11) The Dominant will not attempt to obtain personal information about the submissive by any means prior to, during, or following the execution of the contract.
12) The submissive may not be photographed at any time.
Soft Limits:
1) Sex Acts: The submissive consents to participate in any of the following activities with the Dominant:
a. Vaginal sex
b. Anal sex
c. Cunnilingus
d. Fellatio
e. Masturbation
f. Vaginal Fisting
2) Sex Toys: The submissive consents to the use of any of the following implements by the Dominant:
a. Vibrators
b. Dildos
c. Butt plugs
d. Ben Wa balls
e. Anal beads
f. Wartenberg wheel
3) Discipline: The submissive consents to receive any of the following forms of discipline from the Dominant:
a. Spanking
b. Paddling
c. Flogging
d. Whipping
e. Caning
f. Hot wax
g. Nipple clips/clamps
h. Riding crop
4) Pain: The submissive consents to experiencing a moderate amount of pain at the hands of the Dominant.
5) Bondage Methods: The submissive consents to any of the following methods of bondage by the Dominant:
a. Leather cuffs
b. Rope
c. Fabric ties
d. Spreader bars
e. Blindfolds
f. Gags
g. Ear plugs/headphones
6) Bondage Positions: The submissive consents to be restrained in any of the following manners:
a. Wrist to wrist; in front, behind back, behind neck or overhead.
b. Wrist to elbow
c. Wrist to knee
d. Wrist to ankle
e. Elbow to elbow
f. Elbow to knee
g. Bound to furniture/fixtures
Other Requirements:
1) The Dominant and the submissive each currently complete an STI screening every three months, and the submissive maintains an IUD. Should the submissive or the Dominant engage in intercourse with another partner following the most recent preceding test, they are required to disclose this information prior to engaging in sexual contact with one another. Either party may request additional birth control and/or disease prevention measures at any time.
2) The Dominant and the submissive agree to comply with all safety-related protocols provided by the Broker. Should any of the protocols or above provisions be violated, this contract is subject to immediate termination.
3) The above contract will be completed and signed upon the satisfactory conclusion of a conversation between Ms. Bailey-Isles and Mr. Ardmore upon Ms. Bailey-Isles’ arrival. Should either party elect not to complete the contract at that time, accommodations elsewhere on the island will be provided for Ms. Bailey-Isles at the expense of Mr. Ardmore. Upon completion of the contract, all provisions contained herein will immediately go into effect.
Conclusion: The Dominant and the submissive both agree they are entering into this contract consensually and with full knowledge and understanding of its contents and the risks inherent in the activities they agree to undertake. By signing, they certify they have the honest intention to fulfill the requirements and responsibilities listed above and will do so to the best of their respective abilities at all times within the specified timeframe.
Standard date and signature lines for Mr. Ardmore, myself, and Rey tie the whole thing up at the end. I flip back to the beginning and lay the document on the table, tapping a nail on the first page. “Did you edit this at all?”
Rey tsks at me. “You know I don’t touch them. Do you think Comic Sans would’ve made it through unscathed if I did?”
Of course it wouldn’t have. But as with the photographs, these guys tend to use contracts as an opportunity to convey exactly how much of a badass Dom they are. They capitalize every damn thing. Not just Dominant and Sir—those I can live with. It’s the He, Him, His—and to hell with grammar—that rankle. I recognize and respect the convention, but it still bugs the living crap out of me. Maybe it irritates Cris Ardmore, too. If so, this particular idiosyncrasy makes me like him even more, but it also throws me. This man…
I shake it off and reread the whole thing, making sure I didn’t miss anything, but I haven’t. It’s not bad. Concise, neat, orderly. No hearts and flowers. It includes all the provisions I require, and there’s nothing that’s patently offensive to me. In fact, aside from a few minor details, I’m ready to sign off. Except for one thing.
“He wants to talk to me?”
“It appears he does.”
