Just One Night, Part 3: Binding Agreement

by Davis, Kyra

  I know what he’s saying is madness. The rantings of a hurt child whose greatest goal is rebellion. And yet the words entice me. How can they not? Deep down, in the part of me that I’ve tried so hard to bury, I am like Simone, always desirous of adventure.

  He leans in close; his lips rest against my ear. “Come with me, pursue her with me now.”

  And I let him lead me. We walk out of his home, into his garage, into his car that resembles art and power. It pulls out onto the street too fast; I feel my stomach drop as I’m pressed back in my seat. He takes the turns with the skill of a racecar driver and the recklessness of a teenager. I take a breath and realize he’s right. The fear is exciting.

  I don’t ask where we’re going as we navigate the back roads of LA, streets that aren’t so carefully monitored by the LAPD. We’re a little off the grid, playing by Robert’s rules.

  He finally pulls into a back alley behind a string of small restaurants and cheap nail salons. Most of these businesses have closed up for the night but I notice that there are still cars parked in a small, dingy lot that Robert slides us into. A light shines down on a white door against a dull brown building. He leads me to it and I see the word Wishes in small letters painted in red on the white surface. The color reminds me of blood, and passion and rubies.

  He opens the door for me and I see we’ve arrived at a neighborhood speakeasy. The bar is small, the furniture is composed of sofas and soft chairs, things that would be perfectly at home in a private living room. There are no more than ten people here but a woman stands at a mic, singing something mournful and beguiling. Next to her a man with wire-rimmed glasses and a golden tan plays the double bass.

  Behind the bar is a woman with long red hair, almost as red as the words on the door. She smiles when she sees Robert but her smile gets a little brighter when her eyes land on me.

  “Mr. Dade,” she says as we approach, “it’s been some time.”

  “Hey, Genevieve. One of your famous margaritas for my friend here,” he says as he gestures for me to sit on one of the bar stools.

  “I don’t drink tequila,” I say as I pull myself onto a seat.

  “Why? Are you afraid you’ll lose control?” he asks. The question is gently teasing and I don’t bother to answer or put up further protest.

  In a moment I have a margarita on the rocks; a thin layer of salt adorns the rim of the glass. I feel the eyes of the room. When I glance at a man at a corner table he looks away quickly, the woman at the other end of the room keeps her head down as she studies her drink with an intensity that suggests she’s actively avoiding some other vision. There are little conversations around the room, drinks are raised and lowered, and yet somehow, in a million different little ways, everyone seems tuned in to us, as if they, too, feel the gravitational pull of the moon, as if they sense the rising tide.

  “She’s good,” Robert says, gesturing to the singer. Her hair is black and falls just past her shoulders; her eyes are closed as she sings about the cruelty of love. She reminds me of Asha.

  “She is,” Genevieve says but her eyes stay on me. She puts her finger against the glass in my hand. There’s an intimacy there, touching the same glass without touching each other. “Take it slow,” she says coyly. “I have a feeling there will be more.”

  The singer finishes her song. Robert nods at our bartender who reaches above her head and rings a large, rusty bell that jars the patrons from their conversations and alcoholic musings. “Last call,” she cries.

  It’s nowhere near two and there’s some grumbling among the patrons, but no one complains too loudly, accepting this odd twist of fate as the norm rather than an unexpected offense. A few order another drink while they still can but most just get up and leave. The singer and bass player take a seat. Neither packs up. I sip my drink as more and more people file out. “Is this your bar?” I ask Genevieve.

  She laughs lightly and pours a drink for herself. “No,” she says lightly. “It’s his.”

  I turn to Robert, who smiles secretly. “It’s my bar,” he agrees. “I set the rules.”

  And then we’re alone. The patrons are gone. It’s just me, the musicians, Genevieve, and . . . him.

  “I bet you were a good girl in college,” Genevieve says lightly as the singer steps up to the microphone again. The song is a little grittier this time, the deep echoing notes of the double bass set the mood. “I bet you never once went to a rave, danced on the bar, made out in public . . . I bet you never even did a body shot.”

