Rough Play

by Christina Crooks

  It had finally happened. Her own movie.

  And it starred a dom.

  Unthinkable.

  Maybe she needed to get away from Riverport. Get away from Martin and all he represented. Maybe the city was too haunted with memories for her to heal emotionally and sexually.

  Even as she thought it, she ground her teeth. Her bad luck and her perverse sexual fantasies weren’t the city’s fault, and she wasn’t going to run away.

  She thought she’d built a clean and hopeful new life post-Cory, but the buzzing between her legs at the very thought of the dominant Master Martin informed her how wrong she was.

  She closed her eyes to a slit, picking at the edge of a loose thread. The sofa’s cotton lining suddenly split, cheap foam filler bursting through. Charlotte flicked the foam onto the floor. Trashed. Like her neighborhood. Like her faulty libido. Like her willpower.

  She looked up and was captured anew by Martin’s picture. She felt hypnotized.

  When phone static told her Gail was back on the line, she jumped guiltily.

  “Hello? Hello, Charlotte? Anybody home?”

  “Sorry. I’m here.”

  “We have a date tonight!”

  Charlotte blinked at the photo of Martin. “Good.”

  “Don’t sound so worried. I’ll need a safe call. I nominate you.”

  “Nominate me?” Charlotte was used to Gail’s abrupt aboutfaces, but this one was new. “A safe call?”

  “I read about it online. It’s maybe not strictly necessary since I’ll be meeting him at a crowded club downtown, not going off alone with him. But it was recommended for the fetish scene, which is what this is. I’ll pay you for your time, of course.”

  “Of course . . . but, Gail. What exactly do you need?”

  “I don’t have any friends I can trust with this,” Gail said matter-of-factly. “One needs a person who’s aware of the meeting happening at a certain place, and who will expect a call at a predetermined time. A check-in, just in case. I don’t want anyone to know I’m meeting someone at Subspace—everyone knows that place’s reputation. So that leaves you.” She cleared her throat. “That is, if you don’t mind if I call you at nine tonight? I’ll pay you,” she repeated.

  Charlotte’s exasperation faded to understanding. Then, reluctant pity.

  She was nodding her head, but realized Gail couldn’t see it. “Of course. I’ll expect your call at nine. You should call on time,” she added pointedly.

  “Yeah, sorry about today. I lost track of time. I’ll pay you for the fifteen minutes I was late.”

  Charlotte wondered if Gail bought off all her troubles.

  She shook herself to get rid of the sudden inexplicable sourness bubbling in her. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, Gail. Only, I do want to go on record as telling you the fetish-scene approach is a bad use of your time.” Charlotte tried one more last-ditch effort to change Gail’s mind. She deliberately didn’t smile. “If you’re already thinking about safety calls and stuff like that, maybe it’s a sign you shouldn’t get involved with the S and M scene. Seriously.”

  “I don’t expect any trouble. I’m not getting any younger, you know. After all the dead-end dates you’ve gotten me over the last few months, I have to try something different.”

  Dead-end dates? Charlotte bit her tongue against protesting. She wanted to tell Gail it was Charlotte’s responsibility to land her the dates, not make the guys fall for her.

  She smiled instead. “Your boldness is admirable.”

  After a few more pleasantries—pleasant on her part, typically brusque on Gail’s—Charlotte flipped her phone closed with an exhale of relief.

  She snuck another peek at Martin before closing the computer, too. He’d dominate the hell out of Gail. He’d dominate the sensible khaki pants right off her.

  Charlotte grinned.

  Then her grin faded. Maybe that’s what Gail secretly craved.

  Foolish woman, Charlotte thought. Then wondered if she meant Gail, or herself.

  3

  He was dangerous, but the sweet young vanilla—Bambie was her scene name, and “switch” her stated sexual identity—didn’t know it, or didn’t care. She looked at Master Kartane as if he were chocolate, and she was starving.

