Chapter 17
W hat did that mean?
Was he talking about the destruction back in July or did he mean something that happened since I’d left?
For that, I considered reversing my earlier lie.
What? I asked, hoping he’d decide he could just let me know via text message.
But I wasn’t that fortunate.
I’m not putting it in writing.
A few seconds later before I could even begin tapping a response, he added, I probably shouldn’t tell you over the phone either.
What is it? I asked, but he didn’t respond.
After ten minutes of staring at my phone, I grew frustrated, realizing he wasn’t going to say another word.
But then I reminded myself this was Mr. Sherwood.
He’d coaxed me into having a coffee date with him by hinting that I might learn something that would help me when studying for finals.
When I pressed him about it after getting our coffee, he’d said, “I recommend lots of caffeine next week. It’ll help you study late into the night.”
So as I called my father, I decided Mr. Sherwood was full of it once again.
He didn’t deserve my attention.
If he really wanted to tell me something, he knew how, but I wasn’t going to let him manipulate me anymore.
The next night, Saturday, was like normal—meaning Sinclair and I ate dinner together, took a walk, played some chess, and made love like nothing had happened Friday afternoon.
The same was true on Sunday.
And Monday. And so on.
By Friday, I thought maybe he’d forgotten all about it.
Although I knew better than that, I was hoping and believing he’d changed his mind.
I wasn’t about to ask, though.
Because we were spending so much time together, I’d barely finished the last journal written by his mother, one of the ones I’d found downstairs, and had only read two pages of the new gray one that I’d found in her room—but that was all I needed to confirm that this was definitely the last journal his mother ever wrote.
It didn’t hurt that I peeked at the last few pages that had been written on, determining by the last few entries that Sinclair was an infant when she’d recorded her thoughts.
But I wanted to read it from beginning to end because it might explain her state of mind those last days and weeks of her life.
I also hoped it would reveal who Sinclair’s father was—and, if I found out, would I tell him?
That was a burning question I still didn’t have an answer for.
Friday evening, Sinclair met me in the kitchen for dinner, a few minutes late.
Although that was unusual for him, he was sometimes late due to work, so I didn’t think much of it.
While I was getting food out of the refrigerator, he said, “Put that away. We’ll be eating dinner later—and Greg will be picking up something different for us.”
I turned around, excited to see him.
“Oh? What will that be?”
“It’s a surprise,” he said, a subtle smile lighting up his face.
“But first it’s time for your punishment.”
Suddenly, I was glad I didn’t have food in my stomach because that news felt like a lead balloon settling in it.
Why now? And what could it possibly be that dinner would have to wait?
To buy a little time to allow my brain to fully grasp it, I played dumb.
“Punishment?”
“Yes. For your infractions a week ago. Do we need to go back over what you did?”
For some reason, I was intimidated again, just like I had been when he’d caught me coming down the stairs, thinking I’d escaped the scene of the crime unnoticed.
Maybe that was why he was punishing me—for believing I was smart enough to get away with it.
My voice was meek when I replied, “No.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
I followed him out of the kitchen and into the main hall.
I took comfort in knowing that he planned food for later, which told me my punishment probably wouldn’t last more than two to three hours.
That also meant I probably wouldn’t be cleaning all the bathrooms again, because that would take far longer.
But, for all I knew, this punishment would not be over tonight.
When he paused at the west wing steps, he said, “After you.” As he walked beside me, my mind continued to race.
Where exactly were we going and why?
I wondered if whatever he was going to have me do would be either a harder task or a longer one, considering I was a repeat offender.
All this in addition to the original punishment of being here…
which wasn’t starting to feel like a prison sentence anymore.
At the top of the stairs on the second floor, he indicated that we would be going down the hall, so I figured the punishment would take place in his bedroom.
And that made me all the more curious.
Instead, he stopped at the door across from my bedroom.
After turning the knob, he opened the door, flipping on the light.
At first glance, it seemed like a normal guest room, arranged similarly to mine.
But, as I stepped in, it didn’t take me long to notice the differences.
The bed was stripped with nothing but a light blue bottom sheet.
Black straps peeking out from under the bed at the top and bottom.
Other items bunched together on the nightstand.
The drapes tightly closed, blocking out the early evening sunlight.
What was going on?
As he closed the door behind me, he said, “This is your punishment…but I also want to give you a safe word.”
