Exclusive Preview: Christmas Story, part 8

Continuing with the top-tier exclusive previews, here's a somewhat 'raw' version of what will be going out next week. It's still very much a work in progress, and I'm not at all happy with the current state of the mental dialogue, but it gives a sneak peek at where I'm going with this. I've trimmed off a bit to avoid spoilers of content from chapter 6 (the encounter with Darius) and I haven't quite finished off the scene, yet. I expect to have it done by the end of the week, which gives me the weekend to polish it up a bit.

Enjoy! And as always, feedback and comments not only appreciated, but definitely taken under consideration, especially at this early-ish stage in the writing. 

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Eight: Loose Ends

One by one, we tick of Mr Connor’s fantasies.

            Starting that same night, we share his bed. He wears black pyjamas and looks damn sexy in it, meanwhile I slip into the lingerie set he gifted me for Christmas. I sleep in his arms. Neither dream nor nightmare disturbs me. In the morning, we have sex again, lethargic waking fumbles into energetic fucking finishing with my heels over my head, tits bouncing everywhere, eager yelps echoing off the walls. He cums again, and his grin is so wide and pleased with himself, and with me, that’s it’s infectious. Walking a little funny but with a joyful grin plastered on my face, I return to my room and squeeze into the maid’s outfit. By the time he comes downstairs, I’m merrily buzzing about, tidying up yesterday’s mess. Dishwasher on, I pop bacon under the grill and whisk eggs for an omelet. He whistles appreciatively. A little pink-faced and breathless, I curtsy. Christ, but I’d forgotten how tight this corset was. Mr Connor nods approvingly, and I blush at his approbation. He sits and waits to be served. During breakfast, he keeps a running tally of every infraction.

            Afterwards, he leads me to the living room and orders me to lay over the armrest of the sofa. I hear him remove his belt. My face burns. And when he lays into me, it hurts so fucking much I sob into the sofa; and when he massages my bum and rubs soothing lotion into the welts, I nearly swoon; but when he shows me the well-lubed butt plug, I start to panic. It’s a tiny thing, no bigger than a finger, but I nearly blurt out the safe word when I see it. For a moment I can’t breathe, the corset nearly does me in as I scrabble for the laces and my breath burns in my lungs and my vision narrows as I hyperventilate with fear. He grabs my hands and orders me to be good, to breathe in and out slowly, to relax—and I do, I listen and next thing I know, he’s slipped the plug up my ass and tugs my panties back into place. Good girl, he says again. When he then directs me to kneel on the floor in front of him and drops his trousers, I don’t protest. At first, I’m resentful, feeling unfairly punished after all I’ve done for him. And I’m not too pleased by the discomforting presence up my ass. All too soon, though I’m sucking him off with growing eagerness and enthusiasm until, with a satisfied grunt, he cums in my mouth. I look up at him from my position on the floor and he nods. I swallow it all down. He’s pleased, pats me on the head.

            The plug’s still there when in the early afternoon, he leads me back to the living room. I’m wearing a yellow sundress, and he’s dressed casually in jeans and t-shirt. There’s a soft yoga-style mat laid out on the floor, but he first sits me on a stool. He stands behind me and begins to braid my hair. His fingers are a little clumsy at first but soon find their rhythm. The feeling of his fingers threading my hair is both sensuous and calming. He braids my hair in one long, tightly woven plait. He begins in silence but soon starts to talk. “I used to do this for Lily,” he says, “her mom was useless at it,” and the gentle rumble of his voice against my back is a soothing presence. Nostalgia touches his voice as he reminisces over time spent with his daughter, walks in the park, or taking her out trick-or-treating. He remembers the very last time he ever picked her up and held her in his arms. After that, he works in silence. All too soon, he’s done, and I miss the feeling of his fingers through my hair. He has me stand, and then slowly undresses me. My dress pools around my ankles, soon joined by my bra and panties. Then, he leads me to the mat on the floor.

            The Christmas tree looms above and I’m lying on my back, staring up into lights. He reveals a box full of rope. He slips a blindfold over me eyes. Slowly, methodically, he begins to tie me up, much like in the video we watched on Christmas day. The ropes are soft against my skin and utterly unyielding. As he works, he resumes talking. His voice goes a little way towards soothing my anxiety as he gently draws my arms behind my back and begins to bind them.

