He needed the money he’d make from selling Subspace to Amethyst, plus the money from selling his share of Pavlov’s Pet Joy. His mother’s third recurrence of cancer was operable, fortunately, but the additional medical bills would break her if he didn’t help.
If he didn’t figure out something soon, he’d have to raise the money by selling the sweet house he’d finally bought.
Though maybe that wouldn’t be all bad. He’d had the thought lately the modern mansion, private and set back on rolling grounds encompassing five lots, might be too big for a newly successful single guy like himself. He didn’t enjoy rattling around in it alone lately. He kept busy, but . . . somehow he hadn’t realized just how lonely he’d been until his encounter with Charlotte.
If he found out the identity of the coward who delivered his threats out of those different cell phones—one phone mailed to him per evening, all within the past month—he’d show him pain. He’d show him suffering. He knew exactly where to push and strike and pierce and twist for maximum agony.
Martin bared his teeth. Once per evening came the same bloody call at the same bloody time with the same bloody threat: Sell by the deadline, or else.
Less than a week remained. Martin had collected a motley pile of phones. Stolen probably.
He again felt the temptation to turn them in to the police. He reminded himself, again, that it would only result in those perverse-looking photos going where he wanted them least. Richard Corvine, the hand-picked business partner with his old money and old-fashioned morals, might even have a heart attack when he saw those photos.
Martin closed his eyes to slits, feeling his mouth compress to a tight line. He wanted to sell Subspace to Amethyst for a fat profit.
She was willing. She deserved it.
And he deserved the money.
It wasn’t just about money, either. He’d looked forward to unloading the club for a while. The place was too popular now, crowded and trendy, too complex with petty drama compared to the gathering place he’d begun. No more ownership responsibilities meant finally playing like everyone else did. Playing with toys he made himself, adult toys, and actually using them rather than only demonstrating their use, then watching while everyone else had fun. No longer would everyone insist on treating him like an all-knowing Godfather figure, responsible for every little thing. He’d be responsible for his own life and his mom’s happiness only, and that was all.
The less weighty lifestyle sounded like heaven.
He hadn’t told Charlotte the whole truth. It hadn’t been just his first time locked on that St. Andrew’s Cross. It had been the first time he’d played in his own club for as long as he could remember.
Far too long. He’d forgotten the exhilaration. Especially with someone as intriguing as Charlotte. How he’d like to give her the rough sex she obviously craved. Hot and straight up in every possible position until she came with tears in her eyes.
There was his stupid hard-on, back with a vengeance.
“Hey, Master Martin. Ratty’s being a douche. He’s freaking out over those new clamps of yours. Would you tell him it’s perfectly okay and I know what I’m doing—”
“Amethyst, shut up.”
His words cut her off as effectively as if he’d slapped her.
“What did you say?”
Martin didn’t have to look at her to see her outraged body language, her scowl. People didn’t talk to Amethyst that way.
“I said shut up. Look at me. Do I look like I’m in any position to mediate yet another conflict? Can’t people think for themselves for once and leave me out of it?”
“Sure. Fine. Sell me Subspace. I’ll make all your widdle responsibilities go bye-bye.”
“I wish I could,” he replied, hearing the harshness in his voice.
Amethyst’s vexation was evident. “Why on earth can’t you?”
“I already told you, it’s not under consideration anymore.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s not the answer you want. We don’t always get what we want.” Frustration was making a dick of him, and he couldn’t seem to control it.
She gazed at his spread-eagle position, at the bulge of his cock, and a small smile curved her lipsticked mouth. “Nope. Guess we don’t.” She started to walk away.
“Hey. Wait a sec. Hey!”
Amethyst kept walking.
This definitely wasn’t Martin’s idea of a good time. He pitched his voice to carry. “Ratty. Hey, Ratty.”
The bald young man looked to his right, then his left. “Me?”
Martin shrugged, making his chains rattle. “I don’t know of another Ratty, so yeah, you.” He smiled with a friendliness he didn’t feel.
