Praise (Salacious Players’ Club)

Charlotte

Sometime on Sunday I receive a text from Emerson.

I’m meeting with some people at the club at 8:00 tomorrow morning. Let yourself into the house and I’ll be back around 10:00.

I type and delete and type and delete my response about ten times before finally hitting Send.

Yes, Sir.

He doesn’t respond. And Emerson always needs the last word, which means I’ve left him speechless. Which also means I’m getting what I want.

On Monday, I show up early, using the code he gave me to unlock the front door and get straight to work. I chose the same pencil skirt and see-through blouse I wore on the first day. I can barely focus on my morning tasks while I wait for him, and when 10:15 rolls around, I hear the garage door open. Quickly, I tidy my desk and rush to the center of the room.

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

The internal pep talk is the only thing keeping me from backing out because the more I think about it, the more I realize this is insane. And I have no idea how he will react. If he’s angry, I’ll be humiliated. If he’s surprised, I’ll be pleased. And if he loves it…God, I don’t know how I’ll feel.

I hear the garage door close, and I take a deep steadying breath. Then, I drop the pillow on the floor (thanks for the tip, internet) and fall to my knees. Facing the door he’s about to walk through, I bow my head and place my hands delicately in my lap.

There’s a tremor of nerves traveling all the way down to my bones as I wait for him. His shoes click against the marble floor as he passes through the kitchen—getting closer and closer—and I want to back out. This was stupid. He’s going to fire me for being so stupid.

But it’s too late. His footsteps reach the office door and they stop. The silence is heavy as he stands there and stares at me, and I don’t dare move. Keeping my eyes on my lap, I wait.

“What…are you doing?” he asks.

I expected this question, so I’m prepared.

“Being a good girl,” I reply, “Sir.”

I hear him take in a heavy breath. He’s going to say something harsh or tell me to get up or to stop. At least I tried.

Instead, he takes five deafening steps toward me. When he’s close enough to touch me, I feel his fingers reach for my chin and tilt my head upward. There’s affection in his eyes as he stares down at me, warmth trickling over me. The way that look makes me feel is like gold. If I could bottle it up and sell it, I’d be rich.

“You are such a good girl,” he says, and I nearly melt into the floor. “You want to learn how to be a good sub?”

“Yes, Sir,” I reply.

His jaw tenses as he deliberates his response.

“Fine. But not every day, understand?”

I try to fight back my smile, but it slips through anyway. “Yes, Sir.”

“I want there to be days when you’re just Charlotte, okay?”

My shoulders soften as I let his words sink in. Then, I nod.

“And if you don’t like it, you don’t have to do it. There’s a lot more we’ll need to discuss, limits and safety, and things like that, all right?”

I nod again, knowing from my research this weekend that he would say something like this. I learned that communication is the most important thing and that boundaries have to be set because there are a lot of things that can go wrong.

Which is why I came prepared.

“I wrote down my limits,” I reply, staring up at him.

He looks momentarily surprised, stroking my chin. “You did? Can I see them?”

I nod, moving to stand, but he puts gentle pressure on my shoulder to keep me down.

“Ah-ah. Crawl there for me.”

My lips part and my body is flooded with heat. “Yes, Sir,” I reply. He moves out of the way, so I can crawl to my desk, where the printed paper sits next to my laptop. Grabbing it off the desk, I hesitate for a moment, not sure how to crawl and carry it at the same time.

“In your teeth,” he replies, noticing my uncertainty. And I do as he says, biting down on the paper as I move back onto all fours, carrying it toward him. He’s leaning on his desk now, arms crossed and watching me. Once I reach him, I sit back in a kneeling position.

He strokes my head gently and takes the paper from my teeth. Then I wait as he browses through what I wrote. This is the nerve-racking part because there were a lot of things on that list that made me a little nervous to admit.

“Where did you get this?” he asks.

“It was a printable list I got online. Is it okay?”

He waits a moment before responding. “It’s excellent, Charlotte. I’m proud of you.”

I smile to myself. The list has over two hundred items and I had to rank each one from zero, being an absolutely hard limit, to five, being very interested, please do. Most of the list landed at three, which means curious. Naturally.