“Why?” I hate the incredulous whine in my voice, but come on.
“I don’t know, little one. You are a terrible conversationalist. Dull as a pile of bricks. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“You know what I mean.”
I’ve never had anyone make a stipulation like this before. He wants to talk to me? That’s usually pretty far down on the list of what the men I play with want to do. There’s always a few words exchanged when I first meet someone, but I’m already in character because the contracts have been signed. I don’t blink when I introduce myself as Kit because I am Kit. Mr. Ardmore, however, has been very specific that we’re to have our conversation prior to the contract going into effect. His acuity makes me uncomfortable.
“I do,” says Rey. “I can’t say I wasn’t surprised, but perhaps our friend Mr. Ardmore is feeling skittish. It’s not every day something like this falls in your lap. Maybe he wants to make sure you’re doing this of your own free will.”
“It’s not like you’re getting paid.” Rey’s never been paid for anything where I’ve been concerned, not even my extensive training. And not from the lack of an offer on my part.
“Although I bet I could make a pretty penny off of you.”
“I’m sure you could.”
Truth be told, I should be paying Rey for this. I know how well compensated he is by his clients, even for introductions not nearly as involved and convoluted as this. I can’t imagine the time and energy this takes. Good thing Matty’s such a peach.
“You could cancel if it bothers you. But from what I know about this guy, I’m inclined to think it’s for chivalrous reasons. You may want to give him the benefit of the doubt. Not to mention I don’t think I’d be able to find you someone else. This deal was a bit of an eleventh-hour miracle.”
“I know. What am I even supposed to say to the guy?”
“I’m sure he’ll tell you.”
“No, he won’t. He won’t be my Dom yet, Rey!”
He’s trying hard not to laugh. No doubt if he gave in, his Sazerac would go all over the crisp white linens covering our table. Out his mouth or out his nose is anyone’s guess. Rey is an enthusiastic laugher, and more than one article of my clothing has fallen victim to his friendly fire.
“And what precisely is so funny about this?”
Rey swallows and tries valiantly to contain his grin. “You do understand that, for most people, talking would not be the alarming part of this contract.”
“Yes.”
“Even for people like us, this shouldn’t be such an issue. What are you afraid of?”
He’s hit the nail on the head. I’m afraid. I can stand being rejected as a submissive; that’s like an actress not getting a callback. We’re going in a different direction. I like knife play, you don’t, que sera, sera. That makes sense to me. But being rejected for being myself is a lot harder to take, and I avoid it at all costs. It’s one of the many reasons I do what I do.
“What if he doesn’t like me?” I can’t meet Rey’s eyes.
“Then he’s a fucking moron, and it’s better you find out before he fucks you.”
“True.”
“But he doesn’t seem like an idiot to me, and wh
ile my track record’s not perfect, it’s pretty damn good. So what do you say?”
I pause for a millisecond, but like I told Rey, I need this. Badly. “Can we go over these soft limits?”
“Ixnay on the Wartenberg wheel and the hot wax?”
“Got it in one.”
Chapter Three
‡
“Ms. Burke?… Ms. Burke?”
Goddammit. Can the woman not give me an ounce of peace? I’m in the fucking shower for god’s sake.
“Yes, Lucy?” I shout above the spray, feeling ridiculous.
“Mr. Valentine buzzed and said he wants to see you five minutes ago,” she offers nervously.
“Tell him unless he’d like to see me naked and wet he can wait five more.”
“Y-yes, Ms. Burke.”
I can’t decide whether to laugh—I would give up one of my quarterly bonuses to watch her say that verbatim to Jack—or berate myself. That was mean. While I don’t feel guilty about giving Lucy a hard time when she’s earned it, this is not one of those times. I’m a grouch because this damn report needs to be picture-perfect by five o’clock East Coast time and because I’m on edge about this weekend.
I’d woken to a text from Rey:
Changes to contract all approved. You’re good to go. Call me tonight.
