Rebecca's Lost Journals, Volume 3: His Submissive

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Contents

Rebecca’s Lost Journals, Volume 3

His Submissive

Journal 6, entry 1

Monday, March 14 , 2011

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Friday, March 18, 2011

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Excerpt of
Being Me

Don’t forget to click through after

Rebecca’s Lost Journals, Volume 3: His Submissive

for an exclusive sneak peek at Lisa Renee Jones’s sizzling second book in the Inside Out trilogy

Being Me

Available from Gallery Books June 2013

Journal 6, entry 1

Monday, March 14 , 2011

7:00 a.m.

I
, Rebecca Mason, belong to him, my new Master. Or I will as soon as I sign the contract he’s given me to set the terms for our Master/sub relationship.

I woke a few minutes ago with these thoughts, and now, sitting at the kitchen table of my little San Francisco apartment, excitement is running through me. Now that I’ve decided to sign the contract, the idea of being “his” is downright intoxicating. Still, I’m glad I was the cautious girl that I am, and made myself sleep on the decision. Considering my recent nightmares, my good night’s rest speaks loudly. I’m at peace with my decision to sign the contract.

Still, how crazy is it for me to feel this confident about giving myself to someone else? Only a few weeks ago, I would have never believed this possible. Before “him,” the idea of being submissive to anyone simply wasn’t comprehensible. All my life has been about learning from my single mother to control my own destiny and stand on my own two feet. Handing over complete control to another person simply wasn’t an option . . . until him. Now, how do I tell him I’m signing our contract? A text? A call? Meet him in person? Hmmm . . . off to shower and think about this . . .

•   •   •

W
hile I was in the shower, I came up with the perfect way to tell him I’m his. First, the right attire. I’ve dressed in a sexy pale pink dress the color of spring roses, one that hugs my curves (to get his attention) without being overly sexy for work. It’s also perfect for an event being held at the gallery tonight. I just have to throw on a little lace jacket I recently purchased to spice it up.

Next, I took the big plunge and inked the contract. I then slipped on the beautifully designed ring with an etched rose he’d given me to wear after signing the contract, as a symbol that I am his. So it’s on my finger and I keep sitting here staring at it, expecting fear or regret, but I feel none. I feel right about this.

It’s crazy how my life has changed in a matter of weeks. I dared to chase my dream of working in the art world, taking a low-paying job at the gallery that required me to work a second job to pay the bills. Then, miraculously, that gamble paid off with a chance to earn big commissions through Mark’s auction house. I have a new career, and I’m discovering a new, daring part of me, a part I can’t wait to explore further. And I have “him.” Or I will by the end of today.

All that is left now is for me to take a picture of both the contract and the ring on my finger. Then I’ll text the photos to him. Okay . . . done. Photos taken. I’m about to send the text messages. I’m nervous and excited. This is it. I’m really doing this.

Almost 1:00 p.m. and my lunchtime

I
haven’t seen or heard from “him” since I texted the pictures. Not a word. This decision was huge for me, and I thought he’d know that and respond. I feel uncertain. I feel . . . confused. The gallery I normally love feels like a prison I need to escape. I’m leaving for lunch just to get out of here, though I know I won’t be able to eat. I guess I’ll walk to the chocolate shop and buy about ten pounds of the best they have, go to the coffee shop for caffeine, and then pig out. Chocolate isn’t food; it’s a drug meant to cure all. It should make me feel better, at least while I’m consuming it. There will be regret afterward, but if it’s the only regret I feel today, I’m okay with that.

2:00 p.m.

Back at the gallery in my office . . .

I
saw him, my would-be, should-be-already Master, who is twisting me in knots. The chocolate/coffee plan turned into the encounter with him I’d been waiting on all morning. After I bought my chocolate, I headed straight to the coffee shop, where I found a corner booth (and hoped to dodge Ava, the chatty owner of the place who is always trying to dig up gallery gossip from me).

I’d just settled into my seat when the air shifted around me, telling me he’d stepped into the shop even before I saw him. I always know when he’s around. There’s this subtle energy that seems to crackle in the air, and I know I’m not the only person who feels it. I can see how the gazes around me seek him out, how attention finds him.

My nerves went haywire at the knowledge he was there. My stomach fluttered and my heart raced so quickly, I actually felt faint.

