Raw and Broen

If you haven't read Chapters 1-12 of "Raw," I would recommend you stop and do so first as "Raw & Broken" is the long-awaited conclusion to this erotic saga.

There have been many requests for Drake and Daphne's story. To know if there is resolution between Becca and her brother. I hope this four-part series—the end result—meets most if not all of your expectations.

SSW

*****

I am a masochist.

But never had I felt such unbearable pain like I had this past week when my heart broke after learning why my husband of less than a year had turned Master of the Universe. It had happened so slowly, I hadn't realized it. And I was still dealing with the repercussions.

The sounds of the crowd around me faded into white noise as I waited my turn to buy a ticket. My heart thumped out every second I wasn't on a plane flying away from California. I'd tried to stand up for myself. Drake didn't want to listen. So I did the next best thing: I'd chosen to run like a scared child. But I was far from being a coward.

I still couldn't believe I'd crushed my last 10-milligram Valium from a recent invasive dental procedure (as much as I liked pain, I preferred it during sex, not when it came to my teeth) and mixed it with Drake's oatmeal. When he had passed out on the couch this morning, I'd used the key around his neck to unlock the heart locket around mine. It had been the only time I'd done so. The significance had buried deep within me, as if I had symbolically released myself from him.

The necklace had been a permanent fixture since our move out to California. He made me wear it unless I was going to a photo shoot. But since the latter had become non-existent in the previous two months, and we were living kinky 24/7, I pretty much wore it all of the time now with the exception of a dedicated scene in the basement in which I wore the immobile collar.

After our nightly sex regimen, I'd lain there devising my plan. Counting the hours until I could break away. Our unexpected dinner guests last night had been the last straw in what had become a tiring routine with Drake. I'd learned there was no use trying to discuss something like this with him. He made the decisions, and I submitted to his will. It was his way, no questions asked these days.

Once his alarm had gone off, Drake had gotten up this morning and stepped into the shower even though it was the weekend. I'd gone about my usual duties of getting cleaned up, making the bed, and preparing his breakfast, all the while hoping he wouldn't notice I was trembling. Especially as I tried to distract myself while the drug took effect. Once I'd done the deed and packed a bag, I'd been so preoccupied with not looking guilty that I'd almost forgotten to get off the city bus at the airport.

Drake could be out for at least four hours, but it was still a narrow window of time to put some distance between us. Not that the airport was the first place he'd look. He'd eventually figure it out, though. He was smart like that. While he may not have imagined I'd drug him, he should have expected me to flee. Especially after what he'd done.

I got lucky with getting the last seat on a flight to Chicago that left twenty minutes after seven. Once I was on the other side of security, I located the bay of public pay phones. It took a moment to figure out how to use a credit card to pay. Then my hand were shaking as I dialed the number I'd written down from Drake's phone. As I listened to the line ringing on the other end.

"Hello, this is—"

"Becca! Oh, thank God! It's Daphne! I'm sorry about the short notice. Can you pick me up at the airport? I think I'm coming in at two o'clock your time."

"Daphne? Holy shit! How are you? Wait, did you say airport?"

"I-I can explain more later." I heard the voice over the intercom announcing that boarding for my flight would start in five minutes. "I have to go. I have to get to my gate. Can you just pick me up?"

"Yes. Of course. Where did you say you're landing?"

I checked my boarding pass. "O'Hare. Flight 126."

There was a muffled curse from Becca's end before she said, "Drake didn't tell you?"

"Becca, I don't have time—"

"We moved to Delaware."

I almost dropped the handset. I gripped the metal stall surrounding the phone as my knees buckled. I heard her calling my name. I managed to find my own voice to say, "You what?"

"We moved. In July. Sounds like we have a lot of explaining to do as well. Listen, get on your flight. Did you check any luggage?

"No. I just have my one carry-on."

"Good. We'll get you a connecting flight to Philadelphia International Airport. Once you land in Chicago, go to the ticketing counter and tell them you have a ticket reserved. One or both of us will be there to meet you in Philly, okay?"