“We haven’t met.” But Ratty approached, his coat glittering and swaying majestically, a small-framed and nervous prince. “You seem to be in a bit of a bind.”
“Amethyst was in a hurry to leave.”
Something flashed in Ratty’s eyes. “Evidently.” He looked away, seemingly at nothing. Then back. “As I said. We haven’t met. Officially, anyhow.” He stuck out his hand, grasped the tips of Martin’s fingers, and shook them gently within the wrist restraint. “Hi, Martin. Pleased to finally meet the club owner.” He spoke with a precisely enunciated, matter-of-fact selfconsciousness that Martin would have found fascinating under other circumstances. Ratty’s flowing garments—the draping coat covering long, wraparound cotton pants—didn’t disguise his frail body, but the lines bracketing his mouth put him nearer to thirty than the early twenties Martin had assumed. Amethyst liked her subbie boys young. And compliant.
He wondered why she kept playing with this one when it always ended in a fight.
Martin stared back, bemused. “The pleasure’s all mine.”
Ratty exhaled in a rhythmic snort that Martin realized after a moment was a laugh. “Ten minutes ago . . . sure. Pleasure. With Charlotte.”
Martin looked at him. “You know Charlotte?”
Ratty continued as if he hadn’t heard. “But now, maybe not so much with the pleasure? Let me guess. The lady left you. And now, you either want . . . to play with me?” Ratty gave an endearing smile. “Or far more likely, you want assistance getting down from your cross.” He tilted his head, looking everywhere but in Martin’s eyes. He examined the restraints. “I can help you with that last one.”
Ratty grasped and pulled on the first restraint. Martin heard the slip of leather and clink of the buckle releasing its grip. He pulled his wrist down. Ratty moved to the other wrist.
The light gleamed on Ratty’s bald head. Martin found his gaze arrested by the tattoos. Now he could see what really gave Ratty his club name. A daisy-chain of lovingly inked gray rats appeared to writhe, linked tail to feet to tail, all the way around his head: a tonsure of rats. The heavy ink and intricacy of detail made Ratty look as if he had hair on first glance.
“That’s okay, I can take it from there,” Martin said when Ratty dropped to his knees to release the ankle restraints.
“It’s no problem. ‘Well begun is half-done,’ and all that.” Ratty quickly finished. He glanced up, caught Martin’s stare.
“I usually wear a wig,” Ratty offered. “But here, I don’t have to hide. I can explore things about myself in an open-minded environment.” He gave a shy smile. “Guess I’m trying to say thanks for the opportunity to meet people like Amethyst. As frustrating as they can be.” He waited, obviously hoping for some inside information on Amethyst, then stood with a wry farewell smile and shrug.
Ratty turned to go.
“Hey, hold on a sec.” Martin kicked away the last restraint and looked toward the back tunnel where Charlotte had disappeared.
He had no intention of letting the woman get away.
At the same time, she might not respond well to Martin’s pursuit at the moment. She seemed to believe he had something to do with her friend Gail’s disappearance. She also seemed inclined to involve the police. Neither idea was acceptable
.
He turned to Ratty. “You’ve been more helpful than you realize, and I’m grateful. I’m ashamed, too, for not meeting you sooner. You’ve been playing with Amethyst for a while now. You two have an intriguing dynamic.”
“That’s one way to put it.” Ratty shifted from one foot to another. “She thinks I can’t top. She’s wrong.”
“Amethyst’s an accomplished switch. I’ve seen her go deep on both ends of the whip. But, it wouldn’t be the first time she’s been wrong.” Martin saw the way Ratty looked at him. “Oh, she’s my best friend in the world and she has a heart of gold. But she’s not perfect. Nobody is.” He grinned. “It’ll be fun to see you change her mind.”
“I’ve tried.” Ratty glared at a spot on the wall, making Martin follow his gaze. It was only one of the lighted stars. Ratty spoke at it. “She laughs at me.”
Martin looked at Ratty, evaluating. “I could put in a good word for you.”
Sure enough, Ratty’s gaze jerked back to his, full of interest. But his words were more cynical. “She wouldn’t believe it.”
