Safe Words 3: Angel's Grace, Chapter 5

Angel said nothing on the drive from the mansion to Newport. She sat in the buttery backseat of Grace’s regal limousine, Skyler behind the wheel. In intermittent avowals, she conjured a defense for her aberrant behavior. How the stress of the unknown had her second-guessing what her Mistress wanted from her, and how was she to know what was right or wrong, or permitted or disallowed? She was only a student. A submissive taking the first step on a long journey couldn’t know the trickeries and chicanes that would develop in such a wild and lubricious relationship. No sensible person should expect it of her. There was much to learn, and she was not self-taught—she required a demonstrative teacher. Of course, with lessons came tests. Test were opportunities to prove understanding of the material, and it was here she couldn’t escape the plain-faced, sunlit truth: she was sure she’d failed the test.

The Rolls Royce’s luxury lounge stayed silent. No music, no talk-radio chatter, just an intrepid student with her Mistress’s bodyguard—whose big, hard, and hairy penis she’d revealed and touched. She swallowed, the effort a dry struggle that almost led her to the edge of panic, thinking she might choke to death in the limo, smothered by the collapse of her autonomous function under the burden of her shame. Skyler breathed slow and steady and she imagined a new gruffness to him. And she hated that. After he’d washed her naked body, Skyler had expelled her from the dog grooming room and stayed in the shower stall alone while she went upstairs to change. He’d stood with his broad back under the hot water spray and she knew, once she’d gone, he would do that thing to himself that guys did with their hands. The thing Brian had negotiated from her when she was vulnerable and needed the support of someone—anyone—in Hager Hills High. She was sure Skyler had masturbated after their odd encounter. That knowledge was thrilling but also scary—though her final judgment was that she liked the feeling. Maybe Skyler had even thought of her while he ejaculated.

Now the Rolls passed through narrow streets designed for horses rather than cars, past sea salt weathered homes with cedar shakes and boats on trailers in their driveways, covered for the cold of the oncoming winter, their bare, blue-hull bellies still exposed. They emerged in the prime district of the small city. Colonial shopfronts and brick sidewalks and leafless trees woven with strings of clear unlit bulbs that would probably shine like fairy lights once the sun had gone down. Everything about the place looked expensive and old, like it was a movie set for a heartwarming romantic comedy with a nautical theme.

Though it was a chilly gray Saturday, shoppers were out, perusing the shopfront windows and strolling the sidewalks with bags from upscale preppy stores with anchors and seagulls for logos, and other nautical hallmarks; a whole stylish semiotic that told consumers stories of old idle wealth and the American spirit. As cynical as she was, she wanted to eat up every bit. There was a longing within her to belong here; to walk these streets and not feel self-conscious or out of place, like a secretly rotten tooth in an otherwise perfect smile.

The Rolls slowed at an intersection, waited for a Land Rover to pass, then turned left into a short street that ended with a barrier, a steep rocky shore, and what she guessed must be Narragansett Bay.

On cue, Skyler said, “Narragansett Bay,” the suddenness of his voice breaking the silence, getting her to flinch. “That’s Goat Island out there.”

Through the windshield she could see the view: a distant foggy island emerging like a humpback from the choppy charcoal water. Then Skyler slowed, turned a sharp right and nosed the limo down a narrow passageway between two ancient three-story warehouses converted into boutiques. Ahead now she could see shoppers in a courtyard, and beyond that, the bobbing masts of sailboats. She said, “Is this a port?”

And, like they were back to normal now—which was a relief—Skyler said, “It’s a wharf. Yacht Club. Luxury shopping and a Michelin star restaurant, all-in-one. You know how it is.”

Skyler’s impartial tone provoked camaraderie like the two of them were both outsiders, sharing viewpoints as blue collar anthropologists studying rich people from a hidden vantage point. It got her to smile.

Skyler exited, and she waited for him to open the door for her. When he did, she stepped out, noting shoppers lingering in the courtyard to admire the view, catching an unexpected glimpse of her and probably wondering who she was. Some blond girl in a liveried limo, cozy inside a black cashmere coat—perhaps the princess daughter of some wealthy Russian klepto-oligarchy or Old World blue-blood money and power.

