His by Contract

by Ava Sinclair

  There’s the sound of a utensil clinking against crystal, and a dapper-looking man with gunmetal gray hair moves to the front of the room and welcomes everyone to a fundraiser for the Exeter Foundation. He gives a talk on the evening’s pet cause, the museum, and unveils an architect’s rendering of an almost futuristic-looking building that appears to have a waterfall coming out the side. Overhead, a panel in the wall opens to reveal a screen, and a PowerPoint presentation begins with more renderings of the interior. It’s an impressive project, he says, and I glean through his exhaustive talk that this art museum is intended to supplant the current community museum currently in control of the common arts community. “This,” he says, “will be an arts retreat for the true aficionado, the true connoisseur who knows and can afford real art.”

  I decide I don’t like this man, and refuse to join in the applause. Mr. M. looks a bit uncomfortable as he glances down at me, and his clapping seems tepid at best. I wonder if he realizes how this all looks to the woman standing beside him, a woman who is a member of the common arts community.

  He notices my empty champagne flute.

  “More?” he asks. He looks around for the strolling waiter, and not seeing him, takes my empty flute. “Wait right here.”

  He turns away and I move a few feet to the wall to look up at a huge oil painting featuring the founder of the club hosting the fundraiser.

  “He looks intimidating, doesn’t he?” A voice catches my attention and I look over to see a willowy brunette standing at my side. She’s wearing a sleek dress that’s as black as her hair. Her face is beautiful, but angular and severe. She reminds me of a cross between Maleficent and Morticia. She points up at the picture. “He was my great-grandfather, Haywood Brenner, Jr.” She smiles and holds out her hand. “I’m Mimsy Brenner.”

  I take her hand. “Sloane Millbank,” I say by way of introduction, thinking how her name doesn’t fit her face. Mimsy. It’s one of the nicknames the super-rich give their little girls.

  “You’re the… lawyer?” She arches a perfectly plucked brow.

  “Yes,” I reply. “I’m a junior partner with…”

  “That’s a departure for our Liam,” she interrupts as if the rest of my sentence hardly matters, and it’s jarring, hearing Mr. M. called by his first name. I’ve only heard him called Mr. McCall, although to me he’s just Mr. M.

  I turned to face Mimsy Brenner. I’ve never been a jealous woman, but something about the way she referred to Mr. M. as ‘our Liam’ bothers me. As a lawyer, I’m an expert at reading subtexts, and this one carries the implication of ‘us’ and ‘them,’ with ‘them’ being the unfortunates who must work for a living. I’m clearly one of ‘them.’ And I can also tell that Mimsy Brenner doesn’t distinguish the work of an accomplished lawyer from someone who works a low-paying job. In her world, work is work, whether it’s paving roads or practicing law.

  “So it’s a departure for him to have lawyers for friends?” I ask the question innocently enough, but wonder if she’s smart enough to appreciate the sarcasm in my question.

  She laughs and clutches my forearm, which I do not like. “Oh, heavens no, dear!” she objects. “Liam knows loads of professionals. It’s just that…” She lets go of my arm and giggles, as if privy to an inside joke. “Silly me,” she continues. “It must be the champagne. It’s none of my business, his novelties, I mean. He changes them out before I can even learn their names. I’ll try to remember yours, though, because that is a lovely dress.”

  “Mimsy.” Mr. M. is back at my side, offering me a fresh flute of champagne. “Are you bothering my companion?”

  “Companion?” She giggles flirtatiously. “Since when do you have companions, Liam?” Mimsy angles her body until she’s facing Mr. M. I might as well have been a potted plant for the way she ignores me now. “Are you going to Kurt’s annual weekend retreat in the Hamptons?” she asks. “Word is he’s inviting some fresh blood, so the place will be stocked with those particular delicacies you enjoy.”

  “I may be busy.” His answer is barely audible.

