Casey's Choice

by Alexis Alvarez

  “It means you can start again.” His voice was clipped. “Tell everyone you prefer to be called Casey, instead of your old nickname, Sofia. Nobody will question it. You can come and meet people and experience… what you wanted.” He made a fist and relaxed it. “You proved that you’re sorry, you accepted a chastisement, and it’s done. Nobody else will know.”

  “I don’t want to meet other people, Hunter.” Her eyes welled with tears. “You asked me to be your submissive. I just want you.”

  “That’s not going to happen, not now.” He turned around.

  “So you haven’t forgiven me.”

  “Casey!” His voice was frustrated. “You lied to me, over and over. I thought we were connecting on some insane, personal level, and it was all a farce. How can I forgive you just like that?” He snapped his fingers. “I don’t know if I ever can. Once that personal trust is broken, it’s not easy to mend.”

  “You wanted to cane me last night, but it was too much. Do it now. I’ll take it, whatever you want to give. I don’t care if you make me scream. Do it, Hunter. Do whatever it takes to make it right.” Her voice trembled. “I won’t even move, no matter how much it hurts.” She came forward and dropped her towel, and knelt down in front of him. Her voice was high and thin with hope. “I give you my consent to do what you want. Anything you need. Hurt me. Make your pain go away by giving it to me. Do it now, while you’re mad, so that you can get it all out and leave the passion behind.”

  “That’s not the way!” His expression twisted. “Trust me, Casey, if I took out my rage on you right now you’d be done before I even got started, and I will not become a monster. This isn’t the kind of thing that can be resolved with a spanking. Not everything can be. Some things just can’t be resolved at all.”

  “Please, can’t you just try?” Her voice caught. “Just—try.”

  “Get up, Casey.” He gestured at her. “Don’t—just get up.”

  She looked up at him. “So what’s going to happen… now? Between us?” She held her breath.

  “I honestly don’t know.” He sounded tired. “I need time to think it over.”

  “Were you jealous last night, that Max was touching me? That I wanted his fingers on me?” She didn’t know why she asked, but she needed to know. “Did you say no because you wanted it to be your fingers? You said that morning that you wanted no other man at the club to touch me.” Please, let it be that, she begged mentally. That, and not that he just wanted to hurt me out of anger and frustration.

  “That was before I found out that you were a fraud.”

  “So then you were just being an asshole. Denying me a little pleasure to help with the pain.” She shot the words at him, even though her heart was squeezed in her chest.

  “Well, maybe I was being an asshole,” he said. “But don’t forget who lied her way into my club and my bed. I’m not sure I’d call that any different.”

  She rose to her feet, and the anger and frustration rose with her, seething and growing until she screamed it out in a primal, visceral howl, and without planning it she grabbed the bottle of lotion, a brush, soap, and hurled them one by one at the mirror, at the wall, at the floor, wanting to shatter something as badly as she felt splintered inside. The sounds that echoed were sharp, like gunshots, and both of them jerked in reflex; she even thought she’d been the artist of the damage, perhaps at her own sudden surge of violence, but nothing broke and she grabbed at anything she could, small towels, and hurled them at his chest.

  “Then if you can’t forgive me, if you know you can’t even try? Then you had no business, no right touching me last night or allowing me to be touched by Max! You had no right to lay that cane over my ass twice and watch him punish me and embarrass me. You had no right to stand there and promise me absolution when you are completely incapable of delivering it.

  “That’s—moral code, you talk about? Valuing your members? I was a member, no matter how short a time, and no matter how poor of one. I stood there and showed myself to you and you smiled at me, and took my hand, and said you’d guide and teach me. And then you turned around and pushed me to my pain threshold for nothing other than your own twisted enjoyment. If it wasn’t for pleasure, or purification, which is even debatable whether that can even work—then what was it? You make me sick. I really never should have come here. God, Echo was right, Sofia was right. This place is fucked up, and so are you. Get out. Just get out of here. I can’t even look at you!”

