by Madeleine Oh
“And…?” Carrie breathed.
“And I begged. Oh, God, I begged. And then passed out because it was so good.” Her back and ass burned with remembered pleasure.
“You passed out?”
“Well, it’s not like I was unconscious. I was just flying, off in the stratosphere somewhere. If he’d tried hard enough, he could have roused me.”
“That must’ve been the second time I called.”
“Right. I woke up cradled in his lap while he composed music. He fisted me again, which is when you called the last time, then we went upstairs and had sex in his guest room. And then I came home.”
“You can’t just skip over all the details!”
So Gayle recounted all the details that she could remember, and was willing to admit to. She explained what Rikard had been doing, exactly where his hand had been, and why she’d been so impatient when Carrie had called. She skipped their strange argument, and her resulting fear, and just described how they made love, the way he’d kissed her with such reverence before finally coming inside her. Then how it ended when he ran off to clean up the melting ice cream.
“You’ll get a kick out of this. My last sight of him was in the kitchen, barefoot, his black leather pants slung low on his hips and barely laced, black leather mask, and his black leather gloves full of wadded-up paper towels dripping vanilla ice cream everywhere.” Gayle laughed merrily at the memory, but stopped when she realized Carrie wasn’t joining in. “Don’t you think that’s funny?”
“He wore the mask the whole time?”
“Well, yeah. It’s his Master mask. When he wears it, he’s Master Rikard. Without it, he’s just Rikard.”
“You’ve seen what he looks like without it, right? He’s not hiding anything.”
“When we met for coffee. He’s a total hunk.”
“He cooks, he cleans, he gives you half a dozen orgasms before getting his own, and he’s a total hunk. What’s wrong with this picture?”
“Uh…nothing?”
“How old is he?”
“I don’t know…late twenties, early thirties.”
“Why isn’t he already taken? Someone that good doesn’t stay on the market unless there’s a serious problem with him.”
“Oh. Well, he was. His girlfriend was killed in a car accident four years ago. I think he’s only just beginning to date again.”
“So you’re competing with a ghost? Is he still in love with her?”
Gayle thought back to Rikard’s agonized confession. “Yeah. Big time.”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Enjoy the sex, because that’s all you’re getting from this guy.”
“Maybe.” Remembering that moment on the couch when she’d realized she was still with Master Rikard instead of just Rikard, she was inclined to agree. But then there was their final lovemaking. “Or maybe not. He cried when we made love.”
“He cried? Really? How come?”
“I don’t know. But that’s got to mean he’s emotionally involved, doesn’t it?”
“Or else it reminded him of his dead girlfriend, and how much he loved her.”
Gayle sighed. That was also a possibility. “I guess I’ll have to wait and find out if he can have a relationship, or if it’ll just be about the sex. But the sex was so good…”
“A relationship would be better.”
“You’re right. As usual. Guess that’s why I keep you around, huh?”
“Nah, you keep me around because I know where all the bodies are buried.”
Together, they said, “In the graveyard,” then laughed at the familiar refrain that had amused them since they were college roommates.
“But Gayle, if he does the Bluebeard thing and tells you there’s a locked room in his house you can’t go into, for God’s sake don’t check to see if it’s a shrine to his ex. Just get out, while you can.”
* * * * *
When Tuesday night rolled around, Gayle arrived early at the theater. She took her time filling out the audition form, and ended up assigned the fifth spot. Close enough to the beginning that she didn’t have too much time for nerves to tighten her throat, but with a few other songs first to get a feel for how the accompanist played. He was good, but nowhere near as talented as Rikard.
Gayle handed her sheet music to the accompanist, and took her place at center stage. Closing her eyes briefly, she imagined Rikard sitting in the darkness at the back of the theater, hidden in the shadows underneath the overhanging balcony.
She sang to him, letting her voice fill with all of her emotions, the way he’d shown her during their date. He was the one whom she couldn’t get out of her head, thinking of him constantly. And now that he’d brought her body to life, she’d die without his masterful touch.
