by JA Huss
She finds me with her eyes when she can. And I never stop staring at her at all. Not even when I pull out my phone, dial Smith’s number. He answers with, “Yes, Mr. Bricman? How can I help you?” in that smug I-told-you-so voice.
“Set it up,” I say. “I think we’re a go for tonight.”
The party goes late. And Chella is busy avoiding me the entire time as I suck down several drinks and try to assure board members that there will be similar, and possibly more generous, donations next year.
It’s after two in the morning when we finally make our way back inside the car and head North towards downtown. “Did you have a nice time?” I ask.
“Did it look like I was?” she asks.
It’s easy to forget who she really is when we have her in a vulnerable state. But right now—all night, in fact—she’s been reminding me.
Marcella Walcott is the only child of a US senator who spent most of his adult life in DC. She grew up in it. She grew up with people like the ones we were with tonight. She knows how to dance to the music of a string quartet. She knows how to make polite conversation. She knows how to talk to people about politics, and societal concerns, and money.
“I think you did,” I say.
“I did.” She laughs, wrapping her hands around my upper arm and leaning into me just enough to let me know she’s receptive to whatever I have planned when we get home.
“Good,” I say. “Because we have two more weeks of parties.”
“And then what, Elias Bricman?”
I look out my window and smile, sure she is watching my reflection in the dark glass very closely.
“What will you do with me when we run out of parties to keep us busy?”
I look back at her. I admit, I was not convinced of Smith’s characterization of her all week long. He’s got theories upon theories about why she’s here. Why she’s playing along. I didn’t see it, I guess. Couldn’t imagine it, maybe. But when she said she’d suck my cock with Smith, I have to admit, he might be right.
I see it too. A little, I suppose. When I first asked her to be part of this I saw the cravings she was trying to hide. I felt the darkness underneath, trying to get out.
But I think this way about all of them. There has to be a deviant side to the women we play with, or we’d never get very far.
Rochelle had a dark deviant side too, but it didn’t run deep. Not deep enough at least. Not for Smith.
I figured Marcella Walcott was the same way. She likes a little edge to her sex. A little gagging, a tight blindfold, a spanking or two.
But even if I could imagine what she’s hinting at tonight, I never imagined she’d offer it up so soon.
“That’s up to you, Marcella. You’re the one in control, regardless of how this looks. Do you want me to call Smith?” I offer. “Tonight? Are you entertaining the thought of giving in?” My heart races with the thought of getting her to comply so quickly. So easily.
“No.” She laughs. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Hmmm,” I mumble.
“Does that make you mad?” she asks. “After I teased you tonight?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I wasn’t after that tonight anyway.”
“What were you after?”
“Another option, maybe.”
She smiles and raises an eyebrow. “Cheating? Do you cheat, Elias?”
“No,” I say. “We don’t cheat. Ever. But as I’m sure you’re aware from Smith’s little offer to shave your legs that first night, we have ways around the rules.”
She’s silent after that. I let her keep her thoughts to herself as we make our way through the streets of downtown and back to the front curb outside Turning Point Club.
I walk her into the lobby and up the second-floor stairs that take us to the elevator. We are silent as we ascend. I fully intend to go inside the apartment with her, but when we get to the door, she turns and rests her back against it, barring my way forward.
“I had a nice time,” she says. Just like a woman on a first date.
“I’m glad. We have so many more nice times ahead of us, Chella.”
“So I’ll see you tomorrow? What time?”
“We can have a dinner alone if you’d like. No other players to distract us this time.”
“That would be nice.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me right now?”
“I don’t want Smith here. I might say yes to that another time, but not tonight, Bric.”
“We’re back to Bric, huh? No more Elias?”
“I think Elias is reserved for honest moments. And this one doesn’t feel honest.”
“To who?” I ask. “To you? Or me? Because I’m OK with being one hundred percent honest about what I want right now.”
“You want me, but in order to have me, I have to let Smith be a part of it.”
“Like I said, Chella. We have ways around the rules.”
“How then?” she asks, her fingers playing with the lapels of my suit coat. She looks up at me and I know she wants this so bad. She just can’t admit it. Something inside her is telling her it’s wrong, and it’s dirty, and it’s forbidden.
But that’s what this is about, isn’t it? The forbidden.
I lean down and kiss her mouth. She is so ready for me, my dick grows hard beneath my pants. “We have cameras,” I whisper into our kiss. “Set up all over the apartment. I had Smith turn them on earlier. So I can fuck you tonight. Alone, just the way you want it. And he can watch like some pathetic piece of shit who can’t manage to get his own girl. We won’t break the rules and he never has to come near you, Chella. I’ll make sure he never touches you again.”
She says nothing. Not yes, not no. So I take over. I open the door, push her inside, and then I walk her backwards, making her bump against the wall, and slip my hand up her dress.
“Are you gonna say no?” I ask, finding her pussy with my fingers and massaging the wetness out of her.
“No,” she says.
