by Alison Tyler
And when we were done, if I wasn’t too drained (or if he had decided to undo the straps holding me to his bed), I’d head back to my notebook and write it all down. You want to know how I can still remember different nuances, subtle lighting, scents, changes in the weather, the way the cool metal of his cuffs felt on my skin, the way I felt when I heard other girls’ voices on the answering machine? That’s simple. I recorded it all. Every important moment.
“Send it out,” Nate insisted. He was talking about my novel, the first one, the opening chapters. But I was worried. “Send it,” Nate demanded. “If you don’t, I will.”
At his insistence, I polished my first three chapters and sent them a publisher in New York. I chose this famous publishing house because I liked the beautiful packaging of their novels, and I knew that they had writers with darker voices than mine.
“What do you do on your lunch break?” Carmen asked me one day, curiously. “You don’t hang out with the rest of the girls, and I haven’t seen you in any of the cafés.”
The truth was that I took my notebook with me and walked to a bench on Santa Monica and worked. Taking notes. Plotting. Trying to figure out how to write a novel. I’d read enough, after all. I should be able to make this work, right?
But I was embarrassed to say so. Even though people in the salon knew I wrote, that didn’t mean I could claim the title of “writer.” I’d told them about doing interviews at the alternative weekly—I’d even interviewed a celebrity hairdresser the year before, and I shared tales about my best interview ever, one of my favorite rock stars. Still, I said, “You know, I’m trying to save a little money. I bring my own lunch and take a walk.”
“Matteo said he saw you writing.”
I shrugged. “That too.”
She gave me a look of interest, and I shrugged and said, “Yeah, so I’m trying. I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.”
I had no idea that when I got home that day there’d be a message from the publisher. My new publisher. Saying they wanted to buy my book. I was twenty-two. And I only had the opening and the ending.
Nate had already heard the message. He was waiting for me.
“Worry later,” he said, already guessing that panic was winning out over excitement. “Worry tomorrow. Tonight,” he said, “we’re celebrating.”
For me, this was chapter one. Chapter one of my new life.
As a writer.
Chapter Thirteen:
Precious
Nate knew the bouncer. We cut the line and headed inside, greeted immediately by a wall of sound and a wave of darkness on darkness. The entire room, from the matte-black floor to the rippling shimmer of the club’s ceiling, was an inky black. A powerful band—a blur of motion and electric noise—held court on the generous stage running along one side of the room, its members clad in distressed midnight leather and shredded T-shirts. Black was clearly the new black. The audience moved like one beast, writhing, undulating, but when I squinted to pick out individuals, I saw skin-tight outfits of leather or vinyl. As the lights oscillated over the crowd, the gleam picked up raven hair, gothic makeup, tattoos, piercings.
The outfit Nate had chosen for me was perfect—fishnet stockings, a micro-minidress with obsidian-hued snaps running the length from neck to hem down the front, and high-heeled boots. Nate kept his hand possessively on the back of my neck, slipping me gracefully through the crowd. If I’d been on my own, I would undoubtedly have hugged the walls. But with Nate, I had no fear of the chaos. As long as his hand cradled the nape of my neck, I felt safe. He didn’t hesitate to listen to the music, instead herding me toward a cobalt-lit corridor in the back. I looked over my shoulder once, at the sinuously dancing crowd, before trotting meekly next to Nate down a hallway lined with mirrors and shut doors. I didn’t know where we were headed, and I could barely walk in the towering heels he’d chosen for me. But I strove to please him.
“There will be demonstrations later,” he said, mouth to my ear to be heard over the white static noise of the band. “Up on stage. But for now, the scene’s all back here.”
He was right. While my first impression in the main room had been of inky darkness, here I saw a stark vision of skin and metal. Gleaming silver cuffs. Steel bondage cages. More S/M paraphernalia than I’d ever seen—or even imagined. There was lots of action in the room, but zero chaos. Everything controlled. Where the front room had been a swarming sea of people, here there was precise order that felt razor-sharp, as if seen through a plate of polished glass. People nodded to Nate as we moved among them, and it was clear to me that he was a regular here. The unexpected surge of jealousy at the thought of him playing with another girl made it difficult for me to focus on the action around me.
The front room had been overwhelming. The heat from the swirling, crushing dancers. The throbbing, spidery beat from the band. And the intense darkness lit sporadically by spiraling stage lights. In this brighter, more sterile environment, everything slowed down. I was aware of the sound of my heels on the floor, even of the sound of my heart beating in my ears. Nate led me to the rear wall of the large room, where a set of leather cuffs was set up high. He didn’t have to tell me what was going to happen. We had reached a level where we were communicating without words. I understood now why he’d put me in this dress. It was off me in one quick tug, leaving me standing in black panties, a demi-cup bra, and my boots and stockings.
