3) A home will be provided for the companion in line with the lifestyle Mr Sinclair keeps, ensuring pre-arranged visits are forever possible. All housing costs will be taken care of by Mr Sinclair but it is essential the companion invites no guests back to the home.
4) The employee is allowed to conduct sexual relations outside of the contract (and the home) but it’s advised the employee keeps relationships casual. Any sort of threat to the arrangement Mr Sinclair has set out will be dealt with immediately and without mercy.
5) This contract is binding and the employee cannot dissolve it, nor will absconding be tolerated. Or possible. Escaping Mr Sinclair is impossible.
6) The employee is allowed to conduct casual friendships for the benefit of her mental health but must not use her real name, nor should she drop Mr Sinclair’s name in any conversations outside of the home (please refer to separate NDA).
7) The employee will not contact family members, nor meet with any of her family. Doing so could risk her true identity.
8) The employee will make time for meetings with Mr Sinclair any time of the day, any day of the week.
9) The employee will be given a new passport so that she may travel incognito (when required). The passport must be kept in a safe when not travelling.
10) Mr Sinclair reserves the right to change the rules at any time, regardless of the companion’s wishes.
11) This agreement is not legally binding; but set out to remind the companion as to her duties and expectations, in exchange of which she will receive all the aforementioned housing and monetary benefits. This contract also reminds Ms Patrick, escape is impossible. It really is.
12) Mr Sinclair has full and total ownership of the companion.
I agree to abide by the rules.
Signed in agreement,
Cleo Patrick
Dante Sinclair
January 11th, 2010
Eight
IN THE PAST WHEN WE’D been to Paris, I’d travelled by Eurostar alone, never questioning how he got there himself. I’d learnt long ago that to question Sinclair didn’t always mean you’d be rewarded with an answer. I’d usually catch a taxi from the Gare du Nord to his apartment on Boulevard Saint-Germain and to the best of my knowledge, it appeared Sexton and Sinclair had a car for Paris, and one for London, because in Paris it was a sleek, black chauffeur-style Bentley, not the ridiculous pimp wagon he rode around London in. I never dared contemplate the insurance costs for that thing.
This time, because I’d flown with them, I saw the Bentley waiting in a garage near a private airfield we flew into. The airfield somewhere even further out than the commercial airports of Paris, the drive into the city was quite far and as we drove, I looped my arms around his neck and watched with him out of the window as Paris gradually came into view.
“I’ve always loved you in Paris,” he whispered, cupping my elbow as our cheeks rested against one another’s.
Hating to spoil the moment by showing him how equally sad and elated those words made me feel, I took his cheek in my free hand, my eyes closed. Pulling his face to mine, I begged with my open mouth he kiss me and he pinched my top lip between his teeth.
“Ditto,” I whispered against his lips.
I sat almost on his lap because I couldn’t bear for there to be an inch of space between us. He struck my mouth with his and plucked at my lips, stealing myriad fearful thoughts from my tongue.
Holding his wrists, I tried to kiss him back whenever he gave me chance but he gave me hardly a moment to do that. Pulling away from one another, we stared, my chest heaving. Oxygen was precious because for a moment, it eluded me.
Saying I love you didn’t seem to be enough; I was drowning in whatever this was.
“If only I knew from the beginning that you loved me back.”
“What difference would it have made?” he asked.
Rubbing my nose against his, I giggled, “We needn’t have felt so alone, when all this time we’ve loved one another.”
He pulled me closer so I was buried in his neck and I knew, he was doing it again. He was trying to keep me from seeing his soul – trapped like a screaming phantom ship, desperate for escape from a long-sealed and adrift-at-sea bottle.
For the time being, I decided to suck up Paris and hold onto every single moment I possessed his hand in mine.
***
AGAINST a dull night sky indicative of impending rain, we emerged from the apartment in our long black coats, masks tucked into our pockets. We’d done this many times but tonight was different. Admitting our love had made it different.
As we were driven through the night-time streets of Gay Paris, I gazed at diaphanous lights streaming through the blackness, at the familiar water trickles running down inclines into drains. I tried to remember when exactly I’d realised I was in love with Dante, but truly, I had quashed my love for him for so long because to admit it would have hurt. Turned out we had a lot to thank Roman Cornish for, not to mention the gossiping pundit who’d put the idea in my head in the first place. The fact I’d remained celibate the entire six-year period I’d been playing his dominatrix must have told him I had no inclination towards any other man. Still, what was the point of looking back when you could look forward instead?
On the backseat as we approached Cohésion, he nudged his nose into my hair and whispered, “Never straighten it again. It’s alluring like this.”
I’d only gotten into the habit of straightening it as a teenager because back home, I’d been bullied for my curly locks.
“Okay,” I said softly, and he dropped a tiny kiss on my temple. Being wildly in love with him meant the kiss warmed me from there, down into my depths, and all over my skin – right to my toes.
Could he see how deeply I was his?
“We’re here,” he whispered, a slight tremor in his voice letting me know of his excitement. This was one of the few occasions Dante actually looked happy and carefree – when we were going to play with other people like him.
