by Roxy Harte
Vow of Silence
Roxy Harte
Chronicles of Surrender, Book 6
Can a man escape Karma? George Kirkpatrick, former renowned psychiatrist, now Dominant Dr. Psycho, reels from the loss of his friend and boss, Garrett Lawrence, owner of Lewd Larry’s Fetish Fantasy Nightclub. Finding respite in the arms of a vanilla woman, George believes he and the nightclub might actually survive the tragedy…until a female from his past returns.
Lin Kuan, renowned metal sculptor, met George under false circumstances. She believed she was dating a psychiatrist, not a sadist. Too late she discovers she’s in love…and determines to change him.
Gigi Marconi seeks penance in pain. The vow she made as a child could destroy her before she has a chance to face the truth. Or the love of the man she once betrayed could be her salvation.
Inside Scoop: This book contains violent sexual interactions, consensual gang rape, bukake and electric play in a BDSM context.
An Exotika® contemporary erotica story from Ellora’s Cave
Vow of Silence
Roxy Harte
“Despair has its own calms.”
Bram Stoker, Dracula
“The quality of mercy is not strain’d, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blest, It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.”
William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice
Chapter One
George
The bathroom air seems cool against my damp flesh as I prepare for my day. Standing naked in front of the vanity, water cascading into the sink, I shave. At the same time I half pay attention to the news playing on the wall-mounted television and scan the appointment book lying open on the black marble countertop.
5:00 p.m. Sharon Olivia Von Buren
Initial call notes—Client is interested in exploring how pain affects her pleasure.
“Gee, not vague or anything.” I scrunch my face to shave my upper lip, pushing aside the slight irritation caused by Sharon Olivia Von Buren’s incomplete profile. Other than her name, I know nothing about her. I don’t doubt her name. It is company policy to log in client’s names as presented on their photo identification, usually a driver’s license but sometimes, for our international guests, their passports. If her credentials don’t match the name given when the appointment was booked or if the name and ID clash, she doesn’t pass the gatekeeper.
I need to have a talk with the new receptionist responsible for logging this appointment. Reading her notes, I am left with no idea what type of scene I am expected to prepare, when usually I am inundated with too many details. Of course too many instructions are equally frustrating. There is little chance of pleasing a client who has the perfect fantasy worked out in their head.
It is less the receptionist’s fault than my own.
Six months ago I inherited Lewd Larry’s, a fetish fantasy nightclub and BDSM play place. Its original owner, Garrett Lawrence, built the very successful business from nothing. I can’t believe he is gone. When a lawyer showed up and explained he’d died I didn’t believe it. It only got worse from there. Supposedly Celia and Thomas, his two lovers who were integral to the workings of the club, were also dead. I know Thomas’ beach house exploded, the news coverage was quite extensive, a gas main leak, but there were no bodies recovered. And although there was a brief community memorial service, my mind refuses to accept it.
Maybe I could if I didn’t know as much as I did about Thomas. He was a spy or a mercenary. My only certainty was that he was a very dangerous man. It seems a little too convenient to me that he, Garrett and the third of their ménage, Celia, have literally fallen off the face of the Earth. I would have an easier time believing they have become part of a witness protection program. Or maybe that is only my grief trying to console me.
Stranger still, Thomas’ twin didn’t attend the funeral. Inquiries led nowhere. It is as if the man never existed. I met Thomas’ twin. I spent a month bringing him back from death’s door—and now he too has vanished into thin air?
Every day, I think they might walk through the front doors…
The lawyer provided ample documentation concerning the execution of Garrett’s estate and, as requested, I stepped in to head operations at Lewd Larry’s, but I feel I’m not doing a very good job of it. Our managing styles are vastly different.
Once upon a time, years ago, in what now seems like a different life, I was a successful psychiatrist. As a result I see too deeply into people. I expect more from some and less from others based purely on what I see as their mental and emotional stability. I’m afraid I’ll never fill Garrett’s shoes. He was so beloved by everyone in the BDSM and LGBT communities. He was a leader, an activist, a teacher. He was the man I will never be.
Lately I dread going into the office, when once Lewd Larry’s was my refuge, my solace.
Beside me, my cellphone vibrates and I see on the caller ID that it is Lin Kuan, a woman I have dated randomly over the last year but haven’t seen in months. I consider not answering. She is too beautiful and I am too weak against her charms. Any meeting between us can only end badly, because Lin is one hundred percent vanilla.
I press the mute button on the remote, silencing the television, and turn off the water before answering. “Lin, what a wonderful surprise!”
She giggles, the sound light and refreshing, making me wonder why I stubbornly haven’t called her recently.
“You knew it was me, George Kirkpatrick?”
She is so formal. I’d forgotten this quirkiness that makes her so unique. “Caller ID, love,” I explain as I rub a towel over my face.
“Oh yes, of course. I should have realized that.”
I hear in her voice a bit of embarrassment and without being able to see her, know that she has ducked her head, her long black hair curtaining her face, hiding her as she lifts her fingers to her mouth to play with her bottom lip. It is a nervous habit I tried to break on our first few dates to no avail. Despite having been in our country off and on for nearly two decades, she is still very shy, very demure, and every bit her rural Chinese mother’s obedient daughter. Knowing how much courage it took for her to make this call, I endeavor to make it easier on her.
