The Seduction Hypothesis

by Delphine Dryden

  “He probably has ‘affectionate gesture’ programmed into his to-do list, along with seat belt reminders and fluid checks.” Ben had poked his head up while her attention was elsewhere. He’d been napping on his folded arms most of the morning, and now his back and shoulders popped like firecrackers as he stretched. He looked rumpled and sleepy and kind of adorable, even if he was being an ass.

  “Better than not programming it in,” she pointed out, tipping her reader back up between them. A tiny wall was better than none.

  “Sometimes she kisses his hand, and it looks like somebody kissing the pope’s ring. I wonder what that’s all about?”

  “Not like the pope,” Lindsey corrected. “More like a king.”

  “Oh, so now you think he’s a king?”

  “Hey, you brought it up—I was just sitting here minding my own business. I don’t know how much plainer I can make it to you that I’m not interested in him like that.”

  “Could’ve fooled me, the way you were staring at him just now.”

  “He interests me. That’s different from me being interested in him romantically. They interest me, okay?”

  “Like...a threesome?” Ben sounded equal parts horrified and intrigued.

  “Jesus, you’re such a guy. No, not like that. It’s just—”

  “Everything okay back there?” Ed called, taking time out from rat genomes. “Do we need to separate you two?”

  Yes, everyone in the RV with the exception of Ivan was looking back at the kitchenette to see the unfolding drama. United for a moment by their shame, Lindsey and Ben stared their fellow travelers down until the others turned away, then she went on in a furious whisper.

  “What is your problem, Ben? As obsessed as you are with the idea that I’m lusting after Ivan, I’m starting to think you’re the one with the issue about him. You basically broke up with me over him.” It might not be literally true, but over the past few months Lindsey had given a lot of thought to the figurative truths of their breakup.

  “What? That’s not...no.” He crossed his arms defensively, averting his eyes.

  “Right. And I’m tired of being blamed and treated like I did something wrong, when I didn’t. I didn’t do anything, or say anything. The problem was between you and you. Your insecurity. You’d rather assume I was somehow being dishonest, and flounce off than try to communicate about how to fix things. And you’d still rather sit here and make passive-aggressive cracks than face the fact that you screwed up something really good over nothing.”

  She grabbed her backpack, unbuckled her seat belt and stood up, swaying a moment with the motion of the vehicle. “Hey, who wants to trade with me? I need a change of scene.”

  Ed shuffled down the aisle, laptop under his arm, and Lindsey gratefully took the seat behind Cami. Ben shot a final glare after her, probably because she was now in prime Ivan-observation position, before turning and slumping back into the banquette seat so she could see only the top of his head.

  As a special treat, she’d saved the brand new installment of Balls ‘n’ Chain to read on the trip. Pulling it from her backpack, she slipped off the plastic sleeve and admired the texture of the cover, glossy details on matte stock, black-on-black. Hard to read, maybe, but beautiful and understated. The comic artwork inside was also beautiful, but by contrast it was quite easy to read and much less subtle.

  In this issue, a group from another BDSM club had challenged the gang at Balls ‘n’ Chain to a “kink-off.” The details of the competition were as lurid as they were hilarious, and by the middle of the story Lindsey wasn’t sure whether she was more likely to snort coffee out her nose from giggling, or orgasm in front of everybody from squirming in her seat.

  Her favorite character, Sub Red, spent most of the issue chained to the St. Andrew’s Cross in the middle of the club. The poses gave Lindsey ample scope to assess her own handiwork in re-creating the skimpy costume, and she confirmed that she’d nailed it. Which was cause for some alarm, as it meant a few days from now she’d be parading in front of the convention-goers in little more than a collection of strategically placed two-inch-wide black satin straps.

  She’d seen someone else’s version of the costume in photos from another recent convention, but the wearer had opted for a body stocking as a base for the straps, with handprints and whip marks painted onto the spandex “skin.” Lindsey had decided that didn’t do the artwork justice. The comic was mostly black and white, with very limited use of watercolor tinting to highlight occasional key accessories as well as the bruises, welts, and other markings on the dungeon’s denizens. The contrast between the stark pen-and-ink lines and the almost petal-like, photorealistic delicacy of the coloring was the signature look of the comic. A fake-looking red handprint on a flesh-toned body stocking missed the whole feel of the artwork, in Lindsey’s opinion. She was opting for makeup.

