by Lena Austin
Half a pot later, he pulled up his contact list and dialed the phone. It was rude, in his personal rulebook, to pretend chitchat when he meant business, so after a few brief pleasantries, he got down to the true reason he’d called.
“You want to WHAT?” shouted Brad. “I know damn well you aren’t coming to play. What’s the game?”
Calder took the cell away from his ear and winced. “Yeah, I know, Brad. You have every right to yell at me and be suspicious. Hear me out, will you?”
Brad took a distinctive slurp of what was probably a cup of herbal tea. That’s what he’d drunk in college, claiming caffeine gave him the shakes. “Okay, but don’t skip a detail. I don’t have a client for two hours.”
“That’s one thing we always had in common. We like to know every angle. Yours just happened to include a hypotenuse,” Calder joked.
“You’re still a smart-ass. I’m waiting.”
“Okay, and I’ll make it consecutive. I got a call from my agent. You did know I took a bullet in the knee and turned to writing, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. Saw your byline a few times. Good stuff, Shrink.”
“Thanks. Anyway, my agent has a new job available when he calls. Enough to pay off what’s left of my medical bills and keep me in crackers for a couple months is what I figure.”
“When will you let me be your accountant and manage all that crap for you?”
“When I can afford your expensive ass. But you can do my taxes at the beginning of next year.” Calder grinned. It had been a standing joke between them since their college days. “Anyway, the assignment is to do a very clinical take on the psychology of BDSM.” He heard the intake of breath but plunged on. “Not a hate article, no moral judgments. You know damn well I’m sympathetic, Brad.”
There was silence for a few moments, then a sigh. “Sympathetic, I don’t know. But you kept your mouth shut. How much do you know, anyway?” The tone was cautious.
“Only what I’ve read in books. Good and bad opinions, some terms, and a fair idea of what goes on. That’s it. I skipped the porn, figuring that wasn’t real.” Calder kept his voice cool and clinical.
“Man, you have a lot to learn, but no more than the average newbie. Only problem is you fall under the general and hated category of R.E.P.O.R.T.E.R. You have no idea how many of my friends cherish their privacy.”
Calder had to chuckle at Brad spelling “reporter.” But he got the point. “I can make some fair guesses. Look, I’ll go incognito. I’m there to observe. Maybe ask some questions.”
“Let’s get something straight. You don’t ask reporter-type questions. If you think you’re treading on thin ice, you come to me.” Brad’s hard tone softened. “I know you. You’re like a bulldog and you won’t give up. You’ll just find another source. I’d rather have you under my own eye than worrying you’re going to blow the lid off the community.”
That was fair. Calder understood the need to keep a dangerous unknown under personal observation. “Okay, I can deal with that. Do I need lessons or special clothes? How long do I have to get ready?”
“I’m getting to that. Keep your shirt on. And that’s the first rule. You come in street clothes, dress casual. Jeans and a tee shirt. I want it clear you’re not there to play. We get casual observers who are just curious all the time, so that won’t be remarkable. No recording devices, not even a notepad, got it? In exchange, I’ll go over all your observations with you and answer any questions Sunday.”
“Deal. When and where?” Calder breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want to waste his precious savings on some weird-assed outfit just to fit in.
“Here at my place, Friday night. The party starts as early as seven PM, but there’s no sense in showing up before eight. The ball doesn’t start rolling until at least nine or ten. And don’t expect a lot of sleep that night. We don’t shut down until four AM at the earliest.” Brad dictated the address, not knowing or caring that Calder had a cop’s connections and could have found out on his own.
Calder let out a long, low whistle. “Nice neighborhood, pal. Maybe I should let you handle my royalties.”
“It works for us. Angie is an accountant now, too. Nursing was killing her.” Brad seemed to be relaxing, probably glad Calder hadn’t argued.
“Yeah? You got time to tell me about your life since we graduated?” Calder leaned back in his desk chair and prepared to catch up on lost time.
* * *
Kelly rubbed the bridge of her nose and tried desperately to keep her mind on her appointment book. She had a monster headache brewing, and the worst was yet to come.
