by Joey W. Hill
She’d rather see someone decapitated in a public square than look at something like that. At least an execution was honestly horrific. No shades of gray. This was twisted, rationalized perversity that confused her mind, her senses. In college, she’d done a thesis on the sexual subjugation of women in modern day society, and included a sampling of fetish clubs in her research. She hadn’t liked what she’d seen then, either, though she’d been far more obvious about her distaste, the mistake of a novice journalist. She’d made it crystal clear she was there to do a research project, to observe them like animals in the zoo.
In return, they’d treated her as an outsider, but not unkindly. They acted as if they pitied her, like she didn’t understand, like she didn’t have the secret password. It had haunted her for a long time, such that when she’d caught hints that Surreal, Baton Rouge’s premier fetish club, was a major hangout for K&A’s executive management, she’d been determined to drive up from her New Orleans’ home base and observe them there, no matter her motives for doing so.
Her lip curled. “Do a follow up story on Kensington’s charitable works,” her editor had said. “We can dovetail it into the opening of the new domestic violence center K&A has funded.” What would her editor and Matthew Lord Kensington—Jesus—think if she submitted a story about Matt and his boys being regulars at Surreal, where women were tied up and beaten? Well, women and men, sometimes in very elaborate, artistic displays, but brutal perversion couldn’t be masked by a classy setting.
If she could catch just one of Matt’s boys tying up a woman and spanking her within an inch of her life, screaming in pain… Okay, in a lot of cases, the woman was acting like it was orgasmic ecstasy, but if Celeste could capture it on camera it would look like agony. Damn Surreal’s strict policies. She’d tried to smuggle in her phone, and had to pass it off as forgetfulness when it was immediately detected. No electronic devices of any kind allowed, and their scanners were tuned to pick up even the smallest micro camera. Thank goodness she hadn’t tried that, because at least she could explain the phone. A micro camera would have gotten her tossed out on her ass. Even for the temporary membership she’d purchased with her own money, she’d had to sign an ironclad privacy agreement, which said if she in any way abused the privileges of her presence here, she could be sued within an inch of her life and then some.
Her name and social were run through a computer, so they knew she was a journalist. It earned her a steady look from the host when she signed the agreement, an unspoken message that they’d be paying extra special attention to her, even though the temporary guest pass allowed her only three visits.
So here she was on visit three, and she’d gotten nowhere. She could sit in the parking lot and shoot pics of them coming out of the club, which meant nothing. She’d learned Matt and his team didn’t play publicly, except once in a blue moon. And she couldn’t afford anything more than the temporary membership. Game over tonight.
A flogging was in process on center stage. The woman in the stocks curled her fingers in reaction, her cries undeniably pleasure-driven as her ass, thighs and back became redder. Her Dom strolled around her, a massive bald man, tattooed and stripped down to tight leather pants and thigh-high boots. He looked like he should be mugging someone in an alley, or straddling a Harley, but it was difficult not to notice the sizeable erection under the pants, the muscular curves of his ass. As he stroked his victim’s back, his fingers glided down to give her an additional pinch, a quick slap that made her buttocks wobble. She flinched, but then she begged for more.
Watching such things made Celeste quiver oddly. It was a little warm in the club tonight. They probably kept the temperatures up because there were so many mostly naked people here. She told herself her reaction was normal. Humans were fascinated with the macabre. It was why public executions and brutal gladiator games were popular throughout history, and that fascination cut across all classes. Hell, the Roman emperor himself attended them. Hence, Matt Kensington and his wunderkind, sitting in the very center of it. But it seemed so wrong, in the age of Starbuck’s and hybrid cars, that such barbaric behavior had persisted.
Unlike her, Ben O’Callahan, the K&A man clearest to her line of sight, didn’t have any problem looking at the flogging display. His eyes were laser steady on the sheen of sweat on the woman’s back; Celeste could almost see him tracking a single drop rolling down the valley between her butt cheeks. The woman was obviously close to orgasm. Incomprehensible.
