IN CINDERELLA, THE handsome prince saved the poor girl from her wicked stepmother. In Snow White, the handsome prince saved the young, unwanted princess. Children’s fairytales of happily-ever-after began the process of planting the seed in young girls’ minds that princes truly existed. Many of the stories didn’t begin that way: instead, they originated from tales of brutality and violence devised by the brothers Grimm. With that in mind, perhaps the fairytales shouldn’t center on the prevailing of good, but the presence of evil. For without evil was there truly good?
The fairytale I’d been sold, the one that made the reality of my sale bearable, gave way to the true nature of my situation a little over a year after I became Mrs. Stewart Harrington. The façade of my prince shattered with my introduction to Stewart’s other apartment. With all that had happened, I’d forgotten about its existence, until that was no longer possible.
“Remember the contract, my darling,” Stewart said as he led me from the elevator in what appeared on the outside to be a warehouse in a more secluded part of town.
Though this was the first time he’d mentioned the contract since before our wedding, I wasn’t sure how he thought I could forget.
Up until the evening when I first saw the warehouse, my days were spent integrating my way into the world of the socially elite. I’d been welcomed with open arms and knives at the ready. As Stewart’s wife, no one dared publicly forbid me entrance into the clubs and organizations frequented by the upper one percent. Yet, I wasn’t naïve enough to assume that the welcome I received was the one shared behind closed doors. After all, I was younger than some of my new friends’ children, perhaps even grandchildren. There was more than what I saw on the surface. I would soon learn the depth.
I saw the looks as I was introduced. The women who invited me to play tennis and plan events were no more my friends than the girls at the academy had been. Thankfully, like most women, I’d been initiated early and I could hold my own. Being female enabled one the keen ability to smile politely and loathe internally. My mother’s influence continued to seep into my dark core. Stepping into her shoes had never been my plan, but plans change. To fulfill my new obligations, I wore the proverbial bitch boots proudly.
It didn’t take long for me to forget how Stewart and I began. I hadn’t expected love, but what I found was as close to it as I’d known. My heart leapt when Stewart praised the things that I did. I loved the gleam in his blue eyes as I walked beside him or held to his arm at the elite social events. No longer did it feel as though we were for show. I genuinely enjoyed his company and it seemed that he did mine. Whether at the apartment or at our sprawling mansion outside of the city, he was attentive and engaged.
Often, I’d accompany him on business trips, proud to be Mrs. Stewart Harrington. He’d been right when he told me not to worry about his age. I marveled at his prowess in bed and took each new introduction—each new position or toy—as an adventure. Never had I imagined the life I lived, and never did I regret my signature.
Not until that night.
Unlocking the door to his warehouse apartment, Stewart led me inside. I soon realized that we’d entered on the second level. As Stewart hit switches, the cavernous room below came into view. Standing at the banister, I saw the stark contrast to our downtown apartment near the beach. As opposed to floor to ceiling windows, this place had none; instead, the perimeter was nothing but tall brick walls void of decoration. Two stories above was the only possible source of natural light: a large skylight. Given the late hour, it appeared as dark and dense as the bricks.
In a corner of the room below was a kitchen with a granite-covered bar and three stools. In another corner were sofas, chairs, and a TV. The starkness of the furnishings reminded me of a struggling bachelor or college student. Though Stewart had only been married to me for a year, struggling hadn’t been a word that could be used to describe him, perhaps ever.
As I looked around, I couldn’t help but wonder why, with our downtown apartment and large estate outside of Miami, was this extra residence necessary? Silently, he led me down the stairs. When the staircase turned, my gaze settled on the area of the room that was not visible from the entry. My curiosity turned to horror as my heartbeat intensified and my footsteps stalled. Taking in the raised platform containing a large four-poster bed, bile rose in my throat. Near the platform was one large, overstuffed chair.
Though the contract had outlined specifics regarding consent for sexual activities, up until that moment, Stewart had never proposed anything that I deemed out of the ordinary. With everything he initiated, I’d willingly followed. There was no doubt that he’d taken me to places I’d never been. However, I innately knew that there was something vile about the scene before me.
Tugging my hand, he encouraged my steps. “Don’t stop now, Mrs. Harrington.”
“Stewart? What is this?”
“This is where my fantasies come true.”
