Текст книги "Her Web Master"
Автор книги: Normandie Alleman
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HER WEB MASTER
Normandie Alleman
Copyright © 2015 Normandie Alleman
All rights reserved
www.normandiealleman.com
Cover Art by L J Anderson Mayhem Cover Creations
Edited by Grace Bradley and EV Proofreading
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents depicted here are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, business establishments, organizations, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, please return to www.normandiealleman.com to find locations to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
ALSO BY NORMANDIE ALLEMAN
ABOUT NORMANDIE ALLEMAN
PROLOGUE
I stared at the ice cubes in my glass, all that was left of my first drink. I was only allowed two, so I relished the sensation as bourbon sank deliciously into my bloodstream, numbing me ever so slightly. I tried to wait patiently for the next cocktail to arrive, but patience had never been my strong suit. As an only child, spoiled rotten by parents who’d all but given up on having children when I came along, I wasn’t accustomed to waiting. But today of all days, I needed that next drink to calm my frayed nerves.
The restaurant at the Omni Hotel wasn’t crowded, about what one expected late on a Thursday afternoon. The elegant décor looked to be the result of a recent remodel, and I wondered who had done it. My mother would want to know the name of the designer. She served as the director of Fort Worth’s Junior Cotillion, as well as on a number of museum boards, and she’d taught me to stay abreast of all things related to the arts, but right now the hotel’s new look only helped distract me from an imminent meeting with the most important man in my life.
I was excited yet anxious, because this would be my first meeting with my lover.
Our first meeting face-to-face.
He’d left strict instructions for me to sit at the table he reserved for us. He requested I sit with my back to the entrance. This tricky move on his part allowed no way for me to see him as he entered. If his intention was to control and torture me, it was working. A loose strand of hair tickled my cheek, so I tucked it behind my ear. My hair wasn’t choosing this inopportune moment to misbehave. It always misbehaved.
I watched for the waiter, again wanting that drink, but as much as I hated being outside my comfort zone, I loved the naughty, decadent feeling I got from doing something simply because my Master told me to. When I submitted to his demands, I stepped outside my safe little world, the one where my ex-husband ignored me for years, where all my friends had children, where I felt inconsequential. With him I wasn’t invisible. He relied on me.
Sure it was for things of a sexual nature, but to me, that was something, and I felt fulfilled for the first time in ages.
A few months ago, when I’d been supremely pissed at my cheating husband, I went online. I admit it, I’d been looking for trouble, which was mind-numbingly easy to find. I hadn’t intended to find a darker side of myself with needs that could never have been met by my philandering husband. I’d never meant to find someone. I’d merely been looking, searching—for what, I wasn’t sure.
What I did find was a whole new world of dominance and submission, self-inflicted pain as well as pleasure, and sexual satisfaction with a stranger. A man who reached out and touched me in corners of my soul I hadn’t known existed. We spoke every day, I performed sex acts upon myself at his command, and sent him reports on the intimate and sometimes humiliating tasks he gave me.
I was his submissive, and he was my Master, and every aspect of our relationship took place over the internet. I addressed him as “Sir,” but in our chats he went by the moniker, “MC.” We communicated via Skype, email, chats, and the occasional phone call, never seeing one another. That is, until today.
I had insisted we not use cameras, even though he implored me to do webcam “sessions.” My privacy was of the utmost importance to me, so I always refused. I’m a kindergarten teacher at one of Fort Worth’s finest preparatory schools, and I couldn’t take the risk of being videotaped during our play sessions. So the only notion I have of what my Master looks like is a product of my imagination.
But today he flew to Houston to meet me in person. To have a real “play date.” In the flesh. A chill ran across my skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.
The waiter set my second bourbon in front of me. Always cognizant of my manners, I thanked him with a smile. I had been born into one of the wealthiest families in Texas and I’d been given every advantage. I attended the right boarding schools, wore the right clothes, and behaved as any proper debutante should. And what had that gotten me?
An unfulfilling marriage to an unfaithful jackass and a lifetime of trying to meet other people’s expectations rather than my own. I sipped my drink then smiled. But not today. Today I was doing what I wanted for a change.
