Felicity's Journey

Part one – Desires, Discerned

It was this early September evening, on their fourth meeting at the end of the long, unusually wet and cool summer that Morgan determined their relationship could begin heating up. It hadn't taken as long as he had anticipated it would take to get to this point. For an instant he was anxious that he had forgotten the small blue velvet-covered box that had rested atop the bureau for all these years, needing to be dusted regularly. Then he felt it bulging in the pocket of his tailored St. George slacks and his mind refocused on Felicity, within reach across the table from him.

For generations since Tremaynes had settled in St. Andrews before the American Revolution and made their fortunes building ships for the Royal Navy, the sterling silver chain heart lock collar had been passed down from father to son, to offer to their chosen one. It had adorned the necks of the women who had recognized their submissiveness and desires, and willingly made dominance and submission the focus in their lives, devoting themselves entirely to the bond with their Tremayne Masters.

Each time the collar was passed down, the younger Tremayne was told about the journey that he and his chosen submissive would embark on together; that he would know when he had found his kindred spirit and the time was right to offer her the collar of consideration.

Morgan could still clearly remember how, as a boy, when he had accompanied his mother — his father had always called her "my beautiful slave Ariana" — on domestic errands, she had worn the chain heart lock collar in public with pride. And when she was within the privacy of Tremayne House and its grounds, she had willingly, silently, with nipples erect, chained and clamped, obeyed his father's requirement that she be collared and naked but for a leather chastity belt, twenty-four seven. The white leather, rhinestone-studded posture collar that kept his mother's head held high and her tongue respectful to his father when she was addressed, had also enhanced her beauty.

Morgan eyed Felicity's glossed lips as she spoke, and was pleased with the way the colour — a peach tone, which she had obviously chosen herself to go with the outfit, suited her. He imagined it would look pleasing on her nipples and labia, as well. For she would be required to keep these made-up should she decide to accept him as her Dominant.

He had desired Felicity from his first sight of her six weeks previously when, without a reservation, she appeared at the porch step of Tremayne House: Strands of her mid-shoulder length, tousled auburn hair blew gently in the summer breeze; her captivating green eyes looked up at him hopefully from under long, black lashes; the corners of her lips turned up in a nervous smile; her voice was soft and sensual when she offered a nervous "hello."

She had carried nothing but a single suitcase and was dressed in an oversize turquoise t-shirt that hid her upper-body curves and was tucked casually into blue jeans that hugged ample hips and derriere, and long legs. The t-shirt swelled tightly over her breasts but hid the rest of her upper body curves and ignited Morgan's imagination about what awaited him underneath the cotton.

Morgan desired her so much that he had barely been able to keep his mind on attending to the needs of his other guests until the end of the tourist season. He needed her; needed to be her Sensei; needed her to want him to be her Sensei.

And tonight he sensed that Felicity needed him also and was ready for him to guide her, but may not willingly admit that yet. If she wished only to be his supplicant and keep something of herself in a life outside Tremayne House, he would be comfortable with that. If she desired more than that, and surrendered her life and body completely to him, he would willingly be her Master. For she was the one, he was sure. He felt an adrenalin rush as he fingered the velvet box in his pocket.

Ever since coming of age and inheriting Tremayne House, Morgan had courted prospects. But each courtship had been called off — there had been no chemistry; no mutual desire. So he lived a single, solitary life in Tremayne House except during the tourist season, when he revelled in making new acquaintances and welcoming back old ones, ever hopeful that one may be his kindred spirit. Until now it had eluded him and an emptiness nagged at his very soul. There was something different with Felicity, however. He sensed it right away that morning on the veranda. It was in her eyes and the way she looked at him when she asked if he had any rooms available for longer-term guests.

Outside the café window, the single, two-lane main thoroughfare of St. Andrews was all but deserted even at this early hour in the evening, and the shadows were growing long as the sun went down. The days were growing short. Labour Day had come and gone; the tourist season was over; most of the shops were now closed for the season. He himself had only one more booking for the season at Tremayne House — guests from Maine coming for three nights; a couple touring on motorcycle. They had had no special requests and didn't require the special third-floor suite, which enabled him to prepare the rooms for Felicity. Once his Maine guests departed, he would put up the "closed for the season" sign and through the fall, winter and spring, would devote his full attention to Felicity.

