by Multiple
When he caught me there, it actually seemed to lift his spirits. I wanted to know why.
“Because my story worked,” he said, simply, looking up at me. “It made you curious. So curious you were willing to risk being caught.”
“You’re very confident in your ability to tell a good story,” I said. “But you still feel like you need me to write them for you.”
He chuckled. “You keep bringing that up. Are you trying to talk me out of hiring you?”
“Of course not,” I insisted. “I just think...” I hesitated. “I mean, you have a way with words. There’s no denying that. You said you wrote an article for a blog.”
“That’s different,” he said. “Trying to create a narrative, making it compelling - trust me, I’ve tried. I make it two sentences in, and I lose the thread. It just stops making sense, it’s not interesting anymore. Whatever it is that you can do, I can’t do it.”
Of all the things he’d said, that made me more uncomfortable than anything.
“It’s not that special,” I said, shifting in my seat, staring down at my shoes. “It’s not like I have a real talent or anything like that.”
Dalton stood, abruptly, crossing the room to the small wine fridge and examining the selection. “Talent is overrated,” he said, picking up a bottle. “You’ve worked hard for this. People don’t just hire to write for them; they hire you to be them. They’re happy to take credit for what you produce. Doesn’t that speak volumes?”
I shrugged. “I guess.”
“Grace.” He set the bottle down and came closer, stopping just a few feet away. Not close enough to invade my personal space, but close enough that I had no choice but to be aware of his proximity. Carefully, he perched on the arm of the sofa, turning to look at me. “I just spent an hour telling you the most sordid story imaginable - don’t let a little complement ruin your night.”
I managed to glance at him long enough to see that he was smiling.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “I’m just...not very good at compliments.”
For a moment, all I heard was the ticking of the clock, and the sound of him breathing.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, quietly.
I looked up at him. His face was open and honest, without any ulterior motives, or so it seemed.
“Thank you,” I said, feeling my heartbeat quicken.
“That was also a compliment,” he said, letting out a quiet chuckle. “But somehow, you managed to take it just fine.”
Frowning, I straightened in my seat. “That was just a test?”
“It was,” he admitted, standing up. “But you are beautiful. I just wanted to see how you’d react.”
“That’s not fair,” I insisted. “You...you eased me into it, with the first one. Of course I reacted better the second time.”
He was shaking his head as he returned to the desk. “It’s not compliments, in general,” he said. “It’s that complement, specifically. Your writing. It makes you uncomfortable.”
“Please,” I said, looking up at him. “Let it go, Dalton.”
For a moment, he looked taken aback.
“Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
He toyed with the wrapper on the neck of the bottle, as if he was debating whether it was worth opening.
“No, I’m sorry,” I said, after a moment, exhaling heavily. “You’re right, I need to get over it.”
He glanced at me, sidelong. “I never said that.”
“It was implied.” I watched as he returned to my side with a half-full glass, setting it down beside me. “Sorry. Really. I’m normally a lot more gracious, but I’m a little...off-kilter.”
“You don’t need to apologize.” Dalton was frowning a little. “Please.”
“Sorry. This is...” I laughed. “Awkward, for some reason. Maybe we should go back to talking about your dick.”
He laughed too, breaking into a genuine smile. No mystery, no wickedness, just Dalton. The real Dalton - whoever that was.
“By the time we’re finished with this, I suspect you’ll have had more than enough of it.”
Finished. I didn’t like that thought. I wondered how many stories he had in mind, but I didn’t want to ask. If I knew the answer, I’d be counting down every time we met.
“Well, I’ll be sure to let you know when I can’t take anymore,” I said. “But you might be surprised.”
“I hope so,” he said. “You haven’t even met, it would be tragic if you got sick of it already.”
I laughed, rolling my eyes. “Why do guys always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Talk about their penises like they’re a separate entity.” I tasted the wine. It was drier than what he’d given me before, but it was good - crisp and bright. “It’s like if women suddenly started blaming all their bad decisions on their boobs.”
“Oh, I never pass blame,” Dalton said. “I don’t even normally...really, I’m not that guy. I swear it doesn’t have a name.” He chuckled, looking down at his wine glass. “It was just a bad joke.”
The Dalton Alexander in the stories never told bad jokes.
He was always in control of every situation. He never misjudged a signal or tripped over his own shoelaces. Of course, he’d be giving me the rose-colored version of his life - that was no surprise. But how far did the little white lies go?
It bothered me that I’d just been assuming everything he said was true. Of course, it didn’t really matter - I’d write the stories anyway. But I felt uneasy, deep in the pit of my stomach.
“Grace?” Dalton was looking at me, pointedly. “Everything all right?”
“Yes, sorry,” I said, shaking my head. I was completely overreacting. It didn’t matter what kind of person Dalton really was, or who he pretended to be. “I really need to get going, though. I’m sorry.”
“Of course,” he said, his smile fading. “We did run late. I should be the one apologizing.”
“It’s nothing,” I assured him, as he stood up.