I would finally meet the man who dominated me for the past few months. My stomach roiled with anticipation. What would he look like? Would it matter? Of course whatever he looked like, he wouldn’t be the “Master” I’d daydreamed about.
Things never worked that way. It would be like conjuring an image for the hero in a book. When a movie is made, the actor never matches the character in your head. It was always a disappointment.
I’d tried to prepare myself for that from the beginning. I never pictured MC to be a handsome movie star. Instead, I envisioned him as rather average, with salt-and-pepper hair and kind features. For some reason I pictured him wearing glasses, and possibly a beard.
In any case, it wasn’t his physical appearance that was captivating. MC awakened a primal response in me. He exposed my mind to a world in which I could be open about my sexual desires. A world where the wanton girl inside me was encouraged to come out and play, rather than squelched and pushed into a back closet where she had always lived. He controlled my sexuality, sensing my deepest, darkest needs. And it didn’t hurt that he made me feel cared for and cherished at a time when I desperately needed that. I wanted to please him.
Draining my second drink, I considered a third. I sighed deeply at the thought of the swats that MC would rain down on me for breaking his two-drink maximum. It made me wriggle in my chair, and the excitement between my legs spread down into my toes. My phone showed it was 5:12, and my tummy tightened. Any minute now… He told me he would be here at 5:15. The wait had been both excruciating and delicious at the same time—a perfect reflection of our relationship, a testimony to both pain and pleasure.
“Close your eyes, my pet.” The familiar voice came from behind my chair. It was a sound I’d come to crave, and hearing it sent shivers of anticipation dancing down my spine. Suddenly, I wanted to freeze that moment in time, to stop while things were still beautiful between us, before reality could mar the fantasy.
A hand circled my nape. His touch was like an electric current, setting my skin aflame. I leaned back against his fingers, shamelessly aching for more, though I knew I should maintain my composure because we were in a public place. But it was all I could do not to moan out loud.
He wrapped my long hair over his wrist and gripped it firmly. “I see you were looking at your phone. Did you think I’d be late?”
“N-n-n-no.”
“Good. I’m going to sit beside you, to your left, but you will keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?” He pulled my hair tight, and I immediately wondered if anyone in the restaurant noticed.
“Yes, sir.” My heart thumped hard in my chest.
“That’s better.”
He let go of my hair, and I yearned for him to touch me again. I kept my eyes closed, though I knew I must look an odd spectacle.
“Was that your second drink?”
I nodded.
“I expect you to answer me properly.”
I squirmed in my seat. “Yes, sir.”
“Would you like another one?”
“Yes, but you said I could only have two.”
“Do you plan to be a good girl today?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Since you followed my directions so well and this is something of a special occasion, you may have another one. What would you like?”
“I’ll have a bourbon and water, please, sir.”
“That’s a mighty strong drink for a young lady.”
I wasn’t that young, but I appreciated the chivalrous thought. “My grandmother taught me that if you drink bourbon and water it won’t sneak up on you the way sweeter drinks will. That way a lady can always take care of herself.”
“Smart woman, your grandmother.”
I listened as he ordered more drinks, my eyes closed the whole time, feeling ridiculous. Then I gave up and lowered my head, pretending to look at the ground. I’d spent my entire life being worried about what people thought of me. It was exhausting, trying to be perfect all the time.
Part of me was dying to cheat, to open my eyes to see what this dynamic man actually looked like, while the other part was enjoying the game and wished it could go on forever. Because once I saw his face, nothing between us would ever be the same. The fantasy would disappear, replaced by a yet-to-be-known reality, with only a few of the fragments of our mutual projection remaining.
“Give me your hand under the table.”
I obeyed, and the sharp tongs of a dinner fork stroked my fingers, my palm, then they traveled up my wrist, up my forearm to the inside of my elbow.
I exhaled.
“Do you like that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What does that remind you of?”
“Other things you like to do with forks.”
“Where do you want to use those forks?”