Even though there were people in the room—players engaging in scenes, voyeurs drinking in every motion, I felt as if Nate and I were alone. “You trust me,” he said, not a question, but I nodded. “And you will obey what I say, every single command, without hesitation.”
“Yes, Nate.”
“You like eyes on you?”
“Yes, Nate.”
“But so far the only time someone has watched you was Garrett.”
I worked not to cross my hands over my body to hide myself. I focused on Nate’s face, and on his words. I knew he was going to bind me in a moment, understood that he was going to hurt me in front of these people. Knew that by the time we left the club I would be crying. That seemed impossible, so far in the future I couldn’t fathom the concept. Yet there he stood, quietly powerful, tormenting me by not rushing through the scene.
“So prepare yourself, Sam. They’re all going to watch. They’re going to watch you take it.”
It was all I wanted. To take the pain for him. And he understood. Jesus, did he ever, as I let him anchor me in place against that wall, kick apart my legs so that I could be more easily spread and bound.
I was trembling all over, my teeth actually chattering, when Nate put a warm firm hand on my panty-clad ass and brought his mouth once again to my ear. “Don’t worry, baby. I won’t pass you around like some party favor. You’re all mine … tonight.” Somehow the words eased my shudders, even if I heard the inherent threat to them. “Tonight.” Meaning that some other night he would give me over to a different Dom, one of the other players in the room, and that man would take care of me.
I took a breath and held myself entirely still as he tore off my knickers. When I could feel him preparing to start, I shut my eyes immediately, my body tensed, but Nate would have none of that.
“You watch them watching you,” he said. “You drink it in.”
Nate started with a flogger, warming me up, the tails of the toy landing over and over, swishing through the air to connect solidly with my upper back, my ass, my thighs. I hadn’t seen which toys he’d chosen. I didn’t know how far he’d go. I simply steeled myself, promising myself that I wouldn’t let him down.
But when he brought a crop in front of my eyes, instructing me to kiss the tip, a new wave of fear worked through me.
I looked to my left and saw a tall red-haired woman in a short plaid skirt, thigh-high stockings, and a sheer long-sleeved top staring at me. She held my gaze, and as Nate began to whip me, I found the strength in her green eyes to take it.
When Nate led me out from the ba
ck room, the sounds suddenly came back on, as if a stereo had been turned up to top volume. The smells and the heat and the sensation of skin on skin overwhelmed me as we made our way through the crowd. If Nate hadn’t been holding me up, I would have fallen. But although my legs were shaky and weak, I felt oddly invigorated. I didn’t want to go home. Nate understood without me needing to speak. He drove us up to the Hollywood Hills and parked at a spot where we could look at the lights of the city, then took me out and wrapped me in a blanket from the rear of his truck.
“Your first public whipping,” Nate murmured to me, his hands popping the snaps on my dress once more and slipping under the shiny material. His fingertips naturally found the marks he’d left on me, stroking them, pinching the welts before he pulled me onto his lap. I had no panties on, just that short dress, and I could feel how hard he was, even through his slacks.
I knew he was going to fuck me, out there in the cool air, my cheeks still wet from the tears I’d shed, my body still absorbing the pain. But as always, Nate took his time.
“It’s like your first anything worthwhile—first kiss, first time drunk, first fuck. You’ve got to savor it. Celebrate it.”
We sat on his truck bed and stared at the city, sharing liquor from Nate’s flask and watching the twinkling lights in silence.
Chapter Fourteen:
The Arrangement
When I arrived back at the apartment the following evening, Nate was waiting for me once more. He looked serious, but somehow I could tell that he wasn’t taking me out tonight. He sat with his arms against the sunny yellow kitchen table, the folder holding my opening chapters directly in front of him. “So when do they want the book?”
I’d sent in the chapters believing it would be a good six months before I even heard back. It’s an understatement to say that I’d been shocked when an editor had responded with a contract after two weeks. I had gone in without an agent, over the transom, with no real credits. No sex credits. Now I had to come through.
“For the fall list,” I said, “which means I have about six weeks.”
He grinned. “You took a risk.”
I nodded.
“So you’re going to have to work your ass off.”
I nodded again. I was leaning against the counter watching him. I had a difficult time guessing where Nate was headed.
“And I’m going to give you incentive. You do your best work late at night, right? So every morning I want to see ten pages on my night table … and if I like what you’ve done, then when you get home from the salon, I’ll take care of you. You’ll have a few hours of play, then you can write for a few hours, get some sleep, and start again.”
“What about Garrett?” I asked. We’d never talked about the fact that we didn’t fuck together when our third roommate was around.
“Don’t worry about Garrett,” Nate said. “It’s understood.”
“What is?” I couldn’t help pushing.
“That the two of you were never going to be an item.” He stood and walked to my side. The power in his sleek body was palpable. As always, when he got so close to me, I felt my heart start to race. He gripped my chin in his hand and looked directly in my eyes. “I told you right from the start, Samantha. We’re alike. You understand that now, don’t you? Two halves of the same coin.”
