“Yes, Mom.”
Jim hated playing interrogator, but the other option was Shannon freezing in terror in the street alone. When they walked together, Shannon held Jim’s elbow and didn’t let go while Jim made himself as big as possible. God only knew how Shannon felt safe with half-blind Mrs. Reed and her tiny terrors at his side.
To break the mood, he tossed a candy from his dresser in Shannon’s direction. “Don’t bring anyone back after, all right? I have the feeling I’ll want to go straight to sleep.” Shannon didn’t bring one-night stands back. No, no. He brought back one-gamer stands. Hours of video game shooting, yelling, and whooping meant no sleep for Jim.
“No promises,” Shannon said. “You know how I get when someone’s into Zelda, baby.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Jim bent to kiss Shannon’s cheek. “I know. See you tonight.”
“Okay.” Shannon sat up to watch him go, with the same glimmer of fear that met his eyes whenever Jim left him alone. In the last four years, it hadn’t lessened. As Jim left the apartment, he took care to make noise as he turned the key in the lock so Shannon would know he’d done it.
He didn’t read his book on the subway, opting to stand so a senior citizen could take a seat. He resolutely ignored the dick nudging his ass for most of the route. Instead, he stared out the window at the guy’s reflection. He was Jessup’s age. Once, he turned his head so his gaze met Jim’s in the reflection, and he smiled. Jim stared, kept his face blank, and slowly shook his head in warning when the guy thrust against him. He backed off after that, but Jim had only one stop to go. He jogged onto the platform at 79th Street and up to the street, listening for a few blocks to hear if the guy had followed, and when he heard nothing, he turned around to check. He was alone.
It wasn’t a block he’d spent any time on. Trees and flowers received a level of care that spoke to the upscale residency. He found the house numbers in bold black iron shapes bolted to edifices and highlighted by stern overhanging lanterns. Counting his way toward Jessup’s, Jim reminded himself that in his suit, he looked as if he belonged. At Jessup’s building, he hesitated at the sight of a doorman through the glass entryway. Bolstering himself with a breath, he walked inside.
“I’m Jim Sieber. Mr. Jessup is expecting me.” He hadn’t prepared any proof, hadn’t even saved Jessup’s texts, since Jessup had been so adamant about secrecy. If the doorman questioned him, he was SOL. The doorman, however, smiled at him and asked him to sign the visitor log. After a second of hesitation, Jim wrote his real name. He figured he’d raise flags if he didn’t, considering he’d already introduced himself.
As he signed, the doorman called Jessup. By the time Jim put the pen down, the phone call was over. “Follow me, sir.” The doorman walked over to an elevator that stood separate from the bank of others. Jim might not have noticed it tucked into a nook behind a large plant. The doorman pressed a card against a flat black panel, which lit up green. When the doors opened, he gestured Jim inside. Then he used his card again on the elevator’s panel. The floor indicator lit up with a red arrow indicating the direction. Aside from a firefighter’s call button, there was nothing else to push. As Jim watched, he wondered what he’d gotten himself into. “Let me know if you need anything else, sir.”
“Thank you.”
The doorman stepped out, leaving the doors to close on Jim, alone. This was miles from anything he’d ever experienced. With his luck, Jessup would see him gawking and call it off. The inside of the elevator was the most garish thing he’d ever seen, looking like someone had vomited disco balls and sequins and then waved a magic wand to make the walls absorb it. Chantelle would fall in love with it if she ever had the chance to see it.
She’d been a real pleasure at the club lately—getting too big for her britches, as Jim’s mother would say.
The elevator opened directly into Jessup’s apartment. Jim stepped off into an empty living room. Sweet holy Moses. He looked up and up and up as the elevator door closed behind him. He could see two more floors from where he stood, each set off by a balcony reached by a winding staircase. In contrast to the elevator, the living room design was an exercise in good taste. Off-white carpeting, light beige couch, flat-screen television at an angle to it, not right in front, a fireplace with a log in it, and a vase of daffodils on the mantel. On the opposite wall, a large piece of art hung. Jim shuffled closer for a better look but stopped before his feet left the marble of the foyer. His nerves flared again. He was supposed to find what he needed in this place? He couldn’t even touch the carpet in his shoes.
