by Q. Zayne
Were her cheekbones real? If she was more than a decade older than me, she’d had work done. She had the kind of polished appearance that went with great wealth.
“Come, let’s get you to the house where it’s cool. We can talk as we walk.”
Walk? We had to walk through the terrarium? Help me.
I nodded to conserve my strength. Maybe she could talk as she walked through a pizza oven, but I’d squirrel my words. Sweat dripped into my eyes. I fell behind her and dabbed my face on my sleeve.
“I had my club built after my husband died. Alphonse would have loved it here. It caters to his most imaginative tastes. He had a great fondness for the Caribbean, the food, the cultures. He grew up in Chicago. Escaping winter gave him as much pleasure as anything else he did with his wealth. He couldn’t get enough of the tropical climate.”
“Uh huh.” I managed a couple syllables to be polite. Like not getting enough of Hell. Well, maybe if you were super fed up with freezing winters and had a much greater heat tolerance than I had. Never too rich or too thin. Alphonse must have shared Isabella’s absence of insulating pounds.
“We spent every winter of our marriage in his favorite places: Merida, San Pedro, Sao Paolo. My second Christmas without him, I decided to give myself a gift. I missed our special games. I wanted to create a place where other explorers of sadomasochism could live the luscious intimacy we shared, and do so with privacy, free of the horrid paparazzi and other leeches who seek to invade our lives and blackmail us. Lady Diana’s sad and so wrong death was fresh in my mind that year.”
“Yeah. So sad.” I huffed behind her.
Ginger spears in the colors of excited pussies of all races poked through the foliage around us. I watched the ground to keep from turning my ankle in my heels. I didn’t want to step on a snake or anything. A boa or a jaguar in the trees wouldn’t have surprised me. The place was wild.
“It took longer to build and develop than I anticipated. Meetings with lawyers, architects, real estate agents, security experts. Islands have many challenges. The farther you are from the mainland, the more effort it takes people to bother you. It’s also more inconvenient and expensive to get basic services, and to import everything required to run a world-class resort. Then there’s the matter of locating a suitable island that’s for sale and not bound by laws that are too onerous. Owning an island has become so trendy, they’re increasingly difficult to find. Before long, you’ll have to wait for someone to die. Finally, I found this jewel.”
“It’s stunning. When I saw it from the air, it looked like a gem.” I couldn’t help but share her enthusiasm for her find. Aside from the numbing heat, it was the most stunning place I’d ever seen.
“Yes.” She gave me a dazzling smile. One of her teeth overlapped another a tiny bit.
I couldn’t help liking her. Despite my first impression of a rich, ultra-privileged dame, she came across as so human. Like me, she’d lost someone. It surprised me the club was owned by a woman. The two SM clubs I went to in San Francisco were owned by men. I liked that this was different, that the world was evolving to where a woman could be so upfront about her sexual proclivities. It was a shock, though: Submission Island was owned by a woman.
My flight daydream of the club’s owner being overcome by my wit, intelligence, and womanly charms to the point of having to beg for my hand in marriage flew to shreds and scattered over the jungle on the hot wind. The billionaire romance trend had warped my mind. I prized my independence, but lately I was plagued by daydreams of being rescued. It was a seductive dream. A wealthy man makes all my problems go away and devotes himself to tending me in every way. No more loneliness, no more sweating the budget. Instant bliss. Of course, he’ll be devoted and faithful forever, and we’ll live happily ever after. There’s a reason romances are addictive.
It struck me that perhaps Isabella’s continued love for her deceased husband was proof that such men existed. Or had Alphonse’s tastes run to group sex?
Before I succumbed to heat stroke, the jungle path came to its end. Tended gardens opened around us. Paths in spokes led to a fountain with Zeus as a swan covering an ecstatic Leda. Streams of water glistened from his beak and her pussy. The Classics remained relevant. It was a small consolation.
I pushed the nagging thought of my horrible job out of my mind. I was far away from there. Sure, it turned out there was no chance the club owner would marry me and spare me from having to go back, but I had many days to explore Submission Island before I had to face reality. Reality could take a long leap off a short cliff until then.
