Rebecca's Lost Journals: Volumes 2-5 Read online

  Oh, yes. I made a mistake by fucking him last night. I’ve opened up a big can of trouble.

  Saturday, January 8, 2011

  I visited Ricco’s home today and took a tour of his private gallery. It was spectacular and he had a Mexican chef prepare an authentic Mexican meal for us that was amazing. I asked him millions of questions about his art and his creative process and he answered them all. And when he asked me about my life, I shocked myself by almost crying when I told him about my mother dying of lung cancer. I don’t know why I told him, and I absolutely don’t know why I almost cried. And now, why can’t I stop thinking of the nightmare I haven’t had in weeks, where my mother pushed me back under the water of the bay?

  Monday, January 10, 2011

  Mark informed me that my first time working with actual customers would be at a gallery event Wednesday afternoon that will carry into early evening. I’m thrilled, but I have to work at the restaurant that night and I can’t get the time off. I tried. So it’s going to be this nightmare of a challenge to do well at the gallery and then rush to the restaurant.

  Monday, January 17, 2011

  Tonight there was a wine tasting at the gallery and I had to work at the restaurant right after the event, just like last week. I made it to work last week, so I was sure I could do so again this week. Working two jobs has been killing me, but ever since Mark let me loose on the sales floor I’ve done well.

  The event this evening seemed to be going well, too. I made an expensive sale and landed a number of contacts I know will equal more sales. I was feeling good until the event ran late, and Mary had some crisis to deal with, and Mark asked me to stay. But I couldn’t, without losing my job at the restaurant. The instant I told him this, Mark called me into his office. He shut the door and I leaned against it. He was close, his gray eyes glinting with irritation.

  “You work for me or you work for them. Choose now, Ms. Mason.”

  “It’s not about choice, Mr. Compton. It’s about the necessity of paying my bills.”

  “You’ll never turn this job into a larger income if you can’t complete duties.”

  Since when was this an option? I rebutted, “I haven’t been told I have any chance to make more money.”

  “You just started.”

  “My bills didn’t.”

  That glint in his eyes had turned sharper and I was sure he was going to fire me. Instead, he’d said, “Ten percent on tonight’s sale to get you by. If you continue to do well, there will be more. But that’s on the condition that you quit the restaurant. It’s beneath you, and I don’t share unless it’s on my terms. This isn’t.”

  I had barely been able to breathe. He’d just offered me a huge bonus and given me the chance to make this job my career and actually get paid for it? I’m not going to get my hopes up. Not yet.

  Thursday, February 3, 2011

  So much has changed in the past two weeks. To Mark’s displeasure, I gave a short notice at the restaurant. It was so crazy busy, juggling both jobs, that I didn’t have time to write in my journals. I still haven’t, despite leaving the restaurant fully a week ago. There have been events at the gallery, and . . . there has been another big change. Him.

  He’s become a huge part of my life. He, who wants to be known simply as “Master,” has swept into my world and torn away walls I never knew existed, and that I’m not sure I want torn down. But he wants to tear them down. He says he will control me, command my body, and show me pleasure like I’ve never known. He will show me trust that is the greatest bond two people can share. He will fuck me senseless, and then do it again and again until I know nothing but him.

  Why does this appeal to me? Why am I considering this? If I know nothing but him, where will I be? How will I exist? He hasn’t touched me yet, but I feel as if he has. Josh showed up with wine, and nothing he could do could entice me this time. There is only him, my would-be “Master.” And that is what he wants. I share my joys and fears and pain with him. He will show me rewards and escapes.

  When he first told me I was a natural submissive, I didn’t believe him. I lean on no one. But he says that makes me need the outlet he can offer: the place where I can safely hand over all that I am, and just feel. It frightens me to realize how much this idea seeps into me and flows so easily. Handing over control to this man terrifies me . . . but it also arouses me like nothing in this lifetime ever has, besides art.

  He wants to meet tomorrow night, to give me a small taste of what he is offering me. He promises to start slow and give me the chance to test the waters before we go very far, and before we sign an agreement as a true Master and Submissive.

  An agreement that says he owns my body.

  Friday, February 4, 2011

  My first submissive experience is tonight. I still can’t believe I’m doing this. I still can’t believe I want this. How has two weeks changed so much about what I know of myself? The woman who wants this isn’t me, and yet she is. Or maybe it’s because of who he is? Had any other man presented this to me, I would have laughed. He’s sunk deep into my body and soul and stirred something molten and thick with possibilities outside my realm of full understanding.

  He’s invited me to his home and will send a car to pick me up, because he said as “his” (like he owns me), I wouldn’t be taking trolleys to the places I needed to go. My objection was waved away and he made himself clear: When I am his, I will be taken care of. There was no “if” to his statement. His desire to own me scares me more than the unknowns of a BDSM relationship. I’ve only depended on one person in my life, my mother, who not only died, but betrayed me in ways that still cut deep.

  The choice to get into the car and come to him was mine, he’d said. I had to make the decision, knowing what waited for me. Knowing the instant I crossed the entryway, I was under his control.