My neck straightened as I tried to comprehend. “I-I don’t understand? We have sex. We have a lot of sex. Why do you need an apartment for it? What’s wrong with our home?”
Though my mind spun, my feet continued to move. Nearing the bed, he said, “I’m not complaining about our sex life, Victoria. I like what we do at home. This is different. This is why I married you. This is what our contract was about.”
The contract came back to me: clauses and addendums. One particular sentence came back: outside the experience. What the hell?
“Stewart, what happens here? What do you expect of me?”
“Nothing has happened here since our agreement. I’m not sleeping with other women, if that’s what you’re asking. I did before we met. I have needs.” He directed me to sit upon the bed and touched my cheek. With a difference in his tone, he continued, “As of late, Mrs. Harrington, most of those needs have been very well met.”
“Most?” My stomach continued to churn. “Just say it. What do you think I’ll do here?”
His grin twisted. “I know what you’ll do here. You’ll do as I say. We have a contract, a legally binding agreement.”
“I-I still don’t—”
He touched my lips. “I’ve maintained my side of our deal. You have my name, access to my money. Your sister has been accepted at Johns Hopkins.” He tilted his head. “Have I denied you anything?”
“N-No,” I answered with obvious trepidation.
“And you will not deny me. I told you before that if something made you uncomfortable, I would be there for you. You’ll never be here alone. I’ll always be here.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand! Why wouldn’t you be here? If I’m supposed to do something, something to do with sex…” my words trailed away as the upheaval in my stomach became impossible to ignore. A quick look to the side showed me a door. I prayed it contained what I needed as I bolted from the bed, flung the door wide, and vomited my dinner in the toilet.
With my head pounding and my body shaking, I moved to the sink and, cupping water, rinsed my mouth. With my head on the sink, I turned toward my husband and demanded, “Just say it!” My volume rose. “Don’t make my imagination take me places I don’t want to be.”
Reaching for my hand, he helped me stand upright. “Where exactly is that beautiful imagination going?”
I already knew that Stewart enjoyed watching me pleasure myself. Often, he’d encourage me to masturbate, even introducing me to use toys so that he could watch as I came apart. “It’s something about watching, isn’t it? That’s why there’s a chair. Please tell me that there’ll be no one else here besides us.”
“I can’t.”
My brows rose as I repeated, “You can’t?”
“You’re a beautiful woman. I’ve told you how many men want you. I wasn’t lying. They do. And I love watching those beautiful lips cry out. I want to be the one orchestrating; I want to watch as other men use you. I want to be the one to give you that pleasure.”
“No!”
“No?” he quirked. “Mrs. Harrington, that word was removed from your vocabulary the day you signed my contract.”
“I-I can’t. I don’t want to be with other men. I want to be with you.” At that moment, even that wasn’t true.
“And you will. You’ll be with me. I still want to be with you. The idea of watching is making me hard right now. I bet if I lifted the skirt of that pretty little dress, I’d find that you’re wet thinking about it.”
“I’m not!” I answered honestly. “Who? Who are you willing to share me with?”
“You see, that was the part that had me stumped. When it was prostitutes, it didn’t matter. But as my wife, you’re expected to be on my arm.” He placed my petite hand in the crook of his arm and led me back to the bed. “And I like having you there. I’ve decided it would be better for you not to know.”
What the hell?
“That doesn’t make any sense. How could I possibly be doing… whatever it is you want to orchestrate…” I emphasized his word, “…and not know who I’m with?”
Stewart stopped again at the bed. “I believe I’ve worked that out.” He reached under the bed and pulled out a box.
I stood speechless as he opened the lid.
Inside I saw an array of sex toys, but that wasn’t what he sought. Stewart removed headphones and a blindfold. “These headphones will cancel out the sound of the other person’s voice, and the blindfold will do what blindfolds do. You’ll neither be able to hear nor see the person with you.” He removed a Bluetooth and placed the headphones over my ears. His voice came through the headphones. “Speaking through the Bluetooth, you’ll only be able to hear me. When I’m not speaking, I’ll have music playing, all in an effort to conceal your partner’s identity.”
It creeped me out to have him talking casually about my partners. I removed the headphones. The sound of his voice was beside me. I didn’t need to hear it through electronics. “But, but the other person will know it’s me. Even if I don’t know who it is, he will.”
