A Cordial Agreement

by Ryan Loveless

  Mr. Seiber’s glare showed he had fire, and he’d need it. Grant didn’t want someone he could break. He viewed himself as a casual Dom at best, more for stress relief than relationships, and he hadn’t partnered with anyone for that purpose in years. With Bennett pushing his stress levels through the roof, he needed to make time for this outlet. Even with Mr. Sieber’s professed desire to be hurt and Tanya’s forty-hour reeducation Grant had soldiered through, he still worried about knowing when to stop. If there was any chance he might go too far, Grant would rather take his desire to hit something out on a punching bag, not a person. Tanya had told him this was a good thing, that it showed maturity and concern. It showed he would pay attention to Mr. Sieber’s signals. But Grant would feel better if he could be confident that Mr. Sieber would be safe in his hands. He scooted his chair away from the desk. He should go get him; it wouldn’t help matters if Mr. Sieber came in nervous. Grant needed a confident man to say yes to his offer, because he lacked confidence himself.

  He poured a measure of brandy to soothe his nerves. Another glance at the photo on his desk, Bennett in a tux, sober, with his tie straight, caught in the first minutes of a family engagement, so different from the photographs that appeared in weekly tabloids. His boy—where the fuck had Grant gone wrong that Bennett had turned out such a joke?

  He drained the brandy and set the glass on his desk. Through the intercom, he asked Rory to bring Jim Sieber in.

  Mr. Sieber appeared a moment later, in a suit tailored to fit. Grant had expected him in Sears, not Brooks Brothers. The surprise caused him to blink. Mr. Sieber seemed bigger in person, almost filling up the doorway with his shoulder span, but then the picture only provided the silver pole behind him for comparison. From his place across the room, Grant estimated Mr. Sieber stood a few inches taller than him, and at six-one, Grant wasn’t small.

  “It doesn’t rip off, if you’re wondering.”

  Grant checked Mr. Sieber’s eyes for a glare; his face remained blank, a waiting expression, if anything. He took a second to figure out Mr. Sieber meant his suit.

  Snapping himself back to task, Grant gestured toward a chair in front of his desk. “I wasn’t. Please sit down, Mr. Sieber.”

  Mr. Sieber sat. Grant decided it would be better—more personal—to take the chair beside Mr. Sieber’s. Mr. Sieber watched in silence as Grant sat down. “I’m Grant Jessup.”

  Mr. Seiber’s left eyebrow disappeared beneath his floppy bangs. “I know.”

  “Thank you for coming.”

  They stared at each other. Grant struggled not to squeeze his hands together or on the chair’s wooden arms or on his knees. He’d fired people in this office before, had hard conversations here, but this one—he didn’t know how to start.

  “So.” Mr. Sieber started for him after the silence had stretched into discomfort. “You want to tell me why I’m here?”

  “I—” Come out with it; he’s a stripper, you’re a self-made billionaire. Get a hold of yourself. Grant centered his gaze on Mr. Sieber and began again. “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Sieber.”

  “We have private rooms in the club for that. Two hundred dollars gets you your own dance.”

  “I don’t want you to dance.”

  “I don’t fuck.” The final word emerged as a challenge, sharp and angry, although Mr. Sieber’s body language didn’t change. He remained slouched and aloof, a defensive position, Grant realized; its concentrated nature made it appear uncaring. For some reason the revelation helped him relax. He tried out a tiny smile—the corners of his lips tugged up by a hair—and directed it at Mr. Sieber, who returned a confused glance before making his face blank again.

  “I don’t want that, either,” Grant said. “What I want is a little more—I won’t lie to you… I have an uncommon request.”

  “Which is?” His tone held careful disinterest.

  “Are you familiar with medieval history?”

  A slow blink and then Mr. Sieber burst out laughing—a rich, deep sound, filled with mirth. It reverberated strangely in the office, which more often heard shouting than happiness. Grant grieved its loss when Mr. Sieber settled into his slouch again.

  “May I assume that was a negative?”

  “I must have left school before that.” The secret smile on his lips indicated he had more to say, but rather than elaborate he asked, “I assume you’re thinking about one aspect in particular?”

  “I am. Have you ever heard of a whipping boy?”

