Fetish

by Sherri L. King

  “No one will approach her before I get there?”

  “Unless you should will it otherwise, she’ll be left for you.” A pause. “Are you sure this is wise?”

  “Your phone conversations piqued my curiosity. She sounded very interesting, as you said she would. Now she’s here. And it has been a long time since my last…”

  “I know. Too long. We all feel you’ve been remiss in seeing to your own needs.”

  “My needs are few, but they are there nonetheless. The pity of it is that I have been too busy for companionship of late. Perhaps tonight, if she is as interesting as she sounded over the phone, I will rectify that.”

  “I hope so.”

  “She is in the initiate’s sitting room?”

  “Yes. You’ll know her when you see her, I think. She’s even more than I expected, and I expected much.”

  “Very good. Thank you Delilah.”

  The Madame smiled, and if the topic of this strange conversation could have seen such a smile, she would have run screaming from the club, never to return. “Have a good evening.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  * * * * *

  Aerin brought the glass of champagne to her lips. More out of habit than of thirst, really. The glass was there and so she drank from it. Besides, holding the glass helped give her hands something to do besides violently shake on the ends of heavy, weak arms. And maybe—hopefully—a generous dose of alcohol would help calm her ragged nerves.

  She fidgeted in her new clothes, bought especially for the occasion. The short-sleeved, doe-brown, silk blouse fit a little snug over her breasts, but was otherwise loose and therefore tolerable. The black slacks were well tailored and quite feminine. Nonetheless she felt a little awkward in them, as the ankles were boot-cut with a flare that was subtle but still quite dramatic when compared with her usual attire. Her shoes were new as well, cute little Italian style half-boots with a heel, though she vaguely wondered if someone of her stature shouldn’t avoid such dainty fashions.

  Aerin often chose drab styles to downplay her size—though had she but known it, the spinsterish look merely accentuated her breasts and hips in a way she would have abhorred. She’d always promised herself that one day she would break free of her misgivings and dress as wildly as her tastes sometimes ran—perhaps she’d even dare to wear a velvet dress—but she’d never found the courage to do so. She’d made an unusual attempt tonight and had turned herself out quite nicely.

  If only she could stop fidgeting.

  This was turning out to be a lot more difficult than she’d expected. And she’d expected quite a bit of difficulty. For the millionth time she chided herself for being so stupid as to get suckered into this little pleasure-club thing. It wasn’t at all what she’d expected—but then, if asked, she couldn’t have said exactly what she’d been expecting in the first place—and so far she didn’t see how it could be worth her five grand.

  Oh, there was plenty of luxury here. The owner of the establishment spared no expense to see to his visitors’ comforts. The furnishings alone must have set him back several hundred thousand dollars. The pricey Cristal champagne was flowing freely, along with the caviar and Foie Gras. And the people milling about looked as though they were accustomed to such luxuries, as if they expected them.

  No amount of champagne would help her fit in here. No amount of alcohol, hard or soft, would make her more attractive to the escorts here. God. How could I be so stupid? Why did I even think of coming here, let alone go through with it? I must have been insane.

  No. Just desperate. Completely and utterly, heart-wrenchingly desperate.

  She felt the sting of traitorous tears at the edge of her vision and blinked desperately to combat their spill. Hormones again. Menopausal demons come to say their mischievous hello. That must be it. With a sigh she downed the last of the delicious champagne and set the empty flute down on the nearest waiting tray. She was ready to leave. That glass of over-priced champagne was all she’d get out of this horribly foolish endeavor, and she berated herself for the waste.

  Beaten down lower than she’d ever been beaten in her life, she turned and made her way out of the exquisite sitting room, heading towards what she hoped was the front door. It was time for a graceful, if hasty, retreat.

  “Mistress, where do you go in such a hurry?” A velvet voice eased the rough edges of what would have soon been outright panic. A large, cool hand fell upon hers, grasping it. Trapping her.