“My breasts,” I said, hearing the catch in my breath. Then I heard the clink of glasses indicating that the waiter had arrived with a tray of drinks.
MC leaned in close, and I caught a hint of his warmth, his woodsy scent. He was more intoxicating than the liquor. He snaked an arm around me and growled, “Don’t you dare open your eyes.”
I felt faint with lust and I grasped the sides of my chair to hold myself steady, grateful I was already seated.
“Here are your drinks,” the waiter said cheerily.
“Wonderful! We’re just playing a little game here. Aren’t we, dear?” MC said evenly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good, sir.” I heard the waiter scurry away.
Something cold and wet touched my lips. A glass?
“Take a sip.” His voice soothed me. Hearing it so close made me want to reach out and touch him so badly, but I didn’t dare. Not without permission.
Taking a drink, I savored the velvety texture of the alcohol as it slid down my throat.
“You are being such a good girl tonight, Sophie. I think you just might earn those forks after all.” Under the table he caressed my thigh with his palm. “I see you’re wearing a skirt like I asked. Stick your fingers down there into your pussy, two of them. I want to see how wet you are.”
“Right now? Here?” I felt a blush creep into my cheeks.
“Of course. No one here is looking at you. No one but me knows what a hungry little slut you are. But I want you to show me. Show me how wet you are for me right now. I want to see it on your fingers.”
I bit my lip but nodded my assent.
The fact that I wasn’t supposed to open my eyes made the task all the more terrifying. I had no idea whether people were looking at me or not. Would he tell me the truth about that? The situation forced me to throw caution to the wind and trust him. I prayed that no one was paying any attention. Thank goodness a tablecloth sheltered me.
I slid my right hand under the tablecloth, hiked my skirt up between my legs, and pushed my panties to the side. Plunging my index and middle finger into my wetness, I swirled them around, retrieving the honeyed evidence of my arousal for his inspection.
With my hand still under the table I asked, “Now what?”
“Now I want you to taste your juices.”
I gasped. “You can’t be serious. I can’t do that here.”
“Oh yes, you will do it here.”
I whimpered. My pussy was on fire with desire, and I wanted him more than I had ever wanted anyone or anything in my whole life.
I lifted my moistened fingers to my parted lips and tasted myself.
“Good girl,” he said, and I heard the familiar hoarseness that I knew meant he was aroused. I swallowed hard, waiting for further instructions.
In that gravelly, commanding voice I’d grown to adore, he said, “Now my dear, I want you to open your eyes.”
CHAPTER ONE
Four Months Earlier
I awakened to the smell of a woman’s perfume that wasn’t mine. As Spencer flopped into bed next to me, the scent wafted over me in a cloud. I pretended to be asleep for the ninety seconds it took my husband to start snoring. It galled me how he casually came to bed stinking of another woman and didn’t lose a minute of sleep over it. Instead I was the one who lay awake, tossing and turning, trying to find an answer to the quandary that was my miserable marriage.
A few years ago I would have woken him up, screamed at him, cried, and told him he was a horrible person.
The old me used to do that.
The problem was—it never worked. Spencer kept cheating, and I felt stupid.
Finally, I decided that begging for something that wasn’t going to happen was beneath me, so I built a life around Spencer, not with him.
And I lived with it. Yes, it sucked. And yes, I was ashamed.
For years I pushed Spencer’s infidelity to the far recesses of my brain. I convinced myself sex was simply unimportant to me. My vagina and I… We closed up shop.
Sex simply became the part of my marriage I rated a two on a scale of one to ten. Okay, maybe a one. But Spencer was an eight or a nine in most of the other departments. That was good enough, wasn’t it?
But on this particular night, when he lay down and subjected me to a cloud of another woman’s perfume, it triggered something new in me. Something deep and dark and angry. My husband is fucking someone else, and I’m wicked pissed!
Despite the rage that swelled inside me, Spencer snored on.
I got out of bed and padded on bare feet across the hardwood to the living room. My puppy, Felix, hopped out of his dog bed in the corner of my bedroom and followed me.
