Binding Agreement

by Pam McKenna

  He pulled up in front. “I assume you have a recipient in mind for all this pro bono work I’m supposed to be doing?”

  “My old college roommate runs a shelter for battered women in…well, the location is secret, of course, but it’s out here on the Island,” she said. “I volunteer there as a Spanish translator one or two days a week after summer school. John, they’re desperate for good legal help, but there’s no money for it. There’s barely enough to keep the lights on.”

  His sigh told her she was wasting her breath. “Kay, it’s not realistic, what you’re suggesting. I can’t just abdicate my responsibilities. My current caseload—”

  “Her name is Janet Carpenter, my friend who runs the shelter.” She dug in her purse for a pen. “Let me give you her number in case you change your mind. Tell her you know Kay Denehy and—”

  “No.” He closed his hand over hers. A smile touched the corners of his eyes in the dim interior of the car. “I can picture you with your special-ed students. You’re a problem solver. You think there’s nothing you can’t make right.” He squeezed her hand. “How I wish that were true.”

  Frustration gnawed at her. She gave a slow shake of the head, staring into his eyes. “And I thought I was afraid of change.”

  “You don’t understand,” he repeated.

  “I understand more than you think I do. More than you want me to, I’m sure.” She slung her purse strap over her shoulder and grasped the door handle. “I understand you’re so entrenched in your life as it exists that you can’t envision any other possibility for yourself. Meanwhile you push everyone away. Do you even socialize with friends anymore or do you spend all your free time alone?”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. She read the truth of it in his eyes. She let herself out of the car. “You don’t have to do that,” she said as he slid out from behind the wheel.

  “I am a gentleman,” he said, “even if I spent the last few hours doing some pretty ungentlemanly things to you.”

  Felicia the Cat glowered at them through the window from her customary perch on the wide living-room sill as John escorted Kay up the short flagstone path to her front door. She turned to cup his bristly cheek. His features looked sharper in the harsh glow of the porch light.

  “Tonight I learned about a whole part of myself I never knew existed,” she said. “You did that for me, John. Change is scary, but the rewards are worth it.”

  The subtext came through loud and clear, judging by his sad smile—it was his turn now. But he didn’t believe change was possible. Not for him. He leaned down and kissed her, a tender kiss of longing and regret. “You really are special,” he whispered before ushering her into the house and closing the door after her.

  * * * * *

  The dream was more real than real life. John felt the prickle of grass under his bare feet. Or under one foot—the other was crossed over his denim-clad knee. He sat on the threadbare plaid loveseat his parents had salvaged from someone’s curb when he was eight or nine. They’d done that a lot, driven around town the night before garbage collection looking for bottles to redeem for a nickel and cast-off trash to furnish their rented bungalow.

  For some reason, that old loveseat was set in a clearing in the woods that adjoined the bungalow. Sunlight filtered through the green canopy overhead. The woodsy scent of growth and leafy decay teased his nostrils. John had spent countless childhood hours exploring those woods. His dad’s creaky recliner was there as well, the vinyl upholstery cracked and mended with duct tape. Also one of the mismatched wooden kitchen chairs. Someone sat in the chair. John recognized him. It was Jack the Ripper.

  The Ripper wore a black top hat, black cape and a Victorian gentleman’s black frock coat and vest with a white shirt. His hands were encased in tight, black leather gloves. A gold chain winked in the dappled sunlight as he slid his watch out of its pocket and flipped it open. “She’s late.”

  “You’ll have to punish her,” John said.

  The Ripper was in his early forties, tall and robust. His light brown hair was trimmed short, as was his beard. A smile touched his hazel eyes at the mention of punishment. He was a handsome man. Confident. Charismatic. A man who starred not only in blockbuster movies but in the fantasies of his myriad female fans.

  His real name was Wyatt Shaw and he’d played The Ripper in last year’s Oscar-winning Best Film, a dark journey into the serial killer’s twisted soul. Wyatt was a former client. Seven months earlier John had defended the famous actor against felony assault charges after he’d savagely beaten a paparazzo outside a Manhattan nightclub.

