Chapter 6

 

 

 

 

November 13, 1961

Mr. Stevenson is the second man I’ve ever been intimate with.

Listen to me with my euphemisms, even here in my private diary.

Speak plainly, Livvie. Say what you mean.

Okay.

He’s the second man I’ve had sex with.

Yes. It’s true. I made love with a man who is not my husband.

Was it making love? Is that what you’d call it? I have no earthly idea.

My head is in a muddle. Maybe if I write this all down, it will become clearer as I go.

When Mr. Stevenson suggested I accompany him on his business trip, I honestly didn’t think Frank would go for it, even though Betty promised to get the kids after school and make sure they were up and ready for the bus in the morning. I wasn’t even sure myself how I felt about it. I’ve never been away from them overnight, except when they go to summer camp.

Though it was only for one night, I warned Mr. Stevenson it was unlikely, and he nodded his understanding. Though he did add that I would be amply compensated, given the inconvenience. I think that’s what motivated Frank, to be brutally honest. I’ll admit here, I know how to play Frank, and by acting very low-key and hesitant—I wasn’t sure it was a good idea, what about the children—I manipulated him into feeling he was the one advocating for the trip and I was the reluctant one.

“We’ll be fine,” he’d assured me. “We can make it on our own for one night without Mom, can’t we, kids?”

“Will you bring us a toy?” Frank Jr. had piped up. My assurances that I would clinched the deal. Toys for all, and a nice bonus check to boot.

I seem to be avoiding the task at hand, which is to put down what happened. What “transpired,” as Mr. Stevenson is fond of saying.

It’s funny how I always think of him as Mr. Stevenson. Does his wife call him James, or something more endearing, like Jim or Jimmy? I can’t see him as a Jimmy. I doubt he would tolerate nicknames. Not proper Mr. Stevenson.

Okay, okay, enough dilly-dallying. Deep breath. Here’s what happened.

During the day we were all business. We had meetings all day with very important clients, and I took notes and supplied all the needed documents and papers we’ve spent the past month pulling together. I was very professional in my new suit, and the sexy lingerie underneath just added to my confidence.

The meetings were interminable, but at the end of the day, we went our separate ways. Mr. Stevenson and I checked into the Hallmark, which was quite a step up from the Howard Johnson, let me tell you. We had adjoining rooms with a connecting door.

He had the key.

When Mr. Stevenson suggested a drink before dinner to celebrate the conclusion of a very successful deal, I accepted, feeling as if I were going on a date, as excited and nervous as a cat. I left off my suit jacket, appearing in only my silk blouse and skirt. Mr. Stevenson had the same basic idea, as he’d removed his jacket and tie. I ordered a Tom Collins. Mr. Stevenson had a martini.

We made small talk and he complimented me on my work during the meetings, which made me feel all warm and happy. He ordered us a second round, though I was already feeling no pain. Then he put his hand on mine and said quietly, “Are you ready, Olivia? Ready for the next step between us?”

Ready?

Could a person be ready for this?

I wasn’t entirely sure what I was to be ready for, though I was pretty sure it involved the further breaking of my marriage vows. But, no doubt aided by the gin, a part of my brain said, “What the hell? You’ve come this far. In for a penny, in for a pound.”

“I think so, Mr. Stevenson,” I ventured, my heart fluttering wildly.

Another man at that point would surely have said, “Please, call me James.” But he didn’t.

Instead, he said, “Tonight I want to take you beyond limits you may think you have. I want to know that you are willing. And if you’re not, believe me, that’s fine. We will continue as we have been at work, and no hard feelings.”

He paused and looked at me. I didn’t say anything, but I was all ears.

“I want to find out if our connection goes beyond the rather tame games we’ve been playing at work. I want to test the sincerity of your submission.” Again he paused. “Well? What do you say, Olivia? Do you accept?”

My tongue was loosened by alcohol and by the fact we were no longer in an office, but more like on a date. “I’m not really sure what you’re talking about,” I replied, though I had some idea it involved getting naked. “You talk in circles.” I finished off my second drink and set the glass down rather too hard. “Just what is it you want? What do you expect from me?”