She still had to call Michael and remind him about the PEP meeting. “People Exchanging Power” was the best of the local BDSM clubs, and she’d be damned if she’d be late and miss seeing a few friends.
The German-accented voice on the phone gabbled in her ear, reminding her of what she was supposed to be doing. “Yes, Mr. von Stein. I have you down for Thursday evening at your usual hotel. I’ll call you from the lobby. See you then. Good night.” She put the phone headset on the desk. That anachronism of a desk phone had saved her a lot of trouble. Clients were given her land line number, not her cell. That gave her a small measure of privacy.
Herman von Stein was a favorite client. He didn’t ask for much, just the chance to have dinner with a woman, and a little bondage. Easy stuff. She had a new knot for him too. Angie’s birthday gift of a Boy Scout handbook of knots was being put to good use.
Kelly stared balefully at the phone. “Better get this over with,” she muttered. If she were very lucky, she’d leave a message on Michael’s voicemail and be done with this unpleasant task.
No such luck. Michael answered on the second ring with an eager, “Yes, Mistress? How may I serve?” Kelly swore he stared at the phone like a vulture, and only read the caller ID to avoid bill collectors.
“Michael, I remind you that the PEP meeting is this weekend. You make me late again, and your punishment will be infinitely worse than kneeling on rice grains, bound and gagged for two hours. I don’t care how much of a pain slut you think you are, you didn’t last long, did you?”
A small catch of breath, then a subservient, “No, Mistress. I did not last long. I will be ready, Mistress.” He’d probably been hoping she’d forgotten how he’d forgotten to take a bath and she’d been forced to order him to take a shower before she would take him to the last PEP meeting. What was it about males and bathing?
She’d threatened to leave him and go alone, but he’d whined and begged until she’d given in. He’d been sorry when she’d borrowed a handful of uncooked rice from Angie’s kitchen and made him kneel in it while she played with others right in front of him.
Then she heard the telltale “blip” of a computer game. He was playing a game while, in theory, taking instructions from his Mistress. That was against the rules, and he knew it.
“Michael! I heard that.” Her voice was low and dangerous, as was expected. He did it on purpose, the little bastard. He liked being punished so much he went out of his way to be a brat and force her to concoct more and more elaborate ways to discipline him.
Well, she wasn’t falling for it this time. “You’re not giving me the proper attention. I have nothing more to say to you. Your chastisement for tonight and the next twenty-four hours is… nothing. Do not call here, and do not show up. Goodbye.” She slammed the handset down on the receiver with satisfaction. You couldn’t hang up on someone so firmly with a cell.
She looked up to see her housekeeper striding in the doorway with a fresh cup of coffee. Sadie’s head was down, but she was grinning from ear to ear. “That’s telling him, Mistress,” Sadie murmured as she put the fresh cup down and removed the old one.
Kelly stared for a moment, and then began to laugh. “And so satisfying! Accept no calls from Michael tonight, Sadie. No messages, either.”
On cue, the phone began to ring. A glance at the caller ID showed Michael had gotten over his shock and wa
s now disobediently dialing frantically. Sadie snickered.
“And I’ll be sure to check the peephole before I answer the door. He won’t bowl me over like he did last time.”
Kelly closed her appointment book. It never left the desk surface, but every sub she had knew better than to touch it. All except Sadie, who acted as personal secretary if there was a need.
“You’ve got a meeting with the Dommes-in-training tonight, Mistress. Shall I arrange the drawing room suitably?”
“No, tonight we will be in the dungeon. There’s to be a demonstration,” Kelly said with a smile of pleasure.
“Oh, Mistress! How delightful! On whom? What shall we be doing?” Sadie’s eyes shone with anticipation. It was part of her pay to be a demo model. Her swarthy skin was perfect for demonstrating certain skills to perfection.
Kelly grinned. “You and Devon, of course. Wax play tonight.”
Sadie flashed that bright smile that had made her a model in her younger days. “Wonderful! I’ll go get the warmer on and see to it Devon eats before I set it up. He’s too skinny. Mistress Tawny will bring him, as usual?”
