A Controlled Descent Ch 06

The next morning is brutal.

It starts with me waking absolutely certain that it's the weekend. Call it the power of wishful thinking, because all I want is to laze around in Jack's enormous bed. I lie there cozily, contemplating waking him with a blowjob when it dawns on me that yesterday was Thursday. Taking its sweet, sweet time, my foggy little brain works out that that means it's only Friday. Without looking at the time, I know I'll be horrifically late to work because I have to run home first and change. No way am I wearing the same outfit two days in a row. I might be a whore, but I'm not entirely without standards. Leaping out of bed in panic mode, I bundle downstairs to find my clothes. I call a car while tugging on my pants. This is why I don't sleep where I fuck. It's too messy.

Appropriations is holding committee hearings this afternoon, and I was supposed to be in the office by eight to prep the congressman. I stumble through the door at 9:30 and everyone in the office glares at me as if I have an explosive vest strapped to my chest. Andrew Torres, our chief of staff, pauses mid-sentence to thank me soooooo much for gracing everyone with my presence. I texted ahead and made up a pretty solid excuse, but Torres is a former Marine and doesn't believe in tardiness. He and Jack would see eye to eye on that much at least. I apologize profusely and get right to work. It's a busy morning, and I don't look up again until it's time for the congressman to head over.

The consequence of letting down the team is I'm left behind to answer the phones while everyone else goes to the hearings. I worked really hard on today, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't crush me not to attend. But I know I deserve my punishment, so I don't argue. It wouldn't do any good anyway, only more damage. The best I can do is be a good team player and hope Torres doesn't leave me in the doghouse permanently.

Being alone gives me a chance to finally catch my breath. This morning has been so hectic that I haven't had a moment to think about last night. I flush at the memory of it. What Jack said, what he did, how he made me feel. Ever since we met, I've orbited him like a tiny, barren planet around a roiling sun. It was lonely and frustrating out there in the cold, and I wanted so badly to be touched by his heat. Well, I got my wish, didn't I? Gingerly, I touch my cheek where he slapped me. Three times. It hurts, but I feel myself getting wet. I don't know how to feel about that and go into the congressman's office to look at my face in his full-length mirror. There's a mark, but it's fainter than I expected. Why is that so disappointing? What the fuck?

A man has never hit me before and that's always been a bright, uncrossable line. I might be small but don't put your hands on me. Not like that. More than one guy has told me I'm stronger than I look and before last night, if a man slapped me it would have been fucking on. I've always been more fight than flight, but I did neither. Instead, I slept happily in Jack's bed, safe in his arms, and woke to thoughts of sucking his dick. The whole thing has just got me really mess up.

The first slap had been a shock to the system. I'd been murderously angry even if he's right that I was naïve to give him a blank check to do whatever he wanted. It was an important lesson, so why hadn't I learned it. Tied to that chair, vulnerable, exposed - why didn't I use my safeword right then? Why let him goad me into asking for a second? No, wait, I know the answer to that. Because I'm a stubborn girl, and he knew just the buttons to push. It's hot and scary at the same time that he can manipulate me so easily. Another important lesson from the school of Jack, and I wonder if he is my savior or my monster? I have a feeling It won't be the last time I ask myself that question.

I rub my cheek contemplatively. If I ask Jack not to slap me again, will he honor my boundaries? I think so, and that's what the book he made me read says should happen. But what if he's disappointed and gets bored of me? What if he goes and finds someone who will let him do whatever he wants? Just the thought of letting him down makes my heart hurt. Do I even want him to stop? It's the last slap that has me questioning myself. The one I demanded. The one I wanted. Or did I? I sift through my memory for any hint that Jack was pulling my strings the last time, but I'm pretty sure that was all me. What does it mean? The Wiseman book talked a lot about masochism. Is that what I am? A masochist? It seems so foreign. Sure, I've been punishing myself for years, but it's always been more of an existential torture. Physical pain has never a part of my program. Now Jack's open hand has got me wondering.

The way it connecting with my cheek... How helpless I felt... At his mercy... The explosion it caused in my brain.