“Cleo, there’s so much I want to show you, but I’m sure you’d like to freshen up first.”
“Yes, please. Oh, this is lovely.” I would have liked to match her eagerness about the club, of which she was rightly proud. I tilted my head back to take in the gorgeous detailing of the fine Colonial home before us.
“One of the selling points of the island: the delicious architecture. I love that no one destroyed the old buildings. They’re magnificent for keeping out the heat, and the details are superb. You’ll see when we get inside. The thick walls and high ceilings give remarkable relief from the sun. I was able to keep the original ceiling beams and tile floors. It was a bear of a restoration job, and worth every minute and every dollar.”
“Yes. It’s magnificent, a real piece of history.”
She glowed. I could tell she enjoyed having someone with whom to share her triumph. It must be terribly lonely to lose the love of your life. From what little she said, but more from the warm tone of her voice and her wistful eyes, I knew Alphonse was that for Isabella, and she missed him still.
A swing built for two swayed in the breeze in a clearing beside the path.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” I blurted. It was so inadequate, but looking at what she’d built as a balm to her grief, the fantastic adult playground she was sharing with me for free, I had to say it.
Another set of big swings hung from an ancient tree, their ropes beribboned. I could picture their use for sex.
“Thank you, Cleo.” She took my hand and patted it with her long, cool fingers. An exquisite wedding set flashed on her finger. It felt as though she were consoling me. I lost Dad in grad school. I never got over it, but I coped. I didn’t grieve Josh. I’d never thought he was someone I’d marry. I was hurt, disappointed, and lately, increasingly lonely, but a year of hot sex didn’t compare with a lifetime of true love and marriage. I couldn’t begin to fathom her loss and how strong she was to build something new to endure it. How did she bear the pleasures of others around her? Better that, than loneliness.
On impulse, I squeezed her hand.
“I’m so glad you let me come here.”
Her face lit up.
Yes, she was rich beyond my imaginings, yet being acknowledged mattered to her as it matters to us all. When I got back to San Francisco, I’d ditch that horrible job. Life was too precious to spend so much of it on nonsense.
“You’re going to do well here, Cleo. I have a feeling about you.”
“Thanks, Isabella.” I felt hesitant using her first name, yet she looked right into my heart. We seemed to have slid right through the awkward part and had a true potential to be friends. That stunned me. I gave her a shy smile.
“Come on. Let’s get you to your room so you can take a cool shower and get comfortable.”
She led me into the most sensual, gorgeous house I’d ever seen. I couldn’t even take it in.
It was air conditioned. Bliss was mine.
A diffident knock at the door spared me from wondering whether to go downstairs on my own or stay in the suite. A shower and change of clothes restored me and I felt eager to discover what the club had on offer.
“Welcome. I’m Chuck. Are you read to explore?”
“Yes. You read my mind.”
He gave me a sideways smile. “If you’re ready, let’s go. Or I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
“I’m ready.”
He had a spring to his step. For an older guy, he was light on his feet. I bounded down the stairs with him, as well as I could bound in strappy heels.
My guide to Submission Island led me to a dramatic Colonial building with opulent ornamentation around its doors, windows and balconies. Goddesses supported its pillars. Thanks to a cool dress, bare legs, and a big, palm leaf fan, I was bearing the heat.
“For your first day at the island, you will experience the fantasy fulfillment of your choice. This is the Mansion of Desire.” He gestured at the magnificent building. The tropical sun made it glow like sulfur, frosted with pure white like a wedding cake. “The mansion contains many different rooms, and the lady chooses which room. You may choose only one.”
He led me up the broad steps into a formal entry with an outrageous staircase with intricately carved balustrades. The whole thing could be an illustration for Dante’s inferno. The sculpted faces with their sensual lips and piercing eyes mesmerized me. I pictured people from a former century filling the huge, quiet space. The place was like a mausoleum crossed with a whore house. The man fingered his hair back from his damp brow.
