Something warm moved over her skin so gently that at first it was part of her dream, the edges between dream and reality a blur. She felt the softness of his breath passing over her cheek, caressing her eyelids.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry...

The words where little more than a sibilant whisper, like the rustle of leaves against the window of her consciousness.

She realized she was lying on her bed. A warm, wet washcloth was moving lightly over her skin, awakening the sting as it washed away the blood...

It all came hurtling back in stark detail-the knife, the jolt of pure terror as he drew the sharp point across her flesh, the blood, bright as death, the chains, the blindfold, the gag thick and dry against her tongue, the sudden sharp stab of pain in her palm, his huge cock impaling her like a sword.

The soft cloth continued to move carefully over her arms and legs. She was fully awake now but kept her eyes closed, her body limp. She let herself be soothed as she drifted, her mind emptying.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry...

The wet cloth was replaced with a dry one, patting along her body. She felt something gooey smeared onto her palm, which throbbed in a steady pulse that matched the rhythm of her heart. She felt the press of something binding the cut closed and then a covering of soft gauze.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry...

She felt the lift in the mattress as he stood. The touch of his lips on her forehead was as light as a father's kiss. The tenderness of it caused something to catch in her throat, but she stayed still, limbs sprawled, lips lightly parted, chest slowly rising and falling.

She lay waiting to hear the click of the padlock as he chained her in place, and then his receding step and light tread on the stairs. Then she could drift back into the dreams where she was flew, free as a bird beneath wide open, sunlit skies.

Sam stood by her bed for some time, watching her sleep. Rae didn't stir. He was glad, at least, that she was resting. He didn't know how long he stood there, his body heavy, his tortured thoughts bashing themselves like desperate moths against the flame of his regret.

Finally he dragged himself upstairs and into the shower, wishing the hot water could somehow wash away what he'd done. He scrubbed at his palm, wincing as the soap got into the cut, glad for the pain.

He toweled himself dry and went into the bedroom, falling naked onto the sheets. He stared unseeingly out the window, wondering how it had come to this.

It had seemed so perfect at the beginning as he'd spun his devious plan. He'd get the girl he'd been quietly lusting after ever since she'd lain naked and beautiful in this very bed, her eyes bright with need for what he gave her.

He would combine punishment with enlightenment, teaching her to accept her submissive nature. He would bind her closer to him day by day with submersion into her role as his sex slave until it became second nature, until the chains that bound her no longer kept her tethered, but set her free.

But it hadn't worked like that, had it? There were several key elements missing, elements he had chosen to ignore, even though he knew better. Trust. Consent. An exchange of power rather than a forced seizure.

Power corrupts.

He knew that as well as anyone. The relationship was flawed from the start, doomed to failure by its very setup. Relationship? Sam snorted aloud. There was no relationship. You couldn't take submission; it had to be given. It was a gift, but he'd stolen it, wrested it from her, forced her to hand it over or suffer the consequences. He'd used the guise of punishment for her stealing from him, but his motives had been far more complex.

Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Sam rolled from the bed and reached for his clothing. He knew what he had to do. And he had to do it now.

Rae's eyes sprang open at the sound of the basement door opening. She hadn't heard the usual snick of the lock turning. She hadn't heard the intercom with Sam's disembodied voice advising her it was time to get up. The overhead light flicked on and Rae squinted against it, wishing she could sleep some more.

She groaned as she struggled to roll from the bed to the floor to assume the kneeling up position. It didn't feel like morning. Her head hurt and her mouth was sour. Her arms felt heavy when she tried to lift them to clasp her fingers behind her head. She stared down at her right hand. The palm was covered in white gauze, a circle of red at its center where the cut must have seeped. She placed her hands, palms up, on her thighs and hoped he would accept this, given the circumstances.

Sam appeared at the bottom of the stairs carrying something. It took Rae's fogged brain a moment to recognize what it was. Sam had the overnight bag she'd packed with clothes she'd never been permitted to wear.

