by Deena Ward
“Good,” he said.
There was something about this man. He said the word “good” and I felt a tiny burst of what I can only describe as happiness. Good. And I was happy.
The emotion was short-lived, gone the moment he asked, “How long have you known Michael Weston?”
I recovered quickly from my surprise. “We just met, tonight,” I answered.
“At Private Residence?”
At what? Oh, I remembered. That was the name of the sex club. I said, “Yeah.”
“I see,” he said. “Are you in the habit of letting strangers fondle you in public?”
“What?” I said. The man certainly had a way with the blunt questions. I said, “That’s none of your business.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you. It was an honest question. I was looking for an honest answer. That’s all.”
He sounded so reasonable, I felt a little silly about my response. He had seen me with Michael, Michael’s hand in my bra, in public. He himself, had been with me in a public hallway, my ass bare, and me panting when he talked of someone seeing us there.
I said, “No, I’m not in the habit of letting strangers fondle me in public.”
“I thought as much,” was all he said.
Well, I thought, that was reassuring, though why it was reassuring, I wasn’t sure. Because he didn’t think I was a slut? No, I didn’t think that was it. Besides, for all I knew, he might prefer slutty women.
We rode in silence for a minute or two. I wondered why I had thought about being a slut, and how closed-minded that made me feel of a sudden.
The Businessman said, “Has Weston made you an offer of training?”
And the surprises just keep coming, I thought. I said, “Kind of, yes. I guess. I don’t see how you could know that. Have you got me bugged or something?”
This got a smile out him. “No. It’s only that you’re a very attractive young woman. There’s something of a ... a promise ... in you. Weston would see that, too. So of course he made you an offer. Have you accepted?”
“No. He asked me to think about it.”
Was that a twitch of a muscle I saw in The Businessman’s strong jawline? Impossible.
He said, “I don’t like to speak poorly of others, but I want to give you something of a warning about him. If you accept his offer, be careful.”
“Be careful,” I repeated. “What do you mean?”
“Just guard yourself. Protect your interests. It’s not my place to say more. However, you might consider asking others about him and his history. That’s up to you.”
This wasn’t much of an answer, I thought. It ranked up there in clarity with what Michael had said about him, that he was unfeeling to the women under his care.
I said, “Michael told me a rumor about you.”
“Did he?” The Businessman said, his tone bland, unconcerned. “You don’t need to share it with me. I’m sure that whatever he told you, it’s not flattering.”
It wasn’t necessary to tell him he was correct. The way he spoke of Michael, I had to believe that Michael had understated the level of their acquaintance.
The Businessman said, “Before you make a decision about Weston’s offer, I’d like to meet with you, privately, intimately.”
I stared at him.
He continued, “I might have a counteroffer, so to speak, for you.”
My stomach muscles tightened of their own will, and my mouth suddenly went dry. I didn’t know what to say, so I nodded a tell-me-more nod.
“A few hours, Monday evening,” he said.
I nodded again.
The car pulled to a stop. We had arrived at the bar. That was fast, I thought. Everything was fast these days.
He asked, “So, will you meet with me, Monday evening?”
“Yes,” I answered, then blinked. The answer had flown out of my mouth without any consideration on my part.
No chance to take it back. He asked me what time I got off work on Monday, then told me to leave work and go straight to the Frederick Hotel. I assured him I knew the location of the Frederick.
He told me to give my name at the front desk and I would be shown to my room. I was not to tip anyone; he would take care of that. I didn’t need to bring anything, either. He would provide everything I might need.
He then said he might be a little late, depending on a meeting he had to attend, but that I should be confident that he would be there as soon as he could.
Before I got out of the car, he joked about the ride being so short he doubted he had saved me much money. Then he gave me one of his chaste goodbye kisses, on my cheek this time.
But his next words weren’t polite. He looked at me, straight and even, and said, “You smell of him. I don’t like it.”
Then I was climbing out of his car, almost as if he had psychically willed me onto the street. And I was walking to my car, getting in and starting the motor. I noticed that The Businessman didn’t leave until I was pulling away down the street.
I drove home wondering about him and how easily I followed his wishes. I hadn’t even seriously considered declining his invitation of a ride, nor his invitation to meet with him again.
Maybe, some time before I went to the bar the night of my divorce celebration, someone had nabbed me and hypnotized me, then ordered me to go out and have kinky encounters with strangers who want to tell me what to do. An unlikely scenario, I had to confess to myself.
The most likely answer for my recent behavior was that I was finally going after something I always wanted, but didn’t know it, or didn’t want to accept it.
I didn’t know. It had been a long night.
When I was home, freshly showered and tucked in bed, ready for sleep, I mentally relived parts of my time with Michael, and the Hoytes, and the girl on the rack.
But my last thoughts, before I drifted off to sleep, were of The Businessman, and the heat in his dark eyes -- the way he looked when he saw me with Michael. And the way he looked when he said he didn’t like the smell of another man on me.
And I thought, I still don’t know his name.
Chapter 7
The bellboy quietly shut the door of room 1032, leaving me alone.
