Fetish

by Sherri L. King

  FETISH

  An Ellora's Cave Publication, February 2004

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

  PO Box 787

  Hudson, OH 44236-0787

  ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-718-2

  Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

  Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

  FETISH © 2004 SHERRI L. KING

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Edited by Heather Osborn.

  Cover art by Darrell King.

  Fetish

  Sherri L. King

  For D.

  In memory of Squaker

  1992-2003

  A friend of a friend, he was more than a friend; he was a perfect kitty cat.

  Prologue

  Aerin looked into the smooth, glassy surface of the pond. She didn’t care that the cold, damp of the ground was soaking into the fabric of her serviceable grey skirt. Didn’t care that the mud and rocks on the small shoreline of the water’s playful edge were scuffing her black leather pumps. Nothing so inconsequential could have mattered to her in that moment. For the first time in weeks she’d caught sight of her reflection…and she was trapped, held riveted by what she saw in the water-mirror.

  The face reflected in the depths of the pond was too round, far too plump, and full of too many shameful stresses. The soft, brown hair was straight and unappealing, lying in a bodiless hood over her round skull. Her brown eyes were set too close together, and wrinkled from too much squinting behind her thick-rimmed glasses. Her nose was too large. Her skin far too pale.

  Nothing she saw made her the least bit happy to be caught in her own skin.

  This was why she never looked into mirrors. Being fat her whole life, being ugly and plain and boring, had made her avoid any reflective surfaces like the plague. But she’d never reacted like this, with such self-loathing and pity. Nothing had changed enough for her to recoil so violently to this unexpected glimpse into the pond. Except for one thing.

  Somehow, she’d gotten old. On top of everything else, now she was no longer young.

  She shuddered, looking at the image of her own hated face. Time had ravaged that face with a brutal, merciless glee. My god…I’m forty-seven years old. Forty-seven. Somehow she’d ignored it; until now she’d never bothered to give it much thought. But here the truth of it, at last, struck her like a blow. The salad days of her life were behind her, nothing was left for her now but the routine of tomorrow and tomorrow and hopefully, if she was lucky…another tomorrow.

  “I’ve never done anything spectacular with my life,” she whispered into the watery-mirror, suddenly frightened, “I’ve never been anybody special. Never felt anything,” she swallowed hard, “real.”

  And when had she ever had the chance? A fat, ugly, brainiac nerd like her rarely got any sort of chance for adventure or love or any of what made life worth living. She wasn’t stupid; she knew how people saw her. How people always saw her—and all of the others who were unlucky enough to be as physically ill-favored as she.

  She was a desk worker. Her world was a relatively safe one, for all of its sometimes cutthroat atmosphere. A world of tight cubicle walls and impersonal colleagues. She was a typesetter at a small printing company, designing and laying out wedding invitations, business cards, letterheads and the like, for thousands of paying customers throughout the region. The job paid well and took no small amount of speed and skill, which was a boost for her ego. But it was also the type of job that required nothing of its workers in the way of personality or looks.

  But oh, if she’d been someone else—someone prettier—she’d have done something different with her life. With good looks, she’d have never been so painfully shy, and maybe she would have had the courage to pursue a career as a dancer (which she’d always secretly longed to be), or perhaps an art dealer, or even an entrepreneur. With a svelte body she’d have surely married early in life, instead of reaching the age of forty-seven—forty-seven—with her virginity still intact. Or maybe she would have never married at all, but taken many lovers instead, just for the fun and variety of it all.

  For the adventure.

  She splashed her hand weakly into the pond, breaking its smooth surface into hundreds of ripples that each reflected a perfectly wretched, distorted image of her face. Her hated face. She splashed the water again. Fat droplets splattered up as a result, wetting her cheeks so that the water from the pond lingered and mixed with the tears that already drew their tracks down her cheeks. How she hated and loathed her face. Hated and loathed herself. All two hundred plus pounds of herself.

  Groaning, she rose clumsily and backed away from the all-too-brutally-honest body of water. The well-kept grounds of the park came back into her consciousness as she tried valiantly to dry her tears and straighten her clothes. Blaming out of control hormones (the dratted change of life was already full upon her and wreaking havoc with her emotions), she strove to overcome the harsh moments before the reflective pool. Hating herself for her weakness, she brushed lingering mud and leaves from her panty hose.

  I am no weakling. I am not so self-absorbed that a mere glimpse of my reflection should make me blubber like a baby. Aerin cleared her throat of the last lingering vestiges of tears. Her thick fingers, trembling, but only slightly, pushed her heavy glasses farther up the bridge of her nose. They had slipped as she bent over the pond, and she hated how they made the tip of her nose itch when they fell low. She hated glasses, period. But her eyes were too damaged for even the most radical laser surgery, and at forty-seven it seemed a little late to even give consideration to contact lenses. She’d been wearing glasses since she was seven years old and would undoubtedly wear them until the day she died.