I know I’m supposed to keep my head down, but I can’t resist the urge to watch his face as he reads the list. To be honest, most of the items were hard to rank because they involved sex, and Emerson and I don’t have that kind of relationship, yet. All I know is that the more I’m with him and the more he pushes me past my limits, the more I want.

He doesn’t say a word as he browses, and his poker face doesn’t give much away. All I know is he’s reading things like…

Paddling, three.

Caning…two.

Serving, five.

Bondage…three.

Boot licking, zero.

Sex. No answer.

In fact, everything in the sex category is blank, from hand jobs to fisting—zero on the last one if I had to rank it.

It feels like forever that he reads the papers, and I’m sick with anticipation. I keep waiting to be scolded like a child. And I regret not at least putting a three or four under the sex categories, but how could I?

If I’ve learned anything this past month and a half, it’s that I should ask for what I want, and that sex doesn’t need to be so serious. It’s supposed to be fun and feel good, and that’s what I want…so why didn’t I ask for it?

From my boss.

Beau’s dad.

God, what am I thinking?

“Interesting,” he says without looking at me. Then he just sets the paper down on the desk and turns his gaze to me. “I’m not interested in physical punishment, so you don’t have to worry about the caning or the paddling. But you left a few of them blank, Charlotte.”

I clear my throat. “I didn’t know…”

“Sex isn’t necessary, you understand that, right?”

“Yes.”

“In fact,” he adds. “I’m willing to teach you what you need to know to be a proper submissive, but we have to maintain an appropriate relationship. You’re still my employee, and Beau’s…friend.”

Disappointment washes over me. “Okay.”

“For now, I want you to go back to your desk and do your tasks for the day. You’ll be silent and only address me as Sir if you have a question. Otherwise, you’ll stay at your desk, and when I need you, I’ll call you over and you’ll do what I say. Is that clear?”

I’m hit with another wave of disappointment. Just be silent at my desk? That’s it? “Yes, Sir,” I reply obediently.

“Good girl. On your feet then.” He reaches a hand down, and I place my fingers in his as he lifts me to a standing position. Once I’m upright, his gaze drifts down from my face to my blouse, noticing my black bra again like he did on my first day.

“Go ahead, then. Get to work,” he says, and his voice sounds a touch strained as if that’s not quite what he wanted to say. As if he’s holding back.

I’m restless in my chair as I work for the next hour. He asks me to get him coffee and to put in a delivery order for lunch, but for the most part, it’s a regular work day. But unlike every other work day, I’m silent and I miss talking to him.

After lunch, he has a video conference meeting planned with Garrett, Hunter, and Maggie. Apparently, they have something to discuss with their lawyer, and I’m a little nervous about what he expects me to do while he’s on the call.

“Charlotte, come here.”

Getting up from my desk, I walk over to him, and he gestures for me to come to his side. Once I’m there, he takes my hand.

“I want you to kneel by my side while I’m on the call, okay? No one will see you.”

“Okay,” I mumble, and he gives me a curious glare. “I mean, yes…Sir.”

“Very good. Go get your pillow.”

When I return with the cushion for my knees, I drop onto the floor. I’m resting in the space just next to his chair, but hidden behind his desk…and I hate it. He does a little on his computer while I wait, and I honestly start questioning everything I have chosen to do up to this point. This isn’t what I expected at all. I expected him to pay attention to me. I expected for it to be sexy, and at some point, I expected something, anything, to feel good. Where is this beloved subspace everyone online raves about?

His meeting starts and he and his co-owners start chatting, but I can’t do anything. At least before, I would take notes and be useful. This is ridiculous. I’m just staring at his desk, hidden like a dirty secret. But I’m going to see this through. I’ll tell him later that I just didn’t like being ignored. He’ll understand.

When the lawyer gets on the call, Maggie does most of the talking, and I notice Emerson start to tense up. He looks down at me with a furrow between his brows, and I gaze up at him. Everything about this feels wrong. Shouldn’t I be doing something?

Just then, he reaches down and brushes my hair out of my face. With his eyes still longingly locked on mine, he strokes my hair again and again.

