On Monday night, my father and Elaine and I arrived at Carnegie Hall for the concert.  As we took our places in my father's box, I settled in next to the overhang looking out at the seats below and checked over the program. Ms. Upshaw was singing a selection of music, but it was the first part of the evening that I looked forward to the most. Symphony No. 3 – the second movement from Symphony of Sorrowful Songs, written about the Second World War, the lyrics comprised of a young woman's prayer written on a wall in a Gestapo Prison in Poland.

Every year, my mother and I would attend a live performance of this symphony somewhere in the country and neither of us could keep a dry eye throughout. We held hands and comforted each other while we sniveled away, tissues at our eyes. My great-grandparents on my mother's side were from Poland and lost several relatives in the war. This was the third year since she died and the first time I attended a performance of the work. I made sure to bring extra tissues in my bag. I got choked up even thinking of it and was glad we were in our box so no one would see me.

Then, Drake appeared at the door to our box and I turned to my father, who made a great show of standing up to shake his hand.

"There you are, my boy. So glad you could make it. Come and join us!"

My father turned to me and smiled, his eyebrows raised as if he'd just given me a present.

Crap…

I stared up at Drake, frowning. "Drake…"

My father stood and moved over so that Drake could sit next to me. Drake smiled and took my hand, leaning down to kiss my cheek.

"I ran into your father at the health club and when he asked me if I was joining you, I told him I was able to rearrange my jam session with my band to another night and was pleased to keep you company."

I sat with my mouth open like a fish out of water. "Oh," I managed. "That's … good to know."

After he and my father good-fellowed each other for a few moments, he unbuttoned his jacket and sat down beside me. He smelled so good, wearing some really nice cologne. I couldn’t place the scent but it was pleasant. I could tell from the fabric and cut that his suit was very expensive.  Dark grey silk of some blend with a white shirt and black tie. He moved around to get comfortable, one arm going on the back of my seat, his legs spread wide as if he owned the whole world.

He turned and smiled at me, arching his eyebrow, then leaned closer, his face next to mine, his lips near my ear.

"Don't sound so pleased to see me. Nice move, by the way, forgetting to invite me to sit in your box as your father asked," he said, his breath warm on my cheek.

My father turned back to Drake and he answered my father's questions about his band, his hands animated as he spoke, telling my father about the music his own father used to play and how it influenced him. He took out a pair of opera glasses and talked about them, saying they were his great grandmother's. They spoke together conspiratorially as I tried to figure out what I was going to do about Drake being there.

While my father and Elaine leaned in the other direction with their own glasses, checking out who else was in attendance, I leaned over to Drake but didn't meet his eyes.

"I consider this pushing my limits."

I caught his smile from the corner of my eye. "I'm a good Dom, Kate," he whispered to me, moving closer. "We push our sub's limits. It's the only way they experience anything new or as intensely as they could because they're too afraid on their own."

"You said you'd honor the agreement to the letter."

"It hasn't taken effect yet. Not until November 15th, if I recall correctly. This is just me being who I am."

I sat and stewed. "This is a special event for me," I said, my voice low. "I don't want you here."

"What do you mean?"

"Why don't you ask my father?"

I shook my head and turned away. He did exactly that, turning to my father. They spoke for a moment and I listened, waiting to see how clueless my father was.

"Kate said this is a special night for her."

"Oh, yes, that's right. Katherine used to go with her mother each year to hear this performed. Symphony No. 3 by Gorecki. About the Holocaust. Lost some family on her mother's side in the camps. Isn't that right, dear?" my father said, leaning over to me, a blank smile on his face. "Katherine and her mother used to cry like babies when they listened to it."

I made a face at him and turned away. I wanted to leave. I didn't want Drake Morgan sitting beside me, gloating that he'd weaseled his way into my private life despite my attempts to keep him out. Yes, I had warmed a bit towards him after our little dinner party and how he recited that poem to me after. He wasn't just an empty cad, devoid of personality.

But I didn't want him there.

He sat silent for a moment so I took out my cell phone and sent him a text message.

 

Drake, please, can you find some excuse to leave during the first part of the performance? It has special meaning to me and I get very emotional. It has to do with my mother. I'd rather you not be with us. Can't you pretend to get a page about a patient and leave for half an hour? I'm asking you this as one human to another…please…

 

I sent the text and in a moment, his cell vibrated and he reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved it.