I was crying so hard, all I could do was nod and mumble some sort of sound that I think she took as affirmation that I understood.

"Daphne? Whatever it is, know that we're here for you. We love you."

"I love you, too!" I hung up and ran toward my gate, apologizing repeatedly as I pushed past the morning travelers.

At 30,000 feet and my eyes dried momentarily, I reflected on the past five months since I'd last seen Becca. Eight since that ordeal with the collaring ceremony; nine since I was married. I hadn't realized what I was really getting into with this 24/7 lifestyle. And honestly, I don't think Drake had, either. It had evolved on its own. Much like our relationship had.

A sad smile turned up one corner of my mouth as I recalled the day I had met Drake Rockland. Which made shivers race up my back. The time before Drake wasn't something I liked to think about much less talk about. The days with Jimmy Driscoll. My darkest days.

--

I was oblivious to the "scene" when I met Jimmy. I was a barista at a Starbucks when I wasn't attending classes at the Chicago College of Performing Arts where I was studying in the Theatre Conservatory. I could act, dance, and sing. Plus, I had my height and slim figure going for me. I was what they called a 'triple threat' in the business, a sought-after commodity. Still, my teachers told me to prepare for disappointment because even the All-American-Girl didn't always get the job.

Jimmy was at an after-party for a show I'd been in for class. I was getting a refill of wine when he offered to pay for it. I withdrew into my shell as was my habit off-stage and in public around strangers. To make matters worse, he was no mere stranger. He was a tall, blond-haired god in a suit jacket and tie...with very white teeth. My heart started beating faster even before he spoke.

I quietly reminded Jimmy that it was an open bar and instantly wished I had thought of something clever to say instead. His response was to lean in further and ask if I wanted to go some place where he could buy me a real drink. I got a whiff of his cologne that reminded me of a crisp breeze with a tinge of coconut normally attributed to suntan lotion. It made me think of taking a walk on the beach.

I had dated occasionally within the theatre crowd, but nothing serious had ever developed. So I wasn't expecting too much from this new guy past a one-night stand. But it had been a while since I'd had someone in bed. And this someone had quite a large hand rested on the bar top. I wondered the rumor was true in his situation. If so, I wasn't sure if that thrilled or scared me.

We had barely stepped outside before he put his hand behind my head and kissed me. He was surprisingly soft and gentle. How it belied the man I would later find out he really was.

He hailed a cab back to my apartment where he definitely did not disappoint. In between a couple of rounds of great sex, we talked about my classes and the play. How he thought I'd been robbed by not getting the lead when I so obviously deserved it.

When I said I wanted to learn more about him, he said he worked in entertaining and then stuck to his most intimate details. What he liked when it came to women. Especially, that he liked to spank them.

He offered to show me. I was curious, so I obliged. To my surprise, I actually got a rush out of it.

He was gone when I woke up the next morning. But there was a lingering sting in my ass as I rolled over on the cool sheets. My body shuddered with the memories of the night before, and I let out a deep sigh. Besides being frustrated that he hadn't hung around, I kept thinking that he still owed me a drink. And I wanted to be spanked again.

I didn't see Jimmy for another month. Again, it was at an after-party. This time, I had gotten one of the lead roles. I saw him waiting patiently while the guests congratulated the cast members in a receiving line. As soon as I was free, he maneuvered me to a corner by the bar and stroked the top of my hand while we waited for our drinks.

As a requirement for my new role, I'd had some private sessions with an acting coach on building confidence. Not closing up like a turtle when in public. They paid off as I confronted Jimmy. Asked him why he was there. Why he had disappeared four weeks ago.

He said he had missed me and apologized for being away so long. It was his job. He refused to elaborate on that topic.

I didn't press. But I did say I was curious why he had been at the first party. He didn't seem like a theatre aficionado. As much as I felt comfortable in this scene, he seemed sorely out of place.

He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing my cheek as he admitted he'd noticed me at Starbucks and had asked one of my coworkers about me. She'd let out the secret that I was a theatre student and had an upcoming show. And to further assuage my concerns, he said that he was more in his element here than I could imagine.

