The Master's Exploits: Night One (2 page)

I was anxious to get started. The sooner we did, the sooner I could get used to the idea of listening to this man tell me about his most intimate encounters.

Mr. Alexander’s eyebrows shot up. “My
best
story?” he repeated. “No, no, no - the best is always for last, Ms. Reynolds. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that?”

“Fine.” I rolled my eyes a little. “Pick whatever story you want, then. Start out with a summary. If it sounds good, I’ll ask you for more details.”

 
An indulgent smile. “Trust me, they’re all good.”

“All right, Mr. Alexander.” I re-crossed my legs in the other direction. “Impress me.”

He pushed back from his desk a little bit, lost in thought for a few moments.

“I think,” he began, slowly, “I think the bookstore might be the best place to start.”

I hesitated, pen hovering. “What happened at the bookstore?”

He cleared his throat. “Ms. Reynolds, I’m sorry. I promise I’m not trying to stall. But I think it’s silly to keep the formalities going. We’re about to get to know each other very well. You can call me Dalton. May I call you Grace?”

I nodded, nibbling on my lips again. “Of course,” I said.

“Before I start...” He paused, frowning a little. “I’m going to be blunt. I’ll be using the same words you will, probably, in the stories. Unless that makes you uncomfortable.”

“Whatever comes naturally to you,” I assured him, making a few test scribbles with my pen to be sure I wasn’t running low on ink. “I won’t be offended, I promise.”

He rested the side of his forefinger against his lips, almost, but not quite, hiding a smile. “Good,” he said. “I appreciate that.”

For a moment, he stared into the middle distance. Then, he started to speak, and I allowed myself to get lost in his story.

***

Dalton:

This all happened just a few years ago, but it’s as good a place to start as any.

Whenever I have the afternoon free, I like to go to the bookstore down on Newbury Street. They’re always renewing their selection of collectibles and first editions. I was there one day, browsing idly down the shelves and tables, when I saw her.

Madison.

In her hands, she was holding one of those erotic romance novels. The kind that has a flower on the cover, or a string of pearls, or a close-up of a man’s hands in a nice suit and expensive cufflinks. I can’t recall the details now - I was too taken with her face, with her body, the way she was dressed. The way she held herself. She was just like one of those books. Elegant and subtle at first glance, enough to be presentable in a bookstore or a boardroom. But take a closer look, let the imagery really sink in, and you realize.

The flowers are vulvas. The pearls are a man’s seed. The hands, the
fingers
, are instruments of exquisite pleasure, put on display for a woman’s admiration. There’s no subtlety there, but it’s a message that few men understand, while almost all women do.
Imagine those fingers inside you. Imagine them rubbing your clit.

Like those pictures, Madison was all sin and seduction, wrapped up in a Sunday school presentation. Instantly, I admired her. Instantly, I wanted her - but there was something else.

She was sad. She was desperately sad, I realized, and hiding it well. But I’m exceptionally good at reading people. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be a very good dominant.

By now, she was very aware of my presence. I could tell, although she wasn’t looking at me. She was no longer paying any attention to the book she’d been flipping through. I came towards her, slowly, from the side, letting my hand drift across the stacks of books on the table. I felt her eyes on my fingers.

“Is it good?” I asked her, and she jumped a little, but quickly smiled when she looked at me.

“I don’t know yet,” she said, softly. “Why? Are you looking for something to read?”

“I confess I am,” I told her, picking up another book at random and turning it over in my hand. “I suppose that’s surprising. Someone like me.”

Her cheeks grew a little pinker. “It’s not all that surprising,” she said. “But more men should read these books, if you ask me. They could learn something.”

“Exactly,” I said. “I take...well, a sort of a professional interest in the whole phenomenon. It’s not often you get the chance to learn exactly what fantasies are running through a woman’s head, in lurid detail. Unless you’re already in bed with her.”

“A professional interest?” she repeated, looking up at me. “What do you mean by that?”

Shrugging, I took one more step, so that I was standing just inches from her. “Like I said - not exactly. I’m a dominant. A Master. It’s not my job, but I take it very seriously. I’m always looking to improve.”

Now, she was very intrigued. Her face got a little pinker, but now, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from me. “Really?” she breathed. “I never thought I’d actually...you know. I mean - of course, I’ve...” she drifted off, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. God. I’m being rude. I don’t mean to act like it’s...strange, or anything like that.”

“Not at all,” I said. “I hope it wasn’t too forward of me to share with you.”

“Of course not.” She was shaking her head, vigorously. “It’s just...I’ve never met someone like you before. At least, not in real life.”

I had to smile at that. “It’s quite likely that you have, actually,” I said. “You just didn’t know it.”

She was taken with me. If I hadn’t told her who I was,
what
I was, there was no question in my mind that I could have taken her to bed, that very same day. But now, she knew the truth about me. And while it intrigued her, it also intimidated her. Perhaps even frightened her, a little.

“Have you ever read any of these books?” she wanted to know, with a secretive smile. I told her that I had, and of course, the next question was predictable enough: “Are they accurate? I mean, is it really like that?”

I smiled. “Yes and no,” I said. “Would you like to continue this conversation, somewhere we can talk more freely?”

Blushing, she glanced down at her feet. “I would,” she said. “I’d like that very much.”

Reaching out towards her, I plucked the book from her hands and turned it over. “If we were in a bar, perhaps I’d offer to buy you a drink. But being as we’re in a bookstore - would you allow me to buy you a book?”

Her blush deepened. “Well, if you put it like that, how can I say no?”

At the register, she scrawled her number on the back of the receipt and handed it to me.
 

“I’d love to have coffee sometime,” she said. “Talk some more about that ‘professional interest’ of yours.”