“I recommend the labyrinth level, this floor, as a good place for you to start.” He led me down a wide hallway decorated with chandeliers and gilt-framed mirrors. Sculptures of familiar figures from Greek and Roman myths decorated niches between heavy doors. He indicated the sign on each door. The rooms seemed to be named. I suspected the signs indicated the contents. My heart raced. I was glad I’d followed The Island’s packing list. Even in the air-conditioned mansion, I felt too warm. The tropical sun beat at the few high, narrow windows that were left un-shuttered for light. My gauze dress clung to me. It was all I wore aside from my panties and bra and one of my favorite pairs of evening sandals. It was only late afternoon, but this occasion called for sexy shoes.
I recognized many stock fantasy characters from mild to way out there: the firefighter, the professor, the sheik, the pirate, the cowboy, the doctor, the psychiatrist, the master, the assailant, the abductor, the man of the house, the alien, the demon, the knower.
The knower? What the hell was that? It made me nervous, and it yanked at me. My imagination said he was the one who knew what I wanted. It was one of my ultimate fantasies, and probably at the core of a lot of others. I don’t have to tell him what to do. I don’t have to take responsibility for anything that happens. He just does things to me and takes me. He stretches my limits, emotionally, physically, hell, maybe even spiritually. I don’t have to explain or guide him, he just knows. I don’t have to worry he’ll go too far or not far enough. Or that he’ll stop just when it’s getting good, because I start to cry or make ugly noises or faces, because I’m out of my mind and totally losing control because he’s got me right fucking there.
I scared men when I went the places I needed to go.
We were reaping the results of decades of stomping men down for being male: Guys as masculine as dishrags and a romantic fantasy industry to supply the pretend boyfriends we’d never find in real life. Those delicious alpha men who took charge and gave us what we needed, without holding back or crumpling into the fearful suckers they’d been conditioned to be.
The knower wouldn’t be scared. But I was.
I approached the door. I put my cheek to the cool surface and listened. Silence.
He had to know I was there, if he was who he thought he was.
I rested my hand on the doorknob. All I had to do was turn it and walk in. But I got only one choice. Did I really want to face the knower?
I sighed. Reddening, I trotted back to the entrance and faced the monitor.
“Excuse me, I have to ask. Getting to choose a room one time, that’s for this time, right? It doesn’t mean I’ll never have a chance to enter one of the other rooms, does it?” My voice squeaked. I squeezed my fingers.
I didn’t have the nerve to face the knower, yet. But I wanted to have the option to go in there before I left. I kind of thought I’d better go in there before I flew home, or I’d regret it the rest of my life.
He gave me a kind smile. “Yes, the limit to one room is for this time. The work that goes into the set up and briefing all the participants is far too extensive to allow for room-hopping. That’s one reason for the rule. The perhaps more important one is to ensure that the guest makes a considered choice. It’s difficult, isn’t it, to be faced with the possibility of fulfilling desire?”
“Yes,” I whispered. My embarrassment ebbed. I felt grateful for his understanding. I wasn’t usually attracted to older husky guys, but the kindness in his blue eyes surrounded by crinkles made me think that if he wanted to try some things on me, I’d probably enjoy it. It wasn’t the first time I’d realized that in the BDSM world the eroticism was often more about the partner’s skill and energy than his appearance. I’d rather have my bare ass across this guy’s lap than be with some muscle hunk who wasn’t into me or was just going through the motions before his next waxing—or in hopes of manipulating me into doing something I didn’t want to do, like the guys who tried to dominate girls into going bareback.
“Thanks. Yes, it is hard.” I blushed. I glanced at his lap. Yes, it was hard. I smiled and scuttled back to the labyrinth of choices.
At the end of a dark, narrow corridor, tucked in a corner like an afterthought, I found it. The spanker.
I could deal with that. That’s where it all started with me, with a spanking over my boyfriend’s lap. It drenched my pussy, heated my ass, inflamed my passion, and sparked the best lovemaking of our relationship. Josh. I hadn’t seen him in months, but I could still feel his hand on my ass.