He asked if I had any more questions. I shook my head, distracted by his dark gaze and lingering touch on my face. We escaped to my apartment where we once more had great sex. And he spanked me until I was putty in his hands.

Jimmy was gone before morning again. It was a week later when he dropped in at work. He insisted on sticking around until my shift ended. He took a seat where I couldn't see him, but I knew he must be watching me—I could feel it—which was a little distracting. And a bit exciting.

The next morning was his same routine. But he'd left a note to meet up for lunch this time. I smiled and felt a little giddy inside.

Could this be more than just a fling? Was I wanting more than that? As much as I'd not liked his disappearances and indeterminable lengths of absence, part of his allure was his spontaneous arrivals and seductions.

Would I see him again? Where and when? If we started dating regularly, would I be as into him?

He convinced me in the end that we should give it a shot—albeit I was over his knee at the time, and he said he wouldn't continue spanking me until I agreed.

I was busy with finishing up the semester, so we only saw each other on the weekends. He introduced me to a secret erotic club, and we became regular patrons. I looked forward to the time with him, even if we were just listening to music so loud you could barely think much less talk. The spankings seemed to relieve a lot of stress on my part, and having sex with him was amazing. Plus, he opened my mind up to the realm of possibilities we could explore within BDSM.

At the end of the school year, the lease on my apartment was up. He suggested we move in together. It would save me money and give us more time together. So I packed up my belongings in my meager studio apartment and moved to his much bigger loft.

It was fun at first. I got more hours at the coffee shop and took on a summer course, but my evenings were mostly free to spend with him. We fucked whenever we could. There were lots of spankings and new experiences, including some light bondage. Not to mention he paid all of the rent and utilities. It was a good arrangement for me all around.

He never explained the various roles within BDSM and what the significance of each role was. He just said that he had certain fetishes. When I gave him control to embrace them with me, I was being submissive to his directions, which pleased him. I wanted to please him. But I would soon realize that being his sub left me with less control that I'd bargained for. Much less.

Our relationship grew more intense as I entered my final year at the conservatory. I was asking him to spank me harder so I could reach my high. He introduced flogging, which was amazing. Then a riding crop. When he brought home clamps one day, I had an orgasm as soon as he applied them to my nipples. I was in ecstasy. He was more than happy to appease me.

In retrospect, I had made a mistake by telling him that I liked the pain he inflicted. I discovered that his sadistic tendencies far surpassed my masochistic ones, terms I also didn't understand until far later. The memories of those last sessions with him would haunt me for years. I was so naïve.

I graduated and got my degree just over a year into the relationship, not counting the first two months since I had met him. Things noticeably went downhill. It wasn't like the summer before.

I was cast in the chorus line for a new musical. Jimmy told me to turn it down and wait for a lead role like I had in the second play he saw me in. I argued that one didn't start out professionally like that. I had to work up from the bottom. He said he understood more than I knew and dropped the subject.

I ended up quitting my job at Starbucks due to rehearsal times. I'd been afraid to tell Jimmy. Surprisingly, he had been okay with it.

Two weeks before opening night, the director suddenly decided to reduce the members of the chorus line. I was one of the three who were cut. I swear, Jimmy seemed pleased. Now I didn't have any source of income. How was that good news?

I had no proof, but the more I pondered the situation, I think he orchestrated the change that had me cut from the play. Not because he thought I deserved more. But because he wanted me to see that he was in charge.

It took some time, but I found a job with a local improv troupe. It didn't pay well, but it did pay. Jimmy was not pleased that I hadn't asked him first, especially since the troupe performed every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. Those were his club nights. He seemed appeased, though, when I told him the job was temporary; I was just filling in for another member who had decided to travel for a couple of months and would be back this fall.

My days were once again full with rehearsals. We'd meet up for dinner if it wasn't a night where I was scheduled to perform. And we did get to the club a few times on Sunday nights. It became a new routine that we quickly settled into.

