by Holly Hart
“But what” I say, my tone of voice hard and only somewhat questioning. “I don’t like the sound of that…”
Harlan chews his lip, as if wondering how much he should tell me. Then he gives me an almost imperceptible shrug. “But you’re going to need a safe word,” he says.
As I process Harlan’s comment, my heart rate spikes. It feels ragged and uneven, and I can tell my body has just dumped as much adrenaline as it can find, but there’s nothing to fight and nowhere to run.
“A … safe word?”
Harlan smiles sweetly. “Your choice,” as if this is a concession.
The storm builds in my stomach again. Between that and my jagged, pounding heart, I feel on the verge of panic.
Harlan squeezes my hand reassuringly.
“How long have I got to decide?” I ask, clenching my teeth and swallowing hard. This has all suddenly become very, very real. Up until now, I’d treated it as a game. Now I realize it’s anything but.
Harlan glances down at the watch peeking out of his tuxedo jacket’s left cuff. “Oh…” He drawls. “Not long. I’d say about three minutes?”
I dig my fingernails into Harlan’s palm to express my disapproval – and near-panic. “Three minutes!”
“It’s only one word, Skye,” he grins. “It shouldn’t take you that long…”
I squeeze my eyes shut, and breathe deeply, searching my mind, as I struggle to regain control of my chest. A few moments must pass like that, in silence, because before long the limousine begins to slow. I open my eyes and look out the window. The distinctive stone-fronted buildings of New York’s SoHo district slide into view.
“We’re here, Skye,” Harlan says softly. “Did you make your choice?”
I stay silent a second longer and bite my lip. Then a wicked thought enters my mind. “Oh,” I say, turning to my lover with a mischievous smile. “I’ve got an idea. How about dirty doctor?”
Harlan’s eyebrow darts upward and his eyes widen slightly. “Dirty doctor?” He says. “I guess that’s exactly what you are… I like it. You have my word – the moment that escapes your lips, I’ll get you out of there. Do we have a deal?”
I hold out my hand to seal it. “Deal,” I say, shaking Harlan’s hand firmly.
The limousine slows to a halt. Harlan makes as if to exit the vehicle, then pauses. He reaches over to a black enamel box I hadn’t noticed, opens it, and hands me an object I can’t make out until I’m holding it. I glance down to see a masquerade mask.
“You’ll need this,” Harlan says, setting my heart rate off again. I start to wonder whether he knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s like he’s got my emotions on a yo-yo, and just when I think I’m all spooled back up, he sets me off spinning once again. “Let me tie it.”
I don’t trust my voice, so I don’t say a word in reply. I just turn my neck away from Harlan and let him loop the black ribbon around my head. As his fingers work, I squeeze my eyes shut and take one last, long, lingering breath.
A second later it’s done, and Harlan’s donned his own mask. “It’s time,” he says, leaning over to me and grazing my cheek with his lips. “Just know, Skye – you’re the only woman in there who’s worth a damn.”
And with that, Harlan opens the limo door and steps out, leaving a thousand questions raging in my head. What does he mean, the only woman? And more importantly, what the hell is about to happen to me?
Harlan opens my door and I step out in a daze, clutching at his offered arm. I barely take in the architecture. Heck, there’s not much to see. The building we appear to be heading for is fronted with elegant white stone. It looks like a fancy hotel.
As we get closer to the doorway, I see a brass plaque marked with only two words: The Penthouse.
It’s not much of a clue.
I hold onto Harlan’s arm for strength. I haven’t got much of my own. I feel seasick, as though someone’s knocked my land legs out from underneath me.
A uniformed doorman appears from nowhere to let us in as we approach. He doesn’t say a word. We enter a wide lobby lit only by flickering candlelight.
Where am I? And what the hell is going on?
This is so far out of my wheelhouse that I don’t know how to respond. My heart rate is erratic, my breath uneven, and my palms sticky with sweat. I play my eyes around the room, trying to make out what I can in the dim light, but it doesn’t hold any more answers. It’s bare, apart from the marble dresser decorated with a vase stuffed full of fresh red roses.
Harlan ushers me into the waiting elevator. There’s only one button, marked P for Penthouse, I guess. He pushes it, and the doors ping shut. I finally regain my voice.
“What is this place, Harlan?” I whisper, clutching to one of his tree trunk arms. “What the hell’s going to happen to me tonight?”
I have my own ideas. I just need Harlan to confirm them for me, or at least give me the barest hint of a clue. It’s pretty clear that the Penthouse is some kind of – my cheeks burn even thinking about it – sex club.
Oh my God. What have I agreed to?
Harlan takes his time to reply. I wonder if he does it on purpose. The silence allows a rush of thoughts and fantasies to flood into my head. What if he plans to let other men use me? What if he plans to let more than one…?
I gulp. Could I handle it? Should I?
Or should I hit the elevator’s emergency button, and run as far and fast away from this place as I can? Maybe I need to admit that this is just above my pay grade. Admit I’m not cut out for this world Harlan’s pulling me into.
There’s no shame in that, is there?
“You’ll do fine, Skye,” Harlan finally growls. “I believe in you. Do you trust me?”
