Not Even Death-Always Your Master

By B.B. Blaque

Cross over the bridge with Calico—into the hustle and bustle of Manhattan and her past. By viewing where she began with new eyes, she’ll be one step closer to her happily ever after.
From the secret told under the lights of the Brooklyn Bridge, to her old stomping ground in Midtown—Calico will see New York like she never has before.
The Bishop’s firm hand and strict old school style will teach her lessons once more. Together they will journey beneath the cold city and to the star strewn heights—for a deep and aerial view of Calico’s past, present and future.
Only Markus knew how much was left for her to learn and only the Bishop’s tactics could make everything fall into place.
Calico’s journey is almost complete and this is the hardest and most fulfilling lesson yet!

• Language: English
• Publisher: B.B. Blaque
• Release date: Jan 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310685576

B.B. Blaque

I'm a hopeless romantic. Even when I think it's hopeless, it always woos me back . That is the power of hope and with hope anything is possible. I believe in the transforming power of love, even when done wrong, it always leaves its mark on your heart, coloring how you will love in the future. With these things in mind, I write about transformation, acceptance and overcoming--through and with love. I choose to write about Domination and submission and the subtle nuances of these relationships that take them beyond role play. I'm inspired to write by things I see, smell, experience and largely by what I hear. Music and the sound of someone's voice are two of my favorite indulgences. I've written for as long as I can remember and now, I'm truly inspired to do more.

Book preview

Not Even Death #3

ALWAYS

Your Master

A Novella

B.B. BLAQUE

Copyright © 2015 B.B. BLAQUE

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

Photo Credits

Konradbak-A young lady got stuck-Dreamstime.com

Konradbak-Young brunette with closed eyes-Depositphotos.com

Speedskater-Manhattan at night-Depositphotos.com

Viorel Sima-Cutout picture of an elegant young fashion man with long hair-Dreamstime.com

Feedough- Business man unbuttons his jacket-Dreamstime.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer.

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~TABLE OF CONTENTS~

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Happily Ever What?

Thank You

CHAPTER ONE

Long Island City, Queens, New York October 27, 2011

The black Towne Car darted in and out of traffic as it approached the Ed Koch Queensboro Bridge. Calico sat in the back, finding relief as the New York City skyline unfolded before her. She wished it was night so she could see the light display that made the impressive view come alive. Even in the daytime, it was breathtaking.

When she lived on the streets, she was just another rat in the maze, never thinking of the glorious view from the other side of the river. The lights were always there, but in such an overwhelmingly close proximity they blended with the night and noise from the honking cabs.

Excuse me, I just wanted to make sure—this is the 59th St. Bridge isn’t it? She asked, leaning up to talk to the serious driver. She couldn’t believe she was going back, to the Bishop—without Markus.

Yes Ma’am, they changed the name last year in honor of Mayor Koch. The quiet, aggressive driver instantly became a tour guide.

She thought back to the letter she’d read on the plane.

I hope Markus is right and the name of the bridge isn’t all that’s changed.

As they entered Manhattan she took a deep breath of the cooling, late afternoon air. It was easy to appreciate the chill from the warm car, but there’d been a time when she dreaded the coldness. Once upon a time, the icy air was the first touch of the Grim Reaper’s bitter, bony finger tip—the bleak realization that winter was near and some wouldn’t make it to see the first buds of spring.

They crossed over Third Avenue, Lexington and Park—everything whirred quickly by her vision. Calico remembered Bloomingdale’s around the corner—the park was just ahead. No matter how many times she was there, Central Park always made her smile. She used to pretend she was on an adventure, some place far from the masses in the city. It was also where Sheridan took her for lunch. On a bench, near the zoo, she’d told him everything. In return, he’d given her friendship.

They drove up-town, through the still green scenery of the park before stopping at the apartment on Central Park West. The driver opened the door and went to the trunk to retrieve her luggage.

The Bishop, here, in New York—never in a million years would I have thought!

I—can—fly!

The sun was beginning to settle lower, she glanced at her watch.

Its only 5:15pm!

She’d forgotten that darkness seem to come earlier in the city than in Florida. A crisp wind whipping up the street made her hope warm clothes had been packed for the trip.

A door man in red coat and hat greeted her as if he’d been awaiting her arrival all day. The gold buttons running down his coat and perched on its stiff epaulettes were polished to near mirror quality that matched his black shoes.

Welcome back Mrs. Cruz! His voice bubbled forth with an easy smile.