  With sudden clarity John realized Wyatt was Jack the Ripper not just on the silver screen but in real life. It was Wyatt Shaw himself who had slain and mutilated those five prostitutes in the Whitechapel area of London in the fall of 1888. In the fluid realm of dream logic and timelines, it made perfect sense.

  How could John not have seen it coming? How could he have defended the man in court and not once suspected the evil he was capable of? Shame squeezed his chest like a fist.

  John found a glass of Scotch in his hand. The ice cubes clinked as he tipped it up and took a swig. When he lowered it Kay was standing in the clearing between him and Wyatt. She looked as she had when he’d first laid eyes on her, like a drowned kitten in her damp cotton blazer and calf-length skirt, her feet bare.

  John felt the need to explain. “She got tossed by a wave.”

  An accented voice said, “Lucky wave.” It was Lucas Machado, another of John’s former clients. Lucas had suddenly appeared on the ratty recliner, where he looked right at home. His dark, chin-length hair was pulled back in his signature Samurai style—a half-up ponytail with the rest hanging loose. He was dressed in full soccer regalia, from white jersey and shorts to knee socks and cleats.

  Lucas was a world-famous Brazilian footballer. He played for Real Madrid and was on the short list to be named this year’s FIFA World Player of the Year. John had managed to get him off on a technicality last August after he’d been caught with a baggie of marijuana at Kennedy Airport.

  Lucas’ silver-gray eyes turned smoky as he took in Kay’s shivering form. He gestured to her. “Come here, slave.”

  She looked from Lucas to John, who said, “You will obey these men as you would me. Don’t give me cause to be disappointed in you, Kay.”

  Wyatt said, “She’s shy.” That pleased him, judging by the silky smile he bestowed on her.

  Lucas said, “I will not tell you twice.” Kay approached him, still shivering, still looking to John for guidance. Perhaps hoping he’d pull her to him and send these strangers away.

  Lucas stared at her for a long, charged moment, then said, “Take off your clothes.” When she blushed and started to back up, he added, in that honeyed Brazilian accent, “Such touching modesty. How can I warm you if you keep those wet things on?”

  That earned a wicked chuckle from Wyatt, who turned to John and stated the obvious. “You’ve never shared her.”

  John shook his head. “But she’s obedient—she wants to please me. Don’t you, Kay?”

  “Y-yes Sir.” Kay’s blazer was open. She shrugged out of it and dropped it to the grass. Her trembling fingers struggled with the buttons of her blouse as the three men patiently watched. Finally the blouse opened and she hesitated a moment before pushing it off her shoulders and letting it slide to the ground. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her breasts pushing against the white lace of her demi bra with every agitated breath. Her nipples were fully erect under the sheer fabric, whether from fear or cold or excitement, he couldn’t say—most likely a combination of all three.

  She started to unbutton the damp skirt, but Wyatt stopped her. “Not yet.” He rose and circled her, admiring the spectacle of John’s beautiful, half-dressed submissive reluctantly preparing herself to be used by other men. Her embarrassment and trepidation seemed to stoke his lust.

  Wyatt tipped up her chin and studied her expression, her glittering amber eye
s, her flared nostrils. He removed his top hat and spun it onto the grass, then wound Kay’s long, blond hair around his gloved fist and jerked her head back. He held her gaze as he dipped his mouth to ravage hers. His cape fell forward to drape them both, and all John saw of her was her pale face and hair.

  John reminded himself that Wyatt Shaw was the Ripper. Was he this way with his murder victims, he wondered, the street whores of nineteenth-century London? Did he mesmerize them first, seduce them with his charm and animal attraction before bringing out his blade? The Ripper was in no hurry to end the kiss. When finally he lifted his head she was breathless, her lips moist and swollen.

  John’s cock twitched as he watched her, watched desire flare to life within her, despite her obvious efforts to tamp it down. She shot him an apprehensive look. She thought he’d be angry if she responded sexually to another man—he could see it in her eyes. Then her gaze dropped to John’s hands and what he was doing with them, and her breath caught.

