Page 8 of Savoring Sienna
Derek recalled a particularly powerful session. A submissive named Maria had been trapped in emotional paralysis after a traumatic experience, similar to Sienna Weathers’. Traditional therapy had failed to penetrate her walls. During a carefully negotiated scene, Crone had worked with precise, measured strokes of his signal whip. Each crack carried intention as each sting unlocked another layer of buried pain.
Between strikes Crone had moved closer, offering a steady anchor to the sub with the heat of his presence. His whispered words, audible only to Maria and Derek who stood close, created intimate moments of connection. “Release the shackles, little one. They don’t serve you.” The whip sang through the air. “Your strength lies in survival.” Another precisely placed strike. “The past doesn’t define you and cannot claim your future.”
Derek had noticed a subtle shift in Crone’s energy during those breathless pauses. For fleeting seconds, his carefullymaintained walls lowered, allowing a glimpse of profound empathy to surface in his eyes. These moments of genuine connection lasted mere heartbeats before his shields snapped back into place, but they were crucial to the healing process.
In one such moment, as Maria teetered on the edge of breakthrough, Crone’s hand had gently encircled her throat. The touch, brief yet deliberate, carried more impact than any strike of the whip. It conveyed understanding, acceptance, and permission to be vulnerable. That single gesture shattered the final barrier.
Maria’s emotional dam had broken. She’d wept freely, years of suppressed pain flowing out in cleansing waves. That breakthrough enabled her to engage fully in subsequent therapy sessions, finally processing the trauma that had held her captive.
Derek had realized that day, the whipping session’s success didn’t just lay in Crone’s technical mastery, but in those unguarded moments of connection when he had the uncanny ability to insert himself deep within his subject’s mind. Derek recognized this duality. Crone’s ability to forge profound emotional bonds while maintaining his own isolation was his greatest strength but also his deepest vulnerability.
“He arrived last night,” Jagger’s response yanked Derek’s attention back. “I already sent through a request for visitation as our guest at the Ranch tonight.”
“You know he has a standing invitation to visit us anytime.”
“Still, protocol is important.” Jagger hesitated briefly. “Why are you asking?”
“Do you remember the condition of Sienna Weathers when we found her in the forest two years ago?”
“Of course. I was at the Ranch when you returned.” Jagger’s tone darkened. “Damn, that little body of hers was broken… but her spirit seemed even more shattered. Moira has tried to reach out to her numerous times, but she remains distant.”
“Dr. Williams conducted extensive evaluations and therapy over time. Sienna’s seen Catherine on a weekly basis.” Derek’s fingers traced the edge of the file. “Even Sadie and the Littles, with their boundless enthusiasm, fail to provoke any emotional response. Sienna exists in a void of her own making. She seems to be… dead inside. I fear she’s deteriorating instead of improving. As you know, since she used to be a highly sought after fashion photographer, I offered her a teaching position as a photography professor last year. I’d hoped it would give her some focus and guidance, but even that hasn’t pulled her from the mire. I’m concerned for her mental state.”
“You’re hoping Crone could reach her through a whipping session?”
“Not just a single session.” Derek leaned forward as his voice turned earnest. “What do you think about Crone taking a position at Rawhide Ranch? Even if it is just temporary. With his skill he could help so many people through specialized whip therapy sessions.”
“If that means keeping him here?” Jagger’s response came swift and determined. “The kids adore their Uncle C and would be delighted if he was around all the time. So, hell yes, I would secure him with steel chains should he attempt to leave.”
“I guess that means he is still living in isolation?”
“Worse, he seems to be deteriorating further as well. He’s on the route to becoming a complete hermit.” Jagger’s emotion thickened his voice. “This opportunity is perfect. The kids have a favorable effect on him, and if he stays longer, they, and his being able to help with the healing of others, might just be the cure he needs to finally yank him from the black hole he’s burying himself into. I told Moira the day he arrived that I believe he’s at a crossroads. His eyes now have the look of a man yearning for more. He just needs that little push, and maybe theright sub to connect with. Fuck, man. Thanks for thinking of him.”
“I’d like to speak to him personally, Jag. Send him directly to my office when you arrive tonight. Keep this discussion between us for now.” Derek’s gaze drifted out the window to the Montana sunset painting the mountains. “The sooner we unite them, the greater chance of healing... for both wounded souls.”
Derek recognized the parallel paths of damage in both Crone and Sienna. Where she had walled herself within emotional numbness, he had built fortresses with the foundation of isolation and emotional trauma. Perhaps in helping her find her way back to feeling, Crone might rediscover his own capacity for connection and he could start living again.
Crone
Master Derek’s office, Rawhide Ranch
“You’ve been a Dom for the majority of your adult life, Crone.” Derek’s measured words bounced off the huge floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. “One of the most experienced and powerful I know in the Lifestyle. I have always admired your ability to gentle a submissive without apparent effort.”
Crone’s jaw tightened. “We know each other well enough for you to skip the preamble and senseless sugarcoating, Derek. Why am I here?”
His fingers drummed against the arm of the leather chair in a subtle betrayal of inner tension. As an artist, Crone had developed an acute awareness of human nature. He read authenticity and deception without effort, and categorizedintentions at a glance. But this moment struck a discordant note. Derek Hawkins dealt with brutal honesty, not careful compliments.
The real problem, Crone acknowledged, lay within himself. Since his rescue, he’d developed an aversion to emotional probing. He had perfected the art of deflection by constructing impenetrable barriers around the hollow spaces within. Most days, he successfully ignored the echoing emptiness behind a carefully maintained facade.
But Jagger saw through the pretense. Perhaps that explained this meeting. His friend was hoping Derek’s legendary insight might breach those defensive walls.
“You have me there.” Derek’s smile was brief. He straightened and met Crone’s guarded stare head-on. “I want to make you an offer. And no, before you ask, Jagger has nothing to do with this. I need your help, and I hope you will give my offer serious consideration before refusing.”
“If you anticipate my refusal, why waste both our time?” Crone’s shoulders tensed. The anticipated evening of administering therapeutic whip sessions now felt overshadowed by unwanted intervention. Irritation simmered beneath his skin. At forty-four, he had endured enough psychiatric prodding to last several lifetimes. His fingers curled into his palms. The sharp bite of his nails grounded him against the rising frustration.
“Let me ask you this.” Derek’s calculated pause stretched between them. “Is there anything keeping you in Costa Rica?”
“Peace and quiet.” Crone’s response snapped out reflexively, his fingers drumming an agitated rhythm against the leather armrest. “It’s the most underrated commodity known to man.”
