Rebecca's Lost Journals, Volume 4: My Master (Inside Out #1.4)(3)

I just don’t think he can give those things to me.





11:00 p.m.

M

y apartment. It’s so very strange to be here, but nice. A whole lot more humble than my Master’s elaborate place, but I like that. This is me, with my overstuffed, overused couches and my down comforter on my full-sized bed, which I’m sitting on now with all my old journals surrounding me. It’s a cozy little place, made cozier by it being mine, something I claim ownership of. He tried to pay my rent as part of our last contract, but I refused. I needed to know I had my sacred place I could go to if I ever needed to, and tonight I did.

Though I’ve made some money from the auctions and I can afford to get a bigger, fancier place, I’m not going to. The Riptide auctions that I’m involved with are only a couple of times a year, and I want a nest egg before I start spending outside my norm. I’ve done way too much throwing caution to the wind this past year. I might splurge on a few pieces of art and decorate a little, though. Make it even cozier.

Yes. I think I will. This idea pleases me, yet it makes my stomach burn. I’m thinking about leaving his place. I’m thinking about needing mine.

For now, though, I just packed enough of my things for the weekend and went grocery shopping. He called while I was at the store and he knew something was wrong. He told me he did. I told him I was exhausted. And I am. Emotionally. I’m on an emotional rollercoaster ride and he’s not. That bothers me. It’s telling. But what is it telling me?

I told him I’d call when I got home, before going to bed. I have to call him. He is my Master. At least for two more weeks.





The call . . .

Y

ou aren’t at the house,” he said the instant he answered, not bothering with “hello.”

My heart jackhammered and I didn’t ask how he knew. Probably the security system. I should have thought of that. “No.” I hesitated. “I’m at my apartment.”

The line crackled with electricity. “Why?”

“You aren’t there. I have no reason to be.”

“I want you there. That’s reason enough.”

It used to be enough. And it could be again, so very easily, if he’d just . . . what? I don’t even know. “It’s almost contract renewal time. I wanted some space to think through what that means to me.”

“What does that mean, Rebecca?”

My chest hurt. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

“Figure it out at home.”

“This is home for me.”

“No. Home is with me.”

He was wrong. It was his house. His couch. His everything. “And you aren’t there this weekend, so home is here.”

“You belong to me,” he reminded me softly. “You belong in my bed. I need you there.”

I could hear the rough quality to his voice and I knew he was upset. I knew he didn’t want to lose me. But I also heard the word choices he always makes oh-so-cautiously. I belong to him. Not with him. I belong in his bed, not by his side—or in his life.

I drew in a deep breath and let it out. “And I need this weekend here. Please, Master, grant me this. Just while you are away.” I knew the use of “Master” away from our play would help my cause, and it did.

There was silence, and time ticked slowly by, but when he spoke he granted my wish. “When I return, I’m going to make sure you never want to leave again.”

“I don’t want to leave,” I whispered.

He was silent again, even longer than before. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Okay.”

We both sat there, and I knew he didn’t want to hang up any more than I did. We do have a bond. He does want me. I know this.

“Goodnight, Rebecca,” he finally said, his voice low, sandpaper rough.

My throat thickened with emotion. “Good night,” I replied, and added because I had a burning desire to please him, “Master.”





Saturday, May 5, 2012

1:00 a.m.

My bed surrounded by my old journals

I

t all comes back to the roses . . .

The roses in the dream (or nightmare) have been bothering me all day. The day my Master introduced me to the club, there had been no roses. My mind had to be telling me something, and I think that is part of why I wanted to be here tonight. I needed to clear my head of everything that is my Master, and get inside my thoughts.

So I started reading my own writing. The old entries are eye-opening, especially since I’ve lost track of my feelings these past few months, sporadically at best scribbling notes in random places when, and if, I have the privacy to do so. I told myself it was because I didn’t want my Master reading about my feelings, but I think I just went through a period of denial. I didn’t want to see everything in my life clearly as I had wanted to in the past.

One of those random entries from back in January made me pause for all kinds of reasons. It’s the entry that made me begin this entry with “It all comes back to the roses.” I’d written it the night before our last contract renewal (which we’ve continued every four months). I’d still been in my apartment as often as I was at his house, but he’d wanted that to change.

I’d been afraid of losing complete control of me. To escape into a “scene” with him, or even a weekend of being his submissive, was one thing. To live it day and night felt like quite another.