“We’ll call,” he told Sexton, “don’t worry.”
“Certainly.”
We left the car and watched Sexton pull away from the kerb on Rue Saint-Denis, known by some as a slice of Old Paris. Steeped in medieval history, the street had become a place for artful street walkers by day, a place for even seedier entertainment by night. For some reason the gendarmerie always turned a blind eye.
I took Dante’s arm and we walked a little way until stopping before what seemed to be the entrance to apartments above a grocer’s and café.
Careful not to hang around, lest we garner attention from the whores wandering the streets, Dante knocked loudly and a slot in the door opened. The eyes observing us recognised Dante, and me, and we were allowed swift passage inwards. Cohésion was so exclusive, few knew about it, and few would ever know the envy of never being able to get in. It was so unknown to people outside of Dante’s circle.
I held my arm through his as we walked upstairs, creaky wood beneath our feet. The stairway not lavish or pretty at all, it was good we knew another environ awaited us at the top of those stairs. Not encountering anyone else on the staircase, we donned our masks on the landing at the top and while I fixed his, he fixed mine. Dante wore a typically male Phantom mask while I wore face lace, tied with ribbon behind my mass of free-flowing curls. The lace structured just so, it gave the illusion of me being feline, with a little black nose and tiny black ears.
“I’d kiss you before we go in, but–” He gestured to my trademark red lipstick, the only significant colour about my whole person. In the mask, even my green eyes seemed dull and colourless, my make-up dark and camouflaging, so all eyes would be drawn to the lips first. This was a place for lust, not love, after all.
“You can kiss me later, all night long if you wish. I napped, remember?” After arriving off the plane earlier, I slept the afternoon away in the apartment master bedroom while he took calls and pinged off emails left, right and centre in the dining room where he
worked at the table.
Truthfully, I didn’t want to know about his work. I wondered if it would break the illusion.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready.”
He took the doorknob in his gloved hand and turned it. It wasn’t unusual for me to feel a little stage fright at this point and I had to think about the vodka I’d soon be able to throw back.
Welcomed into a small cloak area, a woman wearing a tight, black floor-length dress that showed off nothing but the contours of her slender curves took our coats as they slid off our bare shoulders.
“Welcome, Dante, Cleo,” she said, a Japanese accent curling around her pierced tongue.
“Good evening,” I said, “how are you?”
“I’m well,” she said, while hanging our coats, “the usual drinks?”
I nodded sharply and she replied, “I’ll give them your order.”
Dante remained silent as a mark of respect. Wearing his green-studded collar, it was clear who was dominant, who was sub.
Taking out the chain I’d had wrapped through the belt holes of my leather jeans, we walked down a corridor painted in a deep terracotta-orange and I clicked my chain onto the front of his collar. The pre-war building creaked but stood sturdy and ceilings were as high as corridors were wide. Oil paintings hung all around, some depicting sex scenes, some depicting gory battlefields. It was all in pure, bloodthirsty taste, of course, much becoming of a fetish club. Nearing the action so to speak, he began walking behind me, and I held the leather of his leash in my hand and the chain over my shoulder, tugging him along with me like the salivating dog he was. I could almost smell his delight as we walked into the domain of his choosing.
The main room of the club ran the length of the building, meaning even Dante with his long legs would have to take several dozen strides from one side to the other.
A semicircular bar poked out from the main wall, all chrome, the misted glass top under-lit with white lights. We walked towards where our drinks waited for us on napkins, the barman busy creating new drinks for other arrivals.
No money crossed palms here; members paid enough in fees. We would have visited more often if we actually lived in Paris.
“May I drink, Mistress?” my lover asked.
“In a minute.” I took out the handcuffs I’d been hiding in my back pocket. “Hands behind one’s back.”
I locked his hands together because forcing him to drink his drink without the use of his hands was always the first act of humiliation.
He had to lean over and use the thin stirring straw in his cognac to take any at all.
“You may sip,” I instructed, and while I held his leash, I was much greedier and drank all my vodka martini down in one.
That feels so much better!
We left my empty glass behind and I didn’t doubt he’d only taken a couple of tiny sips as I dragged him by the leash to a couch nearby.
Red-studded leather, it was a bench more than a couch, being hard and unforgiving. Knowing the performance, Dante knelt at my feet on the wooden floor, hands cuffed behind his back. Head up, eyes lowered. In submission, he was disarming. I wondered what his thoughts were. Would he tell me if I asked? We’d played this game to such a script in the past, I wasn’t sure if now we were true lovers, he would actually appreciate me improvising.
“What do you see when you look around, pet?”
“Leather,” he whispered, eyes glancing shyly at his surroundings.
“Don’t you see me?”
He glanced at me momentarily, but when he did, I saw a flicker in his eyes and knew he was at war between being dominant or sub. It must have been killing him that men still looked at me, even though I was now his.
My leather jeans and boots showed off my long legs and shapely arse, while the leather criss-cross bra I wore almost pushed my large rack up to my chin, and my soft, flat stomach was also available for anyone to see. Dante was violently passionate about nobody seeing my lower back naked which is why he always made me wear my hair so long. When curly, my hair didn’t quite reach the base of my spine enough to cover it so I’d chosen to wear high-waisted jeans tonight instead.
