Soft Limits Read online

  To him. Something tightens low in my belly and I want to twine my arms around his neck and whisper, Yes, Frederic, whatever you want. Call me your good girl, please. But I don’t really understand what submitting to him means and I can’t reconcile this desire I feel with my idea of myself as a modern, progressive person. I don’t want to sit unthinking at someone’s feet like a bimbo.

  Wiping my fingers on a dishcloth, I say, “She would say that you want to infantilize someone in order to take away their sense of agency. That female submission to a man is romanticizing the patriarchy. And there’d probably be something in there about propping up a fragile ego by denying someone else’s.”

  I expect him to laugh or say something dismissive, but he doesn’t. “So you don’t think you could submit to me and still be my equal?”

  Me submit to him. Give myself over to Frederic. I open the bag of rocket and start sorting through it for yellow leaves but my hands are still shaking. “I thought we were speaking generally.”

  “We were. Now I want to know what you think about submitting to me.”

  The pulsing between my legs intensifies. To give myself time to think I ask, “Is it like a dom/sub thing?”

  “It’s exactly like a dom/sub thing.”

  Jessica Christ. The thought of Frederic taking charge in bed is very arousing. Since he talked me through my fantasy the other night while I masturbated in front of him my idle moments have been consumed by thoughts of him. Frederic holding me down while he fucks me. Marking me with his teeth. Even slapping me across the face, which in my lucid moments seems awful but makes me come so hard. I think Frederic could touch me in ways that meant crying would be the last thing I wanted to do after sex.

  I like sweet and clever women who let me take care of them. That turns me on.

  Just now he took the knife out of my hand when I seemed distracted, and he often puts his hand lightly on my shoulder or touches my arm when I go to cross the street in case I look the wrong way. He’s been showing me that whenever he’s with me, he’s looking out for me. I like the things he does but it troubles me how much. Putting everything I do into his hands, that’s not healthy, is it? “Look, it’s like that fantasy I told you about. It feels good, but it’s best left as something imaginary.”

  Frederic shakes his head. “No. It’s not like that at all. Being submissive is about being yourself, if you enjoy that sort of thing.”

  He’s watching me closely, standing close but not crowding me. So, he does want me, but the elation I might have felt is tempered by uncertainty. As far as I’m aware the world of dominants and submissives is filled with frightening things like gimp suits and handcuffs and humiliation. What would he become in that world? I wouldn’t know him. “I like you as you are,” I whisper. “I don’t want you to get all ‘dom.ʼ”

  Understanding dawns on his face. “Minette, if you wanted to try this with me I would still be the same person as I am now. Maybe a little more myself in some ways, but I’d still be me and you’d still be you. I like you as you are, too.”

  My heart doesn’t seem to know how confused my head is and turns somersaults hearing this. “Oh. Well, what is it then, obeying you?”

  A small, self-satisfied smile appears on his lips. It’s the same smile he gave me when I was sprawled in the road in front of his car and I said his name. I narrow my eyes at him. Frederic d’Estang, you are so goddamn pleased with yourself. I haven’t agreed to anything, so you can just wipe that smile off your face.

  “It means being respectful and doing the things I ask you to. It means letting me do things for you. Look out for you. It means following my rules.” He runs his eyes over me, smiling wider. “Though you’re such a good girl I can’t even imagine what rules I’d have for you. You go to bed at a reasonable hour. You’re polite. You don’t get into strops. I’d probably just want to sit you on my lap and tell you what a pretty little angel you are all day.”

  I frown, puzzled. “That doesn’t sound very dominant.”

  “It is if you crave being told that by me.”

  A thud of alarm goes through me. I do crave that. When he says good girl I feel like I’m floating. How did this happen without me permitting it?

  He continues, and his voice keeps working its soft, insistent magic. “It means you like being in my control when I take you to bed. Being tied up. Being tied down. Having your ponytail wrapped around my hand. Having my hand wrapped around your throat.”

  I stare at him for several moments, struggling to fight through the images he’s put in my head. “Well, this was an interesting hypothetical conversation. Good, um, background color for the book.” I turn away, fiddling with the hair at the back of my neck.

  “Evie,” he says, drawing my name out with an exasperated edge. “We weren’t talking hypothetically and you know it.”

  He touches my arm and my stomach lurches. I remember those women and their smiles. Frederic est très régnant. “You do this a lot, don’t you,” I say, pulling away.

  “Yes. I like it.”

  I can feel my affection for him dim somewhat.

  “Evie? You look annoyed.”

  “I’ve interviewed a lot of your lovers, haven’t I? Even Sabine was your lover. I suddenly don’t feel very special.”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous, because you are. Chérie, we all have pasts, and I’m older than you.”

  “Yes, you are. I feel like a habit of yours.”

  “You’re not. Any woman that I suggest lets me take her to bed and be her maître is very special to me. I don’t go through my life hurting people for my own amusement, and I don’t take lovers out of habit.”

  The women who called him régnant all did so with smiles on their faces. None of them seemed to bear him any ill will. Where are the ones who hate your guts? You can’t be this nice. No one’s this nice. “How do they end, these affairs of yours?”

