by Thea Devine
The excitement of this new component of their sex life was interfering with her work and her real life. What life? She spent more and more time with him, placating him, servicing him, except when he decided not.
Sometimes he called and told her not to come.
There was a whiff of the sadistic about it, almost as if now that he had trained her and absorbed her, the point of the exercise was done.
But that was impossible. He wanted her with an intensity that thrilled her.
Today’s session was unusual. It was a Saturday, one free of family obligations for some reason, and he’d called her suddenly and imperiously to come to the apartment. Called her early, so they could have the whole day. That had to mean something.
But why today, really?
She didn’t dare ask.
Did you hear yourself? You didn’t “dare” ask. She lay quietly, keeping everything she really knew skating lightly on her consciousness.
He’s mine.
That was all that mattered. And that for the first time in months, she was not spending a weekend day alone.
Brooke’s solution for lurking lust was to keep them busy. After their weekly mandatory mistress maintenance sessions, belly-dancing lessons, movies, and shopping the sales listed in New York magazine, neither she nor Delia was thinking much about men.
Just about MJ.
And MJ was thinking about the fact that she missed them. About the fact that Dallan had laid out such stringent rules that she couldn’t even pick up the phone to call them, which she’d strongly wanted to do after that abortive lunch.
Why did Brooke have to be so critical? Brooke thought she was the queen just because her parents were wealthy, and because the Mistress Club had been her idea.
Well, she, MJ, was the only one of them who was a mistress. The first of them to snag a full-time lover, despite Brooke’s peculiar ideas about getting. Giving was what it was about. And she was giving like crazy.
Right. You give and give, and what are you getting?
The greatest sex of my life.
And you’re so happy, aren’t you?
Yes, I am. I am.
Not.
She wondered what Delia and Brooke were doing. She wondered if they had found anyone yet. She missed their Saturday routine, because Dallan didn’t want her hanging out with her girlfriends even when he wasn’t there.
Why not?
If she went out with them, he wouldn’t know.
But she’d cut them off after that last lunch. Had sided with the unknown Bill over her girlfriend because it was what Dallan wanted. Feeling that somehow he would know she’d been disloyal.
That’s crazy…
I can’t lose him.
Why not? What’s he got, besides an inexhaustible penis?
All my secrets.
So what?
All my secret secrets…
So what?
She lay beside him the next night, staring at the ceiling.
I’m not happy. She couldn’t remember if Brooke’s formula for them becoming mistresses included being happy. But a mistress’s job was to keep her man happy, and Dallan certainly couldn’t deny that she was available, willing, enthusiastic, adventurous, orgasmic…
He never says a word, except to constrain you somehow.
But she’d had this argument with herself before. It was true that Dallan was not a man to give compliments or appreciation lightly. Or ever. But the fact he was still with her said volumes.
Didn’t it?
“MJ?” Dallan’s voice, clogged with sleep. “I need a fuck.”
Not I need you. I want you.
I love you…
She made a small sound. Don’t.
“MJ.” His tone was peremptory now.
She heard herself say in a pacifying tone, “Yes, Dallan. I’d love to do you,” and she wondered, what am I doing?
But she knew—she was rolling onto her back and spreading her legs for her lover, the man who wanted her, her body, her sex, her secrets.
Early on Saturday morning two weeks later, Brooke settled in at her favorite spot, the window overlooking West End Avenue where she’d placed her dining table, to take stock.
She was not happy with how things were progressing. Work wasn’t working. Their outside social activities had yielded nothing. Memberships in museums and volunteering were not producing any results.
She was certain now that the kind of man who could support a mistress was not to be found at any of those venues. So where were they hiding, and how could she root them out?
Maybe they needed to buy a box at the ballet. Or rent a roof in the Hamptons. Or worm their way into one of those despised clubs and get tight with whoever was the hip party producer of the moment. Those guys collected the trendy and terrific to populate their parties; maybe that was the entrée to the more rarified circles of the hip and horny.
Or maybe the Mistress Club was a dumb idea altogether. How naïve of her to think they could take the mistress world by storm. Those women probably cat-fought their way to their positions of power. Or maybe there was something like a mistress matchmaker…
She went very still, her heart beating like a drum. Oh, my God.
She felt absolutely stupid and utterly brilliant at the same time.
She had said all along that men who were seeking a mistress would be very discreet. They’d never take their lust to the streets or anywhere public. They were too well-known, for one thing. Their wives were probably seen and photographed everywhere that the fashionable set partied.
So, if she were the CEO of the world, had unlimited resources, and wanted a beautiful young paramour, where would she look? Understanding of course, that the CEO of the world would want the cream of the young, beautiful, and available women—and probably not those who regularly made the headlines.
I’d want her checked out before we even met to make sure she wasn’t a reporter for Page Six or the Enquirer.
I’d want her checked out medically so I wouldn’t be letting myself in for any sexual surprises.
I’d want to know her requirements before we met and maybe I’d want them presented by a third party so monetary aspects could be handled out of sight.
