Glass Houses

by Helena Maeve

  “Oh.” Penny deflated a little. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not,” I hurried to say. “No, it’s good. It’s perfect. That way I don’t have to worry that he’ll get all clingy and annoying.” Penny didn’t seem convinced. I tried not to think of the why. I hadn’t told anyone else about my little indiscretion and I was sure I’d convinced Penny that I wasn’t the least bit hung up on Elliot, a man who had been so obviously unavailable long before he’d moved to Nantucket. “This way it’s just…sex. No strings attached, no hurt feelings. In two weeks’ time, he’ll be off on his road trip and we’ll part as friends.

  “If you say so.”

  I did. I wanted it to be true because the reverse was all kinds of dangerous. I had tried to be the kind of girl boys took home to meet the family and it hadn’t done me any good. I was still single. My standards for a relationship were considerably higher than my standards for a good lay. “Let’s face it,” I told Penny, “I’m not like you. Marriage is not in the cards for me.”

  Her expression remained dubious, but she let me get away with that pretty fiction. She always was on my side. “About the wedding…” she said a little haltingly.

  “Oh, yeah!” I saw the fork in the road, the potential for our friendship to skid off the tarmac and vault over a cliff. I saw the edge and veered to safety. “I thought you said you wanted the whole hanbok and palanquin shebang. What happened? Don’t tell me Dustin’s afraid of wearing a skirt. I remember that New Year’s party…”

  My hurt feelings weren’t worth the price of losing Penny’s friendship.

  She smiled and sighed wistfully. “Dustin had a whole stack of bridal magazines and a Pinterest board filled with dresses and cakes and venues. I know, right? I thought I was marrying this butch basketball player and it turns out there’s a whole mushy center I didn’t know about.”

  I wouldn’t have described cello-playing Dustin as butch if someone had held a gun to my head, but I didn’t tell Penny as much. Her whole face lit up when she spoke his name.

  “So you had the wedding of his dreams instead?”

  “Almost,” Penny said, cocking her head. “I drew the line at a honeymoon in Cabo.”

  “What? Why?” Of all the things to object to, that was probably the one thing I would have agreed with. The mere suggestion was enough to elevate Dustin in my esteem, something that his treatment of Penny in the five years they’d been together hadn’t succeeded in doing.

  “I had to be back at work the week after the wedding. We got these amazing porcelain figurines from twelfth century Spain and I wasn’t going to miss that—”

  “For your honeymoon?” I shook my head. “So did you skip the honeymoon altogether or…?”

  “Nah, we booked a suite at the Clift and spent four days in bed.” I could see Penny struggling to be nonchalant about it, but her cheeks went from pale to bright pink as she confessed to having a libido.

  “You’re kidding. The Clift, huh?” I thought, trying to school my features into a blank mask. I only sort of succeeded. “That’s something. I heard it’s really nice…”

  “We took the private apartment. Four nights set us back a pretty penny, but it was so worth it. I felt like a movie star.”

  Tell me about it. I had only seen Elliot’s suite, but that had been enough to leave me speechless. “That’s awesome,” I enthused. “I mean, not that it was expensive, but… I’m really glad everything worked out like you wanted it to, Pen.”

  “Me too. And I’m glad you’re having a good time with, um, Elliot.” I could see her hesitating on the name. We’d known him as McFarland or Professor. It was a difficult transition to make, but I had a slight advantage, seeing as I’d slept with him.

  Penny and I hugged outside the coffee shop and went our separate ways, having made plans to meet up again next week. It wasn’t until I was walking back to my car, a spring in my step, that I realized just how much I had missed her. I pulled out my phone to check the time and saw that I had a missed call and three text messages. All of them were from Elliot.

  Wait two years for a guy to call…

  I opened the first one. It was a semicolon and an open parenthesis. He was talking to me in emoticons. Great. The subsequent two messages involved actual words and numbers. I was beyond relieved.

