Page 9 of Menotte avec toi

“Our private residences. Would you like to see?”

“Yes, please.”

Chapter Four

Sonnet

The things I’d seen this evening went beyond anything I’d ever pictured or dreamed. While my imagination was wild and vivid, it didn’t hold a candle to the reality I’d glimpsed in those rooms. What was odd, at least for me, was the way my fingers no longer ached to take up one of my drawing pencils so I could pour all my focus into capturing the things I’d seen.

Maybe it was because I didn’t fear forgetting them; how could I when several had left me damp and aching to experience them for myself? I’d never been as turned on as during that tour, though I knew a good deal of those feelings had to do with Harper being my guide through the different spaces.

When had I ever been attracted to someone so much that they were able to steal my focus from my artwork in such a short time together? The answer was simple.

Never.

If my actions matched my thoughts, I’d have been considered wanton or even brazen with some of the urges that had taken root in my head. But I’d never been tempted enough to act on any of my many, many erotic fantasies, but I dreamed of wicked things all the time and had never felt the slightest shred of shame over it either.

Then again, I’d never found someone who enthralled me so much that I wanted to act out some of the naughtier ones with them.

And yet Mistress Harper had just introduced me to a space where it was safe to do so.

And goddess help me, I wanted to know more.

“Here it is,” Mistress Harper said as she opened the door and ushered me inside a space that was filled with warm, deep wood and high windows. Every bit of it gleamed where the soft light hit it, creating the sort of ambiance I loved.

“Wow,” I murmured, turning slowly to take in the personal space she’d created. “The lightning alone is magnificent.”

A fainting couch with rich, mahogany tones jutted out from an alcove; only when I looked closer did I notice that there were soft-looking straps wound around each leg.

“What are those for?” I asked, pointing to them even as I stopped closer to get a better look.

Kneeling, I noticed that there was a gleaming wooden box beneath it, intricate carvings running along the sides. Polished to a shimmery sheen and positively beautiful, it was definitely a work of art in and of itself. No pressboard or cheap fabrication, that was for certain. Someone had taken the time to lovingly create it. A gift, perhaps?

“Those are restraints,” she explained. “Each one is long enough to not only wrap around a sub’s ankles and wrists to secure them to the couch but to allow me the freedom to arrangethem into enticing positions, especially the extremely flexible ones.”

“I’m flexible,” I blurted and immediately felt my cheeks heat up. “I-I mean, I do yoga each morning; it helps me clear whatever thoughts I woke up with so I can focus on my muse without stray bits interfering. I was never very athletic. Okay, so that’s an understatement; I was never athletic at all. I was the klutzy art geek who could trip on air, especially if there was a ball involved. I’d have been picked last for every team if it hadn’t been for Patrick McGee being in the same class since we were ten. He was a bigger klutz than I was, which was saying something. He sent more people to the nurse than the stomach flu.”

Downstairs, she smiled at me several times. Now she threw her head back and let out a throaty laugh.

“Oh, oh, that’s bad,” she muttered, shaking her head, that grin feeling very permanent now as she studied me.

“Right? I felt so bad for him. For both of us, really. I get the importance of making sure children are getting exercise, but there has to be a better way than gym class. There were times when it felt like the gym teacher’s sole purpose in life was to torment the slower, weaker students and the ones who didn’t catch on to whatever game or sport we were supposed to be focusing on.”

“Did you not enjoy playing?” she asked as she knelt and slowly unwound one of the straps from the leg of the fainting couch to show me how long and soft it was.

Like crushed velvet beneath my fingertips, it felt as wonderfully luxurious as the sofa itself.

No way it came off an assembly line.

“Sometimes,” I replied, having to remind myself to answer the question and not get lost in the gesture beneath my fingertips.

I loved soft things, all soft things, whether they were firm or squishy. Like with yoga, stroking over something and using it as a touchstone was a means of grounding myself and lulling me into the right headspace for my art, only here, looking at this sofa, it wasn’t a drawing I was thinking about.

It was her.

“Would you like to experience it for yourself?” she asked, while I continued to run my fingers over that strip of cloth.

“I’m so curious it’s hard not to squeal with excitement at you giving me the chance,” I admitted. “Will you show me what to do?”

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