Manhattan Kink: A Boxed Set

by Serafina Conti

  Tears started into Pipit’s eyes. Why would Mouche do that for her? “I’m really grateful,” she said, “but I meant it when I said I wanted the scar.”

  They sat for a minute, saying nothing. Pipit said, “What are you going to do next, now that I’ve wrecked your life?”

  “Daniel and Karen have invited Amanda and me to come live with them.”

  “You’re not—”

  Emily laughed. “Oh, no! Amanda and Karen will play, and I’ll be their guest while Amanda and I decide what to do with ourselves next. Daniel wants me to take a job in this tech startup he’s invested in. Shows you how far they’ll go to keep Amanda close.”

  “But still you should take it—jobs don’t exactly grow on trees around here.”

  “I might.” Emily’s face became serious. “You once said you loved me,” she said. “Are you—”

  “Don’t worry,” said Pipit. She tried to smile, but it felt like a punch, so she gave it up. “I thought it was love, but it wasn’t, was it? More like obsession, maybe. Anyway, I seem to have gotten over it now. You’ve got nothing to fear from me.”

  * * *

  Languid after her orgasm, Emily wandered out of the tiny bedroom, leading her naked slave by the hand. She found Karen sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, watching a news program on a large screen embedded in the wall.

  Karen said, “Mouche, dear, Why don’t you get Emily some coffee. And get some for yourself while you’re about it.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” said Amanda, and set to work. She brought the coffees, settled herself on the floor, back against a cabinet, and watched Emily and Karen watch the news. When the program was done, Karen turned to Emily and said, “Frederick says he saw you at Mistress Ai’s party.”

  “I tried to get him to fuck Pipit,” said Emily, smiling.

  “He says the last year has taught him a lot about love and relationships. He’s a different man.”

  “I wonder how different,” said Emily, thinking he looked the same—as hot as ever.

  “You can find out for yourself,” said Karen. “Daniel and I have invited him to dinner tomorrow night. We’ll understand if you don’t want to see him. If you like, we’ll send you and Mouche out to a nice restaurant and a club afterwards. But if you stay and have dinner with us here, you’ll make Frederick very happy.”

  Emily paused to assess her feelings. Something was heating up down below her breasts, and the skin of her bottom tingled with remembered pain.

  “You don’t need to send us out,” she said. “I’ll be happy to have dinner with Frederick.”

  * * *

  Pipit forced herself to breathe deeply and regularly, holding panic at bay. She’d brought a hand towel to cover her eyes so she wouldn’t see what the artist was doing. That and thinking about her lover had brought her almost the whole way through this ordeal. The pain of the needle was nothing.

  And wouldn’t it be beautiful? She knew Neko would love it—the bracelet of thin barbed wire, its points pricking the skin of her right wrist, making little wounds that bled and would never heal.

  * * *

  Andrew was getting quite good at making this particular sandwich—the Cuban, with slices of ham and pork, two kinds of cheese, and mustard. He admired the golden color of the buttered and toasted bread as he took the broiling pan from the oven and turned off the gas. This was an accomplishment to be proud of.

  He used a spatula to move the sandwich from the broiling pan to a plate—you had to be careful with it till the melted cheese firmed up a bit. He got out a bag of Kettle Chips and put a handful on the plate, taking care to pile them attractively and not scatter them. He took a jar of pickles from the fridge, selected one, and sliced it several times lengthwise with a sharp knife. He fanned out the slices on the plate. He wiped the knife with a dishtowel and cut the sandwich in half.

  He stood and admired his work for a moment. It looked good: he was happy. He took a tray from a cabinet and set the plate on it. He returned the pickle jar to the fridge, got out a bottle of Evil Twin Jesus, opened it, and set it on the tray. Finally he put a cloth napkin beside the plate. He carried the tray into the living room where, resplendent in black leather, she was watching an episode of Game of Thrones. He sank to his knees and silently offered her the tray.