But my new job seemed to be over before it had begun. When the troupe's original member returned, I was back to feeing like I was floating in the ocean without a life preserver. It was boring sitting around the loft all day. I was so lonely with him at work all day. So I got his permission to follow up on an ad for an agent that I'd seen while performing. The only stipulation was that I had to discuss the details with him before accepting any jobs. It wasn't until I was sitting in her office that I realized the agent represented models, not actors, but she wanted to take me on.

Within a week, I had been set up for two photo shoots. While it wasn't what I had gone to school for, I found it enjoyable. Plus, it required less work and it paid a hell of a lot more than acting.

But even the modeling gigs didn't fill my time. When I suggested going back to Starbucks or looking for another part-time job, Jimmy finally put his foot down. He said he preferred knowing that his woman was home waiting for him.

He had already sacrificed our sacred weekends at the club to my dreams of acting, even if it had been short-term. He was fine with the occasional photo shoots since they were local and during the day. But If I got a regular job again, he said he feared I wouldn't have any time for him at all because he knew I would be required to pick up extra shifts or work odd hours. He wanted our schedule to be predictable, even if it wasn't regular.

When I still pressed him, he insisted that I didn't need to work at a real job; he would take care of me. He set deadlines, instead, for different chores for me to do to keep me busy. Primarily, it was cleaning the loft which included washing the sheets and towels twice a week. I was also to cook him elaborate dinners that he planned out in advance which required me to go to the local market for fresh ingredients, usually on a daily basis. He was lucky I was as equally talented in the kitchen as I was on stage or in front of a camera.

But he began withholding orgasms and eventually sex if he didn't like something I said or did. Trivial things like not having all of my chores done by the time he got home from work despite the fact that I had been at a photo shoot most of the day. Sometimes, he wasn't in the mood to eat what he had asked me to cook for him. Then there was not being available or in the mood when he wanted to fuck me. Eventually, it was apparently my fault when he couldn't get hard from me sucking his cock.

Spanking turned into punishment. He would prolong it past the point of pleasurable release for me. He spanked me so hard on one occasion, I couldn't sit for two days. I was close to passing out when he finished. I could hear him jacking off nearby before feeling his release on my back. I thought of how my ass must look. How thankful I was that I didn't have any booked photo shoots for the rest of the week. That he was giving me time to recuperate before he used a switch on me again.

If I questioned him, he yelled at me that if I wanted to be his submissive, I needed to learn to follow his rules. The problem was, we had never discussed any steadfast rules, and he wasn't consistent with the arbitrary ones he gave me. I wasn't allowed an orgasm for a week after going to lunch with another girl from a shoot. But the next week, after he saw a message on my phone that an old classmate of mine was in town and wanted to meet up but I said I had declined, he asked why I wasn't being more social. He was constantly changing, and I struggled to keep up with his moods.

I had no idea that this wasn't how a BDSM relationship was supposed to work.

I lost count of the days since we'd had sex. The last time I'd gotten pleasure from his pain. Instead of anticipating the high, I now dreaded his touch.

He continued to excuse away his behavior by making me believe that it was what a Dominant partner did. That I'd better get used to it or leave. But I had no place to go. While I had some income, it wasn't enough to survive on yet. I was dependent on him. He'd made sure of it.

Jimmy preferred going to the club over having a scene at home. In the beginning, we'd actually dance before and after spending an hour in a private room. He said he liked to show me off, especially in the risqué clothes he bought me. But after the first year, he headed straight upstairs once we got to the club. We stayed up there until he was tired—which could be anywhere from thirty minutes to four hours—and then we went back home. We no longer stopped to dance or relax. I missed the old days.

When we were in the private room, he required me to suck his dick until he came. Then he bent me over the bed or the padded sawhorse bench the club provided and he spanked me until he was ready to go again. Sometimes we screwed, but it was rough and quick—always doggy-style—and I rarely found release. Again, he told me that was how it was with BDSM. He was in charge, and my pleasure was never guaranteed. I just had to obey.

I grew to despise going out. I dreamed of how my life would have been if I had never met him. Had never experienced BDSM. Would I have moved from Chicago to further my acting career? Would I be on Broadway by now? In films? Found someone who cared for me and didn't treat me like a sex toy?