Erik lifted her knee so she could step out of the dress, one, then the other. His hands lingered on her calf, her inner thigh. “May I see the rest of you?” he asked.
Syria opened her eyes. The pale girl was breathing fast, and her cries grew louder. Syria watched her, fascinated, as her body bloomed pink with the blood flow to her belly, thighs and breasts. The man worked her carefully, with precision, and then the girl was over the top, shuddering, crying out. The man gathered her in his arms, letting her subside, and began to unbind her.
Syria shifted back to Erik, who waited patiently for her answer. One hand rested on her hip, the other lightly on her back. He had such perfect control. She wanted to drive him mad, to make him want her, but to be forced to hold to his promise. If he could test her, she could test him also.
“Yes, please.”
He reached for the hook of her bra, and she was released, the scrap of lace falling on the chaise with her dress. “May I touch you?” he asked.
She nodded, the burn so fierce that she could not possibly say no. His thumb grazed her nipple, and she moaned out loud, so caught by the moment, their private space, the pale girl coming out of her bindings. Erik bent then to press soft kisses into her neck, then down across her collar bone. Syria agonized, waiting for him to arrive at his destination, and then he was there, drawing her breast into his mouth, and now she rushed with so much wetness that her panties were damp.
His finger slipped inside that lace and now a new need replaced the old. Syria realized her mistake. She was going to want to have sex with him, would be desperate for it, and she would be bound to her own restriction.
The panties eased down her thighs, then fell to her ankles. Erik lifted her knee as before to step her out of them. Syria needed touching so badly she wanted to do it herself, but Erik understood. “Is this okay?” he asked, his hand curling around her thigh.
“Yes,” she managed to get out, and then his fingers were where she needed them to be, pressing into her folds, expertly fluttering against her clit.
Syria clutched at his shoulders, relaxing into his touch, feeling the shift of power as he stood over her in the suit, fully dressed, while she clung to him, naked save her delicate black heels.
She looked over his shoulder at the entwined couple of the man and the bondage girl. Erik released her, and she felt less out of control as he accepted a pure white rope from the man and slipped it around her waist.
Syria wanted to ask him about his experience with bondage but he so expertly wrapped her breasts with the rope that he answered her. He seemed to know she wanted the knot and tied one, pressing it into her clit with a practiced hand.
He passed the rope to the other man, who began the process of making the elaborate braid across Syria’s body. She was swiftly immobilized, her elbows high, her hands behind her head. The ropes slid across her back, both tight and soft, and each jerk of the rope sent the knot deeper against the sensitive bud.
The man stepped away and gave the end of the rope to Erik. “Surely,” Erik said, pulling Syria close to him slowly, inch by inch, until she was up against him and his hand cupping her breast, “we should not deny the others the beauty of this work.”
Syria’s eyes went wide as she realized he meant to take her into the main room. She first thought to plant her feet and refuse to walk, but then he pulled on the rope, driving the knot against her, and his mouth returned to her breast. He jerked on the ties, rhythmically and with force, until Syria let go of everything, her worries, her fear, her inhibition. The man held the curtain as Erik walked her out into the hall, and the room hushed to hear her cries, as he led her, pulling on the rope, getting her so close to peaking, then pausing so that she writhed against the ropes.
The music swelled around her, the notes almost tangible against her skin. It followed her across the room, to the dance floor, and the beat matched up to the tug of the rope, the press of the knot, and her spiral into the next level of pleasure.
Erik circled behind her, running one hand along her body as the other worked the rope. Now that they were still, Syria found she could not hold back. As he pulled the knot against her again and again, she let go. The shattering of orgasm spread up through her body. The music matched, growing louder as as she screamed, then the cymbals crashed and it all came down together in a shower of emotion, sound, and pulsing pleasure than lingered on her body even after the orgasm subsided.
She had kept her eyes closed but now she took in the scene. Men and women, standing, sitting, some riding each other, but watching her, loving her, using her to intensify their own experiences. Erik walked around and scooped her into his arms to take her back to their chaise. She laid her head on his shoulder, sleepy now, and she trusted him to take care of her.
11: Recovery
Syria felt the car bank to the left, her body shifting without a seat belt on a leather seat. Her head was lying on someone’s lap.
She popped up. Erik looked down at her. “Feeling better?”
Syria pushed her hair out of her face. It had come down from her updo. They were back in the Mercedes, and driver Bill sat in front, eyes on the road.
“What time is it?” She felt very groggy and odd, like she’d been sleeping for hours.
“Six a.m.”
“What?” Syria peered out the tinted windows, but the streets were quiet and dark. “When did we leave the restaurant?”
“About midnight.”
She turned back to Erik, the headlights flashing across his face as a lone car passed them. “Have we been driving the whole time?”
“It’s been my pleasure to spend the night with you,” Erik said.
“You didn’t want to take me home?”
He smiled in the dark, and she could see his teeth. “I did not want the night to end.”
She wondered if anyone had missed him, or if they had the right to. She stared out the window again, trying to figure out where they were.
