Unraveled by Him (6 page)

I glare at him, take another gulp of champagne, and go on.

According to the Master’s orders, I drop to my knees, then onto all fours, and crawl toward the window.

As I do, there is a clash of cymbals and the Saint-Saëns Organ Symphony resounds.

“Ah, so you like classical music, Miss Stone,” Robert Hartwell says.

“This isn’t about me, Mr. Hartwell,” I say.

He raises an eyebrow in disbelief.

By the window, the Master—the man I’ve never met before—has laid down a hot-pink rug, a rug so cheap, so rough, so tawdry that it screams out its contrast to the elegance of the suite.

Following his orders to the last letter, I crawl onto the rug, and its bristles scrape my knees.

I have no illusions about how they will feel on my . . . nipples.

On the word
nipples
, I blush scarlet but don’t look at Robert Hartwell. There is worse, far worse still to come. I think I’m going to die of shame.

But before I am compelled to experience what the Master intends, I pick up the crimson velvet blindfold from next to the rug and put it over my eyes.

The blindfold is attached to a long piece of elastic, and, as instructed, I reach back and tie it into a tight knot, secure the blindfold, and imprison myself in darkness.

Then I assume the position.

On all fours, my legs spread, bottom in the air; my breasts dangle down, and the harshness of the rug abrades my nipples, just as we both knew it would.

From that moment on, I stay perfectly still, waiting.

Outside, the snow is falling again, harder and faster than before, and even over the strains of the Saint-Saëns, I hear it whip against the windows.

The music changes.

Bryan Ferry, “Slave to Love.”

Then Grace Jones, “Slave to the Rhythm.”

Elvis, “Don’t Be Cruel.”

Carly Simon, “Haven’t Got Time for the Pain.”

And through it all, I remain perfectly still, waiting.

Somewhere, across the room, another me, another Miranda observes the scene . . .

“ ‘
Miranda?
’ ” Robert Hartwell says, his voice urgent and demanding. “So
Unraveled
isn’t a novel? I was right! This
is
about you!”

“Dream on, Mr. Hartwell! You know very well that my name isn’t going to be on the final book,” I say, adding, “Now let me get this over with . . .”

Somewhere, across the room, another me, another Miranda observes the scene and makes notes of the following:

The gross indignity of my position.

The rounded curve of my bottom.

The pendulousness of my breasts, pressed into the rug.

The spread of my legs and the moisture seeping out from between my thighs.

The shame, the submission, the disgrace.

But as time passes, and I slowly sink into an altered state, that Miranda melts away, and is no more.

If only. This Miranda, on the other hand, is acutely aware of Robert Hartwell’s every movement, each flicker of an eyelash, every shift of weight as he leans closer to me. And I’m even more aware of the heat from my flaming cheeks—and the insistent throbbing at my very center.

I have no idea how long I have been in this ignominious position, or whether it is dark outside now or not.

I have lost all track of time.

The music is still playing.

And the candles are still burning.

But their scent has now been replaced with something more pungent.

“You are not to wear perfume,” the Master texted me, earlier that day. “I want you to wallow in the smell of your own deepest, most secret self.”

Thus my senses are suffocated by the aroma of my own arousal.

Suddenly, I hear a door slam.

I flinch.

Even the air around me seems to tremble with excitement.

I hold my breath.

The Master’s footsteps echo around the suite.

Doors open, doors close.

The anticipation is unbearable. And yet . . .

Then the Master—the man in whose presence I have never been until now—is by my side.

I know, because I inhale Eau Sauvage.

He fastens a collar around my neck, bracelets around my wrists and ankles, and then attaches a leash to the collar.

But instead of leading me somewhere else in the suite, his fingers pinch both my nipples simultaneously.

I let out a moan of anguish, and he slaps my face.

I cower momentarily in fear.

Nonetheless, the slap was not hard. Not hard enough to dislodge the blindfold, but hard enough for me to gasp, not in pain but in humiliation, and for him to make his point.

I am here of my own volition, in his power, at his disposal to do with whatever he wishes, with the exception of my hard limits, which we have established in advance.