I’d want to meet her somewhere neutral and private, to see if we were compatible…
I’d want some guarantees…
Exactly! These people could afford to be as particular as a king; they didn’t fuck just anybody.
Only—mistress matchmakers didn’t run ads in Town & Country. If such a thing existed, it was something in the ether, something people knew.
So she had to find someone who knew. She had to listen when people were whispering. She had to get them to places where they could “hear” who was available and where to find them.
Sure, I can do it.
She’d figured this much out. She could do anything.
I’m tired.
Tired of what? Tired of sex? Tired of Dallan?
Stop it. She could never be tired of an indefatigable lover like Dallan.
He’s mine. Is he? He was by her side every night, yet she still had to go home.
“MJ, I need some tunnel time.”
“Yes, Dallan.” NO, Dallan. How about wanting ME for a change?
She obediently spread her legs, feeling disconnected from her body, her needs. It was always his needs. He’d taken over completely, just as she’d wanted.
That had been what she wanted, right? Then why was she so unhappy?
She took his pummeling, standing outside herself, watching, feeling a ticking clock inside her. Bam bam slam…she didn’t even fake it this time.
“What, you can’t get it up tonight?”
“I’m tired,” she managed to say.
“I didn’t give you permission to be tired.”
“Okay,” she muttered.
“Whenever you’re tired, I want to fuck again just to wake up your cunt.”
“Not tonight.”
“I’m
sorry—not tonight? You have a headache or something?”
He’s all mine, don’t forget that…
“No, Dallan. No. Let’s do it again. I’m ready now.”
What am I saying?
He plunged into her again and she girded herself to fake it, to make him feel that she was with him now.
Afterward, he collapsed on top of her the way she had always loved. But now she wished he’d get off of her, that he was far away from her. He was heavy, sweaty with his exertions, and she didn’t like how he’d used her tonight.
How he always uses me.
He does not use me—
No? Does he come when you call?
I never call.
Does he ever ask what you want?
He’s mine. That’s all that matters. I’m his mistress.
You’re his whore. He’d have to pay someone else to do the things he does to you.
Noooooo…
“Time’s up, MJ.”
She heard his voice from far away. That was what he always said when he wanted her to leave, as if sex with him was therapy. For whom? Him or her?
And why did he want her to leave? Tomorrow was Saturday. They had a Saturday precedent, so why couldn’t she stay?
She didn’t dare ask. Listen to yourself: You don’t “dare” ask.
You have to leave.
No. I have to go.
Deep inside, she knew the difference was real, and crucial. And that, scared as she was, she was ready to make that choice.
Tonight.
Oh, God…Tonight?
Tonight.
Chapter Eight
The next morning, Brooke’s doorbell buzzed urgently and interminably. No one should have to wake up at dawn on a Saturday, she thought fuzzily as she fumbled to see what time it was. Seven AM, for God’s sake. The world had better be ending.
She stumbled to the intercom and barked, “Who?”
“MJ.”
“Oh, Jesus…” The world was ending. She buzzed MJ in, unlocked the door, and immediately made coffee. She was setting out bagels and cream cheese as MJ walked in the door and into her embrace without saying a word.
MJ looked awful, her eyes hollow and damp from crying; she was too thin, looked too fragile, and felt like she would break from the consoling hug.
“Go sit down.”
“My bags are outside.”
“I’ll bring them in.” No questions; this was a crisis. “Go sit down and let me take care of you for an hour.”
“Okay.”
She took off her coat and curled herself into one corner of the sofa. Brooke brought in her suitcases, then finished getting together a tray with the coffee and bagels.
“Have some coffee.”
“Okay.”
Brooke poured, added sweetener and milk, and handed the cup into MJ’s cold hands. “Don’t even talk.”
“Okay.” MJ sipped, and Brooke smeared some cream cheese on half a bagel, then cut that in half and gave one piece to MJ.
“Just a bite,” Brooke said coaxingly. “You’ll feel better.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Should I call Delia?”
“Not yet. I just—I need…I decided last night…I’m scared.”
Brooke took a deep breath of relief. “Okay, let me guess. You’re done with him, right? That’s all I need to know right now. Let me get dressed and you finish your coffee and that little bit of bagel, okay?”
“Okay.” MJ wearily thought that she didn’t even have the strength to keep herself upright on the sofa. But that was all right—Brooke had enough will and strength for both of them. Enough so that MJ didn’t have to sort through her emotions right now, or to castigate herself for her weakness and her god-awful need to be controlled. Look where it had gotten her: trapped with a bastard who’d taken the power she’d willingly handed him and masterfully crushed her with it. She didn’t know how to get over that.
Brooke came back, dressed now. “You okay, MJ?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to talk? Or sleep?”
“I don’t know.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing, actually. I just suddenly saw…what you’ve been saying. I’m getting nothing, and he’s getting everything. He sent me home—he always sends me home—but tomorrow—I mean today—is Saturday and I thought since I was so tired, I could just…stay the night. But no. Weekends are for his family, except when he says they’re not—and so he sent me home. Again.
