Three and a Half Weeks(13)

“I can’t,” I whined.

“You can,” he snarled, “and you will, Ariel. I want you to give me more…now!” He leaned over, pulled my head back by my hair, and bit my neck as he hammered at me and his fingers did a reach around.

So I did. Come. Bombarded by sensations everywhere at once, I caved to his dominance and fell before the altar of his alpha-maleness. My body was in control, relegating my mind to the backseat—my body was proving to be such a slut. The idea unsettled me but I tried not to dwell on it.

After he hit his orgasm, he stilled, remaining on his knees, and looked down at me, while I peered up at him from the corner of my eye.

“How was that, baby?” His eyes were shining with triumph.

I sighed heavily. If I had to die young, this was as good a way to go as any I could think of.



Then there was the third visit. On my third and last trip into that room, he whipped me.

He. Whipped. Me.

He used what he called a single tail and it left hot-pink stripes up and down my thighs, and rear end. He’d promised me he’d only do as much as he thought I could take, that he wouldn’t exceed my so-called limits, but he breached that boundary and then some. Under the haze of shocking pain, I finally remembered to use my safe word, shouting it at the top of my lungs. When I said the word, he stopped instantly and cast the whip on the floor. Yet I still have nightmares where I scream out the safe word but it falls on deaf ears and the forceful blows keep raining down on me.

Afterward, he was apologetic and so very solicitous—and out of breath. We were both panting but for very different reasons. But no matter how deep or heartfelt his apology, the line was most definitely crossed and I was done. Why did I ever even entertain the thought that I was up for it? When I got home that night, I swallowed some ibuprofen and went straight to bed, sore, shocked, and mourning the loss of what never would be—my fabulous fairytale romance with the dashing Dorian Blackmon. Like his namesake Dorian Gray, his beautiful face hid something ugly underneath.

Arriving like a gift from the universe, the next morning a letter came in the mail: I had been awarded a fellowship to Cambridge University to study under the renowned historian Charles Norwood-Finch. I would continue my studies in art history, specifically the Protestant Reformation’s impact on art in 16th century England. I had exactly two weeks to pack and get there. I only needed two days.

I never saw Ian Blackmon again.



I was in Cambridge when Christmas rolled around. Britain is so very charming during the holidays but I felt desolate. I began to write my book on Thanksgiving Day, only it wasn’t Thanksgiving in the UK, so that led me to have a one-woman pity party before sitting down, pen in hand, to the real tears. I thought perhaps I could exorcise the memories that tormented me by writing them down, seeing the man in brown in black and white.

Now, I’m no writer: my interests and strengths lie in history—its details and facts, its fascinating evolution. But I had read enough literature in my life to fake it. I tried to channel the bleak despair of Dostoevsky, the witty repartee of Noel Coward, the happily-ever-after of Cinderella. Granted, I knew nothing about pacing, character development, point of view, omniscience—I mean, people who aren’t professional writers have no idea how complicated writing a good book can be.

Still, the one thing I had going for me was that I was, in fact, recording history, not writing fiction. And it was my history—who better to write it? So I knew it would be in first-person. And I knew it would be a character-driven story. Finally, I knew how it began and ended. Plus, only a handful of people would ever see the book, so I was safe.

I went to one of those print-on-demand publishers and had my book bound, printing up a batch of 25 copies, though I only needed eleven. I wrote a pithy dedication to all my girls—the gift recipients—and patted myself on the back for coming up with the best inexpensive gift ever.

But the morning after I finished writing my book, I woke from my dreams to discover I still had my friendly demon around my neck for constant company. I couldn’t rid my soul of Ian Blackmon, no matter what I did to try to banish him.

I know it sounds stupid because intimate though we were, I only knew him for a few weeks… but I missed him… so, so much. Like any despair-inducing loss, the pain penetrated to the center of my soul. I wanted to run back to him but I forced myself to be strong, to do anything but dwell on him: crochet, run, study, take up synchronized swimming—anything. But in any and every quiet moment, scenes from our time together would suddenly drop in to revisit me, causing me no end of anguish. Like the time he almost got me fired…