Chimera

by Stephie Walls

  Sera: Even worse, do you know how much trouble you could’ve gotten yourself into tonight?

  Sera: Approaching someone else’s sub is a complete violation of protocol.

  Sera: What were you thinking?

  What was I thinking? Is she fucking kidding me with this shit?

  Me: Are you kidding me?

  Sera: No. I’m not.

  Me: First of all, I’d love some motherfucker try to touch you with me around or even better, come after me. I don’t give a shit, Sera. I’m not afraid of him or anyone else. I lived on the edge of death for years. Do you think that frightens me? Believe it or not, I can handle myself. I’m not a frail, mouse of a man.

  Sera: You don’t get it.

  Me: I didn’t approach you as someone else’s fucking sub. I approach you daily as my friend. That has nothing to do with your relationship with any Dom or Master. I was worried about you and afraid you might be hurt. That’s what friends do. They look out for each other, especially when one of them frequently turns up with bruises and worse.

  Sera: Two minutes later and it could have ended very differently.

  Me: I saw him pull up Sera. I could have turned around and ended this entire charade once and for all. I didn’t out of respect for you. Don’t make me regret that decision.

  Sera: Do you have any idea what he would’ve done if you’d been here when he pulled up?

  Me: Guess it’s lucky for him I chose not to have that confrontation today.

  Me: Mark my words, Sera. That day is coming. I will confront him. I will have my day with him. He will answer for every scratch, every bruise, every stitch, and every broken bone. He will pay retribution for ever harming a single hair on your head. I will deliver that bill.

  Me: Stop worrying about me. Has it occurred to you if you’re afraid to have friends at your house this is quite possibly the most horrific relationship you would have in your life? You shouldn’t have to hide your friends, especially ones he already knows about. Why can’t you see how detrimental he is to you?

  Sera: Please let it go, Bastian.

  Me: Never.

  It’s a promise I make more to myself than Sera. I won’t let it go until I get retribution for her. I won’t let it go until I shake some sense into her and beat the fuck out of him. I’m not a physical guy. Violence is typically the furthest thing from my mind, but I will unload on him. I don’t know when. I don’t know how. But when it finally comes to blows, he will rue the day he ever met me.

  26

  To say I didn’t sleep well would be a wee bit of an understatement. I couldn’t shut my brain down after arguing with her. My adrenaline was pumping, my heart was racing, and at four in the morning, I got up to take a shower after staring at the all too familiar walls in my room.

  With about an hour before Ferry is due to arrive, I hope the shower does more for me than trying to sleep. My eyes are burning from fatigue and I’m in an overall shitty fucking mood. I’ve waffled between being irate at Sera’s response to me for stopping by her house, and her concern for my physical wellbeing. I’m not Nate’s size, but I’m a big guy now that I’ve put some weight back on. The more I think about it, the more agitated I get. There is never going to be a time she doesn’t see me as a weak man she needs to protect. She isn’t protecting herself, so there’s no logic in her believing she can or needs to protect me.

  The pellets beat down on my back like little daggers falling from the sky, piercing my skin until the water finally warms. The cold sting of the droplets is enough to wake me before the heat starts to soak in. Her image floats in front of my closed lids, her lips turned up. I can’t stay angry at that face. Her eyes call to me, her lips pucker, and her nipples pebble beneath her whimsy blouse. Catching myself before I fall, my head snaps up, more tired than I realized. My hands brace against the shower wall, the water pummels my hair. My head’s between my shoulders as my mind wanders back and forth from her beauty to my irritation that she refuses to see me any differently.

  By the time Ferry rings my bell, I’ve had a cup of coffee but my outlook on the world isn’t much brighter. I should be elated with the opportunity in front of me; instead, I’m irritable and punchy. He detects my mood the instant he walks through the door.

  “This should make for a fun trip,” he snarls, apparently in no better state than I am.

  “What’s crawled up your ass?” I snap back at him, dragging my luggage behind me, grabbing my coffee from the counter.

  “Long night, unhappy morning. You?”

  “Same.”

  “Nate?”

  I stop on the sidewalk; he stops, too. “You do know Nate and I are not gay, right?”

