With a Vengeance

by Marcus Wynne

  “Where’s here?”

  “Just a favorite gentleman’s establishment.”

  “I never figured you for…”

  The woman who brought their drinks in was dressed in a short black, low cut Armani cocktail dress, sheer dark hose and some expensive type of stiletto heel that brought out the ripple and play of muscle along her thighs. Blond, sleek featured, immaculately polished short nails gleaming with a clear polish, piercing blue eyes. When she smiled, Hunter noticed a tiny flaw, a slight dark chip on one incisor, and somehow that made her all the more attractive.

  “Gentlemen, I have your drinks. Mr. Wynne? Welcome back, sir. A Talisker neat, with a side of spring water. Mr. Smith? Welcome, sir. A pils, and a Bushmills Green Label. I took the liberty of bringing you a side of water as well, Mr. Smith. If you need anything, please just let me know and I will make sure your needs and your wants are satisfied. I’m Daria, and I’m very happy that you were able to find the time to visit us this evening.”

  She smiled, and Hunter, a skilled judge of human expression, saw at least some real enthusiasm in that smile.

  “Thank you, Daria,” Raven said.

  “Where are you from, Daria?” Hunter asked.

  “I apologize, Mr. Smith,” Daria said. “We’re not allowed to discuss our personal details…I can tell you though that I was born in Germany, but I grew up in the States, near Philadelphia…does that help answer your question, sir?”

  “Sure, Daria,” Hunter said. “I’m sorry, this is my first visit.”

  “No apologies, please, Mr. Smith. We’re here for you…” she let her eyes linger on his thick shoulders and the length of his arms. “Please, let me know what I can do for you.”

  She turned and walked away, hips as free and fluid as a run way model’s, paused and looked back at the two of them, smiled again, then left the room.

  “If she’s any example of the pros here, I found the place to spend my money,” Hunter said.

  “You’re not spending any money tonight, laddie. Alleycat’s treat. And no offense, but the costs at this place are way above your pay grade, even for a dedicated non-spender like you…” Raven said.

  “I can only imagine,” Hunter said. “When do we meet the rest of the talent?”

  “Later.” Raven ran the glass of Scotch beneath his nose and closed his eyes in appreciation, then tipped it up and wet his lips and tongue, reveled in the taste. “Ah…”

  “You going to tell me how things went?”

  Raven, eyes still closed, tipped the tumbler up again, filling his mouth, then let it trickle down his throat. After a long moment, he opened his eyes, and studied Hunter.

  “We’re in the decompression phase, young gun.”

  “What happened to the after action report and debrief?”

  “I could be a dick and point out that you’re not cleared for that, but I won’t. I’ll just say that I got in and did what I needed to do…and it went well. Very well.”

  He licked the rim of the glass in a manner that was very cat like.

  Hunter looked away and saw a woman standing at the door, watching them. When she saw that he had looked at her, she came forward, walking with the slow sinuous stride of an athlete used to attention. She was tall, with long blond hair swept back in a French braid, a blacker than black silk Armani pantsuit, with a slightly low cut white blouse that showed full, sloping breasts. The shift and jiggle of those breasts announced their unenhanced nature; the slight quirk at the corner of her mouth showed that she noticed him noticing. She was older, maybe late thirties, maybe older, but extremely well kept.

  Raven’s eyes narrowed with pleasure as she stopped beside his chair, and laid one immaculately manicured hand in a proprietary fashion on his shoulder.

  “Hello, my friend,” she said.

  “Mathilde. Stunning as always,” Raven said, standing. Hunter followed his lead.

  “Please, gentlemen,” Mathilde said, real satisfaction in her voice. “No need to stand for me.”

  “We always stand in the presence of great beauty,” Raven said.

  “Such a charmer you are, Paul,” Mathilde said. She inclined her head at Hunter. “You keep excellent company, Mr. Smith. It speaks well of you.”

  “I could say the same for him,” Hunter said.

  She pursed her lips in amusement. “Such gallantry in a handsome young man…we must make your visit here a special one. A very special one, indeed…”

  Mathilde curled her hands so that her fingernails rested on Raven’s shoulder, and slowly dragged them along his trapezius muscle. The older man smiled, and closed his eyes in enjoyment. Hunter felt uncomfortable in the presence of their intimacy. There was a history here he wasn’t part of, and the puritan in him didn’t really want to go there. It was like watching his father begin to make love to his mother.

  “We are being rude, Paul. We must see to Mr. Smith’s desires.”

  Raven stared up at the tall woman and said, without looking at Hunter, “You choose for him, Mathilde.”

  “Shall I do that for you, Mr. Smith? Paul tells me that I am skilled in this. Would you like my…guidance? Or would you prefer to exercise your control?”

  There was a faint challenge in her voice. Hunter liked that about her. He wasn’t used to women like her; in fact, he’d never met a woman like her before. She had a sense of power around her, a power grounded in her sexuality, a confidence in wielding it like a weapon he’d never seen. A part of him was curious as what she would arrange for him; another part rebelled at her assumption that she would know better than he would about his tastes and his…desires.