The only light in the room came from moonlight sneaking in through the skylights. Sinking down into the plush sofa, I tucked my legs up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, contorting myself into a ball.
Even though I knew what I wanted to do, I sat for a moment, indecisive. I knew I shouldn’t, but where exactly had being well-behaved gotten me? Stuck in a loveless, childless, hopeless marriage. Now work—that was good. But that was because I threw myself into teaching to distract me from my crappy personal life.
Defiantly, I hopped off the couch and made my way to the hallway where my laptop sat in its crocodile-patterned tote bag. I dragged it out and booted it up. Then I went to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea and let Felix out. No need to worry about the teakettle waking Spencer. He would sleep like a log for the rest of the night. He always did, which was so irritating. Why did I have to be the one with insomnia?
Since I was awake, I would go online, look around, see what was out there. Lots of people found companionship online, even love. What would be the harm in just looking at the dating sites out there? Everybody did it. In fact, just the other day I heard that forty percent of people who had online dating profiles were already married.
I heard my mother’s voice in my ear. “Yes, dear, and if everyone jumped off a bridge would you do it too?” I shoved Bunny Davenport’s meddling out of my mind and sipped my cup of Sleepytime Tea. I sat back down with my laptop and surfed a few dating websites.
I was only doing it for fun. Of course I would never act on any of my searches. I was just doing “research,” finding out who was out there. Perhaps it would become a harmless thing I did on weeknights when my husband was “working late” with one of his leggy twenty-year-old paralegals.
A guilty pleasure, so to speak
But they sure wanted a lot of information on these dating sites. Hmm. I didn’t know how to describe myself. Dark-haired schoolteacher with hazel eyes who has a tendency to speak too loudly when she gets overly excited? Nah. Bookworm who likes to celebrate the month of her birthday rather than just the day, and has always wanted to learn to dance the tango? Nope. Reality TV addict who loves dogs and hates to work out? Definitely not. That sounded lazy. Really, I just like watching Survivor.
The forms they required me to fill out were daunting, and I didn’t really want to go on any dates. I just wanted to browse and fantasize about going on dates with handsome men. You know, like shopping an internet catalog. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be anything that easy.
After jumping through hoops, filling out several forms, and creating an email account just for my new “hobby,” I still hadn’t seen any guys I would be interested in dating… or even daydreaming of dating. The antique mantel clock dinged three o’clock in the morning, and I wished I could throw rotten tomatoes at the screen.
All those hours of lost sleep and nothing to show for it. Crap. I dragged myself back to bed, lay down next to Spencer’s snoring form, and finally fell asleep.
The next morning was rough. By the time I woke up, Spencer had already left for work. It was probably better we didn’t see each other. On a typical day he left for work before I got up and came home from work after I was asleep. Some marriage.
My lack of sleep showed in the mirror. I had bags under my eyes that made me look like I’d taken a punch or two. Rummaging through my makeup drawer, I finally found the hemorrhoid cream, a trick I’d learned from a Texas beauty queen during sorority rush years ago. The stuff worked wonders on puffy eyes.
I plopped some drops into my bloodshot eyes and tried to recall if you were supposed to wear pink eye shadow on tired eyes, or was it that you were never supposed to? I sighed. Unable to remember, I applied a serviceable brown and threw a brown eyeliner stick into my bag.
After tossing on a shirtdress and a pair of low heels, I ran a brush through my wavy, unruly hair and walked out the door. The makeup could be applied in the car during the red lights. It was already shaping up to be that kind of day.
A few hours later, the colorful little classroom was filled with the sounds of merry children singing to a song that played on the outdated CD player in the corner.
A blond-haired little boy ran up to me. When he talked, air whistled through the empty space where his front teeth used to be. “Mthh Davenport, look! I got paint all over my sthirt!”
He certainly had. A big green splotch covered the belly of his shirt. His mother was a stickler for neatness. I sighed. “What happened to your paint smock, Thomas?”
“Dunno.” He shrugged adorably, and I stopped feeling cross with him.
