by Joey W. Hill
“Do you think I need lines to pick up women?”
“I’m not attracted to you.” Yeah, like any woman with a pulse could say that with a straight face.
“Then it will be all the easier for you to stay objective. I find you very attractive. Even more so if you’d get rid of the ugly, rectangular I’m-too-smart-to-be-pretty glasses. May I?”
She had 20-20 vision, but she’d gotten them…exactly for the reason he’d said. It was kind of dumb to be wearing them over the mask, but she was so used to having them as part of her arsenal, she’d almost felt naked without them. She should tell him to get the hell away from her. Instead, she sat still as he slid the glasses from her face and brushed a tendril of her short hair back over her ear. “Beautiful hazel eyes,” he murmured. “Thick lashes that are all yours. Christ, no wonder you hide them. A man couldn’t look at them and not want you. So what do you say, Celeste? Going to be brave, or cautious?”
She knew she was average pretty when she took the time to show it. She also had a decent figure. Compliments didn’t usually affect her. They were far more likely to put her on the defensive. But Ben wasn’t insulting her with flirtation. He seemed like he was evaluating her. The flirtation would be preferable, because she knew how to handle that. But hell, this was how they did it, right? Turning an independent woman’s mind to mush with this singular, concentrated appraisal. She wanted to detect artifice, practiced charm, but of course if they were this good at it, she wouldn’t find it. Just because it felt sincere, didn’t mean it was.
When she drew back, stiffening, he nodded. “You come off as a total bitch caught in a steel-leghold trap of bitter. But you’re good at what you do. Determined. You act like you want dirt, but I think what you truly want are answers. Forget the whole news angle for a minute. Would you really like to get to the bottom of it, Celeste?”
He left that hanging, a blank for her to fill in. Get to the bottom of what the D/s scene was all about? Or why she was so fixated on them? Or why she was sitting here instead of telling him to fuck off, paying her own tab and leaving?
She could have that tape. She could get what she wanted, if she kept her focus on exactly what that was. Her jaw tightened. “Where’s that agreement?” she asked.
Ben shook his head. “We’ll sign it, but you’ll do something else first.” A calm authority entered his tone. “Do you have a good friend, someone you trust? Don’t tell me who it is,” he said, before she could speak Valerie’s name.
Ben signaled the bartender. “Jerome’s going to let you use the bar phone. I want you to call her and tell her whatever you’re comfortable telling her, but you tell her where you are and who you’re with. Additional insurance.”
She wanted to bristle at the white knight routine, but how could she bristle at what made good sense? It just pissed her off that he’d thought of it before she had.
“Fine,” she said, ungraciously. “If my body turns up somewhere tomorrow, I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing you go down for it.”
Ben gave her that dangerous grin again. It made her feel like she was facing a great white shark, swimming slowly around her, knowing he could devour her at his leisure. But for some reason, the idea of being eaten wasn't as horrible as it should be. Disturbingly enough, she was a little impatient for him to get on with it.
This was a big mistake. No. It was going to be his mistake. She would go through with it, with all the safety precautions, and he’d be the vulnerable one. She’d have the tape when all was said and done. Right?
Part Two
Agreement signed, clothes and jewelry removed and locked up in the Surreal changing room. She’d donned the silk black robe with the Surreal monogram. It went down to her knees, keeping her tastefully covered, though the silk clung to her body and made her feel more sensuous than she should have for what was essentially a work assignment.
She’d kept on her panties and bra. She wasn’t planning on getting totally naked, and only Valerie could identify her by her underwear. She hadn’t had a date get that close in quite a while. Not since she'd been a little tipsy on a past birthday and let a one-time friend-with-benefits spend the night. He was off with the Peace Corps, thankfully. By the time he returned, the memory should be less painfully embarrassing, more of a laugh-it-off recollection. Here again, gone tomorrow, no muss, no fuss.