“I’ve already narrowed down the search for your father,” he said.
She whipped her head around at that. “What?”
“There are over a thousand men named Arnav Sharma in India. But my associate was able to narrow the field down to just a few dozen possibilities in the right age range—”
Syria held up her hand. “Wait. How did you know about my father? Are you doing a background check on me?”
“Oh no. You told me all about him, and the Santa doll, and the letters.”
Syria fell back against the seat. “When did I do that?”
“While I untied you. You practiced bondage on your doll, you said. It was what precipitated the conversation.”
Syria’s face burned. It must have been the drug. She had drunk it willingly.
She wanted away, out of the car. Home, under her covers. “Are we on our way back to my house now?”
“Yes.” He hesitated. “I don’t have to continue the search, if you would like me to stop.”
“What else did I say? Why don’t I remember?”
“The drug can have a mild amnesia effect.”
“So I don’t know what all happened?”
“I think you do. The conversations are probably blurred, but you remember being tied, right?”
Syria nodded.
“And do you remember when I redressed you?”
Syria paused, thinking. Gradually, it came back into focus, stepping into the dress, stumbling, and laughing as Erik caught her. “Yes, I almost fell.”
He squeezed her arm. “There. The conversation was between those things. I think you will remember it all eventually. Do not worry, Syria. You were delightful and charming, a lovely picture.”
She recognized the neighborhood now. “This was quite an evening.”
“It was, Syria.” They pulled up in front of her house, but he closed his hand over her arm. “Before you go, please tell me you will consider my offer. I am prepared to accept as many concessions as you like, including a new perfect photo studio for you,
everything you’ve ever wanted. You do not have to give up your passion for me.”
Her thoughts turned to Tyson. He was her passion. Or had been. “I have some unfinished business.”
“Understood. May I call you tomorrow, to see how you are feeling?”
“Yes. That’s fine. I still have your images to do anyway.”
“Take your time.” He passed her the leather case with the contract papers. “I hope you’ll look them over.”
He nodded at the window and Bill the driver opened the door for her. “Good morning, Miss Syria,” he said.
The sun was just coming up over the horizon. “Good morning. Thank you.”
Bill closed the door and walked her to the front porch. “I hope to see you again.”
Syria smiled at him, and he turned and strode back to the car. She unlocked the door and closed it behind her, leaning against the cool metal, the leather portfolio hugged to her chest. Her life was increasingly complicated lately, opportunities rising and falling like tides.
* * *
Syria lay in bed another hour, but the sun was rising, and she no longer felt sleepy. She had mild burn marks on her wrists from the evening, and a bit of soreness from the knot, but otherwise, she seemed none the worse for her experience.
She’d avoided her phone, but figured it was time to see if Tyson was contacting her still. Yesterday he seemed to have had no idea some drunk bimbo had called her with video chat.
Her phone was in her purse in the other room. She padded down the hall, wrapping a ponytail holder around her wild hair. When she picked up her phone, she saw a missed call from Tyson, plus a handful of text messages.
Syria, I’ve missed you.
Did you go out tonight? I’ll call you after work.
Easy gig, just a Christmas present for this lady from her quilting group. She was hilarious and fun, at least seventy.
That made me smile, picturing a group of old ladies whooping it up for Tyson as he stripped.
I’m guessing you’re having a great time somewhere. Miss you.
Heading to bed. I’ll call again tomorrow.
Syria held the phone to her chest. Whatever had happened at that party, he didn’t feel it was anything to worry about. There was no note of concern in any of his messages. Had he not checked his outgoing calls?
He couldn’t know. Even Mia must not have told him. Or any of the other women they called. I remembered the girl exclaiming, “He has SO MANY girls in his contact list!”
Syria returned to her bedroom and flung herself down. Why did he have to be so far away?
And if she talked to him, what should she say about the phone call?
Or for that matter, what to tell him about Erik?
Maybe a boyfriend wasn’t a good idea, especially a long-distance one.
It was too early to call, and she couldn’t sleep, some weird hangover-ish headache like a dull thud in her temples.
So she stood in her studio, looking over the second-hand lights, the inexpensive drops, other than the fancy one she’d just bought. Her camera was good, but not the best, and while she did well with what she had, Syria could only imagine what magnificent equipment Erik could provide. His offer didn’t have a lot of holes, other than maybe the title. He was courteous, generous, and considerate. She didn’t doubt he would treat her very well. And it wasn’t exactly the rest of her life.
She remembered the contract that Erik had passed her in the car. No harm in looking it over. It sat on the corner of her desk. She slid in to her chair and pushed aside the keyboard and drawing tablet. The small desk lamp illuminated the rich leather, hand tooled along the spine with an intricate design.
The cover fell open to reveal a stark white summary page.
Part 1: Nondisclosure Agreement
Part 2: Term and Compensation
Part 3: Assets
Part 4: Behavior
Part 5: Expectations
Part 6: Medical and Legal
Part 7: Termination of this Agreement
Addendum: Power of Attorney, Fingerprinting, Physician Forms, Financial Documents, Risk Assessment
Whoa.