The elevator begins to slow, and my pulse spikes even higher. I close my eyes behind the mask and try and focus on what got me into this in the first place. Do I really need the orgasm that’s lack has haunted me for so long? Maybe I can just live without it – live without ever knowing what it feels like?
No.
“Yes,” I breathe as the elevator comes to a stop. “Yes, Harlan – I trust you.”
The elevator doors slide open.
A masked man awaits us. Like Harlan, he’s wearing a tuxedo – except his bowtie is white, not black. A warm smile opens up on his face.
“Ah,” he says in greeting, “our final guests. May I see your invitation?”
Invitation?
Harlan doesn’t break stride. He un-links his arm from mine, cutting me adrift, and removes an envelope from his breast pocket. He hands it over.
The man in the white tie opens it, glances at it briefly, and smiles for a second time. “Perfect. The auction commences in five minutes, so you’re just in time. Tonight,” he turns to me as my brain is still reeling from the word auction, “you, Madam, are Eleven. And –”
“– I guess that makes me Twelve?” Harlan growls, his voice low and sounding supremely confident.
We couldn’t be any more different. I feel like I’m spinning, like the floor beneath my feet has turned to dust. My chest and throat clench up with panic. What’s going on? How have I become simply a number, rather than a name? Somehow, I spit out a single word.
“ Auction!?”
“Precisely,” the host says from behind his white mask. “Now, as I’m sure you both know, the use of your given name is forbidden for the night. Our guests go by the numbers. It’s – safer – that way, for all of us.”
That’s news to me.
“Now, Eleven?” The host says, turning behind him to a waitress – also masked – carrying two glasses of bubbling champagne. He presses one into my startled fingers. “Will you go with my assistant here? She’ll take care of your every need.”
My eyes widen behind my mask as far as they’ll go. Harlan didn’t say anything about us being separated! Come to think about it, he didn’t really say anything at all…
The masked waitress smiles at me, and beckons me to follow her. My feet feel like
they’ve been weighed down with lead. I cast a look back at Harlan – Twelve, now, for whatever mysterious reason – with pleading eyes. I can’t seem to make my mouth work, nor force my tongue to speak.
Twelve smiles back at me. “I’ll see you soon,” his voice rumbles. Right now it sounds as if it could be an invitation as much as a threat.
But I straighten my back. Harlan – back when that was still his name – asked if I trusted him. The answer, for all tonight’s strangeness, is still yes. If this is the path I need to tread to get to the orgasm he promised me, then I’ll surely walk it.
As I leave them behind, I watch as the masked host presses something into Harlan’s hand. It looks like a key of some description. I can’t make out any more detail. Harlan places it inside his breast pocket.
I follow the masked assistant. As we turn a corner, she starts to talk. Her voice is low, husky, and completely self-assured. In short, she’s the exact opposite of me.
“Is this your first time?” she asks.
I swallow. “Is – is it that obvious?”
The masked woman laughs. “To me, maybe. But behind that mask you can be anyone you want to be. You’ll be fine. Now – have you been told what is going to happen tonight?”
I shake my head nervously. “No,” I croak.
“Perfect. That’s how it should be. We have some return guests, of course.” She lets out a peal of low laughter. “We find that once they’ve had a taste, they are hooked.”
I don’t know about that. If the cauldron of acid in my stomach is any guide, I’ve got a funny feeling – if I survive tonight – I won’t be coming back. Tonight would have to be spectacular to change my mind on that.
“The auction starts in about five minutes.”
“Auction?” I squeak. “Will somebody please explain what’s going on here?”
“Of course,” my host says and smiles. She acts like she’s been through this a hundred times before. I guess she probably has. “Every time we open our doors, we invite twelve guests. Six men, the even numbers, and six women, the odd. You’ll go up on stage one by one. The bidding does get… competitive.”
“Wait–” I choke.
Then I fall silent, as what’s about to happen to me hits home. I’m going to go up on stage like a piece of meat, and have men – hopefully, at least – competing over the right to use my body as they please.
Is this what Harlan planned for me all along?
My assistant lays her hand on the single door that lies at the end of the hallway. She starts to push, but I touch on her shoulder. She turns to me, and shoots me a questioning look. My heart is beating so fast I can barely get the words out.
“Wait–” I say again, with added urgency. “Har–, I mean, Twelve. Can he bid on me?”
I see my guide frown beneath her mask. “I… suppose,” she says haltingly. “But I don’t see why he would.”
She pushes the door open and pushes me through, leaving the second part of her sentence unspoken. After all, why would any man bid on a woman he was already with…
My guide leaves me in a room with five other women, but otherwise alone with my thoughts. Each one is clothed, like me, in an extravagant evening dress, and, like me, a mask.
As I enter the room, every mask turns in my direction. Half the women are seated in chairs around the edge of the room, the rest remain standing. There’s an edge to the room – an electric sense of tension.
Otherwise, the room remains absolutely silent.
I cast my eyes around the other participants – my colleagues in this strange, twisted game Harlan has thrown me into. The three women seated around the edges look like they’ve seen this all before. They are masked, of course, but have a – perhaps faked – sense of profound boredom about them. I wonder who they are.