“And I thought, this is nothing to break up with him over, but for some reason it was really critical. Like this was the moment I had to make a decision—because I’m not happy and I feel like I’m losing…something. Because it was all about him and nothing about me. So I told him, and then I went home, packed, and came here.”
“Whoa,” Brooke murmured. “That’s huge.”
“It feels small. I feel small.”
“You did the right thing, coming here, leaving him. What did he say?”
“He laughed.”
Brooke said nothing. There was nothing to say. That arrogant bastard had had MJ under his control far too long. How he’d deal with that loss was his problem.
“Does he know about us?”
“Kind of. He heard that message about the lunch, but he doesn’t know where you guys live or work, or your last names, nothing like that.”
“Good. All right, we have to make a plan.”
MJ shook her head. “Maybe there are things you can’t plan.”
“Never,” Brooke said emphatically. “First, we’re calling Delia. Second, we’re not allowing you to wallow in regrets today. We’re going out, and I don’t care if you want to or not. I have a theory I have to test, and it can’t wait for you to stop mourning Dallan Baines. So hang in there, MJ. We’ve missed you, the Mistress Club needs you, and we’re just starting to ramp up my plan.”
It took less than an hour for Delia to appear on the doorstep with Zabar’s chicken soup in hand.
“It’s good for everything else. Why can’t it cure the thank God I got rid of the overbearing bastard blues?” She hugged MJ and then set out bowls. “Come on, let’s drown the memory of that shit with some soup.”
MJ reluctantly pulled herself to the table. “He’s not a shit. I just want to sleep.”
“No, you don’t,” Brooke said decisively. “Here’s the drill. You’re going to stay here. I’ll go to your apartment and get your things.” She waved her spoon at MJ as she started to protest. “You couldn’t handle a flea right now. We have work to do, and I need the skeptical, stringent MJ back on our team. You don’t ever want to see him again, so you’re going to take some vacation days and keep out of sight for a week.
“Next, I had a brainstorm.” Brooke banged her spoon on the table. “I hereby call this meeting of the Mistress Club to order. All are present, I’m happy to say. Eat your soup, MJ.”
MJ shot her an irritated look.
“We’ve missed you,” Delia said.
“Me, too,” MJ managed around a spoonful of soup.
“Okay, the brainstorm,” Brooke said briskly. “I had this off-the-wall idea that there’s probably such a thing as a mistress matchmaker, like a broker. Someone who screens prospective mistresses, maybe guarantees they are who they say they are, and that they’re disease free and a bunch of other stuff like that.
“Because of privacy issues and paparazzi and their wives being in the public eye, a mistress isn’t something they find at the Garden horse show or a Hamptons charity event.”
She looked at them brightly. “Don’t you think?”
MJ looked dumbfounded. Delia said, “Honest to God, how did you come up with that?”
“I was trying to analyze why we weren’t getting anywhere.”
“And—um—where does a well-intentioned girl find these brokers?”
“I have no idea. That’s today’s mission. We’re going shopping and we’re going to eavesdrop. I was listening to this life coach o
n TV, and she said there’s always someone who knows what you need to know. Our job is to find that person.”
“Bro-ooke…” MJ looked disgusted.
Brooke shot her a quelling look. “Really. So, who knows more about what’s going on between the sheets than the fashionistas who shop the same bargain places we do?”
“Who?” MJ muttered.
“Oh, it’s so good to have MJ back among us,” Brooke said kindly. “Or maybe the salespeople. In fact, particularly the salespeople. That’s a genius thought. MJ, you’re going to shower and change. It’s a jeans, cami, and stiletto day, and if you don’t have any with you, you can borrow mine. I’ll figure out which shops we’re going to hit. Delia, you make sure MJ doesn’t lock herself in the bedroom.”
They were out within the hour, MJ grumbling every step of the way. “Can’t I just submerge myself in misery?”
“No. You can step into the light and let every man we pass ogle you,” Brooke said. “Much better strategy, much better on the ego. That shit wasn’t worth your time, but don’t get me started on that. We’re not doing a wailing wall day. Okay, we’re going to two hospital thrift shops, and a new resale shop I found called Second Take. Ready?”
She didn’t really have an idea of what she wanted them to do, other than browse and shop and listen. Talk to the salesperson. They couldn’t just ask if there was such a thing as a mistress broker and where could one be found.
They went out to dinner afterward at Sel et Poivre, having gleaned nothing but a couple of pairs of shoes and some jewelry.
“I just couldn’t spend the money,” Delia said regretfully as they did a thorough postmortem on everything they didn’t buy over a trio of Manhattans.
“A waste of time,” MJ said sourly.
“We can’t leave her alone tonight,” Brooke told Delia.
“Don’t you feel better?” Delia asked MJ. “Without that psychic pressure you always used to feel from him? Remember, I lived it, too.”
“Not like this,” MJ whispered. “He isn’t a boy. He’s a very strong man.”
“Not so strong, if he didn’t know enough to value you.” Delia turned to Brooke. “I’ll stay with her.”
