Truth or Dare; The Dominator II (5 page)

I waited until my Master addressed me.  It felt like it took a long time for that to happen. I wished I knew what role to play. Did I look up coquettishly? Did I give off a persona of innocence? I didn’t know what he wanted. He was standing in front of me but I knew better than to make eye contact before being permitted.

“Felicia,” he finally said.  I looked up with what I hoped was a blank expression and saw him for the first time.

He was young. Under thirty. He was dressed in a light gray suit with a cream colored shirt and no tie. He had wavy blond hair, longish, almost to his collar, flopping over one eye. Bluish grey eyes, full lips, olive skin, and he looked tall from this angle. He was male model gorgeous and wore that suit well. Gorgeous didn’t matter in
this
world because gorgeous could also mean cruel, crazy, or disgusting. But beyond good-looking he looked angry. No, not angry, he looked pissed. Pissed
right
off.

My heart skipped a beat, worrying about how the anger would come at me. I knew from experience that it could be unleashed in a variety of ways and based on the tension he was emitting and based on what I knew from past experience: I should expect the unexpected. I kept my blank gaze on his face and waited for direction but he just stood there, staring at me, looking angry.

“Dario Ferrano. Nice to meet you,” he extended a hand, finally. I reached out so he could take my hand. He held it for a second, staring at me with something I read as disgust etched in his features. Was I a letdown? Would he reject me and request another?
Please no.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Master. I’ve been waiting for today for a long time,” I answered and his grip tightened almost painfully. His eyes flashed with something scary. I swallowed back the wince I’d almost made.

For another beat there was nothing but intensity in the room so I tore my eyes away from looking at him and softly asked, “Is there something I can do for you, Sir?”

He crouched low and tipped my chin up with his index finger, “You can look at me when you speak to me for a start. Don’t be afraid to look at me.”

“Yes, Master.”

He straightened back up to standing, flexing his jaw muscles for a moment, and then his eyes traveled the perimeter of the room for a minute.  Then he said, “Let me look at you. Up.”

I stood up.

“Twirl slowly,” he commanded.

I obeyed.

“Your hair,” he said, “That’s not natural?”

“No Sir. The color is but it’s not straight. It was straightened this morning.”

“I’d prefer you not straighten it.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He was quiet for a minute, assessing me.

“Have you had dinner?”

“No, Sir.”

“Is now around the time you’d usually eat?”

“I don’t know what time it is, Sir.”

He looked at his wristwatch, “Almost 5:30.”

“Yes, Sir. I usually eat between five and seven.”

“Stop calling me Sir.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Call me Dare or Dario.”

“Yes, Dare.” Sensation prickled in me at using his name. But if I was to be his wife I’d have to do that in public. Public. I pushed away my anxiety.

“Where do you have dinner?”

“If I’m not entertaining I eat dinner with the others who are off duty. If I
am
entertaining I sit at the feet of the patron I’m attending to while he or she eats.”

“Where?”

“In the patron’s suite or in one of the dining areas, Sir. I mean Dare. Sorry, Sir. I mean Dare.” My face heated. I hadn’t felt flustered like this in… in I don’t know how long. If I wasn’t more careful I was going to be punished for this. It had been a long time since I’d been punished. And even worse, I could screw this up. I directed my brain to forget what was at stake here and to just go on autopilot.

A to B. A to B. That’s what I needed to do to get to C. I’m at C now. Don’t mess up.

He moved to the desk beside the bed and lifted a telephone and pushed a button, “I want menus for dinner, please. Right, okay.” He opened a bedside table drawer and pulled menus out, “I’ve got them. No, we’ll dine in the suite. Right. Fine.” He hung up.

I remained standing at the end of the bed. He sat down at the head of the bed,

“What’s good here?” he asked and I turned to face him. He passed a menu to me.

“What do you like, S--” I blushed again, “Dare?”

He gave me a little smile and my heart spasmed. But I was thinking, ‘wait for it…’ knowing that the crazy or kinky or evil or a combo of any or all of the above would reveal itself sooner or later. It usually didn’t take long. The longer it took the more chances of it being brutal when it came.

“I like everything. What do you like?”

“I…” I swallowed and then stupidly I said, “Pasta.”

Damn, why did I give him a personal answer? I knew better than to give anyone ammo that could be used against me. I hadn’t had pasta in 2 years and the answer just slipped. How could I let it slip?

“They don’t serve pasta?” He opened the menu and looked, “There’s a shit load of pasta.”

I shook my head a little, “I’m not permitted pasta.” I stopped myself from ending with the ‘Sir’.

“Why not?” He cocked an eyebrow.

“Too fattening,” I answered.

His eyes roved over me and I knew he was assessing my body shape. I was very slender. I was fit and healthy but definitely 10-15 pounds underweight.

“What sauce do you like on your pasta?”

My eyes widened, “Anything, Sir. Dare.” Another blush.

“What’s your favorite?”

“Car- carbonara or alfredo.” I’d already let it slip so might as well let it all hang out.

He smiled at me again. My belly fluttered at that smile. He was very attractive.

“Sounds good.” He picked up the phone and said, “Dario Ferrano. Need a table for two in my room. No, two chairs. Yes, two. Two orders of pasta carbonara. An extra-large order of garlic bread with cheese. Mozzarella. A bottle of red. And a big bowl of Cesar salad. Extra bacon. Bacon, not that bacon bit shit.”  He winked at me, “Four bottles of water and two bottles of orange Gatorade.”

I fought the urge to smile. I fought the urge to relax. I fought the urge to cry out in elation as I hadn’t eaten a meal like that in 2 years. But then a chill shot up my spine because maybe he was planning to sit and eat it in front of me and degrade me. Sadly, that game was not new to me.

