by Julia Kent
“That’s an oxymoron.”
Erik laughed again. “I can see you are going to be a wonderful challenge. And I am prepared to rise to it.”
He zipped the papers back into the case. “This is for you to consider later. For now, we’ll have dinner, and perhaps dance. I would love to have an excuse to hold you close, even in public.”
For the first time, Syria realized music was indeed filtering through the curtain, some combination of stringed instruments. “I can do that.”
“Good.” He pressed another button on his phone.
Within moments, the waiter arrived with two silver-domed plates. The aromas that wafted up when he revealed the dinner made Syria’s belly rumble.
“Bon appetite,” the waiter said, and backed out of the alcove.
Erik held up his glass. “To our arrangement.”
Syria lifted hers too. “To never caving.”
Erik laughed again as he sipped the wine. “This is already a night to remember.”
10: Ropes
The dinner had been exquisite. Syria felt happy and calm as the waiter whisked away the contents of the table. Erik stood, reaching to help Syria from her seat. She thought the dinner was ending when two men arrived and took away the table and chairs.
“Now, we dance,” Erik said. Another boy pushed a red satin chaise lounge into the room, and Syria’s heart sped up. Maybe he was planning to seduce her after all.
The waiter tied back the curtain a few inches, allowing the haunting sounds of the violins and cello to enter their space. Syria peeked out. The clientele struck her as rather homogenous now, mostly elegantly dressed businessmen with beautiful women, sometimes one, others with two.
Erik stepped close and took her hand, turning her to him.
“I’m not a very skillful dancer,” Syria said, wishing she could wipe her clammy palms on something, but it was too late.
“Just follow my lead.” His hand came around her to rest low on her back. He did not bring her in close, but left a few inches between them, his arms in a firm frame.
The room was small, but Erik used every square foot in a sweeping waltz that moved in a fluid circle, keeping them within the confines of the walls. Syria felt no struggle at all in his arms as he guided her. He somehow managed to subtly communicate to her which direction to go and what step to take.
He looked down at her, smiling and easy, and Syria let her tension melt. How easy it could be just to let someone else guide your life, especially someone wealthy and handsome and so good at it.
The music slowed down and Erik pulled her into him so that the length of their bodies touched. Still, his legs directed her as they danced in graceful quarter turns. Syria felt positively light.
His hand caressed her arm now, and while she was aware that his seduction of her was beginning, she let it come. They were in public, the curtain wasn’t even closed now, and she could see what he was like. She had no intention of being his slave or even doing the trial, but allowing herself to imagine this lifestyle might be a nice diversion for an evening, especially since all that waited at home was an endless amount of photo work and a tough conversation with Tyson.
Just the thought of him made her tense. Erik must have felt her shift as he took his arms out of the dance frame and brought her in, fingers massaging the back of her neck. They didn’t dance now as much as sway together, feet shifting in small mincing movements.
“Let everything else fall away,” Erik said. “Just live for his moment.”
Syria laid her forehead on his shoulder, letting him work out the tension. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, even as his hands moved down her shoulder blades, curling to her waist, and squeezing her rib cage perilously close to her breasts.
The music wound around them like a ribbon, haunting and slow. Erik’s thumb moved up, sliding against the bottom of the swells and Syria stopped dancing, holding still. “I can’t do that,” she whispered.
“I won’t press you,” he said into her ear. Then they were moving again, dancing with normal steps, out of their alcove and into the main room, which was in the process of being transformed. The dinner tables were wheeled away, other than the ones on the periphery. No one ate any longer, but sat at tables or danced in front of the small orchestra.
Erik led her to the center of the empty space as Syria tried to look around. “I didn’t know it became a different sort of place.”
“Many restaurants convert into dance clubs. In New York, there are many famous ones.”
“Do they have to kick out all the diners?”
“Generally reservations are only give to those who know how the restaurant will transition.”