“Should I show you out, or do you want another chance to fondle my cross?” He frowned slightly. “I actually didn’t mean for that to come out like it did.”
“Yeah, sure you didn’t.” I couldn’t help but smile. “Hey, on the plus side, if you’re still looking for a pet name for your penis, that’s probably not the worst one you could come up with.”
“Oh, God.” He followed me down the hall. “No, I’m pretty sure it is.”
“Well, you don’t have to shoot me down so hard.” I spun around, smiling. “Thanks, Dalton. Same time next week?”
“I’ll call you if anything changes,” he said, opening the door. He stepped out onto the porch after me. “My schedule’s been a little up in the air lately.”
“Well, I’m wide open.”
He smiled. “Good night, Grace.”
Halfway down the block, I turned around to look. He was still standing on his porch, leaning against one of the columns.
Watching me.
Unwritten Submission
By
Elsa Day
Chapter 1
“I guess I’ll see you around,” Tom said.
He carried a heavy box, brimming with office supplies and cheap journalists’ notebooks. Amy looked around. Tom’s desk was barren, no pictures, papers, nothing. His desk wasn’t the only one. It seemed like every week they were adding new empty desks to the roster.
“Don’t get blindsided like I did,” Tom said. He shook his head as he started to walk away. “I never saw it coming.”
Amy’s heart started to race. Sure, she saw the signs, but it never seemed like a big deal. When the other journalists left, Amy chalked it up to their laziness. She never liked Richard or Kathryn anyway. But Tom had been at the paper for ten years longer than she had. He knew his beat better than anyone else.
If they were kicking out people like him, how long could she last? Amy needed to do something. Something big. And she needed to do it quick.
>
Amy opened up her web browser. Something BIG. Her eyes scanned the stories. Shoot out at a night club. Copper stolen from a church. Corrupt local government officials. Not bad stories, but not what she was looking for.
Then she saw it. There was no information, just a picture. That strange old house on the edge of town. It looked like a huge Victorian mansion. The sort of thing you’d expect to find in a horror movie. Not the kind of house that you’d normally find right outside of a modern city. Maybe this was it.
“Hey Robin,” Amy said.
Her desk neighbor swirled around.
“What’s up? Sad about losing Tom?”
“Yeah, but, I wanted to see if you knew anything about a story I’m planning,” Amy said. “You know anything about that creepy mansion outside of town?”
“Oh yeah, that place? What kind of story would you do about that?” Robin asked. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “That place is pretty weird. I hear they call it The Sanctuary.”
“Why’s that?”
“Hell if I know, but rumor has it that it’s a sex club. You know, one of those places where guys go to put women in chains and whip them while they have sex or something. But really, the security is so tight that no one knows what goes on in there. It could be a granny’s knitting circle for all I know.”
A secluded, secretive, sex club? That sounded like the kind of story that would get people talking. Amy smiled to herself. But how would she get in there?
Amy turned back to her computer. She spent the next few hours searching for anything and everything related to The Sanctuary, but there was nothing. All she found were a few dumb Facebook posts saying that it was actually a haunted house. Yeah, right. Amy believed in sex clubs, not ghosts.
Finally, there was something. On a nearly blank page, there was just one sentence.
Submit any previous references to [email protected].
That was it. No mention of who this “J” was, what they would do with the information, or why it was necessary. But this was all Amy had.
“Hey, I’ve never asked for a favor before, right?” Amy said.
Robin turned to face her with her eyebrows raised.
“No...Why?”
“Well, I need you to help me forge a reference for this sex club.”
Robin nearly spurted out her coffee, but she agreed to do it.
“This isn’t for you, you know. I just want to know what the hell goes on in there.”
Together, they created the whole story. Amy was Ms. Shirley H. Lopes. She had been a part of the lifestyle for years but just moved to the city and wanted to find a new club to join. Robin vouched for her as Mr. Walter Clark. They even made a fake phone number and email address for their new identities.
It was a long shot, but Amy needed to take a risk. If she didn’t, who knew how long it would be before she was walking out of the office with a big box just like Tom?
Her finger shook as she clicked “send.” Now all she could do was wait.
Every day after the email Amy’s thoughts were full of The Sanctuary. Her mind spun stories of naked women kneeling while sexy men stung them with leather whips. She imagined the mansion being full to the brim with an ever expanding orgy, hundreds of men and women with their bodies covered in sweat and who knows what else.
Amy’s face blushed, but she couldn’t help it. Even during the staff meetings, she couldn’t keep the thoughts away. They haunted her.
Each time another of her colleagues packed up, her mind turned to that mysterious “J.” Amy crossed her fingers. Please. I need this.
But what would she do if she got in? Expose the nasty truth? There probably was some illegal stuff going on in a place like that, right?
She had a whole week to think about it.
Chapter 2
Exactly seven days after Amy and Robin sent the email, a reply came back.
Your letter of recommendation has been received and approved. Please attend the Friday night session beginning at 10 pm. Dress accordingly. The code is pamplemousse.