  “Oh, please,” she scoffs. “A weekend out of the city would be good for you. We both know how bored you get with the same old thing. Variety is the spice of life…”

  I don’t want to hear any more, hating the feeling that’s coming over me. It’s the feel of the protective shell I’ve built around my heart starting to crack. It’s the feeling of vulnerability. I turn away, moving quietly through the crowd and out the double doors to a small balcony. I drain my flute of champagne in a few quick gulps and set the flute down with a clink onto the stone railing. I look out at the twinkling city lights and wonder if I’m just a novelty. But so what if I am? It’s not like I signed up for anything more, so why should I even care?

  The champagne has gone to my head. The distant lights take on fuzzy edges. Everything seems surreal.

  “Here you are.”

  I don’t look immediately look back at the sound of Mr. M.’s voice, afraid that my expression might give away that I’m feeling something. I quickly arrange my poker face before turning to face him.

  “It was getting crowded in there,” I say.

  “That was Mimsy Brenner,” he says after a moment.

  “Yes, I know. She introduced herself to me.” I bite back the temptation to tell him what she said, and how it made me feel. But I can tell his expression is wary. Is it because he cares, or because he’s afraid her cattiness has jeopardized his latest delicacy before he can grow tired of it?

  “Would you like to get out of here?” he asks.

  “Why?” I ask, suspicious now. Is he ashamed of me, or afraid of what else may be revealed by one of his friends? “I thought this was a date.”

  “It is,” he says. “But I think I can do better than this.”

  I pick up the empty flute. “Better than six hundred dollars a bottle champagne?” I pause. “You’re not contractually required to entertain me, Mr. M. You could have come here on your own.”

  He steps so close to me that I can smell his aftershave, the scent a mixture of bergamot, leather, and musk. “I know,” he says. “This is supposed to be my crowd. It’s supposed to be where I belong.” He pauses. “But lately I don’t feel like I belong anywhere that doesn’t include you.”

  He sounds almost sad, and I don’t immediately reply. What’s he saying? That he needs me? I juxtapose this version of Mr. M. with the playboy Mimsy Brenner so artfully alluded to. Careful, I tell myself. Wanting to believe something doesn’t make it so.

  “Some of these people…” he begins, as if feeling the need to explain, and now I do speak.

  “Capricorn,” I say.

  “What?” Then his puzzled look is replaced by one of awareness. It’s our safeword. Of course, it’s supposed to apply to sex, but I’m bending the rules.

  He takes the empty flute and puts it back on the railing before offering me his arm. I put my hand in the crook of his elbow. There’s an auction starting, and everyone’s attention is riveted toward the front of the room where the first item, a seventeenth century vase, is being presented in a lighted glass case. I catch sight of Mimsy flirting with the waiter as we leave.

  “It’s kind of ironic that you used the safeword for this, of all the experiences I’ve introduced you to.”

  I bristle at this. “I’m not some country lawyer who’s never been to the city,” I remind him. “Socializing is hardly a new experience.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” he says. “I was just…”

  “What?” I ask. “Showing me how the other half lives? Testing the waters to see if I were someone whose name they’d remember?”

  He’s sitting across from me and leans back now, growing silent as he looks out the window.

  “That’s a fair criticism even if you’re wrong about why I brought you tonight.” He sits forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “I botched it. It’s your turn.”

  “My turn?”

  “Yes. I thought this migh
t be an interesting experience, but it turns out that a room full of entitled people with nothing better to do than throw money around is as boring to you as it is to me. So you pick the experience.”

  I smile in spite of myself. “Now?”

  “The night is still young,” he says. “What do you want to do?”

  I shake my head, demurring. I can’t think of anything.

  “I promised you a new experience.” He rubs his jaw, thinking, and then smiles. “Have you ever gotten a tattoo?”

  I’m not expecting this. I laugh. “Yeah. I’m sure Mr. Warner would love it if I came to work inked.”

  “I’m thinking of having one put where only I can see it.”

  “A tattoo is permanent,” I remind him.

  “I know,” he says. “I have one.”

  “Right. The lock,” I say, reminding myself how he’s never even bothered to explain it.

  I ponder the implications of getting a tattoo, especially tonight, of getting something etched on my body that may well outlast our relationship.