  It was difficult, but she rallied her spirits. It was, after all, Friday. And Friday was her favorite day of the week. The day when she had two whole days of freedom to look forward to. The day when a long, hard week of work was at last behind her. Every week was long and hard. Every weekend was a forty-eight hour period of rest and recuperation, and long hours with books and gardening and quilting. Friday was a boon, her own very favorite day. A transitional day.

  Lunch hour was almost over. Aerin’s plain, brown-paper-wrapped mayonnaise and lettuce sandwich lay uneaten on the park bench behind her. She had no memory of leaving that bench, only remembered seeing her face so suddenly and starkly before her unprepared eyes. Maybe she’d fallen. Maybe she’d crawled down from that bench, onto the damp ground, towards the water, without even consciously meaning to do it. Compulsive behavior had been second nature for her ever since the first faint signs of menopause had awakened her in the night with feverish hot flashes.

  She hoped no one had seen her odd behavior.

  Who was she kidding? No one gave her a second glance. More often than not, if they happened to see her, they looked quickly the other way—as if they were ashamed to see such a vision of overweight drudgery. Of course no one had seen her moment of self-pity. They were too busy heaping their pity upon her. No, that was too harsh of her. She was forcing her own low self-opinion onto others, when she had no idea how they really felt about her, when they likely felt or noticed nothing at all.

  Aerin hated herself for that, too.

  Picking up her sandwich with a disgusted grimace, she started the short walk back to the office. It was a lovely day. Cool and gray—nothing odd there, as this was Seattle and almost every day was like this—but today the song of birds was in the air and the scent of spring was in the bre
eze. And such a lovely, clean breeze it was.

  A piece of paper, blown by that very breeze, flew up and shoaled against her blouse and jacket. It tangled there, trembling for but a second. Long enough for Aerin’s clumsy, impatient grab at it. Long enough for her to read the machine-printed words inscribed upon it.

  It was an ad for some sort of a nightclub. Nothing unusual. Nothing exciting. But, inexplicably, her heart jumped. Her pulse picked up its pace. And her gaze flew over the text not once, but four times before she could manage to tear her gaze away.

  Fetish

  Here every fantasy can be indulged with safety and with care. Be and do everything you’ve ever imagined. At Fetish, nothing is taboo.

  That was it. Only those few words and a local cell-phone number. Fetish. What an interesting and apropos name for a place where ‘every fantasy’ could be indulged. Her lips twisted. She’d never heard of such a place, of course, because she’d never made a habit of visiting themed nightclubs before. Or any night club for that matter, themed or otherwise.

  But…but.

  Maybe there was a first time for everything. Not ten minutes ago she was bemoaning the long years of her life and the lack of excitement she’d encountered therein. Maybe this was a way she could create some excitement for herself. In a place where, so long as the color of her money was green, it didn’t matter who she was, or what she looked like.

  It was shameful. It was frightening. But she was forty-seven years old, and so scared of that fact that she’d ignored it until the realization of it bit deep, with enough pain to make her weep. Fright or shame had no place in the thought that maybe, just maybe, Fetish—or another club like it, if this one proved a little too much to take—could be the soothing balm for her unexpected brush with a mid-life crisis.

  And after all, it was Friday. The weekend lay before her, along with all its endless possibilities. She clutched the paper in fingers gone suddenly desperate, before firmly tucking the ad into the inner breast pocket of her suit jacket. Her dull, gray, suit jacket.

  Aerin winced and hurried back to work as quickly as her thick ankles could comfortably carry her.

  Chapter One

  Two weeks later

  Madame Delilah—obviously a sort-of stage-name—smiled at Aerin across the large, walnut desk. It was not an unkind smile. Aerin was thankful for that. Finding herself seated in a room walled with glinting mirrors, across from a woman who was purported to be the Madame of a very expensive, very elite—if somewhat kinky—sex club, was not a comfortable experience. Aerin knew she needed all the kindness this woman could give her right now, or she feared she might bolt.

  “I-I’m not sure I should be here,” she heard herself say. Wincing, she wondered if her mouth had a mind all its own. How stupid she must sound. Not at all worldly, and it was obvious the patrons of this club were very worldly.

  They had to be, to spend five thousand bucks a night for a room here.

  Madame Delilah’s smile never faltered. If anything, it appeared to deepen at Aerin’s obvious discomfort. The woman, much younger than she, reached out and took Aerin’s trembling hands in her own.

  “And that is why you do belong here. What we do within these walls is not only for pleasure, but for personal enrichment. When you leave here tomorrow morning, you’ll feel better about yourself and your place in the world. I guarantee it, sweetheart.”

  Aerin swallowed hard and said what was bothering her most about this transaction. What had bothered her most from the beginning. It shamed her. It was her money after all, and this was business…but there was that niggling feeling of shame and doubt that dogged her heels unmercifully. She had to say what was on her mind, to ease her conscience, if only a little. “But what if I’m so disgusting that no-one wants to do this? What if these men, these…” she faltered.

  “Escorts,” Madame Delilah offered gently. Aerin had come to believe, after just a small bit of contact with this woman, that she had a good and kind heart, even if she was also an efficient, no-nonsense businesswoman.