  “Sometimes they have a natural time limit. I have to leave the country, or they do. Sometimes they fizzle out to friendship.”

  “Do I have a time limit?”

  He folds his arms and thinks. “Either until you get tired of me, or the end of the London show. You have your life in England and I have mine here.”

  Jane Eyre wraps in January. It’s not that he says it unkindly, but it’s so clinical having the time limit of a love affair laid out like that. From my limited experience and what I read in books people usually fall into them and figure them out as they go along. But then, I suppose if you have unconventional tastes it’s best to lay out all your expectations up front for the other person. Maybe that’s the secret of why those other women think about him today with smiles on their faces. They knew exactly what they were getting into so there were no hurt feelings and muddled expectations.

  You’re thinking about it. Even though you tell yourself you’re unsure if you agree with the sort of relationship he’s offering, you’re thinking about it. Otherwise you wouldn’t be asking these questions. I tell myself there’s no harm in thinking or talking, but that same snide voice says, Oh? Curiosity killed the minette.

  “What do you get out of being someone’s...” What did he call it? “Maître.”

  He lifts his hand to my hair and plays with a loose strand. “I get to be your protector. I get to feel needed. When you sit in my lap and smile at me and tell me you feel good, I know that everything’s right with the world. When I fuck you and you look at me like you’re coming apart in my arms, that’s even better.”

  I feel a whimper rise in my throat. That’s what I ache for, losing myself in the hardness of Frederic’s body, the fierceness of him. His hand around my throat, holding on to my hair, I crave that. But there are other things I don’t understand. “Calling me ‘little angel.ʼ The way you say good girl and princess and kitten. Giving me Christine to hug. It’s so strange.”

&nbs
p; “Why? You like it, don’t you?”

  I think for a moment and then concede, “Well, yes. But it’s not what I thought a dominant would do.”

  He puts his head on his side, regarding me. “I see you sewing figurines in the garden. I see you hugging a cushion as you read. Wearing pretty dresses. Clinging to me as you cry. The things you do to comfort yourself make you happy, so I like them, too.”

  His thumb, which was stroking my hair, moves to my cheek, and his voice drops almost to a whisper. “You can be little with me. Small and sweet. Meld to me, obey me, cling to me. I like it. It makes me feel good, having you soft and happy in my arms.”

  Five months of Frederic’s fierce-sounding lovemaking, cuddles and pet names while he works on Jane Eyre and you work on the book. Five months of someone who listens to what turns you on, who feels good when you’re happy and tries to fix it when you’re sad. That would put a smile on your face. I can easily imagine, five years from now, someone asking me my opinion of Frederic d’Estang and me looking dreamy and saying something like, “Oh yes, isn’t he nice.”

  And if it’s got a time limit you don’t need to worry about being a traitor to your gender or having to justify what you feel for him to anyone else. It’s just a fling, an indulgence. Something just for the two of you. You and Frederic.

  Oh, god. Me and Frederic. He’s standing so close and my hands itch to touch him. Noticing my breath has become shallow, he smiles and says, “You think about it for a while, minette. I’ll be here if you have any questions.” He picks up the knife and places it back on the cutting board next to the peaches. “Would you like any help here?” I shake my head. “All right, then.”

  I smile at him from beneath my lashes, liking the warm look in his eyes. As I turn away to find a colander to rinse the lettuce in he loops an arm around my waist and pulls me back tight against him. I close my eyes, melting against the expanse of his chest.

  “Beautiful girl,” he murmurs, planting a kiss on the side of my neck, and then releasing me.

  * * *

  I’ve interviewed enough people now that I can put together a detailed outline for the book. It’ll be a few monthsʼ work, fleshing it out and editing the drafts. I’ll have an editor at the publishing house to work with once it’s submitted and do a few rounds of edits with them, but I’m determined to get it into the best possible shape before they read it.

  It also means it’s time to start interviewing Frederic. By some instinct I predict he’s going to be difficult and reluctant to answer my questions. He is.

  “Minette, you’ve talked to so many people and you have read so many interviews and profiles about me. You must be swimming in material.”

  “I don’t have everything I need, and the book is about you. People are going to want to hear your perspective on all the things you’ve done. They’ll want the inside story. Now, come and sit on the sofa.”

  Sighing, he gets up from the piano, where he still spends most of his free time. I glance down at my notebook when we’re settled. “I’ve made a list of the turning points in your life and career and the questions I have about each one. Think of the questions as a way for you to remember interesting details and anecdotes about each period. Colors, sights and sounds are good, the people you’ve met and the conversations you’ve had. What inspired and influenced you at the time. How you felt.” He’s smiling when I look up. “What?”

  “I like seeing you like this. You’re confident in your work.”

  “Thank you,” I say, smiling back at him, “I am. Now, forget that you’re being recorded, if you can. If you can’t forget, remember that the words you’re saying aren’t being carved into stone. You’ll have the chance to change anything later.”

  There’s a teasing light in his eyes as he says, “Yes, minette.”

  “All right. First, something easy. Tell me about your family home when you were a boy.”

