Rebecca's Lost Journals, Volume 4: My Master (Inside Out #1.4)(7)

Master Two yanked my slim-cut teal dress to my hips and turned me so that my backside was on display for my Master. I could feel his hot stare on my body and my skin heated, my breasts growing heavy, my thighs tight. Master Two cupped my backside and squeezed, his eyes finding mine, his breath warm as it tickled my lips.

“It’s all about you, baby. Moan for me. That’s all I want.” He turned me and set me in the chair and before I could blink, he was on his knees in front of me, spreading my legs. But then the roses flashed in my mind. I’d thought giving him more meant he’d give me more. Maybe . . . maybe I needed to give him less.

“Red,” I said, murmuring my safe word. And then louder. “Red.”

Master Two immediately dropped his hands from my legs. I stood up and pulled my dress down and turned to the computer screen, shaking. “I can’t do this. Not anymore.”

I saw a flash of something in his eyes that I want to believe was pain. Knowing we are falling apart is destroying me, and I need to know he feels something, too. I gave him the power to hurt me, and I gave him my heart. He never promised me his. He never promised me anything he didn’t give me.

The computer screen went dead and I had to walk Master Two out, making small talk and pretending that his hands had not just been on my backside, that my thighs were not slick from how near his tongue had been to licking me.

When I returned to my desk, my cell phone immediately rang and I knew it was my Master.

I didn’t answer. I can’t talk to him. And it’s not even because I’m angry. It’s because I’m weak. I’m always so damn weak with him.





Midnight

L

ast thought of the night. No more contracts. No more being shoved into a box of his design. I’m still willing to go where we’ve been, and be submissive during erotic play, but not at other times. Not on his terms only.

Tomorrow, when I see him, we will be different. I will be different. I’ll be me again, the woman he wanted when all of this started.

Okay, a second last thought that seems unrelated—or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just an indicator of how much of a wreck I am right now, but that weird foreboding I had for weeks last year is back. I hate the feeling, the sense that something terrible is going to happen. I just keep telling myself nothing terrible happened last year. And nothing terrible is going to happen now.





Sunday, May 6, 2012

8:00 a.m.

I

’m sitting in the coffee shop next to the gallery, at the same corner table that I once sat at when my Master charged in, took me into the bathroom, and spanked me. That memory is why I’m here—to remind myself that I drew a line in the sand that day. It’s part, though not all, of the reason I rarely come here anymore.

Ava is the other part, and not just because she saw us come out of that bathroom together. Ava is . . . I think I’ll save her for another entry. I have enough to fret about as it is.

Back to that day here in the coffee shop. When my Master, who wasn’t my Master yet, had spanked me in the bathroom, it had aroused me and confused me. Just thinking about that moment when he’d yanked my skirt up and made me agree to let him spank me, and the moment his hand had touched my backside, the erotic charge that had followed, sent a sizzle down my spine. And when it was over, the easy way his fingers slid inside me had shattered me into orgasm. I’m wet just thinking about it, when I should be angry. Exactly what I felt then.

Regardless of liking what he’d done to me, I hadn’t liked where he’d done it. I’d set a hard limit of nothing between us ever happening at a place that was frequented by those involved with the gallery.

It was the only hard limit I’ve ever set, though there were other limits I’d liked to have set. The only one—and yet he crossed that line yesterday. He knew how I felt about this when he sent Master Two to me yesterday. I need to remember that, in order to stay strong.

I am not just a way for him to feel powerful. I won’t be that anymore.





11:00 p.m.

T

he event was spectacular. The desserts a little piece of heaven. I passed on the crème br?lée; I couldn’t get myself to eat his favorite sweet. The artist, a kindred spirit with the name of Rebecca Knight, sold several paintings and was beyond ecstatic. And now I’m at home, about to take a hot bath, alone.

“He” didn’t call. He hasn’t called again. And he won’t. That would give me the power. And lord only knows, that would be a sin. I’m just glad I’m off tomorrow. I plan to organize my apartment and do a little decorating.





Monday, May 7, 2012

7:00 p.m.

L

ast night, or I guess technically early this Monday morning, around twoish, there was a knock on my door. I sat up with my heart thundering, flashing back of the night Josh had gotten drunk and threatened me, then showed up at my apartment. I still can’t believe a guy I dated a few times went quite so crazy, and I still can’t shake the feeling he’s still around. Maybe that’s the foreboding feeling?

I’d wrapped myself in a robe to cover my skimpy “PINK” sleep shirt and stood at my door. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Rebecca.”

His voice slid through me like hot buttered rum, warm, rich, and enticing. The weakness I’d feared he would evoke in me was instantaneous, and I hadn’t even opened the door. I pressed my hand to the wood separating us. “You aren’t supposed to be back yet.”