            “It’s Rose’s brother’s fault, really,” he says. “He got me into this. A few years after we got married, we went on holiday, her parents, brother and sister, and me, all on the family yacht. Gorgeous boat, they’ve got. We’re docked at this private marina, everyone’s off having a drink down the pier and her brother, Sal, he’s showing me these knots, can’t sail if you don’t your knots, he says. I copy him, and I’m pretty good at it, I hadn’t realised just how complex these things get. But I’ve got a knack for it, tying up loose ends, and learn my anchor hitch, my bowline knot, no problem. I’m enjoying it, which is unusual because I never liked Sal, always found him a bit of a creep. I ask him to teach me some more, and he laughs. You ain’t seen nothing, he says. On his phone, he’s got this video. Shibari, Cindy, you ever hear of it? Japanese rope-craft. Pretty dark history to it but in the video he shows me, it’s—well, you know, I showed it to you yesterday. I found it utterly mesmerising. Sal nudged me, grinned, can you imagine doing this to sis, huh, think Rose would like this? Christ. No, obviously it wasn’t something Rose would like. No idea why Sal thought that was an okay thing to say about his own sister. Like I said, a creep. But truth is, afterwards I couldn’t get it out of my mind. And I did try it with Rose. Nothing complex, just tying her wrists behind her back, or to the headboard, little bondage games. That kind of stuff was popular, almost mainstream. But she wasn’t into it. What ended up happening was that I kept my fascination secret, like everything else. But this, this I could practice. It’s popularity probably peaked over a decade ago, though I think it’s getting fashionable again. Anyway, when I had work conferences, business trips away, if I could find one, I’d sign up for—workshops, I guess you’d call them. I’ve been to a half-dozen or so over the years. And yes, I’ve been tied up, too, because some teachers insist you experience both sides, so you know what it feels like to tie, and be tied. And fifteen years ago, these workshops were a lot more balanced, plenty of guys experiencing both sides of it, gay couples, hetero couples switching it up. These days, not so much. Last few I’ve been to, it’s only the girls who get the rope, most of the workshops won’t teach on or allow practice on the men. And just to be clear, those girls I tied, practiced with, I never cheated on Ruby, not in that way, anyway. I already felt guilty enough doing this kind of thing in secret, but I wouldn’t ever fuck around behind her back like that. Anyway, that all ended a few years ago. I practiced a few times on a doll here at home when everyone was away. But that was it.”

            And by this time, he’s pretty much done, and I’m trussed up like our Christmas day turkey. Blindfolded throughout the experience, I experience my binding through touch alone as he weaves his columns of rope. Ropes trace a diamond pattern across my chest, a harness that squeezes and lifts my tits and they jut outwards as further loops bind my arms behind my back, wrist and elbow tied together. Legs, too, thigh and ankles, and by the end of thirty minutes of careful work, I can barely even squirm. I am surprised at how… not uncomfortable it feels; very snug, not unlike a well-fitted corset, and holding me firmly in position. My hair becomes part of my binding, twining through intricate knotting before finally filling my mouth; he gags me with my own braid and positions me on the mat on the floor. I hear a click, four times, and he’s secured me to the floor, somehow. The final touch is a pair of noise-cancelling earplugs. He leaves me deaf, blind and mute. There is only the taste of my own hair, and the feeling of the yoga mat under my bum, and cool air against bare skin. Goose bumps rise and fall, and my nipple tighten into hard nubs. Is he still in the room, watching? He could be masturbating over me again, for all I know. He could—

            There’s no way to know. I’m here, and utterly helpless. Totally dependent on him to free me. He could do anything he wants. Were something to happen, if he slipped, fell, hurt himself—left the house, got mugged, into an accident, I would remain here alone, silent and unmoving and blind. For a short time, my skin prickles with fear; for an even briefer time, with shame; and then eventually, nothing and my breathing calms and I—relax—into the unchanging grip of rope.