“Yes. Now, I’d better go finish braiding that new whip.” Kelly got up and brushed eraser bits off her jeans.
Sadie looked with a jaundiced eye at Kelly’s ripped jeans and bright red tee shirt that had “Bitch” emblazoned on the chest. “You’d better make it quick. You sure can’t demo in that. You’d swelter.”
Kelly laughed and snatched up her coffee before heading to the garage workshop where she created her equipment. “I’ll be wearing the green corset and tap pants tonight, Sadie. And wait until you see the new bustier I’ll pick up from Master Tim’s tomorrow! But today, I’m comfy. Call me at five, would you?”
Kelly scooted through the kitchen, sniffing at the roast in the oven. Her secret depression grew worse, and with no one to see her, her shoulders slumped. She glanced with longing at the perfect kitchen she’d designed.
When Denny had been alive, all subs went home at five PM, sharp. Kelly spent many a late afternoon “making messes,” as Denny called it. They’d eaten at the little bistro set sitting forlornly in the corner. Now, with no one to enjoy her cooking, she’d allowed the subs to take over and feed her as part of their duties.
“Someday, I’m going to bake a sinful chocolate cake, and have someone to eat it again,” she vowed. Then she stormed into the garage to take her frustrations out on an innocent set of leather strips.
Chapter Two
The beatings had already commenced. She could hear the faint beat of rock music through the floors. “Damn!” Kelly muttered to herself. “I do not like being late to the PEP meeting!” The Saturday PEP events were her one night a month to relax.
“I’m so sorry, Mistress,” whined her submissive, Michael. The short, skinny blond trotted after his Mistress, panting as he carried his own light gym bag and her much larger, heavier suitcase.
“Yes, you are!” Kelly snarled. “This is the third time you couldn’t manage to get your shit together for a scheduled monthly party. What the fuck is your problem? You can’t read a calendar, all of a sudden?”
“I got distracted, Mistress.”
Kelly descended the stairs of the mansion, heading toward what might be loosely termed a basement. She’d come screaming up the drive in her Lexus parked, and had thrown the gear bags at Michael. Her feet, properly shod in high heels, already ached from that run up the steps and through the doors of her best friend’s home in Cherry Hills. “Yeah, yeah, I know what distracted you. One of your idiot video games. Put a fucking alarm clock on your desk!”
“Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress. That’s a good idea. I promise!”
Michael was puffing like a freight train, Kelly noticed. What made her choose a skinny, brainless subbie like him, anyway? Well, maybe not brainless. To be fair, he was a computer geek who could do amazing things on anything that had a keyboard. But give him anything more complicated than a mechanical pencil, and he’d hurt himself.
And he didn’t have one whit of common sense. None. She had to call him twice daily to remind him to eat, or he’d call her for the dumbest reasons. And he managed to find the most inconvenient moments to do so! Last night it had been how to cook himself a steak. A steak, for Chrissake.
Michael finally reached the bottom of the stairs and waited subserviently for Kelly to choose her spot. The dungeon was full tonight. The huge basement of her best friend’s mansion was filled to capacity. Luxuriously paneled in dark woods, the main portion carpeted, the room gave the ambience of the most posh dungeon possible.
Every armchair and wingchair housed a Dominant with at least one submissive serving every need. Well, except sexual needs, of course. “Get a hotel room!” was a frequent cry if someone got too explicit in public.
To Kelly’s annoyance, at first it appeared as if every booth was taken too. She shot Michael a look that should have flayed him worse than anything she’d ever given him. He wisely kept his gaze on the floor, but his whole demeanor was one of satisfaction. He thought he’d paid her back for ignoring him. He’d find out soon enough she played revenge games better than he.
Finally, Kelly found an open booth with a nice St. Andrew’s cross. Bless her, Angie was sitting in the chair of that booth, waving. With a sigh of relief, Kelly made her way through the crowd, avoiding swinging floggers and hot-eyed Doms with a keen nose for self-preservation.
