Unraveled by Her (17 page)

With my arms raised high but supported by the back of the chair, my breasts feel extra full, extra weighty. I don’t like the way they feel, or how I must look to Robert. Although I guess he wouldn’t have put me in this position if he didn’t relish the way it made me look.

But whether I like the spectacle I present to him or not, tethered to the Falcon Chair as I am, I have no choice but to confront my own bondage, as Robert has placed a full-length antique standing mirror a few feet away from me, and I am faced with my own image reflected in it.

My legs, of course, are spread far apart, which makes me feel intensely vulnerable, particularly when I see him walk toward me with a red silk cravat in his hands, which he then ties around my head.

“I know you hate blindfolds, but that’s tough, because I love seeing you this way: helpless, vulnerable, in my power, yet trusting me not to abuse that very vulnerability, that powerlessness,” he says.

He’s right, I do trust him. But that doesn’t lessen the panic that sweeps through me.

Will he hurt me?

If so, where?

On my inner thighs, now tied wide apart and presented?

Up till now, I was never punished there, but I’ve read somewhere that in the aftermath, walking becomes acutely painful because when you press your welted thighs together, you inflame and irritate the welts.

I’d hate to experience that, but if that’s what he wants to inflict on me, then that’s what I’ll endure, without question

Or is he going to attach clothespins to my breasts and all over my body? I know I don’t have any choice, but I truly hope that he doesn’t, because from past experience, I know that will hurt like hell.

Lucky for me (and this is one of the many things I love about Robert), when it comes to
il nostro mondo segreto,
his imagination is so rabid, his range of experience so all-encompassing, that he rarely repeats himself.

He may use the same implements, but rarely on the same part of my body, rarely in exactly the same way.

He’s put me in bondage before, of course, but this time is somehow different, perhaps because of the position he’s put me in on the Falcon Chair, but more, I think, because we are not in a typical dungeon but in an everyday room, and I am tied to an everyday chair.

In fact, I don’t understand why Robert has called this Dungeon 2 at all when it’s really just a den, plain and simple.

Suddenly, I feel his hot breath on my neck, then his hands stroking my hair, then he kisses my neck lightly, so lightly that I pluck up my courage and ask, “Master, this is such a nice, normal den, and not a dungeon at all, so why—?”

“Are you sure you really want to know?” he says, with a note of menace I’ve never heard in his voice before.

My heart is in my mouth but I’m nevertheless determined to stay true to my motto, “It’s better to regret what you’ve done than not to do,” so I tell myself that it’s better to learn the truth about Dungeon 2 than not to know it at all, and I say, “If there’s one thing about me that you can be sure of, Master, it’s that I’ll always, always want to know.”

And he laughs a deep, rumbling laugh.

“Always the adventuress! Part of the reason I can’t get enough of you,” he says.

The intimacy in his voice fills me with warmth.

“So are you going to tell me?” I say.

His answer is to pull the blindfold off my eyes, so that I am faced with the vision of him in his black leather trousers and nothing else, the muscles of his chest rippling, his eyes full of dark and dangerous promise.

“Miranda, I’m prepared to reveal the secret of Dungeon Two to you, just as long as you understand that I don’t intend to permit you to experience it at any length today, and perhaps not ever,” he says.

“But why on earth not, Robert?” I say, so riled by his refusal that if I weren’t tied to the chair, I’d probably stamp my foot in frustration.

Without a word, he uncoils his leather Armani belt—the leather belt I bought for him during our Manhattan spending spree—and slowly, agonizingly slowly, holds it by the buckle, and with the tip flicks my right armpit, then my left.

And light as each stroke is, I let out a yelp and struggle against my bonds with all my strength, while he watches, and his conqueror’s smile plays about his lips.

“Punishment for petulance,” he says, then swirls his tongue around my armpit, first my left, then my right, while I moan with pleasure.

“More than a few nerves there. Which is why the belt hurt so very much, and then the pleasure afterward is so intense. Another lesson . . .” he says.

And all I can do is secretly thank my lucky stars that he didn’t use a crop or anything more lethal on my armpits.