  He left the room without a word and she dressed in haste, found her shoes and her purse. When she entered the main room, he was nowhere in sight, so she left the apartment, letting the heavy doors shut behind her with a solid click.

  * * *

  “I’m going to need you to meet with Eleanor Perkins today when she picks up her Anne Neukamp,” announced Monica, heels clicking. Her perfume was strong and dangerous, and Casey thought she could imagine how it would look: A thick swatch of cottony green, blurry around the edges, like chlorine gas, but more condensed, more stifling. It stretched out like taffy, then bounced back to hover around her like an aura. And it followed her like a distracted dog, missing turns, straying off to investigate far corners, then catching up to stand right beside her, at fierce attention.

  “Why?” Casey shifted on the rolling chair, trying not to make an obvious wince. She was sore, although not so much that she couldn’t focus. If the night had ended well, the reminder of her punishment might be pleasurable.

  “Why is not a good question.” Monica regarded Casey with narrowed lids. “A better one would be, ‘What information do I need to turn her into a return customer?’”

  “I’m sorry.” Casey took a breath. “Monica, can you tell me more about Eleanor, please? I’d like to turn her into a repeat client and I need your advice on how to read her.”

  “Better.” Monica put her hand to her side, pushed, and frowned, her face paler than usual, and a beat went by before she continued. “She wants a matching work to complement the Neukamp. She likes neutrals and greens, and organic lines. Modern, understated. No frantic lines. Smooth, sinuous, cool.”

  “Okay. I can work with that.” Casey began running the catalogue in her mind.

  “She likes coffee when she discusses art. She’s vegan except for organic creamer. She only likes to visit the gallery on Monday. She has four Shih Tzus, and they all have pedigrees, and they all have the word ‘Belle’ somewhere in their name. She likes to be asked about them and to show pictures. Each one has a dresser full of clothes. Do not laugh at this. I mean it.”

  “Monica. Please! Why would I do that?” Casey was hurt. “Didn’t you see what I did with MMX Bailey?” She stood up and smoothed her skirt down, wondering if tomorrow her ass would be at the point where random motions didn’t remind her of Hunter’s angry face and his rejection.

  Monica’s voice softened. “Casey, what you did there was genius. I couldn’t be prouder of you, and more excited. But then again,” and her voice took on a tone of disapproval, “I often see you and Blake racing your rolling chairs around the room and laughing like schoolgirls together.” She waved her hand. “You’re clever, bright, and talented. That’s why I hired you. But I need you to step it up, now more than ever.” She touched her side.

  Casey was dumbfounded. “Monica, I never—we don’t do that so much, the chair thing. Anymore. This week, at least.” She felt defensive and embarrassed and felt her face get red. “I’m so good to clients, you know I am.” She heard her voice rise and didn’t like the plaintive whine.

  “Casey.” Monica sighed. “You are very good to clients, and I’m proud to have you here. Ninety-five percent of the time. But you need to take the next step. Do you want to sit here and play patty cake with your BFF for years, or do you want something more? If you were serious about this work, do you know what you would have done?”

  “What?”

  “You would have begged me to let you handle Eleanor. You would have Googled her and found every last little s
ocial media account she has. You would have learned the names of her dogs, and even purchased a bag of the specialty treats they like, which, by the way, is in the kitchenette in the blue gift bag under the sink. And you would have done this dirty work gladly, because you know that each client is not only a stepping stone, but also a catapult. Grateful clients help pull in more clients, and over time you have what you need to launch your career and make it burn bright.”

  “I want to do that kind of thing. But I didn’t want to overstep. You always treat me and Blake like… kids. I had no idea that you were waiting for me to take the next step. I was waiting for you to ask me.”

  “Dress for the job you want, Casey, not the job you have.”

  “But—” Casey bit her tongue. “Okay. I’ll step it up.” She nodded.