There was a moment of silence when she finished her song, and she inclined her head in the slightest of grateful bows. Her competition had stopped talking and humming in preparation of their own auditions to listen to her, the best compliment they could give her.
She darted a glance at the director as she walked back to the piano. He was nodding, a faint smile on his face. The accompanist was also smiling, holding out her music to her.
“Good job.”
“Thanks.”
He traded a look with the director, then added, “You should probably stick around to the end of the auditions.”
“Okay.”
She walked off stage, her knees starting to wobble as she descended the steps. She managed to stagger back to the eighth row before she collapsed into a seat. Then the delayed reaction of her audition hit, and she began to shake, her heart pounding and every breath a struggle through her tight throat. She couldn’t have left the theater if she’d wanted to.
By the time the eighteenth auditionee had performed, her reaction had run its course. She settled back to watch the remaining candidates, idly critiquing their performances and judging which she would choose if she was casting the show.
A pair of young women who auditioned one after the other had sweet voices, but couldn’t project past the third row without microphones. A young man allowed his nerves to throw him out of tune, growing worse as he realized his mistake, until the dissonance between his voice and the piano made her cringe. A blonde woman sang Rizzo’s solo from Grease, her stylized movements and perfect delivery indicating she’d performed the role many times in the past.
Finally, the last candidate completed his audition, and the director stood to address the two-dozen people who’d been asked to remain.
“Steve has some handouts for you. I’d like to hear you read them, please. Number five. The witch’s speech.”
Gayle returned to the stage, picking up the paper from the pianist. It contained five short paragraphs, from different characters. She read over the witch’s speech to the baker, settled her body to mimic the witch’s stance, and read it for real.
“Thank you. Number nine. The baker’s wife.”
Gayle walked off stage as the next woman came up, returning to her seat in the audience.
The director and pianist conferred briefly after the last person had given their reading, then the director announced his choices.
“The baker, number fourteen. The baker’s wife, number thirty-two. The witch, number five.”
Gayle didn’t hear the rest of the casting announcements. All she could think of was that she’d scored her favorite part in the show. And that she couldn’t wait to tell Rikard.
As soon as she got home, she called him.
“Hello, Gayle. How’d it go?”
“I got the part! The witch. I got it!”
“That’s fabulous.”
“I’m so excited. I’m sure it’s because you helped me with the audition song. Would you like to go out and celebrate?”
Rikard paused. “Now?”
“Well, no, it doesn’t have to be now. It’s late, and tomorrow’s a workday. But later this week.”
“Okay. You can come here tomorrow night, and I’ll make y
ou a celebratory dinner. Then we can have a…private celebration. Unless you have rehearsal tomorrow?”
“No, rehearsals don’t start until next week.”
“Fine, then. I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner.” His voice dropped to a low, seductive purr. “Congratulations, Gayle. I knew you could do it.”
* * * * *
Wednesday night, Gayle went straight from work to Rikard’s house. She didn’t wear anything special, since her tropical-print circle skirt and teal blue microfiber blouse were both comfortable and flattering, and she’d thought this would be more of a friendly celebration than a sex date. So she was surprised when Rikard answered the door wearing his leather mask and pants again, although this time coupled with a black tunic top that laced up the chest.
“Did I misunderstand? I thought it was going to be just Rikard tonight, not Master Rikard,” Gayle asked.
“But it was Master Rikard who helped you with your song.” Rikard captured her hand in his gloved one and drew her into the house. “Besides, you deserve to be spoiled and pampered for your success, and Master Rikard is far better at that than just Rikard.”
His lips curved, and good humor laced his voice, as though he found speaking of himself as two separate people extremely amusing. Then he led her into the kitchen, and all thoughts of protest evaporated.