When I walked away, I could feel her eyes on me.

She was anxious. All the same, I waited a few days to call. Giving her some time to speculate, to fantasize, certainly couldn’t hurt - and anyway, I was busy.
 

But when I did call, she answered on the second ring.

I invited her to coffee at the same bookstore where we met. She seemed surprised - like she’d been expecting something more exotic, or unfamiliar, from a Dom. The first lesson I had to teach her, it turns out, is that we’re just ordinary people.

She was stunning, but she hadn’t overdone it. In fact, she was dressed very similarly to when we first met. I’d liked what I saw then, so she figured she’d give me more of it. Very smart. I’d underestimated her, which wasn’t like me at all.

Very deliberately, I kept our conversation to mundane topics at first. We got to know each other. I asked her a lot of questions, but the answers were shallow; she was hiding something of herself from me, and I wasn’t sure how much. That bothered me. I’d hoped for some hint of that sadness I could see lurking behind her eyes, even a casual reference to a failed relationship or some tragedy in her past. But there was nothing. She told me about her professional life, her schooling, and her hobbies, all with a casual detachment.

Her eyes didn’t really light up until she started talking about books.

“At first, I almost felt ashamed.” Her eyelids fluttered as she glanced down at her coffee, then up at me. “But then I realized. These books wouldn’t even exist if there weren’t plenty of women out there like me, wanting to read about the same things I did.”

I nodded. “You’re absolutely right. But I have a feeling you’re talking about something other than the books I’ve seen on these shelves.”

Madison’s cheeks colored, and she looked down at the table. “Yes,” she said, softly. “It started with these kinds of stories - light bondage, domination, maybe a little creepy and stalker-y, but you know, it’s pretty tame stuff overall. I started getting annoyed by it. These heroes acting like they were severely dysfunctional in some way, just because they liked riding crops and handcuffs. I mean, I get it. The audience for these books, well...it’s women like me. Women like I
used
to be.”

Smiling, I mentally noted the distinction she’d so carefully made.

She went on. “So you have to ease them into it. And it sure worked on me. But after a while, I wanted more. I was annoyed with these heroes and their promises of dark possession that ended in boring old happily-ever-after relationships.”

Now, I sensed, we were getting to the good stuff.
 

Her voice grew quieter as she continued. “Before I knew it, I was reading the kinds of things that I used to think were sick and twisted. Something had happened. Something changed inside me, and it made me want to read about true sadists. Women who were really afraid. Everything still ended happily, but with a healthy dose of fear and pain along the way. And I loved it. I started devouring these books, and I’m still not sure why.” She looked up at me, plaintively.

I leaned forward, watching her carefully as I spoke.

“Well, Madison - these books are fantasies. The loss of control, being broken down and remade, having every choice and human dignity stripped from you...these are all things that people fear. And one of the ways the human brain deals with fear, of course, is to eroticize it.” I grinned. “And before you make a snide comment about spiders or earthquakes, I said ‘
one
of the ways.’”

“I wasn’t going to,” she murmured, looking down into her cup, unsuccessfully trying to hide a smile. “But I
have
heard that before.”

“It’s nearly universal,” I said. “Not everyone eroticizes the same things, of course. But think of all the kinks that have their roots in fear, and shame, and humiliation. It’s a way of regaining control.” I took another sip of my coffee. “A submissive doesn’t truly want to be kidnapped by a cruel man with no conscience; it would be just as terrifying for her as it would be for anyone else. But in fiction, everything is safe.”

Madison nodded. “You can identify with a woman who
does
have that happen. But it’s okay. It always turns out all right in the end, even if it’s a little bit twisted.”

“Exactly,” I said. “How many ordinary wives and mothers with kind, loving husbands find themselves breathlessly reading about a sadistic human trafficker and wishing he would tie
her
up? If he suddenly materialized in her real life, she’d run away screaming.”

Laughing, she picked up another sugar packet. “You’re right, of course,” she said. “But is that where all of this comes from, do you think?”

“All of what?”
 

She made a vague gesture. “This, you know. What you do. BDSM. Is it just about eroticizing what you fear? When people play like that, is it because they wish it was happening for real?”

“Yes and no.” I stirred my coffee absent-mindedly, having lost interest in the drink a long time ago. It had been a long time since someone actually challenged me like this, forcing me to think about the lifestyle in new ways. “I think that’s an oversimplification.” Smiling at her, I thought through my answer carefully before I continued. “Some people would be offended by that question. Don’t apologize - I know that’s not how you meant it. But a lot of people are used to being judged and treated like degenerates - or worse than judged,
diagnosed
.”

Understanding was beginning to dawn on her face.

“And that’s the rub.” I shrugged. “If you want my personal opinion, of course, sometimes people are practicing BDSM in order to gratify darker urges that can’t safely happen in real life. But they’re not defective, and their urges aren’t wrong. BDSM is a valid form of self-expression, no matter what your reasons for doing it.”

“I see,” she said, softly. “It’s starting to make a little more sense now.” She was biting her lip, slightly. “I can see how people might use it to work through real-life issues, but that doesn’t mean it’s any different from someone who just wants it for no particular reason.”

“Exactly,” I said, smiling at her. “So what’s your reason, Madison?”

She smiled back, slowly. “Nothing in particular.”

Maddening. I knew she was lying. She licked her lips, eyes darting all over me. Just waiting for an invitation.

“So tell me,” she said. “What’s it really like, being a Master?”

I leaned closer over the table. “As much as I’d love to tell you all the sordid details, I’m afraid it might get us kicked out of this fine establishment. And then I don’t know
where
we’d buy our books.”