That was a relief, but I find my mind drawn back to Cris Ardmore again and again. What is it about this guy? I’ve had varying degrees of Dom-crushes on these men before we meet, but no matter how hot the picture or tantalizing the contract, I’ve never been so damn distracted. I scrub my fingers over my scalp, humming to myself, and then rinse the suds from my hair, along with thoughts of this diverting man. Down the drain you go, Mr. Ardmore. For now.
I turn the spray all the way to cold and force myself to stand under it for a full minute. I’m going to need all my wits about me to get out of here alive at the end of the day, and this will be a good wake-up call.
Not as good as the pounding of a heavy fist at my door, though. That is not Lucy.
“India!”
“And a good morning to you, Jack.” A few seconds short of a minute, but I turn off the water.
“I didn’t give you an office with an en suite so you could be Bathtime Barbie.”
I open the door as I finish tucking the towel around myself and look up at him. He’s a lot taller when I haven’t got my heels on.
“I know. It was to up the likelihood for delightful moments of sexual harassment like this one.”
“Jesus, India. Put some goddamn clothes on!”
I roll my eyes as I slam the door in his beet-red face. “Will do.”
When I walk into his office three minutes later, fully clothed as requested in a bright yellow sheath dress with a wide black belt, he’s mellowed some. He looks me up and down. “I preferred the towel.”
“Sleaze bag.”
He cocks his head in consideration before shrugging and starting in on his tirade about the latest draft of the report. It’s a short rant, and I feel good about being able to get this in on time. I saw earlier that Janis sent me more of the numbers I need. Hopefully, it’s the last of them. Otherwise, we’re going to have another delightful phone call.
When Jack’s through with me, I haul ass back to my office and busy myself filling in the blanks, only to look up and see it’s heading on one o’clock. Shit. I have an hour. I need an hour and a half for this to be spit-polished and sparkling, so I pick up my phone.
“Cooper,” snaps a rude voice.
“Constance, my love.”
“Hello, India.” Her snarl turns into a purr in an abrupt about-face. “I thought I wouldn’t be hearing from you for another fifty-nine… Oh, wait, make that fifty-eight minutes.”
“Would it ruin your day if I had this in your inbox at five thirty?”
“No. I’m about to leave, and I’m not going to look at it until tomorrow, anyway. Take all night if you want it.”
“I don’t. I want this off my desk as much as you do. It’ll be there by five thirty.”
“Can I call you if there are problems? I prefer dealing with you.”
“Monday. I’ll be in early—ten your time.”
“Another lost weekend?”
“Here’s hoping.” The thought of Cris Ardmore slips into my mind. “But, hey, do me a solid? At least keep up appearances. Call Janis first and give her a hard time. I’ll tell her to let me handle you if you get too rough with her, and then we can catch up.”
“You’re a crafty bitch, Burke. I like it. Now stop flapping your very well-paid gums and finish my damn report. You’re billing us for this, aren’t you?”
“By the word,” I chirp, and she laughs her throaty laugh.
“Have a good weekend.”
“You, too. Tell Glory I say hi. We’ll talk Monday.”
I hang up in a much better mood. Cooper happens to be our HUD liaison on the LAHA receivership, and everyone involved is terrified of her. Her name—Cooper—strikes fear in the heart of the most seasoned housing administrator. I really think they believe that’s her only name. She even made the IT department at HUD, against policy, change her email address to just [email protected]. She’s a self-described big, black butch, and she can clear a room like no one else I know.
Cooper also happens to be the alter ego of the sweetest girl I knew at Princeton—Constance Cooper from Asheville, North Carolina—and she adores me. I’ve had the pleasure of eating her mother’s fried chicken and okra more than once, but nobody needs to know that. I’ll let them think I’m a fucking unicorn.
