Geoffrey's Rules (3 page)

He had been gazing out the window as he made his recital; now, he looked at me, judging my reaction. I was trying to be mysterious and unreadable, but there was no escaping the color that rushed to my face whenever spanking entered the conversation.

“Your turn,” he said with a smile and dug into his salad in earnest, searching intently for croutons and steak, perhaps to spare me the embarrassment of thinking he was looking at me while I did whatever more or less formal introduction I was going to do.

“Born Boston, 1989. Public school. Yale. Books.” I paused, consciously trying to imitate his telegraphic style in hope of amusing him. He looked up and I could see he was amused. I was falling in love; there was no use denying it now, but it was a very different sensation than the previous times, and as I remembered why, I felt those traitorous muscles in my loins clench again. I had never before felt that I was a creature of erotic passion; I seemed to myself to be making up for lost time here, in this elegant restaurant, with this elegant man.

“Books,” I continued. “So, grad school. Why not try to do books for a career?” Sarcasm crept into my tone.

Geoffrey said, “Except that it’s not just Proust you have to read.” He had a talent for epitomization, I could see.

“Exactly,” I replied.

“So what was it you wanted to be reading, yesterday, when you were trying to read that book of Proust criticism?”

I felt my eyes go wide. How could he possibly have known? He couldn’t, of course. He must be expecting to hear me say “Jane Austen” or even “Proust himself.” I had an exquisite moment of indecision, which I tried to cover by finishing my burger and taking a long sip of the incredible wine. The waitress came to take our plates.

“I’m waiting,” he said, after she had gone, with an unmistakable touch of menace in his voice.

“Erotica,” I said softly, and nodded and said it again, trying to sound more confident, “yes, erotica.”

“What kind of erotica?”

“Do you—”

“Yes. I know the genre very well.” He had interrupted me again. How could being interrupted be both sexy and infuriating at once?

“BDSM,” I whispered. He laughed. I stared furiously down at my napkin as he paid the check.

“Decision time,” he said, lightly. “I have the rest of the afternoon. Feel free to tell the truth or to lie in response to the following question: are you available this afternoon?”

I tried to look up but couldn’t. “Yes,” I said to my napkin.

“I think you should come to my apartment so that we can discuss further how you should be disciplined for your conduct in the café yesterday. I’m going to get my car from the garage. If you would like to accept my offer, be waiting outside in two minutes.” He stood and walked away from the table.

It was a decision that was no decision at all; I felt not the slightest hesitation. That seems peculiar in retrospect, but I think it was merely because he had said that he thought I should go with him. In my heart, that is, he was already my master.

His car was a black Lexus—luxurious, but not ostentatious. I climbed in and the doorman of the restaurant closed the door. I was fully in the power of Geoffrey King for the first time. I shivered.

Without saying anything, he pulled out and into traffic. Then he spoke. “You’ll have another chance to back out when we get to my house, and then again, I suppose, at the door, so let me say some of the more intimate things that need to be said before you step through that door and into my hands completely.”

He changed lanes; we were headed into Boston it seemed. He was speaking as if “more intimate” things were a business matter to him. There was something oddly arousing about feeling like spanking me and… the other thing… was a business matter to Geoffrey King. I tried to make my hands look casual, even though I had my right one tightly on the door armrest and my left one on my knee, giving my skirt a death-grip in a fairly successful attempt to keep from moving my thighs. Without the tension in my arms, I was pretty sure I would start putting on a shameful display there in his car seat as I listened to him.

“I am going to spank you.”

We were on Storrow Drive. The words died away from the air so quickly that my brain almost decided he hadn’t said it, but my unclothed pussy knew he had, because it now betrayed me with its wetness, once again into his hands.

“That spanking will be on your bare bottom, whether or not you did follow the rule I gave you in the email. Of course, if you didn’t follow it, you will be spanked extra for not following it, and for lying to me at the restaurant.”

My soul, to my mind’s distress, said inside me, “Why did you follow the rule?” We were getting off Storrow Drive, headed into the Back Bay.

