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One of the qualities about Claude she couldn’t shake, however, was his handsomeness—a strong, lean body, a chiseled face, a nice smile, but yet so introverted and shy he was, and bold enough to ask her out. This man was not as simple as, let’s say, Preston was or these English professors were who hit on her at the faculty club. He was, after all, quite beautiful when the light hit him right, quite reserved while wild underneath, and if she could teach him how to channel his wildness into poetry suitable for publication, why, she’d do anything.But again, she didn’t want to get too close. Her conservative attitudes resurfaced just in time, the pendulum swinging right, and she no longer had a need for the seventies melting pot motif, because all races didn’t necessarily blend, and the attempt to engineer her world came from some other place and not from her. As far as she was concerned, she did not control her own mind—someone else did—and she refused to go along with whatever attempts. In a very small voice Celeste responded. ‘I am sorry Master.’ Then she bit her lip. Why? Why had she used that word? This was no game they had just played. ‘I am sorry Terence.’ He untied her, and as she straightened she saw the boy dart back into the stable. She flushed, then despite her pain managed an inward smile. He was perhaps thirteen or fourteen, old enough to be aroused by what he had just witnessed, certainly. She thought back to her unbidden use of that word, ‘Master’. Yes, she had felt completely controlled, completely helpless, fearful to a degree she had never felt before. And it had thrilled her to the core, even in the midst of bitter pain. The thoughts completely erased her anger at him. Terence helped her stand, but she fell suddenly to her knees before him. He bent to help her up but she shook her head. ‘No, I am not in difficulty. But … I need to kneel to you. You Mastered me. I have never before felt quite what I felt when you punished me then. Perhaps I never.
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