I remember the night I met Cooper almost as clearly as I remember meeting Rey. That late September evening had been a night of a lot of firsts. My first play party, held at an opulent home halfway between Princeton and Manhattan, which proved to be a little different from the keg parties that were going down back on campus. It was the first time I felt the comfort of a collar around my neck. It had bound me to Rey in a way I’d never been attached to anyone before. The leather buckled snug around my throat made me feel secure—like part of Rey would never leave me, he’d always be thinking of me, because I belonged to him. I was his responsibility. That’s what the closed silver lock hanging heavy at my throat said to everyone else in the crowd, too.
Perhaps most importantly, that was the night I met Hunter. He was the host of the party and the owner of the impressive house. Older and so handsome, he’d made my mouth water. Not to mention he’d played the white knight—or maybe a black one—by rescuing me from an uncomfortable encounter with a disrespectful Dom who’d laid hands on me in a way I didn’t care for.
Hunter had apologized for the guy’s behavior and promised no one there would’ve actually let something bad befall me. “You’d never come back.”
“What makes you so sure I’ll come back now?”
He’d leaned back and smiled, a small, knowing smile. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. There was something about him…
“Won’t you?” He’d cocked an arched brow, and my whole self had clenched around a part of my body I was becoming increasingly familiar with.
“Yes, sir.”
His hand had tightened around my arm. Unlike when the other Dom had crushed me, the pressure felt good. I’d been surprised but hadn’t protested when his other hand snaked around my waist and he’d pulled me flush against him. He’d slid his hand over my shoulder, up my neck, and into my hair where he’d tugged it back until I looked at him.
“There’s a good girl.”
I was a lost cause. I would’ve done—eventually did do—anything to hear him say that again.
The thought of Hunter—a brief stab of bleakness like a knife between my ribs—snaps me back to attention. No time to fall down that particular rabbit hole. I’ve got shit to do.
*
I scramble to get the report finished and into Cooper’s inbox at 5:29 p.m. EST. When it’s sent, I’m unsurprised there’s a knock at my door.
“Come in.” I extend
the invitation, though I know who it is. He’s already opening the door, and he’s got a bottle and two highball glasses in his hands.
“Well done, Ms. Burke,” Jack booms, setting the glasses on my desk next to my red soles. He opens the bottle with a flourish and pours us both a generous amount. I don’t bother to ask what it is. I know. It’s bourbon and a really good bourbon, at that.
“To you, India, and your silver tongue. I don’t know what your secret with Cooper is, but I’m glad you’re on my side.” He raises an arm in a toast and offers me his glass to clink.
“Giving-me-a-better-parking-spot glad?” Bourbon time is a good time to ask favors. Partly because he only drinks it when he’s pleased, but also because I know he’s already had one in his office before he gets to mine.
Jack drops into one of the chairs across from my desk, takes a long draught, and looks thoughtful. “Why not? Lucy!”
“Yes, sir?”
Poor Lucy. She’s terrified of Jack. She’s never mastered the whole not-crying-when-he-yells thing.
“Tell Jerome Ms. Burke will be parking in 1702 from now on.”
“Yes, sir,” Lucy squeaks before skittering out of my office.
I’m taken aback. That’s the spot right next to Jack’s, and it’s reserved for the current Mrs. Valentine. Not that she visits often, but when she does, god forbid she should have to walk more than a couple yards to the front door.
“And what is Candi going to say about that?”
“Probably much the same as she said last night when I told her I wanted a divorce. It sounded an awful lot like ‘Go to hell, you spineless motherfucking bastard.’”
Shit.
“I’m sorry, Jack.” I don’t want to talk about this, but I should observe the bare minimum of social niceties, right?
“We were never a good match. More?” Jack’s already pouring another measure into his glass.
“No, thanks.”
I’m still sipping at the first ration, and I’m only having the one. I have a few things to take care of before I leave for the day—for the weekend!
“You know any nice girls you could set me up with? Or nice women? Either one, I’m not picky. So long as she has two thoughts in her head to keep each other warm at night,” he muses, sounding maudlin.
Personal Geography Page 3