It was rash, impulsive, reckless, thoughtless, or perhaps the best word was just plain stupid. Whatever her friends might have thought the most glaring piece of this whole situation was that it was the most unexpected thing she could have done. Of course she was far from predictable, but who does something like this?
Whatever it was that possessed her, those that knew her were not given the chance to figure it out. She quit her job, turned the keys of her apartment over, put her things in storage, and hopped on a plain to Ireland with nothing more than the simple pantsuit she had on and the only book she had ever read twice. She left only a form letter to anyone that needed to know that she would return in a year.
Her surroundings were that of any anteroom in any office building. She sat in one of 4 simple chairs a short distance from a magazine rack and a little green plant, and the prevailing colors were brown and white. The receptionist sat to her right and the entrance, an impressive pair of dark wooden doors a full seven feet tall, lay before her. The carving drew her attention just as it had all those that sat in that chair before her. Beautiful and meticulous, the carvings depicted a group of Celtic soldiers carrying on around an open fire. The doors fit together so perfectly you would not have known they were more than a picture but for the brass handles that sat a few inches apart in the very center.
It had been close to an hour, but she waited patiently still. It was time to work on these things if she was to make it through the coming year. The soft click of the phone on its receiver caused her to shift her focus to the right.
"Mr. Mac Cumhaill is ready to see you." The receptionist said quietly as she motioned towards the doors.
She took a deep breath and stood up slowly. It was taking every ounce of will power she had to walk into the next room. Something she may have found ironic had she been observing the situation instead of participating. One more deep breath and she still could not move.
"Please Miss Doucet, he does not wish to wait." The woman to the right said with a touch of urgency, though still very quietly.
It was a little late to balk now. She had no job, no home, and almost nothing to go back to at the moment. Suddenly the humiliation of facing friends or family and having to explain her actions was more terrifying than kneeling before this complete stranger. She nodded toward the receptionist, picked up her book, and walked through the doors that opened as she approached them.
"He is at the end of the hall." She heard the receptionist say as she passed her.
The doors were closing behind her and the hall seemed longer than she could walk. Possibly this was the stupidest thing she had ever done. Even six months worth of investigation into the man that waited at the end of the hall, the agency that placed her with him, and the contract she was required to sign was not enough to prove that she wasn't walking into some horrific nightmare that would begin and end with things she could only imagine. She still remembered bits of the words that lined the paper before the single cold line where she was to place her name.
It was a carefully worded employment contract that only a very smart a very unaffordable lawyer could have wriggled out of, given time. Somehow she had managed to legally waive every right she had and hand her life and body over to a man she had never met. And, she had done it all willingly. It was simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying. No, no one she knew would ever understand this, but she did and that was all that counted. At least she thought she understood.
She stood at the door then, unsure whether to knock or simply enter. After a few moments she knocked, deciding it was something a proper slave would do.
The knock at the door took long enough. Aidan hated waiting, but it was expected considering the one he picked this time. It was her hair. She wore no makeup and her clothes were passable but she spent little time in her appearance. Her hair was completely different however. It fell well past the small of her back in one even line, and it was apparent that a great deal of care was devoted towards it. It was the color of onyx and flawless no matter where the light hit it. It must have been a source of pride for her, and a source of envy among those who knew her. He would have paid to run his fingers through it. How lucky for him she had requested to give it to him.
Jessamine Doucet was a pretty little girl from some ridiculous state across the pond. He never had much love for Americans, and if it hadn't have been for her hair he would not have taken a second look. He usually looked for someone close that had some sort of experience playing the game. These women were less likely to raise a stink should things not go the way they wanted. And it always went somewhere they didn't want to go. That was the point after all.
Aidan preferred brunettes or blonds that were no taller than 5'6" with a more ample bosom. He also liked them to be no older than 23 so why the agency felt the need to send him this mess was beyond him. He was, for the most part, more interested in the sex than the actual domination now. Perhaps his contact thought he needed to change things up a bit. Whoever it was had not been wrong in the past, and it had been some time since he'd actually practiced the things he'd learned some years ago.
Jessamine was 27, 5'9 and completely average beyond that hair. Her only experience with BDSM was when a boyfriend of hers tied her up. She, apparently, had almost become someone's "pet" in college but it had fallen through for some reason. Now she worked as a rep for some company doing something so boring he couldn't even remember what it was. She wrote though. He was absolutely enthralled with her poetry. It was curious how one capable of so much passion could be so lifeless. It was just one more thing to peak his interest.
Actually the more he discovered about her, the more he needed to know. No matter how deeply he delved, however, he couldn't get much beyond the fact that she was an 'acceptable risk'. In this kind of relationship one could never be too careful. He, on the other hand, had given her as little information as possible. Mystery always worked in the favor of the one crafting such a scene. The agency of course had to vouch for him. She didn't need to fly off into the jaws of a shark that didn't at least have some semblance of humanity.
The second timid tap meant it was time for the little fish to meet her shark.
