Miss Chink wakes up with a jolt. She has just fallen down some stairs in a dream, and she bolts upright, momentarily disoriented. It is dark, and she’s in White God’s bed alone. Something has woken her, some nagging thought. She glances over at the alarm clock on her bedside. It is five in the morning, but she feels rested. Why is that? Oh—it’s the time difference—it would be five in the afternoon in New York.
Holy crap … I need to take my pill.
She clambers out of bed, grateful for whatever it is that has woken her. She can hear faint notes from the piano. White God is playing.
This I must see.
She loves watching him play. Naked, she grabs her bathrobe from the chair and wanders quietly down the corridor, slipping on her robe and listening to the magical sound of the melodic lament that’s coming from the great room.
Shrouded in darkness, White God sits in a bubble of light as he plays, and his hair glints with burnished copper highlights. He looks naked, though she knows he’s wearing his PJ bottoms. He’s concentrating, playing beautifully, lost in the melancholy of the music. She hesitates, watching from the shadows, not wanting to interrupt him.
I want to hold him.
He looks lost, sad even, and achingly lonely—or maybe it’s the music that’s so full of poignant sorrow. He finishes the piece, pauses for a split second, then starts to play it again. She moves cautiously toward him, drawn as the moth to the flame … the idea makes her smile. He glances up at her and frowns before his gaze returns to his hands.
Oh, crap, is he pissed off that I’m disturbing him?
“You should be asleep, Chink,” he scolds mildly.
She can tell he’s preoccupied with something.
“So, should you,” she retorts not quite as mildly.
He glances up again, his lips twitching with a trace of a smile.
“Are you scolding me, you little chink slave?’
“Yes, my White God, I am.”
He frowns once more as a trace of irritation or anger flashes across his face.
With me? Surely not.
She ignores his facial expression and very bravely sits down beside him on the piano stool, placing her head on his bare shoulder to watch his deft, agile fingers caress the keys. He pauses fractionally, and then continues to the end of the piece.
“What was that,” she asks softly.
“Chopin. Prelude pus twenty-eight, number four. In E minor, if you are interested,” he murmurs.
“I’m always interested in what you do.”
He turns and softly presses his lips against my hair.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. Play the other one.”
“The Bach piece that you played the first night I stayed.”
“Oh, the Marcello.”
He starts to play slowly and deliberately. She feels the movement of his hands on his shoulders as she leans against him and closes her eyes. The sad, soulful notes swirl slowly and mournfully around Ms. Chink and her White God, echoing off the walls. It is a hauntingly beautiful piece, sadder even than the Chopin, and she loses herself to the beautify of the lament. To a certain extent, it reflects how she feels. The deep poignant longing she has to know this extraordinary White God better, to try to understand His sadness. All too soon, the piece is at an end.
“Why do you only play such sad music?”
She sits upright and gazes up at him as he shrugs in answer to her question, his expression wary.
“So you were very young when you started to play?” She prompts.
He nods, his wary look intensifying. After a moment he volunteers. “I threw myself into learning the piano to please my new mother.”
“To fit into the perfect family?”
“Yes, so to speak,” he says evasively. “Why are you awake? Don’t you need to recover from yesterday’s exertions?”
“I need to take my pill.”
He raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Well remembered,” he murmurs, and she can tell he’s impressed. “Only you would start a course of time-specific birth control pills in a different time zone. Perhaps you should wait half an hour and then another half hour tomorrow mroning. So eventually you can take them at a reasonable time.”
“Good plan,” she breathes. “So what shall we do for half an hour?” She blinks innocently at him.
“I can think of a few things.” He grins salaciously. She gazes back impassively as her insides clench and melts under his knowing look.
“On the other hand, we could talk,” she suggests innocently.
His brow creases.
“I prefer what I have in mind.” He scoops her onto his lap.
“You’d always rather have sex than talk.” She laughs, steadying herself by holding on to his upper arms.
“True, especially with tiny chink slaves.” He nuzzles her hair and starts a steady trail of kisses from below her ear to her throat. “Maybe on my piano,” he whispers.
Oh my. My whole body tightens at the thought. Piano. Wow.
“I want to get something straight,” she whispers as her pulse starts to accelerate, and her inner goddess closes her eyes, reveling in the feel of his lips on her.
He pauses momentarily before continuing his sensual assault.
