Rules for the Breaking
"The problem with temptation is that you may not get another chance."
―
-Laurence J. Peter
1
Dazed from the spell of introspection, Chase dawdled her fingers to the next page of her journal. She sat alone in her bed, staring soberly at the pre-dawn gloom beyond the room's east window. Thoughts merged like colliding storm clouds. The memories, blessed and cursed, of her night at the Fun House, of the sumptuousness of Mistress Atsuko's ropes, of stupid, stupid, Hannah, billowed, swirled and crashed like molten glowing lava splashing into a steaming, raging, sea.
Just as everything else she'd ever cared to have go off without a hitch, Chase had taken all the steps necessary to see a scene through. She made sure to relate the entire evening's plan with Hannah, explaining every detail clearly, exactly the way her special needs lover needed in order to understand her every expectation. They would observe the rules of engagement while at Master Guryon's, participating in play within reason and obeying the rules of the house. Then they would go home to indulge in each other in a session of strictly, but very sweet, vanilla sex because, as Chase had known, while being rope bound by Atsuko, her fantasies would wander to images of Hannah, she and Hannah scening, Hannah's body, Hannah's lovely mouth, and so all Chase would want for the after-care was Hannah.
But, Hannah fucked it up. Chase was well prepared for a lovely --into the morning- session of after-care and Hannah royally fucked it up. Should Chase have talked more to her about her interest in rope bondage? Would that have made a difference? Chase didn't think so. She was a top. She didn't have to spell out such things, regardless of the communication intimacy required. No, the errors in judgement Hannah made were none of Chase's fault. It was Hannah's Asperger's, she was a big girl, and she should have been in control.
As for Madam Giggles and her sub, Chase knew Hannah and the clown would get along well and were likely to play. However, she never expected Hannah to lapse so far from submission and do the foolish, foolish things she'd done. If Chase had not seen it with her own eyes, the master of the house would have reported to her how Hannah had, without having asked for permission, controlled his slaves, making them do vile things to themselves and each other in one of the spaces barred for scening, the kitchen.
The sight of it, the absolute nerve of Hannah, had caused Chase to become perfectly incensed. Her sub had assumed way too much. She had not been waiting there at the end of the evening, just outside the room where Atsuko had bound her domme. No, Chase had to go find her slave, and then, seeing her sub actually dominating had had an instant souring, chilling, and effect on Chase's desire for her. And, as if it wasn't enough, Hannah, when called on it, had behaved inexcusably: kicking and screaming like an absolute lunatic, sobbing pathetically, begging, and compounding Chase's embarrassment so that she was left with no choice.
Hannah had no right. There was a double standard in the relationship, absolutely. That, was the fucking point. No one ever said anything about switching because it was never, ever, up for debate. The top was her place alone and after-care was what they shared, was the time, the only time, when Chase was ever close to being bottom, spent, shattered, helpless.
Chase slid her palm across the page of her journal, feeling the words she'd written in her tight, neat, script. She had become a powerful, influential and independent woman, a principal of a nationally recognized Blue Ribbon school and she was preparing to start course work toward the goal of becoming district superintendent. The higher the pressure, the more she needed a reliable sub to help take the edge off with a scene, to remind her of her humble beginnings, her lowly place under the scrutiny of Heaven's Queen. Still gazing impassively out her bedroom window, Chase continued her reflection concerning the subsequent events of the night before.
She had kept herself calm enough to drive safely, stopping at a light, turning around to peer down into the back seat, at her passed out, bound and gagged, soon to be ex-lover. Chase recalled arriving at Hannah's less than quaint, ran shackle, little home, and dragging her out of the car.
There had been an instant when she saw, under the yellow glow of the porch light, the fact that Hannah, her head bouncing, parting high grass, droplets of dew glistening on her cheeks, was waking. Having ditched in her car the six inch heels she'd worn to the party, Chase hurriedly dragged her inert captive across the front of the house and around the side yard. As she pulled the bound woman through the enveloping dark, Chase heard Hannah rouse out of her unconsciousness, softly moaning, the sound trembling from the force of her head being slid along the irregular bumps and dips of the earth.
Feeling her way through the dark, probing with her bare feet, Chase hauled her cargo up the back steps. Hannah began to protest the treatment, not so much as one surprised by it, but as one who had realized why she deserved it. She began to speak around her gag, her mutterings devolving further to shrieks and muffled screams as she twitch helplessly in her straight jacket. Chase thought that Hannah had perhaps been thinking she was at her domme's residence until realizing, dreading, that she had been returned to her own home.
Arriving at the patio's sliding door, breathing heavily from the exertion, Chase went through her key ring and chose one of the three of Hannah's she'd appropriated by virtue of their contractual agreement. Then, the door slid open, panting through clenched teeth, Chase no longer able to control her rage, dragged Hannah inside, pulled the door shut, and then swung her down the hallway. Hannah's body sped to the far wall, at which the side of her head made contact first, stopping against the baseboard with aloud crack and a thud, just before the rest of her body came to rest with a dull, staccato slap. Then, as the muscles of her face clenched around her pained eyes, Hannah began to sob.
The fact of Hannah's weeping was making Chase even angrier. She had to work a little harder to control her fury, to maintain it as an asset rather than a liability, controlling it just enough so that it was useful, practical and protective. However, that tactic wasn't doing Hannah any good. She was kicked a few times in the ribs, before getting dragged further down the hall. With each roll of her bound body, Hannah's weeping became increasingly hysterical. Presently, Chase stopped, her chest slowly heaving as she stood upright and glared menacingly down at a fitfully sobbing, snot dribbling Hannah.
In the silence beyond the woman's weeping, Chase heard a small, mournful, meow of a cat. It certainly smelled like a cat lived there, maybe three or more of them, judging by the stink. Chase peered around through the darkness and sniffed the air, a sour expression crossing her face before she stepped quickly toward Hannah's kitchen. Returning with a few paper towels, she got to her knees by Hannah's head. After wiping much of the tears and snot from beneath her nose and around her mouth, Chase proceeded to remove the ball gag.
Her vision adjusted to the darkness, Chase saw that Hannah had turned away, her eyes closed, still tearing, her lips turned inward. Chase stared, eyes wide with fury. Her breathing steadily returned to its prior briskness, and then she let herself give in to the anger, taking Hannah by the chin, gripping it like a vice, turning her face upward, shaking it, grabbing the top of her head with her other hand and saying:
"You will never, ever, fucking pull that shit on me again. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was for me? Do you care? Do you even fucking care?"
Whimpering, Hannah said:
"Yu could have used the front door you know."
Chase gave her another solid kick in her side.
Growling through clenched teeth, Chase answered:
"I didn't fucking want to use the fucking front door, you stupid bitch!"
