by Christa Wick
"Oh," I answered weakly. Marjolein and I had often joked about Simon's repetitive name in the past, particularly about how much his parents must have disliked him to name him Simon St. Simon. Now I knew he had been born with an entirely different last name and that it was only his mother who hadn't liked him. Or, rather, she had been quite sick in the head.
All this information, if it was true, was making my chest hurt and my stomach sick.
"I need to go," I said, certain I was about to puke all over the floor because I had a long crawl to make it to the bathroom.
"Please tell me you only mean you want to end the call," Rick said, his tone holding a pleading note for the first time since our bizarre-turned-macabre conversation had started. "Please tell me you aren't leaving London."
"I need to throw up," I said, one shaky arm clasping the edge of the nightstand so I could try to push up onto even shakier legs.
"Understandable," Rick said. "I'm here if you want to talk afterwards."
With that, he hung up, and I was uncertain whether he meant after I puked or after I met Simon at eight -- If I met Simon at eight.
********************
The urge to puke produced nothing more than painful dry heaving over the porcelain toilet. Fifteen minutes after Rick ended our call, I wheeled my luggage into the bedroom. Normally, I would have unpacked everything to save time throughout the duration of the trip. Uncertain I would still be on the hotel's premises by the time eight o'clock rolled around, I only removed the items I would need for a shower.
I felt stained by the conversation with Rick, corrupted both by my own curiousity and by dark, oily knowledge that continued to cling to my skin. I pulled out a shea sugar scrub and a Brazilian nut body lotion for after my shower. Taking the items into the bathroom, I heard a heavy knock at the suite's door.
Panicking for a moment, I shot a glance at the clock next to the bed even though I subconsciously knew that I was hours away from the appointed time. The clock indicated it was a few minutes before four. Breathing a little more easily, I left the bedroom and called out for the person knocking to wait. The visitor continued knocking, confirming just how soundproof the rooms were, which was great for when our guests were screaming out in ecstasy but not so great when someone was knocking insistently and the guest possessed short, chubby legs and was emotionally exhausted.
I yanked the door open to find Jordan, the bellboy who had carried my luggage up earlier, outside my door with two wheeled carts, each possessing covered trays and silver tea service sets. Exertion colored Jordan's cheeks and he gave a quick bow in my direction before he started to wheel one of the carts into the room, the other remaining in the hall.
I could smell warm, baked goods and a hint of melon and strawberries. My stomach didn't know whether to be hungry or continue on with the sick dread that Rick's revelation had produced.
"I didn't order tea service." I cast my gaze around the room for my bag so that I could give him a tip. I had left it on the desk.
"It was ordered for you." His explanation faltered at the end. He started to lift the tray and place it on the table in front of the couch.
"Not there, I'll take care of it." I said, stopping him. "St. Simon ordered my service, yes?"
His mouth opened, then closed. A slow blink served as a nod, but I didn't think he was aware of having made the gesture.
"He gave you the package to bring up earlier, didn't he?"
Jordan's color changed, all the blood draining from his face. Seeing the reaction, I wanted to interrogate him immediately. I didn't. Answering my questions could mean the loss of his job. I didn't want to be responsible for that or for finding him a new one.
"I know, you're not supposed to pry," I quipped, handing him a five-pound note. "Go on, I imagine tea time is one of the more hectic parts of the day and I see you have at least one more cart to deliver."
His head bobbed in agreement and then he sprinted for the door, his nimble fingers tucking the tip into the inside pocket of his bellboy jacket.
I followed after him, setting the security latch. Returning to the seating area, I lifted the lid to the tray. My stomach gave a delighted twist at mixed smell of baked goods. Lemon tarts with a hint of some other fruit buried inside, raspberry madeleines, their shapes like seashells, and small chocolate cake disks with large frosting flowers that were every bit as delicate and detailed as the real thing.
