28. Hailee
Chapter twenty-eight
Hailee
I toss and turn, punching my pillow as if it’s the source of all my frustrations. Closing my eyes, I count to thirty before they snap open again.
For fuck’s sake.
Sleep eludes me for the fourth night in a row. No matter how exhausted I am, how I desperately crave its embrace, it slips through my fingers, leaving me at the mercy of my looping thoughts and churning emotions.
I can’t take it anymore. I’m on the verge of a mental breakdown.
I’m not the praying type, but God, if you’re up there, grant me sleep, and I promise I’ll do a good deed. Not just a “helping an old lady cross the road” good deed, but something substantial. I don’t know what yet, but I’ll think of something... after sleep… when my brain isn’t fried.
After our encounter in the kitchen four nights ago, Dameon stumbled into bed and promptly passed out, leaving me to stew all night as I listened to the symphony of his snores. As dawn broke, I faced the harsh reality: I had fucked up. I allowed myself to lower my walls and entertain the idea of something more with him. Ultimately, it’s my responsibility. I’m the professional who should have maintained boundaries, not him. I got swept up in his soft words and sweet kisses. I can’t blame him for misleading me. That’s why I woke him up the next morning with my mouth attached to his dick and greeted him with a fake smile and a sweet “Good morning, master.” When I wished him a lovely day at work, he looked at me oddly, confusion clouding his hungover eyes.
The last few days have been exactly the same. I’ve been the perfect sub for him, per the contract. I never forget to refer to him as master. I kneel by the door when he returns home, serve him dinner, and kneel at his feet when he eats. I don’t do anything without his implicit instructions.
We haven’t talked about what happened; he seems keen to ignore it, and I’m more than okay with that. He made his desires clear, and it’s my duty to fulfill them. In fact, we haven’t spoken much at all, other than him barking orders and my immediate “yes, master” in response. He hasn’t fucked me once or touched me intimately in any way. And I’m relieved, because I’m not sure I could maintain my defenses. There’s every chance they would crumble with just one gentle caress.
Even though I’ve rebuilt my walls and firmly closed the door to my heart, I’m still hurting. I dared to hope he was different, that there was something deeper between us. But I was wrong. Now, he’s just like every other client. Which I hate, because despite it all, I miss him. Maybe I should pop a sleeping pill to silence the incessant chatter in my brain. I don’t just need sleep, I crave it. I feel like a junkie, desperate for my next hit of sweet relief.
The bedroom door opens and Dameon steps inside, flicking on his bedside lamp. Though I’m facing away from him, he can tell I’m still awake. I hear him undress and prepare for bed.
“Tomorrow night we’re going out,” he says stiffly. “A package will arrive for you in the afternoon. You are to wear everything it contains.”
“Yes, master,” I intone without turning around.
“Be ready by seven. Get some sleep.”
“Yes, master.”
I would if I could.
***
“You look like shit,” Maddy declares.
Dark circles plague my eyes, and I swear I’ve seen a few new wrinkles appear over the last week. Sleep eluded me again last night. So, she’s not entirely wrong, but still… rude.
“Don’t you have some cleaning to do rather than prancing around in that get-up you call a uniform? Dameon’s not going to fuck you, you know.” I don’t really know that; I’m just guessing that they used to sleep together. In fact, I don’t think he likes her all that much, given some of their recent interactions I’ve witnessed. Then again, what do I know? I thought he felt something for me.
What a joke.
I’m surprised at my cattiness. The fatigue is really bringing out my inner bitch.
“You’ll be gone soon enough, and then he’ll be back,” she replies.
I have no doubt.
I turn my back and leave before another bitchy remark slips out. I refuse to stoop to her level, even if I am sleep-deprived.
“A package arrived. It’s in his bedroom,” she calls out as I walk away. I ignore her and make my way to our room to see what he’s left for me to wear. A medium-sized box rests on the bed. But for some reason, I was expecting a much larger package, like a garment bag, perhaps holding a ball gown or something similar. I’m perplexed yet intrigued. Popping open the box, my eyebrows hit my hairline.
Where exactly are we going tonight?
I pull out a black bandage dress that looks like a series of straps, along with lube, a large anal plug, nipple clamps, and a small butterfly clit stimulator with ties.
What on earth does he have planned?
Under normal circumstances, I would be squealing with excitement, dripping wet at the prospect. And, honestly, I kind of am. But there’s a weirdness now, a formality, which takes the fun out of it. The shine has worn off; everything feels subdued. I spread out all the items on the bed and begin the process of getting ready.
It’s late afternoon, granting me ample time to prepare, and I’ve got nothing better to do. I’ve spent the entire day with Beth, as I’ve done every day since we returned from the hospital. I’m immensely proud of her; she’s approached her recovery with determination, diligently following all the necessary steps and always maintaining a positive attitude. Not once has she grumbled that it’s too hard or dropped a “Why me?”
I draw a bath, intent on taking my time scrubbing every inch of my body, making it soft and smooth. I’ve got my work cut out for me, considering I resemble the walking dead.