  I shake my head. “I was busy studying. I had goals.”

  Genevieve’s smile broadens. “Don’t we all.” My drink sits half empty on the bar and she slowly drags it away, out of my reach. “Let me show you how to do a body shot.”

  The singer raises her voice as the song builds. I send a sharp look at Robert but his eyes are on Genevieve. He’s watching her closely, attentively, and I realize that, without saying a word, he’s somehow directing this. He’s taking me away from the familiar, introducing me to the thrill of unease.

  Genevieve places a shot of tequila on the bar before she walks around the counter, a saltshaker in one hand, a wedge of lime in the other. She takes my arm and with a quick look at Robert slides the lime along the inside of my wrist, along that vein that gives away my pulse. She sprinkles the trail with salt before lifting the lime to my mouth. “Bite,” she instructs.

  My heart is pounding. I look at Robert again. This is beyond unfamiliar. I’m not comfortable with it at all . . . and yet I can’t say that part of me isn’t eager.

  I open my mouth, gently wrap my lips around the lime as she raises my wrist to her mouth. She keeps her eyes on Robert the whole time as she licks the salt off my skin. With languid movements she reaches for the shot, throws it back, and then leans forward for her lime. I feel her tongue slip slightly past the lime and I almost pull back but then I feel Robert’s hand, on my knee, sliding up my leg. A familiar delight to ground me. She takes the lime in her teeth and pulls it from me, squeezes the juices into her mouth.

  “Your turn.”

  I start to shake my head as she gets another slice of lime but this time she takes the lime to Robert’s neck. He tilts his head, agreeably allowing her to create a trail for the salt. She pours another shot of tequila, places the lime between Robert’s teeth. “Go ahead,” she says. “Taste him.”

  I think I hear laughter in the singer’s melody but it could be my imagination. I lean forward, let my tongue dip into the salt on his throat. “Get every grain,” Genevieve coaxes. “It would be a sin to waste it.” She watches and continues to whisper encouragements as I seek out the grains of salt that have fallen behind his collarbone. When I finally lean back, it’s Genevieve who reaches for the shot glass. She holds it over his shoulder, urges me on with a raise of her eyebrows. I glance back at the singer and bass player. The music continues with the casual smoothness you would expect from professionals but their eyes are on us. The blush starts in my cheeks and spreads with the speed of a five-alarm blaze. This has been my fantasy, being watched, but I never dreamed I’d have the courage to actually act it out. It’s too scary.

  But fear can be thrilling and so I stand up, step between Robert’s open legs, press my body into his as I reach my chin over his shoulder. Genevieve brings the glass to my lips, tipping it back, letting the alcohol trickle rather than stream into my open mouth. Finally she pulls the drink away as I take the lime from Robert. His hands move down my back, to my ass, through my legs, pressing upward. I take in a sharp breath, murmur his name.

  When I pull away I’m shaking. I stare at Robert as he puts the lime down neatly on a cocktail napkin. Genevieve stands behind him, her eyes sparkling with hints of danger as she places her hands on each of Robert’s shoulders and leans in to his ear. In a stage whisper she says, “It’s your turn, Mr. Dade.”

  Robert stands up and makes a vague gesture tha
t Genevieve seems to understand. She quickly clears away everything on the bar.

  “Lay down, Kasie,” he says, his voice quietly authoritative. I stand, a little agitated, a little scared. I glance at the musicians again. They’ve moved on to a quieter piece; their music offers no distraction from what is happening. Not for me, not for them. I think I see the bass player wink at me but I’m not sure.

  “I don’t think I—” I begin, but Robert stops me by pressing his finger against my lips.

  “You can make the fear your lover.”

  The words means nothing, but I’m compelled to acquiesce. I let Robert lift me until I’m sitting on the bar. I pull up my legs, lay back, feeling completely vulnerable to the others in the room. Genevieve is behind the bar; Robert, in front of it. I feel her hands on the hem of my shirt as Robert works to unfasten the buttons on the waist of my skirt.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper but Robert hushes me. “You’ve taken the power; now is the time to submit.”

