“I didn’t go out.” The truth sucks the air from the room. Even in his presence, I can feel another one. “I was too afraid, after…”
After someone broke into the Grand. After someone left a note scrawled across my vanity mirror with my pink-bubblegum lipstick. John 10:16. A Bible verse. Of course I recognized what it was. And of course I remembered what it said. The lessons are too ingrained in me to ever forget, imprinted on my mind and in my skin. Ivan was convinced it was a random attack, just another creep in the clientele, but I knew otherwise.
And I have other sheep that are not of this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd.
I may take off my clothes on that stage, but it’s not me they’re seeing. Glitter and flash. Artifice. Inside I’m still a follower. Ivan’s always seen that in me.
“Come here,” he says, no tenderness in his voice. There’s pure fury.
He likes me afraid, as long as he’s the one making me that way.
Ivan has increased security at the Grand in recent months. He’s increased security on me too. He’s always had me followed, always known when I did something worth punishing. Before, I’d feel their eyes watching me from the shadows, a constant presence. Now they stand in plain sight, actual bodyguards—not the least bit subtle.
I circle the desk to stand in front of him. A beat starts up in my body, the thrum of my heart made faster, louder, pulsing right between my legs. I’m trapped in this game like I’m trapped in this basement. The ropes are made from my own lust, with his strong hands tying the knots.
“You don’t think about that,” Ivan says sternly, but what I hear is, You don’t think about him. He’s talking about the man who left the note. I’m thinking about the man I left behind. “He won’t touch you. No one will ever fucking touch you.”
I want freedom. I want to feel safe. Those two things are opposite desires, and they tear me apart. He turns me on. He conditions me for this. But it’s not either of those things that keep me here. It’s hope, that one day he’ll somehow do both of those things for me—he’ll set me free and catch me when I fall.
“Except you.” A challenge and a plea at once.
He leans back, his expression dark. For just a second I see desire. I see longing. He wants more than what we have in this basement, this dungeon—more than the scraps he gives himself. Then the emotion is wiped away as if it was never there. His face is impassive. He’s a statue, as cold and unyielding as the concrete walls around us.
His head tilts toward the desk. “Bend over.”
My heart beats faster. I don’t want to bend over the desk. I want to be over his lap, to feel him getting hard underneath me. I want to be held by him, touched by him, surrounded by him.
“Candace,” he says, using my real name—and it works. It snaps me right into place, that headspace where all I can do is obey.
The desk is cool against my front, pressing against my breasts, the closest he comes to a caress. I push down my ruffled panties until they’re around my thighs, trapping me in place. Exposing me to his gaze and to his rage.
Then he’s standing behind me. “Did you drink last night?” he asks conversationally.
I remember staring at the bottle, half-full of amber liquid. I remember the dryness of my mouth, the knot in my throat. I didn’t want it. But I wanted this. “Yes,” I whisper.
Only a sip. A sip is all it takes.
His hand comes at me swiftly, a whoosh of air one second before impact. My whole body jerks. Pain explodes in my butt and spreads over my skin like wildfire.
“Well?” he asks, one hand fisting in my hair. He lifts, and I stare into the dark, empty hole that is my life. This basement, this man. This need we both share, under cover of night.
My voice is wobbly. My whole body is wobbly. “Thank you, sir.”
His fist gives me a little shake before he lets me go. I rest my cheek on the desk.
Another blow, this one even harder. There are no warmups, no mercy. Only punishment.
The slightest sound escapes me, a moan, a whimper. “Thank you, sir.”
He leans over me, careful not to touch. Only the faintest ghost of a feeling, his suit fabric against my naked skin. “Did you shoot up?” he asks.
“No,” I tell him, feeling the tears rise in my throat. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, didn’t want the rush. Didn’t want the pain.
That gives him pause. I feel his hesitation hover around us. “Did you smoke?”
“No.”
He stands, cool air replacing his body heat. “Were you a good girl, Candace?”