by E J Frost
Rick shrugs. “Guess I’ll have to, if you won’t share.”
I ignore his jab. Rachel hasn’t been mine to share in months, and I’m never sharing Emily with anyone. Ever. How strongly I feel about that takes me by surprise. I haven’t been possessive with my bottoms before. If they wanted to be shared, I’ve been happy to share them. Maybe it’s the daddy-thing, but I’d honestly take the hand off anyone who tried to touch Emily.
The subject of my primitive line of thought sits relaxed against my side. She’s continued her quiet conversation with Daisy while Rick’s been yanking my chain, but it’s probably too much to hope that she hasn’t been listening. Should I prepare her for meeting Rachel? No, she knows I have a past, just like she does. There’s no reason it should be weird or awkward for her to meet one of my former bottoms. Would I be uncomfortable meeting one of her old tops? I don’t think so. If anything, I’d like to shake Matthew’s hand; he trained her well and didn’t commit the sin of sticking his dick in her.
“When are you leaving for L.A.?” Rick asks, pulling me back to the conversation.
“Flight’s Thursday afternoon. Are you going out any time soon?” Rick’s a native New Yorker, but he splits his time between coasts.
He nods. “Next Wednesday. Shooting starts Friday.”
“What’s this one?”
He grins, flashing his brilliant white veneers. “Sexmanji.”
“Like Jumanji only with kink?”
“You got it.”
That doesn’t quite fit together in my head, since Jumanji involved Robin Williams, or The Rock, if you’re into remakes, and rampaging animals, none of which is synonymous with kinky sex for me, but I’ve learned not to ask. For all I know, it’s porn with balloon animals.
Before I have to think about the potential uses for balloon animals, Manny pulls up in front of the long brick frontage of my club. On the weekends, we have valet service and one of the valets immediately descends to deal with the car. I unbuckle Emily and help her out. Manny falls in on her far side and I’m pleased to see she doesn’t shrink away from him this time. We herd Rick and Daisy in front of us up the two steps to the club’s entrance.
There’s no red carpet, no awning, no neon sign. The only identification is a brass plate beside the front door: Blunts, Founded 1864, Members Only.
Through the revolving door, there’s a marble atrium big enough for maybe a dozen people. The large reception desk is staffed twenty-four-seven, but I’m surprised to see that it’s Maude behind the desk. She’s more usually found at a spanking bench than a security desk. She looks like someone’s granny, and she does bake a mean cupcake, but put a whip in the woman’s hand and she becomes one of the strictest tops I’ve ever met. When I was on the training committee, I turned the most wayward bottoms over to her for discipline. They came back humbled and ready for instruction. I have no idea what she did to them, only that I’d never want to be on the receiving end of one of Mistress Maude’s lessons.
Despite the fact that I’ve known Maude for over seven years, and have been naked in front of her dozens, if not hundreds, of times, she greets me like I’m a complete stranger. That’s one of the club’s safety protocols. As are the passwords I give her, which we change weekly. The last thing any of us want is a reporter getting through the inner door.
Maude lines up four tablets on the reception desk’s marble surround. After she explains the non-disclosure, waiver and electronic signature, she ignores Manny, Rick and Daisy, but smiles warmly at Emily.
“Welcome to Blunts, dear,” she says. “I hope you enjoy your dinner. Leave a little room for the tiramisu. It’s fabulous.”
I shake my head at Maude. There’s no reason she’d know that I made dinner reservations except that she’s an incorrigible busybody.
Emily smiles shyly at her. “I love tiramisu.”
“Excellent. So nice to meet you, dear. If you need anything at all while you’re here, just ask for Maude.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Emily hands the tablet back.
Maude collects the other three and waves us toward the inner door, where two of our security guards are standing like a pair of black bookends.
“Logan, just a moment.”
Maude’s voice grabs me like a noose. Damn that woman.
I return to her marble pedestal. “Yeees?”