“A what ?” I’d heard of them but what the hell was happening here?
“Just for the hell of it, how about we make the safe word Rakhimov ? After all, you wouldn’t be here if not for her.”
My mind was reeling.
“Wait—are you saying it’s her fault that I’m here?”
“No,” he said, his voice suddenly tender, and he stroked my cheek.
“But if she hadn’t chosen you as her assistant, we never would have met.”
Was he saying that was good?
Before I could even answer, he was unbuttoning my blouse.
“Would you rather undress yourself?”
Although I still didn’t fully understand what was happening, I didn’t feel like his hands removing my clothing would be a punishment.
“No, that’s okay.”
In fact, I rather liked it—and he must have seen it in my eyes as he pulled the shirt over my shoulders.
“Actually, I’m going to sit down and you will finish undressing yourself.”
Swallowing, I nodded, all while my nipples were pebbling inside the sheer bra.
Whatever was going on, I realized he didn’t want me to enjoy it—but that was going to be difficult, and I didn’t know that I’d be able to hide my pleasure.
Unless I was way off base about what I thought was going to happen here.
After pulling off my sneakers and socks, I undid the zipper of my jeans and shimmied them over my hips.
Knowing Sinclair preferred neatly stacking the clothing, I picked them off the floor and placed them on the dresser.
As I turned back around, I made eye contact with him for just a moment.
What was he thinking?
It was impossible to tell if he liked what I was doing or not—but he didn’t say a word.
When I pulled the panties down, I was surprised at the wetness between my legs.
Obviously, even if my conscious brain knew this was supposed to be discipline for breaching our contract yet again, my body eagerly anticipated what was coming next.
Finally, I removed my bra, and when the cool air grazed over the nipples, they grew more rigid.
Then I stood there, awaiting his instructions, every nerve in my body attentive as it anticipated whatever he had planned.
When he stood, there was no mistaking the erection in his pants—telling me that either he found my naked body arousing or he would be doing something with it.
Maybe both.
I reminded myself that he couldn’t rape the willing.
“Get on the bed,” he ordered in a voice that communicated he meant business.
I didn’t even nod. Instead, I turned and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for him to tell me what to do next.
He walked over to the nightstand and my eyes followed.
He was now so close I could feel his body heat, smell his cologne, and I was suddenly hungry.
Not for food, but for him—but I wasn’t about to say it.
As he took an eye mask off the top of the items on the nightstand, I took inventory: a large ostrich feather, an ice bucket with a green bottle, a box of condoms.
Was he planning to fuck me over and over again until—?
But I couldn’t finish my thought as he slipped the eye mask over my head and made it snug.
“Is that too tight?”
“No, that’s okay.” And again my pussy agreed—only that it was far more than okay.
“Lie down in the middle.”
Without my eyes, I had to do it all by feel.
That wasn’t too difficult, and soon I was lying as instructed.
But then I felt his warm hands on me—but not where I wanted them.
He slid them underneath, moving me farther on the bed, perhaps closer to the center.
And then there was silence for a bit, and the anticipation—and fear—followed.
Without my eyes, I couldn’t prepare for what he was about to do.
Maybe this was punishment after all.
After a few more seconds, he took my right hand and stretched my arm away from my body, and then he secured it in a restraint.
The cuff bit at my wrist, so I tried to relax.
What was he going to do?
Part of me wanted to scream and shout, maybe even beg for mercy, because I didn’t know what to expect.
I was about to be his captive.
As he cuffed my lower right leg, I reminded myself that Edna would be here Monday.
So would the cleaning ladies.
If nothing else, I only had to last two days.
But was that his plan?
To simply restrain me naked and walk away?
I supposed that might teach me a lesson about not taking my freedom in the mansion for granted.
Based on his earlier promise of dinner later—and suggesting a safe word—I didn’t think so.
So, even in the tense darkness of my mind, I tried to relax, finding that I trusted him, even now.
It was less than a minute before he had my other arm and leg restrained so that I could see in my mind’s eye that my body looked like an X .
Straining in the darkness, I realized my ears were trying to do their usual job, only enhanced to help my eyes.
For quite a bit, I couldn’t hear anything, not even Sinclair’s breathing, and I suspected that was part of the punishment too.
The unknown. Hanging in suspense.
