Make Me (9 page)

I no longer feel as naked, having bared something emotionally that was more private than my exposed legs and midriff.

Another tap on my right shoulder. Instinctively, I turn in that direction.

This time, the back of my right leg is touched. I ignore it, trying to stand as still as I can. The reply is an even harder hit to my lower back, sharp pain like being snapped with a towel.

The pressure returns to my leg, and I take a step, more to get away from it than anything.

The gentle touch returns, caressing the spot on my back that was hit (with a crop? A flogger? I never saw it when we were talking) smoothing the hurt away, and teasing a sigh from my lips. The pain makes my skin ultra-sensitive and his gentleness is shockingly pleasant.

Hang on. Was that a reward? The soft touch?

He hit me when I spoke, which means I’m to remain silent. He only rubbed the pain away when I did what I was supposed to, otherwise, I got another hit. When I turned to the right, when I took a step forward, was that what he wanted me to do?

Is that it? Is he directing my body with physical cues alone?

Cautious optimism peeks through shaking hands when the top of my head and my back are touched at the same time, so I duck and move a step forward, then another, awkward as hell when I’m bent over. Mild triumph floods me when I receive no correction.

Is he looking at my ass, standing behind me while I’m bent? The thought turns me on.

No further guidance is given, so I take another step.

The tap to my shins is so light I almost think I imagine it, but I stop walking and stand up straight. Immediately, a brutal blow like a wasp sting lands on my upper back. Damn it. A deep whine reverberates through my body, though I manage to keep my mouth shut. Behind the blindfold, my eyes water with frustrated tears. It’s not fair! I did what he said.

Or did I?

Darko wanted me to stop walking but gave no order for me to straighten. I bend over again, proven right when the sore spot on my back is lightly rubbed to take the sting away. Now that I feel a little more confident that I’ve realized what he wants, I notice other details. His hand is large, warm, and a little rough. There’s a vague scent of mint in the room.

And I really like the way he touches the sensitive spots he’s made.

Focusing on those little details relaxes me, and I manage to get through the next seven touches without being punished, only receiving another corrective slap to my ass when I take two steps forward instead of one. The caresses to my stinging flesh are almost pleasurable enough to make me fuck up on purpose.

Almost.

Another ten directions and the same warm, rough hands stroke my upper arms and trail down to squeeze my hands.

A quick warmth to my cheek—a kiss?—and I’m left alone again. Minutes pass, stretching out uncomfortably, as I stand there in my underwear, wanting to rub the places I was hit on my legs, ass, and back, but I dare not move, not wanting another correction. I’ve been allowed to stand here but not directed to move.

And I really want him to touch me with those gentle caresses again.

Knowing better this time, I don’t budge until urged forward by a hand on my lower back, only this time I’m being slowly walked straight ahead. When we stop and walk normally again, I tremble with relief and excitement.

I’m done? Did I do it? But if I failed, surely he’d remove the blindfold and let me know. My hand twitches up to remove the blindfold, but I force it back to my side in case this is a trick. I stand still for a while, breathing in my victory. I did the scene. I completed it without freaking out again.

I want to punch the air and scream and smile. Fighting to remain outwardly calm, my insides are a complete mess of excitement, like a sack of bees searching for a way to escape.

I ease Sloane around the room one more time, noticing she moves more confidently now than when she did just under an hour ago.

“Darko?” Sloane’s voice is slightly too loud, which makes me smile.

I gently tug the earplugs out. “How did you know it was me? I could have snuck out and had someone else taking you through the scene,” I joke.

“I can smell you. And I know you wouldn’t do that to me.” She licks her lips, drawing my attention to them. Normally I’m captivated by her eyes, but now that they are covered, I take a moment to appreciate the sensual lines of her mouth. She can smell me? I wear no cologne or aftershave. I sniff at my armpits to see if I am in need of a shower, but I smell nothing.

She is right: I wouldn’t do that to her—not without her knowing I wasn’t the one topping her. A bait and switch would be a disgusting thing to do to someone in BDSM or any circumstance. Especially after she’d just opened up to me so beautifully. My hand still tingles where she held it and my heart warms with the way her trust in me is developing, even as anger at whoever hurt this woman tries to claim me.

Knowing she may be feeling more vulnerable than usual, I fold her into a hug that she returns without reservation, leaning into my chest until the tremors leave her legs. She’s beginning to trust me, at least where her safety is concerned.

She flinches after a moment when I run my hand down her back.

“Turn please.”

She turns, and I remove the blindfold—and get a glimpse of the five marks in varying degrees of severity that mar her back, thighs, and ass.

I take her hand. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“To the bed. It is for your aftercare, nothing more, I promise.” I point to the small table with creams on it set up near the foot of the bed.

“Oh.” She crawls on the mattress and lies on her stomach without a further word of protest.

Was that disappointment in her voice? With a smile, I gently remove her heels and set them on the floor. “After each scene, the first thing you will do is check in with me. I need to know where you’re at and take care of you.” I turn on the bedside lamp for better light. “How do you feel physically?”

“Exhausted. And sore.” She wiggles her toes. “I thought I was in better shape, but I guess not. All you did was lead me around a room and I’m so tired.”

“Your shape has nothing to do with it. In fact, it’s to be expected. Your adrenaline has been pumping for a while and a crash is normal. Are you dizzy or nauseated?”

“No, just tired. A little hungry.”

I inspect her marks for broken blood vessels or broken skin. Nothing major, but one on her thigh is raised, a small welt. It will leave a bruise. “I pre-ordered a light lunch. It should be here soon.”

“Thank you. I was a little surprised at the intensity of the pain.”