The most bizarre piece of the puzzle was Matt’s wife, Savannah Tennyson of Tennyson Industries. A Fortune 500 CEO, a role model for independent women everywhere, and yet she’d fallen head over heels for Matt. Married him in a small, private ceremony at his Texas estate before anyone even knew they were dating. As the business social news columnist, Celeste had requested a photo at the time the community got wind of the marriage. When she’d received it from K&A’s public relations office, it had been an undeniably touching shot of Matt and Savannah standing on the balcony of his house, overlooking the Gulf. Their eyes were full of one another as the four men of his team toasted them and smiled. They were apparently the only attendants, beyond the minister himself.
Savannah wasn’t here tonight, but Celeste had seen her on her first visit. The subtle interactions between her and Matt had told Celeste the shocking truth. Savannah was one of those women who liked to be…her gaze went back to the naked woman on her knees and she shuddered.
Celeste wasn’t unsophisticated. She had read the academic articles about BDSM; how surrender, loss of control, could be an avenue to trust, to unlock repressed passion, blah blah blah. Crap was all it was. Women wanting to give up the power that countless feminist activists had sacrificed to obtain for them, looking for a psychological justification for it. Yet Savannah continued to run her company with incredible aggression and ability, no indication that it had become another pawn in the K&A empire. She and Matt still occasionally locked horns on business matters, and he didn’t always win.
Celeste sighed. Maybe she was here because she couldn’t solve the puzzle and, no matter how her family belittled her job because she was stuck with business social news, she did consider herself a journalist. Yeah, yeah, K&A was extremely generous to worthy local causes. They even rolled up their pristine shirt sleeves and took time out from their corporate raiding to volunteer. But that wasn’t why she’d stuck the Knights of the Board Room name on them. As she’d gathered data, she’d found out the appalling fact that most companies wouldn’t send women to do business with them. Apparently, the five-man team had the ability to turn the smartest and most independent woman’s mind to mush with their outdated sexist attitudes. Opening doors, pulling out chairs, refusing to split a check or let a woman pay her way were the least offensive manifestations of it. Hell, they looked like an Absolut Vodka commercial even now. No women allowed. Unless she was there to sexually service them, of course.
There. That put everything back in its proper perspective. And yet…she could also be here because they were a personal dilemma to her. Leave it to Valerie, her current roommate and an aspiring romance author, to point that one out. You’ve got a personal beef with them, girl. The funny thing is, I don’t think you really know what it is. Or maybe you do, and you just don’t want to look too closely at it. Why is it journalists always look outside of themselves for answers? Fiction writers know you look inside first. I think you should be a bit more of a fiction writer when you think about these guys. Then she’d cut the psycho-BS with a mischievous grin. I know I much prefer fiction and fantasy when I think about them.
Celeste had been obligated to call her roommate a slut, and was affectionately called a beeyatch in return.
Be a bit more of a fiction writer. Yeah, right. Crap. There was nothing to be learned here. She had no clue why she was hanging around. She’d write the editor’s fluff piece, eat a quart of ice cream, and say to hell with it. “I’ll take my check,” she told the bartender. He shook his head.
“I’ve been running an open tab.”
“Yep. Covered. Compliments of…” When his gaze shifted, his mouth firmed in a smile. He offered the new arrival a significant nod and returned to his other patrons. Celeste turned her head.
Oh, hell.
Up close, Ben O'Callahan was a green-eyed, dark-haired, smolderingly sinful-looking lawyer, and he was leaning against the bar right next to her. A foot between them, yet she could feel his heat impinging on her personal space. He was over six feet tall, broad shouldered and, like all the Kensington men, had a personal presence that could drown a woman in charisma. “Picking up the tab is the least we can do for the lady who bestowed such an undeserving title on us,” he said, the sexy timbre of his voice clearly useful for delivering compelling arguments.