I still want him to reveal the secret of Dungeon 2 to me so that I can understand how a room that looks just like a den can have something sinister lurking beneath its cozy and conventional surface.

But before I can raise the topic once more, he grips my hair, pulls my head back, then thrusts his tongue into my mouth, deeper and deeper, wetter and wetter, making me feel wilder than wild.

I so want to put my arms around him, to hold him, to touch him, but I can’t.

That’s the way he wants it, so I accept it.

Besides, I love his kissing me, love his having his tongue down my throat, love it when he kisses me so deeply and for so long that the world suddenly dissolves, and all I can see and feel is Robert and his kiss.

“You are so kissable, Miranda, so very kissable. Particularly when you are tied up like this,” he says, his voice ragged with passion.

Then he stands up and runs his fingers through his dark, lustrous hair, and for a second he looks at me as if he were a dreamer who has just snapped out of a dream.

“You really want me to let you in on the secret of Dungeon Two?” he says.

I nod, all big eyes as if I’m about to be told whether Father Christmas will climb down the chimney tonight or not.

“Well, you present me with a great dilemma. Have you ever heard of seeding?” he says.

“Only in flowers,” I say. Flowers like the Lady Georgiana rose. At the thought of her name, I can feel my stomach lurch and my breath quicken with guilt.

“Quite right, Miranda,” he says, and for a moment he is transformed into my school principal about to give me a gold star.

Then he goes on, “But in this case, I’m talking about the seeding a dominant can do in order to inflame a submissive for days, weeks, even months.”

Inflame a submissive? The entire time I’m with Robert, and every single second I’m not, even in the dead of night when I’m fast asleep, I’m inflamed by him. I don’t think he could inflame me much more.

Or could he?

“Tell me more, please, Robert,” I say, but then quickly scoot down in my chair a fraction, aware that now that we are in the dungeon together, I should have addressed him as Master.

But right now he doesn’t seem to mind my lapse of protocol.

“In this case, I mean inflaming you by planting a certain scenario, a certain implement, a piece of furniture, a particular situation in your mind and then letting it simmer there for as long as I wish, while you drive yourself wild with longing for your fantasies to become a reality,” he says, and his voice rings out with knowledge and authority.

I nod, mesmerized and fully aware that I’m more than ready for him to seed me anytime he wants.

“My dilemma is this: if I reveal the secret of Dungeon Two, I have no doubt whatsoever that you’ll want me to subject you to it at great length, and right away. And given everything you’ve endured at the hands of Tamara, the time definitely isn’t right for that,” he says.

I refuse to let my memories of Tamara and Georgiana and the kidnapping, or, worse still, my knowledge that Georgiana is still alive, deprive me of what I crave so passionately.

“Please, R—Master,” I say, and look at him pleadingly.

He lights a cigarette.

“This particular—what shall I call it—situation, for want of a better word, is something I first encountered in a fantasy parlor on Sunset Plaza Drive in Los Angeles and with which I swiftly became enamored. So I commissioned it to be installed in all my dungeons, with the intention of one day subjecting Geor—” he hesitates for a moment, then goes on, “Georgiana to it.”

“But did you ever?” I ask, my heart in my mouth.

“Of course not. In any event, it’s probably an excessively harsh and cruel punishment,” he says.

Excessively harsh and cruel. I should love nothing better than to submit to the challenge of Robert subjecting me to something excessively harsh and cruel. Physically, of course, but not emotionally. And only now can I submit to that because I’m now finally utterly and completely secure in his love for me.

“Show me, Master, please, just so that I can think about it,” I say, excited to the max.

“Ah, but that’s exactly what I want to avoid you doing, Miranda,” he says, his eyes alight with excitement, and I can tell that although he wants to protect me, and to be fair to me, deep down he can’t wait to show me Dungeon 2’s secret and to tantalize me with it for as long as he can.

“Please, Master,” I say.

He rolls his eyes at me and says, “Very well, Miranda. You’re still owed some chair time, though. But afterward, you’ll get what you want, I promise.”

Then he blindfolds me once more, and I sit there in the Falcon Chair, my legs tied wide apart, my arms raised high, and my breasts pendulous.

