Tell Me More

by Janet Mullany

  “I love it when you go all macho on me.” I stroked his cock slow and easy. Dampness coated my fingers as I drew his foreskin down.

  “Turn toward me. Take your panties off. One foot on the seat. Spread your legs.”

  I did as he told me, thrilled by his commands. Mr. D. would love this. I’d—

  I snatched my hand away as if his cock was on fire.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” And I truly believed I’d stopped thinking about Mr. D. Was that why the thrill had left my radio job, too—because Mr. D. wasn’t there to share it?

  He shook his head, tucked his cock away and zipped up.

  “Sorry,” I added, a second too late.

  “One moment you’re a sex goddess, the next you’re blowing hot and cold. Precious little blowing, to think of it. What’s wrong? Did you remember you left the oven on at home or something?” He reached to the floor and found my panties.

  I felt embarrassed now, pulling the damp underwear on and straightening my dress. “I can—”

  “No!” He sounded exasperated. “If you want to tell me whatever it is that turned you off, then tell me. If it was something I did or said, let me know, and it won’t happen again.” He shook his head. “Sorry, this delayed gratification thing is getting to me.”

  “It was your idea.”

  “I know.” He stared out of the window and produced his iPhone again.

  The irony, our first fight, albeit a very minor one, and we hadn’t fucked yet; or, as we both knew, if we had fucked we’d be sated and happy. Or maybe not. We spent the rest of the trip in silence.

  The driver’s voice came over the intercom. “Ma’am, sir, we’ll be arriving in five minutes.”

  Patrick looked at me and winked. “How very discreet.”

  I reached for my backpack. “One more thing.” I handed him one of the masks Harry had given me.

  “What the hell? How am I supposed to put this on with glasses?” He fiddled around, finally removing his glasses and folding them inside his jacket. “Why the secrecy?”

  I shrugged. “It’s sort of a tradition.”

  He took my hand as we got out of the limo and squeezed it. “Sorry to be a grouch.”

  “Me, too.” We kissed and then walked up the imposing steps of the mansion, flanked by stone lions, to the massive front door.

  Patrick knew something was off about the whole evening but he went along with it because it seemed important to Jo. There was definitely a hidden agenda here but he was so cock-driven at this point he would have agreed to anything. Suit? Sure. Silly black mask? Naturally. Small talk with strangers? Honey, for you, anything.

  Because he was going to get laid, finally, and he’d walk through fire or jump through hoops to get there.

  And she looked great in that slinky dress. If she moved fast, it twirled out and flashed garters and the tops of her stockings, dark against her pale skin. And beneath, the filigree of sexy black underwear with presumably a matching bra, both of which he’d remove, leaving her in the garter belt and stockings. Yes, he was a predictable fool, his brain settled firmly in his genitals and to hell with the consequences.

  The location looked like some sort of hotel—huge and ornate, probably built by a nineteenth-century miner who’d struck it rich. He took Jo’s hand as they went up the steps together and through a huge, carved front door that looked like it might have been pilfered from a medieval castle in the days when the nouveau riche swarmed around Europe buying bits and pieces for their painfully new ancestral homes.

  Inside it wasn’t a hotel, and it wasn’t quite a private home, either. A receptionist—masked, wearing a tight, short black dress—greeted them, checking off their names on a list, and handed them a key to their room: a real brass key, not a key-card. “Cocktails are being served in the library, dinner at eight. You’ll need a tie, sir.”

  Another minion, a slender young man with close-cropped dark hair, took his scarf and Jo’s coat and their backpacks and whisked them away as if they polluted the spotless elegance of the vestibule, with its antique furniture and fancy rugs.

  Patrick reached into his pocket for his tie.

  “I rather like you like this. The hint of chest hair.” Jo touched the open neck of his shirt, her fingertip cool against his skin.

  He knotted the tie and turned his collar down. “Behave. I have other plans for this tie. I doubt they’ll provide house handcuffs.”

  “They might.” Her eyes were very bright, her lips parted. She reached to straighten his tie, a gesture that was oddly domestic.