“Don’t you think men would love to see the dimples in my lower back?” I asked, challenging him. “I could just roll my trousers down a little, sir.”
“I’m not sir tonight,” he said, speaking through clenched lips, trying to hide his distaste of me screwing up the script. He glanced angrily into my eyes so that nobody but me would see the warring dominant beneath the surface, and I nodded, agreeing to play his game. He didn’t want to be challenged, not here.
A barman attended our couch, reeling off in a Dutch accent, “I took the liberty of making you another drink, Mistress.”
“Why, thank you. Fold over, pet.”
I pointed to Dante’s back, where the barman placed the drink down, a napkin between Dante’s skin and the glass.
“No napkin,” I said, hurried, “he’s been much too naughty. Let him feel the cold.”
The barman grinned wickedly, his eyes roaming over my breasts and thighs.
“Bring a glass of ice, will you?”
While the barman ran off to fetch me some ice, I said to Dante, “Who debases you better than anyone?”
“You do, Mistress.”
“Good. Now, be prepared.”
I knocked back my second drink, finally feeling more at ease to perform.
“Thank you,” I told the waiter when he brought me a tumbler brimming with perfectly cut ice cubes, dazzling like diamonds. “This is finished with,” I said, pointing at the glass I’d drank from, and he took it away, knowing I rarely went beyond two.
Everything about Cohésion you needed to know was in its attention to detail. These people ran the place like clockwork, keeping an open house for customers like us, 24/7.
“Now,” I warned Dante, “what shall we do with you?”
He wore the leather chaps over his leather underwear and my god, did his tight package in tight leather make me hysterically happy. I think he wore them so tight because if he didn’t, he’d stand perpetually hard in them.
“Whatever you deem right,” he replied.
“Quite.”
He remained bent over slightly, still the delightful drinks table I’d made him play a moment ago. He definitely looked better as my steed, however. Releasing the cuffs, I whispered against his ear in a warning tone, “Just so you can carry me.”
I stood and climbed onto his back, straddling my saddle. Carrying the glass of ice in my hand, I told him, “Let’s go play.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
I held his leash tight to steady myself but also to remind him I was in charge and wouldn’t have him giving me those deadly eyes, trying to make me do what he wanted me to do. He’d have to shout at me before I did his bidding and he wouldn’t shout, because that’d be breaking the rules. Dante never broke rules.
Did he know the empowerment I now had, finally, at being his lover? It was thrilling, knowing I had such room for exploration at my fingertips.
“Hi Cleo,” an admirer of mine exclaimed as I rode Dante through to the main room.
“Hi Gordon, have a good night.”
“Oh Cleo, loving the lips. God, those lips,” Jessica said, another admirer we passed as we made our way out of the room, “just one kiss?”
I felt Dante tense beneath me, shuddering between my thighs, even the thought of me kissing a woman driving him wild with envy.
“This lacquer, it’s so transferable, sorry Jessica,” I replied, even knowing my lipstick was stay-matte and wouldn’t leave my face until I chiselled it off in the morning.
He took me down a hallway towards the more private chambers, the darker rooms where acts more elicit were performed. Finding ourselves almost alone I whispered, “Jessica shows off her dimples.”
“Jessica isn’t my type,” he growled.
I could tell he was angry… and confused… or was the right word, conflicte
d?
“Let him out when we get home, darling,” I told him, squeezing my legs to his sides. Tugging on his chain, I reminded him, “Leash the beast for now.”
He panted, carrying me on his back, but it was always a sight to see such a beautiful blond man crawling on his hands and knees through a Paris apartment made into a club – not to mention while he wore chaps and no doubt had his big ball sac squished inside those leather underpants.
We arrived at the orgy room and I commended him, “Good pet.”
I lifted off his back but walked slowly alongside him as he continued to crawl like the dog he was, sniffing the ankles of the other humans around him as they stood and milled or took part in sex acts. Not sex. Just sex acts.
I took a chair furnished in black silk, with gold gilt trims, and he remained on all fours beside me – my pet. Idly stroking my painted-red fingers through his hair, I sank back leisurely, enjoying my dominance. My legs crossed, my eyes were free to roam over bodies set out around us. Women clicked around the hardwood floors in their heels or in the case of men, in their black velvet slippers, and there was no music, only the occasional cry of passion or crack of a whip.
“I shall let you know when you can watch, too,” I reminded him, even though he knew what to do.
“Yes, Mistress.”
The room holding no more than twenty people, the various noises still amounted to a racket. Whispers. Cries. Panting breaths. People lay on daybeds. Chaise longues. Men knelt in cages. Women walked around free, while the men had to watch – or like Dante – wait.
I watched as five men spent time kissing and sucking the toes of one woman laid on a chaise longue in the centre. While they sucked her toes, she laid back with two women sucking the nipples poking out of her peephole bra. While all this was going on, she visibly fucked herself beneath a black leather skirt, pumping her fingers in and out.
The Contract (Nightlong #1) Page 9