            That’s when he touches me. At first, lost in some dozy haze I think it’s just my imagination. His touch—this is what I assume—it could be anyone. Somehow, this makes it even more exciting as the gentle feeling of strong fingers strokes my flesh. He kisses my stomach, taut with—not quite fear, not quite arousal—and then my ear, chin, the top of my left breast. His tongue circles a swollen nipple. Then, he sucks on my boob, draws the flesh into his mouth and I moan around my gag. He continues to tease and excite me until, finally, his finger finds its way to feminine folds and slides into me, pushes deep and my body clenches tight, reminding me of the presence in the other hole. Nostrils flare as he pumps again and again as I moan through my gag, helpless and unable to even wiggle or thrash against my bonds as he brings me to a series of crashing orgasms that I swear nearly fucking kills me. Unable to move, the full force of each release slams into my poor, blinded brain and leaves me insensate.

            When I recover somewhat, he’s gone, or at least I think he is, there’s no way to tell. And the first thing that comes to mind is: I’ve done this before. Which is ridiculous, because obviously I haven’t. And yet—this feeling—not unpleasant and somehow familiar—brings a strange sort of satisfaction. Without sight or sound to distract, unable to move, my brain curls in on itself: how did I end up here?

            A year ago, nearly to the day I had Steele’s executive PA, his secretary, in her office. Amanda. God, she was a sexy bitch, had Tom and me running in circles to win her approval, but getting there first I quickly reminded her who was in charge: I bent that bitch over her desk, smacker her ass, filled and fucked her from behind as she swore and moaned and climaxed, again and again, as we both stared out over the far sprawl of the city glittering in the night. Then, I had her on her knees and she blew me and swallowed my load. Yeah, I damn well put her in her place.

            Only, looking back now it seems, no, I didn’t. I gave her exactly what she wanted. Fuck me, you son of a bitch. She said that, I remember. Harder. She demanded a royal good fucking, and I provided. After we were finished, she adjusted her clothes, tweaked her black skirt into place and flashed a wicked smile at me. Get the hell out, you bastard, she told me and winked. Christ, Amanda, if she could see me now—I think she’d love it.

            Everything followed from that final fuck: my encounter with Steele, later that night. Murder and threats, a distraction to safeguard a friend. Soon after, another woman—Katherine—and didn’t I just do everything she wanted, too? She started me on the path that led to… here and now, feminised and tied up, immobilised on some guy’s living room floor in service to his every repressed sexual fantasies.

            In this static, silent darkness, I suddenly see with crystalline clarity my whole life as one long sequence of submission to the desire of others. Like a constellation of stars or an alignment of planets in the night sky, I see hundreds of girls and women, a chain winding twenty years into the past.  All the way back to—Molly—yes, that first woman that first night working for Tahir. The old self, a waning light abandoned in the darkness of the past; the new me—David Saunders—future bright and a world for the taking, and in that world—women—like Molly, so often sad or broken in some way. From Molly to the next (Aria: rail-thin, buzz cut, nose piercings) and the one after that (Melody: fake tits, bruises, kind eyes) and all the others that followed over nearly two decades and each and every time, it was me submitting to the desires of the other. Every single one of those girls received precisely what they wanted—no, demanded—fuck that—what they needed. Yes. And in the pleasure of women, I found justification for my existence in a world that had already made it abundantly clear that I could simply go and fuck off and die, and who would care?

            Women cared, that’s who; or so I believed. Women cared, and always have: Sakura, Persephone, Julia, Akiko, Katherine, strong and powerful women, all of them. In between, all the others, the one-night stands and short-term repeats, weekend fucks and workplace dalliances, and if they never endured it was simply because they demanded so little from me. Like Amanda, all they needed was—pleasure—a spark of sensual joy whether they knew it or not.

            Very early, I discovered how—easy—so very fucking easy!—it was to please women. Their bodies spoke to me when their mouths couldn’t. I came to believe the simplicity of their need reflected a lack of depth, a hollowness of character in femininity. Derision followed, bordering on hatred: but always, that hatred was reserved for myself, because the emptiness I saw in women was a projection of the emptiness within myself. The brief flicker of female ecstasy fanned the faint flame that lived inside of me. That light was Luke’s, the poor, pathetic boy I’d once been; he’d never gone away. Everything real within the man I became was rooted in this boy from the past. My desire—rather, need—to please women came from him.

            David Saunders was an argument built on a foundation of sand, no more real or enduring than his name. Scraps of paper, digital flickers in a computer: that’s all there’d ever been to David Saunders. Where a person should have been, vain and vague attempts at fulfilment in work and the arbitrary collecting of stuff. He found some fleeting pleasure in drinking, and friendship. Past friendships proved fallible, but he always hoped for one—just one—a friend constant in all parts of life.