“Always so eager for information, Miss Chink. What needs straightening out?” He breathes against her skin at the base of her neck, continuing his soft gentle kisses.
“Us,” she whispers as she closes her eyes.
“Hmmm. What about us?” He pauses his trail of kisses along her shoulder.
He lifts his head to gaze down at her, a hint of amusement in his eyes and sighs. He strokes his fingertips down her cheek.
“Well, I think the contract is moot, don’t you?” His voice is low and husky, his eyes soft.
“Moot.” He smiles. She gapes at him quizzically.
“but you were so keen.”
“Well, that was before. Anyways. The rules aren’t moot. They still stand.” His expression hardens slightly.
“Before? Before what?”
“Before …” He pauses and the wary expression is back.
“More.” He shrugs.
“Besides, we’ve been in the playroom twice now, and you haven’t run screaming for the hills.”
“Do you expect me to?”
“Nothing you do is expected, chink.” He says dryly.
“So let me be clear. You just want me to follow the rules element of the contract all the time and not the rest of the contract?’
“Except in the playroom. I want you to follow the spirit of the contract in the playroom, and yes, I want you to follow the rules—all the time. Then I know you’ll be safe, and I will be able to have you anytime I wish.”
“And if I break one of the rules?”
“Then I’ll punish you.”
“But won’t you need my permission?”
“And if I say no?”
He gazes at the chink for moment, with a confused expression.
“If you say no, you’ll say no.”
She pulls away from him and stands. She needs some distance. He frowns as she stares down at him. He looks puzzled and wary again.
“So the punishment aspect remains.”
“Yes, but only if you break the rules.”
“I’ll need to reread them,” she says, trying to recall the details.
“I’ll fetch them for you.” His tone is suddenly businesslike.
Whoa. This has gotten serious so quickly.
He rises from the piano and walks lithely to his study. Her scalp prickles.
Jeez, I need some tea. The future of our so-called relationship is being discussed at 5:45 in the morning when he’s preoccupied with something else—is this wise?
She heads into the kitchen, which is still shrouded in darkness. Where are the light switches? She finds them, flicks them on, and pour water into the kettle.
She rummages in her purse, which she left on the breakfast bar, and finds them quickly.
One swallow and I’m done.
By the time she finishes, White God is back, sitting on one of the barstools, watching her intently.
“Here you go.” He pushes a typed piece of paper toward her, and she notices that he’s crossed some things out.
The Chink will obey any instructions given by the White God immediately without hesitation or reservation and in an expeditious manner. The Chink will agree to any sexual activity deemed fit and pleasurable by the White God excepting those activities that are outlined in hard limits (Appednix2). She will do so eagerly and without hesitation.
The Chink will ensure she achieves a minimum of eight seven hours’ sleep a night when she is not with the Dominant.
The Chink will eat regularly to maintain her health and wellbeing from a prescribed listed of foods (Appendix 4). The Chink will not snack between meals, with the exception of fruit.
While with White God, the Chink will wear clothing only approved by the White God. White God will provide a clothing budget for the Chink, which the Chink shall utilize. White God shall accompany the Chink to purchase clothing on ad hoc basis.
White God shall provide the Chink with a personal trainer four three times a week in the hour-long sessions at times to be mutually agree upon by the personal trainer and the Chink. The personal trainer will report to the White God on the Chink’s progress.
The Chink will keep herself clean and shaved and/or waxed at all times. The Chink will visit a beauty salon of the White God’s choosing at times to be decided by the White God and undergo whatever treatments the White God sees fit.
The Chink will not drink to excess, smoke, take recreational drugs or put herself in any unnecessary danger.
The Chink will not enter into any sexual relations with anyone other than White God. The Chink will conduct herself in a respectful and modest manner at all times. She must recognized that her behavior is a direct reflection on the White God. She shall be held accountable for any misdeeds, wrongdoings, and misbehavior committed when not in the presence of White God.
Failure to comply with any of the above will result in immediate punishment, the nature of which shall be determined by White God.
“So, the obedience thing still stands?”
“Oh yes.” He grins.
She shakes her head amused, and before she realizes it, she rolls her eyes at him.
“Did you just roll your eyes at me, Chink?” HE breathes.
“Possibly, depends what your reaction is.”
“Same as always,” he says, shaking his head, his eyes alight with excitement.