Before stepping into the private room Ben had arranged, she noted the security guard at the head of the hallway. Video cameras in each room were monitored exclusively by DMs—dungeon masters—throughout. She’d done her research, so she knew he’d also have to ask her about boundaries, limits. Right? All the correct trappings in place. So this was safe.
No, of course it wasn’t.
Okay, at least on the surface, he’d done everything to assure her she was going to be safe. She hadn’t expected his insistence on her calling Valerie. When she reached the apartment answering machine, he told her to call Val’s cell. He’d been pretty clear that, if she didn’t make actual contact with her roommate, they wouldn’t be going through with their deal tonight. But Valerie had answered her cell. Celeste wasn’t sure if she was thankful for that or not.
During her very short conversation with her roommate, Ben had stepped away, giving her enough privacy to vet Val’s mixed reactions of concern, WTF, and titillated amusement. “I want video,” Val had threatened. Since her roommate didn’t know the details of the devil’s bargain Celeste had made, Celeste imagined showing up with the tape and her roommate’s eyes popping out. The thought made her smile, something she was surprised to find she needed. Her nerves were like tight springs punching through worn upholstery.
She didn’t have to do this. But it was like a dare. If you didn’t take the dare, you had to face a truth instead, usually a pretty uncomfortable one.
All in all, it was a little…unsettling, how determined he’d been about ensuring her safety. He was practically a stranger, about to engage in a very sexual, yet still impersonal situation with her, but he’d been as a protective as… She was so not going there.
Third private playroom on the left, he’d said. She moved up the hallway, glad she was alone. Hearing voices and heels approaching from the public level, she quickened her step, not wanting to see anyone. Taking a deep breath, she turned the latch and stepped inside.
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Him wearing leather studded chaps and nothing else, schlong hanging out, a sinister-looking whip in his hand? The picture almost made her giggle, a little hysterically. Probably because the way he actually looked made her way more nervous, which was ludicrous, since he looked exactly like he had at the bar.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Clothing-wise, he did. Still in his custom-tailored suit, though he’d removed the jacket, hung it up, rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie. However, something had changed about him. The attitude, the focus, something… Or maybe she was just imagining things, and it was merely the change of environment, the two of them alone in this small room increasing the intimacy, intensity…danger. Nowhere to run or hide.
Yes, that could be contributing to it, but she wasn’t mistaken. Her increased nervousness had to do with an indefinable something emanating from him. In here, he seemed even more formidable, despite him slouching with deceptive casualness against the wall. Arms crossed, toe of his dress shoe hooked around the opposite ankle. Because of the position of his arms, his shirt pulled across his broad shoulders, the slacks following the long lines of thigh. The candlelight praised his jaw in a powerful, controlled line. When his green eyes lifted to hers, they were calm, cool. Direct. And remote, in a way that made butterflies jump in her lower belly.
As she paused in the open doorway, taking in her surroundings, she suspected she looked like Bambi, hesitating on the edge of the meadow, making sure it was safe. No cruel torture devices on the walls, no chains hanging from the ceiling. There was a large walnut cabinet, a curtained area beside it. Beyond those nefarious possibilities, the room was li
ke a turn-of-the-century parlor. Oriental carpet on a polished wooden floor, a scattering of small pieces of art on the walls. Candle sconces gave the room a dim ambiance. Along the wall beside Ben were several wooden straight-backed chairs. No bed.
She stepped into the room in her robe and her heels, which she’d chosen to wear instead of the club disposable slippers. He seemed to like the look, gaze coursing over her bare legs. Since she had a weird desire to simply stand there until he told her to do something, she decided it was way past time to take control of the situation. Spreading her arms, she executed a mocking twirl. “So, what do we do first? Give me a good spanking? Make me call you Daddy?”
When he said nothing, she crossed her arms over herself, tried a hip cock and a look of indifferent amusement. “What are you doing?”
“At the moment, just looking at you. What do you want from this, Celeste? I know you want the tape, but what’s your true motive? Don’t answer me.”
She frowned. “You’re asking me a question, but you don’t want an answer?”
