by JA Huss
“She submits when you ask for it. She’s just putting up a fight, Bric. What’s the big deal? I thought you liked the fight?”
“I do,” I hiss. “With the understanding that I’m the one in control.”
“So you’re pissed because she got the better of you last night? You feel like you lost the battle?”
“You should be angry,” I say. “I don’t understand why this doesn’t bother you more. If she did this to Smith or Quin, they’d be calling an emergency meeting to set her straight.”
“Well.” He sighs. “I’m not Smith or Quin. I like Nadia. I like her fight. I like pretty much everything about her. So…” I feel the shrug again. “What do you want to do about it? Cane her ass until she has welts?”
“No,” I say. “I have something much better in mind.”
“Good, text me the details and let me know when this is going down. I gotta get into court. Later.”
He ends the call and I set my phone down. I’m in Smith’s bar checking out the people down below. It’s busy this week because New Year’s is this weekend. People love this fucking party. Almost every member shows up. Of course, Smith usually doesn’t. Not anymore, anyway. But Quin almost always does. But not this year. He’ll be home with Rochelle and Adley. Or they will get a sitter and go out alone. Or maybe they will double-fucking-date with Smith and Chella.
Assholes. They’re all a bunch of fucking assholes.
I spend the whole day stewing about Nadia and her covert attempt to take back control. I have gone through every emotion. Anger came first. Bitch. Why is she even playing if it’s just gonna be a mind fuck?
But then I got to thinking about that. The mind fuck part. Because I’m kind of an excellent mind-fucker. I mean, shit. I went to school to be a psychiatrist. I got pretty far into it before I dropped out. I have a medical degree. I run a sex club. I’ve been playing this goddamned game for more than a decade. And even though I’ve been on a losing streak for a while now, I’m damn good. I’m due for a win. I will win this.
The key to a proper mind fuck is the element of surprise. The target thinks they’re ready for the unexpected, until they’re not.
Nadia was probably pretty pleased with herself last night. She probably ended that call with a huge smile on her face. One hundred percent satisfied.
And she’s expecting retaliation. She had to know I’d tell Jordan about it. She had to know I’d find out she never called him. She had to know I’d be pissed off today.
When I realized that… well, that’s when I calmed down and started piecing together a psychological profile on her.
Nadia Wolfe. Twenty-something. Beautiful. Talented. Ballerina. Control freak. New in town. Rising star. Player of games.
She’s so stupidly simple to figure out, I almost feel sad that she’s not more of a challenge.
I decide the ballerina aspect is my best first move. They are a different sort of person, so most of what I just described probably stems from her choice of occupation. She likes control because she’s forced herself to be in control of things to get where she is in her art.
Think about it. Ballerinas, right? They get up early to go to class or rehearsal or whatever the fuck it is they do first thing in the morning. They have to control themselves in very specific ways. They have to control their muscles, their emotions, their pain threshold, and the pleasure center in their brains. They have to psych themselves up to fit their bodies into the mold of dancer.
They have to conform in many ways. Deviation from the standard is unacceptable, even though they are expected to excel and stand out.
They must look a certain way, behave a certain way, and submit to the whims of those who control their future.
Success, therefore, is not defined by their own perceptions of themselves, but by the perceptions of others. And those perceptions are directly related to athletic skill, beauty, and youth.
It’s a trifecta of psychological disorders waiting to happen.
I smile.
I’ve got you, Nadia Wolfe. I have your ticket, darling. I know what drives you now.
But the key to a proper mind fuck is, again, the element of surprise.
She’s expecting something from me tonight. Something pretty specific, I’d imagine. Something that involves pain, and sweat, and sex. Maybe punishment in the form of denial.
I press her contact number on my phone.
“Mr. Bricman,” she says, breathing hard and heavy into the phone. “What can I do for you?”
“What are you doing?” I ask, wondering about her breathing.
“Dancing,” she says, still huffing.
