But Gail always paid Charlotte on time.
Charlotte flipped the phone open. “Hello, Gail.”
Gail’s brisk voice drilled into Charlotte’s ear. “Hi. How are you? I’m so glad you were available. I sent winks to all the Heartlink candidates. I sent questionnaires to the Connections ones. Nothing all week. No winks, no notes, no date for this weekend.”
Charlotte spoke carefully. “Was there something urgent you wanted to discuss, too?”
“That’s not urgent enough? You know the statistic. A woman over thirty has a better chance of being struck by lightning than getting married and having kids.”
“I don’t think that’s quite accurate.”
“Trust me, it is. It’s definitely getting worse as I get older. Thirty-six next week. Guys simply prefer younger women. Good thing I like older guys, huh? I just wish they weren’t so picky. Sometimes I don’t know why I keep looking.”
Charlotte knew exactly why Gail kept looking. Unlike herself, Gail still believed in love.
Gail added, “I sometimes wonder if he’s really out there. My Mr. Right.”
The rare wistfulness in the woman’s voice tugged at Charlotte’s heartstrings. “Okay, look. Everything will be great. We’ve barely scratched the—”
Gail cut her off. “Enough of the pep talk. I e-mailed you the latest batch.”
From experience, Charlotte knew what Gail’s irritated tone meant. It meant this would be a challenging session.
Charlotte would’ve rubbed her temples, but her arm was bent at an awkward angle to keep the phone in position against her ear. She cocked her head to the right, pinning Gail’s voice to a spot between shoulder and head. She liked to keep her hands free to type.
Time for Charlotte to say something sweet and enthusiastic. Gail sounded positively sour. “All right, Gail! Good job. I’m sure everything will work out. You’re a great catch for the right guy.” She tried to ignore Gail’s rude noise of exasperation. “You just need to be patient. Let’s see . . .” Charlotte typed on her notes, then clicked on Gail’s e-mailed list of men found online.
“Uh-huh. Yes . . .” Charlotte reviewed the images and profiles of handsome, young, rich, intelligent single guys.
Problematic.
“These seem awfully, um, athletic for someone like you. You’re an ‘unashamed homebody who enjoys lounging and cooking.’ That first one, Reggiedawg? He looks so conceited and tacky with his shirt off. He has a smug smile, don’t you think so? Hmmm,” she added as if she’d just noticed. “Most of them are your age or younger than you, Gail.”
“You think the guys I pick are too good for me, don’t you?”
“I didn’t say that. These just aren’t, um, they’re not the environmentally concerned, house-handy, pro-family, progressive, activist, children-loving, vegetarian type you want, mostly. But, he’s out there, somewhere. We’ll find someone wonderful for you. You’re smart, funny, you’re super cute when you wear feminine clothes that show off your curves—”
“I’m dyslexic, not stupid. I know my limitations. The guy has to have viable healthy sperm—nothing snipped yet—and not already be married, or bitterly divorced and done with having kids. That means younger. Otherwise I’d be looking at the older guys like I’d prefer. You’re supposed to help me with writing notes and flirting. You’re brilliant at that part, so let’s stick with what you know.”
Her words stung. “Whatever you say.” Charlotte’s cheeks hurt from keeping the smile on her face. Clients said they could hear it when she smiled on the phone. She was afraid if she let the smile drop even for a moment that Gail would hear her exasperation.
Everyone has burdens, Charlotte suddenly wanted to tell her. Even me. Especially me. I’m all alone, too.
Charlotte quickly rubbed her temples, even at the cost of a sudden small crick in her neck and an ominous small cracking noise from the phone. Her muscles and her nervous system always objected to Gail.
She’d nearly told Gail exactly what she thought of clients who assumed paying her meant they could treat her like a slave.
She had a low tolerance for people who treated her like a slave.
Every woman has a slave’s heart. Cory’s words rolled around in her head as if she were still gagged and bound at his feet and forced to listen to his feverish rants.
The ordeal had been her fault.
Charlotte raised her voice, made herself speak aggressively. A little more like Gail. “Didn’t you have a date over the weekend with ‘Spuntopping’?”
