Personal Geography (7 page)

“What did you think it was?”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I was under the impression that I had signed up for a weekend full of very hot, very kinky sex.”

This causes Cris Ardmore to have a narrow miss with a spit-take. Instead, he covers his mouth with the back of his hand and coughs into his arm. He really is the cutest. How has he managed to do this for so long and still be such a prude?

“I’m sorry. I told you I’m not shy.”

“Ceviche?” he croaks.

“Indeed, Mr. Ardmore.”

“I think if we’re going to fuck, you can call me Cris.”

That’s
more like it.

“All right then, Cris. You can call me Kit. For now.”

We finish our lunch over a series of verbal parries and thrusts, and when we’re through, I set down my knife and fork and lay my napkin on the table. “Thank you for lunch. It more than met with my approval.”

“You’re welcome. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

We look at each other for a beat, daring the other person to make the first move, but I’m impatient and clearly don’t play coy.

“So have I passed muster?”

He looks unhappy. “This was never about you passing muster. I won’t have you thinking that.”

Ah, my first glimpse of the Dominant I’ve been promised. I like. He leans back in his chair and studies me.

“I like to think of myself as a fundamentally responsible person. I wanted to know from
you
, not the submissive you, that this was something you wanted. I don’t coerce women. I don’t force them. I never have, and I won’t start now. But you clearly have more than your fair share of wits about you and a very clear understanding of what’s going to happen here, so my requirements have been satisfied.”

His words make me feel startled and raw. Cris Ardmore’s understanding—or, at least, suspicion—of the extent to which my submissive self is discrete from the rest of me is perturbing. Will this man never stop throwing me for a loop?

I cover the best way I know how. “All of your requirements?”

“We’ll have to wait until we sign those contracts to find out, won’t we?” A change has come over him. He’s committed to this. He doesn’t want to be polite and charming anymore. He wants to fuck me over this table, and I’m totally on board.

I pull the three copies of the contract that Rey has already signed out of my bag along with two pens and hand the stack to him. He initials the bottom of each page, as well as by the more unique requirements I insist upon, and signs at the end. When he’s finished with the first one, he hands it to me.

“I’ll need to bring these out to Mr. St. James when they’ve been completed and collect my things.”

“Of course. I’ll take you.”

I smile at him, one last free and flirty smile. I’ve enjoyed talking to him, however awkward parts of our conversation might’ve been, and I feel a pang of what might be regret that we’ll be playing roles from now on. At least I got to see him laugh. I could live off that for weeks.

I initial and sign. It’s done. 1:05 p.m., and I am officially Cris Ardmore’s submissive.

*

Cris pushes his
chair back from the table and stands, taking the contracts from me. He somehow looks taller.

“Come,” he commands, holding out a hand. Something deep inside me constricts at the word coming out of his mouth, and I can think of nothing I’d like to do more for this man. If we hadn’t signed the contracts yet, my reply would be a saucy “yes, please.” But we have, so my training kicks in and I rise from my seat, putting my hand in his.

Matty is waiting where we left him, and his face doesn’t betray anything as we approach. Cris hands him the contracts, and Matty flips through each copy. Satisfied all the
t
’s have been crossed and the
i
’s dotted, he hands one to me, one to Cris, and keeps the last.

“Would you mind if I have a word with Ms. Isles, Mr. Ardmore?”

“Please.” Cris relinquishes his grip on my hand and steps back ten paces, not taking his eyes off me.

“All set?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You’ll text me?”

“I will.”

“It’s your pick this time.”

“Fish.”

It’s a safety precaution Matty and I use, although it’s really more of a game at this point. I text Matty at least once every four hours with a code we agree on beforehand. Matty tends to like geography: countries that begin with
C
, state capitals, etc. I’m more inclined to the eclectic: car makes, James Bond movies, presidents. While the guys I’m with are aware I need to text Matty, they don’t know the code. So if Matty got an “
I’m okay :)
” he’d know I wasn’t and call in the cavalry. It’s never happened, but it’s a cute little failsafe.

“Fish it is. Have fun.”

“I plan to.”

He smiles at me, shakes his head, and lays one of his elegant, long-fingered hands on top of my head. “I’ll see you Sunday. You’ll call if you need me.”

“Promise.”

He nods in satisfaction, removes his hand, and settles his face into what I call his “don’t fuck with me” glare before motioning to Cris to collect me and my small weekend bag. They shake hands before Matty climbs into the Jeep, and I watch him reverse and head down the overgrown path.

Cris is standing beside me. I’m more aware of him than I have been before, and I can feel what I refer to as my sub-sense tingling. He leans down, his lips an inch away from my ear.

“Let the games begin, pet.”