“I thought this was a teaching week? Jordan mentioned something—”
“I still dance, Bricman. Every day.”
Of course she does. I smile, because…yeah. She has no idea what’s coming.
“Anyway,” I say. “I guess you felt pretty good about last night, huh? Lying to me. Getting me to submit to your game. Getting me off.”
She’s silent, except for her now more controlled breathing. But I know she’s smiling as she pictures it in her head.
“I liked it though.”
“Good,” she says. “I wanted you to like it.”
“But I’m not happy about it.”
“Of course not. I played you, Elias. And you hate being played.”
“So you want the punishment coming tonight. You do this on purpose.” They aren’t questions.
“I like challenge,” she coos into the phone. “So I upped the stakes.”
“Jordan will pick you up at seven-thirty. Be ready. Wear something black. Slutty, you know. You’re really good at looking the part of a slut. So do it up right, Nadia. OK?”
“Sure thing,” she purrs back. “I can’t wait to see what your next move is, Elias. Don’t disappoint me.”
I end the call and smile, looking out at the golden dome of the capitol building. Then I text the details to Jordan.
He doesn’t answer back right away. Must be in court. But when he does, the only message he sends is a little devil emoji.
I never disappoint, Miss Wolfe. Ever.
Chapter Ten - Nadia
I want to defy Bricman by wearing white instead of black. But I only own one white dress and it’s made of lace and makes me feel like a cheap bride. So I give him that point and put on the black.
He said slutty, so I’ve got that covered too. The dress is barely long enough to cover my pussy. I’m wearing pink lingerie, but not the sweet kind. The kind that showcases your goods when you open your legs. The kind that comes with garters and thigh-high stockings. The kind that pushes your tits up to your chin and lets the tops of your nipples peek out from behind the cups.
I debated on whether to wear high boots or stilettos, and went with the stilettos. They cost more than one month’s rent for most people. But I didn’t buy them, Jordan did. So that means nothing to me. They make me taller than the boots, and even though I still won’t be as tall as Bric or Jordan, I’ll be closer to eye level.
Being small isn’t something I find cute.
I round it all off with some sterling silver jewelry. Nothing special, just a few pieces I have collected over the years.
At exactly seven-thirty, the buzzer rings on my door. I take one more look at myself in the mirror, self-consciously pull my ridiculously short dress down one more time, and let out a deep breath.
Let the game begin.
“You look… slutty,” Jordan says when I open the door. He takes me in for a few seconds longer, then takes both hands, leans in for his kiss, and lets me go so he can grab my coat.
It’s not slutty, it’s not warm, and it’s not cheap. It’s wool cashmere, but it’s short and black, so I think it’s better than the double-breasted pea coat I wore last night.
“Bric wanted slutty,” I say casually as I slip my arms into the coat and grab my purse. “And you know how eager I am to please, Mr. Wells.”
Jordan chuckles. He’s so eas
y-going compared to Bric. He laughs a lot too. I like it. He can be controlling and he’s definitely had some asshole moments with me over these past few weeks. But that’s not who he really is. Jordan is a decent guy in the real world. He’s a trial lawyer, so probably most people think he’s scum. But I’m OK with that. Because I know he takes a lot of pro bono cases. I looked him up and he’s been listed on the Crawford Top Fifty for three years in a row. That’s a special list for lawyers who give back to the community. And that’s Top Fifty in the whole country. Not just Colorado.
I trust Jordan. Sure, he might be a dick to me tonight, but if he is, he’ll show up tomorrow with roses. Or new ballet slippers. Or he’ll send me lunch and it will consist of all things I will actually eat and not things I’d just throw away because they’re junk.
And even though I know we’re playing a game, it doesn’t feel like a game with Jordan.
I mean, I know it’s a game. I know he’s not serious about me. I know this isn’t a relationship and we’re on the road to nowhere.
But he makes it feel real. He’s a good actor. He deserves the Stepford Wife version of me.