Miss Chink swallows instinctively and a frisson of exhilaration runs through her.
Holyshit. What am I going to do?
“Yes?” He licks his lower lip.
“You want to spank me now.”
“Yes. And I will.”
“Oh, really?” She challenges, grinning back at him.
Two can play this game.
“Are you going to stop me?’
“You’re going to have to catch me first.”
His eyes widen a fraction, and he grins, slowly getting to his feet.
“Oh really, you little chink slave?”
The breakfast bar is between Miss Chink and White God. She has never been more grateful for its existence than in this moment.
“And you’re biting your lip,” he breathes, moving slowly to his left as she moves to hers.
“You wouldn’t,” she teases, “After all, you roll your eyes.” She tries to reasoning with him. He continues to move toward his left, as does she.
“Yes, but you’ve just raised the bar on the excitement stakes with this game.” His eyes blaze, and wild anticipation emanates form him.”
“I’m quite fast, you know.” She tries for nonchalance.
“So am I.”
He’s stalking her in his own kitchen.
“Are you going to come quietly?” He asks.
“Do I ever?”
“What do you mean, you little chink?” He smirks. “It’ll be worse for you if I have to come and get you.”
“That’s only if you catch me, my White God. And right now, I have no intention of letting you catch me.”
“Chink, you may fall and hurt yourself. Which will put you in direction contravention of rule number seven, now six.”
“I have been in danger since I met you, my White God, rules or no rules.”
“Yes, you have,” he pauses, and his brow furrows.
Suddenly, he lunges for her, making her squeal and run for the dining room table. She manages to escape, putting the table in between. Her heart is pounding and adrenaline has spiked through her body.
Boy that is thrilling. I’m a child again, though that’s not right.
She watches him carefully as he paces delibeartely toward her. She inches away.
“You certainly know how to distract.”
“I aim to please. Distract you from what?”
“Life. The universe.” He waves one of his hands vaguely.
“You did seem very preoccupied as you were playing.”
He stops and folds his arms, his expression amused.
“We can do this all day, hink, but I will get you, and it will just be worse for you when I do.”
“No, you won’t.”
I must not be overconfident.
She repeats this as a mantra.
“Anyone would think you didn’t want me to catch you.”
“I don’t. That’s the point. I feel about punishment the way you feel about my touching you.”
His entire demeanor changes in a second. Gone is playful White God, and he stands staring at her as if she has slapped him. He’s ashen.
“That’s how you feel?” He whispers.
Those four words, and the way he utters them, speak volumes.
They tell her so much more about him and how he feels. They tell her about his fear and loathing. She frowns.
No, I don’t feel that bad. No way. Do I?
“No, it doesn’t affect me quiet as much as that, but it gives you an idea,” I murmur, staring anxiously at him.
“Oh,” he says.
Crap. He looks completely and utterly lost, like I’ve pull the rug from under his feet.
Taking a deep breathe, she moves around the table until she is standing in front of him, gazing into his apprehensive eyes.
“You hate it that much?” He breathes, his eyes filled with horror.
“Well … no,” she assures him.
Jeez—that’s how he feels about people touching him?
“No, I feel ambivalent about it. I don’t like it, but I don’t hate it.”
“But last night, in the playroom, you …”
“I do it for you, my White God, because you need it. I don’t. You didn’t hurt me last night. That was in a different context, and I can rationalize that internally, and I trust you. But when you want to punish me, I worry that you’ll hurt me.”
His eyes darken like a turbulent storm. Time moves and expands and slips away before he answers softly.
“But I want to hurt you.”
He runs his hand through his hair and shrugs.
“I just need it.” He pauses, gazing at her with anguish, and he closes his eyes and shakes his head. I can’t tell you,” he whispers.
“Can’t or won’t.”
“So you know why.”
“But you won’t tell me.”
“If I do, you will run screaming from this room, and you’ll never want to return.” He stares at her warily. “I can’t risk that.”
“You want me to stay.”
“More than you know.”
He gazes down at her, and suddenly, he pulls her into his arms and he’s kissing her, kissing her passionately. It takes her completely by surprise and she senses his panic and desperate need in his kiss.
“You said you wouldn’t leave me, and you begged me not to leave you, in your sleep,” he murmurs against her lips.
Oh … my nocturnal confessions.