The spanker. Pure, simple, uncomplicated. No big scenario, no revelation of secrets except that I liked a man’s hand slapping my bare ass. Yes, that seemed safe enough. If the door said ‘the punisher,’ I would have run. One of the gifts Josh gave me was I didn’t have to be bad to be spanked. I should send him a Christmas card or something.
No. Better to leave the past in the past. I’d never trust him again after finding someone else’s used panties in his glove compartment. I still couldn’t believe he thought the fact that I was out of town was an excuse.
I was at my mother’s funeral, so he cheated on me. That was over. I focused on my feet on the floor and brought myself back into the moment. I was in a mansion on Submission Island. The Mansion of Desire. I was making my choice.
My heels clicked as I approached the door marked The Spanker.
My hand shook. I turned the knob and walked in.
He sat in the shadows, in a big, old leather armchair. The room wasn’t quite so straightforward and pristine as I imagined it. I’d flashed on an old-fashioned folding chair in the middle of a white room with a guy as friendly and harmless-looking as the monitor sitting in it, smiling at me and patting his knee.
My heart pounded. I stopped on the threshold, staring into the shadows. I smelled leather.
“Shut the door, please.”
His deep, resonant voice sounded familiar. That wasn’t possible. Had the knower changed rooms? Was this a set up? I bit my lip. It took all my willpower to shut the door on the relative safety of the hall that led to the exit. Shutting the door meant I was in here. Hell, opening it meant I made my choice. This was my one room for today. I may as well make the most of it. I let go of my fantasy that this was going to be a non-threatening experience.
The imposing figure of the man in the shadows was threatening as hell.
He had the bulk of a boxer, yet a refined profile. His ear, the one part of him illuminated, would have fit on a bust of the emperor Caesar. Damn, I was back to my ancient Rome fantasy again. Well, maybe I’d get to play that out here with a hot gladiator, but not today.
He had a neat beard, not one of those chin scruff things, a real man’s beard. I swooned a bit right there. I’m partial to men who look like men. The guys at work with their sprayed hair, scraped faces and the reek of a department store fragrance counter we
re enough to keep my libido in the drawer.
How was it the spanker room contained such a hot man? Maybe because I needed it to? Okay, I was over-thinking this.
“You’re welcome to stay there if you wish. I think you’ll enjoy our time together more if you come closer.” His tone was cultured, reasonable.
It struck me he was taking pains not to scare me. I was scared enough without any help.
I drew myself up and put one foot in front of the other. I visualized walking across glowing coals or a tightrope across Niagara Falls. I was usually daring. I was the one who picked white water rafting for my last birthday, a single birthday, with no Josh or even a date to brighten the day I turned 28. I was what in my grandmother’s day would be called an old maid, and for all my goals in life and self-esteem work, it felt like a scalpel sliding between my ribs.
Mm. Maybe I ought to get a doctor fix while I was here.
I reached the glow and drew myself up into my best posture, conscious that he could see me clearly now.
A large cat sprawled on his lap and glanced up at me with luminous green eyes. His fingers petted the animal’s thick black coat. A purr rose between us.
His long-fingered hands moved with sensuous dexterity. I envied the cat. A stunning, masculine ring gleamed in the cat hair. A ruby like a drop of blood set in what I imagined might be white gold or platinum. Without knowing anything about him, I suspected he’d wear nothing that wasn’t real and exquisite. The elegant cut of his shirt and black suit emphasized that impression. He wore no other jewelry. No wedding ring.
I hated that I always checked. It wasn’t a sure indication, and there were so many men out there who cheated. I’d put my days of pining over married men behind me. Not going there any more.
“You’re lovely.” His eyes caressed me.
My face prickled. Great, this was going to be blush your ass off day. I just met a truly hot man and I had to stand here tongue-tied and humiliate myself. At least I wasn’t babbling. That would be worse, so much worse. I took a deep breath.