I withdraw my hand and slide her coat down her arms. Then grab the front of her dress and rip it down the middle. She gasps in surprise, but I just take that as an opportunity. An opportunity to push her to her knees, unzip my pants, pull my cock out, and shove it down her throat.
She gags, her hands pressing on my muscled thighs, pushing me away. But I hold her in place. “When no means yes and yes means no, Chella, and you say no, then it’s on.”
I pull her to her feet, drag her over to the couch, bend her over and smack her ass so hard, she yelps.
I rub her red cheek for a few moments as I calm myself. I can feel the urges inside me taking over and it’s way too soon to let them out.
I stand her up again and twirl her around. Her eyes are glistening, like she might cry. But when I kiss her mouth, she melts into me. Her hands on my cock, pumping me. Squeezing so hard I have to close my eyes and enjoy it for a second.
“Do you like it rough?” I ask, when I pull myself together.
“I like it,” she says. One simple sentence that says so much more than she intended.
“Good,” I say, petting her messed-up hair. “Good.”
I take her hand. Gently. And lead her down the hallway. She’s wearing nothing but her shoes. When we get in the bedroom I lead her to the bed and push down on her head until she’s kneeling again.
Her mouth is open. Ready and willing.
“Oh, no, Chella. It’s not gonna be that easy. You kept me guessing all week. You hid your dark side and had me worried we’d made a mistake.”
She doesn’t move a muscle. She sits still, looking up at me like I am her whole world.
God, it’s like she knows my soul.
I reach into the new bedside table, already stocked with the things I like. The ball gag. The rope. The whip. The blindfold.
I place them on the bed and point. “Choose.”
“All of it,” she says.
But I shake my head. “No. You’re going to hear no from me a lot now
that you’re ready to say yes. Choose one.”
I expect the blindfold. Or the gag. But she chooses the rope.
I pick her up and throw her down on the beg, opening her legs. I take one length of rope and wrap it around her ankle, tying it to one corner of the bedframe. Then do that again with her other ankle.
She is moaning softly each time I touch her. Her fingers, still free to do as they please, seek out her own pleasure as she watches me work. “Chella Walcott,” I say as I finish tying her legs open. “You are a freak after my heart.”
She says… nothing.
I take my coat off, then my suit coat, throwing them both down on the floor. I unknot my tie and use it to bind her hands together in front of her stomach.
Still, she says nothing.
“You like this, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she says, her eyes on my cock, still peeking through the zipper of my pants. “I like it all, Elias. Give me what I like.”
I leave my pants on. I like the way the zipper bites at my balls when I bend down to lick between her legs, my tongue sweeping up and down her pussy, flicking against her clit until she is writhing and begging me to whip her, and slap her face, and come all over her tits.
“Getting ahead of yourself, Marcella,” I say in a low growl as I straddle her hips and walk my knees up her body until my cock is hovering right in front of her mouth. “We’ve got a long way to go before we get to that little corner of your dark mind.”
I straddle her shoulders and slip my dick into her wet mouth, grabbing her hair as I push myself so far inside her, she gags hard.
But it only turns me on more. It only makes me go deeper, thrust harder. Her face is covered in her own spit, her eye make-up running down the sides of her cheeks.
Still, her eyes never leave mine.
I can do anything I want with this woman. Anything I want. She will never again tell me no.
I fuck her after that.
I put my dick in her so deep, she wails, her bound hands grabbing for my shoulder as I thrust, over and over. Her nails bite into my skin and she’s whispering in my ear. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t—”
I fuck her like I’ve wanted to fuck her all week. I fuck her the way I imagined it. I look at the cameras—because I know where each and every one of them are—and I flip Smith off as I do it.
Fuck you, Smith, I think. Fuck you for being right. Fuck you for bringing her here. Fuck you for watching.
Fuck you for ruining her, just like you ruined all the others.
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
But he’s the one who wins tonight.
And we both know it.
Chapter Eighteen - Chella
When I wake up Bric is gone. On the pillow next to mine is a note.
Don’t be late for work.
Don’t be late coming home.
Wear the red dress without panties or bra.
I’ll pick you up here at seven.
Elias
His commands feel both familiar and foreign. Familiar because I’ve been down this path before. I’ve taken that shortcut through the woods more than once.
But it’s been a long time.
The only significant thing that happens at work is learning that Matisse’s entire collection sold on Saturday night—Saturday seems like years ago—and that Bric bought it, and then promptly donated it to the Mountain Ballet. It’s going to be displayed in its entirety in the courtyard outside the building. Construction on an all-weather version of the curtain has begun and installation will begin on April first.
My boss, Charles Benton, is in the gallery all day talking on the phone to special patrons—a code word for contributors—about the year ahead. He takes over my office since he really doesn’t have one here himself.
I manage visitors and do the appropriate amount of small talk. But my mind is not here at the gallery. My mind is stuck back in the place Bric left it last night.
Under his complete control.