Michael, naturally, got stuck trying to carry his load, and would be a few more moments before he deposited the bags and began setting up her toys for the night’s pleasures. Kelly rolled her eyes skyward as a yelp let her know he’d not been as adroit avoiding floggers.
Angie, understanding pal that she was, just shook her head. “You need to dump that loser. He’s a leech, not a subbie.”
“I know, Angie. You got any suggestions?” Kelly sighed as she took off her jacket. The usual whistles and catcalls at the sight of her new leather bustier got the usual response of one finger skyward, which was followed by a smattering of laughter.
One enterprising and brave fellow yelled, “When?” in response to the finger.
Kelly ignored him.
“Daaaaamn!” Angie exclaimed, admiring the vivid red hourglass shape symbolizing the black widow emblazoned on the bustier. “You weren’t kidding when you said it would be special.” Kelly did a slow turn to allow Angie, and not incidentally the crowd, a chance to admire. After all, she had a rep to keep. She smiled at Angie, who winked at her.
Michael finally made it through the crowd and dumped the bags unceremoniously on the floor near the cross. Fortunately, he had this routine down pat and managed to get her toys laid out in good order. He snapped on his collar and stood waiting by the cross for his Mistress.
“At least you never fucked the twerp,” Angie consoled in a soft whisper. “Let me scope around and see if there’s one of the Gorean Mistresses around. That would sort his ass out in a hurry.”
Kelly laughed and shooed Angie out of the booth. “You know I don’t have sex with my subs. I got a rep to maintain!”
“And when was the last time you did a horizontal tango with anyone?” was Angie’s parting shot while Kelly threatened her best friend with a flogger.
Clamping Michael with his back outward, Kelly got to work. This wouldn’t take long, and then the wuss could rest while she found a playmate to give her a real workout. Maybe that long, lean fellow in jeans watching her with blazing eyes.
* * *
Calder, his arms folded, leaned up against a convenient wall, and nudged his host. “Who’s the brunette with long legs in the leather bustier?” The tiny black shorts and leather top left little to the imagination. Not that he blamed her for wearing as little as possible and arranging her hair into a short, sensible braid. It was hotter than the nine hells in this tightly packed place.
Brad waved at his wife Angie as she flitted about the room making sure all was safely played before answering. “Oh, that’s the
Black Widow. That’s what they call her. Used to be a professional Mistress before she retired.”
“Retired? She looks like she’s maybe thirty.”
Brad nodded. “Thirty on the nose. When you make $300K a year, you can retire in less time. I should know. I’m still her accountant. And her husband had a hefty insurance policy when he died. Left her with a paid-off house, two cars, and some nice municipal bonds. Poor bastard. Died of cancer.”
“So, what does she do now that she’s… retired?” Calder asked. His reporter’s mind was taking in a thousand bits of data, but this one just didn’t want to file itself. There wasn’t a word to describe the Black Widow, except lush. Everything about her was almost too much to handle. He felt his jeans tighten just looking at that body poured into bits of leather and string.
Brad just chuckled. “Takes a few private clients left over from her pro days, mostly, if what you mean is work. She also volunteers at the hospice. Hard to imagine the most famous Mistress here in town running around emptying bedpans, but that’s what keeps her happy.”
“Think she’d let me interview her? It would mean a lot to my piece.” Calder was intrigued. So, that was the infamous Black Widow, who was whispered about in every man’s group when the subject of kinky sex came up?
Brad tipped back his head and guffawed. Not that it affected the swirling mass around him. The heavy metal rock music pounded so loudly, even his hearty laugh was drowned out. “Not bloody likely! Widow keeps to herself, talks when she pleases, and your profession alone is enough to scare off half the people here. I snuck you in here with the deal that you’d mention no names, and no pictures. Why don’t you observe for awhile?”
Calder nodded his agreement but wandered closer to the Black Widow’s booth before taking up a position in one of the chairs scattered throughout the dungeon. Hard to believe his old college buddy was into this, but the evidence was all around him. He’d promised no paper, no recording devices, just his trained memory, and he’d stick to it.