Chapter 73

Kathleen

I've been experiencing such a rush for the past few days. From the moment I told Ira my terms, I've felt myself coming back to the person I always knew I was.

No, not like that, silly. What I mean is that I'm back in top form. The Kathleen I always present myself as.

Ira likes to think she was practicing a perfect poker face, but I felt her waver. I saw her consider what I told her. And even though I've spent the past few weeks convinced that I no longer wanted to dominate her, I now know how wrong I was.

She needs a Mistress to keep her in line.

Ira was the first person to see the potential to submit within me. She wasn't wrong. What she didn't see, however, was the potential inside herself as well.

To be fair, I didn't see it at first either. When it comes to people, they tend to know exactly what they want, whether that's dominating, submitting, neither, or both. A person who has been in the scene for as long as Ira is fairly locked into her role. Dominants especially don't like to ever give up power. They're souped-up types who want the world to contour to their whims and needs. I can't blame them. I often want that power as well.

Can't you see it? Ira Mathison, treating me like the goddess I deserve to be. From head to toe, I will be adored.

I will feel truly loved.

Oh, I don't doubt that she loves me, but she's asked so much of me already that I can't imagine giving more of who I am and taking nothing back in return. She wants me to be a switch? Fine. She'd better be willing to do the same for me.

I tell Eve as much over lunch at her place.

She whistles, shaking her head over an empty plate of spaghetti and salad. "She's never going to do it," she says with hesitation. "She has no reason to question herself like you have."

I give her a look.

"Don't do that. You may have told her that the only way to keep you was to try it, but she's still a person at the end of the day. This isn't some lesbian ranting. This is cold, hard reality. You know it as much as I do… she'll cry about it for a few weeks until she finds a new, more inclined sub to do what she wants. She'll probably be blond if it makes you feel any better."

Hardly. "You don't know her like I do." Pasta swirls on my plate as I push it into the design of a smiley face. Meatballs are eyes. Some parsley creates a cute nose. "She's head over heels in love with me. Plus, her family needs that money. She'll definitely consider it." There. A perfect Italian smiley face, now with extra oregano for seasoning. "Whether or not she bites… well, I'll find out by tomorrow."

Eve studies me, shaking her head slowly. "Please don't set yourself up for heartbreak. I don't understand what you see in her, and I doubt I ever will, but I care about you. You deserve happiness. Please be careful."

That is perhaps one of the sincerest things Eve has ever said to me. Usually, she layers her words in jokes and crude threats, but this is the genuine concern of a friend and confidant. Not that I never trusted her in this capacity before – we wouldn't be best friends otherwise.

But hearing her like this makes me reconsider what I've done.

No, I'm not taking back my ultimatum. I can't show that kind of weakness in front of Ira. I don't want her thinking that she can wait for me to get over my Domme snits and then back to business as usual. That would not be sustainable in a relationship with me.

And it shouldn't have to be.

However, let us face the facts. I love Ira. Ira loves me. We're two stupid assholes in love yet fundamentally incompatible. Something has to be done about that.

This is me attempting to take control of my heart. It's the least I could do for myself.

Halfway through helping Eve with the dishes, my phone buzzes with a text message. I think nothing of it as I walk over and pick it up, staring at Ira's name with a black and white picture of a rose in the background.

Fitting, isn't it?

"I've made my decision. Meet me for dinner tonight so we can talk about it."

I show Eve the message. She frowns, soap suds hanging from her hands as she lets faucet water beat one of our plates from lunch.

"What?"

She shakes her head again. "She's going to tell you no. Or if she says yes, there is going to be a huge stipulation. I am telling you."

I text Ira back for more details. "Say what you will."

"I will. And tomorrow when you call me up, I hopefully won't be saying I told you so."

Ira finagled reservations at the French place downtown. I say "the" French place because although there are at least three French eateries around here, only one is worthy of our attention. Naturally, it is the most expensive one.

Dressed in my best, which to most means a black dress, I enter the restaurant with my head held high and my hair pinned higher. After all, I've garnered over the past few weeks that Ira Mathison finds me particularly intimidating – or sexy, depending on the night – when I wear my hair up like this.

"I'm here to meet with Ira Mathison," I tell the host. "They're expecting me."

