She speaks into a moment of comfortable silence that has recently blossomed between them, “So, how much experience do you have with BDSM?”
The question comes on the tail of their phone conversation the other night, and he smiles very lightly at the delivery. He hopes it means that she trusts him, and herself, enough to have brought it up in such a way.
“A decent amount, though quite a bit of that is speculative.”
She turns her head to him, eyes moving up to his, as they continue the relaxed stroll. The question she poses is evident enough, so he carries on.
“I’ve studied many books, even one that purported to be a comprehensive list of ‘unusual’ sexual practices, but that doesn’t mean I’ve directly experienced all, or even most, of those.”
She nods, her face turned back to see where they are headed, the gesture indicating her contemplation.
“I also try to be very open-minded. I was at a party one time, and there was a young lady there who seemed to be interested in coprophilia, and when I say ‘seemed’, I am being polite, for she assuredly was.” He pauses for a moment, expecting her to ask after the word, what it means. She does not. “We shared a short, private talk, and she expressed surprise that her particular fetish did not cause me to recoil or judge her. As I openly explained that it did not, she then tentatively invited me to join her in it. I declined that,” he finishes, smiling when her eyes move briefly to him, her own lips curling into a similar expression.
“What kind of stuff have you done, then?” she asks more pointedly, though her tone is still rather casual, obviously curious.
“Well, I have engaged in light bondage, denial play, corporal discipline-.”
“You mean spanking?” she asks, glancing over, still wearing that sincere, open expression on her face and in her eyes.
“Yes,” he affirms.
He watches as she returns her gaze forward, noting a barely perceptible curve to her mouth.
“Were you the dominant or the submissive?” she then asks, showing some of her own knowledge of the subject.
“Dominant.”
And she gives him another glance of her beautiful eyes, and he sees yet another light curl take her lips, this one showing her bashfulness.
He wants to say more. He experiences another surging thrill within, a tempt, a tease at anticipation, but he shall keep this to himself for now. It is yet very early in their budding relationship, and rushing would possibly produce negative results.
They finally reach her car, standing by the passenger door to say their farewells. She has her back to the vehicle, having stepped forward as he slowed at their arrival, and she looks up at him. He returns the gaze, letting their eyes lock, sharing a moment. It is thrilling, intense, even as it is silent and short in duration.
She looks away, her eyes moving in a quick blink, glancing down and left and then blinking back up at him. She pulls in a slow breath, and he sees the motion and rise of her chest in his peripheral vision. She seems to be gathering courage, and he is very eager to hear what she is about to say.
“I didn’t expect this,” she finally speaks, “I had kind of written off this sort of thing when I was hurt so badly in my prior relationship. I don’t want to be hurt again.”
He nods slowly, a short motion of his head, the warm smile on his lips dropping a bit to show sympathy to her seriousness and her memories of pain.
“I have also been hurt,” he reminds her, “And I cannot say as I was actively looking, but I am glad we met.”
She smiles openly at this, another breath going in, and she rises up on her toes.
“Me, too,” then she blinks twice, heavily, a slight moment between each, “I really like you … a lot,” she finally offers.
He sees the courage this has taken, even as she holds her eyes to his, a flush slowly rising through her cheeks.
“I like you very much,” he returns, speaking with an easy, smooth tone of voice, smiling further.
“You do?” she asks, and he can sense the humility in her, even the hints of doubt that she would believe such a thing.
His smile grows, and he nods, slowly, assenting to her that he, indeed, does. And her own lips curl into a broader grin at this. The sight of her thusly is a vision, her bright, open eyes at his, giving of herself to him in expression and words.
He leans in to her, bending at the waist, closing the small distance between them, moving slowly but with obvious intent, lowering his face to hers, and her eyes widen, pupils dilating, even as her chin raises, her own possibly subconscious response and desire showing itself as she makes the rendezvous easier. He tilts his head to the right a small degree, bringing his lips to hers.
She does not shirk away, her own face moving a touch to the right, as they kiss. He presses further, and she returns it, and they melt more into one another. His right hand glides over, gently, placing against her upper left arm, and she raises her own hands, elbows bending, giving tentative exploration to his waist.
When he feels this, he brings his other hand up, sliding his arms about her and pulling her closer, the kiss continuing, growing in intensity, sensations coursing through them like a cascading flow pushing behind an initial surge. His pulse increases, just as her own heartbeat rises, thumping in her chest as they move their mouths together, savoring, tasting, parting to exchange a passage of warm breath, an exploratory touch of tongues.
He pulls her even tighter, and she responds in kind, her arms about his waist, beneath his jacket. The kiss continues, their jaws moving with it, still a relatively slow pace, taking their time to experience one another, and finally, slowly, they part, still embraced in each other’s arms, lids languidly opening. It feels like resolving back into the real world from a dreamlike hiatus, and they gaze into one another’s eyes, content smiles on their recently kissed lips, showing their arousal and evident need.