My stomach growling, I recovered the tray and wheeled the cart into the bedroom, deciding to turn my shower into a bath. I unzipped my luggage again to remove some citrusy bath salts. By the time I had the water running, the salts poured, my cup of tea and a plate of delicious treats on the floor beside the tub, the room was a concoction of scents as voluptuous as my body.
With my hair pinned up, I sank into the steaming water, scooped a lemon tart from the plate, closed my eyes and took my first bite.
The mystery ingredient in the tart was passion fruit. My lips curled in a satisfied smile at the mix of flavors. I decided that the bath and a small meal was a far better idea than the shower. I would hopefully relax enough to figure out my next move -- as long as I didn't think about that next move until I was thoroughly relaxed.
I nibbled, sipped, drifted and repeated the pattern for half an hour before I got down to the business of scrubbing my flesh. I replenished the hot water and rubbed until all of me was as pink as the bellboy's cheeks had been when I opened the door earlier.
Climbing out of the tub, I wrapped a soft, thick towel around my body and drifted into the bedroom. I still had more than two hours to go before eight o'clock and Simon's message. Somewhere between the flower-topped chocolate cake and rinsing off the last of the sugar scrub, I had decided that I would prepare myself to meet Simon. I would also have all of my luggage repacked and ready to leave for the airport. If he texted me a location I wasn't comfortable with or behaved oddly if I decided to meet him, I would be on a plane bound for New York -- where I would stop over long enough to kick Rick in the balls -- before midnight.
I pulled a plum colored sweater dress from my bag and a matching pair of velvet dress flats. For underneath the dress, I selected a pearl gray shelf bra made out of a stretch lace and delicate boning for support. Matching lace boy shorts hugged my hips and bottom. No jewelry and just a touch of foundation, cheek color and lip gloss and I was ready to go.
And I still had far too much time remaining.
Pulling my laptop from my luggage, I opened the browser and began plugging in search terms that might lead to a news article that would confirm the story Rick had told me. Search term after search term, I kept failing to find one article with matching facts. I tried outside of England despite Simon's very British accent. I adjusted for various time periods in case he wasn't as young as he looked.
I skimmed nauseating article after nauseating article. When Simon's text interrupted my search at precisely eight o'clock, I was relieved beyond belief.
Wiping away tears that had spilled from the last horrible story I had forced myself to wade through, I read the message.
Sultan suite.
Just two little words, but I swallowed roughly upon reading them. The Sultan suite was the biggest in the hotel, the costliest, too. Unlike our other locations, the suite came with its own dungeon master and dedicated staff. This was on Simon's insistence and amounted to a sex club within a sex club. The starting cost was over forty thousand dollars a night and there was already a two-year waiting list despite the hotel's relaunch being nine weeks away.
My arms and breasts began to tingle. I couldn't decide what, exactly, was producing the sensation. Desire? I didn't think so. Certainly, Simon was beyond sexy and and a gifted lover if he was my rope master, as I ninety-nine-point-nine percent believed him to be. But the idea of joining him in that black playroom, especially after everything I had heard from Rick, the idea of Simon wanting me to submit to him terrified me.
Not to mention what Dylan would say if he found out I had
even a small fling with Simon. They weren't enemies, exactly, but I knew sleeping with Simon would be the equivalent of slapping Dylan in the face -- if no one else ever found out about it beyond big brother.
I stood and walked into the bathroom, reminding myself I didn't have to be punctual. I could take the time to decide if I wanted to go or leave. Turning on the bathroom light, I glanced over my shoulder to where my luggage waited at the foot of my bed.
Reaching for the faucet handles on the sink, I noted the tremble in my hands. I wasn't ready for this -- even after all the weeks of fantasizing about my rope master. I was twenty-four and smart, but in no way did I feel mature enough for what was being proposed.
Then again, maybe the only way to reach maturity was to make mistakes?
Never mind how big a mistake this could be.