“Mr. Sieber! I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.”
Jim startled at hearing Jessup’s voice. He turned. Jessup hurried toward him, hand outstretched. He looked rich, dressed in a pair of khakis and a light-pink pullover V-neck sweater. Jim shook his hand, feeling both overdressed and underfunded.
Instead of “hello,” Jim heard himself say, “Is that a real Picasso?”
Jessup laughed, but it was a good kind of laugh, not a “how does a stripper know about art?” laugh. Jim’s nerves eased. “It is. I’d be happy to give you the grand tour if you’re interested in art. I have several pieces.”
“Um.” Glancing down, Jim noticed that Jessup had his shoes on. He looked back up to meet Jessup’s gaze and stepped onto the carpet. “Maybe after? I’m sure you’re looking forward to… disciplining me, and I’d rather get started if that’s okay with you.”
“Of course.” Jessup instantly turned all business. “May I take your jacket?”
Jim handed it over, and Jessup draped it over the couch. “This way.” He spoke over his shoulder as he walked. “I thought we’d do it in the kitchen if that suits you.”
“Yeah, fine.” Jim’s apartment had two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen. Jessup led him past a room that seemed to host a chair and nothing else. Unlike the rest of the penthouse Jim had seen, the kitchen had a warm, welcoming vibe. It was decorated in yellow and beige with wooden cabinets along the walls. A rectangular polished oak table with rounded edges stood off-center in the room, with more space between it and the kitchen counters and less between it and a bare wall. It was cleared, undoubtedly for him. A window over the sink looked out over Central Park. Jim figured it would be nice to see the lights while Jessup whipped him. Maybe get lost in his reflection, let himself travel while he atoned. He anticipated the pain and where it would take him. This room would do. The table would hold.
“If you’ll drop your pants and position yourself over the table, we’ll get started.” Jessup’s tone was all business, a relief. Approaching the table, Jim paused when he saw a box of chocolate truffles sitting on the kitchen counter.
He turned to Jessup. “Miss Wyatt’s Belgian truffles come from you.”
“She told you?”
“Not who you were, but she gave me one the first time we met. It was delicious.”
Jessup looked amused. “I’ll pick up a box for you next time. I’m afraid that one is for my mother.”
“Thanks.” Jim turned around, undid his slacks, and lowered them to his ankles. Knowing Jessup was that friend made him easier to trust for some reason.
“You’re wearing a jock.” Jessup’s business tone gave way to surprise.
“I thought it would be good to keep my junk out of the way. I can take it off if you want.” He’d chosen one of his more supportive jock straps, with elastic that framed his cheeks rather than having a segment that went up his crevice. The band that circled his waist was an inch wide.
“No. It’s a good idea. I practiced but….” Jessup pulled the belt out of a drawer and took a few swings through the air. He seemed steadier than the last time they’d tried this.
“Okay.” Jim hiked his shirt up to midwaist and bent over. He rested his chest on the table. Stretching his arms out, he gripped its sides. “Ready when you are.”
“Bennett’s in Europe this week. Spending my money on prostitutes.”
“I’m sorry to hear that
.” Jim looked over his shoulder and made eye contact with Jessup, who stood behind him. He gave Jim a weary smile.
“Shall we try twenty, Mr. Sieber?”
“I think twenty is bearable.”
Jessup touched Jim’s lower back, where his shirt had shifted down. His hand felt warm through the poly blend fabric. Jim laid his head down again. He stared at the window, where he could see himself laid out and a sliver of Jessup’s reflection. Then Jessup’s arm came into view. Jim closed his eyes, and a second later, he felt the first blow. He gritted his teeth through the first several strokes. Jessup had improved. The belt landed solidly on his ass, no more cruel flicks of the tip. Jessup whipped him in silence. Jim guessed he was concentrating on guiding the belt.