  “It’s a boy who’s kept for punishment?”

  “Right. When the child who misbehaved was too highbred to be disciplined, another boy was whipped in his stead. The boys were often raised together, so that the whipping boy’s physical punishment became a psychological punishment to the mischievous boy, who would become upset at seeing his friend disciplined.”

  Mr. Sieber made a show of glancing around the office before settling his gaze back on Grant. “I don’t see any boys here, so what are you asking, Mr. Jessup?”

  Here came the hard part. “My son, Bennett, is in part responsible for the stress that has afflicted me for the last five years. It has taken a toll on my health.” He paused. Mr. Sieber didn’t move. “My job takes the rest of that honor, but believe me when I say my symptoms have become worse since Bennett came of age.”

  “I know Bennett,” Mr. Sieber said. “He and his friends have been to the club.”

  “And been kicked out of it. I know,” Grant said.

  “Great kid.” Mr. Sieber kept his tone flat. “Real charmer.” He leaned forward, as if a shared opinion of Bennett bonded them. Grant copied the motion, hoping to solidify that idea in Mr. Sieber’s mind. “What does this have to do with me?”

  With the door opened, Grant dived through before he lost his nerve. “I want to hire you to be my whipping boy.”

  Mr. Sieber furrowed his brow and tightened his lips, a lemon-eating expression.

  “You’d come to my home once a week and I’d”—he forced himself not to stumble on the word he’d, after great consideration of all possibilities, chosen for this proposal—“discipline you. I’ll pay you, of course.”

  “How old is he?”

  Grant blinked at the non sequitur. “Twenty-three. Why?”

  “Little old for the whipping boy theory to have an effect on him, isn’t it? Never mind that we don’t have the bond that would make that plan work. Plus, the whipping boy is usually an unwilling participant, which makes it worse for the highbred kid, and I’m hardly unwilling.”

  Grant cracked a smile as Mr. Sieber decimated his description. A sharp mind always thrilled him. “I’m not expecting it to work on him. I’m hoping it will work for me. Also, I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone who felt any bit of hesitation.”

  “Stress relief,” Mr. Sieber said.

  He might not have finished school, but he had intuition. “Exactly. Are you interested?”

  “Maybe. Is that brandy over there?”

  “It is.” Perfect timing; he could use another drink too. Grant stood up, grabbed his glass off his desk, and walked to the sideboard.

  “Why me?”

  Grant finished pouring a measure of brandy into Mr. Sieber’s glass. “We have a mutual friend who thought we would be able to match each other’s needs.”

  “Miss Wyatt.”

  Grant heard the certainty and nodded. He returned to his chair with both glasses.

  “You could have started with that.”

  “I wanted to meet you first. I like the look of you.”

  “I told you, I don’t fuck.” He took a quick sip. He kept his hand steady despite the sharpness in his tone.

  “I’m sorry. I do know that. What I mean is, you look like you could take a belt.”

  “Oh, that.” Mr. Sieber glanced down at his physique, which intimidated even with a suit covering it. When he looked up, amusement ruled his expression. “Yeah.”

  Sharp, intuitive, strong, and humorous—Mr. Sieber was better t
han he’d imagined. Grant returned his attention to his drink after realizing his staring had gone on too long. He forced a chuckle. He didn’t like it when others got the best of him, but he’d let it slide this time. He needed Mr. Sieber too much.

  “So you know your pain tolerance level?”

  “It’s high.” Mr. Sieber slid forward in his seat like he wanted to stand up and remind Grant of his size.

  “Good.” Grant settled back in his chair, hoping Mr. Sieber would copy his relaxed pose, and took a much-needed sip of his brandy. He held it in his mouth, letting it coat his tongue with its warmth before swallowing and sending that heat down to his stomach. After a few seconds, Mr. Sieber resumed his slouch.

  “I’m not sure how I feel about doing this for money. If we were at Miss Wyatt’s club, you wouldn’t offer to pay me, would you?”

  “No, but we would both pay a membership fee to the club. The money is only to keep us reminded this is a business arrangement.”

  “What did Miss Wyatt tell you about me? I mean about what I’m looking for.”

