by Sophia Reed
By the time I’d paid my fee and reached the dungeon door, I felt nauseated and uncertain and hot and bothered and like I really, really wanted more fet. Or coffee. Or bourbon. Or any other fucking thing. I'd read that some people dragged the drug out of patches for pain and I didn't know if those were prescription or if the Salonpas type thing would do the same.
I was ready to suck one of those things if it would help.
Down the plain every day steps into that gym-looking basement, it was dank and cold as a basement should be, and everywhere I looked there was something that made me feel too shy to study and at the same time desperate to look at.
Mounted on the wall was a St. Andrews cross. Seven feet tall, decorated with rings for attaching arms and legs at different heights. I shuddered and moved on. There was an event open to newbies going on, and the noise level was soothing, easing away my thoughts, keeping me from feeling like I was nothing more than a lookie loo moving through the gawk-worthy dungeon.
There was no sign of Cole.
There was a box with a double metal frame and monkey bars going between the two boxes of metal, all the way around. If I had any doubt about its purpose, the man being trussed up into it, his arms and legs spread and secured, was enough to explain it to me.
Stationary bicycles with erotic attachments. Whipping posts. Spanking benches. Cabinets loaded with paraphernalia, canes and slappers, tawses and paddles, crops and canes, each cabinet stocked with disinfectant and huge signs ordering users to USE IT. That detail really made it look like a gym.
It sounded like a gym, too, with people groaning and thrashing and metal hitting metal as chains bumped the things they were chained to.
The feeling of being watched started low in the pit of my stomach. It hadn't occurred to me what bad form it would be to come and only watch. This wasn't a spectator sport. Part of the reason so many people could do this was they had a touch of the exhibitionist in them. But others did it only because others were doing it and right out in public.
I was violating that trust. So the best thing to do would be not to linger, fascinated by the way a woman's flesh appeared to wait for a heartbeat or two after the cane struck her ass or legs, with nothing happening, with her not even making a sound, and then an instant later the color bloomed hard and bright, twin lines of red around the center of almost gray white where the cane itself had hit. And at the same time, she would moan or cry out as the delayed reaction sank in.
It was hard not to watch.
It was hard to keep reminding myself this wasn't me. I wasn't like this. I had yelled at poor Mark that time just for holding me down for a second.
This wasn't me.
This wasn't going to be me.
I'd find something else to trade with Cole. Maybe I'd even put him on the defensive, threaten him with law enforcement.
A thrill of nausea passed through me and it had nothing to do with the man hanging over another man's lap and being spanked roughly by hand.
It had everything to do with the fet leaving my system.
The race was on.
"What is it you're looking for?"
The voice was like velvet, stroking over my ears. Female, but low and throaty. At the same time the timbre sent a pleasant frisson through my system, panic overrode it. I don't like people getting that close to me without me being aware. I started to turn around.
Hands settled onto my shoulders, light but controlling. "Don't turn around."
"Why not?" Everything in my body had gone tense.
"Ooh, the little cat has bite," the voice said.
I didn't think that made any sense. At the same time, there was something responding to the touch and the command. Don't turn around. And I didn't.
"What did you come here looking for?"
I couldn't say Cole St. Martin. If I did, I'd blow my chances with him before I ever found him. I couldn't say to find someone to play with.
I was pretty sure my new guide would offer, and I didn't know what I wanted.
I didn't know if I wanted anything. Yet.
"Did you come to play?" I'd taken too long to answer.
"I don't know what I came here for." Sometimes the truth is the easiest way out. "I’m..." I paused and considered all the things I could say. Out of place A cop but not right now. Looking for someone (but I can't tell you who). Strung out.
"Scared."
The woman with her hands on my shoulders purred. "You're honest. I like that. Everybody is scared when they first come somewhere like this."
"How do you know it's my – "
"Please." Her voice was still velvety, even when amused. "Are you a top or a bottom?"
Lady, I don't even know what I'm doing here. I don't know why I haven't ripped you in half for touching me. "I don't know."
"Sure you do," she said, and began to steer me toward the cross.
Everything in me, every self defense mode, every alarm system, began clamoring to be heard over the ringing in my ears which had grown really very loud.
"I think you get enough leading in the outside world," the voice said.
I could tell from where her voice sounded she was taller than my five-six, but not much. No real trace of an accent, just western U.S. No ethnic tone either.
So one of how many million white girls in the area? She sounded young.
Sure, I could identify her in a line up.
But the cop part of me was falling away. The yearning was changing, the tension and anxiety and nausea easing as a different desire started to surface.
From somewhere so very far away I heard my phone ring. One of the hands left my shoulder and dived into my right back pocket, pulled out the offending piece of technology and handed it off to a man so large I was peripherally aware of him even without turning to look.
I had no idea why I was submitting to any of this. It went against every common sense rule I lived by and even more by the paranoia that was ingrained by my cop father, my own training, my black belt.
But I'd paid money to be here. The stripes across my ass had healed. The bruising Cole St. Martin had put there had faded.