  They followed a group of people up the imposing staircase. By this time Patrick had become accustomed to everyone being masked. Most of the other guests (or whatever they were) wore the plain black masks that covered only the eyes and that served to emphasize women’s lips. He’d not appreciated the subtlety, or, when you got close, the gleam of eyes through the mask. He was mostly longsighted, and could appreciate the general view, even if Jo, the woman to whom he wanted to be closest, appeared slightly blurred.

  The library looked like a movie set but he suspected the floor-to-ceiling shelves of leather-bound books might be real. Waiters—unmasked, because obviously the hired help didn’t count—circulated with trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Jo looked around and shrugged. “I’d introduce you to people but I don’t know who they are,” she said. “Being mysterious and atmospheric doesn’t always work.”

  “Jo! Darling! So this is your main squeeze.” A guy with reddish hair approached and kissed Jo’s cheek. Patrick watched to make sure his hand didn’t linger too long on her waist. “Hi, I’m Harry. Glad you could make it. Everything okay? Let me get you a drink.” He took a couple of glasses from a passing waiter. “You’ve got a great room. I hope you enjoy it, and we expect to see much more of you, Patrick. Catch you later.”

  Patrick took a sip from his glass and sensed the bite of alcohol under a tart citrus taste. No big surprise. He weighed the pros and cons of making one of his rare forays into alcohol consumption. He didn’t have to drive or operate any heavy machinery (he didn’t think Jo counted as such). He wanted to have every sense and nerve sharp when he got Jo alone (and naked and aroused and coming) but the buzz from a couple of drinks might be nice. It might also slow him down. Not that he was worried about his performance, and after all they had all night. And many more nights.

  “I thought you didn’t drink.” Jo, right on the button.

  “I don’t. This seems pretty innocuous.”

  “Okay.” She stared after Harry as he worked his way through the room, kissing cheeks, slapping shoulders, for all the world like a campaigning politician.

  He took another sip. “Everything okay?” he asked her.

  Just then a couple bore down upon them and Patrick gaped at the woman’s astonishing breasts before they blurred into pink half moons above the top of her dress, a tight, silver thing that ended barely below her butt. They introduced themselves as Jake and Cathy.

  Jake moved in to kiss Jo and she stepped aside, turning her face so he hit her directly on the cheek, not on her mouth. Interesting.

  Patrick kissed Cathy’s offered cheek, taking the opportunity to squint into her cleavage. Her breasts looked like a pair of pink melons, fascinating yet slightly repellent.

  Jake elbowed him. “Aren’t they great? You should make Jo get hers done.”

  “And wouldn’t that be Jo’s decision?” What the fuck did this guy know about Jo’s breasts? He was torn between outrage and embarrassment at being caught peeking by the woman’s husband.

  “It’s okay, man,” Jake said, slapping his shoulder. “Take a good look. Fair’s fair.”

  “Behave,” Cathy said to her husband. She tugged her dress down to cover her ass. “C’mon, honey, let’s circulate. See you guys later.”

  “You bet.” Jake laughed loudly. His hand at Cathy’s waist, he steered her away.

  “Are they friends of yours?” Patrick asked Jo, looking around fo
r another drink.

  “No. I just know them.”

  Another guy swooped in to kiss Jo.

  “Hi. Willis Scott—oops, we’re not supposed to use last names. How’re you doing?” Before either of them could answer, something caught his attention. “Gotta go, I’ll catch you later.”

  No last names. Interesting. And why these cryptic comments on something or other happening later? Patrick moved closer to Jo and slipped an arm around her waist. “I’m getting a bit tired of seeing you manhandled by every other guy here,” he murmured.

  “Don’t exaggerate. Besides, I don’t think I know anyone else here.” But she looked around the room as though she was expecting another admirer. Or something. Then she reached a hand down to his butt and squeezed and he forgot all about the other guys and whether he wanted another drink because it was Jo, and she was his and he was in love with her.

  A booming, tinny sound—he recognized it as a bigger version of his gran’s dinner gong—summoned everyone to dinner.