  He cracks the first smile I’ve seen, roaring with laughter. “Lighten up, Bastian. I wasn’t implying you are. Simply asking because you’ve kind of been on the outs recently.”

  “Sorry, I’m a little on edge. No, not Nate. Sera.”

  He starts walking again, leaving me staring at his back. “You need to stay away from her. I’m telling you, Bastian, she’s not beneficial to you in any way.”

  Hurrying to catch up with him, I ask, “What’s your beef with her anyway? This is the third time you’ve tried to warn me off but never with any explanation.”

  “Just trust me on this one.”

  Again, I don’t pursue the conversation. Whatever it is he has against her, he obviously isn’t going to share, and it’s unlikely it would waver my opinion anyhow.

  With my bags loaded into the back of the SUV, I see Ferry’s signature red F on everything in sight. He takes his logo to new heights—it’s on his luggage, his camera bags, every piece of equipment he brought with him. He created a brand easily identified to those in the industry. Ferry is absolutely an entrepreneur, this is more than just photography for him: he’s on his way to creating an empire. He has more staff than any artist I’ve ever known, and they always wear the same black attire with his embroidered F on their back right shoulder. They’re so well trained he doesn’t have to speak to them. He communicates with a series of claps, and, each knowing their respective jobs, they snap to his command like Pavlov’s dog. I doubt I could find a place for staff in my artwork. I like to be alone when I work. Pushing the thought of Ferry’s salivating staff out of my mind, I jump into the front seat to start our twelve-hour drive.

  Dawn starts to break when we hit Charlotte. Either I was still asleep when Ferry got to my house or it was so dark that I was blind. Scabby scratches cover his arms and the the side of his face.

  “What the hell happened to you? You look like you got in a fight with the tree.”

  He blows me off. “I was doing some stuff around my house last night and got scratched up. It’s all superficial. It’ll be gone by the opening. I’ll put on a long sleeve shirt before we go into Le Musee.” It doesn’t look superficial to me. The angry red marks don’t look like something you’d get doing ordinary housework, but who am I to judge.

  The trip is boring as hell. Small talk doesn’t appeal to Ferry. We don’t like the same type of music and Ferry lives by the rule the driver is the DJ. By the time we make it to Roanoke, I’m ready to slit my wrists. Finally conceding, we stop for gas and a break. Whatever took place last night has Ferry in as fowl a mood as I am, but I’m a tad more polite. While I’m tired and irritable, it’s not the cashier’s fault I haven’t slept, nor the guy standing in front of the restroom blocking the door. They’re innocent bystanders, but damn, Ferry has no problem ripping them a new one when they don’t move as quickly as he deems appropriate. I apologize to the girl behind the register as I leave, embarrassed by his uproar. Making a snide comment under his breath, I ignore him climbing back in to continue this horrendous trip. I have no idea what I was thinking agreeing to this tandem ride. I could’ve driven my own car, and obviously should have.

  When I was in high school, I learned quickly to always take my own vehicle. Having been stuck at too many parties, places I didn’t want to be, or things that were going
to ensure I missed curfew, it didn’t take long to realize if I didn’t want to end up on restrictions, I needed to drive. That spilled over into college, not the restrictions part, but being stuck with people who made stupid decisions. Nothing has changed. Now here I sit in a car with a petulant ass I have to depend on for the next five days.

  Thirteen hours and twelve grueling minutes after we left Greenville, we arrive at our destination. Ferry made the arrangements, and by the looks of this house, he made them with some very affluent people. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a house this big that was actually lived in by it’s owners. It’s a stereotypical mansion and exactly what I think of when someone says the word. The house is monstrous with ornate architecture, but nothing is terribly appealing in terms of a home. Staff greets us, which doesn’t warm me. The sounds of our steps on the marble floors echo off the entirely-too-sterile walls.

  We’re shown to our respective rooms, at opposite ends of the hallway, before our escort tells us our host will join us in some room downstairs in thirty minutes. Who the hell lives like this? The next thing I know, I’m going to need to dress for dinner. My idea of staying with friends is crashing on their couch with my suitcase thrown in a corner behind a door. Some of my best memories are being in tiny houses with friends who didn’t have the space for me to stay or the money for food to feed an extra mouth, but we always made it work. We would cram around a tiny kitchen table, playing cards, smoking pot, and laughing at nothing.

