Geoffrey's Rules (8 page)

The rice and beans came out well, but even after I was done eating them, it was only seven. By then, Anne and Nora were back (Jill had a serious boyfriend and was rarely to be seen), and they partook as well and complimented my culinary skills. They picked a romantic comedy (something with Meg Ryan) to watch, and I tried to watch it with them, but Geoffrey’s rule about thinking about how BDSM related to the rest of my life seemed to have seeped into the fabric of my mind in some way, and I kept thinking that the hero should just spank the heroine, and the whole thing would work out much better for everyone. That thought in turn made me so warm in my jeans that I began to worry that my viewing companions might start to catch the scent of my arousal and grow suspicious about the way I seemed unable to stop squirming in my chair.

So I retreated to my own room and caught up on my TV series. That was better, but it also made me realize that thanks to Geoffrey, I was now seeing the hidden BDSM elements everywhere, from the subtly worn collar on the reality-show hostess to the leather god in the video game commercial.

I felt virtuous in a certain way, because noticing these things was certainly what Geoffrey wanted me to be doing, but at the same time, every little thing I noticed made my mind spin off in his direction and my thighs squeeze tightly together. I had to adopt my rule four position to stop my hands from moving where they shouldn’t, until I finally started taking notes on the things I was seeing. Something about the intellectual activity involved in that made it a little easier.

But then it was 10, and it was time to take the picture. Feeling more self-conscious than I ever had in my life, I got my phone and opened the camera app. I put the phone on the bed, and trying to not to think about what I was doing, unbuttoned my jeans and stepped out of them. I sat on the bed in my white cotton panties, wondering whether the panties should be in the shot, and if so, whether I should pull them down or just pull the gusset aside. I was feeling owned, at a distance, by Geoffrey; I tried to figure out how he liked to see a girl’s shaved pussy, wondered whether a girl could get spanked for having her panties in the shot.

There was also the rule four problem: if I tried to do anything interesting with my underwear, I was in serious danger of being unable to stop my fingers from lingering naughtily. I tugged my panties all the way off, and then, feeling inspired, I put them on the bed between my thighs, which I now spread so that Geoffrey would see them in the shot.

I got the camera and positioned it, looking straight at my bare pinkness from a slightly raised angle, with the panties below on the blue bedspread. I closed my eyes and pictured Geoffrey looking at me through the camera. I found the shutter button and took a picture.

I looked at the photo I had taken. Was there now any doubt that I was a naughty girl who had to be taken in hand? I had just created a photographic record of that naughtiness, although I was pleased with how demure my pussy looked, with only a hint of my inner lips peeking pinkly through my outer ones. Then I noticed that I had also captured my little pink anus and blushed furiously.

Again, trying just to act, I attached the photo to an email and sent it to Geoffrey with the words,

I’m keeping your rules, sir, but I feel very naughty.

—YC

Less than a minute later, he emailed back.

Lovely, Chloe. Thank you. More in the morning.

—G

At least I was already getting better at falling asleep without masturbating, though my dreams were haunted with BDSM images that seemed menacing at first, but then made me feel lovely as I was tied up and flogged and made to suck cock after cock.

When I awoke around 6:30 a.m., there was already an email from Geoffrey.

Sweet Chloe,

I cannot wait to see you today. Here are the rules. Rule A: Chloe will wear a dress and her sexiest lingerie. She may choose both of them. Rule B: Chloe may not cross her legs. Rule C: Chloe may not say the word “it”.

Fondly,

Geoffrey

I blushed; then I laughed. Was that really a Monty Python reference to the Knights Who Say Ni, who can’t hear the word “it” without fleeing? I wrote back:

Thank you, sir, for those rules. I recited the basic rules last night, and I have been thinking about the things you suggested. With regard to the rules for today, I don’t really have any sexy lingerie, but I’ll do my best.

Respectfully,

Your Chloe

His reply came back within two minutes.

We’ll be remedying that deficiency this afternoon, but for now take your pick of what you’ve got. See you soon.

