tagBDSMWhat Now, Sir?

What Now, Sir?

byTigersPet©

This story is a sequel to Meeting Sir. You could read this alone, but it will make more sense if you read Meeting Sir first. Thank you for your votes and comments.

*

I walked back to my hotel, although I don't remember doing so. My mind was a whirl of conflicting emotions. The high I had been on from being dominated for the first time in real life by my online lover, John, was immediately replaced by the crashing, crushing feeling of betrayal when I saw that wedding band tan.

John had encouraged me to open up to him, to trust him, and I had. My god, the things I had admitted to him! He knew everything about me. I never held back. I was always truthful with him. And he had repaid me with a lie.

What else had he lied about?

It was such a stupid lie, too. He knew I was married—did he think it mattered to me if HE was? Why? Why?

I felt so incredibly stupid. It must have been a fucking game to him all along! It was never a game to me, though. I thought he was the only person in my whole life I could be one hundred percent me with. He fit exactly the hole in my heart that was leftover once I fitted in my husband, my friends, and my family. He was what had been missing from my life all along and I had been so happy, so grateful to find him. He understood me so well. Like no one else would or could.

But he'd lied. Which meant I didn't really know who it was I had been trusting, confiding in, even loving.

And didn't it also mean that he never really understood me, after all?

I remembered back to one of our earlier conversations. I had asked him point blank if he was married. He said no. I said I couldn't believe it—he was too handsome, too great to be single. I told him, "You know I'm married, so it doesn't really matter to me if you are. I was just wondering is all." He swore again that he was not married, in fact never had been.

"Trust me," he said. "Why would I lie?"

"Yes, John," I wanted to scream now. "Why would you lie?" Oh, god, why did he lie?

I threw myself on the bed once I got to the hotel room. I cried myself to sleep, ignoring the distinctive chirp of my cell phone that told me John was texting me. My husband, Grant, came in very late that night. I vaguely remember hearing him moving about, and then exclaiming, "What the fuck?"

Wednesday morning when I woke, Grant had already gone to his meetings. I showered and dressed in my robe and stood looking out at New York City. My enthusiasm for the city was completely gone. My enthusiasm for life was completely gone. Yesterday's vibrant colors were all washed out grays today.

What do I do now?

Sir's—no, John's (he would never be Sir again)—directions had given my days structure. His challenges had made me feel alive. Serving him had given me peace and meaning.

Now all of that was gone. Who was going to tell me what to do now?

I needed Sir to help me deal with the emotions, the betrayal, the pain. The feeling of being lost and alone was overwhelming. But I could not turn to Sir, because he was the one causing the pain.

Sir! Sir! My heart cried out for him even as my head told me there was no Sir anymore. I leaned against the cool window and cried, great wracking sobs.

Please! What now, Sir?

Most of the day later, I remembered hearing my cell phone chirping last night. It had been awfully quiet during the day though. I wondered if John had gotten the message that my silence was intended to send. I wanted to see what his texts said.

I looked for my cell phone on the nightstand, but it wasn't there. I was sure that's where I had put it, but maybe it was still in my purse. I looked, but it wasn't there. It wasn't in my bag. It wasn't in my coat pocket. It wasn't under the bed or in the bathroom or fallen behind anything. It wasn't in the room.

I couldn't imagine where it was, until the thought that Grant had it began to worm its way into my brain. But no, why would he take my phone?

I threw on some clothes and rushed to the lobby. I sat down at one of the complimentary computers and went through my accounts, trying to erase John. I defriended him on Facebook. I shut down my forum account where we met. I closed the gmail account that was for his exclusive use. I was in a panic at the thought that Grant had my phone and was figuring out what I had been doing. I wondered if there was any way I could erase the texts and voicemails on my phone from this computer.

But, it was getting close to dinner time. I figured Grant would continue his meetings through dinner, but I wanted to be prepared on the off-chance he came back to the hotel. I went back to our room and got dressed for dinner, cursing John the whole time. Bastard! This whole fucking thing was his fault! The goddamned liar!

The room phone rang. It was Grant. My heart stopped and the blood froze in my veins. I knew then he had my phone.

He said one word, "Pack!" and hung up. I burst into tears. He knew he knew it all.

Through tears, I started flinging open drawers and pulling clothes out. I grabbed everything out of the closet and threw it all on the bed. I got the suitcases out and shoved everything in them. I made two run-throughs of the room and the bathroom to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything.