“She might.”
“What do you want in return?”
“A favor. Something right away.”
When Ratty didn’t ask what, or react at all except to raise an eyebrow in inquiry, Martin’s estimation of him went up. With such control under his command Ratty might actually be a decent top.
“It’s nothing bad,” Martin assured him. “Let me lay it on the line. Charlotte—the brunette woman who was topping me—nobody tops me.” Martin stopped, marveling at what he’d just said. He’d actually let a woman top him. How strange.
He shook his head, continued. “Well, she got scared. Of me, possibly, or maybe something else. She ran that way.” Martin pointed. “I’m concerned about her, and I also have information she wants, but I’m not sure she’ll let me near her right now. Will you please tell her I’m harmless and bring her back?”
Ratty looked at him sideways. “Are you harmless?”
“Not completely. But I promise you I won’t do anything to her she doesn’t permit.”
Ratty seemed to consider it. He gave a brief nod. Without another word, he turned in a swirl of glittering clothes and moved with a sliding, self-conscious gait into the tunnel toward the third and final room.
Martin stared after him. Ratty was a strangely interesting man. No wonder Amethyst was intrigued.
He took a step and nearly tripped over the strewn restraints. “Oh, no.”
Traditionally, the grateful bottom usually cleaned and reorganized the equipment. Tonight that duty presumably fell to him. Martin muttered, stalking to the discreet cabinet filled with moist wipes and hand towels.
As he cleaned the too-lightly used St. Andrew’s Cross and its wrist restraints, he remembered Charlotte’s reluctant sadism.
The strong scent of disinfectant overpowered the basement smell of wood, rock, repaired water leakages, and thin tendrils of smoke from the upstairs smoke machine. Martin breathed through his mouth and made a mental note to order Subspace some different cleaning products.
He hoped Ratty fetched Charlotte, but not just yet. Squinting against ammonia-induced tears and wiping ankle restraints on his hands and knees was not the domly image he wanted to portray.
7
Charlotte stared at the woman in the bathroom’s graffitiscrawled mirror. Was that really her own image? Were those her wide, shocked-looking eyes? Charlotte was appalled.
The covered overhead light seemed a spotlight on the way her nipples poked the thin material of her sweater. The blushing red of the walls matched her parted, moist lips and flushed cheeks. She looked wanton.
She felt wanton.
“I want him.” There, she’d admitted it.
Not that it mattered. She’d learned her lesson.
She hated how she wondered whether Martin felt the same level of attraction to her.
She spoke sternly to herself. “You are supposed to be searching for Gail. You are in over your head. Maybe you should just call the police, let them find her. Yes, call them even though you don’t want to.” She nodded for emphasis. The woman in the mirror nodded back, with a look of sadness and regret.
Decided, Charlotte slowly opened the restroom door, letting music and cooler air in. She crept out. Martin wasn’t lurking in the narrow hall as she’d half expected despite her leaving him restrained.
When Rollie appeared before her with such stealth, she jumped. He’d seemed to simply materialize, blocking her path. “Hi, Charlotte. C’mon, Martin wants you.”
“Whoa!” She edged sideways, carefully in the opposite direction as Martin.
Rollie slowly kept pace. “Yeah. I saw you earlier. I know you saw me, too. This is a long way from Burger Town, isn’t it?”
She stopped. “I think you’ve said more words to me just now than in an entire day at work.” Her gaze kept being pulled to his baldness. There were tattoos on his head.
He shrugged. “Nothing personal. That job isn’t exactly a social outlet. Besides, I’m naturally quiet with people outside of the scene. Working at that place is just a way to save money for college.”
“Well, it’s not a career for me either, but I’m not completely antisocial.” Then she remembered she was, lately. Frowning, she added, “Don’t you get bored, off by yourself with nobody to talk to?”
“Do you? Oh, I see you make small talk, but that hardly counts. They’re not our kind of people.”
She started. “Our kind?”
“You’re here too, aren’t you?”
“Rollie . . .”
“Ratty. Here it’s Ratty.” He cocked his rat-tattooed head. “And your scene name is . . . ?”