  When she’d taken it, he got on his hands and knees, sideways in front of her, ass towards the TV. He was naked except for the collar and cock cage. He kept his spine straight; a good table has to be flat. She set the tray on his back and picked up a chip. She took her time eating and drinking. It was a strain—he had to hold very still so as not to upset the beer—but he loved every second of it, knowing that she’d reward him for making a good lunch and being a good table. His cock was so hard it hurt a little in the cage, which was shaped and sized for flaccid cocks, not erect ones.

  Just as the credits started to roll, she picked up the tray and said, “Take this to the kitchen and come right back.”

  He carried the tray to the kitchen and set it on the counter—there’d be time to wash the dishes later. He ran back to the living room, where he stopped in the doorway and stared. A thrill ran through him. She’d taken her pants off and was slouched on the sofa. The beauty of her big bush and ample hips and thighs took his breath away. His cock throbbed and his balls ached. He hadn’t had an orgasm in two days, and he knew she’d torture him for hours, days, or maybe even weeks before she allowed him relief.

  Gazing at him impassively, she raised her legs and pulled them up, hands behind her thighs, till her knees almost touched her shoulders.

  She said, “Crawl the fuck over here, loser, and kiss Daddy’s ass.”

  Kitten and the Wolf

  1. Prologue: Breaking Bad News

  “So the Promotion and Tenure Committee will say no,” he said. “and I’ll have a year to find another job.”

  “That’s what will probably happen,” I said.

  “Despite the fact that the Chemistry Department voted to grant me tenure.”

  “It was a weak vote,” I said, holding his gaze, “a bare majority. Tenure is a lifetime commitment for the university, and that makes the committee cautious—they like a two thirds vote or better.”

  “They’ve been known to give tenure to other candidates with weak votes,” he said. Though his words were challenging, his tone was conversational.

  I said, “If a department chair can make a plausible case that some votes were motivated by prejudice, rancor, or anything but the candidate’s merits, we can sometimes get a weak vote through the committee. That’s not the case with you. You don’t have enemies, and your work hasn’t stirred up controversy. You don’t belong to a disadvantaged group. You’re a man in a male-dominated discipline.”

  Nothing could have been more obvious than that Rob was a man. He was lean and fit, with dark brown hair and a fashionably close-cropped beard, impeccably dressed, as usual, in a light-gray suit with a silver tie. I had sometimes wondered how much of his salary went for clothing. Right now his manner was disconcerting. Usually, when I break bad news to a candidate for tenure, I see tears, or anger, or numb hopelessness, but Rob was the same as ever—relaxed, self-assured, smiling warmly, as if we were talking pleasantly about mutual friends, not the likely end of his academic career.

  Still I followed my script. “I’m very sorry,” I said. “I know this must come as a shock to you.”

  His smile became wider. “Oh, no,” he said. “It’s no surprise. I know my own strengths and weaknesses—and when you told me where we were meeting for dinner, I was sure. Maybe you don’t know what the junior faculty say about you: the fancier the dinner, the worse the news—and this is a five-star restaurant.”

  I noticed now that he’d been eating heartily. I was the one who was picking at my dinner.

  He continued, “Frankly, I’m a little relieved. The life of a research scholar isn’t much to my taste—I had no idea I’d have to spend so much of my time writing grant applications. I’ve
enjoyed the teaching, though. Lecturing to three hundred students at a time, guiding them, instructing them. I seem to have a talent for getting people to do what I want them to, and it gives me a sinful amount of pleasure.”

  The warmth of his smile went up another few degrees, and my stomach gave a little lurch.

  “Your teaching is beyond excellent,” I said, recovering, I thought, pretty gracefully. “And I’ll add, as one of a handful of women in the Chemistry Department, that I appreciate the way you create an atmosphere that’s welcoming for your women students.”

  His smile got wider and his eyes sparkled. “I like women,” he said. “My dream job would be teaching at Smith or Wellesley. But I think I’ll look for something in business. I can easily find that kind of job here, and I’d rather not move to another city.”