Everything went as The Businessman had said it would. I gave my name at the front desk and was immediately escorted to my room. It was all courteous, and discreet.
I had no idea how The Businessman knew my name. I knew he had never asked me. It was one of several mysteries I wished to solve. Between the questions and the anticipation of seeing him again, I was wired for sound, as an old friend used to say.
Sunday afternoon I had spent some time on the Internet, reading about BDSM and looking at pictures, pictures of women and men being bound, and tortured. I scanned through pages describing Doms and subs, Masters and Mistresses and slaves, and contracts and training and on and on and on, all of it jumbling together.
But it was the pictures, the damned pictures. They freaked me out, plain and simple. Some of the things that were being done to the people in the pictures ... I didn’t even want to think about it. I had to stop looking at the stuff.
Had I continued with my research, I don’t think I would have been standing in that hotel suite. I pushed what I read and all the pictures I saw to the back of my mind, shoved far behind my mind’s image of the heady and handsome Businessman.
All day Monday dragged by, my work nothing more than an impediment to be overcome. And now, at last, here I was. My stomach hurt. Damned anticipation.
The Frederick Hotel was one of the oldest, and finest hotels in the city. I had never stayed here before, though I had splurged a few times and eaten in the restaurant.
Room 1032 was a small suite, consisting of a bedroom, a huge bathroom, and a sitting/dining room with a pair of French doors that opened onto a terrace. All of the rooms had high ceilings and were loaded with heavy brocades, plush carpets and gold fixtures.
The furnishings were made from some dark and rich-looking w
ood, the rich part probably explaining why I had no idea what kind of wood it was. Everything shone from decades of polish and care. One piece in the bedroom, a lovely free-standing mirror, caught my eye because of its obvious age and beveled, oval glass that shone pristine and unclouded, belying its years.
As I toured the place, I noticed the scent of flowers, and not just from the fresh ones which were artfully arranged in various vases and placed about the rooms. There was an addition of jasmine, I thought, and orange blossoms.
I ended my tour back where I had started, in the sitting room, and dropped my purse on the coffee table. I noticed an envelope on the table with my name written on it. I picked up the envelope, opened it and read the note inside.
It was written on thick paper in the strong lines and slant of a masculine hand:
“I hope the accommodations are to your liking. Help yourself to anything you would like to eat or drink. Please limit yourself to no more than one alcoholic beverage.”
“Before I arrive, please shower and wash your hair with the toiletries I’ve provided. Remove all makeup. Dry your hair, but don’t style it or add hair products. When you’ve done this, you may wear one of the bathrobes that are hanging in the bathroom. Wear nothing else.”
“I should be there before seven. Do what I tell you to do, and all will be fine.”
It was signed, “Best,” then a scrawl for the name. Damn. I could not make out the name. There was nothing to make out, just a big kind-of loop thing and a short squiggly line.
I reread the note. Then I read it again. So, this was how it was.
I assumed he didn’t want me to drink too much for the same reason that Michael wanted me good and sober. I was fine with that, not being a big drinker anyway; I was more of a caffeine junkie. Besides, I knew this wasn’t going to be a normal kind of encounter. I knew he would make demands of me. And wasn’t that why I was here?
In all honesty, I admitted that The Businessman wasn’t asking all that much of me in his note. I didn’t even mind not styling my hair.
But no makeup? Really? Not even a touch of mascara, I presumed. I wasn’t thrilled about that command.
I was to do what he told me to do. Every time I heard that sort of thing I would get the mixed feelings of excitement and distrust. Excited to do what he wanted. Distrustful because ... because ... I’m not a mindless person without a will of her own. Am I? No. What did it say of me that I was now wanting to give that will to another? The distrust was not for The Businessman, or Michael either. It was me I distrusted, me and these new desires.
I checked the clock hanging over the bar in the back corner of the room. A little after six. I had plenty of time, but figured I might as well get started. I grabbed a cola out of the mini-fridge on my way to the bathroom.
It wound up taking longer than I thought it would. It was the shower’s fault; there were all these water jets set into the walls. It was bliss. I’m not sure how long I spent getting an impromptu water massage.
I found the soap and shampoo sitting neatly on a shelf. According to the plain black print on the white containers, the products were hypo-allergenic and unscented. There was nothing else printed on the tubes and jars, no name brand, nothing. It was the same with the antiperspirant he provided, and the lotion I rubbed all over myself when I finished showering.
I quickly checked myself in the mirror. My hair was clean and shiny, hanging down my back, but it didn’t look right, just hanging there all plain. I thought my face looked plain, too, undefined and bland without the use of my usual make-up. I briefly considered pinching my cheeks and lips, the way I recalled the heroines did in the historical romance novels I read when I was a teenager. I didn’t do it. If he wanted me plain like this, then that’s what he would get.
I wrapped myself in the luxurious white bathrobe that had been hung on the bathroom door and headed back to the sitting room.
I glanced at the clock. Ten until seven. My stomach fluttered. He would be here any time. I sat down on the sofa to wait. Maybe some TV would help me relax. No. No TV. I waited.
