by Leigh Lennon
You’ll wear what I provide for you on the weekends we’re together.
And you will call me if you have a need—physically or emotionally. If you’re broken down on the side of the road, I want to know. If you can’t pay your utility bill, I want you to tell me.
You’ll have my direct number. We’ll talk every night at an agreed-upon time.
Holy shit—I’ve never been one that could be told what to do. Maybe I can? Maybe it’ll be something I can get behind because the sex was certainly not vanilla. Maybe, I crave more.
He seems so detached with this letter and rules, yet nothing was impersonal about us together that first night. Maybe it sounds so cold, simply because it’s in a letter.
I thumb through the entire envelope of information, then pad to my bedroom and lock it in a secure area where I have important paperwork stored, leaving out his assistant’s phone number. I’ll continue to mull this over for a day or two because it’s what a responsible person should do, right?
Yet my body has pretty much already decided what my mind wants—and that is Marcel Lafitte.
Chapter 6
Marcel
My personal assistant is just that, my personal assistant. She has nothing to do with my job but manages my life. It may seem extravagant, but I don’t have time to run to the dry cleaners, or check up on my cleaning staff, go grocery shopping, or make appointments. My life is dictated by this news station. It’s my livelihood, and to be successful, it’s what works.
I’d left a message with Gloria earlier in the week to expect a phone call from a personal associate of mine. She would need to book Molly’s travel from Vancouver and, depending on her work schedule, provide a driver or first class airfare.
Shit, I don’t even know what Molly does. I’m sure I can poke around on social media and figure it out, but I won’t cheat in this way.
I want to learn about her organically. But as the week wears on, and it’s Wednesday, I’ve contacted Gloria every day to check on the plans. But I swore Molly, the stubborn sassy little thing, would have called by now. And she hasn’t.
I’d thought I’d be getting a phone call from Gloria on Saturday night about a particular petite redhead who’d given in to her carnal desires. But on Wednesday, I don’t want to break protocol and call her even though I have her phone number.
And with my mood, sour at best, Connie Weston’s familiar, “Yoo-hoo,” is the last straw. She helps herself into my office, standing in front of my desk decked out in some pink pastel skirt with a purple camisole under a yellow blazer. She looks as if an Easter egg exploded all over her.
“Connie, I’m busy here.” It’s a statement more would interpret as leave me the hell alone, yet this woman struts toward my desk, and as she does, her outfit is complete with mint green stilettos.
“Yeah, so I was thinking about our conversations from the weekend.”
I move my attention from my personal assistant’s name on the phone to Connie. “You mean, when I put you in your place and told you to do your damn job and stop looking for a shortcut?”
The shrill she lets out at my words is so loud, the entire building has to hear it. “Ah, you’re funny, Marcel. That’s funny. Well, anyway, I was thinking about what you said, and thought that a friendly competition would be fun.”
I’ve not heard from Molly, and my mood is foul as fuck. She strolls in here with her crazy outfit, slewing the same shit as before. I push to my feet and flatten my hands on my desk.
“Connie, I’m going to say this once and for all. Do your damn job. There are no shortcuts here. Just do your job and stop coming to me, asking for favors.”
The same look of shock sits on her face as before. “Marcel, I think you misunderstood me.”
“Please, shut the door behind you on your way out.”
And as she slams it, I send a quick message to the head of our human resources department. I don’t put it past her to take this complaint to them.
I send my message to Gloria in the hope Molly has reached out. Do I text her? Pursue her? I’ve never had to do that in the past, so what makes the fiery redhead so different?
Gloria responds that she’s heard nothing from Molly. Is this my chéri’s silent way of saying one night was all she wanted?
My car has a mind of its own. When I’m starting to unravel, as the control is being lifted from me, my mind needs reassurance that I hold all the cards in my ordered life.
I pull into Club Temptation, the BDSM club I’ve been a member of since this lifestyle started to appeal to me. I’ve never had a consistent sub, but there’s someone I can use for the night. Younger girls use me to work out their daddy issues, and I use them because they are so compliant and ready to please.
Molly is different. She wanted me for me. Sure, on paper, we are bad for one another based strictly on age. Age has only been a number, not a way of life. I’ve grabbed what I want from an early age, and I only slow down when my body says it needs to rest. It gives in to normally five to six hours of sleep, and I’m refreshed for the next day.
Taking stock of what is going on in the club, I don’t find one woman who appeals to my desires. Even the redheaded submissive by the bar without a collar on does nothing for me, and if I ever have a type, it’s a redhead.
But only one redheaded female is what I want and crave at the same time. The woman I know as Nina kneels at my feet. We’ve played before, but I need to own something, and I can’t with images of Molly running through my head.
“I’m not here to play tonight.” I help her up, but she keeps her eyes averted down, like the good sub she is. But as I toss back my whiskey, my attention is caught by the scene occurring for the entire club to watch. And fuck, it’s another redhead. The man has a whip, and this particular Dom is trained very well in this area. It’s typically an erotic scene, and gives me many ideas for the woman I choose for the night, but not now. I pull out my cell, and my finger hovers over the text Molly sent me the other day. I want to call her. But she’s been just as clear as I’ve been. Commitment is not what either of us is looking for.