“Well, let’s go see if we can get that out before your mommy comes to pick you up.” Thomas nodded and I took him by the hand to the sink in the corner of the room, where I beckoned for my teacher’s aid to help Thomas wash out his shirt.
Monday through Friday, I spent seven a.m. to four p.m. teaching kindergarten at the Southfield Country Day School. My days were filled wiping snotty noses, herding chubby-faced children, and teaching them their ABCs and 123s. However, these days we were supposed to be teaching children to read in kindergarten as well. This was fine in theory, but unfortunately the ability to read is a developmental skill that some children would not be able to grasp until they were in first or second grade. Those who didn’t “get it” right away weren’t necessarily less intelligent, they just weren’t ready yet, the same way some children weren’t ready to be toilet trained by age two.
But I understood that there had to be a framework for all children, so I went along and taught the curriculum as best I could.
That afternoon, when the children had all gone home, my friend and fellow teacher Jackie popped her head in my room. “Hey. Wanna grab a cup of coffee?” she asked.
“Not today. Can I get a rain check?” I replied. Jackie taught first grade across the hall and I’d known her since we had been in grade school ourselves. She got married around the same time I did—six years ago. She had a set of two-year-old twins she’d have to pick up from daycare soon.
“Sure. Maybe I’ll run some errands before I go pick up the twins.” Jackie tried to find “adult time” whenever she could, and we had coffee together most days after school before she went home to her second job, being a wife and mother to a pair of whirling dervishes.
“Sounds good. Bye.” She left and I gathered up my things and headed to the parking lot. Most of my friends had children, and sometimes I felt like I was the only woman of reproductive age who didn’t. Spencer and I had never gotten pregnant naturally, and just about the time it occurred to me that one of us might have a plumbing problem in the reproductive realm, I realized I didn’t really want to have children with Spencer. I wasn’t convinced he would be a good father, and our marriage wasn’t a happy one. Having children seemed more likely to make things worse than make them better.
I knew plenty of people who had babies to save their marriage, and from what I’d seen it never seemed to work. It only put off the inevitable. And even though I knew I was in the middle of a marriage that would inevitably dissolve, I didn’t have the courage to end it, but neither could I delay it by bringing a baby into the world.
It was a simple case of inertia. A body in motion stays in motion, while a body at rest stays at rest.
That was my marriage. A marriage that sucked and would continue to suck.
A couple of hours later I curled up with some Chinese takeout, Felix, and Netflix. Felix enthusiastically agreed to the arrangement, snuggling up next to my legs and wriggling under my arm to be petted and maybe snatch a bite of shrimp fried rice. The evening I’d planned suited my mood perfectly, and I’d practically decided I didn’t need a man when Spencer came home and spoiled everything.
When he walked into the bedroom, Felix barely looked up, and I kept my eyes trained on the television.
“Hey!” Spencer said, clearly looking for a response.
“Oh, hey.” I did my best to look uninterested in his sudden presence. Sure it was evil, but I couldn’t help myself. Unbidden, my brain conjured up an olfactory memory of last night’s perfume that would linger much longer than the original.
“Uh, have you eaten?” Spencer’s voice dripped with irritation.
I made a big show of pausing the television show and looking up at him with undisguised annoyance. Spencer stood at the end of the bed, one hand on the substantial wooden structure. One of his chestnut curls fell carelessly onto his forehead, but I refused to let him affect me. “Yes, I have eaten. Because you are never home. So… Yeah. I’ve eaten. If I waited for you to eat, I’d starve.” Then I glanced back at the television, purposely pressed PLAY, and went back to ignoring him.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Spencer’s jaw drop. “I don’t believe you! So we don’t do anything together anymore?”
“I guess not. But that’s hardly my fault, now is it, Spencer? You’re the one who rarely even sleeps here,” I responded, raising my eyebrows but keeping my eyeballs glued to the screen.
“Un-FUCKING-believable!” he shouted, then turned and stormed out, slamming the front door behind him.
“Funny, that’s what I think every day,” I said to the empty space where Spencer had stood. I scratched one of Felix’s favorite spots under his chin. “Good riddance,” I whispered into his soft fur.