  “Yes.” Aerin let out a long, pent-up breath. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding it. “These escorts. What if they can’t bear the sight of me?” She looked into the eyes of the other woman. The attractive, slim, and obviously shrewd woman. “How can I take that kind of rejection?” she finished lamely, hating herself for sounding so pitifully spineless.

  Madame Delilah squeezed her hands reassuringly. “I won’t lie to you Aerin. These men have the right to say no. I’m no pimp. My boss—the owner of this establishment—is no pimp. The men and women who work and live here are not prostitutes. What they do, what they choose to do, in the company of our clients is their private business.

  “But these people are here for a reason, besides the money involved. These people are here to make someone like you happy. To make themselves happy in the endeavor. And, sweetheart, no matter what you may think, you do have charm, and you do have attraction. And I know someone here will help you to see that truth about yourself. You won’t leave here with a feeling of rejection. I can almost swear to that.”

  Aerin avoided the woman’s glinting gaze. “You must think I’m pretty pathetic.”

  “No I don’t.” The words sounded sincere. “I think you’re the perfect client for Fetish.”

  “You made it sound like so much more than just any old, mundane club when we spoke on the phone. I…I had to try it.” Aerin had no idea why, but she’d just had to. Three phone conferences with this woman had convinced her. She’d been compelled to come here. To meet this woman.

  To meet the man who might—oh how she hoped he might, whoever he was—introduce her to a long overdue state of womanhood.

  But that would be in a later visit, if she felt it was worth the money and pride to repeat this event. This visit was to introduce her to Fetish and all it had to offer. It was true; this was no lowly, seedy club as she might have feared in the beginning. This was a…Aerin had no name for it. Retreat, maybe. Burlesque house might be too absurdly stereotypical. After talking to Madame Delilah at length she really didn’t know what to call this place. Because she’d never heard of such a wonderland as this.

  A haven where whatever you wanted was available. Was acceptable. Was encouraged. Sex was only a part of that package. Aerin hadn’t asked, but she assumed legalities held no sway over what a client might want. Fetish was a large mansion; a veritable castle, such as it was, outwardly comprised of huge quantities of gray stone, resting nearly fifty miles outside of Seattle. Situated in a secluded expanse of woodland forest, there was every opportunity for illegal and illicit behavior. Aerin had no doubt about that.

  Five thousand dollars a night should buy many comforts, be they legal or otherwise. Aerin could afford it, squirreling spinster that she was. She was paid very well. She was very good at her job and deserved the money she earned. But it was still a lot of money to spend, and on something she wasn’t even sure was a wise endeavor. She had no idea what to expect in the next few hours—from sundown to sunrise—and had no idea if she’d even want to come back.

  She would have to play it by ear.

  Madame Delilah drew her back into the present, into their conversation. “This is anything but a mundane club, Aerin. I hope you’ll get rid of any preconceived notions now, before I lead you to the common room where the escorts and clients begin their nights. Things are rarely what they may seem on the surface, not here or anywhere else in the world. That’s a fact of life and always has been. But you came here for some fun, and perhaps a little boost to your self-esteem, and that is exactly what you will get. If nothing else, you’ll have that at least. Your grand adventure.”

  Aerin started. That was exactly how she’d been thinking of this, in the depths of her own mind. Her grand adventure. The one and only in all her long years. And this woman had known. Aerin looked into the woman’s knowing eyes and felt herself sinking, nearly drowning in that glittering gaze.

  Shaking her head to clear it of
such fanciful—and unsettling—notions, she was relieved when the Madame broke their eye-contact and looked away. “I’m ready to start,” she said in a near whisper.

  “Remember the rules. Leave at first light, alone. If you decide to come back—and I hope you do—come at dusk, alone. We’ll have no drunken revelry unless it’s in the comfort and privacy of your room and with willing participants. If anyone should make an unwelcome advance, or inconvenience you in any way, you will report it at once to one of the escorts or chaperones. Do not stray from the areas I show you in our tour, unless accompanied by an escort. And honey,” the woman leaned over and took her hands again. Aerin hadn’t noticed when her hands had been released the first time, and was further unsettled by this lapse in her awareness. “Have fun. I could sense, even through our phone conversations, that there’s too little of that in your life. Feel safe here. Feel comfortable. Be yourself, as you want to be, not as our image-conscious society has forced you to be. You’re no different from any other human being. You deserve a little happiness of your own.”

  “Even if it’s paid for?” Aerin tried not to sound bitter.

  “Yes.” Madame Delilah’s kind eyes shifted and twinkled strangely. “Even if it’s paid for. Especially if it’s paid for.” She rose from her seat behind the massive desk. “Come on. It’s time for the tour, for you to familiarize yourself with the grounds and perhaps find some company as you do so. You paid handsomely for the experience,” there it was, another echo of Aerin’s thoughts spoken aloud between them, “and time is money or so I’ve heard. The evening is starting. Your adventure has begun.”

  The fine hairs on the back of Aerin’s neck prickled and stood on end.

  * * * * *

  “She’s here. I sent her on alone to the sitting room.”