  “What if my desire was for you?” Hunter said.

  Raven grinned hugely. “He does have excellent taste, doesn’t he?”

  Mathilde kept her amused look, but her micro expressions shifted slightly. She appraised Hunter more openly, then smiled. “I am flattered. Very much so.”

  “I think you should call him on his challenge, Mathilde,” Raven said. “A night with you would change him forever.” He looked at Hunter. “Are you ready for that? For your life to change?”

  “I don’t know,” Hunter said. “Depends on how.”

  “Now I’m going to insist,” Raven said. “Mathilde, you choose for me. And you go with Hunter. I think I’d like someone young and submissive, really submissive, not just playing the part. Do you have someone like that for me?”

  “Of course, Paul,” she said. “Shall I send her here, or would you like her in your room?”

  “My room.”

  “Then I will make it so. Hunter? What an excellent, and appropriate, name. I’m honored by your interest…are you sure you wouldn’t prefer someone younger?”

  “No,” Hunter said. He noticed the butterflies of apprehension in his belly, and just hung out with that feeling for a moment.

  “May I get you another drink, or would you like to retire now?” she said.

  Hunter looked at Raven, who said, “There’s a room upstairs with your name on it. Mathilde would be glad to keep us company, though I’m going to bed shortly myself, or you and I can talk, and she can meet you in your room, or whatever you want. Your every desire.”

  “Tell me, did I just die and ascend to heaven?” Hunter said.

  Mathilde laughed, a rich, bawdy sound. “We can certainly try.”

  “Let me move things along,” Raven said. “It’s been a long day and a longer night…let’s all retire while we still have some energy, shall we?”

  Mathilde gave Hunter a bold smile. “And your decision, Mr. Smith?”

  “Well,” Hunter said, standing. “I guess I got the talking part done.”

  5

  The room wasn’t what he expected; he’d had visions of some kind of rococo fantasy, with red brocade and heavy velvet drapes, a heart shaped bed with mirrors above it, a slide out champagne chiller concealed in the headboard.

  This was nothing like that.

  It was a small suite, with a sitting area with deep, ex
pensive leather arm chairs, a low table; a long, deep leather couch, worn and supple. Original artwork, modern, abstract, lit by inset high lighting, the kind of thing you’d expect in a very expensive hotel, and Hunter had stayed in some of those.

  But never in such company.

  Mathilde stood, her hands crossed in front of her, palms inward as though cupping her lower belly. The low light flattered her, as it was meant to.

  “Please,” she said. “Sit. May I get you another drink?”

  “I…”

  There was real affection in her smile this time, and a gentleness he hadn’t seen before. “This is your time, Mr. Smith. To do as you please. But it would please me, greatly, for you to relax for awhile. I would enjoy talking with you.”

  “Mr. Smith seems awfully formal.”

  She enjoyed that. “Hunter, then. A perfect name for you, I think.”

  Hunter eased into one of the deep arm chairs, leaned back. Mathilde stepped forward, kneeled with the eloquent flow of muscle as a dancer might, and put one hand on his foot.

  “What?” Hunter said.

  She eased the laces of his sturdy low hiking shoes and eased them off, then slid a heavy leather ottoman close by and lifted his feet. She placed his feet on the ottoman, then drew her short nails along the bottom of his stocking feet as she stood.

  “Better, I think,” she said. “A long day for you, I imagine.”

  She slid the other armchair closer, facing him, just off at a forty five degree angle from him, then brought him another glass of Bushmill Green Label. She set it beside him, brushing against him as she did, a heady, light scent coming from her, a perfume he would probably never know. Much less afford.

  Mathilde tilted her head to one side, and they were quiet together for a moment. Hunter sipped his Bushmills, lingered on the taste. His heart pounded, and he felt a flush rising on his face, from the liquor and from the proximity of this woman who radiated sex and experience from a level he’d never known before.

  And she knew it.

  But she wasn’t mocking him, or teasing him…he felt that from her. There was a calmness at her center, something that soothed him, and a full awareness of his nervousness, something she was gentle with.

  He was grateful for that, though he felt the warmth descending through his body to pool in his groin, and he felt the muscles in his hips and buttocks tense with the desire for release. He sensed that she knew that, that she could read the play of micro expressions, maybe feel the heat rising in him, smell the testosterone, his shifting in the deep chair with its lush skin.

  “How do you most enjoy women, Hunter?” Mathilde asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you enjoy women fully? I mean, not just for our sex…though we like that very much…do you enjoy the company of women? I wonder, sometimes, about fighters, men like you…some of them, not you, obviously, but some…they like the sex, they like us to wait on them, and that can be good, very good, for the right woman…but sometimes I wonder if they genuinely appreciate all that makes us woman. Do you know what I mean?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “You are very uncommon, Hunter. Not many men would admit to not knowing, here, now…you are uncommon. You know, you are the first person Paul has ever brought to my house? Never before. That makes you especially uncommon. And to allow me to go with you, to allow me that privilege with you…very uncommon indeed.”