Escorts, perhaps?
The remaining two aren’t nearly as relaxed. They are both pacing around the room, anxiously chewing their lips. They seem young: far younger than me, anyway. I try and guess their story. I wonder how they got here. They seem so innocent, almost virginal.
But I don’t have long to put it together…
A voice comes through the speakers in this strange, ethereal green room. “Ladies,” it says. “This is your three-minute warning.”
I think that’s going to be all that’s said. Three minutes to internally prepare myself for whatever happens next.
But of course, there is always more.
“It’s time to undress.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Harlan
I’ve heard rumors of this place for years. Dreamed of it, even. It’s strange to finally be here, and with Skye by my side.
The auction room itself is neatly organized. It’s carpeted in a rich, thick cream, and six maroon wingback armchairs are arranged in two rows of three. At the front of the room is a small wooden lectern. Five of the six armchairs are occupied by men dressed just like me, and the sixth is empty – waiting for its occupant.
Me.
The place is simple, but then, it doesn’t need to be anything more. The focus is to be the women who are about to come through that door. That’s why we’re here. That’s why I am here.
And I know one last thing. The competition is going to be fierce. It doesn’t matter what other women are revealed, I know that Skye is the night’s greatest prize.
I’ve brought Skye here for one reason and one reason only. My problem is control, and so is hers. This is how we solve it.
I need to limit my need for dominance. Restrict it to the bedroom, not let it consume the rest of my life. But Skye – Skye needs to accept that winning the prize she so desperately wants will take risking everything she holds dear.
A door opens, and the night’s masked host steps through. The auction room immediately fills with a buzz of excitement. Even I can’t resist it.
Tonight is going to be the first night of the rest of my life – a life with Skye by my side. By the time it’s finally over, she’ll be a different woman.
And what will I be?
I’ll be a completely different man.
I take my seat.
“Gentlemen,” the host says, clearing his throat, “so good of you to join us tonight. Your contributions – as always – are very much appreciated.”
Damn right.
I’ve paid my membership fees to this place for years, just waiting to find the perfect woman. Those are the rules. You can come as often as you want – but you can only ever invite the same woman.
What happens if she leaves you? Asks for a divorce, or decides she’s done lying on her back in exchange for cash?
You’re shit out of luck.
So I’ve waited, and waited – praying that the perfect woman would one day walk into my life. Now, at long last, Skye has come.
Of course, I think wryly, as I cast my eyes around the room, some of the men here aren’t quite so principled. They hire hookers – the best of the best, of course – escorts, they are called.
To me, though, they’ll always be hookers.
The host continues. “As always, it’s wonderful to see so many familiar…”
He pauses for effect.
“… Masks.”
There is a smattering of polite laughter, but the tension in the room doesn’t fade. We all know why we’re here.
“As you know, this illustrious club was founded on the principle that by bringing together the finest men in New York, we also bring together the finest women.”
It’s true. Only New York’s richest, most famous, and – most of all – powerful men are even invited to apply for membership. This place is an inner sanctum of success. It’s a place where men like me can give into their deepest, darkest desires in total, utter privacy.
It’s a place where we can sample and share the wives, girlfriends and hangers on of the best men in New York.
That means we sample the best women this planet has to offer.
Well, I say we. In fact, I’ve never been
here before.
You could even say that I’m a club… virgin.
The host claps his hands together. “Shall we begin?”
He walks to his lectern, pauses for a second, and then picks up a tiny silver hand bell. He rings it, and it tinkles sweetly. Somehow it seems like the strangest, most innocent, of sounds to kick off a night of such debauchery.
I relax back into my chair and wait for the games to begin. The side door opens, and a woman – clad only in thousand-dollar lingerie – steps through. I hold my breath, hoping against all hope that it’s Skye.
But it’s not. I’m forced to wait, and my desire builds.
The girl is nervous. That much is plain. She’s young – can’t be much over eighteen years old, and flat out gorgeous. But judging by the way she’s acting, hunching her shoulders, crossing her arms and chewing anxiously at the inside of her lip, she’s not used to this kind of attention.
I’d put money on her being a virgin. A real one, unlike me.
“This is One. She’s a new member.”
The host – now auctioneer – turns to One, and smiles indulgently. From beneath her mask, the young girl smiles weakly back at him.
“Will you give us a twirl, my dear? Show these men what they are bidding on…”
It’s hard to make out, but I think the girl briefly squeezes her eyes shut beneath her mask, a diamond studded, indulgent affair. I wonder which of these men brought her. I wonder what she was promised in order to come.
Money, perhaps?
Marriage?
People’s sexual motives have always fascinated me. Given the field she entered, I imagine that Skye is the same.
The young girl completes her twirl. Her underwear hides little, disappearing at the back into a thong. I won’t deny that I give her an appreciative glance. But there’s no joy in it, not like there would have been just a couple of weeks ago.
For all her – obvious – assets, this girl’s a pale imitation of Skye’s perfection.
“Marvelous,” the host claps. Strangely, One seems to straighten her back at the praise.