Additional musicians were arriving and taking seats, a saxophone, trumpet, and trombone. More of the couples were coming to the dance floor. Syria relaxed again. This was going to be fine.
The new instruments jumped in, and the music began to speed up. Erik led her into a more riotous dance, and Syria found she could just let go and have fun with it.
Some of the other couples were full-on swing dancing, waving their hands and rolling in and out. A few were quite good, going up in the air or spinning around their partners.
“Wow,” Syria said. “I had no idea something like this was so close.”
Erik spun her out to the end of his arm and reeled her back in. Syria felt her hair falling a little loose, but had to laugh. She hadn’t been so lighthearted in a long time.
After a minute, the music began to slow again, and now the sax player stepped forward for a sexy solo that made Syria swallow hard. She felt it piercing her, poking holes in her resolve as Erik pressed in behind her so she could watch the man play. His arms crossed her waist, and his hands splayed across her belly in an embrace that felt protective and secure.
Syria closed her eyes. She wanted to drink more, to just get lost in this. Erik’s body shifted with hers, back and forth in a gentle rocking motion. He held her hard against his hips, his mouth near her ear. “I can’t keep my hands off you,” he said. “But I will not do anything you do not want.”
Syria said nothing, moving easily to his rhythm, letting the music flow through her. She opened her eyes and realized the other couples were also locked in tight, many of them moving suggestively against each other as the room grew gently dimmer and the chandelier light switched to red.
Erik still didn’t turn her, just held her close. Syria looked to the sides of the room, where tables still lined the walls, the cloths changed from crisp white to black. On one, a woman sat smack in the middle, leaning back on her hands, and a man lifted one of her legs to his shoulders like they were at a speakeasy.
The shift to a retro club atmosphere clearly meant anything goes. Syria had never been to a place where people could have sex in public, except at that bondage exhibition. And of course, Erik had been there.
The man by the table pushed the girl’s skirt up past her hips and dropped his face between her legs. Syria whirled around to Erik. “What is this place?”
He pushed some errant hair away from her face. “Nothing you can’t handle. Just couples, dancing and enjoying each other.”
She looked over her shoulder. Another man was peeling a dress from a voluptuous redhead, her hair trailing down her naked back. Her black bra stood out starkly against her skin. Another woman reached behind her to unhook it, and yet another woman leaned in to the newly freed breasts to greedily cover the exposed nipple in her mouth.
The two women and the man feasted on her with mouths and hands, pulling off her shoes, easing down her panties.
Syria gripped Erik harder. “Is this some sort of test?”
He shook his head. “Just a place I like to come.”
The noise level surged as the band filled in behind the sax player. Erik pulled Syria into another slow rhythm, lightly touching her arm as she stared across the room. Some of the couples just danced, like they were. Some talked at tables. In fact, much of the room looked normal, until your eye
s fell upon a couple overcome with each other, not bothering to leave or find a hidden spot, but moving into each other, slipping out of clothes.
She caught sight of a silver ring on a woman’s neck. “Are there other slaves here?”
“Yes,” he said. “Some like to get their possessions together for floor shows.”
Syria wasn’t sure how safe she was with Erik. He hadn’t told her what they were getting into. “Did you plan for me to see this all along?”
“No. It depended entirely upon how you acted when I made my offer.”
“But I declined.”
“I sensed you were still not quite decided.” He led her into a slow twirl. “And I still sense you have some interest.”
Syria didn’t answer, caught by another scene. Two women circled each other in an elaborate dance as a small crowd watched. It looked scripted, a bit like Aliara and Malin in the studio.
The first woman, in a belly dancer’s red flowing pants and beaded top, spun and leapt to stay out of reach of the other woman, who wore a black gyspy-styled skirt and peasant top that exposed a circle of twinkling gems around her belly button.
The gypsy girl lunged and swiped at the dancer girl as if on the attack, but she always escaped. At last, the gypsy kneeled, letting the other girl dance around her in bold leaps and spins. The gypsy girl tore at her own peasant top, rending it so her large, dark breasts spilled out, heavy as melons and the color of caramel.