Fuck. He knew who she was. She’d like to bestow a muzzle on him. And some restraints. In here, that led to some seriously disturbing thoughts.
“White zinfandel?” He glanced at her glass. “Such a mundane choice. One would think our worldly journalist has never left Louisiana.”
She hadn’t. Not for lack of desire, but lack of funds. That tended to happen when your father split on your mother, and you had to live at home to help raise the other kids while attending community college. She had no doubt Ben knew such personal details. It just confirmed her opinion of him, that he took such a cruel shot. But when he ordered a beer, he slanted her a relaxed smile. “Of course, I’ve never found much outside Louisiana better than what I have right here. Why pretend to like caviar when we all know an Acme po’boy tastes a hell of a lot better?”
Uncertain, Celeste stiffened as his fingers brushed the small of her back, an incidental gesture as he took a seat on the stool next to hers. However, he braced that hand on the back of her seat, creating an intimate space between them. “Another for the lady,” he said to the bartender.
“No, thanks. I buy my own drinks. Even if it does offend your sexist code.”
“Celeste, your fawning adoration for us has really got to stop. It’s embarrassing.” He nodded toward the center stage. “What do you think of the show?”
The bald man had opened his tight pants to reveal an enormous cock which he fed between the woman’s eager lips, painting them with pre-cum. Celeste felt an annoying flush rise in her cheeks under Ben’s amused regard. They were all here to look at sex stuff, right? She shouldn’t be acting like a teenager caught with a skin mag.
“I think she’s an embarrassment to the entire feminist movement.”
“Really? How so?”
She gave him an incredulous look. “She’s allowed herself to be conditioned to restraint and pain solely for male pleasure.”
Ben’s lips curved. “It looks to me like the pleasure is mutual. Look closer, Celeste. At what’s going on, and how you described it. Allowed. I’m sure you’ve done your research and you know all the protocols of the BDSM world. Nothing happens up there that she doesn’t want, and she can call it off at any time.”
“Yeah. Every cult tells you that the members can leave whenever they want, totally ignoring the psychological domination that turns them into drooling lemmings.” She took a bracing swallow of her wine. “Let me guess how you knew it was me. You pay the staff to tell you if anyone comes in here who’s a threat to Matt specifically.”
“We’re not the mob, darling. Though sometimes I long for their more direct methods when dealing with the snarled fishing line otherwise known as our legal system. I knew it was you. I don’t forget women.”
“You met me once. At a dinner party.”
“Yes, where you were gathering data for your gossip column.”
“It’s business social news,” she gritted out. Then immediately regretted letting him get to her.
He shrugged. “Us southern folk tend to call that a gossip column. Doesn’t make it any less entertaining or informative. I liked your piece on Lewis. Most wouldn’t have dug deep enough to find out that he takes care of a brother with Down’s syndrome, or that he backpacked across Europe when he was a kid and ended up on a short ride with Prince Harry. Most writers usually stick to surface crap, what they’re fed by the company or government press offices.”
“That’s not journalism.”
“No, it isn’t. But most reporters these days think it is.”
She looked for a trace of sarcasm, of derision, and found none. That gave him one up on her mother, who called it “Celeste’s little column.” She cleared her throat. “You can cut the charm. What do you want?”
She’d been out of college long enough to cultivate her cynicism. She was twenty-nine, after all. She could sound direct, dismissive, even if the man smelled wonderful. His clothes were obviously custom-tailored, making the most of the broad-shouldered body. His dark hair fell in strands over his forehead, accentuating the vivid green eyes. That strong jaw and direct gaze probably made female judges swoon.
He flicked the feathers on her mask. “An odd choice for a self-proclaimed feminist. Colorful peacock feathers are male plumage. Used to intimidate enemies or impress the females.”
