doesn’t do smiles. He does disapproval or approval. I pleased him today but more than anything I pleased me. I’m good at this job. I know art. I love art. This is my world. And that is the entire point in taking control of my personal life. Since I lost my mother, really since she got sick, I didn’t own my life. I think for a while I had a man at work and in my bed, that were such control freaks, I let myself lose touch with me. As I mentioned several entries ago, I’ve thought a lot about why such a strong independent person like myself dived into the role of submissive. What got me to a place with him that I had to say no more.
It hit me when I was with him last night, why I said yes, and it comes back to how it all started. What he’d promised me, what he’d made me feel. It came back to safety. I still remember the moment when things between us had changed. I’d been sitting at a little bakery coffee shop a few blocks from work. Not the one next door. That one is owned by Ava. She’s in love with Mark Compton, Bossman himself, and from the moment I started working at the Gallery, she was snotty. I stay away for her. How I know she loves him is another story for another entry. Bottom line. I don’t like visiting her coffee shop.
Anyway, this is about him and me. About the way things between us had changed from casual acquaintances to submissive and master. And actually maybe I have Ava to thank for that otherwise I might not have been avoiding her, thus being at the right place at the right to run into him. So…I’d been at the bakery, sitting at a back, corner table when he’d walked in. I remember knowing the very moment he entered, the way the energy in the room had shifted and changed. The way I’d looked up, my gaze lifting to land on him to find his attention on me. Almost as if he’d come for me.
He’d crossed the bakery, and ignored the pastries and sweets, making a beeline my direction, stopping at my table to stand above me, his attention landing first on the books I’d been studying and then at me. That man’s good looks and intensity had overwhelmed me. Intensely consumed me. We’d known each other before that encounter, but when he’d sat down across from me, there had been this shift in the air, a shift between us. “There’s a place I know that I’d like you to know,” he’d said.
“What place?” I’d ask, and believe you me, my heart had been thundering in my ears.
“Say yes, and I’ll take you there, and show you.”
I remember knowing in the moments that followed, that if I did, everything would change for me. I don’t know how or why. But I knew. I think that is why seconds ticked by without my reply but I remember that he sat there patiently, waiting, almost in need of my approval. He wouldn’t pressure me. He didn’t pressure me. And that’s the thing. He never did. Every choice I made was mine. Every choice was absolutely mine. He said that was my control. He said I was always in control.
Needless to say, I said, “Yes.”
He always insisted that I say “yes.” He always insisted that I make the choices. That’s part of why I was able to be submissive. But there was more. He promised me, that for those windows of time I was with him, none of the hell that was my life at that point in time, would exist. And that’s what became addictive. I could go to him and for the time I was with him, there was room for nothing but him. No fear. No loss. No worry. Just him.
And yes, sometimes driving everything else away came my way of him pushing my limits, most of the time it did. But it worked. He worked for me. I trusted him. Would I have been able to be submissive with someone else? No. I do not believe it could have been someone else.
Just him.
But that relationship was not a whole relationship. We were not whole. And so the question remains, can he be the whole package, my dream man, or is he only capable of being my Master?
Monday, eight pm
I’d barely gotten to work today when our receptionist, Amanda, appears in my doorway, looking as excited as a school girl and holding a box with a red ribbon. She sets it on my desk and then stands there. “Who’s it from?”
“I don’t know,” I’d told her.
“Open it and see.”
“Later,” I’d said, setting it aside, though it was killing me. I wanted to know what was inside. What I didn’t want was for anyone else to know. I’m private that way. And so is he.
“What exactly are we doing?”
At the sound of the boss, or Bossman, as we call him, Amanda jolted and turned around, and while I couldn’t see her face or his, I could hear the exchange.