“They my dear; not he. Plural not singular.” Stewart placed the blindfold over my eyes and the headphones once again on my ears. With my world dark, he continued, “You’re so hot, and you’re so right: they will know. However, you won’t. Each time we attend a function or accept an invitation to dinner, you won’t be burdened with the knowledge of the man across the table having had his dick inside of you. As you’re playing tennis at the club, you won’t be comparing the husbands of the women you see. All you’ll know is what I choose to share with you.”
As I reached for the blindfold, Stewart’s words brought my hands to a halt. “Do not remove that, Mrs. Harrington. Tonight, I want to watch as you follow my directions.”
A renegade tear escaped my lid, only to be swallowed up by the satin material. I spoke into the darkness. “Stewart, I don’t want to do this. I don’t want any part of this.”
He brushed my arms as I felt the zipper of my dress go down. “I’ll be with you every step of the way. I’ll make this as easy or as hard as I choose” His warm breath bathed my neck. “I suggest that you work toward easy: it is what I truly want.” Guiding me up toward the head of the bed, he removed my panties and spread my legs. “Tonight it’s just us. Nod if you can hear my voice.”
I nodded, for the first time fearful of the man I called my husband. What did he mean when he said that it can be as easy or hard as he chose? What would he do if I denied him this?
The mattress shifted: instinctively I knew he was gone, though his voice sounded as though he were still next to me. “You’re so fucking hot. The whole loss of sight and selective hearing can be incredibly erotic. Give into it. Give yourself over to the sound of my voice.”
I shook my head. “Please, Stewart.”
“Stop talking,” he scolded. “When we’re home, you can do and say whatever you want. But here, in this place, it’s my domain—my fantasy. You’ll do as you’re told, when you’re told. If you can’t follow the directions when they’re given, you’ll be punished. I have gags for talking out of turn. Is that what you want?”
I shook my head.
“That’s a good girl. And as you may recall, our contract contains a do-not-disclose clause. What happens in this place stays in this place. No one, not even Ms. Madison can be trusted. Nod your head if you understand.”
I nodded.
“Now, I don’t want you to embarrass me.”
What the hell? Me embarrass him?
Stewart continued, “So, at first, we’ll practice alone. Once you learn to obey, we’ll invite friends.”
My fucking choice was to not obey and get punished or obey and be fucked by others. That didn’t seem like much of a choice.
“Tonight will be very simple. You know the routine, Mrs. Harrington, work that pretty little pussy of yours and show me how wet you can get.”
My fingers obediently found my sex. There was nothing even remotely erotic about what I was doing. At home, in our bedroom, as I watched his blue eyes devour my movements, I could do what he wanted. Though my fingers obeyed, my mind was thinking about my new reality. How could I look his friends and business associates in the eye knowing that any one of them could have been inside of me? Names and faces came to mind. The way Parker Craven had looked at me the first time we met. Did he know? Would he be one of them? Why else was he so intimately involved in the writing of the contract? Business executives, politicians, who would be part of the they?
I gasped as the mattress shifted and Stewart’s fingers plunged deep into my core.
“What the hell? You’re fucking dry as a bone. Come on, darling, you’re normally so wet.” His thumb took over what I’d been doing. “Listen to the sound of my voice. Don’t listen to the thoughts in your pretty little head. Listen to me. We’re going to work to make you comfortable here. That’s it. Think about my cock. If I’m going to let you get all wet and let you come, you’re going to do the same for me. Reach out those pretty little hands. My cock is right in front of you.”
I did as he said, touching his torso. I could tell that he was now kneeling over me. His fingers stopped moving inside of me as I felt him reach past my head. Was he holding the headboard?
“Open your mouth, baby. I’m going to give you a surprise for being a good girl.”
I’d given him head many times, but he’d never come in my mouth, always pulling out and splashing my chest or stomach. I tasted the tartness of his pre-come as he glided his cock deeper into my mouth.
“When we’re here, you’re my whore. Remember that.” He pumped in and out of my mouth. “And good little whores swallow.” My scalp screamed as he fisted my hair, limiting my ability to move or pull away. “You don’t want to disappoint.”
My chest hurt. Not from the weight of his body over mine, but from his words. How could this be real?