Then I caught a sound, that of fabric sliding across fabric, and I imagined Sinclair sliding his unknotted tie out from his collar.
Next, several barely audible steps, and I knew he was putting the tie on the dresser next to my clothing.
In that way, he was predictable—and I held onto that hard in this sea of uncertainty.
I thought I might have heard other movement by the dresser, but I couldn’t be sure.
When he walked back, I couldn’t tell as much by sound as by some disturbance in the air I thought I felt.
And then a light touch—just a feather, but it made me gasp just the same.
He stroked it lightly over my breast, the softest of sensations, but it was enough to ramp up my arousal.
Why was he doing this?
Was this truly his idea of punishing me?
Because it wasn’t. Not at all.
I couldn’t focus on the whys any more as the feather wandered all over my body, touching every bit of exposed skin from my cheeks to my toes and back again.
It didn’t take much for my pussy to feel like it was on fire, begging for him to do more.
Maybe that was the punishment.
I would be okay with that.
He continued stroking me softly with the feather until I was nearly squirming.
And then he stopped.
Again, silence fell over the room.
Had the mask been off, my eyes would have been intent upon him.
Instead, my ears and even my nerves were doing the work, trying to figure out what was coming next.
I heard a sound but didn’t know what it was until he placed an ice cube in my cleavage.
Immediately, my nipples pebbled again but not from desire.
Before I could fully adjust to the new sensation, he began swirling the cube around, leaving drops of water in its wake as the heat of my skin melted it.
Soon, he slid the cube up the mound of my breast before circling it over my areola, making it so rigid it ached.
And then he rolled it back down and up the other breast before doing the same thing on the other side.
Although the cold had shocked me at first, I was growing used to it…
about the time he stopped.
Then, with his tongue, he lapped up the tiny pool of water between my breasts, and all I wanted him to do was tend to my nipples as well.
But he didn’t.
Soon, he was fanning the upper half of my body, allowing the residual wetness to evaporate, and it took me a moment to realize he was probably using the feather for that as well.
The sensation had the effect of cooling me off, not just literally but figuratively, even though I was still anticipating what would come next.
It wasn’t long before he was brushing my skin with it again, teasing and tantalizing, bringing me back to the edge of arousal.
But even as he feathered my thighs, I wanted more.
The light touch had heated me up but I wanted to feel him .
When, once more, the feathering stopped, followed by nothing but expectation, I wondered what would come next.
There was the sound of foil crinkling and, at first, I thought he was opening a condom, especially when I couldn’t hear anything for a bit.
But then there was a loud pop , followed by a hiss , and it didn’t take me long to realize he’d opened the bottle of what must have been champagne or sparkling wine.
What was he doing?
I got my answer quickly when I felt his hand near my belly.
Soon, he poured some of the champagne into my navel.
The sensation caused my nipples to turn rigid again and, moments later, I felt his weight on the bed.
Straining to puzzle out exactly where he was, I tried to make my muscles relax and failed.
They were taut, blindly waiting in anticipation.
Finally, I felt him—his body between my legs—and I hoped he was going to put me out of my misery at last. As much as I’d ever wanted him before couldn’t compare to my need for him now.
And that was what it was—not just desire but need.
In this moment, I felt as though I would die if I couldn’t have him.
His bare leg brushing against one of mine assured me that satisfaction was near.
By this point, my pussy was throbbing, desperate for his touch, and for the first time in my life, I could understand how close I was to letting it all go.
Earlier in the summer, before I’d met this man I couldn’t even see at the moment, I hadn’t had a clue what an orgasm was, much less how it felt.
And now I’d already enjoyed so many I was beginning to lose count.
His mouth enclosed my navel and he sucked the champagne out of it.
Then he ran his tongue along its surface before snaking it down my lower belly…
and then into the area where I desperately needed him.
Just like the feather, though, he teased with the lightest of touch.
His tongue tickled a trail along my slit, barely grazing my throbbing clit.
And yet it elicited a moan from deep inside me, something primal.
He continued that motion, up and down, barely touching me in the slowest way, and then I knew for certain.
This was my punishment—having to wait.
Being denied.
How na?ve.
The punishment had barely started.
At the time, though, I had no idea, and when he finally applied a little more pressure and just slightly more speed, my body responded, believing relief was just a few strokes away.
I began taking deeper breaths as my body readied itself to give me that explosion in my brain…
And then he stopped.