Elias Bricman though… No. He’s not worthy of the good-actress me. He’s not worthy of the girlfriend experience. Hell, he’s not even worthy of the whore experience. Bric gets what he gives.
The Machiavellian me.
Elias Bricman and I are definitely playing a game and we both know it. I got him good last night.
“What are you smiling about?” Jordan asks me as we get inside the elevator.
“This is fun,” I say, meaning it. But there are wild fluttering butterflies in my stomach for some reason.
“It’s about to get better. Play your A-game, Nadia. Because what you did last night really pissed Bric off.”
“So he told you?” I say, trying—and failing—to hide my smirk.
“He told me. I’m just warning you—”
“I know, I know,” I say, just as the elevator doors open. We step out, he offers me his arm and I curl my hand around it and let him lead me to the door. “You already told me he’s dangerous. I get it. I’m not a child, Jordan. And I’m not fragile. He won’t break me.”
We walk through the first set of doors, the doormen on their toes tonight, opening it up ahead of us, and then the second.
And that’s when I notice Bric isn’t here to pick us up. “Where’s Bric?” I ask.
“He’s waiting for us, Nadia. At the Club.”
“Hmmm,” I say as I slip into the open door of his car. Jordan gets in a second later and revs the engine of his sporty BMW.
“Hmmm, indeed, Miss Wolfe. You have really gotten his attention. And I’m not sure the full attention of Elias Bricman is a good thing.”
We’re both quiet on the way over to the Club. It’s not far, so the silence isn’t glaring. But his warning makes me second-guess all the moves I’ve planned.
Still, it’s exciting. I’ve been to the Club many times with Jordan, but aside from that one night at Bric’s apartment, I don’t make it upstairs. Or downstairs, for that matter. We have dinner in the White Room or drinks and dinner in the Black Room. Then he takes me home and fucks me at my house. Or in his car. Or someplace public. Wherever.
This will be the first time Elias is expecting me at the Club.
Just as I get my stomach to calm down from nerves, we’re there and the valet is opening my door. He extends a hand to help me out and Jordan makes his way around the car to offer me his arm.
I take it. Maybe even need it.
OK, Nadia. Play well tonight.
The people at the door greet Jordan and me. They take our coats, but then I am unexpectedly maneuvered towards the back stairs.
“What?” I whisper, leaning up to Jordan’s ear. “No dinner first?”
Jordan says nothing. And when I chance a glance up at his face, there’s no smile. His mouth is just a straight line of determination.
Hmmm.
So yes, all those butterflies in my stomach on the way over here were warranted. They have something planned for me tonight. Something that will put me in my place. Something that will give them power and make me submit.
We enter the elevator, but instead of taking it up to the fifth floor where I know Bric lives, we exit on the third floor.
“Where are we going?” I ask Jordan.
The hallways are quiet. Empty. So even though my words weren’t loud, they seem loud.
Jordan doesn’t answer. We keep walking down the dimly lit hallway until we reach the last door on the right. And then we stop. Jordan turns to me, offers me a small smile, and then places both hands on my cheeks and kisses me softly on the lips.
“Don’t make it hard, Nadia,” he says, whispering the words past my lips as he continues to kiss me.
“What—”
But his kiss becomes stronger now, his palms on my cheeks no longer gentle, but gripping.
“Don’t say anything,” he replies, pulling back to look me in the eyes. “Just give in to us and everything will be fine.”
Oh, yeah. The butterflies are back. I swallow hard, unfamiliar with the emotion coursing through my body.
Dread, I realize.
I’m considering my options. Thinking about backing out. But Jordan turns the handle and opens the door.
The room inside is… soft and maybe even romantic. The first thing I see are the long, sheer, pale yellow curtains partially hiding the downtown view. The next thing I notice is the soft, room-sized sheepskin rug. And that’s mostly because I trip over it as Jordan leads me forward. Then there’s the long table in the center of the room, covered with a white sheet. And Elias, standing at the head of it.