  “I could get performance anxiety if you keep that up.”

  A rich, bawdy laugh, and Hunter liked her even more for that.

  “I hardly think that,” Mathilde said. “You have a wonderful sense of humor. A lightness that is refreshing.”

  “Yes,” Hunter said. “I enjoy women. All of the mystery.”

  Mathilde eased back in the chair, crossed her elegant legs, drew her fingernails slowly along the leather arm rests. “We are a mystery…we’re supposed to be. Aren’t we? Wouldn’t it be boring if all that we were was boiled down to the mechanics of sex, the protocol of service? How much would you miss, if that was all? So much. A man who appreciate mystery, who appreciates nuance, who understands that something are better enjoyed than understood…that would be an uncommon man. I enjoy uncommon men.”

  “How uncommon.”

  He liked the way her lips pursed, and then expanded into a huge smile, the way the fine lines beside her eyes stood out then. She touched her tongue to her lip, stroked her fingernail in a long, slow line on the leather upholstery.

  “Tell me about you, Hunter.”

  “I’d rather hear about you, Mathilde.”

  “You are another man of mystery, like Paul, then?”

  “No. Not like Paul.”

  “Yes. Very much like Paul.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes.”

  “What else do you think?”

  “I think that you are quite exotic.”

  “Me? Hardly. I was thinking the same about you.”

  He wanted to drag his own finger along the laugh lines beside her mouth when she smiled. An image of her face, lines drawn out, her head thrown back in orgasm, passed before his eyes.

  “I imagine that you are a student of Paul’s. In whatever medium it is you two artists work in.”

  “Artists?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Artists. You both have a passionate intensity…commitment…ruthlessness. In the service to something. Much as I imagine Van Gogh may have been. Are you ruthless, Hunter?”

  “Sometimes. Yes.”

  “I think so. Passionate as well. Do you share that passion with the women in your life?”

  He paused, long enough for her to tilt her head in puzzlement.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

  “I see,” she said. “Tell me, do you think it serves you to keep that part of you away from the women you choose to have in your life?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know,” she said. “Have you been married?”

  “Yes. Does it show?”

  “A little bit. To the experienced eye. Do you think it is possible that it ended because she did not understand your passion? That she was not part of that?”

  “I’ve never thought of that. But yes, it’s possible.”

  She nodded. “You are quite impressive, Hunter…Smith. I imagine that you are a good student.”

  “Very.”

  Now there was something very gently predatory in her smile.

  “I imagine…what would you like to learn?”

  “From you?”

  “If there were anything I might teach you…”

  “You could teach me a lot.”

  “I would enjoy that…what would you ask me?”

  “Tell me about…”

  “Tell you?”

  “Oh, I imagine we’ll get to showing soon enough. Don’t you?”

  “Yes, Hunter. I imagine we will….so your question?”

  “So tell me about…clothes.”

  She laughed and laughed, bent forward in amusement. “The taking off or the putting on?”

  “Oh, we’ll save that for the showing part. Tell me about how you put that look together.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  She stood; it seemed to Hunter that she seemed freer when she stood and moved; the hint of the dancer in her musculature lent credence to his intuition. She smoothed the fabric of her designer suit with her hands, swayed slightly as though to distant and barely audible music.

  “A woman is always about image and presentation, Hunter. The clothes we choose, the scents we wear, all of them are meant to send a message, a message deeply connected to what we believe, or want to believe, about ourselves. Of course it is about sex; let us be frank, sex is at the base of all relations between men and women, is it not? So it is an expression of our sexuality, our belief about sex and our relation to it, and most importantly, Hunter, for men like you to understand, it what we want men to see and respond to…in the way
we want them to respond to us.

  “Do you see that? Do you understand that?”

  “Yes. It’s devastating,” Hunter said. He smiled. “What man could say no to you?”

  She laughed with appreciation. “Perhaps you. Paul. The man of discernment, who enjoys the game and the play. That takes it to a much higher level. The fact that you are here, with Paul, in his company…this tells me something about you. It tells me that you operate on a high level. That you enjoy it….”

  “So to clothing…I am a mature woman. My body is good, but the years can never be defeated, only tricked or delayed. My clients are of a certain stature, a certain position…as such they require a different presentation than might a young soldier, or a businessman on holiday…it is my calling to give them what they require. It’s not just the release of the body, though that is part and parcel…it is the release of tension in a safe place, with a safe person…that’s what they purchase when they purchase our time. Some, not most, want a woman, not a girl. Girls they can have if they so desire. It requires a woman, a woman of experience, a woman who understands men, especially men of power, to create that space. And so my clothing, the choice of it, is one tool that I may use.

  Hunter grinned. “Is it really that complex?”

  Mathilde quirked her lips; the fine array of lines beside her mouth drew his eyes like the map to an unknown territory. “How complex are women? How complex are men? How complex is that which we create between them?”

  “I think Paul wanted me to learn from you…” Hunter said. “I’ve never thought about this before.”