The hosts at these places are paid well. Partly because they have to be discreet, good actors, and polite to a fault. This one is no different, but I catch a look of disbelief in his eyes as I tell him who I'm meeting. That's right, buddy. Your bigshot Mathison – wherever you're keeping her – has a date with this looker.

"Right this way, ma'am."

I'm led through the belly of the restaurant, past friendly and not-so-friendly eyes. Nobody I recognize offhand. I'm sure they recognize me. This is high society. This is middle-class couples who have saved up all year to come here on birthdays and anniversaries. A full meal here costs at least a couple hundred dollars, and that doesn't include drinks.

I hope Ira got us some wine. I'm parched.

When I step into the small but private room, I find out why the host is so surprised at my presence. Or at least my sultry look.

The room is dark. The table is littered with candles and flowers, rose petals creating a romantic trail from the door to my chair opposite Ira. More petals dance around the scented centerpiece. A glass of red wine waits for me, my plate already filled with salad.

Ira sits on the far side, welcoming me with a raise of her glass.

"Your meal has already been ordered, ma'am," the host says, taking the door handle and closing me into this room with a fucking Domme. "Please ring if anything is needed."

Yeah, I need a stiffer drink than wine.

"Kathleen." Ira gestures to the seat across from her. The one covered in rose petals. "Thank you for joining me tonight."

Warily I sit, my purse slipping off my shoulder and landing unceremoniously on the floor. There's a wooden basket provided for bags, but I can't be assed to place mine in there. I'm too dumbfounded. Well, I guess I know her answer.

"It was the least I could do." I keep my manners proper as I fix my purse and sit up straight in my chair. I'm even gladder that I wore my hair up and out of the way. "Especially after what I asked of you."

"Yes. Let's talk about that."

I stare at the salad, picking up a fork and stabbing a piece of spinach. I sort of hate that Ira knew exactly what I would want and then had the gall to order for me. I'm not her sub tonight. I'm not even here as her girlfriend, really. Yet I feel… taken care of.

I'm sure she's paying tonight.

That is the one appealing thing about having a Domme, or at least a very "alpha" girlfriend. She will take care of you. Dote on you. Make sure you have everything you need and then some. Not just financially – not that I need help with that – but emotionally. Ira never has to order for me. She does it as a way of coddling me. I'm guilty of thinking of this as controlling many years ago, back when I first got into the kink scene. Now I get it. It's comforting.

I did not come here to be comforted.

"You're radiant," Ira says in a smooth manner that makes me think of being seduced in the club. Seduced as a sub. "It's a shame we're here to talk business."

"The rose petals and candles say otherwise."

Ira leans forward, the glow of the centerpiece candle illuminating her steely visage. Those hazel eyes penetrate my brain, and her self-assured grin… so arrogant. So arrogant. So fucking arrogant and drop-dead gorgeous.

"Who says that business and pleasure can't mingle?" She snorts. "Certainly not you. You're the one asking me to prostitute herself for fifteen million."

"I wouldn't put it that way…"

"You've got the biggest balls of anyone I know. I admire that. I also admit that it's sexy."

"Thanks."

Salad enters my mouth. I chew methodically, keeping my eyes neither downcast nor locked on hers. I don't want to look avoidant or too interested, after all.

"I'm not easily bought, even by you, Kathleen. I will need something from you if I am to deign to do that…"

She's kidding. Asking more of me? Hasn't she asked enough already? This whole relationship has been her asking things of me!

"All right. I'll bite. What is it you want from me?"

Ira's eyes burn into mine. Now I can't look away. I'm stuck with carrots in my teeth, but I don't pick them out in front of her. Perhaps if this were a regular date. One where I could covertly cover my mouth with the handkerchief and pick until my teeth were sparkly clean. Holy shit, I do not dare. I cannot compromise my demeanor. I cannot be any less than Perfect Kathleen Allen, the woman who can go toe-to-toe with Ira Mathison.

I've been that woman before, and I will continue to be her.

Yet… shit, look at her. She wants to eat me alive. She wants to devour me, consume me, suck the soul right from my body, and hold onto it for all eternity. She would, too. I've had plenty of sex with her now to know that she would do that if she was in the mood.

The sub in me – Katie, let's call her – wants that to happen. She wants to blush, smile, giggle, and get ready for a night of being whisked away into a hot BDSM fantasy.