  It was another stately home setting in a huge room, one long table decorated with candelabra and flowers. He wanted to sit next to Jo, but they actually had place cards, which reminded him of his sister’s wedding (and another memory arose, of his da drunk and weeping, full of unwholesome sentimental blather about losing his little girl). How many of those bloody drinks had he had? He couldn’t remember, and that was a bad sign. His vision had a sharp, sparkling quality that he remembered from the few times he’d drunk seriously, and the sound in the room echoed and wavered. Already he was feeling thirsty, a warning that the poison should be diluted.

  He downed the glass of water at his place setting and reached for a piece of bread.

  “Hungry?” the woman on his right next to him murmured. Her eyes sparkled beneath her mask. Her voice reminded him of Jo’s, throaty and sexy.

  He raised his empty water glass to her in a toast, wondering whether he’d met her already or what he’d find to talk to her about, if he was even capable of maintaining a coherent conversation. He narrowed his eyes and looked at her place card, debating whether he should retrieve his glasses.

  “Sorry, I don’t remember whether we fucked,” the woman said.

  What? He gaped at her. She’d said “met,” surely. Yes, of course, she had.

  “I don’t think so. It’s my first time here. I’m Patrick.”

  “I’m Jackie. Great to meet you.” She offered her hand. “Oh, you’re Patrick.”

  It must be the booze, distorting his hearing. “Yes, I’m Patrick. Is that significant?”

  She giggled and put her hand on his knee. “I can’t wait for later.”

  “Really? What do you have planned?”

  “That depends on you, lover boy.” She ran her fingers up and down his thigh.

  He removed her hand and grabbed the bread basket. “Have some bread.”

  “Oh, you meanie.” She pouted sexily at him. “So, what do you like?”

  “Like?”

  “Yes. What are you into?”

  “Skiing, music. I’m just learning about classical but I like jazz. I box a bit, work out. What about you?” But she’d turned away to talk to the guy on the other side.

  22

  I WISHED PATRICK AND I COULD HAVE SAT together. He’d entered into an animated conversation with the woman on his left, and I was jealous she had all his attention. But later, I’d have him all to myself.

  The food was delicious and I was starving. I’d managed to grab a few hors d’oeuvres in the library to sop up the deceptively strong cocktails. Patrick had downed several with no particular effect and I could see he was drinking wine now. I remembered how he’d claimed he didn’t drink and it concerned me very slightly that either he’d lied, or exaggerated, or was just taking a risk. But he was an adult, and I figured he knew what he was doing.

  “So you’re Jo,” the man next to me said. He took my hand and kissed my knuckles.

  From across and several seats down the table, Patrick, as though alerted by some sort of radar, glared at me. I smiled at him. Let him sweat a little. If he was planning to play games later, I could play them now.

  “Yes, I’m Jo,” I said to my neighbor. “Why do I have the feeling I have some sort of notoriety here?”

  “Oh, but you do. You’re the bad girl of the drones in the Great Room. You’re the only one who’s had the smarts to invade upstairs.”

  “It wasn’t that difficult.” A plate of something delicious and beautiful appeared in front of me. The thought occurred that probably everyone in this room had seen me getting spanked and having an orgasm after and I hoped nobody would say anything indiscreet to Patrick.

  “And after tonight…” He shrugged. “Rumor has it you’re going places.”

  I nodded, wondering whether people joined the Association for its cloak-and-dagger atmosphere as much as the sex. I wanted to ask my neighbor if he knew Mr. D., but I’d long ago figured out that he wasn’t known by that name here. I looked around the table for a tall slim man with dark hair, and naturally there were several candidates. With the buzz of conversation and clatter of cutlery on china I couldn’t distinguish his voice. But I knew I had to stop thinking about Mr. D. because this was my night with Patrick.

  Dinner lasted a long time, or maybe it only seemed that way because I wanted to be alone with Patrick. At the same time I appreciated the delay, the inevitable buildup in my mind, and that I could see him but not touch him. He was making the woman next to him laugh; I’d noticed that he talked only to this woman and not the one on his other side.

