My body trembles under the gaze of the Master. I'm naked, unsettled, and cold. But that's not the most disturbing thing about him. It's not the control, either. It's not the do-not-fuck-with-me-young-lady attitude, or the ski mask, or even the smack of the riding crop.
All that makes sense, actually. Rules are rules. I get it.
What doesn't make sense is… his dick.
Because he's hard, and I'm being forced to look down, and there's just no way to miss it.
It's huge. I mean, under his black leather pants huge. Which means it's quite the specimen when?—
"Is your mind wandering, Miss Take?"
Where did he even get that name? I mean, obviously, Giovanni told him. But what kind of conversation did they have? "Oh, by the way, mysterious BDSM instructor, call her 'Miss Take' because she's the biggest mistake of my life next to that lime green Versace tie I bought last spring." Actually, I've never seen Giovanni in lime green. Black, charcoal, navy... the man dresses like he's perpetually attending a fashionable funeral.
"You have permission to speak."
I nearly laugh. Because this rule is the best. I can have an entire internal monologue without interruption while?—
"Demerit. I asked you a question and gave you permission. That's eighteen demerits. Congratulations, you've surpassed my last best-worst submissive by four demerits in the first hour. And you're just getting started, aren't you?"
Eighteen demerits. Fantastic. At this rate I'll set a world record. Is there a Guinness category for "Most Demerits Earned While Naked Under a Ski-Masked Stranger's Gaze"? I should ask for a certificate when this is all over. Frame it. Hang it next to my English Lit dropout notice.
"Yes, Sir." Oops. "I mean, no, Sir."
"Is your mind wandering?"
"Yes, Sir." I figure I might as well be honest. He is, at least. That's something I never got from Giovanni. With him, it was all games, all the time. The Master is at least fair.
"Tell me why."
"Why?" I chuckle a little. "I have never met you before in my life. You could be a killer for all I know." Like Giovanni, I don't add. "And I've just stripped myself naked on your command."
This is definitely the weirdest job interview I've ever had. "Previous experience in submission? Well, I once let a guy choose my meal at Olive Garden. It was awful—he ordered the chicken alfredo when everyone knows their Tour of Italy is the only acceptable choice."
He circles me, snapping the leather end of the crop on his hand. "I could be a killer. How do you know I'm not? And don't answer flippantly, answer honestly."
It's a good question. Probably planned. Because the answer is obvious and fits the curriculum. "I know you're not a killer—or at the very least, not going to kill me—because Giovanni left me in your care."
Giovanni Bavga: The only man who would outsource his murder AND his sex life. Efficiency at its finest. I bet he has a color-coded Google Calendar. 10 a.m.—Coffee. 11 a.m.—Intimidate local shopkeeper. 2 p.m.—Drop off annoying girlfriend at BDSM Academy.
I can feel Master’s satisfaction. Even before he leans in and strokes my nipple with the end of the crop.
I jump. Holy shit. My mouth opens in surprise, my mind unsure how to respond.
“Did you like that?” the Master asks.
I blow out a breath and shrug.
“Words, Miss Take.”
“I… it… just surprised me, that’s all.”
“Because I touched you? Or because you responded?”
“Both.”
"Veeeery good. Those were perfect answers. Now. Tell me, do you think you’re correct? Do you really believe that this dungeon, and our presence in it, is an extension of Giovanni’s care and protection? Or is this you playing safe? You will look at me when you answer."
I look up, meet his eyes—they are an ice-blue color. "Honest. I might not know Giovanni?—"