Her eyes, two flints behind a pair of tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses, track to the door. When Emily lingers, eyes on me, good little sub, Maude flicks her fingers to shoo Emily through and waits until the inner door closes.
“One, I’m glad to see you’ve moved on,” she tells me. “Miranda never was any good for you.”
“Last check, you still weren’t my mother,” I say, keeping my tone gentle. Maude’s a friend, a good friend, even when she’s sticking her beak where it is very much not wanted. “And two?”
“Two, Rachel is manning the desk upstairs. She’s seen the dinner reservation. She’s the one who brought it to my attention. She’s upset. You should avoid her.”
Ah-ha. That explains Maude’s presence on the door. She was waiting for me. Or lying in wait for me, however you want to look at it.
I lean against the marble surround, knowing the gesture will irritate her. “It’s funny. I’ve paid more than the cost of a second home to be a full member of this club. I don’t remember anyone telling me when I was forking over my monthly nut that I’d need to stay downstairs.”
“Don’t be an ass. You’re the one who trained Rachel. You let her fall in love with her Master. I told you not to let a house bottom get emotionally attached.”
“Sante’s her Master now,” I say and am amazed at how evenly it comes out. “I should be nothing more than a memory.”
“Well, you’re not. Get your head out of your ass and have a little consideration.”
That grates. Rachel had damn little consideration when she was forcing me to compete with Sante for her. “Still not my mother, Maude. Keep your nose out.”
“If you’d stop leaving your shit around to stink up the place, I wouldn’t need to stick my nose in. Now do fuck off, dear. Your date is waiting. Don’t screw up with her. She looks sweet.”
I think so, too, but I’m not giving Maude the satisfaction of agreeing with her about anything at the moment. “Good-night, battle-axe.”
“Good-night, reprobate.”
I tap my fingers on the top of the surround to let her know I heard the fondness in her tone, even though she’s busting my nuts.
I catch up with Emily on the other side of the security door. She’s waiting by herself in the large central corridor of the club, looking small against the huge central staircase and neo-classical sculptures. She smiles when she sees me come through the security door. I beckon her and when she comes to me, put my arm around her and tuck her to my side.
“Did the others go down into the nightclub already and leave you all alone, baby doll?”
She nods. “I told Manny it was okay, sir.”
“Did you? Didn’t you want to poke your head in and see what’s going on?” I tip my chin at the stairs down into the nightclub. Even through the heavy door, I can hear a pounding beat.
She shakes her head. “Nightclubs aren’t really my thing, sir.”
That works for me, since they’re not mine, either. In fact, the only times I’ve been to Blunt’s nightclub are when I’ve brought guests like Rick.
“How about a dinner and a scene? More your thing?”
“Yes, sir.” Her grin finally reappears. I was beginning to think I wouldn’t see it again tonight.
“Good. Let’s go enjoy ourselves, baby doll.” I lead her away from the noise, down the hallway toward the club’s restaurant.
Even if it wasn’t part of my club, I’d eat at the Trattoria at Blunts. Our chef, Kells, makes her own mozzarella and if I had to take one food to a desert island, it would be her osso bucco. As always, the outer restaurant is crowded, but they never let it get so packed that there’s a
long wait for the food. I reserved a table in the conservatory, which is for members only: a huge glass enclosure that juts off the club’s main building into the walled yard, so we can watch the sunset. The maître d’, Jenna, shows us to our table and tells Emily the specials. Jenna takes our drinks order, then smiles at me and says, “I’ve already had the chef start your osso bucco, Master Logan.”
“Thank you, Jenna.”
Emily picks up her menu. I watch her flip back and forth through it, and wonder if sushi would have been a better choice after all.
“Nothing catching your eye, baby doll?”
“Hmm? Oh, no, it’s not that.” She flips a page again and looks up at me. “Sir, would you mind if I check something on my phone? I don’t want to be rude.”
“Go ahead. Good girl for asking.”
