Rebecca's Lost Journals, Volume 3: His Submissive (Inside Out #1.3)(3)

“Yes, what?” he demanded.

“Yes, Master.”

Instead of rewarding me for my agreement with the orgasm I so desired, his fingers stopped teasing me, sliding away so that his hand rested on my pelvis. I wanted to cry out, to demand satisfaction, but I was stayed by the way his palm on my backside stilled and flexed into my skin.

“I’m going to spank you, Rebecca,” he declared, “and you need to know that I will do it again, or use other forms of punishment if we move forward beyond today and you fail to follow our rules. Understand?”

No. No, I did not. I was scared and confused, but I was also aroused and curious. I wanted him. I want him even now, no matter how much he’s twisted me in knots. I knew I couldn’t turn back.

“Yes. I understand.” I’d barely issued the approval when his hand came down hard. I gasped as the sensation rocked me, and I struggled to identify what I felt. My stomach knotted with the sting of my flesh that spiraled through me, and then, to my shock, tightened my sex. The rest of the punishment was fast and hard, ten full contacts of his palm, I think, all of which were harder, stronger. I had a moment when I was confused by the pleasure rippling through me and I thought I should object, I should scream my safe word, “red,” but my voice was swollen in my throat, and any protest with it.

The assault of his hand stopped suddenly and his fingers slid back between my thighs, and I was shocked that I was slick and wet and aroused. It was beyond belief, considering what he’d just done to me. But I was, and when he slipped his fingers back inside me and stroked my swollen flesh, I shattered almost instantly. It was breathtakingly good. He’d spanked me and I had one of the best orgasms ever, but I’d recovered angry and confused. Embarrassed. I still am.

“I will never leave you with anything but pleasure,” he murmured. “Remember that.”

“And I will never go to another public bathroom with you,” I ground out. “This is the last time.”

His response was to gently pull my dress back into place and then turn me to face him. “You will if I say you will.”

His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he didn’t even acknowledge my anger. And then he stepped back and gave me space.

Both pissed me off more than ever, and I blasted him, “People I work with come here, and I have to walk out there and pretend I didn’t just do what we did!” The sharp edges of the ring dug into my palm, reminding me I still held it. I stepped toward him, grabbed his hand, and shoved the ring into his palm. “Anything near my work is off limits. That’s a hard limit for me. Put it in your damn contract.”

He captured my hand before I could escape. “That’s what I was looking for. Real thought. Real negotiation. An agreement you don’t just live with, but embrace.”

He released me and I felt shell-shocked. He’d pushed me intentionally, intending to force me to see what I’d missed when making my decision to sign the agreement.

“Now,” he said, “you can put the ring back on if you still think you’re ready.”

He didn’t wait for an answer because he knew I wasn’t. He headed to the door and exited.

I stood there for I don’t know how long, my thoughts a jumbled mess, before I forced myself to exit regardless of who might see me. There was only Ava, who stared at me with unabashed interest.

I rushed to my table and grabbed my things before heading back to the gallery to put my thoughts on paper.

My backside still burns, and it reminds me that this decision to give myself to him does come with consequences, just as disobeying him apparently does. Yes, those consequences seem to arouse me, but I barely recognize this person that is me, who finds a spanking hot and sexy.

But I did. I do. I’m scared to death that I’m losing touch with myself. Am I truly ready for this relationship?

The ring is sitting on my desk and I haven’t put it back on. I’m not sure I’m going to. I’m not even sure I’m allowed to. I dread tonight’s event, one that I would normally look forward to. It’s a huge open house for Georgia O’Nay, a brilliant local artist receiving critical acclaim. It’s an exciting event with an impressive list of attendees, but all I can think is that everyone who is anyone will be here, including him.

I’d actually rather go home and think and process where I’m headed in this new life, rather than attend a magical art showing.

What is happening to me?





Midnight

Finally home . . .

G

eorgia O’Nay is thirty-five, with long, sleek black hair and gorgeous pearl-like skin, and the talent of a goddess. It didn’t surprise me that she drew a wall-busting crowd. The event had spectacular desserts, expensive champagne, and great art. It was pure heaven for art lovers. It should have been for me, but it wasn’t.

All the local artists who show in the gallery were present. Ricco Alvarez and Chris Merit were crowd favorites. Chris, unlike the rest of the guests, who were in suits (Ricco included), was a rebel in jeans and a leather jacket. When he stood next to Mark, the contrast in the two men was extreme but the power and sex radiating off them both was overwhelming.

It bothered me that “he” spent a lot of time by Georgia’s side. I tried not to let it. I really did. In my defense, I was feeling insecure after the entire ring situation. But what really set me off was the concrete block of realization that hit me as I admired her work. Georgia paints flowers. Roses mostly. Yes. Roses. How could I not connect his attention to her to the design of the ring? How could anyone not in a similar situation? Had she been his sub at some point? Did he help her launch her career? And if so, what happened between them? Why did they part ways? Or had they parted ways? Am I just a side dish?