After two hours of primping and preening, I’ve indulged in every beauty treatment available, determined to bring myself back to life. I fasten the magnetic silver clamps onto my nipples, enjoying their sharp bite. They’re snug but not overly tight, offering a steady stream of stimulation. Glancing at the sizable butt plug, I wince. It’s an elegant stainless-steel piece, cold and impeccably smooth, crowned with a glittering, deep red ruby at the top.
Surely it can’t be real, can it?
Knowing Dameon, it probably is. It’s also larger than anything I’ve ever dared to try before. Covering it with a generous coating of lube, I tentatively insert the tip.
Oh God, it’s not going to fit.
I continue to push, biting my lower lip at the sensation of being spread wide open. Sweat beads on my forehead and I pant heavily with each thrust, gradually easing it deeper. After what feels like an eternity and a lot of fucks escaping my lips, it’s all the way in, snug to the hilt. Bending over I catch sight of the sparkling red ruby nestled between my cheeks in the mirror. It’s mesmerizing, but I feel so full I could burst. The butterfly clit stimulator is a dream to put on after that. The final item is the collection of straps masquerading as a dress. I search for shoes in the box, but find none; evidently, he intends for me to go barefoot.
It takes a while but I eventually decipher how to put on the dress—it would have been helpful if it came with instructions. A long band runs down my torso, wrapping around my neck like a choker and cinching at my hips. Four straps extend from the central band, barely covering any skin. One crosses over my chest, concealing the nipple clamps while leaving the curve of my breasts exposed at the top and bottom. Two straps encircle my abdomen, while the last one barely covers my crotch. The tiniest shift will expose my pussy and ass to the world. Glancing at myself in the mirror, I can’t help but burst into laughter. It’s my first genuine laugh in over a week, and it feels good.
The outfit is utterly absurd. I’m aware of his penchant for showing me off—he’s a voyeur through and through—but I can only hope we’re headed somewhere where this type of attire is appropriate. I doubt he’d deliberately subject me to humiliation; he wouldn’t be that cruel. But then again, I’ve been wrong before. My amusement quickly fades, replaced by a swarm of angry butterflies in my stomach. The thought of potentially being humiliated in front of high society makes my palms sweat.
My phone lights up on the bed, its glow catching my attention in the mirror’s reflection. It wouldn’t shock me if it’s the master himself, issuing more commands. I audibly groan when I see the sender’s name.
Mark
This is your final warning, Hailee. Send me what I want, what YOU promised. Or I’ll destroy your life. Last chance.
Fuck!
How many times do I have to tell him no? He can try to intimidate me, he can even involve my mother, but it won’t sway me. I gave him what he wanted, I kept my word, and I followed through. I won’t do it again. It was wrong from the start, and I feel terrible about it.
Me
I already told you no. I gave you what you wanted, and you used it to your full advantage. I’m not sending you anything else. Stop texting me. Our deal is done.
I can’t make myself any clearer. Should I be worried about his threat? Yes. Should I take it seriously? Absolutely. Mark didn’t become the ruthless businessman he is without following through on threats. But right now, I just can’t find it in me to care. Beth has a new heart; he can’t take that away from us. And I’ve earned a significant amount of money from this contract. I have more than enough to support us for a very long time. How could he possibly ruin me?
“Hailee, you ready?” Dameon’s booming voice carries upstairs. Damn . I glance at the clock: it’s already five past seven. I completely lost track of time. I was supposed to be on my knees waiting for him.
Shit .
It’s my first slip-up since I’ve been the perfect little sub for him. He didn’t include a purse for me, so I plug my phone into the charger and rush downstairs, my bare feet thudding against the carpet.
He’s waiting near the elevator, hands in pockets, legs spread wide. When he sees me in the outfit he sent, his eyes ignite, his face transforming into something resembling a wild animal.
“I’m so sorry, master. It won’t happen again,” I apologize, stumbling over my own feet in my haste to reach him. His eyes widen momentarily as he reaches out to steady me, and for a fleeting moment, I catch a glimpse of my old Dameon. But just as quickly the moment passes, his arms dropping back to his sides, and the spark fades.
I sink to my knees before him, bowing my head. “I accept whatever punishment you see fit.”
“You’ll receive a punishment whether you accept it or not,” he chuckles darkly. “Stand.”
I rise to my feet, readjusting the straps of the dress that shifted during my near-face-plant. Once I’m finished, he moves around me, his gaze assessing me as if I were a rare piece of art. Squatting in front of me, he retrieves a box that I hadn’t noticed in the commotion. Flipping it open, he takes out a pair of patent black, six-inch Louboutin stilettos.
“Raise your foot.” I lift one foot as he slips the stiletto on, then repeats the process with the other. They’re higher than what I’m used to, but I think I can manage. I’ll probably be on my knees most of the night anyway.
“Present yourself.”
I spin around, straightening my legs, and bend over slightly. Honestly, I don’t need to bend over at all; the black band barely covers my ass, and from his position on the floor, he can clearly see the sparkly butt plug. He taps it twice before standing up, and I grit back a moan at how full I feel. He intertwines his fingers with mine, and a pang shoots through my chest, pushing through my walls, reminding me of how much I’ve missed him. How much I’ve missed the feel of his hand in mine.
“Let’s go.” With a simple command, he leads the way, pulling me into the unknown.