Skyler lead the way, heading through the shade of the passageway toward the courtyard in his confident stride, shades on, head slowly swiveling and assessing potential threats. He walked her through the courtyard, past the line of wintered boats, their sails bundled against their masts like the way her father canvas-wrapped the spruce trees at the front door of their farmhouse before the first snowfall. All the buildings that lined the port looked to have served as warehouses or shipbuilding structures in the primary of their 200-year-old lives—sturdy, plain-faced clapboard or cedar-shake boxes painted historical American colors that gave them an authentic ascendency. At a line of black-green picket fencing, Skyler held open a gate and motioned for her to enter. The fence squared away a small brick-paved garden and a steep stairway that ran up the side of a warehouse painted in the same color, its tall passive windows facing Narragansett Bay in timeless scrutiny. Bright gold letters affixed above the windows read: SARAH JASPER. Nothing else to explain who was Sarah Jasper or what Sarah did or what she sold.

Angel followed Skyler as he mounted the wooden steps in their matching black-green paint. The act of climbing steps irritated between her legs, her newly shorn pubic stubble chafing the softness between her thighs. But another thing scratched at her as she rose higher to the door at the top of the steps that she expected would reunite her with Grace. It was an anxiousness that bordered on fear. A hard knot of dread formed at her collarbone and tightened her throat. It wasn’t an existential fear; it was a fear of the unknown. She didn’t truly know what she was getting herself into here, or what this contract-signed relationship with her wealthy professor would mean. And the painful ragged scar-lines she saw that marred Grace’s slender and beautiful back worried her. Someone had delivered those scars and that someone could be Baron Gravesande, returning this weekend to attend the gala. When Angel returned to school on Monday morning, would her own back also bear Baron’s gruesome signature?

At the top of the stairs, Skyler held open the lone, narrow workman’s door and nodded his beard for her to go inside. Skyler couldn’t yet meet her eyes. She walked underneath him into an open space that looked like a small lounge. A vacant clawfoot desk stood at one side, cluttered with paperwork and sewing bric-à-brac. An empty settee and two chairs upholstered in sedate but grand fabric printed in stripes or with chinoiserie flowers sat on the other side. A single door opened to another room, a much larger and open space filled with clothing racks, fabric or completed dresses hanging from their chrome spines.

Grace appeared in the doorway and nodded to Skyler, showing no expression. Angel’s stomach tightened and chilled. Grace looked six-feet tall—dressed all-business in a twill jacket and above-the-knee skirt that revealed her long legs in black tights that showed off their striking silhouette; the graceful fineness of her knees, the attractive swoop of her calves and the thinness of her ankles. She wore black penny loafers with brass coins. Angel bit her lips and met her Mistress’s inscrutable gaze.

Grace finger-waved—a come hither—for Angel to approach. Though there was fearful hesitation, once she moved, Angel committed, striding straight to Grace with obedient swiftness.

Grace’s warm hand cupped her cheek. “Are you ready for your fitting?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Angel answered, a light flutter passing through her tummy.

Grace’s eyes narrowed, studying her. “You finished your run?”

“Yes, Mistress. Thank you for providing it.”

A hint of a smile tugged Grace’s perfect lips to one side. “Come in, Angel. Meet our team.” Then to Skyler, “Take Angel’s coat, please.”

Skyler came from behind and guided the coat from her shoulders as she slipped out her arms.

As Angel passed Grace and walked deeper into the room, Grace placed a hand on the small of her back, guiding her forward. Beyond the clothing racks, someone had cleared an open space in the center of the room that ran the length of the building. Thick, expensive carpets covered the wide-plank hardwood floors; a gray-painted trellis of rafters held aloft the high, peaked roof above. Winter gray light spilled in from the smoky windows she’d seen from outside. The view beyond showed the choppy bay and the bobbing sailboat masts moored in the wharf below the windows. An older woman stood at a long worktable by the center window, back to them, her style of dress showing off an effortless display of wealth and poise. A velvet bow held back her gray-brown hair, chunky gold earrings in her small ears. She dressed like Grace, but the fabric was bolder without being vain. Without turning, the woman said, “Has she arrived, Grace?”