  “I want to mark you as mine, Sloane.” His words are unexpected, and there’s an earnestness to them that makes my tummy flutter. He leans forward and knocks on the window between us and the driver. He tells him to head to the downtown bar district, which features rows of night spots and tattoo parlors. It takes about ten minutes to arrive, and I stare out the tinted windows watching revelers stumble from the first bars we pass. There are quite a few tattoo parlors on this block. They’re still open, the bright fluorescent lights illuminating interiors hung with colorful design prints. One storefront sign boasts a full range of body modification services, including tattoos, piercings, and subdermal implants. A group of young goths loiters outside, vapors from their e-cigarettes curling around their spiked blue-black hair. Inside a heavily inked woman with half her head shaved is bent over a man, working on a colorful sleeve.

  Mr. M. is also perusing the storefronts.

  “Stop,” he says, knocking on the window and the car halts.

  “This one.” He opens the door, offering me his hand as he gets out. I follow, and hear car horns behind the limo. The drivers aren’t pleased and someone yells at us to move our rich asses out of the road. Mr. M. tells the driver to go get some coffee, that he’ll call him when we’re ready. Everyone is staring at the seriously overdressed couple now on the sidewalk.

  The shop Mr. M. has chosen is called Gypsy Rose. A sign behind the counter identifies it as the city’s oldest tattoo parlor, and a seductive gypsy woman smiles over her shoulder from a mural that takes up an entire wall. There’s a hallway behind the counter, and I can hear the whir of tattoo machines coming from the small rooms.

  “You two lost?” A man is walking over to the counter. He’s tall and tanned, and I can see the top of what looks like a Celtic knot chest plate over the neck of his tight black t-shirt.

  “No. We’re here for a tattoo, actually,” Mr. M. says.

  “I just had an appointment cancel. I can do it. Who’s it for?”

  “My lady,” Mr. M. says, and something about hearing him call me his lady has me flushing.

  “Do you need to see a book of designs, or did you have something in mind?”

  “I have something in mind,” Mr. M. says. He looks at me. “But it’s a surprise.”

  “You okay with that, beautiful?” The tattoo artist grins at me.

  I don’t know what to say. I can safeword and he won’t hold it against me. My mind flashes back to Mimsy Brenner’s allusions to Mr. M. as a playboy with changeable tastes. Do I want to risk being permanently marked by a man who could decide next month he wants a redhead instead of a blonde? What do I know about him, anyway? I know we have a sexual contract, and I’ve experienced more pain and pleasure at his hands than I ever thought possible. But I’ve also experienced kindness. It could not have been easy for him to find the exact bike I’d longed for as a child. This is the man who has made me beg to come. It’s also the man who read me Goodnight Moon. Wasn’t this about me, too? Wasn’t this about living in the moment, pushing my boundaries?

  “Yes,” I say with more bravery than I feel.

  Mr. M. tells the tattoo artist, who introduces himself as Miguel, that the design is simple and will be put on the top of my left buttock. I’m led to a small room and told to lie face down on the table. Mr. M. flips up my dress and I think how surreal it all seems with him in his tux and me in my gown with the yards of fabric bunched at my upper back and spilling over the sides. The cool air of the room raises gooseflesh on the exposed skin of my bottom, which is barely covered by panties so skimpy they don’t have to be removed.

  I’m facing the wall. I can’t see what Miguel is doing. But I can hear him talking to Mr. M. about how he got started as a tattoo artist after coming here from Brazil on a modeling contract. He still models part time when he’s not working as a tattoo artist. They’re flipping through a book, and Mr. M. says, “This one. This is just what I have in mind.” Miguel sits down at my side, by my left flank.

  Mr. M. sits down at the head of the table as the artist gets to work. Because I’m getting tattooed on a fleshy part of my anatomy, it’s not particularly painful—just a series of what feel like little stings. Miguel’s hand is on my lower back as he works. Mr. M. is holding my hand.

  He leans over to whisper in my ear, “Do you know how sexy this is, watching you being marked?”