  Aerin felt both cold and hot at the same time. Fear and relief melded until she wanted to sob. Someone had reached out. Someone had noticed her.

  It wasn’t all that she’d hoped for, but it was a start. It was a balm to her wounded heart. She wouldn’t have to leave this place in total defeat. At least she’d exchange a sentence or two with someone who wasn’t in charge of billing her credit card upon entrance.

  Turning her head towards the voice was easy. Meeting the face of the stranger who owned it was more difficult. What she saw shocked her through and through, down to her marrow.

  Of all the things she’d expected, she hadn’t expected this—this kindness—from such a handsome, appealing man.

  How tall he was! It was the first thing she noticed, but not the last. He was well over six feet. Perhaps half a foot over that. Where most men who attained that height would have been thin or lanky, this man was powerful and well muscled. His shoulders were so broad they filled her vision. Dressed as he was in a plain black t-shirt and bondage pants—the well-fitting kind with shiny silver buckles and loops—every delineated muscle was accentuated to perfection.

  His neck was thick and corded, though just shy of looking brutish. His arms seemed long, longer than his frame—large as it was—should have required. His torso, too, was long. It tapered almost dramatically into a small waist and straight hips. His legs went on for miles and sported thick muscles of their own. A dancer’s muscles, maybe. An erotic dancer’s muscles, more like.

  She trembled.

  “Are you alright, Mistress?” he asked gently. His husky, bedroom voice with its decidedly exotic lilt—where could he be from, he certainly wasn’t from America?—softened intimately. “Do you need to sit down for a moment? It is perhaps a bit too warm in here?”

  Aerin sucked a deep breath into her lungs, realizing with some surprise that they’d been starving for it. She’d been holding her breath the whole time. And how much time had passed, time which she’d spent foolishly ogling him?

  Embarrassment stained her cheeks in a flood, warming them fever hot.

  The hand that held hers pulled her close as he led her to the nearest divan. The deep, soft brocade of the upholstery was cool against her clothed legs and soothing. The man followed her down upon it, lounging comfortably back farther than she so that his body seemed to cradle hers, gently rubbing his hand up and down her arm as he did so, as if to soothe her. It didn’t soothe her at all; in fact, it succeeded in just the opposite.

  “May I ask your name, Mistress?” he questioned in a soft, coaxing tone.

  “Aerin,” she gave it to him freely. The Mistress thing was getting weird, though she knew the ‘escorts’ were apt to use it, or Master, depending on the sex of the client. She didn’t like being Mistress of anything, let alone another person. It was her belief that no amount of money should give her that right.

  Besides, it seemed a little sophomoric. And unnecessary. Though he kept calling her Mistress, he in no way sounded deferential or submissive. He sounded as though the word was merely a formality, one ingrained, but not one he infused with any real weight or station. What was the point of titles if they had no real meaning behind them?

  “Mistress Aerin,” he rolled the word around in his mouth like sweet, decadent candy. There was the ‘Mistress’ again, and there was no way this man used it in any way other than he might use a Ms. or Mrs.—he didn’t seem the type to be subservient to anyone, job requirements or no.

  Aerin shook her head slightly. Sh
e wasn’t one to study people like this and judge them out of hand. The man had spoken a few words to her, that was all. And here she was trying to analyze and label his personality. It was unforgivable. And more than a little pointless. There wasn’t much she could learn about a person’s true personality under these circumstances anyway. This was business more than anything.

  She was paying for this man’s kindness. She would do well to remember that. Her warm blush subsided, replaced by a cold feeling of loneliness.

  “What has you looking so forlorn, Mistress Aerin? What made you seek an exit so early on such a fine evening as this?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Aerin isn’t your name?” he asked with a tiny smile and the quirk of a brow.

  Aerin pursed her lips. He knew damn well what she meant, and it irked her for some unexplained reason that he should pretend otherwise. “Don’t call me Mistress.”

  “You would prefer Master?” Now he was openly teasing her.

  “I just don’t like it, okay? Please don’t use it.”

