by Hayley White
Brooke withdrew with careful consideration and very soon after, released Ever’s bonds. He helped Ever stand and they flopped on the floor against the wall in mutual depletion. Brooke sighed expansively. “My God, you’re incredible.”
“True,” Ever rejoined, smiling.
Brooke shot her a look. “And insolent! Spoiling for another whipping?”
“That would be nice,” Ever said, “but rest would be more practical.”
Brooke laughed. “You’re insatiable!”
“Blame Stroud,” Ever said.
Brooke laughed again then quieted. “I wish I’d found you first...” he said in another tone.
“Oh, Brooke, you’d wear me out in a week.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
“You underestimate yourself. The trouble is, you’re getting a little too good at all this.”
“Do you think so?”
“Oh God, do I have to tell you?”
“Well, actually, I’m a beginner.”
“I understand. In a way, I am, too. Stroud’s taught me so much.”
“And me. I’m just so grateful he was generous enough to share you with me. Grateful to you, too.”
Ever smiled gently. “That’s a lovely thing to say.”
At that moment Brooke wanted to kiss her. Ached to. “Well, it’s true.”
Ever gave a single nod. She was rubbing the chaffing caused by the manacles.
“Here,” he offered. “Let me get those off.”
Ever extended her wrists and Brooke removed the manacles.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll help you clean up.”
Together they tidied up the room, then Brooke tucked Ever into Stroud’s bed, turned off the lights and let himself out.
Before sleep took her, Ever reflected on the night’s events and the success she’d achieved with Brooke. She smiled to herself in the dark. Yes. She felt pretty darn good about that. It was the quietest night’s sleep she’d had since Stroud had been gone.
Chapter Twenty Six
For the first two weeks Ever slept in Stroud’s bed. She spent as much time in the house as she could, clinging to the vapors of Stroud’s presence. Eventually, though, she had to abandon the hope that he’d return within a few days. He was gone and, judging by the tone of his calls, the absence would extend for several more weeks.
The emptiness of the big house was starting to accentuate rather than soothe her loneliness. It was difficult to stay organized, running back and forth, and she finally decided it was time to go back to her own place full time.
She cleaned out the refrigerator and reluctantly put Stroud’s bed linens in the laundry, knowing the last traces of his scent would be washed away. She would lock up the big house, stopping by daily to check on things and pick up messages, and tell Stroud to call her number from now on. It was the sensible thing to do. The adult thing.
The adjustment didn’t take long. Ever’s independent nature soon came to the fore and within a week she had swept the vestiges of her temporary desertion from her own home and was resettled into a comfortable routine. She got back to work in earnest on her novel, which she knew would please Stroud.
Now in sync with Ever’s hours, Brooke turned up with increasing regularity and their alliance gradually took on a new dimension. He sometimes found her on Stroud’s back patio in the afternoon, the briefcase she used to carry to work beside her chair, papers scattered over the table – papers he noticed she always flipped face down when he arrived. Any questions regarding those papers were met with blushing evasiveness which only amplified his curiosity about them. Short of seizing them by force, he had not yet figured out a way of getting a look at them.
He pointedly leaned an elbow on a small stack of these papers one afternoon, cupping his chin in his palm.
“So, what’s new in the world of Mistress Ever?”
“I’m thinking of getting a car.”
“Really! You have a license?”
“Got to get that, too,” Ever said with a wry smile.
“It could help.”
“No doubt.”
“What kind of car are you looking for?”
“I’m not sure. I was rather swept up in the whole car thing as a teenager, but I lost interest years ago. What I’d like is something compact, reliable and economical. Probably a domestic make.”
“What about a Ford Escort?”
“An Escort?”
“An ideal little car for you.”
“Think so?”
“Yeah. But first some driving lessons.”
“Right.”
“You free on Saturday?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll come by. Take you out.”
“You want to give me driving lessons?”
“Why not?”
“You’re sure about this?”
Brooke smiled broadly. “I’m game, if you are.”
***
He turned up at eleven o’clock on Saturday – driving a white, two-door Escort.
“Where did you get this?” Ever asked, climbing into the passenger seat.
“Borrowed it.”
“Dare I ask from whom?”
Brooke only grinned.
“Well, you did explain the purpose of this ‘loan’ to the owner, I hope.”
“Oh sure. No problem,” Brooke replied, not convincing Ever at all. “I thought it best you get a feel for the car you’ll eventually be driving,” he explained, pulling away from the curb.
“Well, I do appreciate it. I don’t think I could see over the steering wheel of your car,” Ever conceded and Brooke laughed.
He drove several miles out of town into the country where the roads were flat and relatively traffic free, before allowing Ever behind the wheel. With no assistance from Brooke, she readjusted the seat, the side and rear view mirrors and started the engine, before she paused.
“Now, how do we get this thing in gear?”
“Put the car in drive.”
Ever glanced down at the stick shift. “That would be ‘D’?” she guessed.
“That’s right.”
“And what’s the ‘D’ with the circle?”
“Overdrive. That’s more for long distance driving. Drive is better for stop/start city driving.”