  I chatted to both of my neighbors about, of all things, investments, and had the impression that I could have learned a lot if I’d taken notes.

  “You sound a bit like that girl on the radio,” one of them said as we paused in between courses. “You know, the one who’s on late at night.”

  Woman on the radio, please. “Do I?”

  Dessert arrived, tiny dark chocolate truffles, lemon tartlets and fresh raspberries garnished with a mint leaf and a fluffy cloud of whipped cream.

  I refused coffee—I wanted to be awake, but not that awake—and ordered a green tea instead. People stood, gathered in groups to chat and drifted out of the room. I wondered if they were going to observe the Great Room or seek diversions elsewhere.

  Patrick stood and looked across the table at me, his gaze sharp and compelling. He jerked his head toward the door and I stood, too, telling my companions I’d see them later. They grinned and nudged each other in a way that made me uneasy, but I forgot as Patrick walked toward me—no, he stalked, fierce and predatory—and reached to rip off his mask.

  “Come on,” he said, putting on his glasses. “I’ve had enough.” He didn’t seem at all drunk. He was still steady on his feet, his eyes as direct and perceptive as usual, but this was another side of Patrick I’d barely glimpsed.

  What the hell had they told him? “Where are we going?”

  “Upstairs.” He removed the room key from his pocket, and dangled it in front of me. “I’m fed up with women who aren’t you.”

  “You seemed to be doing pretty well.”

  His smile had little humor. “She was into web design, too.” He looked around. “How the hell do we get to the third floor?”

  “There’s an elevator here.” Once inside I removed my mask, very aware of Patrick fixing me with that fierce gaze.

  He raised his hand and unknotted his tie, drawing it slowly from his neck. I watched his hands as he rolled it and slipped it back inside his jacket pocket.

  The elevator doors opened and we stepped out into a dimly lit corridor that had the quiet anonymity of a hotel. It was very quiet and my sense of anxiety about the evening, which had lessened over dinner, increased again. But what could possibly go wrong now?

  Patrick consulted the key ring for our room number and led me along the corridor, stopping to unlock a door and push it open.

  I stepped into the room and saw that Harry’s promise to provide
romance had been serious. The room was golden with the glow of candles and the large four-poster bed was scattered with rose petals. Logs burned in the fireplace. A bottle of champagne rested in an ice bucket next to the bed. Our backpacks sat discreetly against one wall, looking shabby and out of place.

  Patrick walked past me and looked around with approval, although I think his interest lay in the size of the bed and the huge mirror opposite. He shrugged off his jacket and sat in one of the armchairs. “Come here.”

  I made myself walk slowly. I wanted to run to him and snuggle on his lap, but that sternness in his expression told me that tonight he was to issue orders and I was to obey. I stood in front of him and he gestured for me to turn around. The zipper on the dress hissed and the silk slithered down. I turned around to see he now held the tie in his hands.

  “Bra off. And panties.”

  So I was down to my garter belt and stockings as he’d intended and that cool, lustful gaze made me shiver.

  “Can I undress you?” I asked.

  “No. But you can see if there’s water in the refrigerator and bring me some.”

  He wanted to watch me while I paraded around like a wet dream in my black stockings and garter belt and heels, so I made the most of it. I sashayed across the room and parted my legs to bend and inspect the contents of the small refrigerator, knowing he would look at my exposed cunt and butt and the position of my breasts.

  I returned with a bottle of water and stood in front of him as he drank it. Again, that silent scrutiny of my body.

  A log fell in the fireplace with a crackle and shower of sparks.

  He placed the empty bottle on the floor. “Give me your wrists.”

  I held out my wrists and he stood to loop and knot the tie around them. He was close to me now and I longed to touch him, or for him to touch me. The front of his pants, distended by his erection, brushed against me and I pushed my hips against him.

  “No,” he said in a kind but stern voice, “I don’t think so. Not yet. Only when I tell you. Do you understand?”