  “May I call you Aerin, then?”

  “You know that’s what I’d prefer.”

  His eyes glittered strangely. Dangerously. All his playful teasing vanished, as if it had never been. He rose up higher on the elbow that supported his lazy sprawl, coming close enough that his breath warmed the fine hairs on her arm. “I don’t know yet what you’d prefer. But I’d like to learn. I’d very much like to learn all your preferences.”

  The tears burned her eyes once more, but this time for a different reason. Guilt. Shameful guilt. “You don’t have to say that. I don’t want you to say that…”

  “You don’t want my interest in you?” That silky, lilting voice became a physical caress; it ran down her spine like a finger, touched her breasts like lips. Made her wet between her legs.

  How did he do that?

  Shaking the seduction of his wicked words away, she straightened defensively. “I made a mistake in coming here,” and she knew this was the truth. She made as if to rise.

  The tips of two fingers settled firmly on the inside of her wrist, upon the desperate beat of her pulse. Somehow, this infinitesimal gesture kept her held captive there with him. “You made no mistake,” he breathed, but firmly.

  “I don’t know why I came,” so shaky those words. Her lips trembled with them.

  “I know why you came. I know why you’ll come again.” Arrogant is what he seemed to her now, above all things.

  She was analyzing him again. Her mind was in two places at once, one part of it watching—disentangled from the rest of her—while the other part swam drunkenly in the cloying appeal of the man beside her. She didn’t like this heretofore undiscovered duality in herself.

  “I’m leaving. And I won’t come again,” she murmured, sounding less firm than she would have liked.

  “Don’t leave, Aerin.” At last, he used her name as she wanted—and it sounded downright wicked on his lips.

  “You don’t have to convince me to stay. I’m not going to ask for a refund, so don’t bother worrying over it.”

  “Do you think I’m worrying over it?”

  Her eyes rose to meet his. They were at once green and silver and blue. Hypnotic. She’d never seen eyes like his. Not even close.

  “I don’t know,” she said. She was confused. What were they talking about?

  “Forget why or how you are here, only that you are. That you and I are here, together, is all that matters. Stay with me. Let me show you about the place,” he coaxed.

  For some reason, she couldn’t look away from him. She didn’t want to. Not even to preserve her own dignity. Swallowing, she found her tongue, though it was an arduous struggle. “Madame Delilah showed me around already,” she lied, inexplicably frightened into a brief moment of self-preservation.

  She felt the cool silk of his mouth at her neck before she saw him move. Something was wrong with her eyes. The Cristal, probably. She’d drunk it too quickly. Or maybe her spectacles were crooked, causing her vision to swim and grow dizzy. It could be anything…and it didn’t matter, she realized. His mouth was so firm and so soft.

  Each word he spoke was a kiss against her skin, soft and devastating. “I can show you more than she. Far more.”

  Her heart thundered. The sands of a thousand deserts dried her mouth to cracking. Vision swimming, she felt, with the last of her senses, the brush of his fingertip against the swell of her breast. Accepting his will as her own, she gave up the last of her resistance.

  And this was how she met Violanti D’Arco.

  Chapter Two

  “This is the first step of your journey.” Violanti—how did she know his name? Had she asked? She couldn’t remember now—gestured her forward towards a jade-green door.

  “Your name is Violanti?” she asked stupidly.

  A small, amused smile appeared upon the lush moue of his mouth. “Yes, and it sounds lovely on your lips.”

  “It sounds…is it Italian?” She frowned, puzzled that it should matter or that she was even remarking upon it.

  The smile disappeared. His eyes glittered from green to silver to blue, making her dizzy. “It is,” was his short answer.

  “Oh.” Forgetting almost instantly what they’d been discussing, she looked beyond him to the green door. “What’s in there?” Curiosity like she’d never experienced before nearly overcame her shyness.