“There may be a voice inside your head,” Geoffrey said, “saying now that you wish you hadn’t followed the rule. That would be a very good sign, but I can assure you that I will give you enough of a spanking today for pleasuring yourself in the café bathroom for you to feel by the time you leave that you are glad you followed my rule. If that voice is there and we continue our relationship, I can also assure you that you will break a rule and probably lie about it sometime in the near future, because your curiosity will be too much for you. Later, you will wish you hadn’t.”

There was nothing overtly erotic in what he was saying, but it was making me squirm in my seat as if I were watching the hottest porn video I had ever seen, and my breathing had become audibly labored.

“What about…”

“I’m coming to that—or what I’m pretty sure you’re about to ask.” He turned into one of the tiny little alleys that ran behind the old brownstones—the old mews, where they used to keep the horses and carriages. He parked in back of one of them and turned off the car. He turned to look at me.

“I am not going to fuck you today.”

“Jesus,” I couldn’t help saying.

He smiled. My mind was doing backflips, trying to gauge and regulate my reaction to the sudden coarseness of his words. The regulation part, I quickly understood, was doomed from the start because the gauging part indicated that my strongest reaction was anger and disappointment, not because he was turning out to be someone I should never have had lunch with or into whose car I should never have climbed, but because deep inside, in a place I hadn’t yet acknowledged consciously, I wanted him to fuck me. Today—right now, in the car, actually.

“That is not because I don’t want to fuck you right here and now, Chloe.”

Words of defiance turned into a mortifying little whimper and, of course, a blush.

“There are two reasons, however, for not doing so. First, you haven’t earned it.”

Oh, no. The way my eyes closed and my body seemed to melt at those words felt like a bad imitation of what happened to the heroines of the books I’d been reading. Only good girls got fucked in Geoffrey’s house, it appeared, and that… was hot.

“Second, and more importantly, you are going to have to think about some things I am going to say after I spank you. As I said at the restaurant, I am a dominant. I’m experienced enough now at it that I don’t enter into a relationship unless I know I’m going to have my way, and that the girl in question consents to give me my way, or at least to try.”

I felt my hands gripping door and knee even harder.

“So, before you leave here today, I am going to tell you about some of my rules, and I am going to give you some suggestions about your life—”

I drew a quick breath through my nose, like a little gasp. This was unexpected in the extreme and very confusing, but at the same time it was, again, like a domestic-discipline story come to life.

“You weren’t anticipating that, I imagine. Yes, I am going to make some suggestions. I won’t seek to control you except in the bedroom, but if we proceed, I do expect you to listen to me, and failure to at least take my suggestions on board shows me that a girl isn’t prepared to give me my way. One of the suggestions may lead to you making a great deal of money—by legitimate, non-erotic means, let me add—so even if there weren’t an erotic element here, I would advise you to take the spanking just so you can hear it.”

That was mysterious, and more than a little interesting.

“Do you need more time to decide?” he asked.

“No, sir,” I said, not even intending to add “sir” to the “no”.

“Then let’s get your naughty backside out of this car and into my house. All of your fantasies about being owned are about to start coming true.”

He opened his door and climbed out. I was paralyzed for a long moment, which turned out to be a good—and lovely—thing in the end, since he came around and opened my door for me and helped me out. The way he gave no sign that he had just said, rather brutally, that he wanted to fuck me, how the coarse words faded into the backdrop of fantasy and the cultured gentleman reappeared, was becoming a familiar part of our dynamic. But it wasn’t our dynamic, was it, I thought. It was
his
dynamic; within it, if this went on, I would
be
his. I would give him his way, or at least try. The thought made my nipples stiffen uncomfortably into the polyester of my bra, as images of what giving him his way in the bedroom would mean flashed across my fantasy stage.

He was unlocking the door to what must have been the old servants’ area of the house— below stairs.