The craving, the addiction, was starting to rage in me. I didn't know where Cole was or if he could actually help me.
I didn't feel like I had anything to lose. I'd come here on purpose. I knew what went on in a place like this.
I couldn't very well say Please don't hurt me.
What did I want? I wanted out of myself. At the most basic level. I wanted something Cole could give me if I could find him.
No. If I could find him and if I could let him. If I could let go and allow him to do what I knew this time he would do. Because this time I wouldn't be sold by some bad cop This time I'd be there on my own, saying Help me.
He would.
But there's always a price.
So did I want to know what I could take? Or did I just want to take it. Be broken down and emptied out and allowed to fill myself back up?
"Move to the cross," the voice behind me said. "Why are you trying to turn? What do you want to see?"
"You," I said honestly.
Another laugh. "Will that change anything that's going to happen?"
"I don't know what's going to happen," I said.
She didn't laugh this time. "You shouldn't lie. Next you'll be saying you don't know why you came here."
"I know why I came here. I just can't tell you."
"That's okay. I can guess."
I stopped because I'd reached the cross. The hands left my shoulders, reached down and tugged at the t-shirt I'd tucked into my jeans. She pulled it over my head, my arms raising automatically without her asking. I felt her fingers, warm and smooth, undo the clasp of my bra, felt the slightly chill air of the dungeon caress my nipples. They were hard. I was wet.
"Hands up."
I almost laughed. I'd been on the force several years and I'd never said that yet. But there was nothing funny. I moved to the cross, lifted my arms, allowed my faceles
s guide to wrap leather cuffs around my wrists and secure them to a set of O-rings.
The instant the restraints were fastened I felt a surge of relief rush through me. For the first time in six years I had responsibility for absolutely nothing. I had brought myself here. I had chosen this. I had relinquished control.
Whatever happened, I was not responsible. Like a rape fantasy, like a bondage scenario between middle-aged couples living out their kink without ever admitting they had it.
"What's your safe word?" She asked, her lips tickling my ear.
I'm a cop. Said really fast, all the words strung together.
I didn't have one. Of course I didn't. I'd never been in a position to need one until Cole and he wouldn't have allowed me one.
Mercy had to be overused. Ditto red. I froze, wanting somehow to convince her I wasn't that new, I understood some of what was going on, I wasn't hopelessly stupid.
Mark. Tomlin. Stop, no, don't were all clearly out of the question. Cat, dog, too generic. Father too weird. Cole too direct.
"Vegas," I said, when it seemed like she was going to start early just to force me to tell her.
"Vegas, huh? That's a new one."
I felt her pull away from me. The noise level in the place hadn't dropped. Most people were still doing whatever they'd been doing the short couple minutes ago that this had been happening. Maybe the giant was watching. Maybe he didn't give a shit. Maybe no one did.
Maybe it didn't matter.
"Vegas," she repeated, and without warning, she struck my shoulders and back with a flogger.
Best I could tell it was made of some kind of leather, suede maybe, buttery soft, falling like a soft thud, a gentle swish, a pull of friction over my skin. Pleasant, somehow, as was the giving up of all responsibility. I didn't even mind being half naked in this place. They'd all seen far more than me, and maybe those sessions with Jesse well within the gang's hearing had somewhat inured me.
She didn't tell me to count or to thank her or ask for my participation for which I was grateful. The flogger rose and fell, and the stroking turned to something firmer and from that to something hotter. The longer she worked on my back, my shoulders, my triceps as they strained against the bonds, the hotter the strikes felt, the more edged the strips of leather, the more it felt super-heated.
The more I leaned back into it, feeling tears gather at the edges of my eyes for reasons I couldn't be bothered to try and understand. If I couldn't break down here, where could I?
What had been pleasant changed into a burn. What had been simple emotion turned into a storm.
I fought it, my teeth gritted, my hands fisted with my nails digging into my own flesh. My head flew back and I gave my body into her ministrations but my mind I tried to keep free and my own.
Until I hit some barrier and crossed it, crashing down the other side. I tensed, head back, poised as if I might scream and tear myself free of the cross.
And then sagged. The tears came readily. My cheeks were slick with them, my nose running, my throat making sounds of distress even I couldn't understand.
From the other side of everything I could hear her voice, her words a nonsensical mantra of comfort and understanding. Gentle hands on both sides released my wrists from the cuffs. None of those belonged to Kat? because she was behind me, waiting to receive my weight when I was released.
Still behind me, she guided me to a dark corner, a low, soft couch, a microfleece blanket. She sat on the couch first, the shadows keeping her face from view, and turned me, wrapped in the blanket, so I faced away from her before she pulled me down into her lap, wrapping her arms around me.
"You can look at me now," she whispered.
"Is it all right if I don't?" I asked.
Her laugh came easily. "Of course it is. Just ride the endorphins," she said, and rocked me, blanket and all, wet, hot face and all.
And for a little while, the world and all its problems went away.