“I see.” Ever gripped the shift handle and pulled. It didn’t budge.
“Press the button at the side,” Brooke suggested.
“Oh,” Ever said, depressing the button and shifting into overdrive.
“Now, release the hand brake,” Brooke instructed but Ever had already done so.
Before releasing the brake pedal, she turned to Brooke with a crafty smile. “Nervous?”
“Now, when have you ever seen me nervous?” he retorted.
Ever chuckled and pulled out onto the open road. She handled the car conservatively but with surprising finesse.
“You’ve done this before,” Brooke guessed.
“Yes,” Ever admitted. “It’s been a long time and, of course, they drive on the other side of the road in Australia.”
“You’re just full of surprises.”
“Of course.”
“How do you like the car?”
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she? And this automatic transmission is a dream.”
“You’ve never driven an automatic before?”
“First time.”
Of course, Brooke didn’t let on but he was relieved. Although genuinely happy to assume the role of Ever’s driving instructor, he’d anticipated a harrowing experience. He’d been wrong about that, as he had about so many things concerning Ever.
They had a delightful afternoon. Brooke was a surprisingly patient and insightful instructor. Due to Ever’s modicum of prior experience and vehicular knowledge, he was able to clue her in on more advanced defensive driving techniques. Ever handled the car with confidence and initiative and he could see that she would make a fine driver.
He allowed her to drive most of the way ho
me, only taking over when conditions were complicated by routing and heavier traffic flow.
“This is what worries me the most,” Ever confided, climbing back into the passenger seat. “Dealing with heavy traffic, squirrelly drivers and finding my way around.”
“All that will come with practice,” Brooke assured her. “We’ll start with the immediate neighborhood and radiate out. You’ll soon get the hang of it.”
“I hope so. This town really scares the hell out of me.”
“Come on. I didn’t think anything scared you,” Brooke said and they both laughed.
Chapter Twenty Seven
Brooke dreaded Friday nights almost as much as the working man looked forward to them. The night when the very darkest side of the underworld should freely emerge in all its corrupted radiance was invariably neutralized by the presence of tourists from the work-a-day world who so rarely showed their faces after dark between Sunday and Thursday. Family men from the suburbs, out with their wives; escapee yuppies; desperate singles, and fresh faced teenagers – dressed to kill, their eyes glazed by the latest drug and the flash of neon.
On Fridays Brooke usually stayed home, keeping company with a few beers and the small army of psychologically tormented profilers who had lately invaded the TV air waves to investigate the most bizarre and evasive serial killers their demented creators could dream up. Although, strictly speaking, Brooke was above it all, he knew how the swamp really smelled.
But tonight the hound had slipped its leash. He’d been driving around for hours. He passed all the usual haunts, stopped at none, and ended up here. He killed the headlights, the engine. The dashboard clock read midnight. The last of the diners were just leaving the restaurant. Ever would be a few minutes more. Time enough for him to reflect on the forces that had delivered him to this point.
How odd that he should be sitting here now, a rich independent man with nothing but options, so excited at the prospect of seeing a woman who did not even belong to him. A woman whose heart he had no hope of winning, or even stealing. The magical Ever – the mistress, the slave, the mouse. He’d never imagined being so moved by someone like her. But then, neither had he imagined forming an alliance such as the one he shared with Stroud. What kind of luck had that been?
Thoughts of Stroud brought Brooke’s Aunt Sally to mind. Sally was Brooke’s favorite in the family. Widowed at the age of forty-five by his Uncle Ted, she had taken her modest share of the family fortune and opened an art gallery in the original family mansion overlooking the ocean, not far from Ever’s old neighborhood.
There was hardly one square foot of land in that shore town that had not at some time been under the influence of his family. The influence was still extensive and just walking those streets gave Brooke a sense of power and security, if not belonging.
Brooke had no particular interest in art, but he liked Sally who, now fifty-three, still retained the energy and outlook of a woman half her age. Something of a black sheep herself, Sally was Brooke’s emotional anchor to the family bedrock. And he liked the historical ambiance of the mansion, which always transported him to a plane full of light and color.
He was frequently drawn there under the self-imposed guise of ‘neighborhood watchdog’, to see what Sally was doing and lend what assistance he could to her bold and tireless endeavors. Among those wood paneled rooms he found solace, a retreat from the disorientation and emptiness that blighted the life he had chosen beyond the quiet shore town.
It was at the gallery he’d first met Stroud, a happenstance Brooke viewed as one of the most fortunate of his life. Stroud was there to oversee the delivery of some works he’d shipped in from Europe on loan for Sally’s spring showing.
Brooke was taken with him from the start. The tall, soft spoken man was cordial, engaging, and oh so European. Brooke was amused by Stroud’s quiet intensity in contrast to the effusive flamboyance of his aunt during their interaction over the arrangement of the display.
At that time, Brooke had little appreciation for the art itself, but he was not such a boor as to miss the enormity of Stroud’s efforts and generosity. The showing was a great success and, since then, there had been others.
Yet, it was months before the two men met again – under circumstances neither of them could have predicted.
