And drank.
Liquid courage? Drowning his misgivings?
She closed her eyes.
Then opened them. She was being submissive! Just like Ro said.
“Ted, I asked you to dinner tonight for a reason. We’ve known each other a long time—”
“To know you is to love you. ‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the—’”
“You’ve got to stop this. I know it’s just the wine…”
“I’m glad y’like it,” he said, his eyes glassy and heavy lidded. “I thought you didn’t love me, but you do, don’ you? We’re a pair. We got to hold it together.”
She blushed, but didn’t lower her eyes. “Ted, we need to talk. I’ve recently discovered some things about myself. Los Angeles is so different from Alabama….”
He pushed his chair back, shaking his head. She had her eyes trained on his. She saw his panic.
“No. I do not accept that.” He pronounced his words with deliberate precision. “Band!” He summoned them closer with big arm-swings, knocking over his glass of water. He didn’t notice. He stood, his head cocked at the three violinists.
“Play ‘That’s Amore.’”
“Ted, sit down. Please?” He listened to her as well as the dogs did when she had no treats. Swallowing, she felt the first stirring of irritation. She remembered the power she’d had over Ro, the feel of the bullwhip in her hand. She wasn’t submissive! “Enough!”
Ted didn’t sit down, but he cleared his throat and extended one arm toward her, palm up. “Yes, enough delay! This is the woman I love! Do you hear me?”
Everyone on the patio heard him. Everyone walking by also heard him. The entire restaurant and all passersby stopped to stare.
Not noticing how she’d shrunk down in her seat, Ted continued, “The most beautiful woman, the most desirable woman, the most woman woman, anywhere in the country. In th’ world!”
He was enjoying himself far too much in his boozy state, she saw, humming along with the violin with tears standing in his eyes. She grabbed her purse to leave.
He sank to one knee. “Michelle…will you marry me?”
“Oh, no.” Her purse fell from nerveless fingers. She retrieved it, trembling. “Let’s talk about this later.”
“I’m happyyyy and you’re the woman of my dreams! I shoulda proposed in Alabama. The wedding’ll be there.”
“Not here. Not now. Let’s just go.” Embarrassment immobilized her.
“We’ll go together, safe and sound. Say yes.” He stood, truculent, as if nothing would move him but her assent.
“Yes. Anything. If we can just…”
“She said yes!” Ted whooped, and everyone began to applaud.
There was no way to prevent what happened next. Pinned by the table on one side and the sidewalk rail on the other, she had nowhere to dodge when Ted swooped, emotion brimming over, his arms wide and his legs propelling him not so much to her as at her. He crushed her in an embrace, smashing his wet lips against hers. She could only squeak in protest.
He spun her around as he planted another sloppy kiss on her mouth and she felt him stumble. She bracketed him with her arms, bolstering, trying to keep him from falling down.
When he pulled away she faced the promenade. There wasn’t even an opportunity to wipe her mouth. Ro stood scant yards away, watching.
Had he seen Ted kissing her? How much had he heard? Had she really said yes to Ted’s proposal? She hung her head, trying to gather her thoughts.
When she opened them, Ro was gone.
A crash made her turn around. Ted had backed up over his own chair, lost his balance, and fallen down. He’d pulled at the tablecloth in an effort to correct it, which brought with him most of their plates and glasses.
He groaned once, then didn’t move. Passed out.
She looked down at Ted in the middle of the mess. Then back to the sidewalk. Ro was nowhere to be seen.
The waiter wasn’t having any success in rousing Ted. Maybe he’d hit his head.
She forced back uncharitable thoughts.
But she did help the waiters wake Ted, slapping him a little harder and more rapidly than completely necessary.
Morning light flickered across Ted’s eyelids, but when he moved to drag the blanket over his eyes, a lightning strike of pain seemed to split his head open. Nausea rose, then fell.
Then rose again as he remembered.
Not the failure of his marriage proposal to Michelle—he wasn’t going to call her Lizbeth, that was ridiculous—and not the property damage he recalled causing at the restaurant.