The belly dancer slowed down, mesmerized by the display. The gypsy lay back, letting the skirt fall up to her knees.
Syria realized she wasn’t dancing with Erik anymore, but standing to watch. Erik maneuvered them to the edge of the dance floor so they could see better, his hands kneading her waist through her dress.
The dancer walked in a lazy circle around the gypsy, whose mass of black curls spilled across the floor from a black bandanna. Her skirt rode up her thighs and the crowd seemed tense, waiting to see what would happen, if the dancer would be lured in.
The girl in red bent down and scooped up the torn bodice, bringing it to her nose and caressing her cheek. Her feet worked an elaborate pattern as she circled the other girl, then she kneeled next to her, still gyrating from her waist, unsure.
The gypsy took the belly dancer’s hand and laid it on an ample breast. The dancer closed her eyes, slowing her gyration, and let go of the stolen shirt. The gypsy girl moved the dancer’s hand to her thigh and slid it up beneath the skirt.
Syria could feel herself spiraling up as she watched, the heat between her legs becoming fierce. Erik stayed behind her, rocking gently, kneading her muscles, and when his hand slid back to the space beneath her breast, she didn’t pull away. The fire began to lick at her, and she leaned into him, wanting it, needing to feel something like those girls were showing her.
He recognized her acquiescence and cupped her breast completely. Syria moaned gently, trying not to let it go too far, but not wanting to force herself out of the easy seduction. She’d learned in these past weeks with Tyson and Mia how amazing and open her life could be if she just let go of her old inhibitions.
The dancer now leaned over the gypsy, pushing the skirt up and out of the way, revealing completely bare skin. The dancer delighted at it, slipping her fingers inside, and the gypsy’s head fell back.
But the tension rose again as the gypsy tugged a black scarf from her waist band, and the belly dancer did not appear to notice, caught up in the moist entry, splaying the folds wide.
Syria stilled, waiting to see what would happen, and Erik fondled her breast, easing his other hand across her hip. She could feel his erection against her back, and the urgency in his fingers made her spiral up another level of desire.
The dancer glanced up at the gypsy, but she was too late, the larger girl expertly wrapped the black scarf around the dancer’s wrists. In a swift motion, they had switched places, and now the dancer was on her back, hands tied above her.
The gypsy held the dancer’s arms above her head with one hand while sliding the other beneath the sparkling top of her outfit. The dancer struggled, defiant, so the gypsy rolled her over, quickly lashing her wrists to her ankles, immobilizing her.
Syria knew this was just an act, like Mia and Sam as pirates, but still, she found herself anxious for the dancer, hoping she would start to enjoy it. But maybe this was what the crowd wanted, to show things rough, advantage on someone weaker. She turned away.
“You will miss the best part,” Erik whispered, and Syria looked back, almost fearing what Erik would find the most titillating. The gypsy tore the beaded top from the bound dancer, exposing small, soft breasts, and squeezed them roughly. She yanked down the dancer’s voluminous pants, although they caught at the ankle on the ties.
The dancer girl squirmed and fought as the gypsy circled her.
“Erik, I really don’t think —” Syria stopped at the sight of another woman, this one in a blue belly dancer’s attire, flying through the air in a series of back flips and cartwheels. She did not hesitate but knocked the gypsy girl off her feet, sending the crowd into a cheer. Before the gypsy could move, her skirt was ripped off, and the naked girl was lying on her belly on the floor.
The blue dancer tied the gypsy’s hands behind her back, rolled her onto her skirt, and dragged her across the floor to one of the round pillars that separated sections of the hall. She tied the girl to the pole, and circled her, spanking her ass and walking up boldly to press fingers up between her legs.
But the gypsy did not show any signs of distress, smiling over her shoulder and spreading her feet wide. The blue dancer stepped away, shrugged, and bounded back over to the other dancer, freeing her from her bonds.
