Chapter 16
Mason
I don’t want to whip her, not now and not for something this silly. But I cannot let her run the show like this.
Grace looks tense as she stands before me, tightening the belt of her robe with a stern expression on her face. She looks like a warrior, ready to enter battle, with her eyes narrowed to slits and her lips firmly pressed together. Fierce and beautiful, just like I know her to be.
“How about a deal?” she asks now, defiantly raising her chin.
“A deal?” I repeat, adding a condescending huff. “You’re not in a position to make deals with me, Grace.”
Anger flickers across her face, but she doesn’t back off. “Sir, please.”
Nice try, little girl. Finally addressing me the way I told her to, but only because she wants something from me. She’s lucky I like her so much—and I’m curious to hear what she’s thinking of.
“Fine, let me hear it,” I say, crossing my arms in front of my chest.
“I will open the robe, but it stays on my shoulders,” she proposes. “You can still see my tits, or whatever else it is you’re so keen on. It doesn’t make a big difference.”
“If it doesn’t make a big difference, why not just take the robe off, like I told you to?” I want to know.
My question seems to catch her of guard. Unable to come up with a response, she just glares at me while chewing on her lips.
“What kind of deal is that, anyway?” I implore. “I don’t get what I want.”
“Neither do I,” she says. “I want to keep the robe on, and closed. You get more out of this than I do.”
I don’t, not really. Because this is not about simply seeing her naked. I can have that whenever I want. This is about breaking her, about making her face a difficult situation, one that humbles her with shame and vulnerability. She feels safe as long as that thick robe is wrapped around her body, and I want to strip that sense of security away from her.
“How about this: You can wear the robe like a cape, draped around your shoulders but with your arms out,” I suggest. “Do we have a deal?”
She hesitates, biting her lip as she contemplates my suggestion. I know it’s just for show. She doesn’t want to say yes too quickly, because she doesn’t want to give me the satisfaction of winning.
“Deal,” she says eventually, unsurprisingly.
She unties the belt and opens the robe, pulling her left arm out first, then the right. Holding the robe in place at the collar, she follows my invitation to sit down at the table, her head low and her back curved as she tries to shield herself from my eyes.
“That was quite accommodating of me, don’t you think?” I ask, as I sink down on the other chair. “A little thank you would be in order.”
She frowns at me, her knuckles turning white as she clenches the soft fabric of the robe.
“Thank you,” she says through gritted teeth. “Sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Good girl,” I praise her. “Let’s eat.”
She surveys the food in front of us, cheese sandwiches, scrambled eggs and a small bowl of fruit salad. Her face is hard to read, displaying neither approval nor discontent at what she’s seeing.
“I wasn’t sure whether you eat eggs,” I say, as I pour her a cup of coffee. “If you don’t, you can leave it.”
“Oh, you’re not going to force me?” she asks without looking at me. “Since when do I get to decide anything?”
“You just got a pretty sweet deal for yourself with that robe,” I remind her. “Besides, it’s not my goal to break your ideals.”
She helps herself with a large chunk of the scrambled eggs, granting me a fine view of her perky tits. I can still feel them, perfectly sized, nestling against my palm while I could sense the beat of her heart accelerating and her nipples hardening.
“Then what is your goal?” she asks, casting me an inquiring look before she shoves a healthy load of eggs into her mouth.
To make you mine. To show you, that there is someone out there who knows what you need—and how to give it to you. To break you. To free the real you.
To help you.
To satisfy the unbearable hunger I have for you.
But of course, I cannot tell her any of that.
“Did you sleep well?” I ask instead.
She casts me a sour look, before suggesting a subtle nod. No verbal response, again. But a raised eyebrow is all she needs to remember.
“Yes, sir,” she hisses in between bites.
Last night, she ate like a bird, picking the food apart in tiny pieces and frowning at every bite. But today, she eats so hasty and voracious that I almost feel inclined to ask her to slow down.
“You’re a smart girl, Grace. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be able to remember the rules I laid out for you, is there?”
She sighs. “You keep saying all these nice things about me, calling me strong and smart. But you don’t even know me.”
There’s pain in her expression when she looks at me now, a sadness that has become integral to her character a long time ago.
“Why would you say these things when you don’t even know who I am?” she probes.
I shrug. “I’m pretty sure I do know you.”
“No,” she insists, lowering her head again. “No one does.”
She speaks in a matter-of-fact way, as if she’s long come to terms that no one will ever understand her. Her deep-seated loneliness is palpable in every syllable.
But she also gave me a perfect in to ask a question that’s been burning on my tongue since that phone call this morning.
“Not even your boyfriend?” I ask.
An indignant frown emerges on her face. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
She averts her eyes, focusing on the mug in her hand before she adds: “Never had.”
“Right, a virgin. Or so you say,” I retort, deliberately eying her bare chest, before my eyes trail down to her lap.
She blushes and pulls the robe closer, shielding herself from my pointedly invasive gaze.
“You seemed hungry this morning,” I change the subject, scanning the almost empty plates in front of us. She ate two of the sandwiches and most of the scrambled eggs, but only picked at the fruit salad a little bit.
“It was good, thank you,” she says in a low voice, adding an even lower “sir” at the end.
“Good girl, appreciative as you should be,” I praise.
She flinches and tries to withdraw when I reach for her hand, but I hold her in place, applying a gentle squeeze as I take her hand in mine.
“Now, I want you to get ready for me,” I tell her.
“Get ready for you?” she asks, concern lacing her expression.
“Yes, shower, clean yourself, shave. Do what you need to do to feel pretty,” I say. “You’ll find everything you need in the bathroom.”
She shakes her head. “Why would I do that? Because you’ll hang me from the ceiling and whip me if I don’t?”
Her little acts of brazen defiance amuse me, and I love the look of apprehension on her face when I chuckle in response.
“That’s actually a good idea, I might keep it in mind for later,” I tell her. “But I’m sure you’ve heard of the carrot and stick approach before?”
She appears intrigued, raising an eyebrow as she nods in response.
“You have already met the stick, but aren’t you curious what the carrot might entail?” I ask.
As unreadable as her expression may be most of the time, it seems to speak volumes now. Puzzled at first, it changes to skeptical, before she looks curious and slightly amused.
“You mean I’ll get a treat?” she deadpans. “Like a dog?”
I shake my head, before I stand up and begin to clear the table.
“There’s only one way to find out, Grace,” I tell her—and it’s the last thing I say, before I leave the room.