  It took me a second to realize that I knew the address he’d written. Until about a year ago, I used to go there every Friday night. The music was pretty decent and they arranged for Chinese takeout to be delivered to the club if you stuck around until after two a.m. It wasn’t the kind of place I expected Elliot to want to be seen in with me, though.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to go there with him myself, but I couldn’t pretend that the thought didn’t hold some appeal. I typed out my answer without bothering to ask if he knew what he was getting into.

  Have to check with the boss, but sure. Wear something nice.

  I didn’t sign my name. I figured he knew my phone number by now.

  To my surprise, Elliot replied within seconds. It was only to say, See you Friday.

  His confidence in my ability to persuade Mrs. Hamilton into granting me a night off was heart-warming, if entirely naïve. It also rivaled Riley’s for blind faith. I wanted to tell him not to get his hopes up too high, but I refrained. The thought of him looking forward to seeing me made me feel unabashedly good. Why should I ask him to adjust his expectations? I’d mooned about him for two years. He could spend a few days thinking of me. Maybe that could balance the cosmic scales.

  Maybe Penny was right to be dubious when I told her I was pleased that he was going away soon.

  I turned the key in the ignition and the BMW rumbled to life with a shudder. I had some time left before I needed to drive Zara from her day care to her dance class, enough to buy myself a decent corset. If I was going to a fetish club, I was going to dress the part.

  Chapter Seven

  The only thing more humiliating than having to ask my boss’s permission to go out on Friday night was having to ask for her permission and lie about where I was going. I told myself that Mrs. Hamilton shouldn’t have asked. It wasn’t professional. I also told myself I should have had the guts to tell her that it was none of her business. But she looked so harried as she pored over seating charts and catering menus for next Saturday’s charity event that I didn’t have the heart to twist the knife. So instead I told her I was going to have dinner at my mother’s and that I probably wouldn’t be back until morning.

  With an excuse like that, Mrs. Hamilton couldn’t refuse. She even allowed me to take the car, thereby cementing the uncanny sense of asking a parent for permission to go out clubbing. I was twenty-five years old and I was still asking authority figures if I could go have fun.

  I tried not to dwell on that too much as I parked a couple of blocks away from my destination. I didn’t want the BMW to be seen, just in case someone knew Mr. Hamilton’s plates and wondered what he was doing visiting a fetish club.

  My heart was leaping as I stripped out of my long-sleeved jersey in the narrow space between steering wheel and front seat. I applied a dab of lipstick to my mouth in the near-dark, wishing my hands weren’t shaking so badly. I felt like I was putting on camouflage before heading onto a battlefield. Granted, my face paint wasn’t half as expensive as Mrs. Hamilton’s brand-name collection, but I had some attention-grabbers in there.

  I had gone for a rather garish shade of cerise tonight, hoping it would be just eye-catching enough in the low light that Elliot would spend the evening wanting to kiss me. I knew I was taking a chance by seeing him in a public place—one where Dommes were common and guys like him could easily find a replacement for me if I didn’t rise to the occasion—but I told myself I didn’t care. What Elliot and I had was just physical. Just sex. If and when it ended, I would simply move on with my life.

  I kicked off my all-purpose sandals and pulled a pair of high-heeled boots out of my backpack. Getting ready in the car reminded me of many a high-school
night but there was no way I could have left the house dressed like a dominatrix and still have had Mrs. Hamilton buy my excuses. Besides, I hadn’t wanted to shock the children.

  I pulled on my leather jacket—a bargain at twenty-five dollars and ninety-nine cents—and zipped it up about halfway so the red lace of the corset beneath it would show. I was going for hot but not trashy. I had no idea if I was still at the right end of the spectrum.

  It’s now or never, Chase.

  I took a deep breath and stepped out of the car.

  One thing I liked about San Francisco and the main reason why I couldn’t see myself living anywhere else was that however odd I might have felt in my getup, I didn’t have to search hard for someone to disabuse me of the notion. Nowhere was that truer than in the vicinity of Cat Oh Nine. The closer I got to the club, the more frequent and obvious the leather-daddies and the women with leather collars around their necks. The Goth contingent was just as present, judging by the number of eyeliner-wearing, black-clad patrons I saw milling about outside.

