Page 9 of Carnal Desire
Mentally, I still battle the demons I face every day when I look in the mirror. The demons that whisper to me even if I do move forward in my life, Christian Baptiste won. They whisper it’s my fault I look like this now because I was stupid enough to give him my trust. He will always be with me just like he wanted, and all I have to do is look in the mirror to be reminded that I’m no longer my own person but his possession.
I take in a deep breath and release it, hoping to push out the panic clawing up my throat. All because my new Dom wants another picture. The one I sent this morning was from the back. You can’t see any of the scars from behind, but my entire stomach and chest are covered in gashes from Christian’s knife. The laceration across my neck, the surgeon did a good job making it less obvious, but I wear scarves to make sure no one is able to question me about what happened or looks at me with pity. Both, I can’t stand.
I know once he sees them, I’ll have to tell the story about how I was tortured for hours then left for dead. A story I hate to relive.
“I should have set talking about my scars as a hard limit.” I sigh. “But it’s too late now. Suck it up, Cadence and just do it.”
I hold my phone up, snap the picture, then hit send. I toss my phone on my bed then slide beneath my covers, grab my laptop, and wait.
I hate waiting.
Two of his rules are that I’m to sleep in a set of underwear in the color of his choosing and that I’m to wait until he responds to my final task of the day because he wants to know how my day went before I turn in for the night.
I don’t have any issue with that. He’s establishing a routine. That’s something we both need especially trying to make this work online. He needs to know how my day went and whether I’m taking care of myself, and I also need him to care about what’s happening in my life. I give so much of myself to others throughout the day, this is to make sure that I’m doing what I need to do so I don’t get burned out. So, I understand. It’s a fair exchange. What I’m not going to like is explaining all of this to him even though as my Dom, he needs to know about the panic attacks I experience.
A notification pops up on my phone and I already know it’s from him. My heart is racing, and I don’t want to answer his message. But I know it’s something I have to do. I have to tell him what happened.
I open the website on my laptop instead of my phone, knowing this is going to be a long conversation. I click on the notification and my heart races even faster.
Billionaire Playboy:We need to talk. I expect you to answer all of my questions.
Lost Angel:Yes, Sir.
I respond immediately and my eyes widened when the video call pops up on my screen.
“Oh hell! He wants to video chat. I wasn’t expecting to see him this soon.”
Can I do this? I can refuse. But do I need to?
“You can do this Cadence.” I take a deep breath and release it as a million and one thoughts swirl in my mind. “You have to give a piece of yourself to get what you want from this.”
I assume the position he wants me in– on my knees, with my butt resting on my feet. I hit the accept button before I talk myself out of it. Immediately a screen pops up on my computer, and I drop my head, obeying his rule not to look him in the eyes until he gives me permission then place my hands on my thighs, palms facing down.
A growl almost has me looking up, but I don’t avert my eyes from my hands. I don’t want to disappoint him with our first official meeting by not obeying. And I don’t want to see the look of disgust in his eyes.
“Look at me.”
His words are harsh and low. I lift my eyes and gaze into the dark brown eyes of the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Strong angular jaw, highlighted by the scruff along his jaw like he hasn’t shaven in a few days. His dirty blonde hair on the top of his head flops over his forehead almost covering his eyes but is cut short on the sides almost to the scalp. And the most fascinating of all…well the most fascinating to me…are the black gauges in his ears and the tattoos peeking out from under his button-down shirt that’s undone at the collar.
It isn’t often you see a professional businessman with gauges and tattoos which tells me a lot about the Billionaire Playboy. More than he wants most people to see. He may be a man of the corporate world, and a man of money, but he definitely wasn’t born into it.
I like it.
“Are your scars the reason you have trust issues?” he asks, and my eyes stop perusing him and jump to his intense stare.
His voice is cold and exact. I’m not sure if he’s angry about the scars, or me scanning his body even though he commanded me to look at him. Although he seems angry, at least he’s getting straight to the point no matter how rude his tone. I hate it because I know where the conversation is leading, but I’m also relieved at the same time. It’s hard to make small talk when talking about trauma, especially to someone you don’t know. I’m a therapist. I should know.
“May I speak freely, Sir?”
His mouth ticks up at the corner in a small smile, as he runs his fingers through his hair moving it out of his eyes. I take it he likes that I called him sir.
“You may,” he says without hesitation.
He leans back in his black leather executive chair, steepling his hands.
I take in a deep breath and release it. “Yes, my scars are the reason I have trust issues and they are something I deal with every day. It’s been a hard road.”
“And I assume a Dom did this to you during playtime?”