No. Those were bad—Ted slit his eyes against the pain long enough to confirm he still miraculously resided at Michelle’s apartment, then closed them again—very bad, friendship-ending bad, perhaps. But as bad as those things were, worse existed.
Nausea rose higher in him and he crawled to his feet. His head shrieked protest and his eyes watered as he staggered through a beam of entirely too bright Southern California sunshine. The awful glare was only one of the many things wrong with the place. Los Angeles, especially its alternate lifestyles, frightened him.
It made him lust for things he had no business lusting for.
It was an unnatural place. A perverse place.
A seductive place.
He barely made it to the bathroom before he gagged, kneeling before the toilet.
He felt slightly more human later in the day. His grip on the plush dog toy, an Akita to remind Michelle of her old dog Sasquatch, tightened as Ted parked. He’d wasted the trip. Her car was missing from the small lot in front of the dog day care where she worked. So much for his gesture of apology.
Maybe he could leave it in her office. Did she even have an office? Ted was curious. Time he found out.
The door opened smoothly to the sound of dogs barking. A good-looking man stepped aside to let him pass, and Ted felt a surge of pleasure course through his body as they checked each other out.
Oh no. Not again.
The man brushed by him with a wink and the scent of musk.
Ted felt clubbed.
It was the hangover, he told himself desperately. And the city. The festering, contagiously hedonistic vibe of Los Angeles.
Ted exhaled through his nose as he entered the facility, exasperated at the unpleasant odor of ammonia after the good musk. Michelle could live on easy street if she’d just agree to move back with him to Alabama. They would buy a huge house. They would have kids.
She hadn’t accepted his proposal. Michelle would rather disinfect dog-soiled surfaces. She’d rather stay in this infected city.
“Most people bring in a real dog.”
Ted flinched when he saw the imposing woman who strode to him. She fondled a leash. Ted had the bizarre thought that she would attach it to him. A residual headache thudded still, and he squinted against it. “You must be Posh.”
“Aren’t you in bad shape. Rough night?” Posh nodded to herself, circling him. “Let me guess. Pasty white under a brand new sunburn, wrinkled sweatshirt with an Alabama college drama club logo, hangover from hell. Michelle has a visiting boyfriend.” Her gaze sharpened suddenly, glancing at the entrance, then back to Ted. “Or does she?” Her eyes raked him up and down.
“Michelle warned me about you. A ball-buster.” Ted considered. “Those weren’t her exact words.”
“Mmm, no, but they’re yours, though, aren’t they. What an interesting choice of words.”
Their eyes locked, and Ted felt naked, but in a strangely nonsexual way. He couldn’t fathom why Michelle didn’t like Posh. He immediately felt comfortable with her.
“I brought this”—Ted made the dog toy dance—“for her. I was sort of a jerk last night. Desperation will make a person do crazy things.” He sighed, rubbed gently at his temples. “Where’s Michelle anyway? I expected her to be scrubbing on her hands and knees, maybe bruised from being kicked while she was down, the way she talks about you.”
“Really?” Posh looked proud. She fluffed her hair with quick, efficient fingertips. “She wants to be called Lizbeth now, you know.”
“Yeah, well. We don’t always get what we want,” Ted growled. “And maybe that’s for the best in some cases.”
“Mmm. Interesting. I sent her on an errand. She’s the best employee I have.” Posh tilted her head, thinking. “She’s the only employee I have. Why are you desperate?”
Ted tried to avoid the question. “Nice place you have here.”
“I hate it. Why are you desperate?”
“It’s a long story.”
Posh took him by the arm. “Let’s go to West Hollywood. I know a great place; it has a bulletproof hangover remedy. You’ll tell me your long story. And you’ll like the clientele.”
“Why will I like the clientele?”
“I’ve been a fruit fly pretty much all my life, so don’t bother with the dissembling. Besides, this is as good an excuse as any to get out of this crap pit,” she added, dragging him toward the exit.