I want to resist. I’d like to express how demeaning this is and how stupid I feel, but there’s something I didn’t anticipate with every ounce of his attention. There’s this visceral connection between us, and it’s stronger than any I’ve felt before with other guys. He’s touching me with adoration, and I can see his shoulders soften as he does, the tension melting off of his face.

In the background, Maggie and the lawyer just keep talking, but Emerson’s not listening and neither am I. Right now we exist in our own separate world.

He gently rolls back his chair and turns toward me, exposing his leg to me, and I instinctually rest my cheek against his thigh.

“Perfect,” he whispers almost silently. And I swim in his praise.

He’s not taking anything I’m not willfully giving. This relationship is symbiotic and wholly powerful. Intoxicating almost.

His large hand brushes through my hair, and I shut my eyes, trying to absorb the way his confidence and calmness washes over me. I wonder if he can feel it too; I have a feeling he can, and I’m almost certain this connection is mutual.

“Emerson,” Maggie calls from the computer, and he freezes, looking up at her. It breaks the silence, and I almost hate her for it. “Can you have Charlotte transfer over those files after our meeting? I’m going to go over them tonight.”

“Yes, I can,” he replies, and I gaze up at him. They can’t see me on the camera, and unlike fifteen minutes ago, I suddenly love feeling like his dirty little secret. Because now it feels deliberate. His attention is deliberate. And that’s what I really want, more than I care to admit.

It makes me wonder if the rest of them suspect I’m down here, doing this for him every day. They know what Emerson likes. They know he hires girls for this, and although he’s told them I’m just his secretary, they might suspect that I’m also doing this. For some reason, I really want them to know. Suddenly, I want everyone to know.

I’ve never had a desire to be claimed before, but suddenly, it’s like I need the world to know I belong to Emerson Grant. Which is ridiculous.

The meeting comes to an end, and our work day resumes in the same way it started. For the first time in a long time, I’m relieved when five o’clock rolls around. Not because I didn’t like certain moments of this very strange day, but because I’m ready to go back to being Charlotte and Emerson again. Just us.

Looking up from my desk at five, I realize that I don’t quite know what to do at this point. Do I call end scene and say goodbye like nothing weird happened here today?

Almost as if he could read my mind, he looks up at me. “That’s enough for today, Charlotte.”

“Yes, Sir,” I reply by habit. Hesitantly, I stand up and start gathering my things. I can feel his eyes on me.

“What did you think?”

I turn toward him with my purse on my shoulder. With a shrug, I say, “It was different. But I liked it.”

“What parts did you like?” He leans back in his large chair, those wolf-like green eyes on me.

“Umm…” I’m a little torn with my answer because it almost feels like he’s testing me. “It’s not really about what I like, is it? As your sub, my job is to please you.”

He looks impressed as that crooked, sly smile I’ve come to love over the past six weeks creeps across his face. “You’ve done your research.”

“I don’t half-ass anything, Emerson. You should know this about me by now.”

His grin grows, reaching his eyes and putting dimples in his cheeks. “Yes, I do.” Then, he stands and walks toward me. Keeping a couple feet between us, he says, “But I’m still genuinely curious. What parts of today did you like?”

I let out an exhale, trying to remain casual, as if we’re talking about lunch and not BDSM. “I liked being helpful, calming your nerves during the meeting. I like doing things for you.”

“I like you doing things for me too.”

That gooey, warm feeling is back as I stare up at him.

“How did I do?” I ask in a breathless pant. I’m fishing for compliments, and it’s obvious to both of us, but he likes to give them out, so I’m going to take them.

Reaching out, he touches my chin. “You did so good,” he replies in a gravelly tone I can feel from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. “You like me telling you that, don’t you?”

“Mm-hm.”

His thumb strokes my chin. “That’s what I thought.”

When his fingers leave my face, I let the familiar disappointment wash over me like it does every day. Every time I have to turn away from Emerson without another touch, I feel it. It doesn’t get any easier, but there’s really no way around it.

Leaving his house, I tell myself the same thing I do every day: I’ll never have Emerson the way I want, so I might as well get used to it.