Syria rested her chin in her hand, elbow braced on the desk over the document. She flipped through. It ran for dozens of pages.
She flipped back to the beginning, turned past the nondisclosure agreement, and paused on Part 2, blinking at the numbers in front of her.
Term, five years from sign date.
See Part 7 for early termination circumstances and procedures.
Compensation, $125,000 per year, with a resigning bonus of $300,000 at contract end.
She jumped out of the chair, walked in a circle, then looked at the page again.
Over half a million dollars in five years.
“How did this happen?” she asked the ceiling. What did someone like Erik see in her that was worth this much money?
She sat back down and looked more seriously at the other pages. All her assets would remain hers, but would be jointly managed by The Executive. All expenses incurred by The Exhibitionist—
She halted. The what?
The Exhibitionist.
A bit of dialogue filtered in from her memory. They were walking out, Syria laughing and relaxed. A woman in a flamboyant red dress had passed her and bumped into her shoulder.
When Syria had stopped, the woman paused and looked her over with disdain. “Is she your new exhibitionist?” she asked Erik.
“Good to see you, Sylvia. You are looking lovely,” he said. “Please excuse us.”
Syria hadn’t realized at the time what the woman had meant, but thinking back over the evening, she began to understand. Erik wanted her to be the girl he met at the bondage exhibition, and he’d led her back to it last night with the rope knot on the dance floor.
She wasn’t sure if she could do that, although the memory of the rope, the knot, the onlookers, the attention...
Maybe.
Syria looked back at the page.
All expenses incurred by The Exhibitionist would be paid for by The Executive. Compensation would be placed in the accounts of The Exhibitionist. Any expenditures by The Exhibitionist from the account requires approval by The Executive, other than a nominal $5,000 annually for personal gifts to members of The Household or family.
So he would control her money.
She flipped to Part 5: Expectations.
The Exhibitionist will accompany The Executive at functions.
She knew all that. She flipped the page.
Sexual and criminal acts. The Exhibitionist will not accuse, threaten, blackmail, or report The Executive for alleged acts that are covered in this contract, including forced intercourse, corporal punishment, sexual play, or role playing that could be construed by outsiders as a criminal act.
Now she was getting somewhere.
The Exhibitionist will fill out the addendum entitled, “Risk Assessment” to establish the parameters for disallowed, occasionally allowed, and frequently allowed activities that may put The Exhibitionist at risk for injury, pain, or mental anguish.
This was the craziest document Syria had ever seen. She wasn’t sure if it was even legal, although she assumed someone like Erik would make sure it was binding.
She got up and paced the room again. She couldn’t do something like this, could she? She should run it by Mia.
And Tyson.
The ache for him became fierce. She glanced at the clock. Still only 8 a.m. and even earlier in Seattle. She went to her bedroom for a coat and tennis shoes. Time for a walk, so she could think.
12: Grief
When Syria returned from her walk, her exposed hands red and chapped from the cold, a courier waited outside her door.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
The man handed her an envelope and headed back to the street.
“Wait!” she called out. “Did you just get here?”
“I was told to deliver it personally,” he said.
�
�I hope you didn’t have to wait long,” she said.
“It’s my job.” He saluted her and headed back to a white van.
Syria unlocked her door, puzzling over the package. From Erik, no doubt. Maybe he’d forgotten part of the contract. This one probably said she couldn’t pee without his permission.
She kicked the door closed, wishing her walk had helped her come to some conclusions. She sat on the bench in the hall and tore open the envelope. The page inside was a handwritten letter in a crisp clear style.
Syria,
Based on our search of your birth certificate, and the details you gave of your father’s other children, we have definitively narrowed the search to Arnav Sharma of Kolkata, born July 3, 1951. Married Anisha Shah in 1974. They had two boys, Deepak in 1976 and Manish in 1979.
Anisha filed for divorce in 1995, but rescinded the papers one month later.
All these things align with what you told me last night.
Arnav worked as a banker and did very well for himself. Unfortunately, he had a heart attack on Dec. 6, 2012 and died in surgery the next day. I have enclosed his obituary. I believe his resemblance to you makes this definitive.
I am very sorry, Syria. Perhaps we can still make a journey to his country together and see the places he called home.
Fondly,
Erik
Syria peered at the obituary, a print out from a web site memorial. The man stared up at her, his black hair shot through with gray, but a riot of curls. His eyes were shaped like hers, set wide, and something about his mouth seemed familiar, as though their smiles would be the mirror images, if she could make the face on the paper come to life.
She let the paper go. It fluttered from side to side as it caught on the current from the heater, then rested beneath the hall table. She felt so heavy, like she might fall forward. She succumbed to it, sliding off the bench to the floor. She’d never meet him. Never know him. He would never explain anything to her. She would not know if her laugh mimicked his, since it was not like her mother’s.
Shades of Submission: Fifty by Fifty #1: Billionaire Romance Boxed Set Page 28