Together they chose a man from the crowd, probably the gypsy girl’s escort, and he approached the pillar. The belly dancers gestured that the girl was his, and he smiled broadly, shaking their hands.
The blue dancer lifted the other dancer in the air and spirited her across the room and out of sight.
The gypsy girl remained tied, sliding her hands down the pole so she could bend over. The man was given a paddle, and he ran his hand across the girl’s bottom and smacked her with it soundly. Syria thought she would turn away, but the expression on the girl’s face was dreamy, relaxed, as if this was exactly where she wanted to be, naked and spanked in front of a room full of people.
Erik turned her back around to face him and they edged onto the dance floor.
“Did you ever have your slave do something like that?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Not Ariana. It was not in her contract to do public spectacles. Malin, though, loves to be whipped more than I have the urge. So she would come here and do something similar. She would also like to be blindfolded and entered by strangers. She has very specific interests, and I do my best to accommodate them.”
Syria moved with him to the slow rhumba, realizing now why Malin might not be the best for what he was looking for in a slave.
“Do all slaves wear those collars?”
“Usually. In some instances, however, it is best not to be obvious.”
Syria wanted to ask, “Would I?” but asking that would be to accept that she was actually considering his offer. And that wasn’t possible, certainly not without talking to Tyson. She pictured his body pumping into that other girl, though, and wondered if they would even see each other again.
Erik must have sensed she had gotten melancholy because he pulled her in close and danced again. “Oh, my sweet Syria. I can make your life so simple and easy.”
“But what would you want from me?”
“For you to free yourself. You keep forcing yourself to act in ways that crush your spirit.”
The music sped up a little, but they kept their slower pace. Erik’s arms tightened around her, and the smooth fabric of his suit jacket was cool against her cheek.
“I don’t know how to do that.” Syria felt like she’d been expanding plenty fast enough lately. A month ago, she hadn�
�t even known a world like Erik’s existed.
He led her to their alcove again, which had two drinks resting on a small table beside the red chaise. “Would you like a little help?”
“What do you mean?”
“I have two drinks here. One is simply alcohol, a Cosmopolitan as you Americans call it.” He held up a lovely martini glass with a silver stem, filled with pink liquid.
“What’s the other one?” Syria felt her heart speeding up.
“It has a mild drug in it. Something to loosen you up.”
“How loose?”
Erik smiled. “I have found that it only helps you be what you want to be.”
“Seems like drinking something like that would mean that Alice would have to trust her rabbit.”
Erik laughed, a hearty sound that was so unexpected with his cool politeness that Syria had to laugh with him. “Then Cosmopolitan it is.” He held the glass out to Syria.
She accepted, realizing she was feeling thirsty after the dancing and the voyeurism of the gypsy girl. “Will there be other little acting bits like the last one?”
“Most definitely. Many of the slaves and submissives look forward to these nights.”
Syria walked back to the tied-back curtain, peeking out. “Do other people join in?”
“Anything goes here. Would you like one to be arranged for you privately?”
Syria swallowed. Could this man deliver anything she wanted at all? It couldn’t hurt to ask. “I would like to see some bondage.”
“I thought you might.” He tugged his phone out and tapped a word out. “Would you like them in here or out there?”
Syria looked around the space. “In here might be fun. Then I could see the knots up close.”
He nodded and put the phone away. “Sit next to me. I believe you will enjoy this show.”
Syria perched on the chaise next to him, eyeing the other drink. How much courage would it take for her to drink it? And what would it do to her if she did?
She didn’t have any more time to consider it, because the curtain moved, and a beautiful and very naked woman stepped into the room. She was pale, her hair almost white, and looked to be Syria’s age. Her makeup added to her ghostly impression, frosty lipstick and icy blue eye shadow. She was breathtaking in a haunting way, small-breasted, slight, and completely bare, without shoes, even.