  I didn’t know the doorman, but the club’s policy of allowing women and transgendered customers free entry always put me at ease right off the bat as I stepped inside. Nothing much had changed in my absence. The nondescript techno music vibrated under my skin like electric current. The hum of voices crept up all around me, drawing me deeper and deeper into the club. It was only nine o’clock.

  Elliot had set our not-really-a-date for nine-thirty, which I was glad for. Had it been any later, I would’ve had to drive around in circles as I waited for dinnertime to become fetish-club-visiting time. I didn’t mind the wait. I ordered myself a fairly tame rum and Coke, planning to sip it slowly for the rest of the night. I had high hopes of revisiting Elliot’s bed and I wanted to be sober to enjoy the experience.

  As much as I liked clubs like Cat Oh Nine, working for the Hamiltons didn’t leave me with a lot of free time and I was getting rusty. I’d almost forgotten how common it was to get propositioned in places like these. I had done it often enough myself whenever I came here on the prowl, but I didn’t expect the first offer to come within a handful of minutes once I’d sat down at the bar. A blond, spiky-haired guy sauntered up beside me, his smile soft and inviting. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked lightly, as if there weren’t people getting trussed up just a mere few feet away.

  There were couples making out—and sometimes more—all around us. Cat Oh Nine was known for allowing all kinds of things on its premises, as long as everyone practiced safe sex. So the offer, when it came, didn’t exactly come out of the blue. I was alone. I wasn’t wearing a collar or a bracelet marking me as a submissive looking for someone to spank me into bliss—I couldn’t blame my admirer for seizing the opportunity. But I wasn’t here to flirt with strangers.

  I took one glance at the guy and shook my head. “Sorry. I’m waiting for someone.” He was pretty, in a vaguely sanitized kind of way. Unearthly, I might have called him if I was feeling cruel. Like a model. I couldn’t miss the CK label on his jeans or the unmistakable gleam of a diamond stud in his ear.

  Oh great, I thought. A Pacific Heights Romeo. I’d read reviews of the club that people like him posted online—most of them rife with prejudice. Cat Oh Nine could be a scary place if you came expecting to see girls with perfect bodies screwing age-appropriate partners. I hoped he knew what he was getting into and softened my rejection a little as I added, “Have a good night, though.” I felt certain he wouldn’t be alone for much longer. He struck me as a first-timer. Not so long ago, I would’ve been all over that.

  Tonight, I was very much taken.

  A couple who might have been closer to Elliot in age also swung by and intimated that they might like to spend some private time with me on the low couches arranged here and there around the club’s main floor. They reminded me of the Hamiltons—in looks, if nothing else—which was reason enough to decline.

  “It’s the boots,” the bartender told me, smirking.

  “You think?”

  “That or the boobs.”

  I grinned. In a place like this, that actually came across more like a compliment than a weird and unwanted come-on. Maybe it was a matter of being thrust into a scene where everyone had to be honest about what they wanted. Despite the leather, tattoos and piercings proudly on display, it was difficult to feel threatened. There was an understanding that respect was the club’s first and only rule.

  A well-known zero tolerance policy on harassment also didn’t hurt.

  “It’s definitely the boots,” a voice said behind me. I recognized Elliot with my back turned and my insides instantly felt warm and fluttery.

  I tried to sound laid-back and casual as I twisted around to glance at him over my shoulder, “Oh, you like them, do you?”

  “Very much.” He wasn’t so bad himself. He had his biker jacket on and under that a tight white T-shirt that went a long way toward showing off his pecs. His eyes sparkled with mirth. “May I?”

  “Please.” We were being very polite for two people who had arranged to meet for a hook-up—unless I’d misread the reason for his choice of venue. I didn’t think so.

  “I can’t tell if you’re always early or if I should just throw my watch away.”

  “Is it a Rolex?” I asked, deflecting. Was I too eager? I didn’t want him to imagine me waiting by the phone like some sappy schoolgirl. My life didn’t revolve around him. Not remotely.

  “Omega,” Elliot confessed with a sheepish grin. “It was a gift.”

