Dread
1141 Words
"Were you following the car?"
"Yes, ma'am. He said you weren't picking up."
Holy s**t!
I pull out my phone, but then Banks calls back immediately.
"Are your rules a joke, or are my words?" f**k me.
His voice isn't loud or screaming but very stormy.
"I'm sorry... I didn't hear it ring."
"Get done and get over here," he grinds out, sounding every bit angry as he hangs up.
My phone pings immediately : *Vandiver will take you to the dermatologist. Appointment is confirmed.*
I put my phone down and read it again. *Dermatologist.*
"Shall we go miss?"
"Do I have a choice Mr Van?" He offer a tight smile and open the back door for me.
What will he say? No... More like, how will he punish me? I swallow heavily and jump up when Vandiver closes the door loudly.
"Jesus Christ!" I scream, clutching my chest, which is beating very fast beneath my palm
"I'm sorry Miss Eleanor" I look at him. Vandiver is facing forward, starting the car already to a place I'm sure he's used to taking Banks other subs.
"Did you call him or did he call?" I question, I know he heard me
"He called mis..."
"How on earth did he know I wasn't in the car?" I question cutting him off. He points at the rearview mirror and I slump back into my seat.
"Go figure" He monitors me? Does he have OCD for people or something? WTH! I can't imagine myself monitoring someone's life or whereabouts
*that's because you never sent them over two million dollars in less than a month of knowing them* A wry quiet voice says in my mind
"He's quite with enough time for a Billionaire" I muse as I lean back against my seat, watching the street move by.
"Miss Eleanor," Vandiver calls, holding the back door open. With a deep sigh, I trudge in.
The dermatologist’s name is Dr. Reeves.
She’s in her mid-forties, efficient, with the kind of professional warmth that’s genuine but doesn't waste time.
She looks at my face with the focused attention of someone who sees skin the way I see fragrance—as information.
“You’ve been using the wrong cleanser for your skin type,” she says without judgment. Just fact.
“I use whatever’s on sale,” I reply truthfully.
She looks at me.
"We’ll fix that.”
The appointment is forty minutes. She examines everything—the recurring spot on my left cheek, the cluster near my jaw, the texture across my forehead that I’d honestly stopped noticing because I’d stopped looking that closely.
“Post-inflammatory hyperpigmentation here,” she points.
"And here. Nothing serious. Completely treatable.” She starts writing.
"Your skin is actually very good underneath—good structure, good elasticity. You’ve just been working against it with the wrong products.”
She hands me a prescription and a product list that is longer than my current skincare routine by approximately eleven steps.
“The Vitamin C serum is the most important,” she says.
“Morning. Every morning. Don’t skip it.”
“How long until...” I gesture at my face.
“The spots? Four to six weeks with consistency. Your skin will thank you. It’s been waiting for this.”
I look at the prescription..
"Dr. Reeves, did Banks...did Mr. Wellington give you any specific instructions?”
She considers this for a moment with the expression of someone choosing between professional discretion and human honesty.
"He said to make sure you leave with everything you need. And that the goal was just to make sure you had the right tools.”
I look at the product list in my hand. He still cares.
“Okay,” I say. I take the prescription. I don't say the thing that is trying to climb up my throat.
Vandiver drives me to the pharmacy after. We have established a comfortable system: he drives, I exist. We don't make conversation unless I initiate it, which I usually don't because he has the specific energy of a man who has seen everything and is committed to the professional discretion of having seen nothing.
“Vandiver,” I say at the pharmacy.
“Miss Eleanor.”
“Has he sent other...” I stop. Reconsider. “How long have you worked for Banks?”
“Seven years,” he says.
“Is he very angry?” I question and look at the pharmacy bag in my lap.
Vandiver looks at the road.
"Mr. Wellington is very thorough,” he says to my confusion .
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” he says. “It isn’t.”
“Okay, Vandiver.” He drives while a heavy lump settle at the back of my throat.
From what I've come to know of Banks, he's quite imaginative with his punishments.
There was a time I mouthed off to him and he punished me by Edging me all night long.
Fuck! I close my eyes at the memory.
He poked his d**k at my entrance, not fully entering, then he'll bring it out with an upward thrust.
I gulp,the memory getting vivid. It was both hot and insane and very horrible. Because after all those edgin, I was so wet and hot yet Banks never f****d me. I thought I'll die. I touched myself and a whip responded immediately on my t**s.
"No! I can't go through that again." I whisper, shaking my head.
"We're here Miss Eleanor " I blink and look around.
We arrive at his apartment, and the lump settling in my throat manifests in its full form. I place the products in the car as I exit.
My chest tightens and my heartbeat quickens with each step I take inside the apartment.
I open the door, and another weight settles in my chest immediately, and quite insanely, between my legs.
The whole house is dark. Like pitch-black dark. No lights are on; the only light is the moon shining through the glass window, which is not bright enough as it is a crescent moon.
"Master..." I say softly, taking measured steps inside. "I'm sorry... I thought....."
"On your knees," the voice booms above me. I jolt before looking up to see his silhouette on the stairs at my right.
He is in a white shirt, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a whiskey glass.
He looks hot yet deadly. Like an avenger of death.
"On your knees" He orders with a shattering deep voice. I gulp and settle down onto my knees with measured move. My eyes on him. He's looking at me too, unmoving.
"To your left. Get the collar on your neck."
Kill me. This punishment looks like a real definition of humiliation.
What on earth did I get myself into?
- Writer