At twenty-nine, Brooke was already jaded by party life. He had gradually become a loner with no close ties. A social maverick, he jumped classes with the casual expertise of an Olympic hurdler. Intrigued by everything, hungry for experience, he lived to the fullest, yet life eluded him.
From his modest condo on the west side of the city, he was in easy striking distance of just about any scene a man could desire. He was just as comfortable in a sleazy downtown bar as he was at the glitziest discos. He’d been to them all, but few of them more than once.
Like so many in this city, Brooke was a man with a wealth of contacts and a dearth of relationships. An abundance of opportunity and a deficiency in obligation. The good son on the sun burnished southern shore by day and a dark lone wolf, roving the north central streets by night. The product of unearned wealth, a recipient of unmerited respect. In part, Stroud had changed all that.
One dead end Saturday night, Brooke had allowed himself to be cajoled by a casual acquaintance into attending a private party that promised to be ‘entertaining’. Entertaining, indeed. Men dressed as women, women dressed in leather, and some dressed in nothing more than chains, tattoos or clothespins. People bound to chairs, tables, each other. One suspended by hooks from the ceiling. It didn’t take Brooke two ticks to figure out what kind of party it was, although he found it hard to believe some of the bizarre behavior he witnessed there.
Ever the outsider, yet always the curious observer, Brooke stayed on, drink in hand, moving from conversation to conversation, room to room, until he happened upon a scene that captured his interest.
The mansion was large and luxurious, fifteen rooms or more, in the hills above the glittering, gritty metropolis. There was a group of ten or twelve people gathered in a large vestibule with a marble tiled floor. Weaving toward the front of the crowd, Brooke spotted a slender young woman with black shoulder length hair – the centerpiece of the crowd’s attention.
The woman was nude and stood, her feet astride, between two marble columns to which her wrists were bound with coils of thick red rope. The white flesh of her back and buttocks was striated with wine red welts, resulting from the flailing of a long lashed cat-o-nine-tails. Her black hair lashed around her head and shoulders, keeping time with the strokes of the whip. Her gasps reverberated off surfaces of plaster, marble and crystal, in harmony with the strain of the whistling whip.
Brooke was mesmerized by the scene, captivated by the woman’s beauty in her bondage and stunned by the brutality of the act before him. He couldn’t see the faces of the woman or the man who brandished the whip, yet there was nothing anonymous about the scene. It was not personal but universal, and it touched Brooke like nothing ever before.
His consciousness transcended from questions concerning the welfare of the woman or the limitations of such endurance into pure savage elation. A sensation so psychologically erotic it was beyond need of analysis.
When the scene concluded, the ensuing silence was infused with the murmuring of praise from the gradually dispersing audience, and even a smattering of reserved applause. One or two observers approached the man to deliver their compliments personally, before melting away with the others.
Brooke, clutching his empty glass, stared at the woman, her head hung in apparent defeat, her precious flesh bearing marks that would surely last for days. He was hardly aware he’d been holding his breath until the male counterpart of this amazing duo released the knot of one red rope and it slipped loose, the bound arm dropping with it. Brooke’s pent breath expelled as though it, too, had been constricted by that same bond.
It was not until the man stepped around before the woman and pressed her loosed hand to his lip
s in salute that Brooke realized it was Stroud. A part of him told him to move, go now! Step away and mingle with the others before Stroud discovered him there, gawking like a schoolboy sneaking a peek at his sister through the crack in the bathroom door.
But it was too late. Stroud spoke a few soft words to his companion, then his eyes flicked up, spotting Brooke over her shoulder. It was apparent he recognized him, for he gave the slightest nod of acknowledgement before his attention reverted back to the woman. The spell was broken and Brooke was able to turn awkwardly away in search of another drink.
There were at least a hundred people at that party, and Brooke, inexplicably reluctant to leave, believed he could conceal himself amongst the throng. He was on his second refill since the flogging when Stroud came up behind him.
“How good to see you again,” he said in the soft cultured voice Brooke remembered.
Brooke wheeled around, cursing himself for remaining long enough to be caught. “Yes,” he stammered, not knowing how in the world to go on. “Where’s your companion?”
“Sabrina? She went home. She was tired.”
“Ah... And you stayed on?”
Stroud smiled engagingly. “Oh yes. Sabrina does not wear my collar. We’re merely acquaintances.”
“That’s how you treat your acquaintances?” Brooke blurted and suddenly they both laughed. “I’m sorry. That was a really stupid thing to say.”
“I thought it was rather funny,” Stroud said and Brooke was able to relax a little. “Do you need a refill?”
“Ah, no,” Brooke said, surprised to find his glass was once again empty. All night it seemed he’d been carrying an empty glass, but there was no doubt about the fate of the contents. He’d had enough for the moment.
A girl dressed in a French maid’s uniform came by, tray in hand. “Drink, sir?”
Stroud helped himself to a glass of champagne, while Brooke deposited his empty on the tray, his eyes following the girl as she moved on.
“How did you enjoy the scene?”
Brooke focused back on Stroud. “The scene?”