Silence for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, Gail laughed. “You remember how he’d written all about cooking in his profile? And we thought ‘Spuntopping’ was a kind of pie topping, and we came up with that clever line about cooking? Well. He meant an entirely different kind of topping.”
When Charlotte didn’t say anything, Gail explained. “Topping, in certain sexual circles, is the controlling activity of the person calling the shots in a sadomasochistic relationship. The so-called ‘top,’ or ‘dom,’ is the one who chains you up and whips you.”
That wasn’t exactly true, Charlotte reflected. Tops and doms did more than whip you. They tried their best to turn you into a slave-hearted woman who secretly craved to be conquered. And if he was any good, he succeeded.
She wished she didn’t know quite so much about S and M.
“Wow,” she said for Gail’s benefit. “Guess that date was a dud, huh?”
“What do you think?”
Something in Gail’s voice narrowed Charlotte’s eyes. “Was it a dud, Gail?”
“I suppose. There was no love connection with that guy. But . . .” Gail fell silent.
Uh-oh. “Not a romance then, but friendship?” Please let it be just friendship. Charlotte felt a ball of dread begin to form in her belly. “But what, Gail?”
“But it made me curious.”
Nature has designed a woman to know curiosity, to seek out and relish man’s mastery.
“Curious about tops and bottoms? No.” Charlotte found herself too startled for more than the simple denial.
“I know how it sounds. But I did some research. Did you know women can be tops? They’re called dominatrices. And there’s something called switches, people who switch from top to bottom depending on their mood, though there’s a contingent that believe switches aren’t a valid category.”
Charlotte stared at the phone. Gail sounded like an encyclopedia entry. She couldn’t truly be interested in the fetish scene. Or anyone in it.
But Gail continued. “I’ve found a dating site catering to the fetish crowd. I’ve made a profile,” Gail declared in her most stubborn voice. “I’d like to date some male bottoms and I need your help.”
“Okay. Okay. Oh, boy.”
“Will this be a problem for you?” Gail’s voice turned icy.
“It might be.”
“Really? And why is that?” Any icier and Charlotte’s ear would have frostbite. Her mind whirled.
Of the dozens, if not hundreds of normal online men they’d looked at together, none had triggered Charlotte’s X-rated movies on Gail’s behalf.
It wasn’t unreasonable, at this point, to explore fringe groups.
Gail did need Charlotte’s help. And Charlotte did need Gail’s money.
And none of it had anything whatsoever do with Charlotte’s ex-husband’s violent foray into BDSM. Her fingers crept again to the raised scar. Much healthier not to think about it.
Except that Gail was making her think about it.
“Gail, you can’t believe everything you read on the Internet. You don’t want to get involved with those sorts of people.”
“Explain yourself,” Gail demanded, her tone of affront all but singeing Charlotte’s ear. Icy to scorching in an instant.
Charlotte remained silent, intending for diplomatic restraint to showcase Gail’s own rudeness. Didn’t the woman hear herself being so pushy? Charlotte hoped she wouldn’t need to elaborate.
“I’m waiting.
”
Vain hope. “Okay,” Charlotte began, reluctance making her words slow and heavy. “There are many good men out there. Sweet, emotionally mature, funny, responsible men. Non-deviant men. Non–psychologically abnormal men who have dangerous ideas about pain. I’ve paired off dozens of men and women who consider themselves gender equals. We don’t have to bring sexual power exchange into the dating process. It’s not safe.”
“You said it might be a problem for you to help me with this. Why?”
Tension sank its pinching claws more deeply into Charlotte’s shoulders. Gail was putting her on the spot. Should Charlotte tell her? No. She’d never told anyone about that side of Cory. She never would.
She’d never even talked about it with Cory himself. No need to curdle their amicable split with recriminations.
She pressed the phone to her ear tightly and tried one last, token resistance. She smiled so Gail would hear it. “Bringing torture instruments into the bedroom sounds scary. Things could go wrong. Aren’t you worried about winding up at the mercy of some BTK serial killer?”
Silence.
Charlotte dared to hope it had worked.