“Women don’t think about what they want. They feel it. I want you to stop thinking and feel. You don’t have to talk at all. If you keep talking for the wrong reasons, I’ll gag you, so you can focus on what’s happening in your head instead of fencing words with me.”
“I don’t want you to do that.” The very thought panicked her. Her sharp tongue was her best weapon.
“Then stop talking. Feel it. What do you want?”
Answers. Relief from this anger. This frustration. She was surprised when those thoughts leapt to the forefront of her mind. He didn’t say anything, though his gaze flickered as if he knew her response. Even more strange and unsettling.
“When I look at you, I see two people. The reporter and the woman. The reporter is sharp, intelligent, overqualified for the work she’s doing. From what I know of you, that won’t always be the case. You’ll get what you want, because you don’t blame anyone for failure except yourself, and failure isn’t acceptable.”
“Do I strike you as the kind of woman who needs her ego stroked?” She arched a brow.
“You don’t have an ego, Celeste. There’s no room for it with that big to-do list in your head. The reporter part is obvious.”
Apparently not so much, because he was the only man who’d ever voiced it.
“Who and what we are, that’s what intrigues the woman and the reporter,” he said. “You want to know more. You want to experience what we do to women, but you’re worried it will be just as debasing as you claim it is. Another part of you is terrified it isn’t, that it will unlock something inside of you that you don’t necessarily want unlocked.”
He uncrossed his arms, showing he was holding something in the hand that had been tucked under the distracting biceps. It took a moment to make sense of the shapes, but she’d seen enough items like them at Surreal to know he was holding a satin eye mask and a ball gag. He also held his folded white handkerchief. Did he iron and wash those himself, the way she had to painstakingly clean her silks and wools, since she couldn’t afford to have them professionally dry-cleaned? Not likely. The man drove a half a million dollar sports car, after all.
Her attempt to distance herself from him with the reminder of his wealth, his sense of entitlement, fell short as he continued.
“You’ve seen Masters and Mistresses use these. You assume they’re to take away free will. A woman’s ability to run her mouth.” When amusement wreathed his expression, she tightened her lips, refusing to rise to that bait. “As far as the free will, you aren’t completely wrong, but these objects deal with the illusion of free will, not the reality of it. We use our eyes and our mouths as defense mechanisms, things that keep us from noticing what’s important, from listening to and feeling not only external sensory input, but internal input as well. There’s a reason monks take vows of silence. There are powerful things in silence. In darkness.”
She wasn’t entirely sure how to grasp a corner of his logic and unravel it. She just wanted him to get on with it. As soon as he spanked her, she could end the session, take her tape and go. He hadn’t set any stipulations on it, any time limits. She was in control here. That quivering low in her stomach wasn’t fear. But he was holding a ball gag. A blindfold. And now he wasn’t saying anything, just watching her.
She got the whole silence/darkness Zen thing, but if he didn’t start talking again, she was going to bolt. Which meant she was relying on him for control, stability. Fuck, no way was that happening.
As she opened her mouth to retort, to get this thing rolling her way, he shifted. She jumped before she could stop herself. Giving her a considering look, he closed his hand around the top of one of the chairs, bringing it to the center of the room. “Come sit here.”
A reasonable enough request. Though his tone didn’t suggest a request at all, which should have raised her hackles and inspired her to say something sarcastic. But she’d said she wanted to experience this. She was a journalist. She should at least try to get into the mindset of a…submissive. Meek, compliant.
Not. She was holding her jaw so rigidly it was starting to hurt. Ben’s gaze moved over it. “Do you want me to come over there and get you?” he asked softly.
Why an obvious threat should make her stomach do a triple somersault and send an aching twinge between her legs, she didn’t know, but it startled her enough to get her moving.
She walked stiffly over to the chair, slowing as she drew close enough to be within touching distance. When she swallowed, she saw he was cataloging every reaction.
“It’s all right,” he said quietly. “Nothing will happen here that you don’t want.”