Chapter Seven
The four men sit about the round, darkly colored, wooden table, playing poker. Judging from the way the cards are being dealt, they engage in hold ‘em, being on the turn round of this hand. They are using quality clay chips, the color spectrum showing mainly red, green, and black, a growing pile of them collected in the center.
“Fold,” Quain says, tossing down his two cards and picking up his nearby drink, bubbles rising through the lightly flavored tonic water as he has a sip.
Gnegon looks at him, taking stock, then he throws in more chips to call and raise, commenting casually as the checks leave his hand to clatter atop the pot, “It appears our efforts are finally showing fruit, hmmm?” he perks his eyebrows, his narrow eyes widening, which makes them almost as wide as the average person would appear in a relaxed state, the dark pupils focused on the one who has recently folded.
“It’s all your ‘ace’ there,” the detective says, still holding up the drinking glass, perking his own eyebrows and indicating across the table from himself.
“Ahh, no, I am but one man,” Duilio comments, a smoldering cigarette in the glass ashtray to his right, taking a moment to study his cards, then squinting at Gnegon who merely smirks. “We are all in this together,” he concludes, then, “Call,” as he throws in the requisite amount, picking up the lit stick for a drag.
All eyes move to Alec, who bears a self-satisfied smirk of his own.
“What about you, Detective Sladky?”
“Hmm?” the large man blinks, eyes raising to look at the others, casting about, “Oh, yes. Reraise,” he grins, splashing in more chips.
Gnegon grumbles, reaching toward his own stacks.
“Not the hand, Detective,” Duilio says, “Our efforts against the vigilante. We are doing much better.”
“Oh, yes, yes, we are,” he nods, clearly more focused on the hand, “And it is your turn,” he says to the inspector as Gnegon calls.
Duilio keeps at his cigarette, merely staring back, a little curl to his lips, “How much to call?”
“Thirty-five to you,” Gnegon says.
Quain sets down his glass, taking up the nearby deck to discard the top one in the other small pile of those already used and flip over the next, adding it to the end of the row of community cards, thus making it the fifth, the river, and ending what cards will be in play this hand. He spares a glance to the his partner, noting the somewhat subtle, though obvious signs of excitement, then looks to his left. Gnegon is as intent as ever.
“There have not been any more recent attacks, and since we brought in so much merchandise, we are actually experiencing a net gain,” he says, still looking at the final card, no doubt trying to decide his next move in this battle, then settling back in his chair, looking over at Alec, brow furrowing slightly, then he picks up two of the green chips, tossing them softly onto the pile.
“That is good,” Duilio remarks, still savoring his cigarette, eyes moving almost surreptitiously from the crime boss over to the heavy detective, “But still, lack of evidence is not evidence of absence.”
“Raise,” Alec says to this, throwing in more chips, which gets another simmering scowl from Gnegon.
“I don’t think anyone’s saying that,” Quain replies to the inspector after sparing a moment to watch his partner and Gnegon.
“Of course not,” Duilio is quick to exclaim, nodding slowly, emphatically, “I was just being … romantic, no? Philosophical, hmm?”
“Right,” Quain somewhat humors.
“Call!” Gnegon all but shouts, tossing in the needed chips, then shooting a stare at Alec.
The barely suppressed grin slowly spreads over the fleshy lips of the man as he reveals his cards, showing he has a full house, achieving the powerful hand on the turn card. A quick analysis of the community cards would indicate he is in possession of the most likely top hand possible.
“Gah!” Gnegon resorts to a louder voice at this, throwing his two cards down without any formal reveal, a clear indication of his loss, and Alec beams as he rakes in the pot.
“Though we have had a breakthrough with our counter-measures,” Duilio interjects.
“Oh?” Quain perks up to this, sliding the deck and the corresponding ‘dealer’ marker to his left.
The inspector spares a glance to Gnegon who picks up the stack of cards, beginning to shuffle it with effectiveness if not some evident lack of dexterity.
“Yes, we have discovered a contact within the police that is feeding information to an outside source.”
“The vigilante?”
“Which department?”
The two detectives throw out their respective questions almost on top of each other, clearly piqued at this revelation.
Gnegon’s eyes shift between the two, then to Duilio.
“Not your department,” he says to Alec, then, “And no,” to Quain, “We do not think so, but the information is too similar to have not gotten into the vigilante’s hands.”
“Why don’t you think so? Maybe this guy is feeding intel directly to the vigilante. We could trace that and-,” Quain presses, but he is cut-off.
“We don’t think so,” Gnegon clips, firmly, then he looks up at the approach of a man within his organization.
They exchange a few quiet words as the visitor leans in to speak quietly and quickly into the boss’ ear, leaving once a few nods are returned. Gnegon looks out at the other three at the table with him.
“I am sorry, gentlemen, but business calls me away.”
“Oh?” Alec tries.
Gnegon looks over after he has risen from his chair, reaching for his coat from a nearby wooden, standing coat rack.
“I am sorry to deprive you of more of my money, Alec,” he quips, then grabs his garment, bidding them goodbye as he walks away, several of his men in tow.