  Accustomed to the reaction, Kartane gave her his most appealing crooked smile. His chosen scene name was Kartane of Gor. He liked to emphasize his Gorean mindset even though the other, less authentic Goreans at Subspace didn’t like him much and doubtless wished he’d go away.

  Which just broke his heart.

  His smile widened. He was approachable and sweet. He was at Bambie’s service. Until he put her at his.

  Telling the single fetish ladies he identified as a switch had been a stroke of genius. They all liked to imagine they’d be the one to use him in perfect safety, to play at submission, or to collar and command him if they felt like it.

  But Kartane didn’t believe in being commanded.

  He got hard remembering the look on each of their faces the moment they discovered their mistake. He enjoyed their begging, their tears. He loved the sight of red welts rising on pristine ass skin.

  Most sadists did.

  And Subspace, with its buffet of masochists, sadists, and switches, was the perfect place for kinksters to hook up with complementary play partners. It just wasn’t the perfect place for true Goreans like himself.

  Yet.

  He leaned across the table to give the hot little thing a whiff of his pheromones. “You keep looking at me with those big, innocent eyes, I might start to wonder what dirty thoughts you’re hiding behind them.”

  Amethyst suddenly swung down into the booth, her warm thigh pressed against his. “No need to wonder. She’s thinking the same thing I once did: what a sexy, great-looking guy. She has no idea what a pig you really are.” She smiled sweetly at him.

  Kartane controlled his fury with an effort. “I don’t recall inviting you to sit down.”

  Amethyst flipped up her middle finger, still smiling. “Sit on this, honey.”

  Bambie started to scoot away. “Maybe I should go. . . .”

  “Sit,” Kartane commanded.

  Amethyst also spoke to Bambie. “See what kind of macho bullshit you’ll put up with? He’s no switch, and he’ll never be a bottom, babe. And it gets worse, trust me. He’s a Gorean. Means he’s an oinker straight out of the fifties. Eighteen-fifties. Or whenever it was that men were cavemen and women were property. His wife left him for beating on her. Not the good kind of beating.”

  Kartane fought for calm. He addressed Bambie as well. “Amethyst, here, wishes she were a man, complete with penis.”

  “I don’t need a penis to complete me.”

  “No, you need one in your mouth to shut you up.”

  Amethyst presented him to Bambie. “See? Goreans should come with a sign or a tattoo or something so people know what they’re getting.”

  Bambie scooted off the seat. “Leaving now. Have a nice life, Kartane.”

  “You fucking bitch,” Kartane snarled at Amethyst.

  “You think all women are either bitches, or for fucking. When I own this place, you will so not be allowed inside.”

  “You won’t ever own it,” he snapped. “Not if I have anything to do with it.” Then he shut his mouth. He shouldn’t let anyone know his plans. Subspace was nearly his. The perfect location and the perfect recruiting ground. Stupid to jeopardize it by blabbing his plans. His gaffe in revealing too much increased his fury at Amethyst. “You really do wish you had a dick, don’t you. To mark your territory? Bitch like you’d piss down your own leg if you didn’t squat.” He heard the bitterness in his own voice, saw the others who’d gathered around their small booth, and knew he’d lost even before she delivered her zinger:

  “True. I don’t have two whole inches to point with like you do.”

  Kartane shoved her aside, pushed through the crowd with reckless disregard. He had to flee the battering explosion of laughter.
The taste of humiliation filled his mouth, thickened his throat.

  Clenched his fists.

  Kartane controlled his rage. Later, he promised himself. Soon, so very soon. The time for disciplinary hitting approached.

  He could wait a little longer.

  So many things frustrated him lately. Ever since realizing his Home Stone no longer resided in its customary place. And how long had it been before he’d even noticed? Weeks? Months? He’d snapped at people and been off his game from that moment of discovery.

  He supposed his frustration was only appropriate. Such a loss should naturally bother him. With his Home Stone gone, he’d lost his Gorean honor. It was as if the Priest-Kings were punishing him for his mismanagement of Charlotte.

  For his softness in dealing with her.