Moving toward her, he dropped it and stood staring at her, looking for a moment oddly helpless. Then his face closed, his mouth pulling down in a frown. He looked worse than she felt-his blond hair springing up at odd angles from his head, purple smudges of fatigue beneath bloodshot eyes.

"Get up," he ordered. "Don't kneel like that. Stand up."

His tone was odd, not angry precisely, but flat, as if she'd done something wrong. Had she done something wrong? Was he going to punish her?

She rose to her feet, wondering if she would be able to grasp her elbows behind her back as she stood at attention, without making the cut on her palm begin to bleed again. She started to try when he stopped her with a hand on her forearm.

"No. Sit down. Sit on the bed, Rae. I don't want you on your knees or at attention."

Thoroughly confused, Rae sat as ordered, tucking her legs beneath her body, making herself small. Sam retrieved the overnight bag and dropped it onto the bed beside her. She stared at it but made no move toward it, as he hadn't given her permission to do so.

He looked at her and then at the bag. He reached for it and unzipped it, rummaging through it a bit before pulling out a pair of underwear, a bra, a blouse and a pair of jeans.

"Get dressed. We need to talk."

Get dressed?

Rae hadn't worn anything in the weeks she'd been in the dungeon, except the corset and stockings he sometimes had her wear for his amusement. Slave girls didn't wear blouses and jeans. Why was he giving her this stuff? It was only day seventeen, wasn't it? Had she miscounted the little balls of tissue hidden in the drawer? Had she somehow lost track of that much time? Were the thirty days actually up?

Sam stood, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. "Come upstairs when you're dressed. I'll make some coffee."

"Upstairs?" Rae echoed stupidly. What game was he playing at? Was he ordering her to do these things so he could punish her for breaking the rules? Was this a new, elaborate sort of training, the kind where she would fail no matter what and then be taught a lesson?

Without waiting to see if she obeyed, Sam turned on his heel and crossed the room, disappearing up the stairs. She waited to hear the sound of the lock, but didn't even hear the door close. She stared at the clothing and finally reached out to touch the panties.

Again she wondered: what game was he playing?

Still, he'd given her a direct command. Get dressed. She knew she'd better obey. And coffee sounded very good at the moment. Maybe there would be food, too. This was the first time he'd allowed her to eat before showering, but nothing about this strange day was usual.

She pulled on her underwear, which didn't rise high enough to cover the word scratched on her stomach.

C-U-N-T.

She knew in her head she should feel outrage at this degradation yet she couldn't seem to muster the emotion. Nor could she deny the tug in her sex and the tingle in her nipples as she stared at her defiled body. She would have liked to take the time to think these odd feelings through, but didn't dare take too much time. Sam was waiting for her.

Gingerly she put on the bra, staring down at the faint trace of letters still visible on her breasts. There were scratches along her arms and legs and actual cuts on her inner thighs and, of course, on the palm hidden by gauze.

She sucked in her breath as she relived the scene in her mind. He'd used a knife, terrifying her, thrilling her, igniting sensations she barely understood. The session had been intense, even brutal. Yet how tenderly he'd ministered to her afterwards, gently cleaning and washing the wounds he'd inflicted.

Rae knew she should hate him for what happened, and she did, yes, of course she did. And yet...

And yet, something inside her felt different. Stronger. Newly empowered. She had seen her own blood; she had endured the cut of the blade. In an odd way she felt like some kind of ancient warrior who has been through a rite of passage. She felt a kind of pride, even triumph, that she'd faced it and come out stronger.

She pulled on her jeans and buttoned her blouse. She ran her hands through her tangled hair, wishing she'd had a chance to shower before dressing.

She could smell the aroma of fresh coffee wending its way down the basement stairs. She riffled through the bag and found her shoes, a pair of slip-on flats, which she set on the floor and stepped into. He hadn't said anything about shoes, though. She paused, hesitating, wondering what she should do.