My thumb is so close to adding it to my contacts and demanding an answer, a reason as to why she hasn’t called. This isn’t the cool, collected Dom I choose to be in my entire life. Sure, my subs are used in my need for sexual control, but then again, everyone I deal with daily is under my domination, whether they know it or not.
This is ridiculous as I inner war with myself and the phone dings with Gloria's message.
Gloria: A Ms. O’Hennessey has called to make arrangements to visit Friday through Sunday. I can get her on a plane at 6 p.m. on Friday, leaving at 4 p.m. on Sunday. I have her booked at the hotel you requested and a car to retrieve her from the airport. Is there anything else I can do for her?
The center stage no longer holds my attention, and I replace the shot glass over the bar to take my leave. On the way, I type instructions to Gloria and have an extra pep in my step. Yeah, four weekends with Molly is certainly what I need.
Chapter 7
Molly
I don’t owe my parents an explanation, yet I told them I’d be gone with a friend this weekend, but as I board the plane from Vancouver to Seattle, I’ll be in the same city as my brother and have no intentions of telling him.
It had been an easy decision, but because I’m young, and because I simply can, I was given the control to tell him when and if I was interested. Yeah, call me immature, but I love the fact I may have made him sweat a little.
And this is all very odd to me at the same time. I guess he sets the rules and expectations. And when a woman by the name of Gloria answered the call two nights ago, she’d been quick with a travel itinerary. She’d mentioned a car would pick me up at the airport, and when I declined, her only answer was, “Oh, Mr. Lafitte won’t like that, at all.”
I agreed immediately because I won’t deny having all the senseless decisions made for me is sort of a relief. And I’d always shunned Ana on Fifty Shades. No
w I sort of get the appeal.
A town car is waiting for me at the curb of the SeaTac Airport with a sign that simply reads Molly. I mean, I’ve just been on the national news last week and don’t need to attract more attention with the last name of O’Hennessey.
When I approach the town car, an older woman in her mid-fifties steps out. “Are you Ms. O’Hennessey?” she whispers her question.
“Yes, ma’am, I am.” Instantly the driver hurries around the car, swiping my luggage from me before I can think. He’s back opening the door for Gloria and myself, and as we climb in, the driver slides up the privacy window separating us.
I barely catch my breath when Gloria starts with specifics. “Ms. O’Hennessey, there is everything you will need in your suite for your weekend with Mr. Lafitte. As I mentioned, you only needed day clothes for any outing you may go on.” She grabs a manila envelope, similar to the one Marcel gave me at his house last weekend. “These are some legal documents. If you have any legal questions, Mr. Lafitte has a lawyer at your disposal. They’ll need to be signed before he sees you. If you need the night, then he’ll push everything to tomorrow.”
If I thought this was information overload at his house, this is even more so. “You have Mr. Lafitte’s personal cell phone. Very few do, may I add.”
This woman is professional and precise. “You may contact him at any time after you’ve gone over the papers.” She takes a long deep breath. “Do you have any questions?”
Holy shit—I understand control, but this is too impersonal for what he’s asked of me. But I have told myself I’d give it the entire weekend before I jumped to conclusions or a decision.
“Um, well, I guess not.” She shifts her attention to her phone, pressing buttons as message after message zings for her attention.
I shimmy myself to the side, as to avoid her prying eyes when I open Google. Something doesn’t add up. The director of a news station can’t exude this much wealth, yet this man does.
I pull up Marcel Lafitte, but nothing pops up. I try the last name for businesses and other various aliases, but nothing appears. On a hunch, I attempt to find out the station owner with only a name of a holding company—MML International. It’s not relatable to the name Marcel Lafitte, and I’ve hit a wall. I’m sure he’s a secretive man, one who won’t give the information up easily.
But then again, he doesn’t know how motivated I am when I want something.
The legal documents are pretty self-explanatory. It’s a simple NDA, stating I’ll not reveal the relationship between Marcel and myself. And at any time, if I want to end this arrangement, it’s off without any legal recourse.
A note is included with the documents.
My sweetest Molly,
I hope you are not put off by this. It’s simply my way. If you have any questions, whatsoever, don’t hesitate to call. I have made arrangements in the private dining room in the hotel. If you aren’t sure yet if this is something you want to enter into, please take your time. I won’t be offended. Tomorrow evening, I’d like to introduce you to the club I frequent.
Your dearest Marcel.
Maybe it’s a French thing, but his salutation and regards seem quite intimate. I open the closet. It’s where Gloria explained my clothes would be. And more, they’re laundered by the receipt from the dry cleaners—even my unmentionables.
I pull out a sleek, green evening gown. It’s going to fit me like a glove, a size four, to be exact. How in the world did this man know my size? And the panty and bra sets—a 34D. Did he take inventory as he slipped me out of my clothes?
I tug at my purse from the bed to grab my phone. With a swipe of my thumb, I find his contact information, and I hit his number.
I’m not sure if I should be flattered or a little creeped out.
The phone rings three times, and he answers it almost out of breath.