The woman turned then and smiled, seeing Grace walking in her young charge. “Oh my. She is quite something.”

“I told you,” Grace said.

The woman stood with hands clasped at her front, a warm look on her face that reminded Angel of being at home and how her mother would introduce her to friends, proud of her daughter’s accomplishments.

Grace stepped ahead now and stood side-by-side with the other woman, the two of them looking her over. Grace said, “Angel, dear, this is my friend, Sarah Jasper.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Angel said in a small, intimidated voice.

Grace said, “Sara and I serve on the boards of a few charities and enterprises here in Newport. She will attend the gala tonight as well.” Then, to her friend: “Sarah, this is my Angel.”

“I’ve heard much about you,” Sarah said and reached for Angel’s hand. Sara’s hand was strong but soft. The woman was maybe only ten years older than Grace, perhaps in her early forties, prematurely gray, since her face still held its former youth. The woman’s steel-colored eyes weren’t innocent, they were tempered with experience. Both women stood upright, poised and dominant. Behind them, Angel could see two other young women, closer to her own age, searching the racks, bundles of selected fabric already draped over forearms.

Grace said, “Sarah owns the store. She also designs an All-American label for Keith Ballantrae, available exclusively at Sak’s. This place is the old flagship”—she gestured at the surrounding space—“where it all started for Sarah. And today, you, my fine young lady, are to be fitted by Sarah Jasper herself.”

Angel swallowed with uncomfortable effort. Sarah said, “It’s last minute—I hear you’re attending our gala at the Met tonight—so who else would my longtime friend come to when such an important task demanded swift resolve?”

The two women chuckled, and Sarah turned to wave over the other two girls who were still riffling through the racks. They stopped what they were doing and rushed to join Sarah, placing the items they selected onto the worktable by the window. The clomp of footsteps got Angel to turn. A young man in his early twenties mounted interior stairs to join them, carrying a silver tray with porcelain cups and a tall silver tea server in the center, gentle trails of steam puffing from its spout as he walked. Sarah pointed to a table sitting in front of two ornate chairs upholstered much like the ones in the waiting room when she’d entered. Angel turned to see Skyler watching from behind that door. When he saw her, he nodded, then closed the door, him on the other side.

The young man who rested the tea set on the table now stood like an attendant, his arms locked at the small of his back, tall and at attention without looking at Sarah. He had a tussle of shining black hair in long spirals, cut short at the back, the fingers of twisted locks hanging down to frame his beautiful Spanish features. He was slender and graceful, dressed in aggressive American-casual that he wore like a fashion model: oyster khakis with cuffs, striped socks, woven leather belt, and a candy stripe button down.

Angel and Sarah moved to the chairs, standing by the tea set, five people all now facing her. Angel shifted with awkward movements, not knowing what to do with her hands. She chewed her cheek and her neck went hot. Grace slowly shook her head in admonishment and Angel stopped chewing her cheek. She stood straighter while they all regarded her.

Sarah made an expression of admiration, then said to Grace: “An athlete.”

“She’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

“She is. But I don’t think she knows.”

“It’s almost unbearable,” Grace said, and both women smiled like there was secret knowledge shared between them. It took immense effort for Angel not to bite her cheek again.

Sarah shook off the reverie and said to the two young women, “What have you found for me?”

The girls, also dressed in intimidating preppy attire—penny loafers and tights and Oxford button-downs under navy cashmere sweaters—parted so their boss could assess what they’d selected. Sarah went over the items, her manicured hands passing over the fabrics, admiring them, fingernails flouncing the chiffon. Every once in a while she would look over her shoulder to regard Angel, then return to the fabrics. Grace poured herself a cup of green tea.

At last, Sarah narrowed the selections down to five, turned to face Angel, then nodded to Grace. Grace joined Sarah, holding her fine cup and saucer. They regarded Angel for a long time before Grace said, “Angel, remove your clothing, please. I think we’re ready to begin.”