  “She said you were looking for someone to hurt you and that you’re asexual. I can hurt you, and I won’t get aroused from it. Sexually, you have nothing to worry about from me.”

  “That’s good.”

  “If you decide to take the money, I would give you ten thousand a month. Two thousand five each week.”

  “All for letting you beat me once a week? Impressive.”

  Grant raised his hand. “Discipline you as a stand-in for my son. Not beat you. This isn’t an abusive endeavor. I will expect you to tell me if you ever feel it has become so.”

  “I will.”

  “So you’ll do it?” Grant didn’t mean to sound as surprised as he did.

  “Sure. Why not.” Mr. Sieber looked amused. In his imaginings of how this meeting would go, Grant had pictured a variety of emotions and reactions. Amusement was never one.

  “Thank you, Mr. Sieber.”

  “You can call me Jim, considering what we’ll be doing.”

  “That’s why I prefer we keep things formal. I want everything equal between us. You’ll be doing a job for me, a much needed job.”

  “Mr. Jessup and Mr. Sieber,” Mr. Sieber mused. “All right.” He stood up. “Shall we start now? A test run to see if I can handle it?” Catching Grant’s glance at the door, he added, “Assuming it’s okay for me to keep my slacks up. As nice as Rory is, I don’t want her seeing me ass-up—not without paying cover price.”

  “Keep your pants on, and I’ll lock the door. You take a position over the chair.” Grant took his time turning the lock. The moment Mr. Sieber had mentioned the test run, Grant’s throat had drawn tight. This was it, when he’d have confirmation that his crazy plan might work and that his retraining had revitalized his dormant skills. Forcing himself to relax, he turned around, only to be taken in at the sight of Mr. Sieber’s long legs. He bent forward over the back of the chair, his slacks stretched tight over his firm backside. He clutched the chair’s wooden arms, elbows straight, head up. He had removed his jacket.

  “What will you use on me?”

  Grant stepped forward. He wanted to reach out, to touch, and express his gratitude for Mr. Sieber agreeing to do this. “My belt.”

  “Okay.”

  Grant distracted himself with getting it off, pulling the thousand-dollar leather through his belt loops.

  “I’m ready when you are,” Mr. Sieber said. When Grant looked up, Mr. Sieber had his own belt folded in his hand. He flashed Grant a smile, raised it to his mouth, and bit down.

  The office was supposed to be soundproof, but Grant had never tested it. He nodded his approval. Rory had said that Mr. Sieber was resourceful. “He thinks outside the box.” She used a phrase Grant iterated too often to describe his best employees. So far, Mr. Sieber had proved her assessment accurate. Grant appreciated that. With the buckle held snug against his palm and the belt wrapped once around his hand, Grant moved behind Mr. Sieber. After resting his hand on Mr. Sieber’s back to give him warning, Grant raised his arm to shoulder height and swung.

  The swing had power behind it, but by using half of his arm span, Grant tempered it. Mr. Sieber made a small noise when it struck, landing diagonally across his buttocks. The tip of the belt licked his thigh. He kept still and kept his head up. Grant laid down another stripe. This one landed in that same way. Mr. Sieber remained stoic. They hadn’t discussed a number. They should have. Grant pushed away the foolish notion to be upset with Mr. Sieber for not suggesting it, for turning his ass up, for trusting the rich guy in the penthouse office who waved ten thousand dollars at him as if it was nothing. He grew embarrassed for thinking that way. This wasn’t Mr. Sieber’s fault.

  “Eight more? To make it ten?” Grant asked, trying to sound confident. He hated not having a plan. After spending weeks working out the details of this, he’d dived in at the final step without consideration for the most important part. How many strokes to ease the constant pain in his stomach? How many strokes until Mr. Sieber couldn’t bear more?

  Mr. Sieber grunted around his belt. It sounded like agreement. With new resolve, Grant stepped away, removing his hand from Mr. Sieber’s back, to concentrate on the third stripe. For the next several strokes, the belt struck his ass. Then, one horrifying moment when the end of the belt snapped between his legs caused Mr. Sieber to lurch forward, emitting a muffled shriek.