I feel myself going blank, which is always the precursor to my worst decisions. Without taking my eyes off my cheek, I fumble open my dress pants and slide a hand into my panties. It's a really bad idea, but I'm on autopilot now. What would Torres do if he caught me this way in the congressman's office? Nothing good. I imagine him forcing me over his boss's desk and holding me there effortlessly. Punishing me with his cock, spanking my ass with those big, Marine hands of his, calling me a whore. Cuming all over my face before firing me and throwing me out in front of everyone. I stagger out the door in tears. No one in the office says a word. They all know I deserve it. I know it too. I'm worthless. My fingers are a blur on my clit as my knees buckle, and I have to put a steadying hand against the wall as my orgasm hits, hard and fast like a punch.

When my eyes finally open, I grin at myself. How easy was that? No drama. No voice in my head. I wanted to cum, so I did. Simple as that. Jack would be so proud of me if he knew, and suddenly I really need his praise. Taking out my phone, I unbutton my shirt far enough to show my bra and snap a selfie in the congressman's mirror, my hand still shoved lewdly into my panties. Thinking of you, I caption the photo and text it to Jack.

I make myself presentable and hurry back to my desk where my desk phone is ringing. For the next hour, I field one call after another. The hearings are being broadcast live on CSPAN and the congressman's constituents have thoughts and opinions. I listen to their concerns and patiently explain the congressman's position. That goes about as well as you'd imagine. I'm not always convinced that Americans know how their government actually works. When I get a break, there's a message from Jack.

- Good afternoon, Mackenzie.

Not exactly the reaction I was after. I feel suddenly shy.

- hi...

- What are you doing?

- nothing

- Very pretty. Did you take that picture at work?

- in my boss's office

- Was else did you do?

- i masturbated for you

- Did I tell you to do that?

- no, but...

- Then you didn't do it for me, did you?

I stare glumly at my phone. Not at

all

the reaction I was after.

- no

- No, what?

- no Jack

- Don't do it again.

- why are you mad at me??

- Because you're not a child, Mackenzie. What if you'd been caught? You know how fast a story would travel around the Capitol about a staffer caught with her hands down her pants in her boss's office? Are you out of your mind?

I feel myself blush violently.

- i'm sorry i won't do it again

- How hard did you work to get where you are at twenty-three?

So fucking hard.

- pretty hard

- So don't do it again.

- i won't

I'm intensely embarrassed but at the same time surprised. Most men would just take the selfie and ask for more. In a way it's nice that Jack even gives a damn, but it also makes me uneasy. I'm not so sure I want him caring about me. That's never been my relationship to men. I get men off and in return they make me feel like trash. That's always been the deal. How is Jack supposed to treat me like shit if he's also looking out for my career? The two things feel contradictory and at odds.

- I know you're nothing but a whore. And I promise there will be ample opportunity to prove it. Just not at work. Am I understood?

Nothing but a whore

- is it weird how reassuring I find that?

- yes Jack

- Well since you were a reckless little slut, tell me how it went. Did you try to cum?

- i did

- And?

- like riding a bicycle!!!

- That made me laugh.

I kind of love that Jack types that out instead of LOL or an emoji. God, I need him to fuck me.

- can i still see you tonight?

- That depends. Did you get your results back?

Work's been so busy, I've forgotten my STD test should be back today. I check my email - there's one from the lab that processed my bloodwork. Nervously, I read through the results and exhale when I scroll to the bottom of the page. Everything is negative. Score one for the whore.

- i'm clean!!!

- Then yes, you can see me tonight.

I am smiling ear to ear even if Jack did just make seeing him contingent on whether he can fuck me bareback. That's the only reason I'm worth seeing, he's saying. To fuck. To use. I should be offended, but it's almost a relief to be seen, really seen. That's how I've always thought of myself and just never heard a man put it so plainly. There's power in his saying the quiet part loud. It's throwing down a gauntlet, and I want to crawl over and pick it up with my teeth.

- can we maybe talk too?

I feel bad asking, but I have so many questions and just feel really confused.

- Sure.

- i'm sorry we don't have to

- Mackenzie, I want you to listen to me carefully. We can always talk about anything you want. That's a rule between us from now on. Never apologize for having questions. It's what I'm here for.

I feel warm all over.

- thank you

- Do you have any plans this weekend?

- nothing that can't be cancelled

- Good. I'll send details when I get out of this meeting.