I came to feeling utterly disgusted with myself. This wasn't me. No matter how much I needed Cole or thought I did, or how much I wanted to find a way out of the shit I'd fallen into.
Kat seemed to understood. I did look at her then, pure self defense on my part. If I was going to wake up in a stranger's arms, I was at least going to know what they looked like in case I ran into them again.
She was pretty. Dark hair falling softly around her face. Her eyes had a glint of steel in them and I had no doubt she was the person who had wielded the flogger. But there was kindness there too and that might have undone me if I hadn't just grunted, said a brusque thank you and gotten up.
I was still half dressed, which was a given once I thought about it. I kept the blanket pulled around me until I found my clothes, because now I was self conscious. Someone showed me where to change. Maybe other people had some weird version of buyer’s remorse when they came to.
By the time I'd gotten my boots on again, my bra and t-shirt, by the time I'd checked through the limited amount of personal ID and cash I'd brought with me, the ID a fake – there are advantages to dealing with scum on a daily basis; you learn things – Kat had disappeared. Maybe to make it less awkward. Maybe feeling rebuffed.
Maybe she just had something else to do. I was both grateful she'd left, and sad not to see her again. I didn't want to consider that second emotion too closely.
8
Cole
She'd disappeared.
Interesting.
The girl in my bed was unmarked. Easily my equal when it came to sadism, she hadn't a masochistic bone in her body. But she could fuck like a madwoman all night.
Currently she lay in bed with a pair of thick black-rimmed glasses on the end of her nose, which managed to make her look like a damn porn star. It helped that she was naked, the sheet down to her waist, her torso propped up on pillows. She was reading Stephen King.
I stood by the window, staring at the messages coming in on my phone. When Annie left, I didn't mark her. No chip. No tracker of any sort. But I didn't just open the door and let her trot out into the world. I had a network of people on her, checking in. Not all day every day. Just periodically. Until I had built up an idea of her daily life in Seattle when she wasn't actively working on the job.
Some time between check ins by the various eyes on her, she disappeared.
Interesting.
Annie Knox is a cop. She's got special training. I should have been worried or at least concerned that she could stay on the run and out of my reach for an indefinite period of time.
I'm not worried.
I'm more intrigued.
"Are you coming back to bed?"
"Should I?"
In answer, she lefts the glasses perched on her pert nose but yanked the sheet off, showing off her creamy, surgically perfect breasts, her tiny waist, her sculpted bush and all the treasures that lay between those legs and in that mouth.
Annie Knox would keep. I'm a sadist and I wanted my masochist back but when I'm ready, I'll find her and bring her to heel.
In the meantime, I'm also a hedonist. I can entertain myself.
9
Annie
It was dark when I left the dungeon. Dark in a dodgy section of San Francisco, by myself. Unarmed, because it's not a good idea for a cop from another jurisdiction on a sort of questionable leave to carry concealed. Or even unconcealed.
There were messages on my phone. In the dungeon, after that first abortive call, they'd stopped, either because reception is never good underground, surrounded by concrete, or because the hulking menace who took my phone turned it off. It was off when I discovered I had it back. I didn't like the idea of someone messing with my clothes while I was out, even if the only ID I’d brought was my fake one.
My phone was real enough, though there were such a limited number of contacts in it no one would much be fooled by it. If they'd gone through my contacts, most of what they would have determined was that I was hiding something.
Like who I was.
"To sum up," I mumbled to myself. "I did something that made me actually hate myself a little bit more. And I learned nothing in the process."
Only I had learned something. I kept moving on the dark street, but my mind had come to a screeching halt.
What do you mean, hate yourself a little bit more?
When had I started hating myself?
I don't know when I started running. I was dressed for it, even if my back hurt under the jogging bra and the shirt rasped against sore flesh. By the time a voice out of the darkness stopped me, I was lost. That was okay. The city might sleep and most of its residents with it, but there were cabs and busses and probably scary Uber cars driven by what seemed to be teenage girls.
"Hey, babe. Looking to score?"
That stopped me in my tracks. My reaction plunged from No badge here, can't arrest to Holy shit, thank god.
"Depends," I said. "What've you got?"
I had money. Not that I was stupid enough to carry all of it at one time. But strangely enough, I'd carried enough to buy.
"What d'you want?"
To not play games on the street after dark with some punk. "China white."
He whistled. He was several inches shorter than me and missing quite a few teeth. But he was clean and well dressed and I wouldn't have pegged him for what he was without the missing teeth.
You learn to read clues, clothes, culture, conversations – all manner of things that lead to who a person is. It's a gradual knowledge and almost impossible to fake.
So how, exactly, had Kat made me so easily?
I brushed that aside. Good question for another day when I wasn't standing exposed and unarmed, waiting on a dealer. He might be shorter than my five-six, but he was also one of those lean guys whose wiry strength takes people by surprise, and he had a bunch of scars on his face and throat. Some people see scars as battles lost. Others see them like the the t-shirt that reads: You're stronger than the thing that tried to kill you.