She heard him say come in. It was the first time she'd ever heard his voice and it wasn't quite as deep as she'd imagined. She pushed open the little wooden door and immediately noticed the office was small and sparsely furnished. It was unheard of for the president of a bank to have something so dull in America, and she quietly hoped that the customs were just that different here.
He sat at the desk intent on the file in front of him, and did not bother to look up when she entered. He was just as the picture he sent portrayed; a slender man with dark brown hair that was just turning silver on either side of his head. His face was hard and angular but not unattractive, and with few lines. He either had Botox or did not show emotion often. Something about him pointed to the latter being true.
She stood just inside the entrance, and it seems pointless to mention how loud and fast her heart was beating. Anyone standing in her place would most likely be just as unhinged. Her mind, however, was perfect chaos. A mess of what she could or couldn't, or wouldn't or wanted to do hit her at the exact same time as she waited for him to look up at her. Some part of her was sure the very first thing he would tell her was to remove her clothing, but there in lies the problem of walking from fantasy to reality. One is most often wrong.
"Please sit." He motioned towards the single chair in the center of the unoccupied portion of the room without looking up.
She walked very timidly towards the chair, looked at it as if it might attack her, and then sat down slowly. Her backside had not yet touched the seat when she heard him cluck his tongue and saw him shaking his head.
"Now why would I want you to sit in the chair?" He asked with a patronizing Irish accent, still without looking up.
She stood back up, moved to the side of the chair, and lowered herself to her knees. It was painful, but she was supposed to be a slave. She never once thought that everything she was going to do would be comfortable.
"To the front." This last instruction was clipped with a hint of irritation.
She started to stand which provoked a look of disapproval. The first look she'd received. He stared at her with unnaturally green eyes until she dropped back down to her knees, then he returned to his document_
She moved on all fours to the front of the chair, and then kneeled back down. Her back was against the seat of the chair, and she sat to the side of her knees since she was unsure how long she would be there and her knees were already hurting.
"On your knees!" he pushed the document aside, the hint of irritation in his voice now full blown annoyance. "And exactly how am I supposed to sit in that chair?" His face was still a placid mask.
"Well, if you would tell me what to do…" she started in an exasperated tone as she began moving forward
He stood up and walked over to her before she even had time to register that he had moved. He grabbed a hand handful of silken locks and hauled her forward the proper distance from the chair. She yelped when she felt the sting as hair suddenly supported some of the weight of her body. A moment later he used the leverage he had to force her head to the ground as he dropped down to one knee.
"I'll tell you if I wish to, otherwise you should simply know." He said in a cool and even tone. "If you do not then you will be shone in a manner that you will not easily forget."
He pulled her back to a kneeling position as he stood, barely able to cover a smile. It had been some time since he'd been required to reprimand a newcomer on the first day. He returned to his desk, opened the center drawer, and placed the contract inside.
She watched him set an ornate brown leather collar with a single ring and matching leash, a silver brush, and a set of gold toned scissors on the desk. She was on edge watching every action in an effort to discern what he might want and avoid any further rough treatment. Again, a downfall to doing something so fully that one only fantasized about.
He picked up the brush and the scissors and sat down in the chair behind her. He could tell how tense she was even through the jacket she wore. He set the scissors down beside him and felt her jump when he grabbed a handful of tangled hair and began gently pulling the brush through it.
"Answer my questions for now, but generally you shouldn't speak unless you are instructed to." He said softly as he worked the brush through her hair. He was actually a little upset at what he was about to do.
"Yes…master?" she said timidly
He couldn't help but laugh. The word was so archaic.
"Sir will do." He was already halfway through the tangles. "How long did it take you?" He asked.
"Ten years, Sir." She answered quietly, hoping he meant her hair.
"It's quite beautiful. Those who know you must envy you."
"I…suppose." Actually they hated her for it, but she didn't want to seem too proud.
"Actually it's what drew me to you out of everyone else. Why put so much effort into it?" He finished brushing the strands, which now hung straight and perfect down across her feet.
"I…I just always wanted it." She was beaming now. She loved praise and the fact that something about her had singled her out was enough to make her want to dance.
She heard him set the brush down and pick up the scissors.
"Don't stutter when you answer me. You won't get many chances to speak and you should make them count." Every sentence was an instruction without emotion.
She felt him gather her hair into his left hand just below her shoulders and pull it tight. Suddenly it occurred to her what he meant to do and nervousness turned to panic.
"What are you doing?" she asked as she tried to pull away from him.
"That's odd I don't remember asking you a question." He said as he grasped her hair more tightly. She heard metal grind against metal as he opened the scissors.
"Please!" She tried to twist around with tears in her eyes. "Please! I'll do anything! Please don't cut it!" She was begging him, loudly.
If he thought he could hold her steady he would have let her beg a few moments longer, but this called for swift action. He pulled the hair tight again and quickly closed the blades across the taut strands.
She stared in disbelief when he dropped the 3 feet of ebon locks in front of her, the only thing she had ever really prided herself on. She did not even move when he knelt down to whisper in her ear.
"A slave does not feel pride in anything they have because they do not have anything." He stood up with the last word and walked towards the door. "Perhaps solitude will help it set in further." He slipped out the door, locking it behind him.