            I twist slowly in my tight bondage and wait for a man to return and release me. My nipples are hard and my pussy slick with submissive exhilaration. How can I not see this experience as anything but another and the most recent point in a line of similar acts reaching all the way into the past? I submit to Mr Connor as I submitted to Julia and before her, to Katherine Smith, and from Katherine further back, woman after woman after woman until: Persephone. Sakura. And behind her, the terminal point: a mother, long forgotten.  

            I squirm in discomfort. These thoughts, they’re not mine, they’re Cindy’s, a consequence of—the day—and his company—female hormones and this new prosthetic and this awful sensation of helplessness induced by nakedness and bondage. Humiliation and shame and the memory of the past few months—the past year—and this is an act, all of it, has always been an act. I submitted to Darius’ sick game and allowed Dmytro to dress me, tie me up, and gag me but it purely utilitarian, a means to an end and once the bonds no longer suited me, I broke them. The photography session at the Clinic sought to teach me learned helplessness, a lesson in feminine vulnerability—or some shit like that—but again, I agreed solely to please Crystal. All the degradations Julia piled on me, I endured to ensure my own survival. This weekend, to pay a debt. Cindy is a means to an end, and nothing more.

            Then why the aching doubt that in many ways, Cindy is already far more real an alive than David ever was?

            Eventually, I sleep—or at least doze—and dream:

            The room is familiar but different, it lacks the usual air of sordid decay. The mattress is clean. The single bulb overhead glows brightly. Harry plays on the radio. She sits on the bed. Persephone pats the space next to her. I am on the bed next to her. She smiles at me. Her face is beautiful—though an absence still steals her features from memory, bright eyes and red lips emerge from darkness and I know that she is beautiful.

            “It’s good you came,” she says.

            Our time together is peaceful. I am happy. I try to speak, express my happiness with her but find no words. Perhaps we could stay like this forever. That would be nice. But of course, that isn’t possible. We both know what happens next. She stands by the door. I try to hold her back but find that I can’t move. Her hand rests over the doorknob. Don’t, I try to say but remain voiceless. Persephone looks at me. Eyes glitter, diamonds behind a shroud. “You always fight this,” she says. “Sometimes, you just need to let it happen.” At her touch the door swings open, and brilliant moonlight lights up the far wall.  “You’ve been here too long,” she says. “I’ve never expected this of you. You can leave at any time, you know.”

            There’s something I must do first, though I can’t remember what it is.

            “Last chance,” she says. Footsteps approach; familiar tread of whatever nightmare kills her this time.

            I cannot leave this room. Not without her.

            The room wavers, my cheeks are wet and: no, I cry out—and I am crying, he’s holding me, even as I’m still cocooned in ropes, the cocoon unravelling as he tugs at knots and I emerge naked, weak and shaking into his waiting arms like something newly hatched, tears streaming down my face as Mr Connor kisses me, cradles me until the shaking stops, it’s okay, he says, over and over again, it’s okay.

            And he’s right, it is, it really is. Not straight away. It takes a little aftercare, and a stiff drink. But once I’ve slipped into a casual dress, a floaty thing with a floral print, and we’re sat in the front room together, I feel a lot better. We’re watching the sunset light up the horizon in oranges and brilliant reds, and the decorations we set out earlier glimmer like rubies and diamonds. My head rests against his chest, his hand lies on my thigh, and I’m nearly purring with contentment. I’m happy. I feel—lighter—somehow.

            “There’s something different about you,” he says. “You seem—”

            “Happier?”

            “Sure?” He taps his chin in thought. “I’d say confident, though I’m not sure in what way. Relaxed, maybe. It’s hard to pin down.”

            “Well, you’re welcome to pin me down in a bit, if you want.”

            He smiles and holds me closer.