  Sunday, February 6, 2011

  Last night was amazing. When the car came, I was taken to a spa instead of his house. I had my hair and makeup done, plus a full wax. He even had a dress there waiting for me. Red, short, clingy. No panties or bra allowed underneath, per his note in the box. Also per the note, the driver would give me the choice when I returned to the car to either go home to my apartment or go to him. There was no question in my mind: I was going to him.

  I remember settling into the comfort of the soft leather seat and how shockingly aroused I was, just imagining what my submissive experience might be like. My thighs had been slick, my nipples tight and tingling. It really was an insane reaction when I hadn’t even made it to his home yet.

  Once I was there, my adventure truly began. He opened the door and his presence slid over me, wickedly hot and powerful, washing away the coldness of the night. He wore soft faded jeans and a T-shirt. His feet were bare, as if he was ready to be naked in a flash. I wanted him to be naked in that moment. I think I always want him to be naked.

  He motioned me inside and I stepped over the entryway. He shut the door behind me, but didn’t touch me. Instead he stepped in front of me again, and his gaze swept my scantily clad body, lingering on my tightly puckered nipples, male appreciation glowing from the depths of his gaze.

  When his eyes lifted to mine again, he said, “Last chance to back out.”

  I lifted my chin and met his stare. “I don’t want to back out.”

  Satisfaction slid over his face. “Then there are rules.”

  “Rules?” My knees were liquid, my body one big, eager nerve ending. I wanted his rules. I can’t explain why. I don’t understand why.

  “Rules,” he confirmed. “To start, you don’t speak unless I ask a question. You don’t do anything I don’t tell you to do. You do exactly what I say you do. Normally, I would say I’ll also do anything I wish to you, but until we have an agreement with your limits, I’ll refrain from going places I might otherwise go.”

  Some part of me rebelled. This isn’t me. I don’t get commanded by anyone but myself. But it was me.

  “Understand?” he asked.r />
  “Yes.” I couldn’t keep the tremble from my voice.

  “If at any point you want to stop, say ‘Stop,’ but mean it if you say it. If you tell me to stop, I will. ‘Stop’ tells me you are at your limit. Or you can choose another word.”

  I nodded. I did want another word. “I think . . . I might say stop by accident.”

  “Then choose a word.”

  I hadn’t had a clue what to choose, and he seemed to sense that because he said, “Red. That’s your safe word until you choose another. Say it and I stop.”

  “Yes.”

  He’d studied me so long and so intently that it was all I could do not to scream at him to speak. And finally he did. “Get on your knees.”

  I blinked at him, a bit taken aback, but I did as he ordered.

  “Unzip my pants and suck me.”

  Looking back now, this command should have bothered me. Shouldn’t it have? Being ordered to my knees to serve him? But it didn’t. In fact, it was enticing. It made me feel in control. I’d take his pleasure. I’d own him while he was trying to own me.

  I stroked the thick ridge of his erection, and tugged down his zipper before finding his hard, hot flesh with my palm and freeing his cock. I stroked him slowly and liquid formed on the tip of his erection.

  “Lick it off,” he ordered.

  I looked up at him, watching him as my tongue snaked out and lapped at the pre-cum, shocked when he’d showed no reaction at all, since I’d been determined to get one. I wrapped my hand around the width of him and began to lick and suck. I expected his hand to go to my head, but it didn’t. This drove me nuts.

  “Harder,” he ordered. “Faster.”

  I complied, more determined than ever to get the reaction from him I wanted. And finally his hand was in my hair, his hips pumping against me, his cock sliding up and down my throat.

  But I had been the one out of control, not him. I had nearly orgasmed from doing that to him; I’d been so damn aroused by the idea of making him release. And when he finally did, oh, man, he growled in this gravelly sexy way, deep in his throat, and I don’t know how I didn’t come as well.

  The next thing I knew, he pulled me to my feet and pushed me against the door, facing it, so my hands were on the hard surface. Then he yanked my dress over my head, exposing me to his view, his touch. I stood there in my high heels and nothing else, and he leaned into me, touching me from calf to back, and it was a blessed relief to feel him close. His hands were all over me, stroking my breasts, pinching my nipples, roaming over my backside. His fingers pressed into the swollen wetness between my thighs and that was all it took. I orgasmed.

  He turned me to face him again. “Follow me,” he ordered. He turned and started walking. I followed him like his slave, and I know that is what he intended. Master. Slave. He owned me then, but would he in the future?

  We ended up in a large bedroom with a massive bed in the center and cabinets on the walls that I guessed held erotic toys that would terrify and thrill me. I was right. He ordered me to stand by the bed, and then opened a drawer and pulled out some sort of band with two arm cuffs on either end.

  Adrenaline poured through me at the idea of being tied up, but I didn’t feel scared. I felt like I was on fire, burning alive with the need to have this man inside me. When he ordered me to raise my hands I did. Before I knew it, I was in the center of the bed, my hands attached to the headboard above me, and he was naked and straddling me with some sort of crop in his hand. A momentary fear overcame me until he promised me he was only going to let me get a feel for what the leather felt like this time. No pain. Only pleasure.