  That smile of his again. Was it a practiced thing? It was so sensual that it should have been. No man should have such an alluring attribute, without having to work for it a little. “Follow me to find out.” He opened the door and stepped inside. Aerin couldn’t have stayed behind had she wanted to. And she halfway did. Whatever was waiting behind that door, it made her nervous.

  Once she stepped over the threshold, Violanti closed the door softly behind her. Trapping her. Trapping them. Together.

  The room was lovely. Not at all sinister or threatening, as she’d feared. Soft hues of jade, accentuated by warm and creamy vanilla, gave the room a soothing and inviting quality. The lush scents of vanilla and perhaps a little apple or pineapple, were thick in the room and flattering to the décor. It added to the comfort of the space.

  The perfume lulled Aerin, enveloping her, beckoning and seductive. Violanti’s hand at her back coaxed and eased her. She moved further into the room. There was another divan here, piled deep with silk, and emerald in hue. It was positioned before a wall, the only item of furniture in the room that was free of the jade and vanilla motif. Violanti led her to it gently, but firmly, and joined her there upon it.

  A light came on somewhere behind the wall they faced, making it transparent. Aerin realized it was a two-way mirror. Behind it, lay another room identical to theirs. Only there were several people in it.

  Aerin blushed furiously and looked away. The long, cool fingers of her escort grasped her chin and turned her face back to the scene before them. “Look at them, Aerin. There is no shame in it.”

  She couldn’t help it. She had to look. The blush deepened, burning her neck and breasts hotly. “Do they know we can see them?” Was that her voice, breathless and faint?

  He chuckled softly. It was like a whisper, that small laugh. But she felt it vibrate along her very bones. “Of course. It’s what they want. It’s why they chose that room. They are exhibitionists; it is their fetish to be watched by others, and the club provides this experience for them.”

  “Can they see us?”

  “No. Do you want them to?”

  “No!” she exploded. Then, more calmly, “No. I’d rather they didn’t. I—I doubt I have an exhibitionistic fetish myself.”

  Again that amused smile. Amusement at her expense. For a second she both hated and feared that smile and all the mysteries that lay behind it. But the moment came and went, and she went straight back to being dazzled by him, and by the scene unfolding behind the mirror. “I question whether you know your own fetishes, Mistress.”

  “I
told you not to call me that. It makes me uncomfortable.”

  “Even after being in your own skin the whole of your life, I can see you are uncomfortable there. Why should this be any different that you must take exception?”

  She pulled back with a shallow, unsteady breath; surprised that he could both injure and anger her so completely and so swiftly. “You don’t know me. You shouldn’t make assumptions about people you don’t know.”

  His eyes glittered dangerously. “You made the assumption that I was interested in you out of pity or obligation simply because you paid for your stay here, didn’t you?”

  She had. Of course she had. It was a safe assumption to make. More than safe.

  He seemed to see her admission of it, perhaps in the look of her eyes or face. This Violanti was very observant. “So you are as guilty as I of assumption. And perhaps we are both wrong…no. That’s not true. I say you are wrong about me. While I know I’m right about you.” He spoke the last with an underlying tone that practically dared her to disagree.

  Aerin couldn’t disagree, nor could she pretend to. He was right. She was a stranger in her own skin, had always been, and it would ever be so. But that didn’t mean she had to approve of his observation of the fact.

  “I don’t want to talk about this.” She glanced at the mirror, what lay beyond it, then looked away. “I shouldn’t have come here. I need to go now.”

  Again, he laid his fingers—the tips of two, no more—against the pulse that beat in her wrist. Had he made any more of a movement, she would have perhaps unearthed the strength to bolt. But, as before, his small gesture effectively stilled her.

  “Back to that again? I’m sorry, Aerin. I was being uncouth, forgive me. But I can plainly see that, of all our patrons, you need Fetish desperately. You need the comfort and pleasure we can give. And we can help you to find that hidden self you’ve so long forgotten. The part of you that isn’t afraid of your own sensuality. Of your own sexual appeal. You’ve buried it deep, but still it is there, waiting for discovery. Let us help you find it. Let me help you find it.”