  True, she would smear her paddle marks every time she sat down. But standing seemed a small price to pay for a really great costume. And if she’d really been spanked or paddled, wouldn’t she avoid sitting down anyway? Lindsey warmed even more at the thought, shifting uncomfortably in the big leather bucket seat. Lately, her fantasies had veered sharply toward the kinky. She knew it was just a matter of time—and finding the right partner—before she delved into that area in real life. Her curiosity had turned to longing, even need, and reading the comic was a special kind of torture.

  “Oh, Balls ‘n’ Chain?” Cami leaned around her seat, eyes on the comic in Lindsey’s hands. “Is that the latest one? Can I borrow it when you’re through? I didn’t have a chance to pick it up before the trip.”

  “Oh, sure. You read it too?” Lindsey was surprised. Cami seemed like such a wholesome, clean-cut, nerd girl, the perfect example of what the Balls ‘n’ Chain characters called “vanilla.” Not that Lindsey was exactly Neapolitan herself, but with her multiple piercings, over-dyed hair of a red that nature had never intended, and penchant for indie artist T-shirts, at least she thought she looked more like the type who’d read a dangerously sexy comic like that.

  “Oh, I love it. We both do,” Cami confirmed. “It’s hilarious.”

  Ivan nodded too, never taking his eyes off the road. “The depiction of BDSM practices is extremely accurate. The plots are silly, of course.”

  “I don’t read it for the plot,” said Cami with a wink. “But yeah...accurate, for sure. We’re going as Sir Mansome and Kittycat for the contest night.”

  “You’re kidding. I’m doing Sub Red!”

  “Oh my God, we have to see if it’s too late to group up!”

  A brief flurry of planning occurred, during which it was agreed that an attempt would be made to group up for the costume contest, as groups typically had a better chance of winning than solo entries.

  “Too bad we don’t have The Master to go along with your costume,” Cami lamented. “We’d kill it.”

  Lindsey instantly thought of Ben in snug black jeans and black cowboy boots, an open white dress shirt with the studs and necktie dangling and the sleeves turned up at the cuffs. Just as quickly, she shoved the image back into its sealed compartment deep within her brain.

  “So, I’m about halfway done with this.” She lifted the comic from her lap. “I should be finished in like half an hour.”

  “Cool. Oh, and by the way, if you need any accessories for the contest, we’ve got plenty of extra stuff. Don’t be shy about asking, okay? And it’s all...well, you know, it’s good stuff, not the cheap costume kind. That junk’s not worth the money, and it wears out way too fast. And the real stuff just has a better look and feel to it. Especially feel.”

  Ivan coughed into his hand, looking nonplussed, and Cami chuckled at him as she settled back into her chair.

  Lindsey stared at the headrest in astonishment as the penny dropped so loudly she thought it must be audible all over the state.

  They actually do this stuff.

  * * *

  Ed was a clackety-keyboard person. His t
yping was loud enough to wake the dead, and after a few minutes Ben gave up on resuming his nap and let himself contemplate the drama with Lindsey, and the state things had come to.

  To be fair, she’d accepted partial blame up until now. In the breakup, as in the relationship, she had been kinder and more generous than he’d deserved. It was mutual, they told everyone—things just hadn’t worked out. She told Ben she felt she hadn’t communicated what she wanted clearly enough, because she wasn’t sure what she wanted, which was her own fault, blah blah blah.

  It was bullshit. She’d been right today for the first time. It wasn’t her fault, and it had taken her being brutally honest for Ben to get that. While they might have both needed to work on communication, their breakup was almost entirely his own fault.

  It wasn’t even just that he was jealous of Ivan, but that he felt he could never provide whatever magical quality Lindsey seemed to admire in the guy. That he, Ben, could never be good enough for her. Since he’d always been amazed that Lindsey went out with a guy like him anyway, it hadn’t taken much to convince himself she would figure that out too, in time. The thing with Ivan had just been Ben’s excuse to leave her before she got wise and dumped him.