As the belting continued, Jim and the pain drifted away. It hurt, but it wasn’t unmanageable. But when the pain disappeared, the thoughts came. Think about why you’re doing this. Shannon almost died because you were too thick to see he needed you. What a good friend you are. You did everything wrong. You almost lost him. His skin tingled like the first pleasant notion of fire before shock wore off and nerves awoke to send the alarm of pain to one’s head. The same thing had happened during the sessions at Miss Wyatt’s. Jim savored this moment above all, when his thoughts were concentrated into this small capsule and the beating kept him focused on his quest for the absolution that remained out of reach. He tucked his hands beneath his head. Jessup continued to make the belt sing and crack on his bottom. Jim wondered if this was relieving his stress. Something niggled in his mind that he didn’t deserve this pleasant rush. He fought against it. Absolution wouldn’t come; this was wasted pain. His guilt rushed forward, and he grabbed it as the haze lifted.
At thirteen, the pain of those first strokes returned tenfold. Jim cried out, aching and grateful. He held his position, but his heels tapped of their own accord, jiggling his ass. He gasped as the belt missed its mark and struck his thigh.
“Mr. Sieber?” Jessup yanked the belt away from Jim’s burning skin.
“I’m fine.”
“If you want to stop?”
Jim forced himself to lift his heavy head and once again look Jessup in the eye. “I can handle seven more.” He didn’t want to stop. He needed this.
“Are you certain?”
He dropped his head down and took hold of the table’s sides. “Do it.”
Jessup finished off the final strokes quickly. By the last few, Jim gave up on restraining the sounds fighting to break free of his clamped lips. He gave them passage in the form of grunts, moans, and consonants—“Fuuuuh.” After Jessup stopped, Jim remained still, gathering his senses before he tried to move. Jessup rolled the belt and shoved it back into the drawer.
“I’ll get you something to drink.” Jessup took his time and kept his back turned. Jim was grateful for the semblance of privacy as he forced himself, wincing, to an upright position. The moment he stood, he regretted that he hadn’t thought to drag his pants up while he was still bent over. He stared down at his feet. They had never seemed so far away.
He couldn’t fight the hiss that emerged when he reached for them. Jessup came to his side in an instant, placing one hand on Jim’s shoulder as the other hovered near his hip. “Let me help you. Stand up.”
Jim did. He felt wobbly and a little disappointed. He hadn’t expected twenty strokes to redeem him, but he’d hoped they would earn him a reprieve that lasted longer than a few seconds.
“I’m sorry. I should be able to—in the future, I mean, I’ll be able to pull my own pants up.”
“It’s okay. Why don’t you step out of them for now? I have some aloe vera in the bathroom. It should help soothe the sting. I can’t let you leave like this.”
“I’m fine.”
“Please.” Jim couldn’t tell if Jessup was asking him or saying, “Oh please, you are not.” The latter probably wasn’t something Jessup would say. Either way, he wasn’t getting a choice. He’d have to accept Jessup’s care or get himself home at a snail’s pace.
So Jim bent over the table, but instead of awaiting a belt, he accepted Jessup’s nudge against his lower leg as he lifted one foot and then the other to allow Jessup to free him of his slacks.
“I’ll be right back.”
Jim didn’t bother standing up. Jessup returned a few seconds later—he must have run, unless there was a closer bathroom than the one Jim had seen—with the promised gel and a small pillow.
“Here.” Jessup waited for Jim to raise his head and slid the pillow under. “I thought this would make you more comfortable.” To Jim’s surprise, the pillow infused his nostrils with a pleasant scent. He sighed into it, wanting more.
“It’s lavender. Supposed to help you relax. Soothing, you know.” Jessup sounded nervous, as if he wasn’t sure how helpful he should be.
“It’s nice. Thank you.”
“Here.” Jessup snapped the lid open on the gel and handed it over. Jim didn’t want to move from the pillow.
“I might need some help. There are a few places I can’t quite reach.”
“No problem.” Jessup reclaimed the bottle. “We’ll have you good as new in no time.”
Jim braced himself for Jessup to take his time, to explore his handiwork and slide slick fingers down the dip between his cheeks, to places the belt hadn’t touched. He steadied his breathing. You asked for this. It’s this or not being able to walk. The lavender reacted to each stressful thought, wrapping it up in gentle aroma and whisking it away.