I left the faucets off and perched on the edge of the tub while I stared at myself in the mirrored wall above the sink. I closed my eyes and imagined myself in a room -- not in the playroom of the Sultan suite, but in Rick Wells' New York studio. I could only imagine what would happen upstairs with Simon, but I knew what had happened in New York, how I had felt bound and and helpless but more sexually awake than I had ever experienced.
I wouldn't let my imagination make the decision, but I would let my memory guide it.
Jumping up for a second, I snatched the complimentary bar of body soap that I had unwrapped before discovering the theft of my package. Rick wouldn't relent and confirm that Simon was Baku, but my nose had all the proof it required.
I inhaled slowly, experiencing the mellowing combination of citrus, nut and wood. I asked myself would I walk back into that New York studio again for a second, wholly private, session with my rope master -- a man who most likely was waiting upstairs for me in a black and pewter playroom with more than ropes at his disposal and no one to save me.
I was afraid to meet Simon, but was I afraid to meet Baku?
I inhaled again, my mind replaying my experience in New York. The pinch of my nipples, the rub of the silken rope between my labia, the knots tripping smoothly over my clit in a tense rhythm until I lost the last fragment of control and came. The mocking breaths and then the way he had lost command of his own breathing.
The bar of soap slid from my fingers to ricochet twice against the curved sides of the tub. I stood and returned to the bedroom, my legs weak as I leaned across the mattress to retrieve my phone. I slide it into the velvet clutch that matched my shoes and already held my room card and my lip gloss.
Almost drunken in my steps, I made it to the elevator and slid my card into the security slot. Access to the top floor required approval, but I figured Simon had already had my card coded with the necessary permissions. The elevator doors closed. I reached for the panel of buttons but the correct floor key lit up when my outstretched finger was still a few inches away.
Blood roared past my eardrums, reminding me of an unauthorized visit I had taken to see Niagra Falls when I was fifteen. Guilt had made me feel like I was under surveillance during that trip. This time I was certain I was being watched -- maybe even controlled.
Stop it, Ree. He may be a genius, but he's not an alien.
I shook my head, unconvinced. He could be both.
The elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open to reveal a hallway lit only by a few accent lights located in the walls. I put a hand against the edge of the opening so the doors wouldn't slide shut while I looked out.
While the Princess suite and most of the rest of the building was open for business, this floor was to remain unbooked until the relaunch. I knew from the designs I had submitted to Simon on the hotel that there were three suites on this floor, one on each side of the wide hall and then, at the very end, the Sultan suite.
I looked down the length of the corridor to see the double doors already peeled inward. The room visible beyond them only faintly illuminated. I could just detect at the far end of the room an object the size of the package Simon had taken from my suite. Whether the brown shipping paper still wrapped the painting was a mystery because a dark silver fabric covered everything. The material was probably the custom silk sheets from the Sultan-sized bed meant to comfortably sleep at least four bodies.
Sleep being a euphemism for a sweatier, more sensuous act.
Retreating deeper into the elevator, I pressed the button that would close the doors. After several heartbeats passed with no response, I pressed it again.
My pulse slowed several seconds then galloped forward, sped on by my imagination. I looked down the hall just as Simon stepped into view. He stood tall, his lean, muscular body covered only by pants that hugged his lower half and glistened where the light hit the material.
Fingers itching with the need to punch the button one last time and pray for a miracle, I stared at his face. The shadows sculpted his features into rough, sinister blocks. If I met him in an alley, I would run for my life.
He shifted, ever so slightly, but the change in position caused the light to bounce off his chest, the fine hairs casting a golden glimmer. I tore my gaze away and looked around the long hall separating us. The other rooms were empty, just as the Sultan suite was supposed to be. So no help from other guests if Simon decided I was not allowed to leave.
Feeling the sting of tears, I dug my nails into my palms to distract my mind. I couldn't look weak. When I told him "no" and that I wanted to leave, I would have to look resolute. Scared little girls didn't get their way.
Hello, dum-dum! Remember that little thing called an emergency exit?