‡

S
o it’s to
be
pet
? I can live with that. It’s better than the
bitch
or
slut
I sometimes get.
Kitten
I like, and though it’s a bit sickly sweet, I have a special fondness for
precious
. As long as they steer clear of
baby
or
sweetheart
as they’ve been told, I don’t care. I stand up straighter, and his hand comes to the small of my back.

He urges me back where we came from without a word and, when we’ve entered the main hut, steers me toward one of the recessed doors.

“This leads to my room. You shouldn’t need to go in there, but if for some reason you need me and can’t find me anywhere else, you’ll knock before you come in.” He leads me to the next door. “This goes to the studio. It’s locked most of the time. Don’t forget where this is—you’ll be expected in there later.”

I note where I’m at, finding landmarks to remind me which of the plain wood doors this is. “Yes, sir.”

He points out a few more as bathrooms, closets, and a pantry before showing me to the last door. It leads to a covered walkway, elevated like the huts and made of the same wood. It connects the main house to another, smaller building, and he opens the door to reveal a bedroom.

There’s a queen-sized, framed-four-poster bed with an upholstered bench at its foot where Cris deposits my bag. A beautiful, orange and white Hawaiian quilt hangs on the wall behind it. The linens are white and look soft and freshly washed. On either side is a small bedside table and a plush chair. There are a couple of doors on the opposite wall—leading to what I imagine are a closet and a bathroom—with a dresser in-between. The far side is taken up by sliding glass doors that lead out to a balcony. Between them is a desk with bookshelves overhead. It’s a simple room. Not the most luxurious accommodations I’ve had by far, but pretty and comfortable. I like it here.

“This is where you’ll stay when you’re not with me. You’re welcome to anything in here. I expect you to make yourself comfortable. You’ll let me know if you need anything. You can have a little while to get settled, and you’ll meet me in the studio in twenty minutes. There’s a robe in the closet for you to wear around the house unless I say otherwise.”

“Yes, sir.” I’m starting to settle into my part.

*

Eighteen minutes later,
I’m standing outside the door that leads to Cris’s studio, which I assume is a pleasant euphemism for dungeon. While I don’t care for beating around the bush, I like this. It’s easy to make kink sound tawdry and juvenile, but
studio
implies effort, beauty, discipline, and care. I’m barefoot and wearing only the short, orange silk robe that was in the closet. I’ve left my hair down, although there’s a tie in my pocket. I take a deep breath and open the door to a walkway. At the end, I open another door and find myself in a room a little larger than mine.

I was right. It’s a dungeon, but not like any I’ve ever seen. They’re usually in an attic or basement and either painted in dark colors with glinting metal and forbidding black leather everywhere or bland, contractor-beige with easy-to-clean surfaces. Not this one. It’s the same warm wood as the other huts, but there aren’t any sliding glass doors, only windows running along the entire perimeter just below the ceiling. It’s a nice effect—natural light filtering in without compromising the room’s privacy. The default St. Andrew’s cross is prettier than most. It’s anchored in one corner and has brown leather straps hanging at regular intervals and, for good measure, chains affixed to each corner. There’s a bed, too—another framed-four-poster big enough that a person might be tethered to the four corners without leaving any limb unsupported.

There’s no gallery wall, but an oversized and solid chest of drawers where toys and restraints must be kept. A large table with anchor points along the sides stands in one corner, and in another, a fair-sized leather couch and a matching ottoman. There’s also a door I’m guessing leads to a bathroom. If so, it’s a nice touch. Most of the rooms I’ve played in don’t have one.

We’re getting close to the twenty-minute mark. Keeping time in my head is a skill I have a special talent for. He hasn’t given me any instructions for what to do when I get here, so I stand by the door with my hands clasped behind my back and my eyes cast down.

My heart quickens when I hear footsteps coming down the walkway. It sounds like Mr. Ardmore is also barefoot. No flip-flops now. The door opens, and he enters, closing it behind him.

“I like punctual, pet. Nicely done.”

I glow under his casual praise. He walks around me, and I see his feet and his legs up to his thighs. He’s got nice feet—I’ve seen my fair share of men’s feet, I would know. And he’s wearing jeans, which I like. I didn’t expect the full-on, leather getup from him, but I’ve been surprised before.

He grips my arm above my elbow and steers me toward the center of the room, turning me to face the table and standing in front of me. Taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger, he tips my head up. “Look at me.”

I like what I see on the way up. An open and worn plaid shirt reveals a toned but not bodybuilder-quality torso and a smattering of dark chest hair. A small medal on a leather thong hangs around his neck, though I don’t have enough time on my brief glance to tell what it is. Under damp curls, his blue-grey eyes are intense on mine. He’s looking for something, but I’m not sure what he thinks he’s going to find.

“Are your eyes different colors?”

“Yes, sir.”

He pauses for a moment, still staring, and my heart stutters. “Fitting, I think. And lovely.”