  He saw her every week when she visited Hoagie at what had been their home together. Soft feelings for Charlotte still infested him, he knew. Her kindness, beauty, and grace still had the power to render him unmanly. He couldn’t help remembering how uninhibited she’d once been with him. How eager to explore the realms of dominance and submission, pain and pleasure.

  He had her to thank for introducing him to S and M.

  He was pretty sure she had his Home Stone. It had to have been an accidental acquisition. He couldn’t imagine her willing to face his wrath over deliberately stealing anything of his.

  But when he’d called her the week before, she’d denied seeing the small flat gray rock with a G carved on its underside. He’d described it as a paperweight and let her think it was worthless, just a thing that had sentimental value. She replied she’d never seen it.

  She wouldn’t lie to him about such a trivial item, would she? During the divorce, she’d remained honorable and proud, not even asking alimony of him. All she’d accepted was a token sum to start her small business.

  And yet . . . most women were flaky, greedy, and devious. As he’d discovered over and over again before and after Charlotte, they lacked a man’s sense of honor.

  Perhaps Charlotte had discovered what the stone meant to Goreans and was punishing him by withholding it? He had to concede the possibility.

  Women.

  He didn’t belong in this feminized culture, he belong on Gor. Where men were warriors and women trembled in fear.

  He’d studied the biology of the sexes when Charlotte brought her sexual proclivities to his attention. She’d certainly opened his eyes, though not the way she’d expected.

  Real Goreans utilized simple Darwinism: The strong dominated and protected the weak. The natural system worked to everyone’s benefit. The misery all around him in the whole country—in this entire modernized society—showed how feminized relationships built on so-called equality made nobody happy for long. Frustration and alcohol addiction and misery for men. Anxiety and bitchiness and desperation for women. That was all the system provided. That was all anyone had to anticipate from the opposite sex.

  He was the enlightened one, thanks to Charlotte. Not that she’d known what she’d begun at the time, of course. The rising number of dissatisfied guys attending his Gorean meetings proved it. They were learning a better way. The Gorean way.

  Kartane knew what people needed, deep inside. He knew what they were because he’d once been one of them.

  Women like Charlotte would ultimately accept their inner desires. And women like Amethyst would grovel on their bellies, fearing the lash and living to please.

  He could still feel the lingering warmth of Amethyst’s thigh against his, but it was Charlotte’s accusing gaze in his mind’s eye.

  What was this emotion he was feeling? Guilt again? Shame for fleeing Amethyst? He dismissed the guilt and acknowledged the shame’s lesson. He shouldn’t flee a woman. Ever. Warriors had higher concerns. Such as the loss of a Home Stone. And the unacceptable state of feminine liberties.

  Kartane pivoted with a snarl, then headed back to Subspace.

  Charlotte didn’t immediately notice the buzzing vibration of her phone in her purse.

  Walking to work, putting together cheeseburgers for six hours, then walking to the supermarket, then carrying back two heavy bags of groceries as it started to rain . . . It made her legs hurt and her shoulder ache. It made her damp down her awareness of extremities and her mind just to keep from being depressed. But small spikes stabbed the center of her heels with each step despite her determination and her comfortable Burger Town work sneakers. By the time she neared home, she all but growled. As she hauled herself upstairs she bent nearly in half with strain, hunched and not caring she probably looked like a cranky, bedraggled old homeless lady.

  Who had the stamina for this? She wasn’t a teenager anymore. Or even in her early twenties. Adding insult to injury, the afternoon shift cadre of coworkers all sported the zits and youthful features of high schoolers. They flipped the burgers and dipped the fry baskets with far more speed and energy than she did. They treated her kindly at least. Probably pitied her for working fast food at her age. Even thin, shy Rollie had talked to her, and he barely spoke to anyone. He seemed a little older, a little more cynical than the rest. A possible friend.

  Getting to know him better might be one of the few compensations for working at Burger Town.

  Even so, the fast-food job had gone on entirely too long. It was supposed to be a stopgap, a way to get a few paychecks while waiting for the matchmaking business to lift off. If only she’d had more time, she knew her business would already be taking the online dating world by storm. No one else had X-rated visions that came true, after all.