  I don’t know why he was embarrassed about admitting as much. I was used to people having more money than I could ever hope for. I worked for a woman who got three manicures a week and who believed that surprise holidays in Santa Barbara were something she needed to recharge her batteries between bouts of retail therapy. I bit my tongue against saying as much. There was a good chance that the reason Elliot felt uncomfortable discussing his wealth was, well…me.

  “So how did you get out of jail?” he asked as the bartender served him his vodka Martini. I wondered which of us was in it for the liquid courage.

  “I told Mrs. Hamilton I was seeing my mom for dinner.”

  “Good excuse.”

  I shrugged. I would have preferred not having had to lie at all, but here I was, bending the truth to save face. I was sure people had done worse things for the sake of avoiding unemployment, not to mention getting laid. “Do you want to have a look around?” I suggested, keen to stretch my legs. “It’s quieter in some of the other rooms.”

  “You’ve been here before?” Elliot asked. He sounded surprised.

  I nodded. “Many times.” Not the impressionable undergrad you remember, huh? “Come on,” I entreated and hooked my fingers around his wrist. He followed along like a docile pet. This was the last place in San Francisco where anyone would find that kind of behavior unusual.

  We made our way from room to room without rushing. I wanted Elliot to get his bearings. The first time I’d come here, I had found myself a little overwhelmed. It was one thing to fantasize about whips and riding crops and another to see them used right under my nose. The first time I’d decided to join in, I’d been so nervous that one of the more experienced Dommes had been forced to take over for me. She was nice about it, too, and her partner even bought me a drink afterwards. I wondered what Elliot would make of that story. He’d liked me well enough when I was new to kink and dominance, and he liked me now that I knew what I was doing—would he have enjoyed teaching me in that slightly awkward in-between stage? I couldn’t say. It shouldn’t have mattered.

  He caught me staring at him and arched an eyebrow, turning his hand in my grasp to slot our fingers together. “You okay?”

  “Sure.” I was. No way could I tell him that it wasn’t the club that was making me nervous.

  Elliot didn’t release me as we strolled through the darkened walkways. There was an Arabian-themed playroom with pillows strewn across the floor and bodies writhing behind gauzy veils, a
nother set up like a hospital ward, and finally a real brick and metal dungeon, with all its attendant torture equipment—not that any of it was used for torture.

  Pairs and groups were slowly making their way to the more extreme props while novices and first-timers looked on, bobbing their heads to the music and trying to blend in with the crowd. I’d been like them once, not so long ago. I recognized the apprehension in their furtive glances.

  “You ever participate?” Elliot asked me, his breath a whisper on my cheek.

  I tried not to shiver. “Sometimes. Sometimes I just like to watch.”

  “What’s the most far out thing you’ve done so far?”

  That was a loaded question and I needed to think about it for a second before an answer came to me. “Maybe that one time I choked a guy?” Breath play wasn’t usually my thing, but he’d asked and I didn’t want to ruin the experience for him. “He came all over my tits, so I guess he enjoyed himself…”

  “I bet he did,” Elliot said, laughing softly.

  When I turned to him, I noticed that his cheeks were stained pink. He was taking deep gulps of his drink.

  “Does that make you nervous? Don’t worry,” I said, smirking. “I’m not going to strangle you with my underwear… Unless that’s something you’re into?” It occurred to me that we hadn’t given much thought to exploring each other’s limits. Being compatible didn’t mean that our every preference had to align or that those preferences had remained unchanged for the past two years.

  Elliot shook his head. “No, I’m a traditionalist. If you’re going to choke me, I demand you do it with your bare hands.”

  “That leaves evidence.”

  “So would the underwear,” he pointed out as nuzzled my ear. “Tell me this isn’t getting you hot.”

  One of the couples in the spotlight made their way to a sex sling. The submissive hoisted herself up into place on the strength of her chiseled biceps. She made it look easy. As I watched, her partner slid her ankles into leather cuffs made for that very purpose and secured the straps. They made a pretty pair, but I was more interested in the Domme’s studded vest than I was her partner’s splayed body.