  His pocketknife was in one hand, a thin tree branch in the other. He was stripping the leaves and bark, turning the branch into a smooth, bare switch.

  Wyatt grabbed the wooden ladder-back chair he’d recently vacated and spun it around so the back faced John, who wordlessly offered him the switch. Wyatt accepted it, ran his leather-clad fingers along the thin length of wood about a quarter-inch wide and two and a half feet long. He bent the switch, testing its springiness. He whipped it through the air and it sang.

  Kay flinched. She was breathing hard now, clearly struggling to govern her fear and display obedience.

  Wyatt said simply, “This will do.”

  Lucas came to his feet, his pale eyes glowing in anticipation as he stood over Kay. “Take that off.” He gestured to her bra. With trembling fingers she reached behind her to release the hooks. She held the garment to her chest for a moment before letting it fall.

  “The tits are exquisite.” Lucas draped her hair behind her shoulders, the better to admire her breasts, which trembled with her agitation, their pink tips tightly puckered. “Assume Standing Position,” he ordered, and she blinked in confusion. He turned to John. “You haven’t trained your slave.”

  “I haven’t had time. I’ve only used her the once.”

  “Like this.” Lucas lifted her hands and linked them behind her neck. He spread her elbows wide. “Open your legs. Chin up.” She obeyed. “This is Standing Position. Remain like this until you are ordered to move.”

  “Yes Sir,” she whispered.

  Lucas cupped her breasts in both hands, his attitude one of absolute entitlement. He fondled them, squeezed them, testing their weight and resiliency. Kay’s nervous gaze flashed to John, who stared back impassively. She dropped her eyes. Lucas rolled her nipples between his thumbs and index fingers, pinching hard enough to make her wince. He tugged, stretching the tips for a long moment while she held her breath, then released her breasts and watched them bounce. A flush mottled the pale skin of her chest and suffused her face with color.

  “She’s a treasure,” Lucas told John. “I’m surprised you’re willing to share her.”

  “I can’t have her again,” he explained. “I can only watch.” A part of John recognized that none of this was real, that he was dreaming, but he pushed that knowledge away and let the erotic scene in the woods engulf him. If this was the only way he could be with her, he didn’t want to wake up. Not yet.

  Wyatt moved in front of Kay, still obediently in Standing Position. Holding the switch at both ends horizontally, he placed it against her rib cage and raised it, lifting her breasts. Then he bent his head and closed his mouth around her left nipple.

  A strangled cry escaped her. Her back bowed, prompting Lucas to bark out a command to be still. Wyatt sucked and nibbled, first one side, then the other. Kay bit her lip to restrain her gasps of pleasure. John’s cock throbbed as he watched her struggle with her own unwelcome desire.

  Finally Wyatt lifted his head and lowered the switch. He traced one gloved finger over her flushed cheek and down her throat and chest to one damp, pebbled nipple, which he flicked. “Tell me, slave,” he said, “has your owner disciplined you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “He…” She looked at John.

  Wyatt forced her chin forward. “You will face me when I address you.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir.”

  “Answer my question.”

  She swallowed hard. “He flogged me.”

  Lucas joined the conversation. His gaze raked down her body. “Where?”

  Her face colored even more. John could tell she wanted to look away but didn’t dare. Her voice was a breathy whisper. “Between my legs.”

  Lucas sent John an appreciative half smile before asking her, “Did you enjoy it?”

  Her eyes closed briefly. She whimpered, “Please…”

  “No,” Wyatt murmured, “this one’s not well trained at all. We’re going to have to do something about that.”

  Lucas took the switch from Wyatt. “I’m losing patience.”

  “Yes,” she blurted, eyeing the strip of wood as the footballer slapped it on his palm. “Yes, I…I enjoyed it.”

  John elaborated. “She came so hard she fainted.”

  This elicited a surprised chuckle from both men. Lucas patted the back of the hard wooden chair and told her, “You will present yourself to the switch.”

  A whimper escaped her. She stood rooted in place, wide-eyed.

  “Now!” he snapped.

  She stumbled to the back of the chair and grasped it with trembling hands, facing away from John.