  Ferry introduces me to Shawn, the owner of the home, a half an hour later. He, too, is exactly what I expected him to be. A staunch businessman with little personality and he’s as cold as his house. I silently thank God I won’t be spending much time here. Tuning in and out as he and Ferry chitchat, I look around, taking in my surroundings. I admire our host’s vast collection of books in the library we meet him in. The best thing I can say about him thus far is he has great taste in literature, but other than that, he’s a bore.

  Ferry excuses us to take the artwork to Le Musee. Shawn is cordial but seems put off by our presence. “Do you know Shawn well?” I ask once inside the car.

  “Quite. We’ve been friends for twenty years. He’s one of my closest friends. What did you think of him?”

  Trying to eloquently describe him without offending Ferry takes longer than it should. “He seems very reserved.”

  Roaring with laughter, he says, “Hardly. You’ll see a different side of him tonight at the party.”

  “What party? Is he involved with Le Musee somehow?”

  “No, not at all. He’s having a get together at his house tonight. You’ll get to have a personal look into the lifestyle you’ve been reading up on.”

  Staring at him in horror, he assuages my fear. “I’ve seen all the books around your house, Bastian, and I know you’ve been meeting with Zane. It’s not a big deal. I thought you would be excited to get to spend some time minus the mentor submerged in the life.”

  “Just unexpected.” I don’t know what else to say. My interest in BDSM is not so much the lifestyle as it is Sera, but obviously, that’s not information I feel comfortable sharing with Ferry. I also have no idea how he knows I’ve been meeting Zane, but don’t bother asking.

  “You’ll have a great time. The people on the guest list are fantastic, and I had him invite a couple of very special ladies to show you the ropes.” He winks at me like he did me a fucking favor.

  Ferry and I don’t pick up women together. That’s not how our friendship works. I don’t pick women up at all, and I have no interest in exploring anything with Ferry or anyone else. Seething inside, I bite my tongue. I can put in an appearance and beg out early since we have work to do tomorrow and a show in a couple days. This is a business trip for me; it’s not about pleasure.

  Le Musee is everything I thought it would be. Aaron Dubois is the picture of perfection and professionalism. His accent is icing on the cake. He’s just French enough to maintain the flair without people thinking it’s flair. Sophisticated in an eloquent manner. There’s nothing out of place: his coal-colored hair perfectly combed; he’s impeccably groomed and professionally tailored; and his pristine blue eyes shine bright behind his tortoise shell glasses. Oddly, standing next to him, introducing myself, I feel completely at ease in a white V-neck shirt, faded dark wash jeans with holes in the knees, and dark blue Chucks, sans socks. With tanned skin and leather bracelets that were Sylvie’s around my wrist, I look as though I stepped off a beach rather than the streets of Manhattan.

  His interest in me is surprising. I expected him to be polite, but the real draw between us is Ferry. I assume I was invited to tag along because Ferry and I are mentioned in tandem quite a bit recently, but Aaron shows little concern for my partner and consumes my time. I believe he knows all my work from early career to present because that’s his job, but when he’s able to start talking about work I did in high school, by name, I realize he’s more than just the curator’s son and heir to Le Musee. He’s an art savant and has taken interest in my work long before last week. This is not a man who has his job because his daddy owns the shop. Conversely, this is likely someone who’s daddy owns the shop because of his son’s gift.

  Aaron and I talk for quite some time as his staff unloads the trailer with Ferry supervising. He acts as if these people have never moved expensive art before. Hell, I trust them more than I trust myself. I wonder if this is how Ferry acts any time he’s out of town. I’m curious how people put up with his intolerable ass. I’ve been with him for roughly fifteen hours and I’m ready to pay the freight to stay in a hotel, fly home, and ship any artwork left at the end of the show to get away from him. I’ve never understood why anyone would be rude, causing themselves more issues, when it’s just as easy to be nice. The staff is obviously immune to his ego, surely having seen it routinely among big name artists.