  “I know you want to put your art here, Casey. And you’re good—I’ll give you that. But you’re not ready. You’re not hungry enough. You’re not treating this like it means everything to you. And until you do that, I just can’t take you seriously. And nobody in the art world will either.” Monica checked her watch. “I need to go.”

  * * *

  A shock of blond hair surprised her, then faded to recognition: Max was sitting on her porch steps when she walked up briskly, cold from the winter air.

  “Max?” She vacillated between pleasure and dismay. “What are you doing here?”

  “You didn’t answer any of my calls, so I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” He smiled. “Are you okay?”

  She bit her lip. “Why don’t you come up for a few minutes.”

  She led the way up three flights of stairs and unlocked the heavy wooden door. “This is me and Echo.” She waved. “Not what you’re used to, I’m sure. You can put your coat on the couch, or wherever. Just—the cats will sit on it, though. Give me a few minutes.”

  She dropped her keys and purse and hurried into her bedroom to use the bathroom and take a deep breath. Was Max here to tell her something about the club? About Hunter?

  When she came back out, Max had draped his coat over a chair in the kitchen and was looking at her wall. “Casey. Did you do this?” His voice was hushed, reverent.

  “Yes, that’s mine.” She petted one cat, sidestepped another who wound between her legs, meowing plaintively, tail twitching like an eel, and dropped a handful of kibble into their bowls. “I’m going to make tea. Do you want some?”

  But Max was still staring. “You did this?”

  “Yes.” She gave a short laugh. “Why is that so surprising?”

  “This is—this is phenomenal. I can’t even believe it. Has Hunter seen this?” He turned to her, eyebrows up.

  Shaking her head, she prepared two teacups, even though he hadn’t said yes. “He hasn’t seen anything, Max. He isn’t returning my calls, either. So, um. No.”

  “About that. We need to talk.”

  Her heart sank. “About Hunter?”

  “About everything. Can we sit, for a few minutes?”

  She nodded, and after a second, he seated himself at her kitchen table. “About that night.”

  “Okay. What about it?”

  “Can you look at me while we talk? This is important.” His voice low, not demanding, but kind, and she met his eyes, saw compassion.

  “I’d rather put it behind me, but if you need to say something, then please.” She gestured at him. “Feel free.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “How am I feeling?” She raised one eyebrow. “Do you mean my ass or my psyche?”

  “Yes.” He smiled, ruefully. “And yes.”

  She tilted one shoulder up. “Well, my ass is a little sore, but almost back to normal. The first day after, it hurt like a son of a bitch, pardon my French. The next day, like that person’s little brother. Today, just a little discomfort.”

  He laughed. “Casey.” Then his face grew serious. “And the other?”

  “Well, that’s harder to say.” She got the mugs from the microwave, and gave him his, along with a teabag and a spoon. “I just don’t know. I mean, obviously, I’m fine, right? I did it, it was—crazy. And I’m here.”

  “What you did—what we did—was a big deal. I need to be sure you’re processing it.”

  “What, like a computer?” She smirked at him, and he made a face at her.

  “Yeah, just like that. A bunch of ones and zeroes. No, tell me what that night did for you?”

  “Well, I’m glad I can come back to the club if I want to.” She paused, spoon in the air. “So answer me something that’s been bothering me. Exactly how long of a spanking would I have needed to endure to be allowed back at the club?” She frowned at him. “I stopped before you even got through what you wanted. What if I had safeworded earlier, like after the hand spanking? Or even during it? Would you have been, no way, dude, not enough punishment to come back?” She spoke as if joking, but her glance was direct.

  “The fact that you even came and got over my lap, Casey? To me, that right there, was enough to reinstate you.” He smiled. “You trusted us enough to do that, and you wanted to accept it. So at that point, anything would have been enough. And,” he cleared his throat, “for me, at least, it wasn’t about that. I mean, yes, it was. But I also wanted to give you something that you wanted.” Red stained his jaw.

  “Well, maybe you should have told me that before I had to sit through that fucking paddle and crop. Jerk.” She rolled her eyes at him, and he laughed. Then his face grew serious.