“I’m sorry, can you give me a second?”
With a weak voice, I answer with a yes.
He’s not muted the phone, and I can make out what he’s saying. “I want it done, and done right this time. You want to skip to the front, show me you can do your job. Now that will be all. Please shut the door on your way out, Ms. Weston.”
Holy shit, remind me not to get on his bad side. “Oh, shit, I’m so sorry. I thought I muted the phone. Well, that was certainly unprofessional of me,” he begins, and I don’t know how to respond. It was scary as fuck and sexy as hell. “Did you get settled all right?”
I’ve lost my voice for a second. “Molly, are you still there?”
“Oh, um, yeah, I’m sorry. But more so, I’m glad I’m not the one on the receiving end of that conversation.” I let out a nervous laugh. Why am I all of a sudden so shy in the presence of this man? And I’m not actually in his space.
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I pride myself on being professional.”
There’s a slight accent in his tone, and I long to see him. This is an arrangement. He teaches me all there is to learn about a life of submission, and from that, I get many orgasms and a man who treasures me. No strings. But the strings seem to get tighter every time I think of him.
“On to the next subject, did you have a nice flight?” he asks.
Sure as shit, I had a nice flight. It was less than thirty minutes long, but first class has spoiled me. Even when my brother flies me from city to city to catch a game, it’s never in first class.
“Yes, I did. And thanks for the upgrade.”
The slightest little chuckle makes its way through my phone. Hell, I think I’m pregnant with the sound of his sensual laugh.
“You’re most welcome, chéri.”
I won’t share I took four years of French in high school, only to know chéri and amour.
“Well, thank you anyway.”
Through the line, I can swear he’s about to ask me another question when his breath hitches. “If you don’t mind, chéri, could we skip the pleasantries? We’ve regressed to awkward, and I’m not a scared teen ready to make it to first base with my crush. I want you, as you know. And if I may dare say, I’m looking forward to dinner tonight—if you are comfortable and signed the documents.”
“I have them signed. And I’ve been browsing the closet, admiring the beautiful green dress. How did you know green is my favorite color?”
His chuckle fills the line again. “I didn’t, but you looked stunning in it the other day, and I know what I like. And you in that gown will be the most glorious vision.”
“So, will I see you tonight?” I ask because I’m ready for the chitchat to be over.
“Oh, yes, reservation is at nine. I’ll meet you in the Garden Room.”
We say our goodbyes, and I glance at the clock. It’s nearing eight, and I need to shower and wash the day off me. I place my dress on the other end of the closet, my eyes not leaving the beauty, and I begin to wonder what this night will entail. But, all in all, being told what to wear seems a little too much.
My hair is pinned to the top of my head in a French roll with red ringlets framing my face.
I place the last personal touch, with a little highlight on my cheeks, right above my contour. And because I’m letting the dress work really hard for me tonight, all my accents, including the lipstick, are a more natural peach color. My earrings aren’t the normal large hoops I wear in my day job, but small diamonds my mother gave me for my college graduation and the matching diamond necklace I bought as a splurge with my first paycheck.
I’ve not had many reasons to wear them. Just my best friend’s wedding last spring, but I love knowing they are there.
I don a beautiful pair of Jimmy Choos, a gift from my brother, and am glad I thought to bring them because the ones Marcel provided were a little tight. Again, this reminds me to ask him where he found my sizes.
Opening the door to my room, I strut what I’ve been given because fuck with a side of holy shit, I feel hot. The dress doesn’t leave a whole hell of a lot to the imagination as it hugs both my
hips and my waist tight, with just enough wiggle room, and because of the deep plunging V-neck, I’m hopeful one sexy Frenchman will be captivated by it just enough that he’s hurting a little at the end of the night. But something about being told how to dress still doesn’t sit well with me, no matter how hot I feel.
A concierge greets me as I step off the elevator. “Are you looking for the Garden Room, Madame? Mr. Lafitte is already in there.”
“Yes, and thank you.” My phone is in my clutch he provided for me. Yet another note of how detailed this man is. I pull it out, following my guide, and see it’s just ten to nine. I guess he’s more punctual than I am.
He pulls back the door, and when I walk in, the entire room, at least twenty by twenty, is all decked out in overhead lights, strung beautifully from end to end. As he stands from the table to greet me, I instinctively throw my hand over my mouth.
My feet are planted on the floor. So much beauty in the room to take in. He takes all of three long strides to get to me, his hands interlacing with my own. “You look beautiful.” My attention is solely focused on Marcel in his dapper gray pin-striped suit and a matching green tie.
This man is something else. “You don’t look too bad yourself, Gramps.” I give him a quick wink to display something mischievous at first, but in a second, it turns to something conveying pure carnal desire. He did this all for me? A man of stature and his age has his desires set on me—and even if it is for a little while, my mind can’t get past it. He’s elegant and regal, yet my age or inexperience doesn’t discourage him. If anything, it excites him.
His eyes are fixed on the one area I pretty much thought would entice his attention. His large grin against the backdrop of his clean shave has me wanting to abandon dinner, even if I am truly starving.