A few minutes later, there was a solid knock on the door, and then it opened. The Businessman walked in, looking more businessman-like than ever. He wore a dark blue suit that perfectly fit his tall, muscular figure. His shirt was crisp white and fresh, as if he hadn’t been wearing it all day. A shiny silk tie was still snug around his neck.
This was the first time I had seen him in full light. He was as handsome as ever, with his fine Roman nose and his dark hair brushed back from his forehead, though I thought I could see some strands of silver hair around his temples. They only added to his attractions.
And his lips. He smiled at me, sitting there on the sofa. Me, looking plain and feeling small, wrapped up in the big, thick bathrobe. I smiled a shaky smile back at him and stood.
As he closed the door, he said, “You should have thrown the deadbolt on the door. It’s more secure than the doorknob lock.”
I thought, great, his first words to me are a rebuke.
He turned the deadbolt then walked over to me.
I said, “You’re right, I didn’t think about it.”
He said, “Just remember.”
He reached out and cupped my jaw, turning my head to one side and then the other, studying me. “You found my note.”
I nodded.
“You did everything I asked you to do?” he asked.
I told him I did.
“Good,” he said, then walked off toward the bar.
I stood there and waited, enjoying my good girl tingle, while he pulled a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge. He poured some water into a glass, nabbed one of the small bags of nuts that had been arranged on the bartop, then returned to the sitting area.
“Have you had plenty to drink? Are you hungry?” he asked, unbuttoning his suit jacket and sitting down in one of the big cushioned chairs.
“Yes, and no, not hungry,” I answered.
“I meant to grab a snack on my way over here, but didn’t get a chance.” He tore open the bag and ate some of the nuts.
I stood there, feeling awkward, not knowing if I should sit or what.
He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt, reminding me of how he looked the first time I saw him, sans tie, of course. He casually lifted one of his legs and propped his ankle on his other knee, the male version of crossed legs, or that’s how I always thought of it.
Then he said, “Take off the robe and leave it on the sofa, then stand over here,” and pointed to the floor, about five or six feet in front of his chair.
He ate another handful of nuts and chased it down with some water. I stood there and stared at him, watching the muscles work in his jaw while he chewed. Just like that? Get naked? In all this light? No seduction, no dimming lights, no kiss ... just get naked. It was so ... businesslike.
Look who you’re with, I thought, and almost laughed. God, I was nervous. Of course it was businesslike. I ordered myself to not go all giddy.
While I was thinking all of these thoughts, The Businessman watched me with that unflappable look on his face.
He said, “Obviously, I need to explain a few things. First, you don’t need to think about anything, not really. Just do what I tell you to do. Second, should you decide that you don’t want to do what I tell you, simply tell me so, and you’ll be free to leave. That’s all. Two things. Easy, right?”
I thought, not really, but I said yes.
“So then,” he continued, and let silence stretch behind his words, leaving what was unspoken to hang between us, only making the smallest of gestures toward the spot on the carpet, the spot where I was supposed to stand, naked.
He finished his snack while I reached for the tie of the robe. Time to do what I was told to do. It was definitely not as easy as he said.
I slipped off the robe and left it on the sofa then went to where I was told to stand. He sipped his water and slowly perused my body from head to foot. He t
old me to turn. I turned. He told me to stop. I stopped. Even with my back turned, I felt his gaze on me. I looked over my shoulder and found him studying my ass.
Embarrassed. I was embarrassed. And turned on, too, or at least already getting that way. I don’t know how I could have stood there naked in front of him and not have gotten aroused. I would have been more excited, however, if I could have figured out what he was thinking, if he approved of what he saw.
Once I was facing him again, he said, “Clasp your hands behind your back. No, down low.”
He told me to pull my shoulders back, then to spread my feet about shoulder-width apart. He had me lift my chin, straighten my legs, suck in my stomach, look at the floor.
He said, “This is the attention stance. When I tell you to wait at attention, this is what I expect.”
I nodded.
He said, “When you’re standing at attention, you may not move or speak or look at anything other than the floor, unless I tell you to do so. Do you understand? Speak.”
I said, “Yes.”
He left me standing there in that pose while he sipped his water and looked at me. I thought of Michael’s position number one, as he had dubbed it.
I didn’t want to be thinking of Michael. Although my anger toward him had cooled considerably, now was not the time to think of him. If The Businessman knew I was thinking of Michael, what would he do? Best not to find out.
The Businessman said, “Clasp your hands on top of your head and stick your ass out more.”
I did.
He said, “That’s the first inspection stance. Do you understand? Speak.”
I told him yes.
“Now spread your legs wider and bend over,” he said. “Try to touch the floor. Good. Try to put your palms flat on the floor. Not quite there, huh. No matter, it can give you something to work on. Go as far down as you can. There. Now raise your head as far as you can, but keep your focus on the floor. Good. That’s the second inspection stance. Do you understand? Speak.”
“Yes.”
He told me to stand closer to him, only about a foot or so in front of him, then he had me repeat the attention stance, and then the first inspection, which he had me hold.
