Page 29 of Not About That Life
Ten
You know you got it bad when you’re having a business dinner with your future sister-in-law and all you can think about is how quickly can this fucking dinner be over with so I can go home and blow my man?
Hi, my name is Nymph Domi. Pleasure to meet you.
I rushed home, mainly to shower and get myself mentally prepared. I know Ian wouldn’t show up until a couple of hours later. Still, I’ve been had some bondage done to me before and I liked it. But I think Sir wants to go further now.
Am I ready for it? Can I actually handle this?
I walk into the bedroom to undress for a bath when I see a note on the bed from Ian:
Pet,
I want you as you are when I arrive home. Do not wash yourself. Until then, here’s a set of tasks for you –
Write down what you’re grateful for. Get into the habit of doing it every day.
Beside this note is a key. It’ll lead you to the only locked door in this home besides the entry doors. Open it and explore. Write down any questions you may have.
Sir
I read the note no short of a dozen times before I held it against my mouth. I could still smell his faint cologne on it. I softly bit my lips and thought about what He had in store for me. There was only one way to find out.
I took the key and began searching throughout our townhome for the mysterious room. I never wandered too much around here before. Not that I felt I was intruding on Ian’s life, I just never had that much curiosity other than the dance studio and our bedroom.
Walking through the home, I finally got to see how understatedly luxurious it is. It looks like a home that belongs to a housewife or a family. Nothing about it stands out in ‘This is rich.’ Instead, I see the plushest sofas, the most comfortable beds with a thread-count I didn’t even know could go that high, and the softest cotton towels.
Stepping into it, I wouldn’t think a member of the world’s richest families lived here.
Emma’s and Gerald’s home reads like a layout forArchitectural Digestand I can see the effort they both put into it. A lot of the pieces they own are imported from Italy, China, and a lot of it from London.
Ian must’ve shopped at the same interior designer because I can recall he’s done the same, but his home feels very different. It’s almost as if I can put my feet up on the expensive oak coffee table (I don’t) and relax while catching up onLove & Hip-Hop Hollywood(okay, that I do watch because I love me some messy drama).
Like a maze, I go from room to room, trying to find the door to this mysterious key. Knowing there’s only the dance studio and the gym upstairs, there’s not point of going there to search for it. Instead, I stayed on the sprawling first floor, diving in and out of four bedrooms, and three bathrooms.
Still, nothing.
Exhausted, I made my way to Ian’s closet and pondered if I’d missed something. If I searched all of the rooms and couldn’t find anything what other room would I have…
…another light bulb goes off…
…what’s behind those curtains?
His closet is roughly the size of a small trendy boutique one would find on Melrose. He has nothing but designer suits, jeans, sweaters, and whatever rich white men with all of the money in the world can afford. His underwear is neatly categorized in three piles – boxer briefs, boxers, and what Ian likes to call hipsters.
His expensive watches – the variety that are worth a small four-door sedan – are in a clear glass case with a lock. All of his shoes are neatly arranged in a nice neat row. He doesn’t wear many colognes but the few bottles he chooses from are also in a neat row.
A mannequin, I’m assuming is custom-made to Ian’s height and weight, is in front of a full-length mirror. The closet is air-conditioned and well ventilated. A small fire extinguisher in a nearby corner for reasons, I’m assuming, safety.
Then there’s the curtain.
I honestly never paid that curtain any mind. It’s not like I go into bae’s closet that often or even at all. It’s probably why his closet always look so nice and neat and mine looks like a clothes explosion happened in just that room (the maid is a doll and cleans it up for me once a week).
I swallow my pride, dust my shoulders off a la Jay-Z, and waltz right over to those curtains. I hesitate before I open them. What’s really behind there? The souls of other virgins? Jimmy Hoffa? White people giving a fuck about black issues?
I take a deep breath and slowly open the curtains only to find locked French doors. The room is so dark behind the doors, I honestly can’t see anything. I try to open the door and it’s locked. I remember I have the key with me and I don’t even hesitate trying to unlock it.
It works.