“Is this a good time, George? Or should I call back later?”
I love her submissive nature, and once I was naïve enough to believe submission was the single most important aspect of my lifestyle. It isn’t. I have learned there are very fine lines that we straddle in safe, sane, consensual relationships, and although her acquiescent temperament appears perfect, it is a fragile thing, and when forced into a corner, she can be both stubborn and ferocious. Hence, we have yet to take our relationship to the next level. She refuses even to acknowledge my kinky life.
Ah, I remember now why I haven’t called. When we first met, I was introduced as Dr. George Kirkpatrick, and although I am a licensed physician of psychiatry, I am not currently practicing. Eventually we discussed that fact, and she couldn’t accept that I am a professional Dominant at a fetish fantasy nightclub. When she issued an ultimatum that I return to a more respectable psychiatry practice and give up my current nefarious occupation if I wished to continue a relationship with her—I ran. Cowardly, perhaps, but at the time I didn’t need that type of drama in my life.
I still think about her and wish things could have been different. On our last date, she admitted to being curious about what I did for a living and how my being a sadist would affect more intimate relations between us. Curiosity is a wonderful place to start—but I left future contact up to her—and she’s calling only now.
“Now is fine. It’s lovely hearing your voice, Lin. I’m glad you called.” That isn’t a complete lie. “How have you been?”
&
nbsp; “Oh I am fine, George. And you? Have you been well?”
“I am…well.” I sigh, wishing she would not always be so formal, so restrained. It is hard to believe we have been lovers.
The image floats into my mind of her kneeling over me, her nakedness delicate, her touch expert. The last time we were together, she massaged me with warmed sesame seed oil. We didn’t have sex, at least not intercourse in the traditional sense, but we were both nude and she performed a hand job that was as surprising as it was sublime. I was too much of a gentleman to push for more…and she is so shy.
Glancing into the mirror, I watch the reflected image of my penis rising, obviously also remembering the sweetness of her fingers. I touch myself, pushing my erection down, promising soon, hopefully very soon, I will be treated to the gift of Lin’s touch again.
“I would actually like to ask you something, George. I apologize for being so bold, however, I would like to ask you to accompany me somewhere.”
She pauses and it takes a moment for me to realize that she is awaiting some form of positive affirmation before she reveals details. “Yes, Lin? Please go on.”
“It’s a formal dinner at the Asian Museum of Art. I will be honored for winning an international contest when they reveal the metal series I created. The sculptures will be shipped to Hong Kong, London, Melbourne and Zurich but one will remain here in San Francisco on permanent display.”
She pauses again and I still do not know when the event is, leaving me hoping that it isn’t tonight because I am working tonight. “Congratulations, Lin, that is wonderful. When is the dinner?”
“Oh yes, it is Thursday the twenty-fourth of this month, at 7 p.m.”
I laugh, smiling at my reflection, thinking that only Lin would give a prospective date three weeks’ warning. Glancing at the television, I read the time on the screen. Running late, I hurry to my walk-in closet.
“I’d be honored to escort you, Lin,” I sort through shirts quickly, “but do I have to wait three weeks to see you? Or could I interest you in accompanying me to dinner tomorrow evening?”
* * * * *
I am humming as I step outside my climate-controlled home, happy because I get to see Lin tomorrow. Of course I will have to shuffle around the schedule a bit and will inconvenience several employees I will require to work overtime, but seeing her was so tempting.
The brilliant autumn day is unseasonably hot. The wind hitting my face feels like a hairdryer turned to its highest setting—a slap of reality. My need for punctuality makes me trot quickly toward the car. I hope the silk shirt I’m wearing doesn’t soak completely through with perspiration, and I consider racing back inside for another shirt.
Fortunately, traffic is kind and I make it across town in record time.
The building isn’t super chilled but the difference in heat is appreciable as I pass through the wide double doors.
The receptionist’s greeting is one of relief. “Thank God. I was worried.”
I grimace, realizing I should have called. Ever since we received word about Garrett, Thomas and Celia, we’ve all been on edge and making her worry was unnecessary.
“Sorry. I should have called.” I rush by, not slowing to chat but asking, “Is our guest here?”
“Yes, she was early.”
I keep walking, looking down at my wristwatch. “How early?”
She raises her voice a little as the distance grows between us. “A half hour.”
I let out a frustrated breath, closing my eyes after seeing I am fifteen minutes late. I quicken my pace through the large, empty space which in a few short hours will be filled with laughing, dancing clients. Lewd Larry’s is the party place for the young and wealthy, especially the young and famous. The nightclub has something for everyone, even for those not into fetish, at least this lower level.
I push the up button on the elevator. I make a face, hating that my client has been waiting so long. Across the room the receptionist laughs and yells, “I assured her that you are worth the wait.”
