by Jason Luke
“The Word Master”
An Erotic BDSM Novel
Jason Luke
Copyright © 2015 Jason Luke
The right of Jason Luke to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any other means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
LG, A – PBS&ST
Author’s Note:
I have taken some liberties with American broadcasting regulations for the sake of fiction. I hope readers will indulge my disregard – it made for a better story.
Chapter 1.
The woman was staring at me with narrowed appraising eyes. She had her hands on her hips. She looked me up and down with a candid, intimate scrutiny, and then snatched at the cigarette between her lips. She exhaled a thin blue feather of smoke at the ceiling and pouted.
“Hello,” she said softly, her voice cultivated and her tone cool. “Is this your idea of dressing to impress?”
“No,” I said. I was wearing faded jeans and a jacket over a white t-shirt. “This is how I always dress. I don’t care whether you’re impressed or not.”
For one unholy instant the woman’s expression became ferocious, and her gaze snapped with an electric spark. She flashed a searching glare at the young lady who had brought me into the office, and then she smiled wryly at me and thrust out her chin.
“Okay,” she said, like smiling was an expression she didn’t use often. “Just so we got that straight.” She pointed a finger. “I don’t like ass-kissers anyhow.”
The woman went behind her desk and sprawled into a deep leather office chair with a sound like a weary sigh. She crushed the butt of the cigarette into an ashtray, and then made a haughty sweeping gesture with her hands. “Take a seat.”
The young secretary stayed standing. I could smell the girl’s cheap perfume. She had an armful of folders clutched to her chest like a defensive shield against the wrath of her boss. She shifted her weight from foot to foot and chewed at her bottom lip, overwrought with anxiety. A wash of nervous color spread across her cheeks.
“My name is Nancy Collett,” the woman behind the big desk announced as she crossed her legs. “I’m the General Manager.”
“G’day,” I said. “My name is Jericho James.”
The woman stared at me with some kind of sly bemusement. “Are you serious?”
I nodded.
She leaned forward with sudden interest and planted her elbows on the desktop, bringing her face closer. Her expression became calculating. “And that’s your real voice?”
I frowned. “Of course.”
“And the accent? That’s real?”
“I’m Australian,” I said. “I don’t have an accent. You Yanks are the ones that have the accent.”
The woman almost – almost smiled again. She leaned back in her chair and the leather creaked the way good quality leather does. She spun round and stared out through the tinted office window for long silent moments.
It was an eight-story building and we were on the top floor. The big panel of tinted glass offered sweeping views of the Boston skyline at sunset. I sat, perfectly comfortable in the silence, but the young secretary standing beside me was unnerved. She cleared her throat discreetly.
“Miss Collett?”
The woman didn’t turn her chair. She had her hands steepled together, resting her chin on her fingertips as if in deep contemplation.
“Yes, Cindy?”
“Um… will there be anything else?”
The woman made an imperious dismissive gesture with her hand, like royalty waving away a servant. “No,” she said. “You may go.”
The young secretary looked relieved. I heard her breathe a little gasp of air and then she turned crisply and fled the big office, the echo of her heels chasing her out through the door.
When the girl was gone, Nancy Collett turned slowly around in her chair, her eyes black, like she was swinging the twin barrels of a shotgun onto me.
“What part of Australia are you from? Sydney?”
I shook my head. “Brisbane,” I said. “It’s to the north.”
She thought for a moment. “And why are you in America?”
I shrugged. “Working,” I said.
“Doing what?”
“I was building yachts.”
She arched an eyebrow. “But not now?”
“No. Now I am looking for a new challenge.”
“And you decided you wanted to get into radio? That’s a giant leap away from the skill-set required to build yachts.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “You’re looking for someone who has experience in the BDSM lifestyle, right?”
“Right.”
“Well I have that,” I said. “And I can talk. I assume that’s a skill you would require.”
The woman inclined her head, bemused. “How did you find out about the job?”
“A friend,” I said. “She saw your station’s poster advertising the position in one of the local BDSM clubs and showed it to me. She knew I was looking for a change.”
“So…?”
“So I phoned your office, made an appointment and now I’m talking to you.”
Nancy Collett narrowed her gaze and shook her head. “You’re too fucking good to be true,” she said seriously. She paused to light another cigarette. A tendril of smoke crept up her face and she squinted her eyes. “That’s what worries me. You’re just too fucking good to be true.”
“Thanks,” I said dryly. “Does that mean you don’t want me?”
“Oh, no,” the woman flashed me a look of wickedness that showed in the wolfish gleam of her smile and a sparkle of resolve in her eyes. “I want you, Jericho James. I fucking want you…” her voice trailed off and became distant for a moment. “…I just don’t know the best way to use you.”