“Fruit fly?” Ted let himself be dragged. “Crap pit. But Michelle—”
“…will take care of the dogs when she gets back. She’s good at it.”
“Yes, she is. But I’m not dressed for meeting people,” Ted protested, plucking at his wrinkled shirt.
“You look adorably rumpled and corn fed; you’ll be a hit, trust me.”
Oddly, Ted did.
6
Ro went through the motions of directing the Slave Auction. His thoughts strayed. Even as he accepted the winning bid for an impressively endowed, double-jointed submissive who demonstrated she could individually control all the muscles of her right and left butt cheeks, part of him remained sunk in despondency.
It was slightly obscene, what he was doing. But was it pornography? Was this something he could look back on at the end of his life with pride? Titillating the masses? Deliberately, he juxtaposed his original concept for The Dungeon—creating a safe haven of fun, honesty, and freedom—with the current activity of Butt Cheeks being happily led from the stage by her new “owner.”
It was superficial. Even tacky, perhaps. But hardly pornographic.
He’d hoped that Lizbeth would arrive at the realization she was a born submissive, and come to him on those terms. He’d never seen someone drop down into subspace so quickly and completely. Her shudders of pleasure, her glazed eyes, were all clues to how the endorphins had suffused her sweet, submissive little body.
But instead, she’d accepted a marriage proposal from some drunken, effete-looking guy. Maybe because she thought Ro was a pornographer?
Without joy, Ro replaced the signs in preparation for his next show. His employees cleared the stage of Slave Auction accoutrements. He felt a flash of anger when Vivian finally strolled onstage to help, pulling on the studded hood that gave her eyes such a menacing, shadowed look. “Where have you been?” He glanced at the caged clock over the café. “For two hours?”
She unhooked the plastic VIRGIN SLAVES FOR SALE sign, rolled it up tight with more efficiency than he’d yet managed. “I’ve been meeting with a special friend of Lizbeth’s. Took him to WeHo where we had ourselves a very interesting afternoon and evening. Didn’t like that sign?”
Ro looked down at the stretched-out, totally destroyed sign in his hands. He threw it aside in disgust. Breathing slowly, he reclaimed control over himself.
Jealousy? He hadn’t realized how much Lizbeth had bewitched him. Not that it mattered. They might have had something special together. Now she was engaged. He’d probably never see her again.
“Take over while I change clothes. Keep an eye on the place.”
Ro waited until Vivian nodded, then went to change into his costume, an English judge’s uniform. Vivian, as herself, would be bailiff. The rest of the employees knew to be guards.
Just as Ro was adjusting his powdered wig, Vivian rushed in. “Got a problem. Chico was busted for letting in a couple of underage girls in exchange for sex. He used his call from the police station to give us the heads up that some plainclothes cops are already here and news crews’ll be showing up shortly.”
Ro stared. “Get on door duty. No one else comes in,” he instructed, and for a wonder, she actually obeyed immediately.
He strode in the opposite direction, his eagle eye taking in everything. He spared a brief moment to curse Chico in his mind for getting into trouble. But at least he’d called. News crews. What did they think they’d be filming? His instinct told him something was wrong. The club was packed, for a change—Crime and Punishment seemed to be a popular night—but that wasn’t newsworthy. And only a total shutdown of the club would gain their cameras access, if he didn’t want them inside.
What would shut down the club? He scanned, looking for an anomaly…and saw it. A paper screen covered one of the alcoves. But Ro’s Dungeon had no screens, permitted no screens. A small throng of onlookers bracketed it on either side, peering through the small openings to watch. A bright glow illuminated the screen, and suddenly Ro knew what was happening.
When he hurled the screen aside, the brightness of floodlights made him blink. “Get out,” he told the cameramen and the two naked, greased-up actors on the mattress. Ro kicked the mattress. He toppled a backdrop. “This is yours, too, take it with you. All of you, out. Now.” He batted at the cameras, menacing, until the floodlights were extinguished and the camera eyes covered.