He'd said to get dressed. He'd put the clothing on the bed for her. He hadn't taken out the shoes. She decided to leave them off, instead putting them back into the bag. With a last glance around the dungeon, she hurried up the stairs on bare feet.

As she walked through the living room, following her nose toward the kitchen, she saw to her surprise that it was still dark outside. She'd assumed it must be morning but now realized it must still be night. Why had he got her up in the middle of the night? The sense of disquiet that had fallen over her since he'd first come down the dungeon steps deepened. What the hell was going on?

Sam was standing at the counter pouring the coffee into mugs, his back to her. She couldn't help but admire the broad curve of his shoulders and the way the muscles in his back moved. She stood hesitantly at the door of the kitchen, not sure if she was supposed to kneel on the floor or sit at the table. She cleared her throat and Sam turned toward her. He smiled tightly at her, waving toward the table.

"Sit down." He placed a basket of blueberry muffins on the table and set her mug in front of her. He sat across from her, hunching over his mug, eyes down. She waited, wondering again what he was up to, but too well trained to ask. He usually let her drink her own coffee when he brought down breakfast in the mornings. Deciding that rule still held, she reached for the cup and took a sip.

"Hungry? Want a muffin?"

Rae stared at the basket, trying to figure out what he wanted. Direct questions, or were they rhetorical? He seemed to be waiting, so she said, "Um, yes, Sir. I am hungry. I would like a muffin."

"So, have one." He gestured toward the basket with his left hand and Rae saw the bandage across it. She flashed back to the scene in the dungeon, to the blood, the sweat, the terror, the pain, the desire...

Had he cut himself too? But why? The world seemed to be tipping around her, the rules changing too fast.

"Oh, I get it." Sam's voice brought her back to the present. "You aren't used to eating by yourself anymore. Well, get used to it. You have my permission to eat on your own. No more feedings. You're going home today."

"Excuse me?" She must have misheard. She thought he'd said she was going home.

"We're done. It's over."

Had she really lost that much track of time?

"It's been thirty days?"

"No, but it doesn't matter. You're going home. I've called a cab. It'll be here in a few minutes."

"A cab? What? I don't understand." She couldn't seem to process whatever it was he was saying. Where were they going in a cab? He had a car. Why didn't he drive? What about her shower? Her grooming? She wanted to crawl back into her bed and sleep some more. Then maybe she'd figure out what was going on.

She glanced toward the oven, noting the time on the small clock there: 3:05 AM. She realized they'd been conversing almost like equals. She hadn't asked permission to speak. This would surely result in punishment later. Deciding not to compound the punishment, Rae asked, "May I speak, Sir"

Sam looked annoyed. "Yes, yes, say whatever you want. And don't call me Sir."

Confused, even a little frightened, Rae continued, "It's the middle of the night. Why are we taking a cab? Where are we going? I don't understand what's going on."

"We're not taking a cab. You're. Going. Home." He made each word its own sentence. "We're done. You're getting off with time served, okay? That make it clearer for you?"

Why did he sound so angry? What had she done wrong? Was he really just sending her away? Just like that?

Whatever appetite she'd had was gone. Her stomach felt tight and hard and the coffee tasted bitter in her mouth. She pushed the mug away.

They both turned at the sound of a car horn beeping. "He's here," Sam said, pushing his chair back from the table. "Go get your stuff from the dungeon. I'll get your laptop."

She stared at him. "Go on," he urged. "Hurry up. I'm letting you go. Don't you get it?" The horn beeped again and Sam walked quickly out of the room.

Rae stood slowly. The clothing rubbed at her skin, irritating it. She heard the sound of the front door being pulled open, and Sam calling out that they'd be just a second. For some reason her legs felt like lead, but she forced them to move, to carry her back through the living room and down the basement stairs.

She gathered her toothbrush and other items from the bathroom and stuffed them into the bag. She found the shoes and slipped them onto her feet as she hoisted the bag over her shoulder.