  So yeah, the guy had hypnotic cobra-eyes and had lured her under his spell during one party for a few minutes, pulled some things out of her that she’d never admitted to Ben. A few confessions about not always enjoying fieldwork, stuff she’d obviously been stressing over because it impacted her career choices as an ecologist. But in Ben’s mind, Ivan had become some sort of emotional wizard, able to coax truths from Lindsey’s soul. And yes, Ben had resented it.

  Honi sois qui mal y pense. The shame was with him, for thinking ill of his girlfriend and his friend, who’d done nothing more than talk about Costa Rica and feelings. So what would King Edward the Third, creator of the Order of the Garter, do? Aside from start the Hundred Years’ War, of course. Despite his choice to leave the field, Ben still often turned to history for answers when troubled by events in the present. This time, however, medieval chivalry offered him no solutions.

  Medieval torture equipment, however...he risked a peek at Lindsey and confirmed she was still buried in the latest issue of what he called “that porn comic.” Jesus. And she was planning to spend at least one day at the con dressed as her favorite character. He could only imagine what that would look like. In the single issue he’d read, the girl called Sub Red had worn a shiny black sleeveless catsuit thing unzipped almost to her navel, with suicidally high-heeled boots. Halfway through the comic, the pants had been replaced with short shorts for some reason he couldn’t recall.

  He’d read that entire issue with a painful hard-on, put the comic aside and never touched another one for fear he’d explode. It was actually more potent than porn in its effect on him, but he felt horribly guilty for getting turned on by the stuff. He wasn’t supposed to be aroused by the idea of hitting girls on the ass with whips. Or his hand. Or any of the rest. He couldn’t understand why Lindsey, who seemed as progressively feminist as all the other girls of their circle, wanted to read something so misogynistic. True, there were as many women giving the beatings in Balls ‘n’ Chain as receiving them. But shouldn’t that be beside the point? Even the Dominatrices were objectified into sex objects. Hell, everyone was objectivized into a sex object.

  He’d told her as much, maybe even scolded her a little, the next time she’d tried to show him a panel from the comic. It had been the last time. They’d broken up not too long after that. Right after Christmas. He’d been a jerk, and a few days later when he saw her at a friend’s New Year’s Eve party, he realized how dumb he’d been. He kicked himself for pushing her away. But it was too late.

  Ben’s mind circled back to the comic, to one of the rare full-color panels in that first fateful issue. Sub Red, in the shorts, was strapped across something he’d learned was called a “spanking horse.” The character called The Master, who owned the club and “owned” Sub Red, was swinging a paddle at her already cherry-red butt. The art was fantastic, Ben had to admit. You could practically smell the leather and sex, hear the swish and anticipate the crack of the implement against soft flesh. Sub Red’s hair was in motion, the color exactly the shade of Lindsey’s latest ‘do. The tiny shorts had pulled askew in a previous panel, so a flash of wet pink cunt showed between Red’s restrained legs. That and the marks on her ass were the only color in the black-and-white panels surrounding the glossy color page. But even on those pages you knew that pussy was wet, you knew she was ready, even before the next panel in which she begged The Master to fuck her. He had been happy to oblige.

  And now, a boner.

  Great.

  That was exactly what Ben needed. A perfect metaphor, somehow, for the mess of his former relationship and his life. Riding in an RV that the guy he’d been unreasonably jealous of was driving. Sporting wood that he had to hide under the table from Ed, who was sitting opposite him because Ben had driven off the woman he most wanted to apply the boner to. Ed, who was probably happily working on his actual work, which was also his passion, while Ben had left his code-monkey day job behind for the week without a thought because it didn’t even make the bottom of the list of things he was passionate about. He’d wussed out on going for his PhD in history, he’d started a soul-crushingly boring career whose only worth to him was monetary, and he’d driven away a woman he was crazy about because he didn’t feel confident he could keep her.

  Great.

  “Dude, you’re creeping me out. Read a book or do something over there.” Ed’s fingers never stopped moving on his keyboard as he spoke.

  “Nothing to do.” He’d brought a book and a computer, but couldn’t read or play computer games in a moving vehicle.