On Friday evening, they would begin her journey of sexual self-discovery and awakening.

Steam spiralled from the frothy surface of his latte as Morgan brought the over-size mug to his lip. He gazed silently at her over the rim, four fingers of his long, slender manicured hands clasped fully around the porcelain and a thumb hooked through the handle.

He had left the parcel and note at the foot of her door, and it appeared she had followed his request precisely. There was just enough cleavage showing in the deep v-cut of the tight, black satin dress, and he could see a hint of the black lace bra peeking through the trim of the vee. The dress fit her perfectly, hugging the desirable curves of her body and pressing against her breasts enough to make the tips of her nipples visible in the material. The black stockings encased her legs and feet; the overall black aroused him.

The amber earrings dangled just below her earlobes and swayed back and forth, making quiet swishing sounds every time she brushed a loose strand of auburn hair away from her eyes or moved her head. Other than the lip gloss and a mere hint of colour on her cheeks, she wore no makeup, also part of his request. He desired to see the bare, soft, supple skin of her face in its naturalness. Soon, she would bare much more than her face — she would bare her body and soul to him, and herself.

"I'd like to thank you again for your kindness and hospitality over the last few weeks," Felicity was saying. "I know I showed up suddenly, looking like a homeless waif, but you've made me feel like more than just a guest. I hope you won't mind if I stay for a few more weeks, until I can get settled into a more permanent place. I passed by the real-estate office the other day, and there was a posting about a wonderful little blue home down by the harbour that's for rent. I'm considering it."

"I shall be most unhappy if you decide to leave Tremayne House," Morgan said. "Your very presence is most pleasurable. I shall have to convince you to not rent that little blue home down by the harbour."

Felicity smiled. "I'm flattered, honestly, Morgan. I'm a newly single, suddenly transplanted, 32-year-old woman all alone in a small town that apparently closes up like a drum after Labour Day. I guess you're my first friend as well as my host." She glanced out at the empty street. "St. Andrews is so small, I imagine we'll still see lots of each other. But I do need to finally get my life in order, and I think perhaps the next step is renting that little blue house. Maybe I'll let you call on me whenever you like, though."

"That would be most desirable." Morgan gestured at her with his mug. "The colour of your lip gloss is most attractive — a peach colour, I should think."

"Actually it's called "Enticing Rose," Felicity interjected, "by Lancome."

"Indeed, it is most enticing. You must wear it again — all the time, in fact; it suits you perfectly. Perhaps you shall make it the only colour of gloss you wear."

"Since you seem to like it that much, I'll have to make a point of wearing it again," Felicity smiled.

"Yes . . . I insist. It goes splendidly with black. Black is my favourite colour on a woman," Morgan said. "On the right woman, with the right figure, black is very sensual and erotic. You look most stunning. I am very pleased that you accepted my gift, and my request to wear the outfit this evening. I assume you are also wearing the high-cut panties and garter underneath your most attractive outfit?"

Felicity's face flushed, her shoulders tensed and her green eyes darted around the bistro to see if anyone had been in earshot. "I . . . er . . . um, yes," she stammered quietly, squirming in her chair, the dress rustling. "Please, Morgan, I'm not comfortable talking like this in a public place."

"Why not? The tourist season is over at last. There is no one here but the barista, and I can see that she is quite busy reading a Jane Austen book —Pride and Prejudice, I think. She is paying no attention to us. But very well, if you are not yet comfortable, I shall let the matter drop for now."

"Thank you. I wasn't expecting such conversation between us, at least not yet. Are we . . . getting serious quickly with the house guest, Morgan? I appreciate your hospitality and you've been a perfect gentleman. And I'll admit I could use at least one friend in this town, but I don't know that I'm ready for another relationship yet. And we still don't know each other all that well."

"I sensed from the moment that you appeared on the porch of Tremayne House that you were lost and empty. And yet full of hope that there was someone who would care for you, devote himself to you, perhaps even love you; someone with whom you would find your way again," Morgan said.