  And it was pleasure. The snap and pressure against my nipples, my clit, even my legs and arms, was shockingly exquisite. The things he did to me . . . I can’t even write some of them down. I was bothered, though, by how he hadn’t kissed me, uncertain what that meant. What this relationship really was. How it seemed to demand so much in some ways and offer so little in others.

  But it’s the things that happened this morning that affected me more than last night. I don’t remember falling asleep. I just remember the nightmare and waking up. I’d been back on the trolley, the air a cold arctic blast around me. So very cold that my lips were purple and my teeth chattered. My mother wasn’t there. No one was there.

  The car began to go faster and faster into this eternal black hole, and I could see nothing but darkness. The splash of icy water came in a blast and pain splintered through me. I pushed away from the steel machine that threatened to take me under and my mother was in the water above me, but she wasn’t alone. There was someone else there. Someone she was fighting with. They blocked my way to the surface and I tried to swim around them, but something grabbed my legs and sucked me deeper.

  I sat up in the bed screaming bloody murder and he was there, holding me, telling me I was safe, that he was there for me. The hard man who’d ordered me to suck him and fuck him was now gentle and caring, a total contrast to the night before. I’ve never in my life felt safe because of anyone except my mother, but I felt safe in his arms. I felt right there. And it terrified me almost as much as the nightmare.

  I can’t be with him. I can’t need someone else as much as I think I will come to need him. I just . . . can’t. I haven’t told him. He didn’t ask. I’m not sure why. Because he changed his mind? Because he didn’t like what he thought my answer would be? And if I don’t want to enter into this agreement with him, why do I care?

  Monday, February 7, 2011

  The day that started out with me fretting over my would-be “Master” was made better when I got a call from a local retiree I’d been trying to buy a painting from. He was willing to sell. Mark was beyond impressed when I told him I had landed a Georgia O’Nay for the Riptide auction. We drove out together to pick it up, and my day ended with a promotion, thanks to the small fortune Riptide will make when the painting sells.

  I am now in charge of all Riptide auctions for the gallery, and Mary will now go through me for approval. I will get 10 percent of every sale I organize. She wasn’t happy. I’m ecstatic. My life is changing. I don’t need someone’s protection. I don’t need someone to control me. So why does the absence of any attempt at an agreement send me to bed tonight feeling so very alone?

  Monday, February 14, 2011

  Once again it’s Valentine’s Day.

  Josh and Ricco both sent me roses. Ricco attached a nice note about celebrating my new career. Josh signed his “your friendly fuck buddy.” I cringed. Mark didn’t give me anything. He was just Mark, forever sexy and enthralling, and judgmental, and too many other things to list. Mary gave me the cold shoulder. Ralph stole two roses from me for his desk. I worked late and locked up the gallery. When I exited, a car was waiting for me. To my surprise when I got inside, he was there. He fucked me right there, in front of the gallery, with the driver inside. I let the man in the front seat watch. I let him hear me moan. I just . . . did. I don’t even talk about my sex life, but I let a stranger watch me fuck another man.

  And when it was over and I was delivered to my door, my “Master” handed me a package that is now sitting in front of me on my bed. Inside, I found a contract. I’d be submissive to my “Master.” He’d control me. There is a long list of things he’d expect of me. The note inside promised that we’d negotiate details, but it also said that I have to instigate the next meeting, so that he knows I really want this. And when I do, I should wear the gift included in my package. It’s a gorgeous rose-shaped gold ring I found nestled in a velvet box. The note attached to it read, “Wearing it means you belong to me.”

  I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how I feel, and I have no one to talk to. Even if I did, how do I talk to someone about this? I’ve sat here doing internet searches on BDSM relationships, but I’ve done this many times before.

  Now, I’m sitting here listening to the Dr. Kat Sex Talk show as callers ask her questions about sex and relationships, and I am actually tempted to cal
l. But I can’t. I don’t talk to people about my private life. And I sure don’t talk on public radio.

  Wednesday, February 16, 2011

  Silence. The ball is in my court. He really does seem to expect me to go to him now and pursue the contract. I am still confused and uncertain about what I want. I’m sitting on my bed, listening to Dr. Kat again, and I like her. She is fun and honest, and makes sense when she responds to people. I am almost desperate enough to dial the number provided, and use an alias, though I expect the callers are lined up long in advance. But maybe I’ll try . . .

  Yes. I think I’ll try.

  “Welcome to the Dr. Kat show. What’s your question?”

  “A man has asked me to enter into a BDSM relationship with him and this is new to me,” I told her. “I’m not sure how to be certain that it’s right for me.”

  “Is this your first BDSM experience?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  “Well then, it’s normal to feel uncertain. Will you be bottom or top?”

  “Bottom or top?”

  “Are you the submissive?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how do you feel about that?”

  My reply was speedy. “I’ve never thought of myself as submissive, but he says I need an outlet where I don’t have to be in control.”

  “Do you?”

  “I didn’t, but now . . . maybe.”

  “What’s your hesitation? Is he pressuring you to do things you aren’t comfortable with?”

  “No. He’s given me space and time to make this decision.”