  Genevieve pulls my shirt from me; I feel my skirt sliding down my legs. The music stops and I hear the whispered voices of the musicians as they discuss what they’re seeing.

  From the corner of my eye I see Genevieve pour another shot. I feel the cool glass as she drags it along my thigh.

  “What’s your name?” she asks.

  “Kasie,” I murmer. “Kasie Fitzgerald.”

  “Well, Miss Fitzgerald, I need you to spread your legs, just a little, that’s right; you’re not going to be a good girl tonight.”

  Robert chuckles softly and I can feel the coldness of the glass through the fabric of my panties. “Hold this in place here, please,” Genevieve instructs as Robert smiles down at me.

  “Submit,” he says again. “For me.”

  I squeeze my thighs together holding the glass in place as he caresses me with a lime, along my stomach, to my chest, along the outline of my bra. The lime is then placed between my teeth and I feel the salt as it sprinkles down on me. My skin is so sensitive now, even this light touch is startlingly seductive.

  Robert leans down, tastes the salt that lines my bra, reaching inside to pinch my nipples as Genevieve tastes the salt on my stomach; she’s moving lower, dangerously lower. I see the musicians moving in closer.

  I think of protesting, of spitting out the lime and telling them that this takes more audacity and courage than I have.

  But I don’t. I’m not pulling away. Genevieve moves even lower, kissing the edge of my panties and then the fabric until she gets to the glass. She laps the tequila up as if she’s a kitten tasting milk.

  I feel a new shot of coolness as Robert pours a thimble’s worth of tequila into my belly button. It spills over, runs down to my panties, which are already wet.

  I don’t protest this time, not even as he removes my bra from me, runs a lime over my nipples before coating them with salt. Genevieve straightens her posture and watches as he drinks from my belly button, follows the stream down.

  Carefully, Genevieve pulls the glass from between my thighs, making sure her fingers touch more than they should as she drags the glass along.

  “The tequila must have gotten into her panties,” she says, “they’re certainly wet.”

  The singer giggles; the bass player coughs into his hand.

  Robert pulls my panties down. He pulls my legs open a little more then tastes me.

  A flash of memory, Mr. Dade touching my clit with a scotch-drenched ice cube that first night I met him. I close my eyes . . . bite down on the lime. It’s the same sensation but so much more powerful under the watchful eyes of these strangers.

  My hips instinctually raise to him; my back arches. Again I hear the whispered voice of the singer as I moan.

  But he pulls away right before bringing me to the point of climax. My breathing is erratic as I feel his lips move up my hips, along my waist, over my breast and throat until he reaches my mouth and takes the lime. When the juice has been tasted, he hands the lime to Genevieve, who obediently takes it, her eyes running up and down the length of me as Robert leans in again for a kiss. The taste of tequila and sex overwhelm me, making my mouth water. I feel Genevieve’s fingers caressing my leg, gently touching my sex.

  “I bet she’s stunning when she comes,” a man’s voice says. In my peripheral vision I can see the bass player has moved closer. He’s younger than I thought. No more than twenty-three, his wide-eyed innocence gives away his inexperience.

  Robert pulls away, smiles again. “May he touch you?”

  I don’t say a word. Not yes, not no, but in the silence is my consent.

  Genevieve steps away as the bass player steps forward; his fingers only touch my inner thigh briefly before raising to my clit.

  A jolt of electricity makes me jump. But his solicitations continue as Robert kisses my shoulders, my breasts. I feel this man’s fingers moving faster and faster and I moan again. The singer has moved very close now. I see that she stands next to Genevieve, whose hand is around her waist, touching her softly as she watches me.