When I determined that everything was packed, the fear/adrenalin rush I had been acting on leached away, leaving me feeling numb, weak, shaky. I dropped to the floor, unwilling to expend the energy it would require to move to the bed or a chair. I curled into the fetal position and let my mind go.

I heard a bellboy come in and start to load up our luggage. I heard him gasp and run out of the room. A few minutes later Grant came in. He squatted next me, ensured I was breathing, felt my pulse, looked at me eyes. He stood up and walked back to the door. "Get up, Kay." His voice was flat, emotionless yet firm. "We're leaving now."

Feeling like a zombie, I stood and followed Grant. I followed Grant down to the taxi, out to the airport, onto the plane.

About half-way home, I realized tears were streaming down my face. Grant had turned away from me at take-off and spent the whole time ostensibly looking out the window. John's lie had made me feel like I didn't know what was what anymore. But the thought of loosing Grant was incompatible with life.

Still looking out the window, Grant said quietly, "Stop crying, Kay. Go and wash your face."

I did.

After landing, Grant finally turned to me again. He looked at me intently. I couldn't tell if he hated me, but I thought he probably did. He asked me, "When did you eat last, Kay?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I can't remember," I answered honestly.

Grant lead us to a restaurant in the airport. He ordered dinner for both of us, and a drink for himself. He told me to eat and so I ate, mechanically. I felt hollowed out. My entire existence revolved around these two men. Who I am was defined by these two men. To lose them both left...what?

Once we got home, Grant told me to go to bed. I did. I waited to see if he would come, too, but he never did.

The next morning I was shocked to awaken to Grant sitting in the armchair by the bed. He was not dressed in a suit and it was way past time for him to leave for work. I couldn't remember the last time he had not gone into work. I figured I was in for a day full of emotional scenes and recriminations. I thought perhaps if I started with an apology, it might go a little better.

"Grant, I'm so sorry...." My voice trailed off as the expression on Grant's face got angrier with each word. I hung my head.

"You will not speak again except to answer a direct question. Do you understand?"

I looked up at Grant, stunned. That was the last thing I would have expected to hear Grant say.

He repeated, "Do. You. Understand."

I nodded.

"What is the answer to my question, Kay?"

"Yeah, Grant. I understand."

"All right. Get up and go wash the—filth—off of you."

I was beginning to feel like I had no idea what was going on. Clearly he knew about John and I, but why didn't he look hurt, forlorn? Why wasn't he asking me what he had done wrong? Why wasn't he pleading with me to love him?

"You will come down to the kitchen for breakfast in exactly one half hour. You will not put any clothes on before you come down."

I am sure my eyes must have been bulging out of my head, but I nodded yes.

One half hour later, I walked into the kitchen. There was a breakfast feast laid out on the table. Grant had been busy.

There was only one chair at the table, though, and Grant was sitting in it. I idly wondered where the other chair was, but decided I was fine with standing if that's what he wanted me to do.

Grant looked at my naked body and I was immensely gratified to see a flash of lust in his eyes. If he still wanted me physically, perhaps all was not lost.

Grant picked up the one plate on the table and held it out to me. He said, "I want eggs, bacon and biscuits. Butter the biscuits and put strawberry jam on them. And get me a cup of coffee."

I started to fill Grant's plate. My stomach growled. I picked up a piece of bacon and almost had it in my mouth when Grant said, "I didn't say you could eat yet."

I glanced quickly at Grant, surprised, then finished getting Grant's breakfast and coffee. Then I stood there, feeling quite awkward: naked and not knowing what to do or how to feel about any of this.

Grant looked up at me as if judging me. I felt the weight of his judgment: my eyes went to the floor in shame. Grant said, "Kneel at my feet."

I gasped in surprise. I recognized that he was trying to humiliate me, but I would gladly take it if it meant he could eventually forgive me. So I knelt at his feet, head bowed, hands in my lap palms up. John had commanded I learn that pose, so I knew I could hold it for as long as Grant wanted me to.

Grant patted my head as I knelt beside him. After he finished eating, he piled his plate with some of everything and put it on the floor beside me. I didn't move until he said, "All right. Eat."

Grant picked up his phone but I felt his eyes on me. I wondered how long and how far he was going to carry this. I wished he would go ahead and blow up at me. I wished he would cry and scream and let me apologize and explain. The guilt was beginning to crush me. I knew that before this I would have turned to Sir to help me deal with my feelings and despite the pain and loss of his betrayal, I still felt keenly the need for, well not him any longer, but a Sir.