  She hauled the bags inside and shut the front door. As she pondered which to do first, unload the groceries or revise her business plan again, she finally felt the vibration from her cell phone.

  Gail.

  Charlotte wiped off the phone with the dry inside of her jacket. The lingering scent of burgers puffed up from her clothes as she checked the caller ID, then tapped the batteries to make sure they were still lodged where they belonged. She flipped the phone open.

  “Hi, Gail. I’m glad to hear you’re safe. How’s the date going?”

  Static.

  Then, two thumps.

  Silence.

  Charlotte pressed the phone more tightly to her ear, but she heard nothing further. “Hello? Gail?” Charlotte waited a few moments, straining to hear something. Anything. Then she held the phone up to stare at it. Blank screen. A lost connection.

  She called Gail back.

  It went to voice mail.

  “Weird.” The sound of her own voice in the small apartment was a comfort. Her home stood guard, tiny though it was, against a world wanting pieces of her. Of her body, or of her peace of mind. What sort of game was Gail playing? She’d probably just fumbled the phone onto the ground. Or got distracted with someone else. Gail was occasionally rude that way.

  Charlotte redialed.

  This time she left a message. “Gail, this is Charlotte. You just called. Um, I guess the connection was dropped. Or maybe your phone ran out of juice.”

  Gail always kept her phone charged up.

  “Okay. Anyway, I’ll try to reach you again. Give me a call when you get this, please? Thanks.”

  The cold from her wet clothes began to seep into her bones. Charlotte shivered violently. Why had Gail wanted to get involved with those people anyway? No reason was good enough.

  The most likely scenario was that Gail had pissed off her date within the first few minutes, then stormed home. It had happened before. More than once.

  She huffed her impatience. The woman treated her too poorly to put up with this.

  Charlotte redialed. This time after the voice mail message, she added, “Call anytime. In the middle of the night is fine. Just a quick call so I know everything’s okay. Okay?”

  She pushed herself from the door, her aching muscles protesting. She skidded on a puddle of water. She threw her hands out to avoid a fall, and the phone nearly went flying. Her fist hit the corner juncture of the
living area and the kitchen bruisingly hard.

  She looked up sharply. “Okay, that’s enough for one day, don’t you think?” She spoke furiously to the cottage-cheese acoustic ceiling, but the only answer was a voice echoing from her past.

  Pain is an effective deterrent. A useful training tool for animals. And what is Woman but the most graceful and lovely of animals?

  “Shut up, Cory,” she muttered aloud.

  Charlotte pondered what to do. If anything. Gail was habitually inconsiderate. She often called late, cut short sessions, canceled at the last minute, and let Charlotte know in a thousand small ways she considered Charlotte a disposable employee.

  But she had her good points. Plus, Gail might be in trouble. Maybe. It was hard to tell.

  Charlotte flipped open her laptop. She typed in “Subspace.”

  The screen lit up with definitions.

  “Subspace (Star Trek), a medium for faster-than-light communications or travel.” Definitely not it.

  “SubSpace (video game), a two-dimensional space shooter computer game.” Also not what she looked for.

  “Subspace (BDSM), the psychological state of the submissive player in a BDSM scene.”

  Submissives secretly want to be slaves. Subspace is a slave’s Heaven, to be attained only when they please a master.

  All this BDSM stuff was triggering her unhappy memories of Cory. She fought against the sourness and unease that threatened to befoul her mood even further. Sure, things had gotten bad between them toward the end. But that part of their relationship was done. It couldn’t hurt her anymore.

  So, why were her arm hairs raised?

  Charlotte shook it off and typed in “Subspace BDSM club.”

  Bingo. “Riverport’s provocative fetish-friendly gathering place for socializing, dancing, ghost-hunting (on designated nights), and quality play in numerous subterranean dungeons. Subspace offers top-notch equipment, and our stern host, Master Martin, will welcome you and enforce safe and consensual kinky liaisons.”