I sat back, and watched the woman carefully. She drew deeply on the cigarette and furrowed her brow. I guessed she was in her forties. She wore heavy makeup but it had been applied with such artful skill that it seemed she had the fresh-faced beauty of someone much younger. Her hair was brown, cropped into a carefully manicured cap of tight curls, and the line of her mouth was determined, perhaps obstinate. She took a deep breath – the sound of someone who was about to leap off a very high cliff – and I could see her agitation in the sudden rapid rise and fall of her breasts beneath the filmy silk of her blouse. She gasped a little hiss of decision, and then spoke so softly that I barely caught her first words.
“You sound like sex,” she said. “Your fucking voice is so deep and smooth that it’s hard to believe it’s real. That’s my problem. You’ve got a name that everyone will remember, an accent that will melt every woman’s panties… and you happen to be easy on the eye… very easy, in fact,” the words became a sensuous sound in the back of her throat.
“So?” I shrugged.
Nancy Collett smiled bleakly. “So there must be a catch,” she made a flippant wave of her arm, and then cocked one eyebrow at me in a cynical, challenging gesture. “Are you gay?”
I laughed. Not chuckled. I laughed – a deep unaffected roar of spontaneous delight. “No!” I assured her through a genuine
smile. “I’m definitely not gay.”
The woman looked relieved. She let out a long sigh of breath. “And you really are a BDSM Master?”
I nodded my head. “Yeah,” I said. “I really am.”
Nancy Collett frowned. “Do you know the lifestyle?”
“Well enough,” I said, suddenly serious. “I have my own beliefs about BDSM, and maybe they’re not as extreme as some other peoples’ beliefs – but they work for me,” I said. “I have simple rules that work with submissive women, and I don’t believe in inflicting physical pain on a woman as punishment. Some in the lifestyle would probably think that my beliefs are too moderate.”
The woman’s expression became winning and her voice thickened with her enthusiasm. “That makes you consumable,” she said. “That means you won’t alienate people – you’ll be moderate enough to fascinate the masses, not just an extreme hardcore fringe.” She said it all while thrusting a finger at me like she had just laid down a winning poker hand and was gloating over the pot in the middle of the table.
I shrugged. “They’re my views,” I said simply. “I’m not trying to make myself appeal to anybody. What I believe is what I believe.”
She nodded her head like she wasn’t really listening, then reached into a drawer of her desk, without ever taking her dark eyes from mine.
“Are you active in the lifestyle? I mean, do you have a submissive woman you are training or living with at the moment?”
“No.”
“Why?”
I hesitated, and then decided to tell a little of the truth. “Because I stopped building yachts,” I explained cryptically.
Nancy Collett frowned. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Everything,” I said, and then divulged more than I had wanted to. “The woman I was in a relationship with happened to be the daughter of the man who owned the yacht building company. When the girl and I went our separate ways, I suddenly found myself no longer required by her father.”
Nancy nodded slowly, her thoughts hidden behind a carefully controlled poker face. She narrowed her eyes until they were cunning slits. “Tough break up?”
I shrugged again. “Not really,” I admitted. “Not for me, anyhow. The majority of my relationships within the lifestyle have been ones of emotional detachment.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty nine,” I said.
“Can you read?”
“Are you serious?”
“Very,” she said. Her voice suddenly filled with passion. “Literacy levels in this country have gone down the toilet in the last twenty years. Texting has mangled the English language beyond repair. Newspapers have to dumb-down their writing to make sure the average person can understand what they’re saying.”
I sighed. “I can read,” I said.
She slid a paperback across the desk. It was a romance novel. The cover was dog-eared, and several of the pages were turned down at the corners. “Then read me something,” she challenged.
I reached for the book, and opened it to a random page. The woman closed her eyes and sat back in her chair. She was perfectly still, breathing slowly and steadily, her long legs crossed and her hands settled like resting birds in her lap.
“Thomas crossed the floor and took Celia in his strong muscular arms. Celia threw back her head in a swoon of passion and Thomas covered the long soft flesh of her neck in a hunger of fiery kisses. Celia gasped. Her tiny hands fisted into the hair at the back of the man’s head, urging and guiding his mouth until the soft flesh of one breast spilled free of her bodice. Celia heard Thomas growl, the sound a throaty husk of lust from deep in the back of his throat, and she felt her knees buckle so that for a moment she went weak and pliable in his arms…”
Nancy slowly opened her eyes, like she was waking from a dream. She gazed at me with an unfathomable expression – bewilderment perhaps, or maybe something like fascination. She tilted her head slightly, and there was a secret womanly smile on her lips and little hectic spots of color on her cheeks. Her dark eyes were slanted with sly sexuality, her breathing quick and soundless. She drew deeply on the cigarette and her fingers shook with a little tremble.
“Enough?” I asked.