"And, I have been alone too long," he continued. "So I have decided to take a chance on . . . both of us. I hope to help you find your way, and make you ready for many wonderful things to experience in your life. You are a very beautiful, desirable woman. I hold the fairer sex in utmost esteem. I should like to guide you; possess you, be your Master for a time even — if I may put it that way; so that you may eventually be your own master."

"My master. Possess me," Felicity said. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't this the twenty-first century and men don't own their women anymore and treat them like their own personal domestic slaves? This isn't 1776."

"Quite so. But in some social circles, they still do," Morgan said. "It is interesting that you picked 1776 as a reference. Tremayne men, actually, have possessed their women since before then. Seventeen-seventy, to be precise. Perhaps you have heard the expressions, 'alternative lifestyle', or 'twenty-four seven,' or 'dominance and submission,' or 'BDSM'?"

Felicity shifted in her seat, tensing her shoulders. This conversation was getting more uncomfortable. "Yes . . . I have," she croaked.

"I see from your body language that you are not comfortable talking about this. Still, I should like to ask how?"

Please let's talk about something else, she thought, but Morgan's steel-gray eyes were fixed upon her, awaiting an answer and she found herself unable to resist his quiet insistence. She thought she'd finally buried the memory of stumbling on that book.

"It . . . was a long time ago," Felicity said. "I . . . was in my favourite bookstore killing time between university classes and just happened upon a book of photography in a bargain-book bin. I can't even remember the title. I think it was calledA Portrait of Sensual Slavery, or something like that. I had time to kill, and I suppose I was just curious and intrigued by the cover art, and started flipping through the pages. It was a book of photos of women, and men, in all kinds of leather get ups and positions and scenes. And in every photo, they were looking intensely at the camera, like they were content with being tied up spread-eagled, or bound to crosses, or standing there laced up in leather body suits with hoods over their heads."

"They do say a photograph speaks a thousand words. How did seeing those images make you feel?," Morgan asked.

Felicity remembered how she'd felt embarrassed to look down and see her nipples making two clear impressions in the material of her t-shirt, and feel moistness in her panties. She'd suddenly dropped the book, buried it at the bottom of the bin and glanced nervously over her shoulder to see if anyone had seen her browsing through it. Then she'd dashed out the door. She'd never told a soul about it . . . until now. "It . . . er . . . was an interesting book," Felicity said.

"I sense you are not being completely truthful with me, and I wish you would," Morgan said. "If we are to have any kind of lifestyle relationship it must be based on mutual desire and trust. I would not mock or think less of you if you said you found it arousing, for I imagine that by your hesitation in answering my question, it did. Am I correct, my Felicity?"

"Yes," she finally admitted, looking away from his piercing eyes and out into the evening. "I did. And I was terribly embarrassed. I ran back to campus as fast as my feet would take me."

"And how long have you been keeping this to yourself?," Morgan asked.

"A long time." Felicity drained the last of her latte and looked into her empty mug.

Part two – Awakening

"And I can see what it has done to you," Morgan said, compassion in his voice. "You have lost touch with your own sexuality. Ever since you stumbled on that book you have had a secret desire to be tied with your legs spread wide and your sex accessible at any time; or dressed in nothing more than a collar and corset; to be dominated by your lovers, at least to see if you would actually enjoy it and find it emotionally and sexually fulfilling. But you have either never found a lover who appreciated you and all your needs and desires; or you have always been afraid to ask."

"And I suspect there have been men in your life who have treated you with the utmost disrespect, but you have felt powerless to do anything about it," Morgan added. "That is not dominance and submission, my Felicity; that, in any form, is pure abuse of a woman and I detest that."

Felicity could feel her temples pulsing and her brain felt like every neuron was super charged, and she couldn't think clearly of how to respond to his monologue.

Morgan pushed his chair back against the wall and towered out of it. His broad shoulders were two whole heads above the bead-board wainscoting that ran around three walls of the café. "I should like to buy you another latte, so we can stay a bit longer and talk a bit more," he said. "I shall be back in a moment. Please do not leave yet, I should be very disappointed if you did."