I keep replaying the moment he came into view and stole my breath, as he always does. Tall and broad, he sauntered toward me with sleek, feline grace, and I had the sense he was stalking his prey and that prey was me. His eyes found mine, or maybe mine found his, and the hardness in their depths had actually made my chest hurt. He affects me that much, like no other man, or anyone, ever has. He was angry. I had no idea why, but he was angry. I knew then what his silence had already told me; I just didn’t want to admit it. I’d dared to open myself up to him and he was going to reject me.

I had to cut my gaze away from his in an effort to recover my lost composure. I rarely feel out of sorts in such a way. My skin tingled and almost burned as he neared, closing in on me, and I cursed my inability to control my physical response to him. I can still feel the dread that filled me, paralyzed me, when he stopped by my table, towering above me.

“Look at me,” he demanded softly, but there was no softness to the command.

I forced my gaze back to his and those hard eyes were still hard. Still angry. Some part of me had hoped that I’d read him wrong moments before.

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t speak. I simply had no idea what to say; I didn’t even fully understand what I felt.

“You don’t sign the agreement or put on the ring until I say you’re ready,” he said in a low, commanding reprimand.

I was stunned. This wasn’t a rejection. It was a . . . I didn’t know what. “But you tried to convince me to sign—”

“To be open to signing,” he corrected. “And then, only when I say you’re ready—not a moment before.”

“I am ready,” I declared.

He leaned down, hands pressed to the table in front of me, his erotic scent teasing my nostrils. He leveled me in a stare, and that cruel, amazing mouth of his was so near I could feel his hot breath on my lips. “No,” he said tightly. “You are not ready and clearly you still don’t understand the rules. But you will. Take off the ring until I say otherwise.”

My chest had tightened to the point of misery. I remember thinking, “Do I really want to be with someone who can make me feel pain so easily?” But as much as I knew what my answer should be, I heard myself ask him, “Are you serious?”

“Do I ever say anything I don’t mean?”

I stared at him for several seconds and decided that no, he did not. I took off the ring. When I tried to hand it to him he said, “Keep it, but you don’t wear it until I say you can.” His lips thinned. “Now. Let’s go to the bathroom and finish this conversation.”

My mind immediately raced. Who was in the coffee shop? Who would see us go to the bathroom as a pair? “What if someone sees us?”

He just stared at me, the look on his face as steely as any I’d ever seen. He fully intended for me to do as he wished. I knew that if I didn’t, this thing between us would end there and then.

With my fingers curled around the ring, the sharp corners digging into my tender flesh, I stood up. He straightened with me and somehow I resisted the urge to scan for who might be watching us. He stepped backward, giving me just enough space to pass him, and I was thankful we were so close to the back of the shop and the bathroom that perhaps we wouldn’t be seen together. It was the facade I needed to be able to move forward.

Once I managed to walk, I quickly cut to my left and down a small hall before rushing into the bathroom. My awareness of his joining me in the small space was instant; the tiny box of a room suddenly made me feel like a caged animal, wild and uncertain. My emotions were a jumble of uncontrollable knots that he was pulling tighter.

I heard the lock seal us inside, and I started to turn when he grabbed me and pressed me against the sink. My fingers curled around the white ceramic as he yanked my snug-fitted dress up my hips. Then he was at my side, his thick erection resting on my hip, his fingers sliding between my thighs, under the black silk of my thong. But what stilled my heart and then set it racing was the way the palm of his other hand began to caress my bare backside.

“Do you know why you aren’t ready?” he asked, his head resting against mine, his fingers doing a delicious slide over my clit.

“I am ready,” I declared—and while I tried to sound firm, my voice was a raspy whisper.

“No,” he insisted. “You aren’t ready because you don’t understand the rules.” He slipped two fingers inside me and I panted at the intimate invasion, ripples of pleasure pulsing through me, as he added, “You don’t do anything unless I say you do it. That especially applies to signing the contract.”

“I thought—”

“Did you?” he challenged, flicking my clit with his thumb. “I’m not sure you did.”

I opened my mouth to reply but one of his hands still caressed my backside, and the strokes became rougher, his fingers kneading into my flesh. Sudden realization overcame me. He was going to spank me. I knew it and it terrified and aroused me. I didn’t know how that was possible then, any more than I do now as I write this.

“Did you read every line of the document, Rebecca?”

“Yes.” I barely whispered the reply due to the sensations ravishing my body. His hand was still stroking my backside, his fingers stroking inside me.

“Then you must understand that acting without my permission comes with punishment.”