I stare at my phone hoping he'll text again but then the office phones start ringing, and I spend the next couple of hours playing answering service. When the congressman returns from the hearing, he's in high spirits. Everything went according to the plan that I helped to craft, but that's forgotten now. He invites everyone but me into his office to celebrate, and Torres leaves the office door ajar, so I can hear them congratulating each other. Their boisterous laughter drifts out like poison for me to choke on. Fortunately, the congressman is flying home this weekend, so the festivities are mercifully short. After he departs, Torres proposes cutting the day short for an impromptu happy hour at Union Pub.

"Not you, Mackenzie," he says, dropping a stack of shit work that no one ever wants to do on my desk. "You still owe me another hour and a half."

I take it without a word of complaint and can tell some of my coworkers are starting to feel a little bad for me. Torres has gone from sticking up for them to picking on one of them. No one likes a bully, so by next week I should be okay. I just need to keep my head down in the meantime, work hard, and never ever forget to set an alarm again.

When everyone is gone, I check my phone and read Jack's message. It tells me to pack a bag for the weekend, what time he'll pick me up, and how I'm to dress tonight. Not asks, tells. It makes me squirm in my seat, but I have work to do first. I put in earbuds and finish Torres's assignment in under an hour. I can get a lot done when properly motivated.

#

Jack's SUV is idling out front when I emerge from building. Nervously, I check the time to make sure I'm not running late. He didn't really give me any sense what the weekend held, so I did my best not to pack everything I own like a goddamn crazy person. Still, my bag weighs a ton. What can I say? A girl likes to be prepared, and I mostly think I am.

Then Jack gets out of the car looking like James Bond and that gets shot to hell.

Some girls like tattoos. Some girls like beards. Men in suits do it for yours truly. It's my kryptonite. Well one of them anyway, shut up. Jack meets me at the back hatch, which opens automatically. Fuck me, the man can wear a suit. It's a three-piece, too. Grey herringbone, impeccably tailored, everything coordinated perfectly. It's not even fair. Jack told me not to wear panties and that may become an issue sooner rather than later.

"You look stunning," he says, plucking my bag off my shoulder like it's nothing.

I'm wearing a sleeveless sheath dress that stops halfway down my thighs. It's a little basic, but I'm told I look really good in a little black dress. I have much sluttier options but opted to keep it classy since I don't know where we're going. Seeing how debonair he looks, I'm relieved at my restraint.

"It's okay?" I ask, maybe digging for compliments.

"Don't ask silly questions," he replies, opening the door for me.

"Feel like telling a girl where we're going?"

"The opera."

"You're taking me to the opera?" I say, wondering how I'm supposed to sit still next to this man for that long.

"Well, I've had these tickets for months. I thought about giving them up, but the production got great reviews. So you're my date."

And that's how I come to be in the Grand Foyer of the Kennedy Center on the arm of the best-looking man in the building. We're there for a production of Giannini's

Taming of the Shrew

based on the Shakespeare play. It isn't one I know but sounds suspiciously like a not-so-veiled threat. The Foyer is filling up with patrons waiting for the doors to open at one of the three performance spaces - the Concert Hall, the Opera House, and The Eisenhower Theater - so, we get a drink at the bar and go out on the marble terrace overlooking the Potomac River. I feel like people are looking at us, and I'm very aware that I'm here with a man twice my age. As much of a whore as I am, I tend to be pretty private and secretive about my extracurriculars. I feel judged although that might all be in my head.

"So you said you wanted to talk," Jack says. "Tell me what's on your mind."

Here? Out in the open? I look around nervously but realize no one can overhear us. "It's about the slapping."

"I thought it might be."

"Why did you do that?"

"You said I could do anything I wanted," he reminds me with an amused grin.

"I know, and I'm not angry or anything. I just don't understand why that specifically."

"Ah okay, I think I follow," he says, turning serious. "Why did I slap your face and not somewhere less shocking."

"Yeah..."

"Because I needed to shock you. A lot of subs start off determined that they have no limits. There are a handful who actually don't, and who knows? You might even be one of them someday, but no one is at the beginning. It was important to disabuse you of that notion. Which brings us to why slapping your face shocked you so much," Jack says and takes a taste of his drink. "I assume you've been slapped on the ass before?"

"Sure."