He read the text. I kept my face forward but I could tell he was considering. He typed for a moment and then put his cell away. He spoke with my father, talking about his musical influences, and how he preferred the acoustic guitar but played the bass because his band needed one. He spoke of his dad's guitar collection that he kept, something about his vintage Gibson bass guitar that he played for sentimental reasons, its wood and frets worn with use.

I checked my phone, but there was no reply. I sat there, tense, dreading him being there when the performance started. He was going to ruin it for me and I hated him and I hated my completely clueless father for inviting Drake tonight – of all nights!

Just as the lights went down, Drake's pager went off, the buzz audible from where I sat. He made a big performance of taking it off the clip on his belt and checking it.

"Ah, damn," he said and showed it to my father. "Gotta run out for a bit. Have a patient post-op who's experiencing complications. I'll run back to the hospital and check on him, but I'll come back as soon as I can."

"That's too bad, Drake. You'll miss the first part of the performance. That's Katherine's favorite part, isn't it, dear?" My clueless father turned to me and smiled.

"That's too bad," I said and turned to Drake, our eyes meeting, his face unreadable. I wanted to thank him, but my father's attention was riveted to me and so I just smiled weakly.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Drake said, staring into my eyes. "I'm sad I'll miss your favorite part."

He stood and patted my father on the shoulder and then smiled at me briefly before buttoning his jacket and leaving.

I sighed in relief and relaxed back into my chair.

 

Gorecki – Symphony of Sorrowful Songs –written about the Second World War. The second movement, which Dawn Upshaw was performing, always made me cry. It included a prayer to the Virgin Mary inscribed on a cell wall in Zakopane, Poland by an 18-year old girl who was a prisoner.

I was so glad that Drake left me alone for this moment, glad he understood the music had special significance to me. I could tell he didn't like being excluded, but was so relieved that he was willing to go during the performance.

Upshaw entered the concert hall to cheers, the violinists tapping their bows against their music stands. She bowed and took her place. The conductor finally entered after Upshaw, and then, after a brief introduction, the music began.

The opening phrase was simple – three notes, the melody haunting, the strings and piano starting out soft and light, repeating a phrase that was beautiful, almost dreamy. Then the music changed. A darker note taken up by the double bass, the cellos. It repeated, again and again like a funeral bell tolling. Upshaw began, her voice mournful, tearful. She sang in Polish, the lyrics included in both Polish and English in our program.

Emotion built inside me and I tensed, holding my breath, biting my bottom lip as Upshaw sang the lyrics, calling to the girl's mother, asking her not to weep for her daughter. Once, when I used to listen to this, I thought of the family my mother lost in the camps in Poland, but now, I could only think of my own loss, my mother dying after a short battle with aggressive breast cancer. I tried to hold back my tears, but couldn't, and when she sang the last phrase, her voice raised as she called out to her mother, they spilled over and dripped down my cheeks. I wiped my eyes quickly with a hand and then pulled out a tissue from my bag.

I didn't want Drake there beside me, to witness my tears.

My father was so completely clueless as if he couldn't understand how personal and emotional this moment was for me – his own daughter. This was the first time I heard this since my mother died.

When Upshaw finished the piece, the applause was deafening. A standing ovation followed and I glanced around, the tissue to my mouth, trying to get hold over myself. It was then that I saw Drake. Standing in an empty box by himself, he had his opera glasses trained on me.

I leaned back, trying to hide in the shadows, but it was too late. He'd seen me and I wondered how long he'd been watching me.

Bastard!

Everyone stood, clapping, shouts of "Brava!" from the audience. I remained seated, wiping my eyes, struggling to regain my composure.

I could hardly listen to the rest of the music, although it was nice and Upshaw was amazing. At intermission, my father escorted us to the lobby for a drink but I went to the restroom immediately, hoping to fix my makeup before I had to face Drake. When I left the restroom, Drake was already with my father and his wife, a circle of my father's friends surrounding them. He smiled when he saw me. I turned around and went right to the box, refusing to join them.

Barely a moment after I'd been back, Drake arrived and sat beside me, turning towards me, his voice soft.

"How are you?"

I averted my face, looking out over the audience as people began to return to their seats, a tissue twisted in my hands.

"Fine." I said nothing else for a moment, keeping my focus on the audience. "Thank you for understanding and leaving."