“I-I didn’t think . . . I—”

“Exactly. You have to learn to think. You cannot be a sub, my sub, and not understand the rules and the consequences of misbehaving. I intend to give you a lesson on those things, Rebecca. Do you want that lesson?”

No. Yes. What lesson? “You mean now, or . . . ?”

“Now,” he said firmly.

Looking back now, I should have said “no” or asked questions. I didn’t. I felt pressured to do as he wished, and his fingers were doing delicious things to my body. Actually, I’m lying to myself. I don’t think I felt pressured at all. I think I wanted to know what he would do to me. The truth is that all I was really thinking was to say “yes” so his fingers would keep doing exactly what they were doing in the exact spot they were in.

“Yes,” I gasped, and his fingers sent wicked, wonderful sensations spiraling through me. “I want the lesson.”

“Yes, what?” he demanded.

“Yes, Master.”

Instead of rewarding me for my agreement with the orgasm I so desired, his fingers stopped teasing me, sliding away so that his hand rested on my pelvis. I wanted to cry out, to demand satisfaction, but I was stayed by the way his palm on my backside stilled and flexed into my skin.

“I’m going to spank you, Rebecca,” he declared, “and you need to know that I will do it again, or use other forms of punishment if we move forward beyond today and you fail to follow our rules. Understand?”

No. No, I did not. I was scared and confused, but I was also aroused and curious. I wanted him. I want him even now, no matter how much he’s twisted me in knots. I knew I couldn’t turn back.

“Yes. I understand.” I’d barely issued the approval when his hand came down hard. I gasped as the sensation rocked me, and I struggled to identify what I felt. My stomach knotted with the sting of my flesh that spiraled through me, and then, to my shock, tightened my sex. The rest of the punishment was fast and hard, ten full contacts of his palm, I think, all of which were harder, stronger. I had a moment when I was confused by the pleasure rippling through me and I thought I should object, I should scream my safe word, “red,” but my voice was swollen in my throat, and any protest with it.

The assault of his hand stopped suddenly and his fingers slid back between my thighs, and I was shocked that I was slick and wet and aroused. It was beyond belief, considering what he’d just done to me. But I was, and when he slipped his fingers back inside me and stroked my swollen flesh, I shattered almost instantly. It was breathtakingly good. He’d spanked me and I had one of the best orgasms ever, but I’d recovered angry and confused. Embarrassed. I still am.

“I will never leave you with anything but pleasure,” he murmured. “Remember that.”

“And I will never go to another public bathroom with you,” I ground out. “This is the last time.”

His response was to gently pull my dress back into place and then turn me to face him. “You will if I say you will.”

His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he didn’t even acknowledge my anger. And then he stepped back and gave me space.

Both pissed me off more than ever, and I blasted him, “People I work with come here, and I have to walk out there and pretend I didn’t just do what we did!” The sharp edges of the ring dug into my palm, reminding me I still held it. I stepped toward him, grabbed his hand, and shoved the ring into his palm. “Anything near my work is off limits. That’s a hard limit for me. Put it in your damn contract.”

He captured my hand before I could escape. “That’s what I was looking for. Real thought. Real negotiation. An agreement you don’t just live with, but embrace.”

He released me and I felt shell-shocked. He’d pushed me intentionally, intending to force me to see what I’d missed when making my decision to sign the agreement.

“Now,” he said, “you can put the ring back on if you still think you’re ready.”

He didn’t wait for an answer because he knew I wasn’t. He headed to the door and exited.

I stood there for I don’t know how long, my thoughts a jumbled mess, before I forced myself to exit regardless of who might see me. There was only Ava, who stared at me with unabashed interest.

I rushed to my table and grabbed my things before heading back to the gallery to put my thoughts on paper.

My backside still burns, and it reminds me that this decision to give myself to him does come with consequences, just as disobeying him apparently does. Yes, those consequences seem to arouse me, but I barely recognize this person that is me, who finds a spanking hot and sexy.

But I did. I do. I’m scared to death that I’m losing touch with myself. Am I truly ready for this relationship?

The ring is sitting on my desk and I haven’t put it back on. I’m not sure I’m going to. I’m not even sure I’m allowed to. I dread tonight’s event, one that I would normally look forward to. It’s a huge open house for Georgia O’Nay, a brilliant local artist receiving critical acclaim. It’s an exciting event with an impressive list of attendees, but all I can think is that everyone who is anyone will be here, including him.

I’d actually rather go home and think and process where I’m headed in this new life, rather than attend a magical art showing.

What is happening to me?