Punish Me, Please Me Read online

  She stared at the contract with his signature and asked herself if she really intended to go through with this foolishness. She again surprised herself by realizing that she did. That afternoon, she made a reservation for a room with two double beds at the Flamingo Hotel. If the training were to start on Monday, she reasoned that she should arrive on Sunday night. As well, she made the reservation include the following Friday night so that she would not have to check out until Saturday morning.

  She examined the contract once again. If she didn’t like the way Exeter looked when she met him, then she’d withdraw her consent immediately and spend two weeks having a nice vacation alone in Las Vegas. Maybe she’d meet some other nice guy there.

  She heard no more until she received an email from Exeter on the twentieth of May. He simply asked if she had made hotel reservations. She replied that she had reserved a room in her name for both of them for the first two weeks of June. Within an hour she received a response: “This is my first command. At exactly ten o’clock in the morning of 1 June, walk to the center of the lobby of the Flamingo Hotel wearing a tight black above-the-knee sheath dress and black high-heeled shoes. Have a red silk scarf draped around your neck. Wear no jewelry and carry no purse. Have your key card in your hand. Stand there and wait for me. I promise that you will never regret obeying my commands. We will not communicate again until we meet.”

  Her heart pounded as she read the email again and again. It told her one new fact about Exeter. He knew what a “sheath dress” was. Few men did.

  He was already demonstrating his expertise, as promised.

  * * *

  A week and a half later, at ten o’clock exactly, her pulse beating visibly above the scarlet scarf at her jaw line, Celine rose from the chair where she had been waiting and walked to the center of the Flamingo Hotel lobby in Las Vegas. It was a huge room that branched into different areas. She chose to stand in the biggest area where the reception counter was. She waited while conference-goers, families with children, and assorted tourists milled around her. Ten minutes later, when she was still standing there, still waiting her heart was no longer pounding from excitement but from annoyance.

  She’d been stood up.

  She’d always known that it was a possibility. She had no guarantee that the mysterious Master Exeter would really come all the way here from Phoenix to educate her in the ways of slavery. But it was a slap in the face that he hadn’t wanted to spend at least a little time using and abusing her. She deserved at least that much.

  She still had her Plan B. She would have a nice vacation on her own, maybe meet some decent guy, and maybe even bed him if he appealed to her and asked nicely enough.

  She walked back through the slot machines toward the elevators. She was only halfway there when a voice whispered directly into her ear, “Stop. Do not turn around. Just listen. You did not do what I told you to do.”

  “Yes, I did,” she replied, resisting the temptation to turn around and look at the man who was standing so close that she could feel his breath on the side of her neck.

  “What did I tell you to do?”

  “You told me to wear a black sheath dress and shoes and a red scarf and stand in the middle of the lobby at ten o’clock. I did that.”

  “What are you wearing?”

  “A black sheath dress and shoes and scarf.” She was getting annoyed.

  “What else?”

  “What do you mean, ‘what else?’”

  “I mean, what else are you wearing?”

  “Nothing.” She looked down at herself. “Except for my underwear.”

  “Did my instructions tell you to wear underwear?”

  “That was implied.”

  “No, it was not. My instructions were explicit and complete. I will give you exactly one more chance to do it right. At exactly ten thirty, you are to walk to the middle of the lobby wearing a black sheath dress, shoes, and a red scarf. You are to have your room key in your hand. Wear nothing else; hold nothing else. Stand and wait for me.”

  “I don’t know if I want to do that,” she said.

  There was no answer. After a moment, she turned around, but only saw a horde of tourists. She had no idea which man had been talking to her.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, she told herself. She went to her room, slipped off her bra, pantyhose and panties, left them on the bed, and returned to the lobby. This time she didn’t even wear her watch. There was nothing on her body but the black dress and shoes and red scarf. She felt floppy as she walked; stray breezes blew up the skirt.

  As she stood in the lobby, waiting, she was conscious of men looking at her. Could they see her nipples pressing against the light fabric? The dress was tight across her ass. Did they notice that she had no pantyline. Did the men think that she was wearing a thong? The dress covered her modesty but she felt like she was naked in a crowd.

  She did not know how much time passed before a man walked toward her, looking directly into her eyes. Was this the owner of the whispery voice? He did not meet her expectations. For some reason, she expected a British man in his forties who looked older and distinguished. A barrister, perhaps. This kid was maybe twenty-one or twenty-two, with long, straggly blond hair, blue jeans torn at the knees, and a black teeshirt. He was dumpy and shorter than her.

  If this was Master William Exeter, then it was already “red light” time.

  “Give me your room key,” the young man said.

  It sounded like the same voice that she had heard a half an hour earlier telling her to leave her underwear in her room. “Who are you?” She did not try to hide the disdain in her voice.

  The man rocked back on his heels as though he had been slapped. “You are Celine,” he said without inflection. A simple statement of fact.