“It’s a fair question,” he said, flashing a rare smile. “And a direct one. So, I’ll be direct with you.” He leaned forward across the small table and goosebumps rose on my skin. “You excite me. You’re beautiful and sexy. More than that, I’ve come to value our relationship, aside from our professional one, of course, which is also highly satisfactory. What I’m trying to say is that I want you, Olivia.”

“Oh,” I whispered, stunned by his declaration.

“Not just for a romp in the sheets,” he continued. “I believe you and I are destined for more than that. I have been seeking a kindred connection for some time now, and I believe I have found it with you. I hope you’ll find the courage to explore it further with me. If you accept, you will have the chance to submit in the way I think you long for, and I will have the chance to dominate, in a sensual sense, a woman who was born to it.”

“Oh,” I repeated like an idiot, any coherent response blasted from my brain by his astonishing words. Kindred connection. It sounded so romantic. Not just a romp in the sheets. So romping was to be a part of it? Well, of course. What had I expected?

He was watching me, his face vulnerable for the first time in memory, stark with a need that both startled and moved me.

“Yes,” I finally found the wherewithal to whisper. “I accept.”

He called over the waitress and told her his room number and to put the drinks on his tab. “We can go first for dinner or…” He let the sentence hang.

“I don’t think I could eat a bite,” I replied truthfully. My stomach was in knots of nervous anticipation.

“Room service later,” he agreed.

We rode up in the large, quiet elevator to our floor. He unlocked my door and said, “I want you to get ready for me, Olivia. Please know I have no plan to destroy your family or make any demands on you outside of the time we have together.”

I appreciated what he was saying, and I understood this wasn’t just about me. He has as much to lose as I do. I nodded.

He opened my door and said quietly, “You will undress to bra, panties and stockings. You may remove your shoes. You will kneel on the carpet, head touching the ground, arms extended in front of you, ass in the air. You will wait quietly in that position. You will not speak or move when you hear me enter. I expect absolute obedience. Do you understand?”

I was dizzy from the drinks, but it was more than that. His words sent me reeling. Was the man insane? My usual voices piped up in my head, trying to pretend outrage, but I knew at the same time I was going to do it. His words resonated with that dark, secret part of me I’m only just coming to terms with.

“Yes, Sir,” I managed to whisper.

He shut my door, leaving me alone in the lovely room. The bed had been turned down and there was a small chocolate wrapped in gold foil set in the center of a plump pillow.

I used the toilet and removed my clothing as directed. I glanced in the mirror, brushed my hair, applied fresh lipstick and returned to the bedroom. I took a big breath, asked myself out loud what the heck I was doing.

It’s hard to describe the feelings that coursed through me as I waited on my knees, head down, bottom up, for Mr. Stevenson to enter the room. I waited for an hour or more in that position. No, it only felt like that. In fact it was more like five minutes, but that was plenty long enough.

I tensed when I heard the sound of the deadbolt turning in the door between our rooms. He entered quietly, his steps muffled by the soft, thick carpet. His bare feet appeared in my line of vision. His warm hand skimmed my back and my heart did a somersault in my chest. I started to rise but he said, “Don’t move.”

My heart was thumping so loudly I’m sure he could hear it too. He crouched, his mouth close to my ear. “Olivia, for the rest of the night you belong to me. I will use you in whatever way I see fit, in any way I choose. If you accept these terms, stay kneeling as you are. If you have changed your mind, get up now and I’ll go back to my room. Dress and we’ll have dinner downstairs and that will be that. We can still go on as before in the office. Please understand, this is not an ultimatum. I don’t want you unless you’re ready to give yourself to me.”

I stayed down, though now my heart seemed to have lodged itself in my throat. After about five interminable seconds, he placed his hands on my shoulders. I allowed him to pull me upright. I thought I might faint, but at the same time I was electrified with excitement. 

We were standing now face-to-face. Looking down at me with those crystalline eyes, he wrapped me in his strong arms and bent down, kissing me with the ardency of a lover. His hands were roaming over my back and bottom, and I responded, pressing into him, this time bringing my own arms around him as I’d fantasized so many times before.

After a few moments, he pulled away and murmured, “For tonight, you are to call me Master.” He looked past my eyes into my soul. “And to me you will be only slave. No names tonight, not even surnames. Do you understand?”