  “I’m going to miss you,” I said. I really meant it, too, though I didn’t think he’d guess the reason. The man was a joy to look at.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll miss you too—and I don’t think I can say that about any of my other colleagues.”

  I blushed a little, thinking I should slow down with the wine and banish foolish notions from my head—he had to be ten years younger than me.

  “Listen,” he said. “It’s Tuesday night, and Thanksgiving break starts tomorrow. No one expects either of us to show up at the department till Monday. Why don’t you come for a drink with me? My favorite place is right around the corner. I promise not to get drunk and maudlin. The news you’ve given me is . . . well, liberating, and I’m in the mood to celebrate.”

  He dialed up that smile a little more. I knew this was a dumb idea—I’d just fired this man—or at least I’d told him I wouldn’t lift a finger to save his career. But I’d been tense all afternoon, knowing what I had to tell him, and I could really use one more glass of wine. And he’d been so damned nice about this—he’d made it almost easy. And he wasn’t inviting me home to murder me; we were going to a bar or another restaurant, where there’d be plenty of people around. What could go wrong?

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’d love to.”

  I had hardly eaten—I didn’t have much of an appetite—and he was finished. We decided against dessert and coffee. He glanced in the direction of the waitress, who hurried over: had she been watching him? “Would you bring the check, please?” he asked. The smile she gave him suggested that she would do much more than that for him if he’d only ask. He didn’t, however, and within a few minutes she was back with a tray.

  “Hand it over, Rob,” I said with a frown. “It’s on the department’s tab.”

  He pushed the tray over to me with a sheepish look, and I laid my credit card on top of it.

  2. Aspiring Kitty

  Within a few minutes we were on the sidewalk. The place he had in mind really was right around the corner, but it didn’t look like a bar or restaurant. All I could see from the street was a polished oak door with a brass knob, set into a carved stone entryway at the top of three marble steps. I looked for a sign identifying the place, but I didn’t see one.

  “It’s a club,” Rob said, and pulled a brass knob, ringing a bell. A distinguished older man, dressed in a tailcoat, white bow tie, and white gloves, opened the door, smiled warmly, and said, “Good evening, Professor Faulkner.” He moved back to let us in.

  “Good evening, Boswell,” said Rob, took my arm, and led me inside. He turned to the man and said, “This is Professor Redd, R-E-D-D. She’s my guest tonight.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll make a note.”

  Rob led me along a hallway lined on either side with paintings of men and women in dress of various periods from the eighteenth century to the present. Most of the people were wearing masks like what you’d wear at a costume ball. Some were holding exotic weapons—maces, halberds, axes. I didn’t recognize any of them. We passed several oak doors, smaller versions of the one that opened onto the street, before coming to an open door that led into a large room furnished with comfortable chairs and tables, and a bar at the far end. Rob showed me to a table for two near the left wall. He held a chair for me, and I sat.

  “What’ll you have?” he asked.

  “A Pinot Grigio would be nice,” I said.

  He went to the bar, and I looked around the room. There were few people here. A couple was sitting at a table across the room, the man portly and dressed in a conservative gray suit, the woman, young and pretty save for a livid scar on one cheek, in high heels and a skimpy black dress with mesh sides—she was talking to the man earnestly, but he seemed to be paying little attention. Two men were chatting at the bar.

  The room was richly decorated. The bar was polished mahogany with a shiny brass rail, the walls paneled in oak. On a large rack mounted high on one wall was a collection of whips—a bullwhip, a cat o’ nine tails, several riding crops in different sizes, and others I couldn’t name. Another rack held a selection of restraints—manacles, cuffs, balls and chains. Lengths of chain were hung on hooks. Along one wall was a large X-shaped cross with cuffs dangling from steel eyes at the upper ends. The artwork here was more disturbing than in the hallway: there were pictures—some paintings, some prints, some photographs—of naked men and women bound in various ways. Some were suspended in ropes, some fettered to walls, some in stocks, some chained in uncomfortable poses.