Tray after tray of tapas covered the glass tabletop. Some fillings were pinkish, some golden brown, some a deep russet. Then there were the small bowls filled with hot sauces in every shade from bright red to dark brown, sour cream, and a green chili paste.
“You must have spent all day cooking!”
“It was for a worthy cause.” Smiling, he held out a chair for her.
She sat. He offered her a crisp damask napkin, snapping it open and holding it out for her. Disappearing behind her, he returned carrying two goblets and a bottle of white wine. Then he took his own chair, opened his own napkin, and gestured to the expanse of food on the table.
“What would you like to try first? Seafood? Beef? Chicken? Vegetarian?”
Gayle shook her head, overwhelmed by all the possibilities. “You choose.”
He selected a neatly rolled white-and-pink offering, and held it to her lips. “Try this. Crabmeat.”
She relaxed and let him feed her, enjoying the complete pampering of delicious food and exquisite service. All of the tapas were good, but some prompted her to close her eyes and groan with pleasure as she savored their flavor. She worried at first that she was taking advantage of Rikard’s generosity, but his soft smile and the gleam in his blue eyes proved he was enjoying the meal as much as she was. The final offerings, combining cinnamon and a rich chocolate sauce, were positively heavenly.
“That was wonderful. You’re a marvelous cook.”
“Thank you. It’s good to have an appreciative audience.”
“Have you always enjoyed cooking?”
“No, it’s a recent hobby. I used to have the typical bachelor diet of takeout food and pizza. But I spent far too long drinking all my meals from a straw, and began to obsess about all the foods I couldn’t have. I vowed that once I could eat solid food again, I would make all my future meals memorable ones.”
“I’m sorry you had to suffer, but I appreciate the result.”
“I think you’ll appreciate the rest of what I have planned for you, too. Finish your wine, and we’ll go upstairs.”
Her heart and lungs picked up a rapid rhythm, and her panties grew damp. “To the playroom?”
“Yes.”
She tossed back her wine, then shoved her chair away from the table and jumped to her feet. “I’m ready.”
Rikard’s gaze slid down to her breasts, and her pebbled nipples, before skimming down to her pussy. “I bet you are.”
Heat flamed her cheeks, but she couldn’t protest, because he was right. She was ready for him to take her right here and now. Waiting was going to be an exquisite torture.
Placing her hand in his gloved grasp, she allowed him to lead her upstairs. The first thing she saw upon entering the playroom was a scarlet fandango dress draped across one of the tables.
“Put on the dress.”
Gayle obediently stripped down to her underwear, then hesitated, looking a question at Master Rikard.
“Only the dress,” he clarified.
She pulled off the bra and panties, as well, then lifted the layers of satin ruffles over her head and slithered into the dress. It clung to her chest, then flared out over her hips to cascade in a ruffled fall down past her knees.
Rikard picked up a black cloak that had been laid out beside the dress, and swirled it around his shoulders.
“I am Zorro, the masked avenger of the oppressed people of Los Angeles. You are the lovely and spirited Consuela, owner of the taverna. You are cooperating with the evil Don Rafael, to try and trap Zorro, and now Zorro has trapped you.”
“But I’m not evil, right? Don Rafael has something on me to force me to cooperate with him.”
Rikard’s slow smile promised a wealth of torturous delights. “That is what Zorro needs to determine, using all the skills at his disposal.”
He uncoiled a huge bullwhip, and cracked it three times—tracing two horizontal slashes and a diagonal slash connecting them in the air. Gayle shivered, picturing the whip connecting with her flesh and carving the trademark Z into her skin. Or perhaps he’d take a page from Antonio Banderas’ Zorro and use the whip to strip away her gown, leaving her bare before him.
Instead, he lunged forward, grabbing her wrists. He cracked the whip, coiling the tail of it around the wooden frame that had been mounted to the wall since her last visit, then used the remaining length to lash her wrists together, binding her to the frame. Gayle gave a halfhearted tug against the restraint, not at all eager to escape. Her rapid breathing threatened to spill her breasts out of the low-cut dress, and she felt the first beads of moisture pooling between her legs.