—G

If I thought things before had been difficult, Saturday morning was torture. In an effort to occupy my body at least, I went to the athletic center to workout. That got the endorphins flowing, at least. But despite my best efforts to listen to the music on my headphones, I couldn’t for the life of me keep from picturing what the afternoon had in store. Above all, I was thinking about his promise to remedy my lack of sexy lingerie. I pictured the dressing room in a fancy lingerie store, and Geoffrey seated in an easy chair there while I was made to try on piece after piece of lacy, sexy underwear. In the little fantasy, Geoffrey watched with a critical eye and told me to walk up and down and twirled his finger when he wanted to see the back. He told me to bend over. He told me to spread my feet. He reached out to touch.

In the shower, after my workout, I violated rule four for about a minute, but I finally got control of myself, thinking about having to confess the fault to Geoffrey and thinking about what he had said about making me regret it.

At 11:30 a.m., I French-braided my hair, then laid out my one lingerie set that had lace accents (otherwise, white cotton with blue flowers), and the two dresses I was going to choose from. I knew which one I was going to choose, but I felt acutely the need to eat up the time more and more as noon approached. Neither dress really had anything to recommend it; they had both been purchased for purely functional reasons. The only notable difference between them was the neckline, which was rather demure on the black one, but rather plunging on the blue one. I made a show to myself of indecision and then changed into the lingerie and put the blue dress on over it. Feeling almost as self-conscious as I had the night before when I had taken the picture of my pussy, I put on a very little lipstick and eyeliner in the mirror of the bathroom. To my curious apartment-mates, I played down the significance of the date but admitted that I had met someone that seemed special.

It was 11:55 a.m. I realized that I had just thought to myself that “it” was 11:55 a.m., and that from now on, if I were to be safe, I would need to excise the word “it” from my vocabulary. Sitting in my room, waiting for the clock to progress, I fell into a reverie, thinking about how to get around using the word “it.” When I looked at the clock again, I realized it was 12:01 p.m., and with a panicked, fluttery feeling, I grabbed my keys and my coat and my purse and hurried out the door and down the stairs.

He was waiting there, standing by his car, and when he saw me, he smiled. But then he lifted his left hand and tapped an imaginary watch. He shook his head.

I approached him uncertainly, trying to put a look of contrition on my face. When I was standing before him, noticing the casual elegance of his clothes—he wore a black sport coat and gray pants, with a blue shirt—he tilted his head slightly to the side, reached up his left hand to the back of my head, and leaned in to kiss me. The simple dominance of the gesture nearly overwhelms me. I let him guide my lips towards his, and I felt him having his way as specified in rule one.

Keeping my head cradled in his hand, he pulled his face away an inch or two, and said, “Hello.”

“Hello,” I replied.

“Hello, what?” he murmured.

“Hello, sir.”

“Better, thank you. Part of me having my way is that you are punctual when we have an appointment. Do you understand?”

I shivered at the authority in his words. “Yes, sir,” I breathed.

“What do you think happens to girls who are late?”

“They get spanked, sir?”

“Yes, Chloe, they get spanked.”

“Now?” I asked, slightly panicked. I pictured him marching me back into my apartment and spanking me in the living room in front of my apartment-mates.

He laughed. “No, not just yet. We’ll save that for later. Let’s go to lunch.”

He took me to Clio for sashimi. The only thing he said in regard to the connection between the meal and what would happen afterward at his house was to say, very tastefully, that he considered sushi and especially sashimi to be the most sensual food in the world.

I replied, “And not oysters?”

“I don’t consider oysters to be
un
-sensual,” he said. “And, certainly, if I had to pick the most sensual single thing in the world, it would probably be a pearl. I guess I think, though, that the oyster is both a little too obvious as a metaphor, and well, a little too slippery.”

I blushed and thought for a moment about whether I had the courage to say what had popped into my head. Finally, I decided just to say it, mostly because I wanted to gauge his reaction. I leaned far over our little table and whispered, “I don’t know. My little cunt was very slippery last night.”