"You're welcome." He rested his arm on the back of my seat and turned towards me a bit more. "I've never heard that piece before. It was…" He paused as if thinking of the right word to use. "Devastating."

I glanced at him, checking to see if he meant it, and his face was open, honest. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, wetting it with the tip of his tongue. He used the tip to wipe off my cheek. I tried to pull away, but he took my chin in his hand and stopped me, rubbing gently at a spot below my eye.

"Here, let me get this," he said, his voice soft. "Your mascara ran a bit from your tears."

He just had to do that – let me know that he was aware that I'd been crying.

I tried to avoid him, but he turned my face so that I couldn't. Finally I met his eyes and I just stared into them, and there was that connection again, passing between us. My emotions were still so close to the surface, and I felt so vulnerable as if he knew exactly what I was thinking and feeling.

Then, he leaned in and kissed me softly, his hands on either side of my face. Just a brief kiss, lips pressed to lips, mouth on mouth, and it felt as if some barrier between us had broken.

He pulled away, and I felt so confused, scared to my core. We remained like that, his hands cupping my cheeks, him staring into my eyes.

My father and Elaine returned and the moment ended.

Drake pulled his hands away and turned to them, standing up and welcoming them both back, his hand on my dad's shoulder. I remained seated, looking away, trying to hide my emotions from all of them, but I had the sense that Drake knew exactly how I felt.

 

I sat through the rest of the program but I heard none of it. He spoiled it for me. All I could think was that he kissed me – he kissed me! I didn't know where he got the nerve, except that he was a Dom as he so eagerly reminded me earlier. He was a Dom and he always tried to get his way. Get what he wanted.

I understood completely what he intended by that.

He wanted me as his sub.

I read the literature. A good Dom pushed his sub's limits to ensure she continued to expand her ability to respond, to experience as much as she could, to be as fulfilled in her submission as they could achieve together. The more she yielded to him, the more they were both satisfied – until they found her true hard limits. Only then would she – and he – be completely fulfilled.

I had no idea what my limits were. I knew what scared me – pain. I knew what I couldn't accept. Humiliation. I could never go to either place. I would never agree to either.

I was aroused by the idea of bondage. Leather? Restraints? They excited me. The thought of Drake tying me up and then doing things to me with his hands, his mouth, his cock, making me come the way the Dom in those letters described – I could take restraints, I could handle a blindfold. Not a gag – I had this thing about breathing because I had asthma as a child.

Spanking? I didn't know about that.

It sounded too much like the way you treated a bad child. I read about how pain was just another sensation that enhanced sexual response, but there had never been once in my life when pain led to sexual arousal so I concluded it was just not in me. Luckily, Lara assured me that Drake was not into pain. He was more into bondage and dominance. Mind-fucking, Lara called it.

I inhaled deeply and tried to calm myself, for my heart was racing a bit too fast because of everything. My hands shook just a bit, and I felt as if I couldn't catch my breath.

I had to leave. I had to get out of there.

I stood and grabbed my bag.

"Excuse me," I managed to whisper as I crept past Drake to the aisle and out of our box seats to the hallway. I gasped when I was finally away from them, from him and leaned against the wall, trying to catch my breath.

I started walking and found a side exit. I left the building completely, standing outside in the November chill, my arms bare, but the cool air felt good on my skin. I leaned against the building and stared straight up into the sky. It was clear with a few faint stars peeking through Manhattan's light pollution.

The door opened beside me. Drake…

Damn him.

"Kate, what on Earth are you doing out here? It's freezing out, for God's sake."

He grabbed my arm, but I pulled free and stood my ground. My knees were too shaky to try to walk away, so I just stayed where I was, leaning against the wall, my arms wrapped around me.

"Just leave me. I need some air."

I closed my eyes, for they were starting to tear up again and I hated myself for being so weak. For being a stupid female in front of him. I bit my lip until it hurt and blinked rapidly, turning my face away from him.

He removed his suit jacket, leaving him in his crisp white shirt and black tie. Then, he manhandled me, pulling me away from the wall, wrapping me in his jacket, which smelled of him and was so warm. He tightened it around me, his face dark.

"There," he said and then he tipped my face up so that I had to look in his eyes. I tried to avoid him as if he was some kind of drug, for he was, and I was weak…

Our eyes finally met and I felt this jolt of something go through me from my chest to my groin.