With a last quick glance around the dungeon, she hurried toward the stairs.

Sam was standing in the front hall, Rae's briefcase in his hand, her laptop case slung over his shoulder. As she approached, he opened the front door and walked out into the night.

Rae hesitated on the threshold. Though it was still summer, there was a coolness in the air, a hint of the autumn to come. She looked up at the stars, a million diamond pinpricks in the black velvet of the sky.

When Sam turned back to look at her, she forced herself to step out into the night, following Sam down the walkway to the yellow cab waiting at the curb. Was this really happening?

Sam pulled the car door open and swung her things into the backseat. As she approached he took her bag from her and deposited that as well. He pressed something into her hand and she realized it was her cell phone.

Reality settled over her, heavy as stone. He was sending her away. She had dreamed of this moment a dozen times or more. She was being released from the dungeon! So why wasn't she filled with joy, ecstatic to be free at last? She would never have to see his face again, never have to feel the hard crack of his hand on her ass, the cut of the cane, the hot leather stroke of the flogger, the relentless vibration of the wand at her clit, the full feeling of his hard cock moving inside her...

"Go on," he said softly. "Go."

He pushed gently at her shoulder, forcing her down into the backseat of the cab. Leaning into the open window of the driver's door, he gave him Rae's address and handed him a wad of money.

"Wait just a moment, if you will."

Sam stepped back and, reaching into his pocket, pulled out something and handed it through Rae's open window. It was a piece of paper. Rae took it, though it was too dark to see what was written there. She half expected him to tell her to get out now-the game was over, she'd either passed or failed whatever test he'd devised.

But he said nothing. He really was sending her away. She realized with something approaching shock that she didn't want to go! She didn't want to never see him again. How could she stop whatever was happening now?

"What about the money?" she blurted. "The money I owe you? Don't we have to work out terms?"

"Excuse me," he said, speaking to the driver. "Can you turn on the light for the lady?" The driver obliged. "Read it," Sam ordered.

Rae looked down at the page she held in her hands. It was the indemnity agreement they'd written together, absolving her of any wrong doing, noting the loan of $133,000 made with Sam's full knowledge and consent. Across the sheet in big red letters were the words: PAID IN FULL, with Sam's bold, slanted signature beneath it.

"Take care, Rae," he said softly. Then he turned away.

Chapter Thirteen.

Rae stood for a long moment just inside her door. Her apartment was a single, large room, partitioned by carved wooden dividers that created the illusion of a separate bedroom, office space and galley kitchen. Along with her desk and filing cabinet, she'd furnished the apartment with plump, comfortable sofas and a big leather recliner where she liked to watch TV. The kitchen table was a fifties throwback she'd found at an estate sale, complete with a red Formica top and matching padded chairs with chrome legs.

There was a thin veneer of dust on everything and the air was close and still. She'd only been away for a few weeks, yet the place looked somehow abandoned, frozen in time. Dropping her bags, she moved toward the living room window to let in the fresh night air.

Sinking down into the recliner, she glanced at the wall clock. It was nearly five in the morning. The rising sun was already painting the city gray and lavender, with brushes of gold outlining the skyline. Though she was bone weary, Rae knew she wouldn't sleep. Her head was so crowded, it was standing room only.

Reaching for the remote, she turned on the TV. She realized she hadn't heard the news for over two weeks. She hadn't checked her email-Sam had done it for her, reading to her what he considered important and allowing her to dictate her replies. She hadn't seen her snail mail-it was being held for her at the apartment manager's office until her "return from Japan". She hadn't been shopping or walked the streets of Manhattan, or been to a movie or read a book. She hadn't even fed herself or used a razor on her own. She hadn't worn makeup or used her blow dryer or plucked her eyebrows or bought a new lipstick. She hadn't worked on drumming up new clients or even done any work for Ryker Solutions beyond a few brief consultations with Sam on the Ichi deal.