Grant told me to clean up the kitchen, then have a cup of coffee. "Come to the bedroom when you've finished."

I did as I was told, full of trepidation. He wanted me in the bedroom—was that good? He wasn't giving me any clues to his feelings—was that bad? I felt I'd come untethered from my reality.

I walked into the bedroom, my heart racing. Grant pointed to the bed and said, "On your knees. Put your hands behind you." When I did, I felt the cold and heard the snick of handcuffs closing on my wrists. My mouth dropped open. Had I driven Grant insane?

Grant pushed on my shoulders and I fell forward, awkwardly positioned on my face. I turned my face so I could breathe. Grant pushed my hands down my ass and towards my knees. That relieved the pressure on my shoulders. Shoulder pressure quickly became the last thing on my mind, however.

I felt my ass combust in flames as Grant began paddling me. I screamed in shock and pain...and a little bit of relief. This I could deal with.

The first few hits were shocking simply because they were coming from Grant, but physically, they were somewhat tentative. He quickly got into a rhythm, though, and hit me harder, more surely. He grunted with the effort.

In a small corner of my mind I wondered when and where Grant had gotten the paddle. But mostly I just let my mind go empty. Smack after smack rocked me on my knees. I had to work to keep my nose and mouth free of the bedding as I rocked.

Grant hit me hard enough and long enough that I began to understand exactly how angry he was with me. I didn't even try to count how many times he paddled me, but it was enough times that I screamed myself hoarse. The pain, the anger, the loss, the guilt: it was being released with each hit. My mind and my body separated—emotionally, I was being freed. I was flying, floating. I felt good.

Grant finally wound down. He was breathing heavily, but I couldn't tell if it was just from the exertion or if he was feeling the same catharsis I was. I jumped when Grant touched me next. He grabbed my hips and shoved his steel-hard cock in my pussy and fucked me, hard.

"You fucking whore!" I gasped. Once again, Grant had shocked me. "This is MY pussy!" I had never heard Grant use those words and never dreamed he would say them to me.

He grabbed my hair and pulled, raising my head off the bed, as he pounded into me like he hated me.

"No one touches my pussy but me! Do you understand, whore?"

"Yes, Grant, yes!" My ass was on fire; my pussy was on fire: I was about to come.

"I hate you you goddamned whore!"

I screamed out my release, coming harder than I could remember ever coming before. My body felt drawn tight like I would break. I felt my pussy spasm around Grant's cock over and over, forever, as he continued to punish me with it. I yelled out, "I'm so sorry, Grant! I love you!"

Grant grunted and exploded, filling me with his warm seed.

He pulled out of my—his—pussy and took the time to unlock the handcuffs before falling on the bed beside me. I held my breath: what comes next? I wondered. My whole body shuddered with relief when he grabbed me to him and kissed me. I touched his face and felt tears. "Grant...."

"Shhh," he said, kissing me again. He broke the kiss and captured my eyes with his. "I love you, you know."

"I know, Grant."

"Did I hurt you, baby?"

"I'm okay, Grant."

He got up on his knees and rolled me on my stomach. He turned around and ran his hands lightly over my inflamed ass. He began kissing my ass while soothing me with his hands and his words. "I was so mad at you, Kay." I murmured that I understood. "But then I saw that the only reason you had reached out to someone else was because I had not taken you seriously. I'm so sorry for that."

"Oh, no, Grant...." It tore me up to hear him apologize to me.

"Yes, baby. You have to let me say I'm sorry, too. You tried to tell me what you needed and I didn't—I don't know—I guess I couldn't believe you. You're my princess. My angel."

Listening to Grant take responsibility for my betrayal was too much. I had to cry. "Grant, Grant, god, I love you so much and I am so, so sorry. I should have made you understand. I shouldn't have...I didn't have the right...."

Grant got off the bed. "Look at me."

I turned and sat up.

"This isn't over, you know. We have a lot to talk about, still."

"Of course, Grant!"

"You've got to prove I can trust you again. Until then, I'll be supervising everything you do, do you understand? What you wear, where you go, your computer, your phone. It's all mine now."

I smiled. "Yes, Grant."

"Now get over here and clean my cock, Angel-whore."

I rushed to kneel in front of Grant and took him in my mouth, but Grant said, "How do you answer me?"

I took my mouth off his cock and smiled again. "Yes, Sir."

Grant returned my smile. "Good girl."

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