  He talks, and I take notes as I listen, just a few details here and there that will help me plan what will go where. Mostly I watch him, the heel of his hand pressed against his temple, the shape of his mouth as he speaks. The things he describes are vivid and interesting, which makes my job so much easier as I don’t have to keep prompting him for details.

  My mind wanders every now and then to our conversation two days ago. Being submissive is about being yourself, if you enjoy that sort of thing. And that’s the question. Is it my sort of thing? Am I turned on by the thought of Frederic being austere, commanding, domineering in a sexual way? I did some furtive research on my phone into BDSM and landed on all manner of confusing yet arousing websites. After a while, though, I found I wasn’t getting the answers I needed, so I shut down the browser and thought about Frederic’s words instead. Meld to me, obey me, cling to me. I like it. It makes me feel good, having you soft and happy in my arms.

  How beautiful he makes it sound. It’s what I didn’t understand from the websites, that the point is for both of us to feel good. And if I don’t obey him? I remember the spanking, vividly. Frederic thwarted is Frederic ferocious. But the thought of him like that isn’t daunting. It’s exciting.

  Ninety minutes into the conversation I put my notepad aside, shake my skirt out and re-cross my legs.

  Frederic stops midflow and exclaims, “You’re not wearing any underwear!” He starts to get up and move toward me but I put up a hand to stop him.

  “We’re not finished yet. I have lots more questions.” I pick up my notepad again, an expression of exaggerated studiousness on my face.

  His lips thin, amused. “I have questions, too. What do you taste like? What do you feel like, all slippery against my tongue?”

  I’m tempted to abandon the interview, let him find out and then listen to the result on the recording later. But that would undermine what I set out to achieve. See, Frederic? You’re not the only one who can be surprising. “Oh, I don’t think your readers would be interested in that.”

  “Damn my readers, I’m interested.”

  “You were talking about your time in New York?” I say expectantly, trying not to smile.

  “Little minx,” he mutters, but goes on talking, his eyes wandering up my legs every now and then.

  I’m not trying to prove that I don’t want to be submissive to him. In a strange way I think this will help me decide whether to accept what he’s offering. It’s a little bit cheeky, a little bit disobedient, showing him I’m not wearing any underwear and then refusing to let him have what I flaunted. I’m pressing ever so lightly against the limits he wants to set for me, just to see what he does. I also want him to know that I can work perfectly competently even as I’m thinking about giving myself over to him. Doing a good job, no matter what, is important to me.

  We get all the way to his most recent show and I ask him what comes next.

  “Well, you see, I have this rather sweet young thing on my sofa and I intend to get my hands on her as soon as possible.”

  I tap my pen against the notepad. “Work, Frederic. What are your plans for the future?”

  He scrubs his hands over his face and groans. “I don’t know. This is not going in the book, but I don’t know.” Something glum has settled over him, and I watch as he runs his thumbnail along a seam in the sofa. “It sounds like I’m having a midlife crisis, doesn’t it? Existential angst; chasing after younger women. I promise you that’s not it. I have no problem getting older and it’s not your age I’m attracted to.”

  I put down the notepad, feeling uncertain faced with his sudden change of mood.

  “Singers my age usually work for another ten or twenty years.” He stares at me a long time, so long I begin to wonder if he’s about to confess something terrible. Does he not enjoy his career anymore? Maybe he’s thinking about quitting but isn’t sure whether he can make the break, or if he’ll be disappointing people like Sabine if he
does.

  But he suddenly stands up and looks at his watch. “We’ve been talking for two and a half hours. That’s enough. Come on, I know a Spanish bar near here that has a rooftop terrace and serves very good sangria.”

  He holds out his hand to me and, sensing that I’m not going to get anything more out of him today, I let him help me to my feet. We can come back to his thoughts about the future in another interview. It’s become very hot in the apartment as the sun has started to lower and drinking a glass of fruity iced wine in the fresh air sounds too delicious to refuse.

  I turn toward my room but his hand tightens around mine and I’m pulled up short.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’m just going to...” I turn back and gesture over my shoulder, but then I see the look on his face. I was going to say to put some underwear on but I’ve just realized he’s decided on the consequences for my little provocation.

  He gives me a withering look. “I don’t think so. Out. As you are.”

  “But it’s windy out there and this is a circle skirt!” I protest as he shepherds me toward the door. He makes a mock-concerned sound, grabs his keys with his free hand and locks the door behind us.

  Out on the street he keeps holding on to my hand, and I’d be enjoying the intimacy of it if I didn’t know he had an ulterior motive. “At least let me have my hand back,” I say, clutching my skirt one-handed in case the breeze gets frisky. I’ve never been out of doors without underwear before and it’s a very strange sensation. Even though my skirt is knee-length I feel exposed. That Frederic knows I’m naked under my skirt only ratchets up the sensation.

  He takes a firmer grip on my hand, smiling down at me. “Hand-holding is nice.”

  While we wait on the pavement for a car to pass, he finally lets go of me and his arm snakes around my waist, pulling me close. He murmurs in my ear, “Are you testing my limits to see what I might do, little one?”

  The sound of his low voice sends shivers through me, and I lean into him. “Maybe.”