“I don’t want to be here. You could just give me a tape of you beating up some other girl, and we could call it a night.”
Something flickered through the green eyes, his mouth tightening. “I can assure you, I don’t beat up women. Not the way you mean. And that tape is the excuse for you being here, not the reason. If you think I’m wrong, the door’s behind you.”
Okay, so he’d turned on the charm at the bar, but it was definitely in the off position in this room. He stood in front of her, unrelenting, mouth stern, eyes serious, not a trace of persuasion. She almost felt like she needed to apologize. It had been kind of a crappy remark, after all.
What the hell? He did smack women around. No, she hadn’t seen it, but he played private, and she was sure that was what went on. What he was doing to her now was no different from indoctrination into a cult. Emotional abuse, even. A clever manipulation to make a woman feel subservient and apologetic for having an opinion.
“Sit down.” He nodded to the chair.
She tightened her chin. She’d do it because she’d see it through. A research project. If she could keep the academic analysis going in her mind, she’d stay in charge. Detached.
Yet she couldn’t quite seem to make her legs bend. Not until he closed his hand on her shoulder, a startling heat, and applied simple pressure. She was sitting, without remembering when her knees had decided to give. He guided her hands so they were curled over the sides of the seat, by her thighs. Laying his palm on her abdomen, just beneath her breasts, he made her stiffen, straighten.
“There you go. Back against the chair. Shoes flat on the floor, hands holding the chair sides. Just like that. Hold that position.”
Picking up another chair, he brought it over and took a seat facing her, putting a few feet between them. As he laid his ankle on his opposite knee, he stretched out the bottom leg so his dress shoe rested alongside her neatly aligned feet. Hooking his arm around the chair back, he regarded her in silence. “Focus on the picture directly over my left shoulder.”
She’d noticed there were pictures, but not the details of them. She’d assumed they’d be some erotic acrobatics to stir the libidos of the room participants. Though she prided herself on her observation skills, her survival instincts had kept her focused on the more mysterious and sinister aspects of the room
. Like him. Now she was surprised to find the picture over his shoulder was a close-up of a single white rose, hit by a touch of morning sun.
“Keep your eyes on it.”
“What will you be doing?”
“Looking at you.”
Her gaze flicked to him. He made a noise, a single syllable, unintelligible, but her gaze shifted back to the picture. Had she just responded to a command? No, he hadn’t said anything. But he’d made it clear with body language what he wanted her to do. And she was doing it. Because she’d agreed to it, made a choice. Not because she was obeying Ben O’Callahan.
The rose looked the way it did right after the sun dried the dew off it. Something about seeing flowers in the morning always made her feel better. She and Valerie shared the expenses of a New Orleans Garden District two-bedroom apartment, with a little narrow outside balcony, on which she kept a small garden of potted roses. Her favorite thing was sliding out there early in the morning with her coffee to watch the sun come up and kiss them good morning with its beams of light. She would sit and inhale the flowers’ fragrance, stroke the petals. In that moment, she wasn’t a reporter, Valerie’s roommate, her mother’s daughter or anything else. She was just flowers and sunshine.
She’d closed her eyes. There was a warmth, a heat here. Not the room itself, though the temperature was comfortable. It was coming from his regard, her reaction to it. Oddly, in this stillness, it was like her reaction to the morning sun on her flowers. Noise from the public floor of the club was muted. She could hear his breath, a quiet sound. He didn’t move, but she remembered how close his foot was. She thought about when they were at the bar, when he’d been even closer, so close she was almost inside the span of his thighs.
“What are you looking at?” she asked. She chose not to open her eyes. It felt right not to do so.
“Your face. The small movements of your lips. They tighten as you get nervous and think too much. Then they relax, get softer as you give yourself to sensory input. You have a very responsive mouth. Most of the time, the corners are turned down, even when you smile. There’s a current of unhappiness, discontent, inside of you. Restlessness. Your skin creases on your forehead and around your eyes as you think, wonder, worry. Imagine.”