Felicity shivered when a rush of September evening air wafted through the café as the door opened and a teenage couple sauntered in. They were arm in arm and putting on a public display of affection that didn't belong in a café where other people could watch. Felicity tried to look out the window instead but their reflections were clear in the glass. The young man's whole forearm was up her black leather miniskirt as soon as she sat beside him. Above her leather halter top, the girl, not more than sixteen, wore a blue-and-white lace collar with three large stainless steel o-rings sewn into it. The girl, her eyes downcast, didn't seem to mind what he was doing to her.

Felicity finally turned away from the scene before her at the sound of another mug clunking on the surface of the table. "Another latte for you, my Felicity. Come — so to speak," Morgan smiled, "Let us talk some more."

Felicity felt herself flush at the suggestiveness in his choice of words. "Maybe we could talk more quietly now that there are other people around us," she said.

"They will not disturb us, but if you desire it, then yes," Morgan smiled. "Your desire is my pleasure, my Felicity. I do hope you do not mind that I am calling you that."

Felicity opened her lips, but before she could think of an answer, Morgan said, "May I ask you another personal question or two? I should like to ask, but I am not sure you will answer given your reaction to my question about the panties and garter you are wearing, a few minutes ago."

Felicity glanced to make sure they weren't being overhead. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that the boy and girl were now on the far side of the café, completely engrossed in each other. She was half over his knee, in fact. "I suppose I don't mind," Felicity said. Her dress had ridden up and her thighs were chilled and sticking to the leather chair. She lifted her buttocks off the seat and wriggled the dress back down.

"I hope you did not do that on my account," Morgan said. "I assure you the sight was most pleasing when I rose to get that latte you are sipping."

Felicity stifled a choking cough with one hand and managed to set the mug down with the other.

Morgan laughed softly. "You certainly have a journey ahead of you," he said. He leaned in close, and brushed her bangs gently away from her forehead. He traced his index finger down her cheek. "When, my Felicity he asked softly, "was the last time that you had an orgasm and experienced sexual ecstasy, either by your own hand or at the hands of a lover?"

Felicity quivered. Jean-Franco had never spoken to her like this; in fact they had barely spoken to each other at all over their last year in the suburban Montreal townhouse. And when he did speak, it was only to willingly hurl verbal abuse at her on the nights that he wasn't out until four a.m. with his "friends," as he would phrase it. Whenever she tried to find out what he was doing in another life that she knew was being kept from her, he attacked her with words.

When he'd went to France for six weeks last summer, he refused to let her go with him, and he'd come back . . . different. And wouldn't tell her about the trip. From the evening he'd returned from Europe, until the day last month that their separation papers came through, he hadn't touched her in any way. He had only found fault in everything she did. He was no longer the man he'd appeared to be the afternoon five years ago that he'd seduced her at a convention at which they'd both been hired as simultaneous French translators.

That spring afternoon . . . the afternoon he'd charmed his way right into her panties the second day of the conference, during an hour-long break. Before she'd known it, they were in his executive-floor suite with a king bed and she was wearing nothing but a garter belt and seamed stockings from Linda's Love Lace, and Jean-Franco was binding her wrists to the corners of the bed with Pierre Cardin silk ties, and she wasn't resisting him. Then he'd spread her thighs and pressed his face into her. And she'd gasped as his forefingers peeled her outer lips and his tongue roamed all over her clitoris before probing as deep as it could go into her while she writhed and ground her hips into him. Felicity had long since put the hotel-room encounter out of her mind. Until now. Until Morgan Tremayne. Under the table, she pressed her thighs together. The black Lycra high-cut panties were damp and sticking to her.

"It's . . . been a long time," Felicity answered. "The last two years of my life have been hell. When a man goes from ripping your clothes off to constantly tearing you down, it tends to leave a girl feeling kind of worthless. I'm thirty-two years old, Morgan, and I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know if I'll ever fall in love again. Maybe if I do, the next time it'll be with a woman," Felicity said half-jokingly. "At least women understand each other's needs."