Writing this now, it sounds kind of silly, like something out of some trashy novel, but at the time, it was anything but. I don’t know how to convey it, but everything about the experience seems heightened somehow in my memory. Colors were brighter, sensations more vivid. I felt so alive, as if the rest of my life was cast in shadowy grays.

He took off my underthings, though I don’t specifically recall him doing it. He was kissing me the whole time. He was still in his trousers and undershirt, which didn’t seem quite fair. “Have you ever been whipped, slave?” he said in a calm voice, as if this were a perfectly reasonable question.

My mouth fell open in shock.

“No, of course not,” he answered for me. “And now in your mind, you’re imagining some kind of Marquis de Sade torture. But it isn’t. It isn’t when it’s done right, as a loving act. I’m going to show you, slave. I’m going to introduce you to something you’ve never dreamed about. Now lie down on your stomach and relax.” He pointed to the bed. “I’ll be right back.”

In a kind of paralyzed shock, I lay on the bed as directed, my mind curiously blank.

When he returned, he had removed his shirt. He had nice curling chest hair over a firmly muscled chest. I was distracted by what he was holding—a black whip with dozens of leather throws hanging from a long handle.

I gasped and sat up, clutching myself protectively.

He was next to me in a flash. Sitting on the bed, he gently pushed me back down to mattress. “This will only happen at your pace. You will call the shots. You will ask me for more when you’re ready. Until then, let me show you how sensual a flogger can be.” His touch was gentle, his words soothing, so at odds with the stern Mr. Stevenson from the office. And yet, not really. It was just another facet, I suppose, of a complicated man.

I closed my eyes, enjoying the feel of the soft, expensive sheets beneath my naked body, and his hands moving in slow, sensual circles over my shoulders, back and bottom. Eventually, I realized it was no longer his hands on my flesh, but the soft tresses of the flogger gliding up and down my back, bottom and thighs. And he was right—it was soft, sensual—lovely, really.

He continued to run the leather up and down my body until my flesh was tingling, a warm, throbbing ache between my legs. As he’d predicted, I began to wonder what it would feel like if he were to raise the whip and let the tresses fall harder against my skin.

“Please, Master,” I ventured, feeling both ridiculous and deeply excited. “Perhaps a little harder?”

“Yes, slave,” he replied. “As you wish.” The leather snapped in a flurry against my ass. It stung, though not too much. At the same time, it ignited something deep in my core. He continued like this for several minutes, slowly increasing the intensity of the strokes.

I drifted in the sensations, at once utterly relaxed and wildly alive.

“Spread your legs, slave,” he eventually commanded.

Too aroused to be shocked, I did as he said.

He placed his hand there and, to my deep embarrassment, murmured, “You’re soaking wet, slave. You need this. You need more than I’m giving you now, don’t you?”

Though I still don’t understand it, he was right. I needed more. I nodded.

“Then ask for it, slave. Ask me to whip you harder. To make you wetter.” His fingers swirled over my sex and one pressed its way into me. I actually groaned aloud with lust.

“Please, Master,” I managed, the honorific sliding out of my mouth like it had always been under my tongue. “Whip me harder.” I tensed, suddenly afraid of what I’d asked for.

The flogger came down with a slapping sound, and this time it really stung. With a gasp, I jerked under the lash. He did it again. And again.

Here’s the weird thing, the thing I’ve been wrestling with. The whipping stung like a dozen bees buzzing over my body, but, while it hurt, I didn’t want it to stop. He alternated stroking my sex with his fingers and whipping my back, ass and thighs with his flogger until it all got mixed up somehow—the pleasure and pain intertwining into something I have no words for.

“Yes,” he breathed, continuing to whip me harder and harder, all the while stroking my sex until I was wriggling around, my skin on fire, passion making my blood boil. Unaware of what I was doing, I rolled over suddenly, and his flogger struck my breasts, the tips whipping across my right nipple like needles.

I squealed and instinctively covered my breasts with my hands, the pleasure receding.

He dropped the flogger and lowered his mouth to my stinging nipple. As his tongue moved over it, the sting was erased, though the fire in my belly only intensified. Utterly shameless, I reached for him and pulled him down on top of me, seeking his mouth, those lips, with mine.