  Aaron sees me eyeing Ferry. “Don’t worry, Bastian. They’re unaffected by his type of arrogance. They’re well trained and well paid. I assure you, none of this is phasing them.” He waves his hand in the air as if to erase any discomfort we all might be feeling.

  “It bothers me. I don’t want to be associated with that type of thing, and honestly, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him act so piously.”

  “Ahh, Mr. Thames, you’re very naïve regarding his reputation then.” The accent throws me off, he sounds so sincere but his charisma deceives me. Seeing the question on my face, he continues. “He’s well known for being, what do you Americans call them”—he pauses to think—“ahh, yes, a pompous ass. People tolerate it in order to get his skills. Sadly, it’s the way of the modern world.” Patting me on the shoulder like a child, he says, “Don’t let notoriety change you, Bastian. The world loves you as you are, Chuck Taylors and all.” My cheeks blush at the compliment.

  “Bastian, you ready to get out of here?” Ferry hollers across the gallery to get my attention. Sadly, no. I would much rather spend the evening chatting with Aaron Dubois about the city, the arts, culture, France—anything other than going back to that mansion for an evening of whips and pussy.

  Shaking Aaron’s hand, I thank the staff for their help. “See you guys tomorrow.”

  “Au Revoir.” He bows his head just slightly as he closes his eyes. Odd gesture, but whatever, he’s a nice guy.

  27

  The crowd at this homegrown shindig is insane. There’s no way Shawn knows all these people personally, and I have to wonder why anyone would invite this many strangers into their home for an intimate sort of gathering, especially on a Tuesday night, but the explanation is clear when we get downstairs.

  Shawn’s bottom floor is exclusively for his lifestyle of choice, and is large enough to have his own club of sorts if he so desires. From the looks of it, that’s precisely what he did tonight. He opened the bottom floor and those entrances to those who received a written invitation. According to Ferry, they’re all fully vetted and safe to play, and identities are secure in their knowledge.


  Nothing about this situation feels right. My senses are all heightened and the hair on my arms stands at attention. It may just be my anxiety for people in general, but I didn’t feel this way at The Warehouse and I’ve never felt this way at Stone Ground. The difference likely being, I knew at those locations no one expected me to play or even interact for that matter. Ferry makes it clear his expectations are different.

  An hour or so into the mix, it dawns on me what is so radically different about this situation than the others I’ve witnessed, although not partaken of. The alcohol is freely flowing here, and everyone seems to be lushly indulging. In an attempt to keep a low profile, I’m nursing a beer in a dimly lit corner, watching the people around me. The women are scantily clad, and some of the men are as well, but all seem to be having a grand time, no-holds-barred. As the night wears on, clothing begins to come off and the equipment goes into use. The crack of a whip startles me, turning to see Ferry yielding the powerful leather. I ponder how dynamic he is in this element. An entirely different person than I typically see, in essence a stranger.

  The woman on the receiving end of his blows is a beautiful redhead, with large expressive eyes, pale milky skin without a blemish on it except for the touch of his whip leaving a glowing, rose-colored mark. Each movement is precise, calculated. Even with my limited knowledge, I recognize he’s a Master who spent years honing his skill.

  My attention shifts from his arms and his instrument to her; the way her back arches with the contact, the smile on her face, the dazed look in her eyes the longer the scene continues. The way her body moves with each strike enamors me, her breasts sheer perfection, perfect pink nipples, her long form dancing to music no one else can hear. I capture her image in my mind minus the equipment, without Ferry, the leather, or the audience. She’s tall, her body supple but thin, every proportion seemingly perfect, her ass round but not overly, a full D cup that fits her exceptionally well.

  Unaware of my own movements, I wander toward them, to the cross she’s strapped to, enduring Ferry’s treatment, she obviously enjoys it. I wait, for how long, I can’t say, when he loses focus and turns to me, smiling. Tipping his head, he indicates for me to come closer. Grabbing a fresh bottle from a guy making rounds in a tuxedo, I shake my head, waiting to see how this plays out between them.