“Oh, let them finish.” The speaker’s plain, buttoned-up shirt and khaki pants would’ve identified the policeman, even if he hadn’t been the very same officer who’d once called Ro’s Dungeon a titty bar.
Ro ensured that the offending cameramen and actors and all the equipment was headed to the exit. Then he turned his attention to the cop. “Did you arrange this?” Ro approached him, throttling back his rage.
The man fingered his cell phone. “What’s a little porn shoot to someone like you?”
“This club does not allow pornography. It does not allow filming. It respects the privacy of—”
“Oh, stick a sock in it, ya damn pimp.”
Pimp? Ro stared at the man. Mustached and belligerent and sporting the squinty, yellowed eyes and reddened nose of an alcoholic-to-be. Yet he exuded self-righteousness. He wouldn’t hear anything Ro had to say, and certainly wouldn’t believe him, not if Ro lived to be a thousand. “Please leave,” he told the cop with calm dignity, even as he beckoned to two of his largest, meanest employees in case the additional muscle proved to be necessary.
With only another contemptuous glance at Ro, the cop moved toward the front door, already dialing his cell phone. Canceling the raid, Ro was sure.
He grit his teeth. Harassment of this kind was illegal, if he could prove it. And if he wanted to bother filing a lawsuit. Which he didn’t. He’d left lawyering, despite his father’s wishes, and he wasn’t going to be dragged back into it.
He took a deep breath.
The show must go on.
He strode onto the stage, pitching his voice to carry: “And now, what you’ve all been waiting for! The Crime and—”
Lizbeth walked in.
She wore her black latex playclothes. Very unlike her sedate ensemble of a few days before. She’d gotten engaged, and now she was clearly here, at his invitation, to play some more. “—Punishment Party,” he finished in a deeper, ominous voice that served the announcement well. Cheering and applause rumbled through the packed club.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was dressed like a dominatrix. She still didn’t get it, he thought, even as the cheering died down. Vivian tugged on his black robe. She was trying to tell him something, but Ro shook her off. He took his place at the judge’s bench.
Ro ran through his rehearsed speech. “Here’s how to play. Register at the café by stating your crime: bad boy, bad girl, disobedient slave, etc. You will be called before the judge for a public hearing. A jury of your peers will hand down judgment. If the verdict is guilty, the judge will pas
s the sentence. Possible sentences include, but are not limited to, public humiliation, hand spanking, paddling, restrictive bondage, and/or more additional punishment, at the discretion of the judge.”
He smiled without humor. “You will address me as Your Honor. I will tolerate no contempt. And, to give fair warning, you may expect little in the way of leniency. Proceed.”
The self-indicted criminals appeared before him, one after another. Vivian announced each crime in her loud, sure voice. Ro wrung the details from these self-accused, then asked the audience, the “peers,” to hand down judgment. Gleeful shouts of “guilty!” always thundered back, and Ro passed sentences of public hand spanking and paddling and, once, for an unrepentant escaped slave, a full-suspension rope bondage, administered by a pro dom that Ro had hired especially for his intricate knotwork. Other doms helped with the spankings and paddlings. Ro had almost forgotten about Lizbeth when Vivian’s voice cut through the murmurs of conversation.
“This criminal is Lizbeth! Her crime is…lying to a master.” A hush descended on the audience. It was a grievous crime.
But Vivian wasn’t finished. “There’s more!” She kept reading. “Her additional crimes are leaving a master unsatisfied, letting a master think she preferred another partner, and insisting on topping before she’d learned how to bottom.” At this, Vivian made a strange sound that might have been a laugh, but the outraged roar of the crowd drowned her out.
The roar spoke Ro’s feelings for him. Though at first surprised at her stunt, he wasn’t the tiniest bit pacified. Still wound up from the earlier confrontation, and still frustrated with Lizbeth’s acceptance of that dweeb’s proposal, this insinuation of herself into his life only stoked his ire. She thought to use his club against him, did she? To manipulate him into another session where she’d lock him up again, from the way she was dressed. Well, it wouldn’t go her way.
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