The elevator doors open and I rush in, not that my speed matters now. The all-glass elevator ascends or descends at only one speed—slow. The soothing classical music filling the small space creates the illusion the lift is moving even slower than it is, if that is possible. When the car stops on the second floor, not the fourth, I am terse and agitated. Worse, I am greeted at the opening doors by Joel Winston, my security leader. My day just gets better and better.
We’ve both been here since the beginning, since before Lewd Larry’s Fetish Fantasy Nightclub was world renowned. We were both here during the planning stages when the four-story abandoned warehouse near the Artist District was considered a condemnable nuisance. Now there are four levels—the first floor, public; the second, The Dungeon, a co-mingling level; the third, The Oasis, a fetish area for members only; and the fourth, The Attic, a group of distinctive private rooms where those who are willing to pay for it are able to live out their wildest fantasies. And now Joel and I are partners in an uneasy alliance to keep Lewd Larry’s afloat.
Joel Winston doesn’t have a kinky bone in his body. That’s why Garrett hired him, and I guess that’s why I keep him.
“Anything new to report?” I ask as he joins me inside.
“No Sir.”
The ascent is filled with an uncomfortable silence. I’m not used to my new role, and I fear I may never grow into it. The elevator stops again—at the third floor—and Dave Forrest steps in. He is our legal liaison and until I have time to find a business manager he is filling that role as well, although he’s stressed repeatedly that he isn’t comfortable in the position. I really need to start interviews soon.
“Have you given any thought to when you will begin making the requested changes?” Dave asks.
The requested changes. His question makes me sigh heavily because I’ve been avoiding the issue. Part of the transfer of ownership of Lewd Larry’s included instructions that the name be changed—more specifically, that the very essence of Lewd’s be changed to reflect my personality instead of Garrett’s. As it is, Lewd’s expresses a fun, cabaret feel, more big music and Humphrey Bogart than modern. At a meeting between Joel, Dave, myself and two of our lead Dominants, Morgana and Farris, Morgana expressed a desire that the place take on a dark, gothic edge to pull in a younger, hipper crowd.
I’m not young or hip. Maybe Garrett should have left the place to her. She was like a daughter to him…and understandably she is feeling hurt. Angry.
“Not a single thought. Maybe we should just run with Morgana’s suggestion.”
“I wouldn’t.” Joel offers his opinion—even though it isn’t his place to do so.
“How is Morgana today?” Dave asks.
“She didn’t come home again last night,” Joel answers.
She didn’t come home? For Morgana “home” is a room in The Attic, and it’s disturbing that she didn’t sleep here. His use of the word “again” makes me worry even more. Not that I’m her keeper, and she is a grown woman who can come and go as she pleases, but it seems so out of character for her to stay out all night. I close my eyes and rub them before opening them. “Is she on today’s schedule?”
Joel shakes his head and I know that he is as worried about Morgana as I am. Though admittedly, I am worried about her mind and he is only concerned with the security risk she poses, but honestly, if she was going to burn the place to the ground in a psychotic rage, she would have already done so.
“Consider The Asylum or Bedlam,” Dave suggests, and I know he is referring to renaming the club. “The only way this place is going to survive is if you make it yours completely. As it is the crowd arrives expecting stage shows and show tunes.”
My jaw grinds tight, knowing he speaks the truth and I can’t deliver. I have to do something soon or Lewd Larry’s is going to collapse under a weight of despair and neglect. I’m just not ready to consider any suggestions. “And what would renaming the club do to Morgana’s state of mind?”
I don’t realize I spoke out loud until Joel answers, “I suspect you will find in the upcoming days that she has been seeking employment elsewhere. She won’t be your concern much longer.”
I’m stunned. Morgana leaving? I won’t believe that.
Returning to the original subject I tell Dave, “Perhaps Bedlam.”
“I’ll tell Jasper and see what he can work up for you. Should I have him schedule a meeting directly with you to review what he comes up with?”
The dig is there in his voice. I have put my legal guy in the position of errand boy because I’m not being a mature adult and contacting our advertizing guy myself. “Tell Jasper he has two days to come up with something to wow me. Tell him I’m giving him carte blanche. I need to see his ideas for a complete redesign.”
* * * * *
By the time my hand finally descends on the knob of the conference room door, I am wired tight and force myself to inhale and exhale a deep cleansing breath before entering.
She sits alone, waiting in the room purposefully decorated with Zen simplicity in calming shades of pastel aqua and soft mocha brown. The lighting is dimmed and New Age music plays softly to help our clients remain calm and at ease as they reveal their darkest fantasies.
I force a smile as I enter. “Hello! I know you’ve been waiting a horribly long time, and I apologize for my tardiness.”
I am not terribly surprised my newest client is in her mid-forties. She is thin, excruciatingly so. Her frosted blond-brown hair is cut at sharp angles just below her chin, giving her narrow face a pinched, nervous look.
She stands, forcing a mask of confidence. As she extends her hand, her smile shakes a bit. “I’m Sharon.”
“Doctor Psycho.”
She laughs nervously. “Is that what I should call you then? I mean now? And during the session?”
“Yes, that will be fine, though you may call me Sir if you prefer.”