I exhaled, realizing I had been holding my breath from some point before I felt the biting need to cry. Simon wouldn't hurt me. Rick had said as much in that offended sentence he hadn't finished about placing me in harm's way. There was a set of stairs to the side of the elevator and I had my cell phone.
Unless it really was possible to die from a broken heart, I was safe.
I stepped out of the elevator. Simon turned his back to me and began walking toward the covered painting. He waited motionless in front of it until my steps faltered then stopped halfway down the length of the hall.
He reached up, grabbed an edge of the silky material and gave a short tug. The material slid to the ground. I watched it fall, my gaze too heavy to lift from the pool of fabric to the painting above it.
Did I really want to see me as Simon saw me? All the body confidence I'd spent my life and brand developing felt stripped away, just like the covering to the painting.
Sweaty, pallid, slovenly, overripe -- all of the insults and sharply damning words I'd seen in print since the release of my clothing line slammed against me en masse and at high velocity. I held onto my courage by a single strand composed of no more than a few words from the phone conversation with Rick.
In picking my rope master -- maybe even before that by maneuvering me into the shoot -- Rick had been acting out of his friendship with Simon. Rick still wanted to be my friend, or so he said. If this turned out badly, he had no chance and one or both of my big brothers would grind him to dust.
If I believed Rick, then my body was safe, my mind was safe, my heart...
The barely audible sound of bare feet against polished marble pulled me away from the building chorus of arguments and counterarguments inside my head. Shadows crawled along the hall as Simon blocked most of the light coming from the suite.
I still couldn't lift my gaze from the floor. I snorted, realizing that, at least in that respect, I was behaving like a good little submissive.
Two fingers brushed against the bottom of my chin and then Simon leaned into me, his bare chest brushing against the suddenly too hot knit of my sweater dress.
"Come inside," he softly whispered in my ear, his voice low and vibrating in a way that wrapped firmly around my spine and lead me forward.
He stepped aside, letting me pass then following close behind me. I crossed the room's threshold, my senses almost deaf to the quite brush and click of the doors shutting.
>
Standing in the middle of the room, I realized that there was more than one painting. To each of my sides there was a half circle of candles on the floor, their light playing along the hard surface of dark walnut frames.
Three damn paintings and I hadn't even looked at the first one yet. And how the hell did someone paint that much in three months?
Oh, right, he never slept...
I lifted my chin, my gaze stuck on the tip of my nose to produce a sudden headache. I uncrossed my eyes and looked straight ahead. The painting slowly came into focus.
Me, blindfolded, on my side, swollen and bound breasts protruding between the top and bottom layer of ropes, my head flung back but not so far I can't see the greedy, gasping part of my lips. One leg lifted high and tied off in the position, a sheen of perspiration on both thighs.
Simon placed a gentle hand on each shoulder and coaxed me to turn to my right. The blindfold was off in the second painting. My chin was tucked against the very top of my chest, at the point just below the hollow that divides my collar bone. My expression was hidden, but the real focus of the portrayal was on the vibrating tension that possessed my flesh and the play of the rope with its evenly spaced knots between my labia.
More gentle pressure as Simon rotated me one-hundred-eighty degrees so that I faced the third painting. Me, post-climax, thoroughly wrung out but still soaking in my juices and sweat. Flushed skin, a mask of pure bliss. With this painting, Simon was reminding me of what he could do to my body...what he had already done to me.
Standing in the Sultan suite with my rope master, I soaked through the gray lace panties. My thighs tensed with fresh lust even as my heart tried to tuck itself into a tight, impenetrable ball. His hands found the dipping curve on each side of my waist. Simon gripped me there, his thumbs outstretched to ghost against my spine in a feather-light massage that soothed me. He stepped closer, his hips coming to rest against my full bottom.
His head dipped down so that his mouth was close to my ear, his words softly voiced through the strands of my hair. "There's a room we're still at odds over."