She gave him a stare that should have dropped a ten-point deer, and instead he just smiled. The bartender put down a drink for him, and another glass of wine for her. Just ignore what the woman wants. She was tempted to sweep it off the polished surface. “Again, are you bothering me for a purpose?”
“You don’t want me here, just say so. Surreal’s rules are very clear. If I don’t move on when you tell me, they’ll throw me out. But you’re not here looking for a playmate.” His gaze flicked to the bracelet. “At least that wasn’t your original intent. You’re looking to nail Matt’s ass to the wall. But I think you’re better than that, Celeste.”
“I wouldn’t trust your opinion of better.” Though she disliked the uneasy feeling, she took it for the warning it was. She was getting out of her depth, and was experienced enough to know when it was time for her to go. However, she couldn’t seem to move. He still had his hand braced on the back of her seat, his body canted toward her. His polished dress shoe was braced on the bottom of her stool, right below her dangling foot. Her shoe had come off her heel, exposing the silken nylon beneath. When his gaze slid down and over it, she almost felt naked. Why did they make these stools so tall?
“I came over to offer you a chance to find the answers you’re seeking.” He nodded to the flogging session. “You’ve formed a derogatory opinion of the motives, decided that any positive spin is just that, mass rationalizations by deranged minds in an overly indulgent, morally decaying society. But underneath, you know there’s some key piece you’re missing and, to figure it out, you have to get closer. But there’s no safe way to do that. Or is there?”
She blinked at him. “Is this the sales pitch before you give me my beads and the flower wreath to wear at the airport?”
He grinned, and she had to school herself not to draw in a breath at how attractive it made him. “I’m giving you a chance to dig deeper, what every good reporter wants.”
“And every curious cat.”
“How about this?” He shifted, so she could still see the scene over his shoulder, but his knee flanked hers on the stool. The Master had tucked himself back in and was now sliding a vibrating dildo into the woman’s sex. She was convulsing against her bonds, crying out. He’d told her she couldn’t come until he allowed it, and it was obvious how hard she was fighting to obey. She was going to lose, and the Master’s expression was fierce, triumphant…tender.
A touch on her face jerked her gaze back to Ben. The movement nearly toppled her wine, but he had his fingers around the bowl, steadying it. “What if you had the chance to see it from the inside, go through a session yourself?” His gaze slid over her. “You can wear a club robe and keep the mask on, so your identity is concealed.”
“I’m not stupid. There’s a trick here. You have enough money to make this go however you want it.”
“True. And I
don’t expect you to trust me. But then, trust is the issue, isn’t it? You see it happening around you, in a hundred different undeniable manifestations, yet you can’t figure out the why, the drug of choice for the true journalist. It’s making you uncertain, confused and angry. But you’re curious, Celeste. And I can offer you something else.” Those green eyes sharpened. “I’ll request that the session be taped, which is permissible as long as we both sign an agreement for it. That tape can then be purchased and taken home as a keepsake. I will give it to you, to do with as you will. I won’t be masked, my identity clear as high-def. You can take proof to your editor that not only do all the K&A executives have memberships to Surreal, not very damning itself, but that at least one of the charmed five ‘knights’ indulges in the sins that occur there. You can expose our contributions to the domestic violence shelter as the guilt money, or mockery, you believe them to be.”
“I don’t…” Put that way, it sounded wrong. Bad. “That’s not…”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Do whatever you want with the information. But as far as my end of things, whatever happens between us will go no further than that room, if you don’t want it to do so. You have my personal word on that.”
She met his gaze, now entirely serious. There was a set to his mouth, a firm intentness, that unsettled her, inexplicably. Everyone in the business world knew when Matt or one of his guys gave his word, he never broke it. She’d looked for evidence to the contrary and never found it. Another piece of the puzzle.
Look inside for the answers. This is personal for you, Celly. Valerie’s irritating voice, goading her. Celeste squelched it. “Is this a pickup line you use on a lot of women, O’Callahan?”