Then Gail laughed again. “You so need to get out more. It’s not like that.”
Charlotte closed her eyes.
“And, there are a lot more attractive, available guys at CollaredNow. I want to do this. Can you go there? Now, please,” Gail added, as if Charlotte was a schoolchild needing constant firm instruction. “I have a list of possibles.”
Charlotte made her fingertips lightly tap the keyboard and she found the site. This was just the Internet. Nothing to be afraid of. In fact, Gail would probably get an eyeful of some hardcore bondage pictures, maybe see some photos of rope suspension or blood play. The woman would come to her senses.
Gail’s voice raced ahead of her, directing her on the unfamiliar site. “Let’s see. First one: ‘Master Martin.’ ”
With the memory of her own S and M experience fresh in her mind, Charlotte was prepared to eviscerate the candidate to disqualify him. Her arms hairs were raised, and the site’s accent photos of ropes, handcuffs, and spanking benches were giving her the heebie-jeebies.
So, she was more than a little surprised that when she pulled up “Master Martin” she had the sudden and visceral urge to keep him for herself.
She stared at his picture. Rich, dark hair allowed to grow unashamedly unkempt and long enough to brush his broad shoulders. A stubborn-looking face too masculine and irregular to be considered handsome—thick brows, large, slightly crooked nose, a lower lip fuller than the upper one but both lips too thin and long and sharply chiseled—but it worked on him. He didn’t smile.
He’d never be a model.
He listed “stern, compassionate dominance” as his favorite activity.
He was the most attractive thing she’d ever seen.
“Earth to Charlotte? Hello? Is your phone battery fading? Damn it, I reminded you last time to charge up for our sessions.”
Charlotte shifted the slender cell phone to the other ear, careful to keep the battery in place. She massaged her neck. She couldn’t tear her gaze from the image on the computer monitor. “No, I’m here. Gail, this one’s a dom. Completely wrong for you.”
“I don’t know. His About Me section is thoughtful and he’s articulate about seeking a true mate and friend, a complementary partner of the heart. What do you think?”
“I think you’re not complementary. You’re looking for a bottom, remember? Or at least a switch.”
“Yeah, but . . . there’s something about him.”
There certainly was.
Charlotte scanned. Aside from his obvious sex appeal, he was politically liberal, he wanted kids someday, he was handy with tools . . . “What about social responsibility? And he doesn’t say what he does for a living. And, he’s a dom. Red alert there. Dom equals bossy, bad, dangerous.”
“I want to write to this one.”
Gail didn’t understand. “You’re a feminist, even more than I am. Dom means dominant. Not just a top. Certainly not a bottom.” The idea of this man bottoming to anyone, much less to a belligerent Gail, made Charlotte smile.
Smiling, she found it easier to be professional. Master Martin wasn’t for either of them. “You know overbearing men drive you nuts.”
“They’re all fixers at this point in life,” Gail replied plaintively. “Just like I am. Thirty-five years old, not stylish or giggly, not a size-zero blonde. And, you know I have strong opinions.”
Charlotte barely kept herself from snorting at the understatement.
“Charlotte, you know I want to be pregnant like yesterday . . . that alone probably scares off ninety-five percent of men. And you know I’m not the easiest person to talk to sometimes.” Gail spoke with unexpected dignity.
Charlotte made soft demurring sounds.
“You know it’s true. So. Cultivating an interest in kinky sex? Not a big deal. Scoping out the weirdo dating sites to find Mr. Right? I’m not the hottest catch myself, so I can’t be picky. You should consider being more open-minded about these things.”
Charlotte laughed but immediately covered it with a cough. Gail might know herself neurotically well, but she still didn’t have a clue about some things.
Then again, what did Charlotte herself know? Last winter had seen her divorce from Cory finalized, and here she was with a dying business, single, and still dateless three seasons later. She told herself she was managing her life just fine, considering everything.
But the way her libido leapt into high gear just looking at “Martin” made her wonder.
Charlotte made herself think of Gail to get her mind off him. Gail, who was insisting on running into the lion’s den.