Thank you. Calico responded. Her shoulders slumped when she couldn’t recall his name. She’d always made practice of remembering people. She knew all too well how it felt to be a nothing and tried to do her part to make everyone feel like something. They all knew about Markus’ illness and no one would fault her, and yet, she kicked herself for the lapse in recall.

She tipped the driver and thanked him with a warm, hand-over hand shake. This was something people remarked on when they met her—the firm, sincerity of her handshake.

The Bishop had taught her well, as outlined by Markus—and she’d made the lessons a reflex.

What is that door-man’s name? Shit!

They rode the private elevator in silence. She was grateful for the long trip to the penthouse, knowing it would provide the opportunity to pluck his name from the tip of her tongue. When the doors opened, and they disembarked it came to her.

Alfredo—Al!

The familiar sight of the foyer was just the trigger she needed.

Thank you Al, I appreciate your help. I can take it from here.She said smoothly shaking his hand and transferring some folded bills into his chubby palm.

No, thank you Mrs. Cruz…

His ruddy, round face glowed as the corners of his mouth lifted.

… I will collect the cart later.

Al, the door-man disappeared behind the closing doors—she was alone.

Exploring the apartment took precedent over unpacking the luggage. She knew Al, Alfredo-Al—Al wouldn’t be back for hours and something already had her attention gripped.

On the living-room table was an incredible bouquet of roses. She thought back to the lesson about the meanings of each.

Purple—enchantment and majesty; blue—mysterious beginnings, new things; black—beginning of a new journey, death of the old—she was surprised how much she remembered. Red—the color of love, respect and—the seal of the Bishop!

Kitten, how could you ever forget? You wore the rose thorn welts for weeks until you learned them all.

Markus’ voice was sharper—the bustle of the city had always been an energy source—and it was crystal clear. There was no way she’d forgotten, she was only surprised by his memory and the thoughtful gift.

When she was closer, she could see tangled with the roses were sprigs of baby’s breath and some special Bishop finishing touches. Reaching tentatively toward the arrangement she felt a surge of electricity pass through her body.

Am I afraid, or was that excitement?

The sweetness of the flowers was tempered by stinging memories. Rulers, the Bishop’s favorite tools of torment, jutted out like porcupine quills. Everything came rushing to back to present.

With a soft touch she fingered the edges—some wood—others metal—of the sadistic sticks. The rulers weren’t the only memorable additions. The Bishop had been expert in keeping her off kilter—guiding her to the edge and making her quiver nervously—until he brought her back. He’d added a pack of gum and little mesh baggies of rice.

Memories—good Lord—I bet he remembers everything! I haven’t chewed gum since!

Thinking back to her first day of lessons, she recalled her last piece of gum. Without thinking, she showed up—Carissa showed up—with a wad of watermelon bubble-gum in her mouth. Of course, at the time, she hadn’t given it a thought. She had no frame of reference that could’ve told her otherwise. Markus could have warned her, but she needed to learn the lesson so he chose to let it go.

She opened the gum and breathed deeply.

Wow, it could be yesterday!

Her stomach churned with the smell. It was the smell of failure.

Quietly, she sat in the chair in the makeshift classroom, uncertain what would happen or who this Bishop person would be.

Anxiously, she shifted around the chair and popped her gum. It seemed like forever waiting for her teacher to arrive—so—she shifted, smacked and blew bubbles with the disgustingly sweet gum. Each time a bubble popped, the air would be filled with the acrid, artificial, fruit scent—rising up like a toxic, sugar cloud around her.

Each bubble grew larger, its smell stronger until a different kind of pop grabbed her attention. The sound, behind her, was louder and spun her around in the seat. Then again—smack—the thick yardstick met the wooden table harder—signaling the entrance of his Excellency—the Bishop.

Calico smelled the gum again.

Maybe I am a masochist.

It was also the scent of the beginning of something beautiful.

Her first impression of the Bishop was the loud crack of the yardstick and his lightening quick fingers as they grabbed the gum from her still blowing mouth.

"Young lady—and I use the term loosely—you will not chew, smack, blow or pop that vile epoxy in my presence. I don’t think your owner would approve do you?" His breath—like a dragon’s—blew hot on her nose.

"No, I don’t think so." She replied quietly, fidgeting in the chair.

"Hey, what kinda nun are you anyway?"

Carissa had never been to church, Catholic or otherwise—the question was sincere.

Without another word, his breath was replaced by the sticky, hot-pink offender. For the remainder of the week she’d worn the gum on her nose. It was a sickeningly sweet reminder—to never chew gum in his presence again.

The nun remark also earned her introduction