  Rob returned before I’d finished surveying the room. The warmth of his smile did little to allay the uneasiness I now felt.

  “This is a disturbing place,” I said. “It feels like some celebration of medieval torture—a monument to pain and the destruction of the body.” I wondered what kind of man liked to come to a place like this and calmed myself a little with the thought that I was only here for a drink with him.

  He said, “Look around this room with a slightly different perspective, and you’ll see that it’s not about the destruction of the body, but about its glorification, and not about torture, but control.”

  “But why?” I asked. “Why would anyone want to be chained, bound to a cross, and controlled by somebody else?” I pictured myself cuffed to that cross or chained to the wall, and I was disturbed to feel something stirring inside me—a hint of arousal. I tried to make the disgust I was sure I felt chase it away, but it wouldn’t be banished. It occurred to me that I probably shouldn’t take another sip of this wine, though it was light and fruity and danced on the palate.

  “For pleasure,” he said. “For the joy of yielding control of yourself to another person, the bliss of doing what you’re told, the ecstasy of entrusting yourself to another’s care.”

  “Or,” I said, “the joy of controlling and commanding.”

  “Yes,” he said, “some find pleasure in that, and in controlling oneself enough to safely accept responsibility for another.”

  A photograph of a woman about my own age caught my eye. She was kneeling in front of a man and wearing nothing but a steel collar attached by a chain to a brick wall; her hands were cuffed behind her. On her face was an expression of adoration and fear.

  I had to admit Rob had a point. I was forty-three years old, and I’d given my life to the lab and the university. Like Rob, I seemed to have a talent for getting people to do what I wanted them to do. I’d been in leadership roles as long as I could remember: Student Council president in high school, head of various college and grad school organizations, chair of learned societies, a stint as a dean, and now chair of my department. I had a reputation as a tough lady—even if I did prefer to deliver bad news in five-star restaurants.

  But my love life had been a zero. My few lovers had expected and desired the iron lady, the person I was at work. But I didn’t want to run my personal relationships the way I ran my lab, my classrooms, or my department. Wasn’t I entitled to one area of my life where I could be a kitten instead of a lioness?

  But when I’d tried to play the kitten with my lovers, or merely hinted to them that they should take charge in the bedroom, they had responded, at best, with confusion. The lovemak
ing had been boring, and after a while they’d either left or I’d kicked them out. Though a staunch feminist, I’d found myself wishing at times that I could find an old-fashioned cave man type—or at least someone willing to play that role in the bedroom. Où sont les sexistes d’antan?

  Well, maybe I had one here. He was elegant, too—I’d often caught myself watching him stride, assured and graceful, through the hallways and labs of the Chemistry Building. Once I’d observed his class: as he paced the front of the room, lecturing animatedly, his gait put me in mind of a wolf.

  A naked man, pink and rotund, burst into the room and pelted towards the bar. As he passed by our table I saw that he had an erection and his back was crisscrossed with long welts. By the time the man reached the bar, the bartender had a bottle of beer ready for him. He picked it up and ran out, penis wagging in front of him like a misplaced tail.

  I felt a little surge of anger. “What’s going on here, Rob?”

  “People are doing things they enjoy. Controlling and being controlled. The club has private rooms for members to play in—though, of course, it’s possible simply to come here for a drink, as we have.”

  “People aren’t just being controlled,” I said. “That man’s been whipped.”

  “If he was whipped, it’s because he wanted to be. This club’s most strictly enforced rule is that everything that goes on here must be consensual.”

  The man in the suit got up and moved towards the door, and the woman in the black dress followed him. She held her head up as she walked, but her eyes were downcast. She was a kitten—I knew it. I felt a stab of envy.

  “What do you think they’re going to do?” I asked, nodding at the couple as they passed through the door.

  “They’ll go to one of the private rooms and play,” said Rob. “She’s a submissive and he’s a dominant. He’ll control her, and she’ll obey him, as long as he respects her limits.”