“I don’t want to go.” And her heart clenches, turning itself inside out.
He is in need. His fear is naked and obvious, but he’s lost … somewhere in his darkness. His eyes are wide and bleak and tortured. The chink can soothe him, join him in the darkness and brings him into the light.
“Show me,” she whispers.
“Show me how much it can hurt.”
“Punish me. I want to know how bad it can get.”
“You would try.”
“Yes. I said I would.”
“You are so confusing.”
“I’m confused too. I’m trying to work this out. And you and I will know, once and for all, if I can do this. If I can handle this, then maybe you—“ Her words fail, and his eyes widen. He knows what she is referring to. For a moment, he looks torn, but then a steely resolve settles on his features and he narrows his eyes, gazing at her speculatively as if weighing up alternatives.
Abruptly, he clasps her arms in a firm grip and turns, leading her out of the great room, up the stairs, and to the playroom. Pleasure and pain, reward and punishment—his words from so long ago echo through her mind.
“I will show you how bad it can be, and you can make your own mind up.” He pauses by the door. “Are you ready, you fucking chink?”
She nods, her mind made up, and she’s vaguely lightheaded, faint as all the blood leaves her face.
He opens the door and still grasping her arms, grabs what looks like a belt from the rack beside the door, then leads her over to the red leather bench in the far corner of the room.
“Bend over the bench,” he murmurs softly.
Okay. I can do this.
She bends over the smooth soft leather. He’s left her bathrobe on. In a quiet part of her brain, she’s vaguely surprised that he hasn’t made her take if off.
Holy fuck, this is going to hurt … I know.
“We are here because you said yes, and you ran from me. I’m going to to hit you six times, and you will count with me.”
Why the hell doesn’t he just get on with it? He always makes such a meal of punishing me. I roll my eyes, knowing full well he can’t see me.
He lifts the hem of her bathrobe, and for some reason, this feels more intimate than being naked. He caresses her behind, running his warm hand all over both cheeks and down to the tops of her thighs.
“I’m doing this so that you remember not to run from me, and as exciting as it is, I never want you to run from me,” he whispers.
And the irony is not lost. She was running to avoid this. If he’d opened his arms, she’d run to him not away from him.
“And you rolled your eyes at me. You know how I feel about that.” Suddenly, it’s gone—that nervous edgy fear in his voice. He’s back from wherever he’s been. She hears it in his tone, in the way he places his fingers on her back, holding her—and the atmosphere in the room changes.
She closes her yes, bracing herself for the blow. It comes hard, snapping across her backside, and the bite of the belt is everything she feared. She cries out involuntarily and takes a huge gulp of air.
“Count, chink!” He commands.
“One!” She shouts at him, and it sounds like an expletive.
He hits her again, and the pain pulses and echoes along the line of the blet.
Holy shit … that smarts.
“Two!” The chink screams.
It feels so good to scream.
His breathing is ragged and harsh, whereas hers is almost nonexistent as she desperately scrabbles around her psyche looking for some internal strength. The belt cuts into her flesh again.
“Three!” Tears spring unwelcome into her eyes.
Jeez—this is harder than I thought—so much harder than the spanking. He’s not holding anything back.
“Four!” The chink yells as the belt bites her again, and now the tears are streaming down her face.
I don’t want to cry. It angers me that I am crying.
He hits the chink again.
“Five.” Her voice is more a choked, strangled sob, and in this moment the chink thinks she hates him.
One more, I can do one more.
Her backside feels as if it’s on fire.
“Six,” she whispers as the blistering pain cuts across her again, and she hears him drop the belt behind her, and he’s pulling her into his arms, all breathless and compassionate
And I want none of him.
“Let go …. no …” And she finds herself struggling out of his grasp, pushing him away. Fighting him.
“Don’t touch me!” She hisses. She straightens and stares at him and he’s watching her as if she might bolt, eyes wide, bemused. She dashes the tears angrily out of her eyes with the backs of her hands, glaring at him.
“This is what you really? Me, like this?” She uses the sleeve of the bathrobe to wipe her nose.
He gazes at her warily.
“Well, you are one fucked up son of a bitch.”
“Chink,” he pleads, shocked.
“Don’t you chink me! You need to sort your shit out. White God.” And with that, she turns stiffly, and walks out of the playroom, closing the door quietly behind her.