-J
“Robin!” Amy yelled. She caught herself and lowered her voice, moving closer to her neighbor. “Robin, it worked!”
“What worked?”
“The letter, I’m in! I’m into The Sanctuary!”
A smile spread across Robin’s face.
“That’s great! So what are you going to do now?”
Amy was silent. Well, she hadn’t quite figured it out yet.
“Are you trying to tell me you don’t know? You have to do research! Just because it’s about sex doesn’t make it different from any other story,” Robin said. “If you walk up in there without a clue, you’ll be totally busted.”
She was right. Amy realized this wasn’t just a game anymore. This was serious. But she didn’t want to bring the story to her editor just yet, so she started to research on the side. With only two days left, Amy needed a crash course.
She spent the rest of the day looking up anything and everything she could find about BDSM and sex clubs. Most of what Amy found were sex blogs and fanfics, things like pictures of grannies and grandpas going at it with whips and chains.
Was that what these things were about?
Every time a coworker walked by, Amy pretended to be typing up her next big story. Which wasn’t a lie, because she actually was. It just wasn’t what they thought. Anyway, Amy became a window minimizing ninja.
She watched movies with women in latex horse outfits moaning against crops. Amy listened through her headphones.
“Ooh, yes. Hurt me more,” they said. “I love the way you discipline me, Master.”
But their “masters” just seemed like flabby assholes who enjoyed spanking women. At least to Amy. The women all had black hair and blood red lips. They were all thin, with big boobs, and no bodily hair to speak of.
Amy wondered what was wrong with them that they wanted to be hurt so badly. The idea sounded good, so she scribbled it in her notebook: “The secret pain behind BDSM sex addiction.” Perfect. Yes, this article was going to save her job.
Even after work, Amy studied. There was no one watching, so she was more brazen than before. Amy curled up in her bed with her laptop, munching on chips as she searched for things that would normally make her blush.
After a couple of hours, Amy was drowsy. The images of crops, paddles, and corsets blended together in her mind. She knew it was time to sleep when she came across a video of a woman stepping on a man’s dick with spiky shoes.
What was that about?
As she snuggled into bed, Amy was already thinking about the next day.
The next morning, she rushed over to Robin.
“Robin, you gotta to help me!” she said. Amy put her hands together to beg. “I can’t go by myself.”
“What? Go where? If you mean to that club, I’m not…”
“ No, no, I mean I have to get into character.”
When Robin looked at her blankly, Amy continued.
“You know, I have to get the costume.”
Slowly, a smile crept to Robin’s lips.
“Just tell me when and where.”
Amy scribbled the address on a piece of paper and slid it over to Robin’s desk. Now all that was left was to wait until work was over. Every time Amy checked the clock, expecting an hour to have passed, only a few minutes had gone by. She tried to get some work done on another project, but she just couldn’t concentrate. It was no good.
She watched as another of her coworkers packed up their desk. It was funny how all those papers, folders, and pictures could fit into a tiny little box. And on top of everything else, was the official notice.
Amy was sure it would say something like:
We regret to inform you that your position has been terminated from our paper. Thank you for your years of service. Any belongings which are left behind will be disposed of immediately.
Sincerely,
HR
Just thinking about it ma
de Amy even more eager for the afternoon to come. When it finally did, she felt like she had been holding her breath all day. It’s tough keeping a secret.
She went over to Robin.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Of course, I’ve been waiting for this all day.”
Amy told Robin about her “research” on the way to the shop, but their enthusiasm faded as soon as they saw the entrance. Blacked out windows. No sign. Iron bars across the door. It didn’t exactly look inviting.
Robin turned to Amy.
“Are you sure this is it?” she asked. “It looks like a hole in the wall.”
Amy checked the GPS on her phone. The little red dot blinked right above where they were supposed to be. Amy took a deep breath and pushed the barred the door open.
At first, it looked like nothing was there. The room was so dark that it seemed impossible for it to be a place of business. But then there was a voice.
“Can I help you? If you’re looking for the jewelry store, it’s two doors down.”
It took a long time for Amy to realize that the saleswoman thought they were lost. They looked out of place. Of course. She threw her shoulders back and tried to act as if she belonged to this world.
“No, I wasn’t looking for the jewelry store. I heard that this place has some really unique gear,” Amy said. She looked at Robin. “Right?”
Robin hesitated for a moment, but then she got into character.
“Yeah, our friends who know everything about whips and chains recommended us here,” she said. Right, totally believable.
The salesperson looked at them with her arms crossed. She cocked one eyebrow. Did she believe them?
“Are you guys…together?”
At the same moment, Robin and Amy sputtered.
“No, no, no! We’re just good friends!”
They laughed nervously.
“Right,” the saleswoman said. “Anyway, what do you want?”
Her red lips stayed in a permanently tight frown. Her nails were long and lacquered. Perfect, unlike Amy’s half-chewed mess. She made a note: get nails done before going to the club.