“Get undressed,” he commands, his words and tone evoking a sense of power. There is soft music playing. Something meditative and calming. It does the job because even though I swallow hard again, the butterflies are receding.
“Don’t make me tell you twice,” Elias says, his eyes trained on mine.
Jordan is already undressing. Puling his tie through the collar of his shirt.
I take a deep breath, hold it, and then let it out as I slip my shoes off. The rug is thick and luxurious under my constantly aching feet. I grip the long, soft fibers with my toes, ready to moan, that’s how good it feels.
When I reach for the zipper at the nape of my neck, Jordan is there to help me. He drags it down my body, and even though it’s not cold in here—in fact, it’s slightly too warm—a chill runs up my spine when my back is exposed to the air.
I slip the straps of the dress over my shoulders and let it fall to the ground at my feet. Jordan picks it up, takes it somewhere.
“I like the lingerie, Nadia,” Elias says, staring at my body like a wolf about to have dinner. “But it’s not appropriate for tonight.”
“OK,” I say, slightly out of breath for reasons I don’t want to think about. “But you did say slutty.”
He offers me a small smile, just as Jordan returns. He’s bare from the waist up now. His well-muscled chest holds my attention for a few seconds before Elias’s words bring me back to him. “Take it all off.”
I gulp air. I should not let him make me feel this way. I’m the one in control here, not him.
But even as I say it in my head, I know it’s not true. Yes, I got Bricman good last night with the phone sex. But right now, there is only one person in charge. Only one person with total command in this room.
“You need to move faster,” Bric says. He’s Bric now. Not Elias.
I unhook the garters from my stockings and roll them down my legs. Jordan is there, kneeling in front of me, hands gently holding my foot as he slips them off. We do that again for the second leg.
I like his touch. It’s soft and comforting. Jordan is grounding me now. Keeping me even and straight. Calming me.
Bric sips his drink as he watches Jordan help me with my bra. He unhooks it, slipping it down my arms. And then his fingertips are on the waistband of my panties. Pu
lling them down my legs.
I shiver as the soft silky fabric slides across my skin. I step out of them and Jordan takes everything away. I’m left standing in the middle of the room, completely bare.
“Wash your face,” Bric commands while pointing to a countertop with a large ceramic bowl on top of it.
This is a… spa room, I realize. The table is for massages. The walls are a pale gray-blue. Serene and calming.
“Nadia,” Bric snaps. “I won’t tolerate having to tell you everything twice. Go wash that shit off your fucking face.”
“You said slutty,” I say, feeling defensive.
“Quiet, Nadia,” Jordan says, not unkindly. “Just do as you’re told.”
My frustration at being stripped bare of my clothes and my control comes out of my mouth as a huff. But I obey. It’s a game, I tell myself. Just a stupid fucking game. In a few minutes, I’ll have a better grasp of the situation and I’ll be the one in control again. I’ll figure out what they’re doing and formulate a response. Make a plan.
The water in the bowl is hot. I know this because there’s steam rising off it in little curly tendrils. There’s a few rolled-up washcloths off to the side, so I take one, open it up, and dip it in the water.
My hands enjoy the soothing heat and then I bring the cloth to my face and start wiping. Once my face is wet, I pick up a small seashell-shaped bar of soap and get it wet, lather up the washcloth, and scrub the dark, smoky makeup off my eyes.
I splash water on my face to rinse it off, and then Jordan says, “Here, Nadia,” as he thrusts a soft towel for me to dry off with.
When I’m done, I lower the towel and open my eyes.
Bric is smiling when I turn to look at him. “Much better,” he says.
I glance at Jordan, who’s standing right next to me, taking my hand. Leading me over to the table. “Lie down, Nadia,” he says. “Face first.”
I climb up onto the table and do as I’m told. Bric is still standing at the head, so he’s right in front of me, the outline of his hard cock through his pants staring me in the face. I raise my eyes up to try to gauge what he’s thinking. He stares down at me as he sips his drink.