“I’m going to rub this over your ass, and you’ve got a red mark on your thigh. Sorry about that. I’ll get it too.”
“Okay.” Knowing what would happen helped. No surprises. Even better, Jessup spoke as he worked. His hands never wandered from where he said they would go. The gel alleviated some of Jim’s burn, replacing it with a cool tingle. When the bottle snapped closed, he’d lost most of his tension. It disappeared with that final sound. With a final, blissful inhale, he stood unaided, leaving the pillow on the table.
Jessup dropped to one knee in front of him and held his slacks out. “Go ahead and hold my shoulder for balance.”
Jim did. “Do you do this often?”
“Help grown men get dressed? Not since I was in high school. I worked in my uncle’s tailor shop.” He guided Jim’s foot through a leg hole. Once Jim had his other foot inside the correct pantleg, Jessup hooked his thumbs through the belt loops at the side and stood up. With the movement, he slid Jim’s pants up to his waist, and all without touching him.
“You’re terrific at that.” Jim couldn’t help but give the compliment.
Jessup stepped back with a flourish. “Some skills never die.”
Jim laughed. “Does that mean I’ll still know my way around a pole when I’m fifty?”
“Fifty-three.” Jessup grinned. “Probably. Here.” He handed Jim the tumbler he’d prepared earlier.
Jim liked when Jessup smiled. It seemed the discipline session had done him good. At least one of them had achieved the desired result.
“Have you ever had hundred-year-old whiskey?”
“Uh, no.” Was he really offering…?
Jessup raised his glass. “Enjoy it.”
Jim took a sip. “Wow.” He choked.
“It takes some getting used to.”
“It’s not only my ass that’s on fire anymore.”
“Ha! How about that tour I offered?” Without waiting for an answer, Jessup headed for the door. Holding his glass, Jim followed. After experiencing Jessup’s brand of caring hospitality, Jim couldn’t help wanting to see what other traits lurked under his layers of wealth.
MR. SIEBER peered at Grant’s original Degas. “Did it help?” He didn’t shift his attention from the young dancers in the painting. Grant assessed him. He seemed recovered and had his jacket on.
Grant stood beside him, as close as respect of personal space would allow without becoming awkward. Mr. Sieber knew a good deal about art. He’d asked questions, s
hown knowledge of the artists’ lives, and been captivated by the tour, so much so that the query almost took Grant by surprise. Putting the belt away had ended the moment for him, but, as he turned his gaze on Mr. Sieber, who continued to avoid looking at him, he saw a young man who needed reassurance. Of the men Grant had whipped before, every one had different reactions. He’d whipped moaners, screamers, pleaders, criers. But Mr. Sieber had lapsed into silence for a good portion of the whipping, and when Grant had checked, the expression of blank grief he wore during that moment had almost caused Grant to stop. He’d only continued because Mr. Sieber had told him to finish it.
“I can’t say for certain, but in the last fifteen minutes, I have not thought of Bennett once,” Grant said, hoping Mr. Sieber would share what had been going through his mind.
Instead, Mr. Sieber glanced at him, a grimace on his lips. “And now I’ve reminded you. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. My children are always on my mind in one way or another. A little break is nice now and then.”
Mr. Sieber looked as if he might say something more, perhaps a comment on fatherhood, but he stepped away and turned toward another wall.
“Is that a Renoir?”
So he didn’t want to talk yet. Fine. This was only a business interaction anyway. No reason for Grant to be interested in Mr. Sieber’s thoughts, nor should he want to comfort that sad expression away. Bullshit. I wouldn’t have bothered with the lavender and gel if that were true. He turned to the new focal point of Mr. Sieber’s attention. “It is. That is my wife’s. She left it after the divorce and has never claimed it.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
Grant stopped before he dismissed it as one of Renoir’s lesser works. It was still out of most people’s realm. “Not in comparison to what I paid her in alimony. Melanie has a better eye than I do. She thought it complemented this space.” Turning away from it, he exited the room, trusting Mr. Sieber to follow.
A Cordial Agreement Page 4