Nancy nodded and moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “The sound of your voice,” she said again, turning her head, her tone now small and breathless, “and that fucking accent, is going to give every woman hot orgasmic flushes.”
She pouted and then stubbed out the cigarette. Her gaze was solemn and enigmatic. We stared at each other in the silence until I heard the soft but insistent trill of a phone. In an instant, Nancy’s mood changed to become brusque and business-like. She picked up the phone irritably and then dropped it back into the cradle to disconnect the call.
“And you are not in a relationship, right?” she asked for the second time.
“No,” I said. “Not at the moment.”
“Good,” Nancy stood up behind her desk. “Keep it that way,” she made the words sound like a threat. “Women want their fantasy men to be available, even if they are unattainable.”
I stood up too. Nancy reached out her hand.
“I’m going to make you famous,” she said.
Her grip was firm and dry, her skin soft. “I don’t want to be famous.”
Nancy leaned closer and thrust her face closer to mine. “You don’t have a choice,” she whispered, and then turned away, leading me across the carpeted floor to the door of her office.
“Welcome to WGHX-95.8, Boston talk-back radio,” her voice oozed sudden warmth through the formalities. “Your first shift is tonight, midnight. You will be working with April Sullivan, our announcer. She does a four-hour graveyard stint through the early hours. The format of the program is built around love song dedications for lonely, desperate heart-broken listeners.” Nancy Collett peered up into my face and I saw the hint of delicate lines around her eyes, and at the corners of her mouth.
“You’re hiring me? Just like that?”
Nancy nodded.
“But I know nothing about radio.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t care,” she said dismissively. “April is a good operator, and you’ll have a producer in the next booth. All you have to do is answer caller questions as they come into the studio.”
“I don’t get any training?”
“You don’t need training – you’re qualified. You said it yourself – you are involved in the BDSM lifestyle, and you know how to talk,” she flung my own sarcasm back at me wrapped around a wry smile.
I paused. “And that’s it? I don’t have to push buttons and play music?”
“No. Leave that to April and the producer. All I want you to do is to talk to the ladies about sex and submission, and help them with their problems.”
I nodded.
Why the hell not.
“What about words? Are there restrictions?”
Nancy looked amused. “What do you mean?”
“Well, can I say words like cock and pussy on the radio?”
She grinned and there was a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Honey, you can say any damned thing you want,” Nancy husked. “At that time of the morning, no one will give a damn.”
Chapter 2.
I climbed the stairs slowly to my little apartment. The dingy corridors and passageways smelt of musty corners and cigarette smoke. I threw the keys onto an unopened cardboard box. I had moved in a month ago, and still not unpacked. This wasn’t a home – it was just four drab walls without a sense of soul.
I fell onto the unmade bed and slept until 9pm.
When I got back to the radio station it was after eleven. A grizzled old security guard with rheumy red eyes let me into the building and watched me suspiciously until I stepped into one of the elevators. I reached the eighth floor, and emerged into the subdued gloom of the radio station’s unattended reception area.
I stood and stared at the long reception counter. I coul
d hear music playing, and a moment later a station ID call. I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my jeans and waited patiently. To my left was a passage that led past offices, and behind the counter was a long wide window of darkly tinted glass.
“Hello?”
Nothing. No one.
The nearest office door was open and I started tentatively down the passage, feeling like an intruder. I leaned in through the open office door and saw a desk littered with newspaper clippings and a computer. On one of the walls was a cardboard chart. I peered more closely. Someone named Jessica was giving up chocolate, and had so far survived forty-one days without a Snickers.
The other office doors were shut. I called out again, and suddenly a woman emerged from behind a closed door to my right.
She was maybe thirty years old, with a beauty to her features that was understated. She had emphasized the size and shape of her eyes and the bone structure of her cheeks with careful makeup and wore her blonde hair out so that it swished unfettered across her shoulders. She was dainty – tiny feet and exquisite hands that peeped from the cuffs of her blue silk blouse. The woman frowned, pinching her lips together in sudden consternation.
“You’re Jericho James?”
I nodded. “Yeah,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
The woman didn’t smile. She furrowed her brow. “I’m Cecily Glover,” she said in a soft voice. “I’ll be your producer.”
The woman turned on her heel and eased open the door, ushering me into the softly lit interior of an office. There was a lamp on a desk, the pale yellow light spilling in a pool across a bank of computer monitors and a sheath of papers.
“This is where I work from,” Cecily said, keeping her voice hushed. “Through that window is where you will be working.”
There was a wide pane of glass between where we stood and another, similar room. In the room opposite, I could see a middle-aged man sitting at a desk with his face pressed close to a microphone.
“That’s the studio,” Cecily said, and walked with crisp clipped steps to a light switch on the wall. “Duncan is just pre-recording the end of his show.”