Kathleen is squishing her down for now. There is no room for sub Katie in this discussion. Sub Katie is great at getting Kathleen in trouble and derailing the original subject. So, fuck Katie. Not literally, Ira.

"There's only one last thing I want from you." Ira's voice is laced with controlled desire. The shivers I sense can get the hell out. "I want the world to know that you submit to me."

I pick up my wine glasses and sample a taste. It beats looking her in the eye… plus, I get alcohol. Because what she suggested is from another planet.

Me. Being publicly declared her sub.

"Before you twist the lacy panties I'm sure you're wearing, I'll remind you that Dommes have debuted as subs before with no repercussions." I'm gonna reach across this table and slap the smug right off her face. "Remember Heidi? She was in a relationship with that sub for years. After they broke up, she fell in with Jay Spader, the West Coast Dom. Her debut as his sub was… enchanting. The man was the envy of every other dominant in the club that night."

"Of course I remember dear Heidi," I say sweetly. "She used to be a friend of mine."

"Before she moved out west with Jay?"

I butter a biscuit and pick off a flake. "Before she turned traitor."

The silence falling between us could slaughter an army.

Heidi used to be a friend of mine, years ago. She partied in my circle of Dommes while she dated that sub. Nobody ever pegged her as a switch, since sometimes that comes out after a few drinks or it's given freely. Like I've said before, nobody gives a shit if a Domme also switches with the right partners. Being a Domme is a lifestyle, but it's also intrinsic to our personalities. As Ira has shown me, however, sometimes we want to let go of control too.

No, what happened was she started dating Jay Spader out of nowhere. Everyone knew he was a hardcore Dom. More hardcore than Ira. That man wanted a life of domination and submission. Normally, we wouldn't bat an eyelash, but the fact Heidi volunteered to be his Monique Grant sent more than a few ripples in the group of Dommes I know.

I don't go into these details with Ira, however. She needs to understand what I'm possibly giving up. Like a social life. Business dealings.

For what? Love? How much do I really love her?

"Your apprehension is noted," Ira says. "Don't get me wrong, Kathleen. I would want to do it right. I want to debut you properly as my permanent sub."

"Your permanent sub… you may have opened a little black box and asked me to marry you, but instead of a ring, it's a tangle of thorns."

"I mean my permanent sub in the sense that you're the only woman I Top, not that you're a full-time sub now. Please, I know how much you've enjoyed our times together."

I purse my lips. "That's neither here nor there. I wouldn't have kept up my training if I didn't enjoy it." Before she can interrupt, I continue, "You're asking me to dedicate my life to being a switch. What are you giving me in return?"

Don't let her know how much you want that, Kathleen. Don't let her see your knees shaking and your loins aching to have her fuck you, hard and rough, her hand pulling your hair and her mouth telling you what you are.

Hers.

"I'll give you a night, Kathleen." Her hands fold on the table. Is she even eating anything tonight? "A night of me doing whatever you want. You want me on my knees like I've had you on your knees? Fine. One night. That night will give you the bragging rights of being the only person in this world who will ever Top this Domme."

It should be music to my ears. It isn't.

"That's not good enough." I drop my utensils, my handkerchief, half of my honor. "I'm not taking some half-hearted sub to bed, Ira Mathison." The chair screeches as I stand, forcing her to behold my form in candlelight. I am a goddess. She is a mere kid. She should be quaking in her leather shoes to be in my presence, fighting with this table to get to me and begging my feet to worship who I am.

"Fine. I'll give you bragging rights," doesn't come anywhere close.

"If you want me to give myself to you, Mathison, then you need to fully give yourself to me. Not just your body, but your cold, ragged little heart. Oh, and that deliciously pitiful ego of yours. I am going to devour it."

She opens her mouth.

"No, no. I do not belong to you until you belong to me. You must know that." I pick up my purse. "If you want me to switch, then you need to switch too, my sweet. Let me tell you, too…" I flash my evilest smile at her. "Like you saw potential in me to serve… I see it in you too. Don't let fear get in your way, Ira. If you want this… if you want me… then you'll really come to me like I went to you. Think about it. We could be a formidable team."

I leave. Not angry. Not bitter. Simply amazed that I had this much of a backbone around her. Usually, I am fighting back my inclination to defer to her. But now, though I am certainly fantasizing about hopping in her lap and riding her Avalon co-pilot until I come three times, I can hold back.

She will come to me.