"Oh, fuck, Kate," he said almost groaning. He pressed against me, his hips pinning me to the wall, his arms on the bricks beside my head. He kissed me, and it wasn’t the kiss he gave me earlier in the concert hall, soft and tender. It was passionate, his mouth harsh against mine, his lips parting, his tongue finding mine, searching my mouth. One hand slipped behind my head, the other tangled in my hair, which he pulled out of its clip so that it fell around my shoulders.

The kiss went on and on, my heart racing, his thigh jammed between mine. He dropped his hand to my breasts, his fingers caressing the tops of them, his mouth moving to my neck beneath my ear, his tongue wet against my skin. When his hand moved lower to hike up my skirt, his hand stroking my leg up as if in search of garters, I emerged from the lust-filled stupor.

"Drake, no…"

He stopped, his breath coming in short harsh gasps.

"Tell me you don't want me," he said, his voice low.

I glanced away, for his eyes scared me. I couldn't say I didn't want him. My body betrayed me. I was wet and swollen and my heart pounded.

"I thought so," he said and started kissing me again, roughly, his hand on my thigh, then around between my legs, his fingers searching me, pressing against me, the pressure firm against my clit, then lower. "Oh, you're already wet," he whispered, and he made this sound in his throat like a moan. "Fuck, I want you right here, right now." He pressed his hips against me and I felt his erection against my groin.

He kissed me again, and I kissed him back, unable to resist any longer. He tried to get his hand into my pantyhose, dipping down beneath my panties to find my clit and it was then that I shocked back to awareness. He had his hand between my thighs, his fingers between my lips, almost inside of me. I pulled away and pushed against him.

"Stop!"

He stopped, pulling his fingers away, his hand out from between us, but he leaned with his elbows against the wall, effectively keeping me from escape.

"What?" he said, panting.

"I'm not ready," I said, my own breath coming too fast.

"Yes, you are," he said and licked his fingers methodically, one at a time, his eyes not leaving mine. "You’re more than ready."

I shook my head and closed my eyes. "No," I whispered. "I'm not ready for this. For you. Not yet."

He said nothing, just pressed his forehead against mine. Soon his breathing and my breathing started to slow. I pulled down the skirt of my dress, which he hiked above my hips.

"Well, I'm ready for you." He stood up straight, and adjusted himself, a hand running briefly over his groin. I couldn't help but look down and saw the faint outline of his erection through the fabric of his trousers.

"Any time, Kate," he said, his voice low and husky. "You just have to sign the revised agreement I'm sending to you when I get home tonight." He turned away from me, his hands on his hips and took in a few deep breaths as if trying to calm himself. Then, he went to the door and opened it, pointing inside. "We better go back. Your father will be starting to worry about us."

I walked past him and back into the building.

 He stopped and picked up my bag, which I dropped on the ground by the wall.

"Here," he said, and a smile cracked that mouth. "I really must have affected you if you forgot your bag."

I grabbed it from him, and quickly turned away. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of returning his smile of triumph.

 

 We remained at the rear of the box for the rest of the performance and standing ovation, not wanting to interrupt, me leaning against the wall, Drake leaning over me, one hand on the wall beside my head, his eyes never leaving my face. He caught my eye and passed his fingers beneath his nose, inhaling deeply.

I glanced away, my cheeks heating at his so brazen reminder of how he had his fingers almost inside me. I waited for my father and Elaine to finish clapping. Finally, the applause died and they turned to us. My father smiled, his face bright.

"There you two are!" he said like a proud father of the bride, his gravelly voice ebullient. "I'm so glad Drake went to find you, Katherine. Did he help you calm down a bit? I know that song always gets to you."

No, father. He did anything but help me calm down. Quite the opposite. He had his tongue down my throat and his fingers up my pussy…

"I'm fine," I said, my voice low.

"Good good." My father rubbed his hands together. "Now, weren't you two going out for dinner? The Russian Tea Room, wasn't it, Drake?"

My father looked from me to Drake and back.

"That's right," Drake said. "We have reservations for two in about ten minutes. I could really eat something right now."

I caught Drake's eye and his half-grin half-smirk started, his blue eyes twinkling in that way. His words sent a thrill of lust right to my groin.

I handed him his jacket and he shrugged it on. Then, he took my coat from the hanger in our private closet and helped me with it, standing behind me, his hands on my shoulders.

His cologne lingered on my clothes and hair.