“You’re welcome. I wasn’t taking it easy on you, but mostly it felt intense because fear heightened your senses and made you more sensitive.” I unscrew the cap of a soothing, medicated balm and dab some on the places I hit.

She relaxes and breathes deeper. “Mmm. That’s so much better. You used a crop, right?”

“Yes. Is that something you might like to try again?”

“Yes.” Her voice is quiet but eager.

“How are you emotionally?”

“Okay.”

When she doesn’t elaborate, I tap her temple. “You need to let me in here.”

She laughs once, a soft exhalation. “I’m actually feeling okay about the whole thing. It wasn’t that bad.”

“You did very well. Two of your senses were taken away, you were punished, but you were successful.”

Her voice is soft as silk. “I was really nervous for a while, but I think it was more the uncertainty than anything else. I didn’t know what was happening, what was going to happen, what my reaction would be.” She sits up cross-legged and hugs a pillow, both for comfort and for modesty. I fetch her a robe and she puts it on. “Actually, I think not knowing what was going to happen helped. I couldn’t anticipate what was next and flinch away from it.”

“Yes. There was no time to worry about the things you couldn’t see.”

“And I’ve never done anything like it before. I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d seen the crop coming at me. Being blindfolded may have been the thing that got me through it. I don’t understand.” She shakes her head, biting her lip.

“What don’t you understand?”

“How something like this—being blindfolded and hit—can help me with my attack. But it has. Even now, I can think about that night without feeling nauseated and wanting to run. I’m not okay with what happened—I never will be. But it’s like at least half of the intensity’s been sucked from that night. Like it’s just another memory now, albeit an especially shitty one.”

I sit at the foot of the bed facing her. “Everyone has a memory that brings them to their knees. Do not ever be ashamed of that. But those memories shouldn’t haunt your steps and wake you in the night. Sometimes our minds are our own worst enemies. Long after we’ve physically healed, our minds relive those traumas over and over, preventing us from completely healing.” This round wasn’t about turning her on or taking directions. It was about her letting me in and beginning to relinquish control.

“I’ve always relied on facts. Even in work, that’s what I do. I find the angles, focus on facts to find the truth.”

I shrug. “It’s gotten you this far. And yet, there shouldn’t be so great of a disconnect between your mind, emotions, and body. By focusing on one, you’re denying the other parts of yourself. One alone can only take you so far—perhaps listening to your body for a while will get you the rest of the way there.”

Room service knocks at the door, and I meet Sloane over at the table with lunch. I wasn’t sure how she’d be feeling, so I ordered raw vegetables and shredded roast chicken breasts for wraps, as well as a fruit salad.

She picks a bit of cucumber from her wrap and pops it in her mouth. “The challenge was about taking physical directions, right?”

The challenge was, but not the purpose. “Yes. You probably did not realize it, but I was putting you through an obstacle course.”

“Seriously?”

“Nothing too wild. More like a labyrinth, I should say, more imagined than physical, though there were a couple pillows on the floor for you to work your way around. Every misstep was counted. Everything was taken into account—from your body language to reaction time to your patience.”

She chews and swallows. “Patience?”

“At the end you stood there in front of me, and I watched you and waited. If you’d have spoken, you’d have been punished.”

“I figured it was taking direction—even ones that aren’t given.”

I hide my pleased vindication behind my napkin. “Exactly. If you’re not told to move, standing still is the order.”

She nods, weariness creeping over her features, tightening the skin around her eyes. “I’m glad I did it right.”

“Me too. So new to this, and yet you performed like a champion.” Impulsively, I reach over and take her hand.

Giving in to curiosity was the best and worst thing I’ve done in a long time. When I got home, I did an internet search on Sloane Winters.

Now sleep evades me with the images of her broken body burning inside my mind. She opened up in the scene but still hid things from me. But Sloane...I had no idea we’re more alike than I could have guessed.

Any attack on a woman—or anyone—is awful enough and should damn well never happen. Somehow, Sloane’s attack was worse. Perhaps because it was captured in high definition and viewed and shared thousands of times.

I saw a film of a crowd of men with savage hands trying to tear her apart, rip her soul from her body because she was a Western Woman in the wrong place at the wrong time. Political and religious ideologies collided and she paid the price.

I had no idea she’d been through something so terrible.

The twelve-minute-long video took me an hour to watch I required so many pauses to quell the disgust and horror. I’m fluent in four languages, but every word I know died in my mouth except ‘No,’ when I watched them attack her. Countless emotions carried me into nightmares of my own, trapped in the past, stealing all rest from the night. Emotions I will struggle to keep from showing in my eyes when I look at her next.

Not an inch of Sloane’s body went untouched, by a foot, by a fist. There were no weapons. As she said, no rape took place, but she was completely violated by their hatred and misplaced anger.

Hurt by oppressive ideals like my family and I were. Oh, I get it.

No wonder she said a spanking was nothing. She’s taken much worse than anyone at The Underground will deal out—at least when it comes to pain. But BDSM isn’t about how bad of a beating you can take. It’s about laying yourself bare and opening up to share an experience with another person. She has more than enough strength to take things physically. What about emotionally?

Will the training trigger awful memories for her, return her to a dark pit she’s managed to climb out of? It is not my place to decide that for her. If she wants to continue, I will honor that. I wish she’d have included this on her intake, but as she hasn’t—and hasn’t given me specifics about the event—I must act like I only know what she told me, and hope that she eventually trusts me to open up in a more personal way.

How can I use this knowledge to help her?

I know all too well the keen edge of loss from spending time in warzones. Knowing she and I share this in common makes me feel closer to her, more protective. I had no idea how similar the things that have shaped us are.

Sloane is a woman who could understand the jagged edges of my past. Suddenly, the world doesn’t feel like such a lonely place.