“Do you have the whole house?” I asked, incredulous as I entered. Rather than the full apartment layout I was expecting, it seemed just an enormous, beautiful kitchen and eating area, with a sitting area closest to the door.

“No,” he said regretfully, as he turned on the lights to reveal gleaming stainless steel and terra cotta red tiles. “Only the first two floors. Someday…” He smiled and shut the door behind me. He turned to put the door at his back. “Face me, Chloe,” he said. The more he gave me these peremptory commands, the more I seemed not to notice that I obeyed him automatically. A part of my mind I consider very important shouted, “Danger!” when I realized that I had done as he had asked nearly without thinking about it at all, but there was also that lovely twinge down below that I seemed to be getting used to as well.

“Give me your hands,” he said. I extended them, and he took them in his, just as at the restaurant. “You were terribly naughty at the café yesterday,” Geoffrey said.

It had begun; I felt the blood rush to my face yet again and my nipples stiffen even more.

“Do you think the owners of the café would be happy to learn that a young lady had decided to pleasure herself in their restroom, when other patrons were waiting to use the facilities?”

I quailed; it was all very much more real than I had ever thought it might be.

“Answer me, girl.”

“No…” My eyes descended from his face to the buttons of his shirt.

“No, what, Chloe?”

“No, sir.”

“Better. Do you think that it was a helpful use of your time to put on a shameless display for yourself in the mirror, with your panties down?” The tiniest hint of outrage crept into his voice.

“No, sir.”

“Masturbation is a personal thing; if I do take you in hand, I will forbid you to do it without my permission, because—”

My hands tried to jerk out of his, as if in their own protest at the stricture he was declaring he would enjoin upon them, but he held me fast, his big fingers around my palms.

“Don’t do that,” Geoffrey said, evenly. “When I am talking to you, you are to listen respectfully.”

There wasn’t the slightest thing sexy about the words, but the response they evoked in me was entirely erotic. I wanted him… No, really, I wanted him to—to
do
things
to
me.

“Yes, sir.”

“As I was saying. The reason I will forbid you to pleasure yourself without my express permission is not that I think that there is anything, let us say, morally or ethically wrong with masturbation. The reason is that if we decide that you are going to belong to me, it will be wrong for you, because your time and your erotic energy will be much better spent more productively. And because your cunt will then be my property.”

It was the first time in my life outside of a porn video or an R-rated movie that I had heard the c-word spoken (and, really, they don’t say it very often in porn videos; the p-word is much, much more common). Using that word, Geoffrey King had made it clear that he liked to degrade girls like me. Also, he had made it clear to me that I liked to be degraded. “Dangerous” didn’t begin to cover it.

I gasped, a true, lung-filling gasp. To my horror and my horrifying arousal, he took both of my wrists in one hand—his left—not painfully, but in such a way that I knew I was being restrained—and reached down with his right hand and put that hand up my skirt.

I gave a cry of startlement and mortification, and I tried to jump my hips away (not, I observed somehow in a detached way, trying to free my wrists at all). He calmly pursued me as I backed up, and deftly, gently maneuvered me into a wall, as his right hand resumed its pursuits. I had been looking everywhere, trying to figure out what to do, where to try to go, even whether I wanted to do anything but let him have his way, as he had of course already told me was going to be the basic principle of our relationship if it continued. Now I finally looked him in the face again, and the look of stern hunger in his eyes caused the resistance to go out of me. He felt it happen and he raised my wrists in his left hand above my head against the wall, as for the very first time his fingertips found the place of which I had given him so immodest a view in the mirror the previous day.

I whimpered at his soft but insistent touch and tried to spread my thighs so that he would have more of his lovely way, but feeling me yielding so shamelessly, he stopped the motions of his fingers in my soft hairs and over my nether lips and took the whole triangle of my loins upon his palm.

“Yes, sir,” I breathed.

“We will need to understand one another on that score, more than on any other,” he murmured.

“But… you said…”

“I said you hadn’t earned a fucking, Chloe, not that I wasn’t going to touch what will soon be my property.”