He held me close as he kissed me. I could feel his erection beneath his trousers. “I want you,” he breathed in my ear. “I must have you.”

“Yes,” I groaned in reply. “Please.”

He lifted himself from me long enough to pull off the rest of his clothing. He had one of those condom things, and I suppose I was glad he’d thought of that, though somehow it made what we were doing less of a fantasy, more of a cold reality—we were committing adultery, no matter how you sliced it.

When he entered me, I began to convulse. For a second, I was afraid I was having a seizure, but as he began to move inside me, I realized I was having an orgasm, and then my mind shut off as he made love to me for what seemed like hours.

I woke sometime in the middle of the night. I was alone in my bed, Mr. Stevenson long gone. I lay there awake for a long time, reliving the stunning events of the evening, both shocked and thrilled at what had taken place between us.

Now we’re back at the office, once again Mr. Stevenson and Olivia, boss and secretary, with no mention of what happened, and no idea of when it might happen again.

I’ll admit it here. I’m not sorry it happened. In fact, I can’t stop thinking about it. I want what he offers. I want more than he’s offered so far. Now the question is, how am I going to get it?

~*~

“Wow,” Tess murmured, letting Olivia’s journal slide from her hands. She turned to Ryan in the bed. “He whipped her. He actually whipped Olivia. I can’t even imagine it.”

“Can’t you, Tess?”

Tess swallowed hard. She’d had a full-blown daydream after reading Charlotte’s Awakening, one she had yet to share with Ryan. In the fantasy, Tess was standing in a room, her arms raised high overhead, her wrists bound in thick rope. Her ankles were also bound, forcing her to stand with legs far apart. She was naked, her skin gleaming with sweat.

Ryan stood behind her. Though he didn’t say a word, she could sense his power, both sensual and dangerous. The only sound in the room was her own rapid breathing. Though she couldn’t see him, somehow she knew he was holding a whip. Not a flogger as Olivia had described, but a long, single tail whip, coiled like a snake in his hand, ready to strike.

Ryan was watching her now. He repeated the question. “Can’t you imagine that whipping, Tess?”

“Yes,” she admitted softly. Why not tell him the truth? She could trust him. “I actually had this daydream after reading the novel you gave me.”

“Tell me.”

She described the fantasy, though putting the underlying feelings into words was harder than just describing the scenario. “It seemed so real. Like every nerve in my body was poised and waiting for the cut of the lash against my skin.”

“Did you want it? Do you want to experience that for yourself?”

“I-I don’t know. I do. And I don’t. If that even makes sense.”

“You’re afraid but curious.”

“Yes,” Tess agreed, not sure which feeling was stronger.

Ryan leaned over her, kissing her eyelids shut. Speaking in a soft, seductive voice, he murmured, “I love the fantasy you’ve created, Tess. I can totally imagine it. You, tied and bound, helpless really, the thick rope snug around your wrists and ankles. There’s no way out. You’re completely at your Master’s mercy. He possesses you at that moment, in every sense of the word.”

Tess shivered at Ryan’s words.

He stroked her right nipple and captured it between thumb and forefinger, squeezing lightly at first, and then harder. “In the fantasy, you’re turned on but scared. There’s no one there to set you free, no one but the Master to hear your cries.” His voice had deepened, his words weaving a sensual spell over her. “You have to take it, Tess. To take the whipping. Your Master is aware of your fear, but also of your need. He leads you slowly, carefully, but inexorably, to that dark, sensual place where pain and pleasure no longer have separate meaning.”

“Oh my god,” Tess breathed, feeling both hot and cold. “It’s like you’re inside my head.” She turned to him. “Is that what you want, Ryan? Would it excite you to whip a woman?”

To whip me.

Ryan’s smile was slow and sensual, his eyes glittering with lust. “Yes, Tess. It’s what I want. It’s what I’ve always wanted, but I’d never found the right woman. Until now.”

Tess drew in a breath, her heart pounding. He reached for her, pulling her closer. As she nestled against him, he said, “Are you ready to go to the next level, Tess? To turn your fantasies into reality?”