Alec smirks at this, stacking up his checks, counting them in preparation of cashing them out here at one of Gnegon’s illegal gambling establishments. He finally looks up to see the Interpol man staring at him through narrowed eyes.
“What?” he demands.
“You are not very good at this game.”
“I am, too,” he protests, puffing up his chest somewhat, “Look at how much I won,” gesturing with a jerk down of his head to the stacks.
“Oh, I am sorry, Detective. Forgive my poor communication. I was not asking a question,” the inspector charmingly replies, throwing a somewhat patronizing, though not too obviously insulting, smile on the end of his statement.
Tension resolves itself rather quickly onto the hefty officer, face pinching up as he stares at the calmly smoking man. He then glances at Quain, who seems mostly nonplussed, keeping only a casual eye on the development.
“You didn’t win the most,” Alec finally declares, sounding like a petulant child.
“Ahhh, you think I meant merely this game,” Duilio says, smiling good-naturedly, gesturing with his hand to encompass the table, the cigarette now in the right, leaking a lazy trail of thin smoke as it is moved. “No, no, no. Though,” he sparks, poking that same hand up into the air, “It is an apt metaphor for life and the games we play in it, hmm?” he perks his eyebrows, pushing away and crossing his legs to be more comfortable, showing the dark crimson, silk socks he wears, “This game is about bluffing and reading the other players, and I have ‘read’ all of you.”
Alec rolls his eyes, but those of Quain just look over at the man, somewhat amused but also inquisitive.
“You,” Duilio points at Quain, “You play like a regular person who doesn’t really care, yet you are cautious and still aware,” then he shifts his position, “You,” speaking now to Alec, dropping his propped foot to the floor, leaning forward onto his knees, pointing with both hands, “You play too aggressive. You are a sore loser, and a sore winner. Is that the correct expression?” he asks, aside, “A poor winner, yes, that,” and he stabs his left hand toward Alec as emphasis, “You should learn to lose sometimes to Gnegon, but do not let him know you are doing that, hmm?”
He looks between the two, leaning back, eventually moving his eyes to the other, “You, though, Detective Contee, you give me the most trouble to read.”
“What about Gnegon, then?” Alec challenges.
“Oh, he is almost as easy to read as you are,” Duilio dismisses.
“Hmph,” Alec scoffs, “Then why didn’t you win more?”
“Because the game is not just about the paltry money on the table,” Duilio says, like springing a trap, “That is why.”
*****
Gnegon stands inside the open bay of one of his many warehouses, this one large enough that a truck can be backed up completely inside to be loaded or unloaded of its cargo. Right now, though, it is devoid of any such vehicles. The single lit light, hanging from the tall ceiling by its long, rigidly encased cables, gives up the figures of several men lingering on the raised area of concrete flooring next to the empty vehicle space.
After a short amount of time, a trio of other men enter, a particular one amongst them that the crime boss has come to personally see. That man is shorter than average, stocky from muscles and strong from hard physical labor as well as his own life experiences. He keeps his hair shaved very close, thus giving a bit of a muddled, shadowed appearance to his pate, the edge of the receding hairline noticeable but reduced in contrast.
“Maral,” Gnegon speaks the lieutenant’s name, the man standing uneasily before the boss.
Maral nods, shifting his weight nervously, eyes moving from Gnegon to the others, all of them part of the same organization.
“I wanted to let you know that our trouble with the pest has lessened of late.”
The man stops moving for a moment, eyes shifting about more, then he nods, almost his entire upper body going into the gesture. “That’s good, Boss. Good, good.”
“Yes, but we shouldn’t slack our guard, no?”
“Oh, no. No, Boss,” and he vigorously shakes his head.
And more of the emphatic nodding comes at this statement, “Yes, yes, Boss. I’m sorry about that.”
“I can see that you are,” Gnegon responds, speaking smoothly, “We know of the attacks. We’re learning more all the time. We know how dangerous he is, no?” he perks his eyebrows at this, getting more nods from his man, “We should be on high alert until we are sure we’ve killed this pest.”
“Yes, Boss. Yes,” nods the lieutenant.
Gnegon reaches into the right pocket of his dark topcoat, pulling forth a small, black oblong object, which fits neatly in his gloved hand. Though Maral stiffens somewhat at this, he makes no other movements.
“He uses something like this as part of his arsenal,” Gnegon raises his hand, fingers loosening somewhat to better display the object, “It is a stunner.”
The other man peers, eyes narrowing to try to better make out the dark device held within the hand, then he nods.
“It is quite effective. We should begin giving them to our guards. Are you aware of what it can do?”
A furrowed brow comes after this question, before Maral gives answer.
“Well, yes, Bo-,” is all he gets out before Gnegon turns his hand, bringing the item to life with a press of the button and hitting his lieutenant in the face, just below his nose.
The two beside the man, the ones who served as escort, quickly grab him, holding him up, bracing, and Gnegon leans in, holding the stunner there before finally releasing. He then looks at the two men, and they also release, the lieutenant collapsing to the ground. His resilience is shown as he does not take long to begin moving, moaning.
Dance of the Butterfly Page 13