“Master?” I sputtered. “I don’t think I can do that.”
He smiled tightly. “Fine. You may use Sir, if that’s easier.”
“That’s just as creepy. If formality is what you desire, may I call you Mr. Blackmon?”
He nodded curtly. “For now it will suffice.” He pointed toward the floor. “Kneel.”
Feeling like a German shepherd, I dropped to my knees. He bent down and went about repositioning me. His body was so close that I could smell his cologne and it made me want to fling myself on him. I’ve never had an overactive libido—just the opposite, hence my long-held virtue—but Mr. Blackmon seemed to bring out the wild child in me. Hmm. And all it took was a ridiculously handsome, young billionaire to do it. That thought hit me sideways and led to hysterical giggles bubbling up in my chest and I knew instinctively it would be a very bad thing to let loose in here. Immediately, I conjured up a vision of a natural disaster and rescue dogs poring through rubble in search of survivors, to push it away.
“I’ve explained to you about reward and punishment. I believe you understand that punishment will usually be corporal. I do have other methods, however, that I will employ from time to time.”
Corporal punishment meant physical pain, right? So what other kind of punishments could he mete out? Psychological torture? Sleep deprivation? Extreme tickling? What? I couldn’t imagine so I had to ask. “Might I know what those are?”
“Oh, Ariel, you will find out soon enough. Being new, you’re bound to make mistakes.”
I was too terrified to appreciate word play but I asked anyway, “Was that pun intended?”
“No. Remember, whenever you address me, you must use a term of deference to rank. As I stated a few moments ago, I would prefer Master but for now I will settle for Mr. Blackmon. If you forget to use it, you’ll be reminded.”
“Behavior modification?”
The modification came instantly. I didn’t see what he used to slap me but it wasn’t his hand and it stung so much that I squealed.
“Excuse me?” his voice was thunderous.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Blackmon.” And I was sorry—truly—for my butt was burning.
He stood up. “Remain in position until I instruct you otherwise,” he said sternly, and left the room.
I couldn’t tell how long he was gone. Time is elastic and can stretch or contract, depending on one’s state of mind. Heightened anticipation makes time stretch into oblivion so it seemed an eternity before he came back. By then I was intensely anxious but also brimming with excitement. I wondered about my sexuality, then: why was this so damn exciting? Was I some kind of pervert?
He walked over to me. I remembered to keep my eyes down so I could see only his lower legs and feet. He lifted me up by my elbow. I let myself go limp so I could allow him to guide me. He brought me to a wooden thing, about hip high and covered in leather.
“I’m mindful that this time will be only your third time out, sexually speaking, so I don’t want to go too far in this room tonight. We’ll take things slowly. But I’d like you to become familiar and relatively comfortable with the equipment. This,” he patted the leather-covered wood thing, “is a sawhorse. Normally you’d lie on this bench, face down and straddle the end with your legs, your bottom hanging over the edge by a few inches. However, because you’re so green, I’m going to put you on it on your back.”
I didn’t respond so as to avoid using any of those terms of address that made me squeamish. Placing his large hands around my waist, he lifted me onto the horse.
“Lay down and draw your knees up,” his instructions were swift and terse, as if we weren’t in this compromising position together—clinical, I suppose would be an apt description for his attitude. Where was the charming man I met in my shop?
It’s not that I didn’t appreciate this dark, exotic male in front of me. I was just confused by him.
He buckled cuffs on my wrists and ankles and chained each wrist to the corresponding ankle so that I was on my back, all fours in the air, in a fetal position. Then he reached for a strap on the side of the horse, pulling it over my abdomen and securing it on the other side so I was held tightly in place.
He was wearing black: a black silk shirt and black trousers. Shit, that’s where he went—to change into his Satan outfit. Without removing a single article of his own clothing while I was stark naked, he calmly unzipped his fly and unfurled a condom over his impressive erection. There wasn’t even a trace of good humor on his face; his countenance was sternly arrogant. I couldn’t take my eyes off the transformation in him.