  “So why did you keep going, Casey? Was it fear, then, that you were worried you had to take it all or we’d not let you back in?”

  “No, not fear.” She shook her head. “That wasn’t it. I mean, I was apprehensive, yes, nervous. But I don’t even know.”

  “So let’s figure it out,” he suggested. “It’s critical that you understand why you did that, and whether you do want it to be part of your life going forward.”

  “How should I know?” She was frustrated.

  “Well, the club is about that, Casey. People who enjoy spanking and other corporal punishments as part of their sex life.”

  “But some people don’t do it for sex. Or so they say.”

  “I disagree. I think it is always, 100% of the time, tied to sex. Just not always immediately. So what I’m asking you is this: Did that experience of being punished tweak something in you that makes you realize you want it again, more, without immediate sex? Or do you need them to be connected in the same scene?”

  When she didn’t answer, he continued, “Neither is wrong, and neither is better. I just want to know, so I—I mean, so we can give you want you want and need. And don’t try to push you into something other.”

  “God. I don’t usually talk about this, Max, with anyone.” She felt her face get hot and red.

  “I know.” His voice was low. “But you can trust me. I care about you, Casey. And I don’t want you to flounder or feel used, or be scared if you want something that you don’t understand.”

  “Well,” she began, not looking at him. “I mean, there I was, naked, asking two hot men to punish me. It was completely surreal. And I trusted you not to really hurt me, Max. I felt safe in your hands, even though it hurt. I just wish that you would have, that you could have, when I wanted, and Hunter said no.” She hid her face in her hands. “Oh, God, this is so embarrassing. But if he’d let me… I think the whole experience would have been more satisfying.”

  “Hunter disagreed, though. And since you and Hunter were together, so to speak, I felt it would be overstepping. Maybe inappropriate.”

  She nodded. “If you had given me an orgasm. Would that have meant it wasn’t just a punishment?”

  He leaned forward, intense. “That’s what makes this whole game so interesting. It can never be just a punishment, Casey. It needs to be titillating and arousing to you on some level, somehow in your life, otherwise it’s abuse. Either you get the orgasm right then, or you daydream about it later when you masturbate. Or maybe sex with
your dominant is more exciting, arousing, and titillating when you remember how he spanked you. But part of you has to enjoy the process, either all the way through or in memory. And want to do it again. If you were spanked and it was a turn-off in every way, if nothing about it was appealing, then you need to never do that again, okay? Understand?”

  “I do. Just—I don’t know how. The punishment thing was hot, in a way, but I couldn’t enjoy the not-enjoying part because Hunter didn’t really forgive me and we didn’t get to have makeup sex or forgiveness sex or anything like that.” She felt tears well up. “People say that the spanking is supposed to clear the air and make it all better. That it allows someone to be fully forgiven.”

  Max gave a frustrated groan. “Aw, Casey, that’s fiction talking, or porn, or starry-eyed dreamers. Any forgiveness that comes is from the heart, and the spanking is just about reconnection, to reestablish the parameters of domination and submission, for people who fuck that way.” He ran his hands through his hair. “If anyone truly thinks they need to be beaten to be forgiven? That’s—that’s something else entirely, something we want no part of. And you shouldn’t, either. That’s a recipe for an abusive relationship.”

  “Yeah.” She wiped a tear. “I see that.”

  “Casey, please listen to this and soak it up. The forgiveness comes first, do you understand me? First. Then you can do as much spanking and punishment as you like, but the spanking better not be the most important part of the process. It’s just the icing on the cake for people who like that flavor. Do you see the difference?”

  Nodding, she met his gaze.

  “Did you like any of it?” His voice was taut, and he clenched a fist for a second before relaxing it.

  “After you left, I guess all the residual emotions left me all floaty, almost high. It wasn’t an orgasm, but it was something else. But Hunter—” She bit her lip and frowned. “He was still angry. We fought, said some ugly things.”