Dare

She was reserved. She was guarded. She was doing her very best to behave like an absolute angel. She was so careful about every word she said and she’d looked embarrassed a few times, like she’d slipped up, but had never said anything that I could construe as a slip-up other than calling me Sir after I’d asked her not to. She looked healthy but I could see in her eyes that she was far from healthy emotionally speaking. I wanted to tell her she was close to freedom, that we just had to play things out for 2 days here and that I’d get her out of here but I knew I couldn’t tell her. I had to remain aloof and at the same time give anyone who might be watching us on camera the impression that I was just like them.

In my brief meeting earlier with three men who had been kissing my ass, knowing I was Tom Ferrano’s son, I did not let them think I was anything
but
Tom’s son in terms of my goals and objectives. They said very little about her, stating they wanted to let me meet and assess her and then we’d have another conversation. They assured me that she had been carefully trained and was an exceptional slave with no punishable infractions in more than 18 months. She had not been touched sexually since her last clear STD test when she was put on ice to wait for me.

Stan had suggested to me that it’d be best not to ask questions about her origin and her past. I wouldn’t care about that shit if I was just a typical client of theirs. I’d find that out later when I helped her get back to some semblance of a normal life. I remarked to the scumbags that I was looking forward to meeting my bride-to-be but that I needed to get home quickly as we were still sorting my father’s affairs out after his untimely death. I texted my brother to tell him I’d arrived safely and texted Stan the same and said I’d call him when I got back home and give him further instructions.

Felicia

When the food came and they brought a table with two chairs I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. Usually, once a patron sat, I would wait for him to snap his fingers and I’d move to his feet. But I wasn’t generally waiting seated on a bed, I was typically already on the floor on my knees.

When he sat he looked at me, “You good to eat?”

“May I use the facilities first please, Master?”

He looked annoyed but waved his hand toward the bathroom.  I stiffly moved to the bathroom and once behind closed doors I let out a big breath.

When I came back from washing my hands and taking a moment to compose myself he was sitting, looking broody. I hurried to his side and got on the floor. I didn’t want to presume I was to sit at the table with him even if there were two chairs. It was better to be corrected for not taking kindness than to be punished for taking liberties.

I was on the floor on my knees beside his leg.

“Sit at the table.” His body was locked tight. He was angry.

I got up and sat at the table and my eyes landed on the mountain of food between us.

“Eat,” he said and poured me a glass of wine.

I lifted a fork and twirled a small amount of pasta on the fork, maybe just three or four strands of linguine. Dare heaped creamy bacon and parmesan-coated romaine lettuce with buttery-looking croutons onto my plate beside the pasta and held the platter of garlic bread in my direction and jerked his chin up.

I took a piece of thick white bread laden with golden crispy cheese. My stomach rumbled at the sight of it. “Thank you,” I answered softly, hoping he hadn’t heard my stomach. But it was so loud he would’ve had to have heard it.

He glanced up at the ceiling and rolled his eyes and then drank back half of the glass of wine. I didn’t want to upset him.

I put the forkful of pasta in my mouth. It was heavenly. I tried not to show it but wanted to moan, it was so delicious. His anger appeared to soften a little as he watched me eat.

I subsisted on small portions of soup, fish and rice and vegetables without condiments, for the most part. I occasionally got chicken or steak, usually handfed to me from a patron. Once in a while I’d get a chocolate covered strawberry or something decadent but never in copious amounts. I was religiously weighed and if I went up more than a pound my workout regimen would escalate from intense to boot camp rigid.

He ate, watching me as he did. Under his scrutiny I felt very self-conscious about eating but didn’t want to insult how generous he had been with the food he had ordered for me.

I took a bite of the garlic bread with cheese and suppressed the urge to moan in ecstasy. I couldn’t put away all the food he’d ordered for me, I was used to eating small meals, but hated to waste it so I ate more than I could really manage, enjoying it but starting to feel discomfort. We ate in silence, awkward silence. So awkward that he got up and put the television on, put it on a news channel, and he watched it while eating. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d watched news on television, or anything other than porn.

“You look full,” he said quietly, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin and stepping away from the table, “You don’t have to keep going.” He reached inside his blazer pocket and produced a pewter cigarette case and matching lighter.

“I’m stepping out to the balcony for a smoke. Be right back.” He gave me a thin smile.

When he came back he looked at me quizzically. I was still sitting at the table, not sure what to do with myself. If he’d left me on the floor I’d know what was expected, it would be expected that I’d sit and await his direction. But up here at eye level with him I didn’t know what to do with myself.

“How do we get rid of this?” he asked me.

“You can dial 9 for housekeeping. Would you like me to do that…Dare?”

He shook his head.

“I can do it.” He called for housekeeping on the room phone and then sat back on the bed and kicked his shoes off.

A moment passed where I sat watching the television from the table and he thumbed away on his smartphone. There was a knock at the door.

He put his shoes back on and went to it and opened it. Cleo and Rafe were in the doorway, two housekeeping staff members behind them.

“Forgive the intrusion, Mr. Ferrano, but because you requested housekeeping I thought it might be an opportune moment to speak with you.”

“Come in,” Dare said.

Cleo and Rafe both looked to me, sitting at the table with a half-eaten plate of pasta, creamy salad, and cheesy bread. Cleo’s eyebrows shot up but she appeared to rein in her shock. I averted my gaze and then fixed my eyes on my lap.

Once the door was closed Dare started, “What can I do for you?”

“We wanted to ask if you have any requests for Felicia this evening that we might help with.”