"Did it bother you?"

"Well... no."

"Why? What's the difference? In both cases someone is striking your body."

"You're saying there's no difference?" I ask skeptically.

"Oh no, there's a huge difference. One is considered so mainstream that the vanilla world does it and thinks nothing of it. The other is much more taboo. A face is the most personal, identifiable part of us. It's where we reside as individuals. People have no problem taking selfies of their naked bodies and saving them to the cloud, but their faces are always carefully cropped out except to people they trust intimately. Plus, slapping a woman's face has connotations of abuse and disrespect. If I slap your ass, I'm just slapping your ass. If I slap your face, I'm slapping you. That's its power. That's what made it shocking. And that's why I did it."

"And you like that?"

"I've thought of little else today," he said, his voice full of heat and appetite.

"And you want to do it again?"

"Very much," he admits without a hint of shame. "But, if you say that face slapping is a hard limit then I will never do it again."

"Just like that?" I ask dubiously.

"Just like that."

"And you won't be angry?"

"Any 'Dom' who gets angry at a sub's limits, isn't one. Mackenzie, I will never be anything but appreciative and supportive of your honesty. Your limits are my limits."

"Okay," I say, believing him despite myself.

"Don't 'okay' me."

Why is that so hard for me to remember? "Yes Jack. Sorry."

"So? Is face slapping a hard limit?"

"For now. I need to think about it if that's okay?"

"Don't ever ask permission to have a limit. But yes, it's more than okay," he says agreeably. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, but this is going to sound pretty fucked up."

He laughs at that. "Oh good. Bring it on."

"I'm worried you're going to be too nice to me."

He arches one eyebrow. "Not a complaint I usually get. Go on."

"The thing is, I don't really want to be cared about." I've never said it out loud before and feel a surge of emotion. "Like, why did you bring me here? I don't deserve to be taken to the opera. This place is for people."

"And what are you?"

"Nothing," I say and look down at my feet. "I'm nothing."

"And you think it's incongruous to be nothing and to also be cared for?"

"Why would you bother?" I ask with a shrug.

Jack looks stumped at the question. "Well now you've given me something to think about." He offers me the edge of his glass and I clink mine against it. "As for why you're here, I have tickets for the opera and want a beautiful girl on my arm. So can you shut up for a few hours, look hot, and pretend to be something, while I enjoy my night out?"

I grin at him over my glass. "I can do that."

"You really are a fucked up little whore, aren't you?"

"Yes Jack."

"Don't make me hard," he warns sternly although his eyes sparkle.

I step in close and bat my eyelashes at him. I can feel him against my hip like a promise and a threat. He leans down, lips brushing against mine, and just for a moment I don't feel like nothing. I hate it. I like it. I hate that I like it. I'm Schoedinger's whore. Out on the river, a little boat chugs its way upriver towards Georgetown.

"Jack?" a man says behind us.

I don't know Jack well enough to read him yet, but I swear he looks momentarily dismayed when he turns to face the man and woman standing there. The man looks fifteen years older than Jack, or maybe he just doesn't take the care of himself. Too much time in the sun has weathered his features and his wrinkles stand out in bold relief. Golf, probably; this is DC after all. His thinning hair is parted crisply and combed over. He's wearing a sportscoat over an open necked button down. Everything is designer and expensive, and yet he just doesn't look that great. A swell of gut overhangs his belt like fresh snow on a buckling eave.

"Hello, Robert," Jack says, shaking the offered hand.

"Thought that was you," the man replies, all smiles, although his eyes keep drifting to me. There's a predatory look there like he knows all my secrets. Have I fucked him before, I wonder, but draw a blank on his face. That would be awkward. Either way, he's not a not a guy I would leave with my drink unattended while I went to the restroom.

"You remember Linda," Robert says, indicating either his wife, his girlfriend, or his well-paid escort. I can't tell which but don't care for the way she's looking at Jack. She's in her late thirties, and I recognize a fellow gym rat when I see one. She towers over me in heels with a runner's body and arms sculpted from granite. I want to trade workout tips with her. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a single braid, and she's had work done but it's subtle and looks amazing. Around her long, regal neck is a silver collar. I wonder if that means what I think it means, or if I'm just reading too much into it because of all the reading Jack is having me do.