First he fondles me all over, and I thrill at the touch of his heavy hands, first over my stomach, then up the side of my body, then under each of my arms in turn, then up and down each arm, in rapid movements, then over my swelling breasts.

As his hands approach my nipples, I tense, but he slides his fingers over them softly, and I purr. Then he fingers my pubic mound and after that inserts his fingers inside of me, while I moan and wriggle as much as my bonds allow.

“Keep still, or it will be worse for you,” he says, and even though I know it isn’t going to be that much worse for me (because he told me so, and I know he would never lie to me), I obey him and keep stock-still.

Then I hear the sound of his knees hitting the floor, and I wish to God that I weren’t blindfolded, so that I could savor the sight of Robert Hartwell, the celebrated, the famous, the sophisticated, the most masculine of all men, on his knees in front of me.

He grips each of my thighs hard, then very slowly licks from my pubic mound to my vagina and back again, then around my clitoris, over it, then inside of me.

And as I feel the moisture rushing out of me, I’m suddenly glad that he’s tied me up, because otherwise, I probably would instinctively close my legs, so that he couldn’t burrow so deep into me with his tongue.

I am so wet, so hot, so close to coming, and the way in which he thrusts not one but two of his fingers into me, then out again, with a powerful rhythm, causes my orgasm to reach a powerful crescendo.

Then, as suddenly as he started he stops, and I feel a stab of disappointment.

I hear him walk away from me, go to the bar, and then the pop of a champagne cork.

Soon he is by my side again and feeds me champagne, and I down it in one gulp.

He removes the blindfold and then reties it, only slightly tighter this time.

And then I feel the tickle of a feather across my feet, so lightly that I don’t even flinch.

Then he moves it higher over my stomach, then back down across my thighs, up them, down them, and then up again to my nipples, while I whimper with the delicate pleasure of it all.

“You can’t know how beautiful you look tied up like this, Miranda,” he says, and his voice is deep and husky with desire.

Then, in sharp contrast, a chill shoots through my flesh: ice! He is rubbing an ice cube over my clitoris, while I let out a scream of shock.

“Hush, I’m not hurting you at all,” he says, and for a second I almost believe him.

Then he replaces the cold of the ice cube with the heat of his tongue, then the ice cube again, then his tongue, and alternates heat and ice again and again, while the ice bucket clanks every time he removes a cube from it, and I am almost insensible with pleasure.

Then he stops abruptly and moves away from me.

While I sit there, tied to the chair, blindfolded, feeling disoriented, aroused, and, as always, passionately in love with him.

He removes the blindfold from my eyes.

“Now, Miranda, I’m a man of my word. I promised to reveal the secret of Dungeon Two to you, and so now I will,” he says, his eyes burning hot and intense.

I try to stay calm, try not to show how thrilled I am, how turned on yet terrified, but knowing Robert, I’m sure that my every shifting emotion hasn’t escaped him.

Then he unties me, hands me a robe, and leads me to the middle of the room.

And rolls back the scarlet Aubusson carpet to reveal a large gold ring embedded in the floor underneath it.

He motions me to move back a few yards, and I do.

“This, Miranda, is the Pit, the ultimate punishment inflicted on a consistently disobedient submissive, and one that is guaranteed to improve her attitude considerably,” he says, and I blink at him, because I really don’t understand.

Then he pulls back the ring and lifts up an eight-foot-square trapdoor—with countless air holes bored into it—to reveal steps leading down to an eight-foot-square underground cell.

I look up at him questioningly.

“No, my darling, not now. And probably not ever,” he says, then takes me by the hand, leads me over to the couch, and pours us both champagne.

Then clinks his glass against mine.

“I never want to be parted from you in this lifetime,” he says, and the look of iron determination on his face—as well as the strength, the power, and the confidence in his voice—makes me want to melt into him and stay there forever. I just pray that if and when he finally learns that Georgiana is still alive, he won’t fall in love with her again and leave me. Then, horror of all horrors, she will have gotten exactly what she wants, and won.

Don’t think of her, Miranda. Don’t. She is probably hiding out in England, or South Africa or somewhere else, thousands of miles away from here. She can’t hurt you anymore.