  “Yes. And you better not be William Exeter,” she replied, clutching her key tightly in her hand.

  The man looked at her for a long moment, then said, quietly, “You are not ready for Master Exeter. I am Paul, his valet. It is my job to prepare you. Give me your key card, now, or I will report your reluctance to the Master.”

  Celine decided that the key card was no big deal. She could get another one from the front desk any time she wanted; and have them change the door code so that this card would no longer work. She handed it to Paul.

  “Take me to your room,” he said.

  She turned and led him back through the game floor to elevators that were elegantly decorated with bas relief art deco flamingos.

  When they were alone in the elevator, Celine looked down at Paul and cringed. “Have you been working for him for long?”

  “For longer than you imagine. I am intimately familiar with his requirements.” Paul spoke slowly and carefully, as though considering each word before giving voice to it. A conversation with him would be a long, drawn-out business.

  They said no more until she led him to her room and he used her key card to grant them entry. Once he closed the door, he said, “It will require considerable work to prepare you. I’ve never met a woman so ill-equipped for servitude.”

  It was Celine's turn to rock back on her heels. “What do you mean by that? You mean that I’m not submissive enough?”

  “You will learn to be submissive quickly enough. That is the easy part. I mean that you are not pretty enough. You have no sense of style. Your voice grates on the ear. I am not surprised that men dump you as soon as they have taken what they want from you.”

  “I think you better get out of here.”

  “I think that you had better beg me to stay and prepare you for Master Exeter because, without his training, you are going to spend the rest of your life being used and dumped by one loser after another. He can fix your problems if you let him.” His voice turned hard. “You get only one decision for the next two weeks. Do you want me to stay and show you how to get what you want out of life or do you want me to leave so that you can stay on the same course that you’ve been following up to this point?” He fell s
ilent and stared at her.

  She stared back.

  “So what is it?” he asked. “Do I stay or go? Because, if I go, I am not coming back.” He fell silent again.

  She continued to stare back at the homely young man, weighting her decision. If she stayed, she would stay to the end.

  After a minute, he said, “Silence is not an answer. I am out of here.”

  He turned toward the door.

  “Wait.” She had driven all the way out here from Los Angeles to be a sexual slave. She should at least give it an honest try.

  He turned back. “That is not an answer to my question. Tell me that you want me to stay and help you.”

  “I want you to stay and help me.”

  “Tell me that you will obey me as you would obey Master Exeter.”

  “I’ll obey you.”

  “This place is a mess. Make the bed and hang up your clothes, then sit on this chair and wait for me to return.” He pulled the chair away from the desk and left if in the middle of the room facing the window.

  She picked her underwear off her bed. “The maid will be around to make the bed soon.”

  “You are a slave now. The maid outranks you. In this room, you will do her work for her. Make the bed and clean the room like you were told.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “You will ask no more questions because I will provide no more answers. For the next two weeks, you have to accept everything happens to you without asking why.” He walked out of the room, leaving her alone.

  She made the bed, hung up her clothes, and then sat on the chair and waited. Some time later, she heard the door open but could not see who entered – she was facing the window. She hoped that it was Master Exeter. Instead, Paul walked into her field of view, carrying a small bag. He took a spiral-bound exercise book and a pen from the bag and set them on the desk.

  Then he said, “That bed is a mess. Who taught you how to make a bed?”

  “My mother.”

  “Either you did not learn what she had to teach or she did not know how to make a bed. I suspect the latter. Few mothers know the first thing about housework or cooking. It does not come instinctively and most of them are either too proud to admit that they do not know what they are doing or too lazy to make the effort to learn.” He pulled the sheet and blankets off and dumped them on the floor. Then he tossed the pillows aside. “First, make sure that the fitted sheet is properly set. No wrinkles at the corners.”

  She looked at it.

  “Well,” he snapped. “Get up and take care of it.

  She complied.

  “Now the top sheet tucks into the bottom of the bed under the mattress. No. Not like that. You’ve got it upside down. No. Not that way. Look at the sheet. There’s a right side and a wrong side. You can tell which is the right side by looking at the seam on the upper hem. The top sheet goes wrong side up. Do not question me. Do as I say without hesitation. That is right. Pull the sheet up so that the top edge is three inches from the top edge of the mattress. Now the bottom corners have to be folded properly. Lay the edge of the sheet along the bed. See how you get a triangle forming at the bottom? Fold that triangle down. Use your hand to keep it in place. Tuck the sheet in along the full length of the bed. Top and bottom together. That’s right. Make sure that the sheet is flat as a board and tight as a drum when you tuck it in, not a wrinkle anywhere. Do not tuck in the top foot yet. Now do the same to the other side. Now the blanket goes on. It goes the other way from the sheet, right side up. No, it does not go all the way to the top of the bed. Pull it down so that it ends two inches below the lower edge of the hem of the sheet. That’s right. Tuck in the bottom edge to hold it in place. Make sure that it’s smooth and flat. Right. Now you fold the top edge of the sheet down over the top edge of the blanket. See why you put the top sheet wrong side up? So that when it’s folded over, the hem is right side up. Now tuck in the blanket just like you did with the sheet. Same hospital corners at the bottom. Now you tuck the sheet and blanket in together at the top end. Pillows in place. Fluff them up; you don’t leave last night’s head dents in the middle of your pillows. Tuck the ends of the pillowcases under neatly. And finally, the quilt goes on, not tucked in, draped nicely all around. Right. Now you’re going to make your bed just like that before you leave your bedroom every morning for the rest of your life. Why are you going to do that?”