  I can feel that I’m about to come. I cry out softly but again Robert stops me, sharply telling the man to step away. “Only for me,” he explains. “She only comes for me.” And with that it’s his fingers that are touching me, not just playing but entering my body, first one then two. There’s no waiting anymore. The orgasm comes hard and shakes my whole body from the inside out.

  In an instant his shirt is off as well, then his pants; he’s naked as he climbs on top of me, entering me in front of this small group of employees.

  Because in the end, that’s what they are, I realize. They’re the people Robert hires and fires, the people he would give me similar authority over. The power lies with Robert and me, here on this bar as he enters me again and again. They watch with awe and excitement, privileged to be included in this moment.

  I wrap my legs around his waist. The bar is wide but I do wonder if we can maintain this balance. At what point do we go too far, forget ourselves, fall to the floor?

  But that doesn’t happen. Robert holds us in place. It’s as if our will alone keeps us from falling. I hear him groan as my nails run up and down his back. This is no longer submission. The fear has stepped aside, giving us room to revel in the aphrodisiac of power.

  “She’s magnificent,” sighs the singer.

  Yes, magnificent. Just like in the boardroom. I feel it. I know it. In this moment I’m absolutely sure he’s right about everything. I was shy, slow to see the brilliance of my situation. I can do anything. Anything. We make the rules. No one else. Just us.

  “This is the only price,” he breathes into my ear, “to be inside your power.”

  “Yes,” I whisper back and my body starts to shake once more. This orgasm builds slowly, with each thrust. I feel his hands, his mouth, their eyes . . . I feel him grinding inside of me. When I come, he comes with me, no longer able to hold out for another minute. Together we raise our voices and our audience collectively sighs.

  I know they want to touch me again. The singer looks as if she wants to touch Robert. But they’re not allowed. We’ve made fear our lover, power our foundation . . .

  . . . and we make all the rules.

  CHAPTER 8

  I WAKE UP THE next morning next to Robert, in his bed, with another hangover. This one isn’t alcohol induced; it’s the hangover you’re left with when the world changes under your feet, when there’s a rewiring of the mind. Everything is different today. I don’t fear Fear. I’ve done things I never thought I would or could and now, if I can do that . . . if I can let myself submit like that, is it so outrageous to think that I can master? Isn’t it almost required in order for me to keep the balance? Because if I don’t exercise my dominance in other areas of my life, I will feel weak and controlled. I won’t let that happen. Not anymore.

  I rise from the bed with a new, more primitiv
e energy. Robert watches without saying a word as I make my way to the master bath. I think I smell Genevieve’s perfume on my skin, the bass player’s cologne . . . a menagerie of lovers. They possessed me but, then again, they themselves are possessed. One word from me could have stopped them. One word from me could destroy them.

  I wash them off of me under the warm streaming water of Robert’s shower. My head is clearing. I know how today needs to begin.

  Robert doesn’t join me in the shower. Somehow he senses it wouldn’t be right. When I return to his bedroom, I see that there are garment bags with new clothes in them for me. Nothing too revealing. A one-hook off-white blazer with matching relaxed trouser. A deep blue camisole makes it pop. It’s all perfectly appropriate; the only thing that makes it out of the ordinary is the attitude of the woman who will wear it. I see it when I put the suit on. When I look in the mirror, the vision I see is one of determination. In my off-white suit and conservatively cut trousers I am anything but conservative.

  When I go upstairs, Robert hands me a travel mug of coffee, kisses me gently on the cheek. “My board has decided to contract your firm for further consulting.”

  It’s a misleading statement. The decision was always Robert’s. In the end the board will always follow his lead. But I know that in this instance there was no argument or resentment. My ideas were sound; the path I had pointed them toward, a good one.

  “Have you had any problems with anyone else at your work?” he asks. “Did getting rid of Tom bring the rest of them in line?”

  I think of Mr. Costin. We could destroy him, too. And Asha? Will she be a problem? Regardless, I should tell Robert that everything is fine. I should play fair.

  I sip my coffee and smile. “We’ll see how it goes today,” I say vaguely. “If there’s a problem, I’ll let you know.”