“Gail, please don’t be offended. Something just occurred to me. If having kids is the big priority for you, have you considered—just considered, mind you—the idea of artificial insemination?”
“No. I don’t want my kids to be fatherless. Let’s get me the date, please.”
Charlotte scrolled down. Martin seemed to smile mockingly at her.
“Okay. Okay then. If you want this one, we’ll get you the date. Just remember I advised you to stick to regular dating sites. You’ve wanted someone more . . . well, more bottomy. If we have to use terms like that. If we have to be on a site like that. Which reminds me, I’ve heard of a hot new site, Cupid’s Target, that’s really popular and getting great results—”
“Nice try.”
Charlotte had the thought she ought to feel grateful Gail was so impossible to match up. It was like having insurance.
“Okay, fine. Let me dash out a note to Martin.”
Gail’s silence acquiesced. Her dyslexia and self-admitted inability to flirt put the communication method firmly in Charlotte’s hands for first contact.
Charlotte wrote quickly, trying to avoid looking at Martin’s list of preferred sexual fetishes, but every so often her gaze drifted to it.
Belt spanking.
She imagined those curvy lips of his stretching into a sadistic smile as he brought his belt, still warm from being around his waist, sharply down on her bare ass. Not Gail’s stubborn ass. Her own, more amiable ass.
Clamps and clips.
Her imagination fired again. Martin tugging gently on the nipple clips affixed with clawed edges, causing a sharp yet delightful shiver of wanting to zing through her body.
Play toy making.
He made his own sex toys? What sorts of toys? Whips? Dildos? He was good with his hands. Charlotte’s eyes narrowed in pleasure, imagining those hands manipulating instruments of torture and ecstasy. Working on them, working on her, using them on her. Perhaps a handmade cane. Perhaps just his hand.
Consensual non-consent.
Charlotte’s fingers stuttered on the keyboard, forcing her to delete and retype. Holy crap, he was into rape play?
Martin immediately flung her down onto a bed, ripped off her panties. He raised a mocking
eyebrow as he waited for her to call a safe word. When she didn’t, he pried her legs open.
The violent, visceral images filled her mind like the dirtiest of movies.
Starring her. With a man who had a face. Finally.
Charlotte swallowed, watching the first full X-rated movie with her in it. She experienced everything as if she were there.
Martin spit on his hand for needed lubrication, simply smiling at Charlotte’s tearful pleading for him to stop, then shoved his cock deep into her. She screamed, humiliated and hating the way her body throbbed while pinned under his. He thrust deeper, his face twisted into a bestial grimace of pleasure.
The fantasy was so real she could smell their sweat and hear the slap of his body and the thud of the bed hitting the wall.
She made a galvanized movement. Her laptop crashed to the floor.
“Okay, okay, okay. Shit, damn. Okay.”
“What’s the problem this time?” Gail asked.
Charlotte’s vision cleared. She carefully picked up the laptop with one hand, keeping the phone to her ear.
She grimaced, stunned by the force of her reaction. Horrified by what it meant.
And annoyed by the interruption. “Not a thing. No problems here. This note to Martin is done . . . proofreading now . . . and, sending it to him. I copied it into your in-box like always.”
Charlotte shifted uncomfortably. She wished Martin were in her in-box. Flashes of her fantasy were enough to keep her wet.
She forced her fingers to remain on the keyboard. She put a smile on her face. “What do you think of the note?”
“Wow. This is pretty aggressive. Are you sure? We’re giving him my telephone number right away? ‘I’m very attracted to you’? And this, ‘I could be the complementary partner you’re looking for, so please call me at your earliest convenience’?”
“Have my notes ever failed to get you a date?”
“Well, no, but—” Gail proceeded to pick apart the note, second-guessing each line.
Charlotte listened patiently. Eventually she heard what she’d expected to hear. “Is that your call-waiting?”
“Huh. Yes, it is.” Gail clicked over without a word of thanks.
Charlotte took the opportunity to straighten her phone arm, then rolled her neck to get the cricks out. She sagged, tired suddenly. She stared at the crease where her jeans-covered thigh met the firm sofa.
Rough Play Page 2