Silently begging for more.
Asking myself over and over and over why I need more.
I’ve had complete control over all my shameful desires for three years. So why now? Why did I let Rochelle dangle this arrangement in front of my face? And more importantly, why did I accept her offer?
The problem is… there’s only one answer for it. One answer that I don’t want to think about.
I really am sick.
The car comes promptly at six to pick me up, just like it came promptly at eight forty-five this morning to take me to work. It was strange walking out of the top-floor apartment without one of my players, and it feels strange to walk in without them as well.
But I see them. I see all three of them when I get home from work.
Bric is in the bar talking to a good-looking man and a woman I recognize from the first night I was here. Quin is chatting with four men in the main lobby and even though I catch his eye for a second, he doesn’t acknowledge me. Smith is sitting up in that private bar they have on the second floor.
He never stops looking at me while I climb the stairs.
“Come here, Chella,” he says from his balcony seat as I wait for the elevator.
“No,” I say, just loud enough for my voice to carry up to his ears. “This isn’t your night.” When the doors open, I step in and make sure I don’t turn around until the they close me up tight.
When I get to the apartment I find the dress already laid out for me on the bed. I look around for the cameras I know are here, but can’t seem to find. And then I put them out of my mind.
That’s a lie.
I undress for them.
For him.
For Smith.
I undress and sit at the makeup vanity in the large master bathroom, naked. And when I’m happy with my dark eyes and red lips, I lie back on the bed and finger myself until I come so hard, there’s a wet spot on the comforter.
The dress slips over my flushed body in seconds, and at exactly seven o’clock, Bric walks through my apartment door.
“Wow,” he says. “I like you in the black, but red is your color.” He kisses me, a long, lingering kiss with one hand around my throat and one hand between my legs.
“You’re wet,” he whispers into my mouth.
“I just came,” I whisper back. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait.”
“You filthy whore,” he says, smiling.
I want to undress him right now. Tell him to forget this party and fuck me instead.
But I’m being good. I’m being very, very good.
“Are you hungry?” Bric asks. “For something besides my cock?”
I laugh with him. “Not really,” I say, my answer more truthful than he suspects. “But I’m happy to wait for that later.”
“Like a reward,” Bric says, grabbing a black coat from the front closet I’ve never seen before. He drapes that over one arm, places his hand on the small of my back, and then leads me out into the hall. We get on the elevator and look at each other the entire way down to the second floor.
“I saw you come in but I didn’t want people to know I was looking.”
“I saw you as well.”
“We’re having dinner in the Black Room tonight.”
“I thought that was a bar?”
“It is, but the booths by the window are nice.”
They are nice. I know this because I already sat in one when Smith first brought me here. “I saw Quin and Smith too. Are they joining us?”
“No,” Bric says as the elevator doors open. “They’re both busy tonight. And we can’t stay at the party long.”
“Good.” I laugh.
“We might want time to ourselves before I have to drop you off at your house.”
“My house?” I ask, as we step out on to the landing. Smith is staring at me from his perch in the balcony bar.
“You belong to Smith at midnight. And he wants you at home tonight.”
“Oh,” I say, letting Bric guide me down
the stairs. Quin isn’t in the lobby when we get there. He’s in the Black Room sitting near the bar with a blonde woman who I swear to God I think is Rochelle before she turns her head to laugh and I realize she’s not.
“Are you OK?” Bric asks.
“Fine,” I say, letting him take my hand. He drops the coat off with the coat-check girl and then leads me into the bar and over to the very same table I sat at when Smith brought me here for my test.
I sit down on one side and Bric sits on the other. He smiles at me. “This party is going to be boring. Not that last night’s wasn’t, but worse. No one under the age of sixty tonight. So we’ll get there at eight thirty, stay ninety minutes, and then come back here for a little bit. Sound good?”
“All the parts except for the party sound perfect.”
He laughs. “Did I get your imagination working last night, Chella? You seem to be warming up to this arrangement.”
“I just… had a lot of fun. And I like fun, don’t you?”
“I do,” he says. “What do you feel like eating tonight?”
“Just something light, like a salad. With chicken, maybe?”
“I can get that for you,” Bric says. And then someone comes over to talk to him and he’s distracted for a moment. The man eyes me, but Bric makes no move to introduce us.
I look down at my place setting and grab the napkin, which is folded into a crisp envelope shape.
But it’s what’s peeking out from under the flap that catches my eyes.
Writing.
I look at Bric to see if he’s watching me. Maybe he left me a little note. But he’s not. He’s still busy with the interloper. So I lift the flap and find the same thick, bold handwriting last’s night message was written in.
I look up at the bar balcony and find Smith smirking down at me.
He lifts his drink as if in a toast but I turn my head, shake the napkin out, and place it in my lap.
I spend the next hour repeating Smith’s words in my head as I have mindless conversation with Bric and the many, many people who come up to the table to try—and fail—to get an introduction.
If you want to go dark, go dark.
