Free Rebecca's Lost Journals, Volume 3: His Submissive by Lisa Renée Jones

Journal 6, entry 1
    Monday, March 14 , 2011
    7:00 a.m.
    I , Rebecca Mason, belong to him, my new Master. Or I will as soon as I sign the contract he’s given me to set the terms for our Master/sub relationship.
    I woke a few minutes ago with these thoughts, and now, sitting at the kitchen table of my little San Francisco apartment, excitement is running through me. Now that I’ve decided to sign the contract, the idea of being “his” is downright intoxicating. Still, I’m glad I was the cautious girl that I am, and made myself sleep on the decision. Considering my recent nightmares, my good night’s rest speaks loudly. I’m at peace with my decision to sign the contract.
    Still, how crazy is it for me to feel this confident about giving myself to someone else? Only a few weeks ago, I would have never believed this possible. Before “him,” the idea of being submissive to anyone simply wasn’t comprehensible. All my life has been about learning from my single mother to control my own destiny and stand on my own two feet. Handing over complete control to another person simply wasn’t an option . . . until him. Now, how do I tell him I’m signing our contract? A text? A call? Meet him in person? Hmmm . . . off to shower and think about this . . .
    •   •   •
    W hile I was in the shower, I came up with the perfect way to tell him I’m his. First, the right attire. I’ve dressed in a sexy pale pink dress the color of spring roses, one that hugs my curves (to get his attention) without being overly sexy for work. It’s also perfect for an event being held at the gallery tonight. I just have to throw on a little lace jacket I recently purchased to spice it up.
    Next, I took the big plunge and inked the contract. I then slipped on the beautifully designed ring with an etched rose he’d given me to wear after signing the contract, as a symbol that I am his. So it’s on my finger and I keep sitting here staring at it, expecting fear or regret, but I feel none. I feel right about this.
    It’s crazy how my life has changed in a matter of weeks. I dared to chase my dream of working in the art world, taking a low-paying job at the gallery that required me to work a second job to pay the bills. Then, miraculously, that gamble paid off with a chance to earn big commissions through Mark’s auction house. I have a new career, and I’m discovering a new, daring part of me, a part I can’t wait to explore further. And I have “him.” Or I will by the end of today.
    All that is left now is for me to take a picture of both the contract and the ring on my finger. Then I’ll text the photos to him. Okay . . . done. Photos taken. I’m about to send the text messages. I’m nervous and excited. This is it. I’m really doing this.

Almost 1:00 p.m. and my lunchtime
    I haven’t seen or heard from “him” since I texted the pictures. Not a word. This decision was huge for me, and I thought he’d know that and respond. I feel uncertain. I feel . . . confused. The gallery I normally love feels like a prison I need to escape. I’m leaving for lunch just to get out of here, though I know I won’t be able to eat. I guess I’ll walk to the chocolate shop and buy about ten pounds of the best they have, go to the coffee shop for caffeine, and then pig out. Chocolate isn’t food; it’s a drug meant to cure all. It should make me feel better, at least while I’m consuming it. There will be regret afterward, but if it’s the only regret I feel today, I’m okay with that.

2:00 p.m.
    Back at the gallery in my office . . .
    I saw him, my would-be, should-be-already Master, who is twisting me in knots. The chocolate/coffee plan turned into the encounter with him I’d been waiting on all morning. After I bought my chocolate, I headed straight to the coffee shop, where I found a corner booth (and hoped to dodge Ava, the chatty owner of the place who is always trying to dig up gallery gossip from me).
    I’d