A kind of angry amusement seemed to flash in his eyes. “Was it?” he asked with an unmistakable air of menace.

“Yes, it—”

“One,” he said. ”And here’s a new rule for you. Chloe may not use naughty words, except when her master instructs her to use them.”

On one level, this was absolutely outrageous. The thing with the word “it” was clearly playful, but telling me I couldn’t say dirty words was quite another, at least as it felt right then. I looked into his eyes. He was looking back at me intently. He was gauging me just as I was gauging him. Suddenly, I thought I understood. “The rule isn’t about me being ladylike, is—the rule?” I asked, barely managing to cut the “it” out at the end.

“No, of course not.” He laughed. “If I wanted a girl who was going to be ladylike, do you think I would’ve pursued someone I caught masturbating in a café bathroom?”

I felt myself redden, but then I laughed too.

“What is it about then?” I asked. I had a suspicion, but I didn’t know if Geoffrey shared my interpretation of this kind of play.

“Shame. And that’s two.”

“Dammit,” I said.

“Three.” He chuckled. “Chloe, you are the most beautiful blusher in the world.”

I had a nearly ungovernable urge to tell him to fuck off. What stopped me, to my surprise, was the thought that in order to do so, I would have to violate his rule about naughty language. Shame, yes.

“What happens when I’m not blushing anymore? I will eventually have no shame, right? I mean, if you have your way all the time, won’t I eventually get used to—”

He laughed and nodded, smiling when he heard me break off right before I was going to say “it.”

I started again, “Won’t I eventually get used to the, um, humiliation?”

“That’s the wonderful thing about shame, Chloe. We can get it back. Or at least, we can do a very creditable impression of having gotten it back.”

“How?” I asked, truly curious.

“Context.” He seemed to consider for a moment, trying to determine what the best example was with which to demonstrate his point for me. “If I were to order you to take off your panties right now…” He looked into my face, clearly pleased with the redness he saw rising there once again. “You would of course feel very ashamed, because no man has ever asked you to take off your panties in a restaurant before. But the wonderful thing about context is that if we were still by some chance together in five years, and we were back here at Clio and I ordered you to take off your panties, you would still feel nearly as much shame, I think I can guarantee you, as you would if I did it right now.”

I thought for a moment. “Alright, I’ll accept that.”

“Now, in the bedroom,” he continued, “there are things that I’m going to make you do this afternoon that you will eventually perhaps not feel quite as much shame about, as you will this afternoon when you do them for the first time.”

What things? My mind was screaming. The lewd images danced across my brain.

“And that will be a precious experience for both of us. I don’t mind telling you, because that is my right as your master, that I am extremely hard right now thinking about it.”

Absurdly, I flicked my eyes down to try to get a glimpse but found, of course, that I was unable to see through the table. The thought of his cock pressed right up against the bottom of the table, though, made me feel faint.

“But in most of the life of a BDSM couple, context keeps shame evergreen. You will find, I think, that you remember my rule about naughty language more than you suppose you will. Every time you find yourself about to say a word like ‘fuck’, whether you actually go ahead and say it or not, you will blush. You will blush if you don’t say it, because you will remember that to say it is against my rules, and you will blush if you do say it, because you will know that you will have to confess your faults to me and to be punished for it upon your bare bottom.”

My understanding of his true, extraordinary powers of domination was growing by the minute. I could not deny that it was a thrilling experience and one so far beyond my academic work, in terms of mental excitement, that it felt like my real education was beginning. In fact, as I turned his words over in my mind, I realized that they had everything to do with what seemed to be the essential element of his professional work.

“So, it’s this contextual shame that you rely on when you’re working for clients.”

“Exactly. Brilliant. Four.”

“Fu—dge,” I said, and of course blushed, but I was too interested to let the game stop me. “Because if the shame weren’t evergreen, you would eventually put yourself out of business.”