            Sunday morning, we again go for a walk in the woods. The snow has melted and the ice covering the small lake is cracked and broken. Water burbles happily beneath the surface. We walk around the lake and follow the small path leading to the neighbourhood Christmas tree. The muddy ground is scored with footprints, and many of the baubles have already been retrieved. At first, I can’t find the one Michael asked me to hang. I find it, on the ground near the base of the tree. Someone must have knocked it, perhaps by accident, or maybe it was as strong wind at night. I pick it up, and find that it’s broken, the delicate eggshell surface cracked from its fall. An indescribable sadness wells up inside of me at the sight of the broken bauble, and I blink to hold back tears. Michael notices, holds me close. “It’s okay,” he says.

            Later, I sit him down. “It’s Monday tomorrow.”

            He winces. “I know.”

            “It’s a workday.”

            “It’s the 29th, you could—take a few days off—until the first…”

            “You can,” I say. “I can’t, I don’t get paid if I’m not in the office.”

            “You could—” he scrambling for something, “stay, work for me and I’ll pay you for your… services…” he eyes widen as he hears himself, and he grimaces. “Sorry.”

            “I hope so,” I say dryly. I hold his hand. “It’s been a lovely holiday, more of a dream, really. But reality—”

            “Fuck reality,” he says.

            I kiss his fingertips.

            “So, what happens, then?” There’s a bitterness to his voice. “In the office?”

            “Nothing,” I say flatly. “Nothing changes; nothing can change, can it? Show me any favouritism, anybody complains… well, probably nothing happens to you, but I’m out of a job. Word gets out I’m fucking the boss? Same. So next week, nothing changes. We go back to normal. You keep being the awesome boss you are, sir, and I’ll sit at my desk and smile for the clients.” I grin mischievously.  “Though maybe, one day you’ll sit at your desk and find there’s a naughty girl hiding down there, waiting. And maybe, because she’s been so naughty, you’ll have to dim your windows and punish her, and she’ll have to try real hard not to make any noise.”

            Michael smiles, a little distantly. “What if I say, no?”

            I raise an eyebrow. “No, you don’t want a secret office below-desk blow job?”

            “No, I mean: what if I say, no, I don’t want what this to end? No, as in you make me feel—alive—again, fucking awake for the first time in years and… and I’ve got feelings for you, okay Cindy? So, no, reverting to normal is not okay, not after this weekend, not after everything we’ve done.”

            I sigh. “Then I say, too fucking bad, sir.”

            His stare is baleful and silent. “And you’re okay with that?” He retrieves his hand from between mine, massages his right palm with the fingers of the left. “No feelings, just wham-bam, thank you sir, and you’re gone?”

            Now it’s my turn to get angry. “Don’t be fucking stupid, Michael.” I stand and stalk to the window looking over the backyard. Beyond the wall and the gate, the top of trees gleam like blood with melt and sunset, dark spears against a dark sky. Deep breath, and I turn to face him, hair swirling around me and it feel way too dramatic, like we’re acting out one of the Christmas movies. Doesn’t make it any less real, though.

             “Of course I’m not okay with this, with any of it. But what the fuck do you expect? Like, am I going to move in with you? Be your live-in-girlfriend? Or, what… your wife?” He winces at my bitter bark of laughter. “You about to go down on one knee, Michael, is that it? Of course not. Yes, it’s been amazing, okay? And yes, I’ve got… feelings, okay, is that what you want to hear? You’ve made me feel—” I swallow, tiny fists balled up and pressing into my belly—“good, so good, and I mean that, I really do. You have no idea, okay? How important this—break—from myself—has been. So, when I say that I—care for you, more than any man I’ve ever been with, I’m speaking with complete honesty, okay?

            “But so fucking what? You’ve got—a wife, no, don’t shake your head, you do, you’re not divorced yet. And a daughter. You’ve got a house with a mortgage, a career, shit, you’ve got a family-fucking yacht. And I can barely pay the rent, okay? You’re twice my age and drink fine whiskies and probably have an investment portfolio. Weeknights you work late, and I bet every two weeks, you catch up with the guys mid-week and have precisely two pints, no more, can’t afford a hangover the next day.” Faint amusement tugs at my lips. “Meanwhile, after work I go shopping with the girls, maybe hit a bar, keep an eye out for cute boys. I watch makeup tutorials at night, doomscroll too much and wash out my hair. On weekends, I go clubbing to 3am.”

           Oh, and in my free time I conspire with [SPOILER]; together, we secretly plot to murder one of the most powerful men in the world, and overturn the existing world order.

But mostly, clubbing.