Rikard crushed his body against hers, his hard thighs forcing her legs apart, while his gloved hands skimmed from her bound wrists down her arms to her flattened breasts.
“I’ll scream,” she whispered. “Don Rafael’s men will come running to investigate.”
“Not if I silence you first.”
His mouth captured hers, his kiss hard and merciless. But she didn’t scream. She could barely breathe.
She returned his kiss, opening her mouth to draw his tongue inside as she tipped her hips, straining to press her throbbing pussy against the solid bulge in his leather pants.
Rikard’s kiss softened, his lips nibbling hers instead of grinding against them. One of his hands glided up to cradle the back of her neck, supporting her head as he tilted it to deepen his kiss. His other hand drifted down to her hip. Tugging on her thigh, he lifted her leg up to his waist.
He reached beneath her billowing skirt and cupped her ass. The smooth leather of his glove caressed her skin, and she moaned into his mouth. Hot fluid dripped down her standing leg. She rolled her hips, wide open and pressed against him.
It wasn’t enough. She wanted him out of those pants and inside her. Whimpering a protest, she struggled against the whip restraining her hands, writhing against him.
Rikard broke the kiss and lifted his head, even as he dropped his other hand to her thigh and lifted her remaining leg to his waist, pinning her to the wooden frame with his hips. “Trying to escape, Consuela? Do you plan to run to Don Rafael as soon as I give you a chance?”
“No, Zorro. I have no love for Don Rafael. He forced me to help him. If I did not cooperate, he would destroy my tavern. I would lose everything.”
He kneaded her ass with both hands, rolling his hips to stroke his cock against her throbbing clit. “If he catches me, I will lose my head.”
“But he won’t catch you. You are too clever to fall into his traps.”
“Then he will destroy your tavern.”
“Not if I can convince him I did as he asked. It won’t be my fault if his
guards fail to catch you.”
“And what did Don Rafael ask you to do?”
“Lure you here. Signal the soldiers. And then distract you with my feminine wiles until they could respond.”
“What is the signal?”
“I was to blow out the candle in the window.”
“Then I shall have to keep you away from the window.”
He unwrapped the whip from around her wrists, and she immediately put her arms around his neck. Easily bearing her weight, he carried her across the room to one of the padded tables. He set her down, then untangled himself from her grasp and stepped back to study her.
Her skirt was rucked up, exposing her legs to the thighs, and her bodice had twisted to one side, one shoulder strap slipping down her arm while the other dug into her neck. One nipple peeked out over the skewed neckline. She sat without moving, enduring his scrutiny.
“What can I do to prove I’m telling you the truth? I will not betray you to Don Rafael.”
Rikard reached beneath the table and withdrew a wicked curved knife with a forked tip, like the kind that would be used for gutting hunted animals. Gayle sucked in a sharp breath, and cringed away from it, even as the fear flooded between her legs with wet desire.
“I could mark you with my Z. Carve my symbol into your soft flesh. Here.” His gloved fingertips traced the letter on the rapidly rising and falling curve of her breast. Then he pushed her skirt aside and traced a Z on her damp inner thigh. “Or here.”
“No. Please,” she whispered. “Don’t cut me.”
He rested the flat of the blade against her exposed nipple. The cold shock stabbed straight to her groin, making her gasp from the pleasure, even as she froze and stared in terror at the deadly blade pressed against her vulnerable breast.
He twisted the knife, sliding the blade beneath her bodice strap. Gayle didn’t dare to breathe as the knife stroked upward, over the curve of her breast and up to her shoulder. With a savage wrench, Rikard sliced through the strap. It fluttered down against her breast and folded down her back.
Her breath gusted out, and she sobbed in relief. She barely noticed when he lifted the other strap away from her skin and sliced through that one as well.