  “Then take a nap or whatever. You’re just staring. It’s weird.”

  “Are you gonna ask Lindsey out?”

  Ed’s face popped up fully over the screen, his fuzzy overgrowth of stubble making him resemble a startled woodland creature. “What?”

  “I saw you guys talking earlier, and...forget it. Whatever. Never mind.” Was he reduced to this, now?

  “Wow.” His friend closed the laptop, running his hands over the smooth brushed aluminum thoughtfully. “You’re really clueless. I mean, I thought I was dense, but you’re like, really out there, aren’t you?”

  Lending credence to Ed’s supposition, Ben replied, “Huh?”

  “Yeah. So. Lindsey isn’t really my type, I’m not into redheads. But more importantly she’s totally not into me. If I asked, she would turn me down. She was only telling me all about her smexy costume because you were standing there, you asshole. But then, as now, you were being too big an asshole to notice that she is still into you. Why, I don’t know. But apparently that’s everybody’s take on things. And I wish you would work your shit out so I wouldn’t keep having to hear about this whenever you’re not in the room.”

  With that, he reopened his computer and resumed his noisy typing, leaving Ben to ponder his message.

  Ben chanced another peek at Lindsey, who was still engrossed in Balls ‘n’ Chain. As he watched, her eyes widened at what must have been a particularly salacious scene. Then they narrowed in speculation, and she eyed Ivan with a calculating sidelong gaze. To Ben’s surprise, she tilted her head and watched Cami longer still, as if she were trying to work something out. When she turned back to her comic, she wore a secretive smile that curved the corners of her mouth in a particularly delicious fashion. He wanted to lick her there, taste that secret on her lips.

  He was still contemplating that lost possibility when Lindsey raised her head again and met his gaze, as startled by the sudden eye contact as he was but seemingly unable to look away. Her eyes were sultry, speculative, full of the lascivious images she’d been steeping herself in. Her lips parted briefly and she licked them. She might as well have swiped her tongue down the length of his cock. He glared back, angry and horny, feeling his own gaze hit her like a laser beam
of concentrated lust.

  They kept it up longer than was wise, neither willing to back down first. Too long to ignore. Then too long to pretend they weren’t going to have to talk about it later.

  The spell was broken only when Ivan called out that the scheduled lunch stop would take place in fifteen minutes.

  Chapter Three

  The hotel was bedlam, even at the advanced hour of 10 p.m., and the group members took their own time unpacking their things from the RV. They were all separated from one another by the time they’d navigated from the roof of the parking garage to the long check-in counter. Inebriated conference attendees washed in and out of the lobby bar like the tide, and the babble of happy voices echoed so loudly in the colorful space that Ben had to raise his voice to give his name to the cheerful, well-groomed woman at the front desk. No sign of his roommates, but the lady assured him he was not the first of his party to check in.

  One cardkey and a short elevator ride later, he swiped himself into his room, surprised that Ed and Lin hadn’t beaten him there. His plan to make straight for the overpriced minibar was thwarted when he recognized the wheeled bag blocking the refrigerator.

  “Hey, it’s just me,” he called out. “Not breaking in here or anything. Sorry, I think there was a mixup with the registration.”

  “Fuck.” Lindsey, swinging open the bathroom door, confronted him with her hands on her hips.

  “They must have left me on the original room,” he explained. “I did call to make sure it was changed. Twice. Damn, I wondered why I didn’t run into the other guys on the way up.”

  “They’re in the adjoining room,” she told him, wrestling her bag onto a luggage rack by the king bed. “Lin’s already been over here to steal my freebie shampoo, since he figured I brought my own.”

  “Oh, nice.”

  “Yeah.”

  He caught a waft of her perfume when she opened her suitcase, flowers and spices, so familiar. It used to cling to his pillows and sheets after she slept over. It smelled like red hair to him, the natural dark auburn that her hair was when she didn’t tint it. Now it was vivid cartoon red, with sharp-edged bangs framing her pixie face. It made her eyes look huge and insanely blue. Different. But he knew if he buried his nose in that hollow below her ear, he’d still smell the same thing he used to, and still wish she were some sort of food so he could take a bite.