  Celine looked at Paul with annoyance. “Because you told me to?” She had no intention of making her bed when she got back to her own house.

  He smiled. “Good answer, but not correct. Your bed will always be made beautiful because you never know when your man will want to take you back to it and make love to you. Every morning when you make your bed, you will know that you are preparing it for lovemaking. When your man slips into your bed, you will never have to feel shame that you gave him anything less than perfection and you will be eager to join him between the sheets. And if your man tears the covers from it and tosses them aside, you will delight in having given him a perfectly made bed to throw into disarray. From this day forward, sleeping will be the secondary purpose of your bed. Its primary use will be sex. Every time you look at any bed, you will imagine someone making love to someone in that bed. Every time you look at your own bed, you will imagine yourself making love in that bed. Look at it now and tell me what you imagine.”

  “I imagine making love in that bed,” she said, and she did.

  “Tell me exactly what you see.”

  “I imagine myself lying on my back with my legs spread wide, a handsome man lying between my thighs, his sex buried deep inside me, slowly pushing against me, moaning with pleasure.”

  “Imagine me inside you.”

  She said nothing.

  “Hey, it is just imaginary.” He sounded hurt.

  “Okay. I imagine you on top of me.”

  “Imagine that you are feeling ecstatic.”

  “That would take a lot of imagination.”

  “I will remember that you said that.” He looked at her for a long time. She began to feel uncomfortable. “Are you imagining feeling ecstasy when you are making love to me?”

  “Yes,” she lied.

  “Why do I demand that you imagine that?”

  “To make yourself feel good?”

  “Wrong answer. Totally wrong answer. This is important. Try again.”

  She thought more carefully. “Because a sexual slave must be able to enjoy any man who makes love to her.”

  “Much better. You’ve had three lessons, so far. What was the first one?”

  “That I have to do what you say?”

  Paul reached out, pushed up under her chin with his left hand to raise her face to his, and then slapped her lightly but briskly with his right hand.

  She froze in shock. Her face stung but the real pain was the indignity of being slapped.

  “You will pay much closer attention. You were told explicitly in your email two months ago that the first lesson was that simply agreeing to be a slave gave you power. You were told that you had complete power to choose when and where you would undertake this training. Remember now?”

  “Yes,” she replied. He was right. She had been told that that was her first lesson.

  “That was not a gift from Master Exeter to you. That was an inalienable consequence of your agreement to serve as a slave. You must recognize the power that you have because your power is considerable but it will only be useful to you if you recognize that you have it. You must understand that you have more power in this situation than either Master Exeter or me. That is why you are obeying my orders. That is why you will allow yourself to be slapped across the face. You have the power but it is dormant unless you understand how to exercise it. For the next two weeks, you will learn how to build your power and how to wield it.”

  “Then you’ll be the slave and I’ll be the master.”

  He slapped her again, no harder, but her face stung more because it was tender from the f
irst slap. “Never, ever think like that. You have the power because you are a voluntary slave. As soon as you think of yourself as a master, you lose the power of the slave.”

  “Stop slapping me.”

  He slapped her a third time, noticeably harder. “Stop being stupid. I will leave any time you give me the red light. And I will not come back. But that is your only choice. That is the first lesson. All your power exists in that single choice: to be a sexual object or not. You have no power anywhere else.”

  She wisely chose to say nothing further. Her face was stinging.

  “Your second lesson was in the lobby. You stood in the center of the crowd twice for ten minutes each time. Did you find yourself treated the same both times?”

  “No. Men were looking at me more lasciviously when I was not wearing any underwear. It was embarrassing.”

  “That is right. Why?”

  “Because they could tell that I was naked under my dress.”

  “Wrong. I examined you closely. You looked the same both times. You’re not as well-endowed as you like to think. For all anyone could see, you might have been wearing a sexless sports bra and granny panties under that dress. The only person in that room who knew that you were naked under your dress was you. And, more important, you knew that the only reason that you were naked under your dress was because you were blindly obeying an order from a strange man. The only reason that men looked at you differently was because your attitude was different. You stood differently, you held your head differently, you returned men’s eye contact differently. They automatically responded to that. Their response was involuntary and they could not have suppressed it if they had wanted to. That is Lesson Two. Attitude is everything and the attitude of the slave is compelling to men. Irresistible.”