With a shy smile, she pulls her phone out of her backpack, swipes and taps. I sip the mineral water Jenna’s brought while Emily’s been menu-surfing and watch her unobtrusively. When I see 548 calories pop up on her screen, I realize what she’s doing.
Having seen all of her—twice now—I know there’s no way she needs to be counting calories. Quite the opposite. But I don’t say anything. I’ve dated enough women to know that things you do not mention on a first date include her hairstyle or her possible eating disorder. I have to play this extremely cool.
“Sorry,” she says, tucking the phone away and closing her menu. “I just wasn’t sure what some of these contained.”
“Do you have any food allergies?”
There weren’t any listed on her medical records.
Her smile returns. “I’m not allergic to peanuts.”
“Lucky for me.” I grin at the reminder. “Anything you are allergic to?”
“Raw honey. It’s the pollen or something. It’s not bad, though. I just get a rash. I can eat honey in cooked things. I also try to limit dairy.”
And calories, but again I don’t say anything. Maybe there’ll come a time when I can address this with her, but it’s not now. “What have you decided on?”
“The tortellini in brodo. I love veal.”
“Me, too. Sure you don’t want to try the osso bucco? It’s desert island food.”
“That good?” she asks, but she doesn’t open her menu to look at it. Or take out her phone to check the calorie content.
“That good. I have it every time I come here. Have a few bites of mine. I don’t mind sharing.”
“Really?” She lifts an eyebrow. “A man who shares his food.”
“It’s the only thing I share.” At least when it comes to her. “So don’t get any ideas.”
She giggles. “Would you order for me—“ She looks around to make sure no one’s listening. I’ve already assessed the situation and, although I don’t particularly care if we’re overhead, I’m comfortable no one is earwigging. “Daddy?”
Fuck, yes. “Would you like an appetizer, sweetheart?”
“Yes, please. The fennel insalate. I fell in love with fennel while I was Italy. I swear, it was all I ate for days.”
I can believe that. “Anything other than water to drink?”
She shakes her head. “What are you having?”
“A glass of wine with the meal. Would my little girl like a sip?”
“Does Daddy share that, too?” she asks, catching the tip of her tongue between her teeth.
Oh, that pert tongue. “I could be persuaded, but I’d need something from you, baby doll.”
She lifts her eyebrows, quizzical and engaged. “What, sir?”
“Whatever you feel like sharing.”
“Oh.” She bites her lip as she thinks. “Does it have to be embarrassing?”
“No, but your story about the flip-flops had me laughing all the way home yesterday. I watched a couple of those ‘People of Walmart’ videos last night. I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time.”
She smiles and soft color rises to her cheeks. “I have an entire library of embarrassing stories.”
I reach across the table and take her fingertips in mine. I slide the pad of my thumb across the edges of her pink-painted nails. “How about you share a fantasy instead?”
Her pupils immediately widen. Score.
“Yes, sir, but—”
We’re interrupted by the waiter. I order for us both, watching the flush spread down Emily’s throat as I do.
After the waiter leaves, I pick up her hand again and stroke her knuckles with my thumb. “You were saying?”
“Before we were so rudely interrupted?” She smiles at the cliché, but then her smile fades and a little line appears between her brows. “My fantasies can be a little, um, dark.”
I start to say that nothing’s too dark for me, but that’s not true. I have limits of my own, which we’ll discuss if and when they become relevant. Instead, I squeeze her fingers. “I’m good with dark.”
“Okay.” She worries her lip with her top teeth for a moment. “There’s this one. I haven’t told anyone. It’s about a princess in a castle—”
“I play the princess?” I ask, to inject a little humor.
She sticks the tip of her tongue out at me. That tongue. I’m going to clamp it before too long. “The castle is stormed by a knight dressed all in black. He takes the princess hostage and-and—” She pauses. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”
“I’m liking everything I’m hearing so far,” I say, to encourage her. “Is the Black Knight good to his hostage?”
She shakes her head.
“Mmm.” I can see where this is going. I stretch my legs under the table to relieve the pressure growing between them. “Does the Black Knight force the Princess?”