  “Bend over and pull up your skirt,” Lucas ordered. Wyatt stood with arms folded, enjoying the show.

  She leaned over the chair back until her forehead touched the seat. Her bare legs gradually came into view as the hem of her calf-length skirt inched upward. She hesitated with her bottom still covered.

  “To the waist.” Lucas smacked the switch hard against the chair, making her jump. “I shouldn’t have to tell you.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir.” She pulled up the fabric, holding it gathered at her waist. From where he sat, John enjoyed an unimpeded view of Kay’s beautiful round ass and the tantalizing cleft that peeked out above her white lace bikini panties.

  Wyatt said, “Hold on to the chair legs, slave.” Her skirt unfurled down her torso as she released it and wrapped her fingers around the front chair legs.

  John said, “I’ve instructed her to keep her legs open at all times. She has difficulty remembering.”

  Immediately Kay spread her legs as Wyatt said, “You’ve been too easy on her, John. Lessons need to be reinforced. Pain and humiliation do wonders for a faulty memory.”

  Lucas stroked her bottom. “You heard her. She likes to be punished.” He slipped the tip of the switch under the edge of her panties and lifted it for a peek at what lay beneath. She flinched. He said, “This time we must be sure to leave an impression.”

  Wyatt laughed. “So to speak.”

  John knew the kind of impression they had in mind—a pattern of fiery red welts on the smooth, pale skin of her bottom. His cock twitched as he watched Lucas trace a finger over her panties between the lips of her pussy, which the sheer lace did little to conceal.

  “Did you shave her,” Lucas asked, “or did she come to you this way?”

  “I did it,” John said, “and I instructed her to keep her cunt smooth and bare for me from now on.”

  Wyatt gestured toward Kay as he addressed Lucas. “Would you like to be first?”

  Lucas dipped his head in thanks. “I promise to leave some for you, my friend.” Wyatt settled on the sofa next to John as the Brazilian athlete took up position, careful not to block the other men’s view. Kay’s breathing was agitated. Her legs trembled. Sternly Lucas said, “Open your legs wider, slave. Hold tight to the chair. You will receive six strokes—three from me and three from the other gentleman. You will count each one aloud and thank us for it. Do you
understand?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “And don’t move. A proper slave holds herself perfectly still and accepts discipline without question. If you make us tie you down, your punishment will double. Or if you make a mistake counting or fail to promptly thank us. Double the strokes. Do you understand?”

  She whispered, “Yes Sir.”

  Anticipation fired John’s blood as Lucas planted his feet and prepared to swing. There was a blur of movement followed by a sharp crack as the springy strip of wood found its target. Kay shrieked. Reflexively she covered the stinging flesh with her hands, trying to rise. Lucas was ready for this and held her down as she pleaded with him to stop.

  “I’ll be good,” she half-sobbed, twisting and fighting. “Please! No more!”

  If she uttered the safe word, John would have to order these men to stop. Even in his unconscious dream state, the importance of that verbal safety net was ingrained in him. He didn’t think she’d fall back on her safe word though. Their one unparalleled night together had demonstrated to her the addictive pleasure of sexual submission. Now that she’d experienced it, he knew she’d never stop craving it, just as he would never stop craving the erotic rush of power and control. Their natures were hardwired into them.

  A coil of rope materialized in Wyatt’s hand. John offered him his pocketknife. As Kay wept and struggled against the footballer’s iron grip, The Ripper calmly strolled to them, cutting the rope into usable lengths. He knelt and, as Lucas held her facedown over the chair-back, tied her ankles to the rear chair legs, then bound her wrists to the front legs. He stood back and admired his handiwork for a moment, then cut two more pieces of rope and secured her knees to the sides of the chair, forcing her thighs even wider.

  Wyatt ran his gloved fingers over the pink welt that extended on either side of her panties. She gasped and squirmed against her bindings. “This is nothing,” he chided her, pulling aside the stretchy fabric to inspect the paler stripe underneath. “He used no force at all. I would have put some muscle behind it—I will when it’s my turn.”