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Maybe it was a test or a game. Or maybe she just didn't think of it.
But Chloe didn't tell me what to expect when Claude was on his way home from work. Whatever he did, it was in the Las Vegas valley and it was a long commute and long hours.
Somehow if I'd ever considered the idea of being a billionaire – which honestly, being from a working class family with a cop for a father, I'd considered being a billionaire about the same as I'd considered being the first woman to set up housekeeping on Mars – I'd have figured once the bank account was in the billions - You retired.
Apparently whatever it was Claude did, he enjoyed it.
When his car sounded on the crushed gravel of the driveway, Chloe stood and calmly removed every stitch of her clothing. That surprised me into staring. I'd seen her naked before. Hell, she'd seen her husband fuck me before. But the calm removal of clothes in the kitchen was weird.
"You're running out of time," she said calmly, looking at her panties which topped the pile she'd neatly stacked on the counter.
I almost asked For what? because this seemed so bizarre, but the answer was obvious and I managed not to ask. My disrobing wasn't anywhere near as elegant as hers. Also, hers undoubtedly didn't have a mental soundtrack of Why am I doing this?
Because she had.
Because it was what was done here.
I never thought of myself as a follower but being undercover, I'd learned quickly that imitation wasn't just the purest form of flattery but a good way to stay alive.
Also I'd been sent here, a sub given away by a Master. I may not believe all of that, but I was damn sure going to be treated as if I did.
Chloe hadn't grown any more anxious, so apparently I was in time. When my clothes were folded and stacked much as hers were, I followed her to the foyer where she knelt as if marble floors were comfortable.
The position she took wasn't stressful. Her feet were flat and she sat back easily on them. I'd never quite mastered that. I'm not as flexible as I could be. Her legs were parted a little, but nothing obscene, and her hands were demurely folded in her lap. Her head was tucked down. I'd seen that during the interminable dinner parties at St. Martin's.
I didn't know what to expect. Would we take his hat and coat? Never mind that it was warm out and he wouldn't have a hat, there was something weirdly Edwardian about this, except that of course those women would have had on more clothes than I could imagine wearing.
There was something so rushed – You're running out of time – and strangely clinical? Or logical, or just routine about changing into nothing to greet the Master of the house that it had taken me until then to realize, sort of, that I was naked in front of Claude.
Yes, he'd fucked me.
Yes, I'd been physically damaged that night and confused and in a dream-like state of dissociation that I've fought my entire life. When things get too intense, I disappear.
I'd expected, once I heard about subspace, that it would be the same. Maybe it was and I just hadn't gotten there yet. But when St. Martin hurt me, it hurt. There was no disappearing into myself or out of myself and nothing even remotely like the way I'd heard it described – as flying.
"This is a beautiful welcome," Claude said, and dropped his briefcase by the door. His keys clattered into a silver tray standing on the sofa table beside an entrance hall wall. He toed off expensive shoes without unlacing them, kicked them carelessly under that table, then came over to where we knelt. "It looks good," he said, and I could feel his eyes were on me. I shivered under his gaze, wanting frantically to rise and run and find clothes and the way back to wherever home was now. If it wasn't St. Martin, and I knew for certain it wasn't Mark, then maybe I needed to find something new.
Plus, I was ready to get up from the floor. My knees hurt on the marble, and I was tired of kneeling. I hoped the entire night wasn't going to be spent naked as eventually body parts sweat and get sticky and I was feeling anything but alluring this way. I also didn't feel subby. I felt like telling them Okay, silly time's over, what's for dinner and please don't let it be fish.
Instead of any of that happening Claude said, "Chloe, show our guest Position A, and keep with it for the next twenty minutes." He walked past us, his feet quiet on the floor, and I could hear him in the kitchen, getting himself a drink.
Moving gracefully, Chloe raised her arms and twined her fingers behind her head. Her elbows stuck out to the sides, drawn back, straining to hold them as far back as she could. Her chin was up but her gaze down. Her breasts were thrust forward, her back arched, and she was sitting up on her heels now, her toes under her.
A basic stress position that St. Martin had put me in more than once.
I'd never held it for anything close to twenty minutes.
At seven minutes I was shaking and panting as if I couldn't catch my breath.
"Breathe through your nose, exhale slowly through your mouth," Chloe said softly. Her faraway gaze never wavered. "Do it like yoga."
"I hate yoga," I said. My voice was soft, but my teeth were gritted.
"This is not a conversation," she said. "Merely I am to instruct you."
The easy familiarity of the morning when we'd laid out in the sun and she'd told me about St. Martin's sister, that was gone. In its place was every office manager I ever suffered under before I made PD, every teacher who ever knew how much I didn't care about her class.
I almost snapped Yes, ma'am! but I didn't want to waste the air. And I wasn't certain she'd realize I was kidding.