She nods and breaks eye contact, blushing brilliantly. “In front of his men, so everyone knows she’s his. And he makes her serve him. Like his slave.”
I can think of all kinds of service the Black Knight could force the Princess to give him. My balls throb so hard a hot wire shoots up into my belly. “Is she a good little slave?” I ask, watching her reactions closely.
She shakes her head again. “She runs away. He goes after her and catches her and punishes her for escaping.”
Fuck, yes. I’m loving this fantasy. There’ll be flogging and face-fucking and so many sweet tears. “Does he put her in chains?”
Her eyes flash up to mine, pupils hugely dilated. “I hadn’t thought . . . yes, yes, he does. On her ankles, so she has to shuffle around when she’s doing chores and she can’t run away again.”
Fuckyesfuckyesfuckyes. Then I do a mental run through my catalogue of toys. Cuffs. Spreader bars. No ankle manacles. How is it I have no fucking ankle manacles? Do I have time to make some before we fly? I should have bought a pair at the expo. I remember them being on display. I focus for a moment, and with the recall that got me through a year of N.Y.U. while nursing a permanent hangover, I remember the shop name printed on the tablecloth under the manacles. Here’s hoping they have overnight delivery.
“Once she’s chained, does she accept being his?” I ask, to see how her fantasy plays out.
Emily opens her mouth to respond, then snaps it shut as the waiter returns, bearing our appetizers. Her blush puts Times Square to shame. While the waiter arranges the plates in front of us, I tap my finger to my lips. Emily, watching closely, sits silent until the waiter leaves.
“Wait,” I murmur to her.
“Yes, sir,” she whispers.
“Before you eat, we say grace and you ask for permission.”
She squeezes her eyes closed and when she opens them, they’re wet.
“Too much?” I ask, keeping my voice low and soothing. I’m very, very much enjoying dominating her all the time, but we haven’t discussed whether she’d accept that, or whether she’d find it overwhelming.
“No, sir.”
Sounds like she might be receptive to it. The thought of dominating her full-time sends another hot zap through my blood.
“Good girl. Bow your head.” I
use a simple, secular grace that I remember my great-grandmother using to bless the table, since I’m not sure about Emily’s religious preferences. When I finish, she lifts her head and watches me with over-bright eyes.
“Sir, may I have permission to eat?”
“Yes, you may.”
She smiles, her lower lip trembling, picks up her utensils and begins cutting up the white slivers of fennel into small bites.
That’s a job I want.
“In future,” I say conversationally, “Daddy will cut up his little girl’s food. And I want to see you chew each bite ten times.”
She puts a bite-sized piece in her mouth, chews carefully and swallows. “Yes, Daddy.”
There it is again, and this time I’ve got her number. I let her eat for a while before I say, “Going back to this fantasy, does the Princess ever accept being his?”
“I haven’t really thought that far. It’s just the early scenes that I’ve thought through when I, uh, when I’ve thought about it.” Her cheeks flare again, brighter than the glowing red that’s banding the sky above our heads.
This is something she’s fantasized about. A hot and dirty rape fantasy. My sweet, filthy baby doll.
“What do you think?” she asks.
I love that she wants my input constructing her fantasy.
“I think that after she’s kidnapped by a rival knight and the Black Knight rescues her, she might realize that he’ll always protect her and she might let herself love him a little.” I’m pretty sure that’s the plot of one of those Excalibur-type movies, but hey, I’m not the author here. “But she might not admit it to him, just to keep him on his toes.”
With a beaming smile, she nods.
“I also think this would be a spectacular fantasy to play out on the cruise,” I tell her. “There’s a medieval-themed dungeon that I can reserve. I bet we’d have a lot of very enthusiastic extras.”
She takes another bite of fennel, chews and swallows. “Assuming I pass tonight’s audition.”
Is she still worried about that? That’s very old news. “Baby doll, I’ve already bought your plane ticket. This isn’t about me being sure. It’s about you being sure.”