No, what I want.
RULE #16: ALWAYS COME PREPARED.
Charlotte
Sometime on Sunday I receive a text from Emerson.
I’m meeting with some people at the club at 8:00 tomorrow morning. Let yourself into the house and I’ll be back around 10:00.
I type and delete and type and delete my response about ten times before finally hitting Send.
Yes, Sir.
He doesn’t respond. And Emerson always needs the last word, which means I’ve left him speechless. Which also means I’m getting what I want.
On Monday, I show up early, using the code he gave me to unlock the front door and get straight to work. I chose the same pencil skirt and see-through blouse I wore on the first day. I can barely focus on my morning tasks while I wait for him, and when 10:15 rolls around, I hear the garage door open. Quickly, I tidy my desk and rush to the center of the room.
I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.
The internal pep talk is the only thing keeping me from backing out because the more I think about it, the more I realize this is insane. And I have no idea how he will react. If he’s angry, I’ll be humiliated. If he’s surprised, I’ll be pleased. And if he loves it…God, I don’t know how I’ll feel.
I hear the garage door close, and I take a deep steadying breath. Then, I drop the pillow on the floor （thanks for the tip, internet） and fall to my knees. Facing the door he’s about to walk through, I bow my head and place my hands delicately in my lap.
There’s a tremor of nerves traveling all the way down to my bones as I wait for him. His shoes click against the marble floor as he passes through the kitchen—getting closer and closer—and I want to back out. This was stupid. He’s going to fire me for being so stupid.
But it’s too late. His footsteps reach the office door and they stop. The silence is heavy as he stands there and stares at me, and I don’t dare move. Keeping my eyes on my lap, I wait.
“What…are you doing?” he asks.
I expected this question, so I’m prepared.
“Being a good girl,” I reply, “Sir.”
I hear him take in a heavy breath. He’s going to say something harsh or tell me to get up or to stop. At least I tried.
Instead, he takes five deafening steps toward me. When he’s close enough to touch me, I feel his fingers reach for my chin and tilt my head upward. There’s affection in his eyes as he stares down at me, warmth trickling over me. The way that look makes me feel is like gold. If I could bottle it up and sell it, I’d be rich.
“You are such a good girl,” he says, and I nearly melt into the floor. “You want to learn how to be a good sub?”
“Yes, Sir,” I reply.
His jaw tenses as he deliberates his response.
“Fine. But not every day, understand?”
I try to fight back my smile, but it slips through anyway. “Yes, Sir.”
“I want there to be days when you’re just Charlotte, okay?”
My shoulders soften as I let his words sink in. Then, I nod.
“And if you don’t like it, you don’t have to do it. There’s a lot more we’ll need to discuss, limits and safety, and things like that, all right?”
I nod again, knowing from my research this weekend that he would say something like this. I learned that communication is the most important thing and that boundaries have to be set because there are a lot of things that can go wrong.
Which is why I came prepared.
“I wrote down my limits,” I reply, staring up at him.
He looks momentarily surprised, stroking my chin. “You did? Can I see them?”
I nod, moving to stand, but he puts gentle pressure on my shoulder to keep me down.
“Ah-ah. Crawl there for me.”
My lips part and my body is flooded with heat. “Yes, Sir,” I reply. He moves out of the way, so I can crawl to my desk, where the printed paper sits next to my laptop. Grabbing it off the desk, I hesitate for a moment, not sure how to crawl and carry it at the same time.
“In your teeth,” he replies, noticing my uncertainty. And I do as he says, biting down on the paper as I move back onto all fours, carrying it toward him. He’s leaning on his desk now, arms crossed and watching me. Once I reach him, I sit back in a kneeling position.
He strokes my head gently and takes the paper from my teeth. Then I wait as he browses through what I wrote. This is the nerve-racking part because there were a lot of things on that list that made me a little nervous to admit.
“Where did you get this?” he asks.