Tess thought a while before answering, honestly weighing her conflicting feelings in her mind. “It’s weird,” she finally said, “because while it really turned me on to read all that stuff in Charlotte’s Awakening, I don’t know if I could handle that kind of intensity in real life. I mean, I’m not into pain. I don’t like stubbing my toe. I considered getting a tattoo once, but the thought of the needles made me woozy. Not to mention, I’m a firm believer in equality and women’s rights. So why did I get so incredibly turned on when Charlotte was chained and brutally whipped, not only by her lover, but by his butler? Why did I get such a dark thrill when she was raped by the guy’s chauffeur and then casually sodomized by her lover?”

Ryan snorted, though his expression was thoughtful. “I totally get what you’re saying. Regarding women’s rights, there’s no conflict. You can be a kickass attorney and completely in charge of your own affairs and decisions, but still choose to submit sexually to your partner. I think that’s the crux of it—choice. A consensual, informed and willing exchange of power. True liberation is the freedom to actually be who you are. To be true to yourself, and that doesn’t just include women.”

“That makes sense,” Tess agreed. “I never really thought about it that way, but yeah. I like that.”

Ryan nodded. “And regarding erotic pain, stubbing your toe or getting repeatedly poked by a tattoo artist has nothing to do with it. Being a sexual masochist, or a sensual sadist for that matter, is a whole different experience. It’s not about inflicting or receiving the pain per se. It’s about erotic domination and submission. It’s about surrender and trust. It’s about sensation, and the incredible rush, both physical and mental, of a true exchange of power.”

He stroked her hair, his voice calm, but she could feel the intensity beneath it—his need for her to understand, and the underlying trust that went with it. She fell a little more in love with him, if that was possible.

“I’ve had a little experience,” he went on, “and I’ve done a lot of reading and research about BDSM, and what I’ve come to realize is that we’re hardwired a particular way, sexually speaking. We may or may not choose to act on those feelings, but I’m dominant and sensually sadistic—it’s a part of who I am at my core, just like I believe you’re submissive and sexually masochistic. Mainstream acceptance of this kind of sexuality is still relatively new, and certainly not universal. BDSM is still largely misunderstood by most people.”

Tess nodded. “I get it. I think I’ve always had these feelings, but I never dared to act on them. I’m so glad I found Olivia’s diaries, even if it’s still hard to get my head around the fact she’s my grandmother.” She gave a small laugh.

“And I’m glad you shared them with me,” Ryan said. “Her journals are like a gateway for us. They’ve given us permission to explore our own D/s connection, on our own terms. And we’re lucky. We don’t have to sneak around. We don’t have to feel guilty about what we’re doing.”

She stroked Ryan’s smooth chest. “So you’re hardwired to be sexually dominant, but you’ve waited until you’re practically thirty to act on it?” she said in a teasing voice, though her heart was beating fast, her mind reeling with the possibilities.

“I guess I was waiting for the right woman,” he replied seriously. “Trust is a two-way street, as you know. I feel safe with you—safe to express my true feelings and desires.”

Tess warmed at his words. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to make light of your feelings. I’m honored to be your safe place, and I feel the same way. It’s just so much to take in. To-to admit to myself, much less another person, that I want to be tied down, to be controlled, to be…whipped.” It was hard even to say the words, but at the same time somehow freeing.

“And yet, for you,” Ryan replied, “when you can throw off all the noise from societal expectations and norms and all that other crap, it’s the most natural thing in the world, because it’s a part of what you are. It’s like being gay or left-handed. You can pretend to be hetero, or make yourself learn to write with your right hand, but in the end, you still are what you are. The cool thing—the awesome thing—is when you can get to a place where you not only accept that about yourself, but embrace it—celebrate it.”

He pushed her gently onto her back and leaned up beside her to stare down into her eyes. “It’s like Olivia’s Mr. Stevenson said. You and I have found this rare, kindred connection. We have the chance to discover together where it might take us.” He stroked her cheek and then slid his hand below her jawline, his fingers spanning out to grip her lightly by the throat.

His touch sent a shiver of both fear and lust hurtling through her frame. She stared up into his eyes, mesmerized by his gaze, his words, and the power implied in his primal grip. “This is the opportunity we’ve both been waiting all our lives for. The question is, do we have the courage to seize it?”