  “I’m sorry!” Grant tossed the belt aside—they had one stroke to go, but he preferred to stop rather than let his ineptitude cause Mr. Sieber to scream like that again. He stumbled forward but forced himself to stop and keep his hands at his sides. Mr. Sieber dropped the belt from his mouth and cupped himself between his legs. He wouldn’t want Grant’s help there, so Grant snatched their tumblers up and hurried over to refill them. He tried not to think of the thick tears gathering in Mr. Sieber’s eyes. He turned, glasses in hand, apology on his lips. Mr. Sieber stood upright, busy with looping his belt through his slacks.

  “Are you all right?” Grant held a glass in the air, waiting for him to finish and take it.

  Mr. Sieber fastened his belt. Looking up, he shook a stunned expression away and accepted the glass. “That was only nine.”

  “You’ll still get the full twenty-five hundred.”

  “But what about the stress that last lick would have made disappear?”

  Grant blinked at him, uncertain how to respond.

  Mr. Sieber stared him down before breaking into a smile. “I can come on Mondays. The club is closed.”

  “You still want to do this?” Grant asked. “I almost made you a eunuch.”

  “You’ll practice.”

  “I practiced before touching you,” Grant said. He would have to tell Tanya about this. She wouldn’t be happy.

  “So you’ll practice more.” After finishing off his brandy, Mr. Sieber set the glass down. The movement pushed Grant into action. He pulled his personal check ledger out of his desk’s center drawer and bent over it with a pen. He handed the signed check to Mr. Sieber, who had put his jacket back on.

  “What time do you want me on Monday?”

  “Eight?”

  “Here?”

  “Come to my apartment. The address is on the check. If I’m working late, Rory will call and let you know.”

  “Do you work late a lot?”

  “Every night. I try not to go past eleven o’clock. My employees need to get home.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “The boss keeps the ship running.” Just saying it made him tired, but truth was truth. “I’m the boss,” he added, as if Mr. Sieber needed that clarified.

  “All right. Confirmed for eight on Monday unless I hear differently.” Mr. Sieber folded the check and slipped it into a pocket inside his jacket. “What if Bennett has stayed out of trouble? Do you still want me to come?”

  “If you know my son at all, you know that’s unlikely.”

  Mr. Sieber’s smile held a world of
quiet knowledge. “Then I should also ask if you’ll expect me on additional days if Bennett has an active week.”

  “We’ll stick with Mondays for now. I don’t want to hurt you by doing this too often.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you in pain?” He couldn’t let Mr. Sieber go without asking.

  “I’m fine. You got me good on the last one, but that won’t happen again.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Mr. Sieber grinned, his first full-out and honest smile. “Because next time I’ll have my pants down so you can see where you’re aiming.” He stretched his hand out. As they shook, Grant realized they hadn’t done this when Mr. Sieber arrived. It felt good now, a seal to the deal.

  “Thank you.” Grant walked Mr. Sieber to the door, unlocked it, and showed him out with a final touch to his shoulder. He didn’t worry it was too familiar until Mr. Sieber stepped away. He nodded at Rory and walked out to the lobby. Grant closed the door. He stayed in one spot as he tried to process what he’d done. It hadn’t been perfect, but that was his fault. He’d practice until each swing landed where he intended. As for Mr. Sieber, he shone.

  Grant broke away from the spot. For the first time in months, he felt good.

  JIM WAS $2500 richer. That was his rent paid, electric and all. He resisted the urge to pull the check out of his jacket. With his luck, a gust of wind would rip it out of his hands while he waited for the traffic light to change. He settled for patting his chest and feeling the check through the fabric. He’d have to stop at the bank. Was his account still open? For six years, he’d taken payment in cash, both from his bosses at the club and the men and women stuffing it into his G-string. Weeks he couldn’t make ends meet, he’d pick up an odd job from a construction foreman over at the lumberyard. That never paid by check, either.

  Thankfully he didn’t have to go to the club tonight. His balls still stung where Jessup had smacked them. He’d get home, take a look with a hand mirror. He didn’t think they were bruised, but a cold compress wouldn’t hurt. If they swelled, that would make Chantelle jealous, and God knew that queen found enough to complain about. For someone who stuffed her balls in places Jim didn’t want to think about, Chantelle paid way too much attention to where Jim put his.