  Marked. The word carries heavy connotations. Marked for life, no matter what. There’s something way erotic about it, bearing his mark for life. I don’t even know what he’s having etched into my skin. What if I hate it? But I have given him control. It’s his decision, and the idea of being branded in this way arouses me in a manner I never expected. I can feel my nipples hard and pressing against the bodice of my gown. My pussy is softly pulsing and I’m getting wet. I want to shift, to squeeze my thighs together to alleviate the throbbing need between them. But I’m supposed to hold still. Mr. M. squeezes my hand and chuckles, and at that moment I realize he knows. Oh, the exquisite torture of this moment! The painful jabs of the needle, the growing ache in my core. My nerves feel alive and alight.

  Mr. M.’s not helping. His leans down, his breath hot in my ear as he tells me how he will love looking at the mark when I’m bent over in submission preparing to receive his cock. I look back and Miguel is pretending not to listen, but I know he can hear because he’s grinning. I feel him dab the work in progress as he goes, sponging away droplets of blood from the canvas of my ass. I want to ask how much longer. I’m eager to leave, to get home so Mr. M. can fuck me, and yet I’m suspended in this state of excitement that’s so delicious I don’t want it to end.

  He’s marking me. Marking me for life. But do I really need ink for that? Even if we parted this moment, I’m already marked. We both know it.

  “You’re mine,” Mr. M. whispers in my ear. “Mine. Mine. Mine.” His word is a mantra in my brain. “Every time you look at what I’ve marked you with, I want it to remind you that I can take you anywhere, anytime, in any way I want. I can fuck your pussy, your ass, your mouth…”

  I moan.

  “Hold still,” Miguel says, and there’s amusement in his voice. He can see and hear, must know how aroused I am. My pussy is clenching hard for want of being filled.

  “As soon as we walk in the door tonight, I want you on the floor, on your knees in front of the fireplace. I want that ass in the air. Do you remember our other rule, Sloane? You haven’t forgotten that your ass is mine. Tonight I’m going to fuck you there so hard.”

  I don’t mean to come. I try to stop it, but at those words the dam holding back my passion breaks and the pulsing waves of pleasure radiate warmly from my pussy through my core. My toes curl, and for a moment the pen stops as I shudder.

  Through my half-closed eyes, I look back to see Miguel shoot Mr. M. an admiring glance. Then he gets back to work as I lie there waiting for him to finish the mark I will wear for life.

  Chapter Eleve
n

  “Beautiful.” The hum of the tattoo machine falls silent. I start to look back, but Mr. M. stops me. “I’ll show you back at home,” he says. He’s been doing that a lot lately, referring to his house as ‘home’ rather than ‘my place.’

  Miguel is putting some sort of plastic film over the tattoo. As he lowers the hem of my gown and helps me up from the table, he instructs me on how to care for my new ink. I’m to leave it covered for at least six hours. I can gently wash it afterwards, but need to pat it dry. I should apply a special topical cream he gives me every day for ten days.

  I want to see it, but I have to wait. Mr. M. calls his driver, who brings the car around ten minutes later. We’re waiting outside the Gypsy Rose, both of us still drawing stares. The tattoo is slightly sore, and I wince as I take my seat in the back of the limo. Mr. M. grins wickedly, telling me it’s sexy when I squirm because it reminds him of the first time he spanked me. He tells me he loves to think of my bottom, hot and throbbing, under my dress, of how the sting of his correction makes me wriggle afterwards. I’m feeling aroused all over again, and the sexy talk isn’t helping.

  “Control yourself, my sweet,” Mr. M. says. “For the rest of the night, you don’t come until I tell you.”

  My pussy is aching. The tattoo is aching. Mr. M. is leaning back across from me, his long legs crossed at the ankle. I’m sitting upright and slightly shifted to the side to keep weight off my tender bottom.

  We pull up to his building. The driver gets out and opens the door and the doorman nods and greets Mr. M. warmly. We don’t speak in the elevator. I’m concentrating on the evening, on what it will be like for him to fill my ass. We’ve done everything else, but he’s been saving this, I know. He’s talked about it often, rimming my bottom hole with his finger and telling me how he can’t wait to see his cock sliding in and out between the fullness of my ass cheeks.