“Still Charlotte. Just Charlotte. And I’m leaving. You never saw me here.”
“Goes without saying. But maybe you shouldn’t leave just yet. North Riverport is pretty far to go without a car. I could give you a lift in a little while.”
She stared at him. “How do you know where I live, and that I don’t have a car?”
“Uh. Well, you work at Burger Town, which is in North Riverport. And don’t feel, like, stalked or something. It’s just that I’ve seen you walking to work.” He waved his hand, nothing to see here. “Anyway, don’t leave just yet.”
“I’m leaving, and if you’re smart you’ll leave too. There’re dangerous things here, don’t you know that? Twisted and dangerous. Even that woman with the purple streak in her hair—Amethyst.” She was pleased to remember the woman’s scene name. “Even her. I can’t imagine that movie was right, that you’d enjoy her doing that stuff to you.” She recalled the pins piercing Ratty’s scrotum, and shuddered. “Ouch.” She gazed at him with empathy and confusion. If he wouldn’t enjoy it, then maybe her movies weren’t always accurate. “You wouldn’t enjoy her doing it. Not that.” Would he?
“Doing what to me? I’m not just a bottom to abuse at her convenience. She might think so, but I’m not.” His anger seemed inappropriate to Charlotte’s comment. Everything about this place threw her off.
Another reason she should leave. “Good-bye. Um, see you at work.” She rushed off before he could stop her.
She noticed he followed her as she turned left rather than right.
She made her legs pump faster, looking for an exit sign.
She flashed under an elaborate stone archway, then stopped short. There was no back staircase, here. She’d reached a dead end.
She jumped when he spoke to her. “Martin wants to talk with you. Says he’ll give you the information you want. Let’s go. I’ve got things to do. People to argue with.” Ratty tilted his head, pointing with it, his body language urging her to follow.
“You can tell Martin I decline his offer, because I don’t believe a word of it.”
“Sorry. I’ve exceeded message-carrying capacity.”
“Then he can hang there all night, for all I care.” She beat back a twinge of guilt. “I’m sure someone’ll undo the restraints if he asks ni
cely.”
Ratty jumped in front of her. “Someone did.” Ratty considered her. “I did.”
“You did what! I have to leave. Now.” Where was the exit?
She finally noticed the gray and dismal room around them. It belonged in another century. Large and lit only by dim, widely placed wall sconces flickering with bulbs made to look like real flame, the room appeared at first glance to be a storehouse of old furniture, clothing, and piles of dirt and debris. Hardly a dungeon chamber.
Or, was it? She approached a brick wall, with one small barred window placed low enough she had to stoop to look inside. She fingered the rectangular metal bars grown rough and pitted with age. Inside, she saw a single old chair sitting on hard-packed dirt within the small cage.
She slid her fingers back out, careful not to cut them on the metal’s edge.
What was this place? Piles of rubble and bedsprings, mostly shoved against one wall. Crumbled brick on the floor.
She approached a half-rotted wooden cabinet with its lid flung open. A porcelain-faced girl doll wearing a yellowed lace dress sprawled on her side within, limbs akimbo. Charlotte slowly reached inside, turned the doll slightly, then dropped it with a gasp. An empty, jagged black gouge replaced one glass eye.
Charlotte tore her gaze from the small cuts surrounding the eye socket.
In the middle of the room, a tall, sturdy wooden post penetrated deeply into the hard dirt. The large well-worn iron ring attached near its top gave mute testimony to victims fastened to it, possibly to undergo punishments far more primitive and vicious than could be found Martin’s modern club.
Or was this part of his club? The muted throb of bass could still be heard, but it was faint enough to allow other, softer sounds to register: surges of water in the exposed ceiling pipe and tiny rattles and scrapes of something small behind a wall. The air smelled of dust, iron, rotting wood . . . and rose perfume?
“What is this place?” Even her voice sounded different, dimmer, as if sucked into the cracks and holes in walls or absorbed by the dust and dirt. She drifted toward the middle post.
Rough Play Page 8