“Yes, Nate,” I said, my voice soft as I sensed he was already working up to something.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Sir,” and there it was, the nervous jitters in the base of my stomach, the way my knees wanted to give out.
“You did well last night,” he said, “and I was going to take a break on you tonight. But I can’t.”
He was in motion as he spoke, leading me to his room, shutting the door tight behind us. “I can’t, Sam. You make me want to do things to you. There’s that look in your eyes. The need there.” He sounded half apologetic, half helpless. I watched him from against the door, watched as he started removing items from his closet. I wanted to run, as always, wanted to escape in those first few seconds. But I stayed where I was.
Back in high school, I’d had a crush on a guy my friends and I had nicknamed “Night.” He had dark hair and blue eyes, and he held the record for bench-pressing at our school, pushing 350 pounds, more than three of me. At a dance, he came up to me and said there was a look in my eyes that he couldn’t deny. Crazy. Every so often, I seem to become transparent, like glass, and someone can see inside of me. We went on a disturbing date together—driving around in his convertible while he told me that his mother thought he might be gay—but the way he had spoken to me at the dance was the way Nate spoke to me. “I saw something in your eyes and I was drawn to you.”
I watched Nate as he prepared, realizing that he wasn’t going out so often with other women now. Not devouring a soul a night. Had he chosen me? I didn’t dare ask. I simply took what he was offering—a deal. Ten pages for the pain I craved and the pleasure that always, always followed afterwards.
Nate knew what I needed. He understood that my fantasies went far deeper than a simple hand-spanking before sweet sex. He accepted my demons and my desires and he worked through the night to make each of my darkest dreams come true.
Afterward, I’d feel limp, demolished. But, oddly, Nate had figured me out. Even after he had whipped me, or cropped me, or fucked me until my body felt liquefied, I could still manage to slip out of the bed, grab one of Nate’s T-shirts, and head back to my room. A glass of chilled white wine at my side, or even a shot of tequila, and I was off. Writing. Lost in a new world. Ten pages—2,500 words. The count came easily to me. I have never had a fear of putting words on a page. And I always made sure that I knew what would happen next before stopping, printing off the fresh pages, and sneaking them back to Nate’s room.
I got less sleep than I might have needed, but I’ve always been an insomniac. My mind is clearest around one-thirty in the morning.
Sometimes when I was finished writing, I climbed back into bed next to Nate and he’d stir in his sleep and wake enough to cuff me into place or tie me back down. Sometimes I put my head down on my desk and slept there. Six weeks went by in a hazy blur.
This is what I can say about my first novel. It was short (barely two hundred pages). It was fierce. And I wrote it in six weeks.
Nate gave me everything I needed. Total support in the form of X-rated inspiration and a vicious hand as an editor, cutting parts he didn’t like, suggesting scenes he thought would be more appropriate.
The original title of my book was Dark Secret Love, from that Blake poem:
Oh, rose thou art sick,
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed of crimson joy
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
The book was as dark as the poem, as demon-filled.
When I finished, I went out to my favorite bar. It was four o’clock in the afternoon on Monday, my day off. I told the bartender, Jason, that I wanted a shot of tequila. He had names of all his ex-girlfriends tattooed on his biceps.
“Celebrating?”
“Mmm-hmm. I finished my first novel.”
“Reading one or writing one?”
I grinned. I loved the question. Who would have a shot after finishing reading a book? “Writing one.”
“Then that shot’s on me,” he said, putting out a glass, a sliver of lime, and a shaker of salt.
I did the shot quickly, no accessories, and then sat there quietly as the bar filled with the pure, shimmering light of the golden hour.
Several tall, well-dressed men in their forties entered the bar. We were the only people there at this slow time before happy hour. I eavesdropped easily on their conversation. They were cajoling one of their friends to have a drink with them. The man insisted he had to go, but finally he said, “I’ll have one if she has one with me.”
Jason sidled over to th
em. “She drinks tequila, straight.” He sounded impressed, as if I looked more like someone who would celebrate big events with a milkshake.
The guys laughed, as if I’d challenged them, then bought a round. We toasted, their friend shook my hand, and then he left.
One of the men came to my side afterwards. “That was Mr. — who bought you that drink,” he said, naming a famous L.A. athlete. “You ought to remember that,” he told me. “It’s an honor.”
After they left, Jason came back to stand in front of me. “It’s an honor for them to drink with you,” he smiled. “That’s what you should have said.”
I headed back to Nate that night wondering what our new arrangement would be, now that I had finished. The book was done. I’d sent it off. What was I going to do next?
Chapter Fifteen:
The Offer
I don’t know if I’ve made it clear: I was writing all the time. Every spare moment. When I wasn’t working, sleeping, or fucking Nate, I was at that computer. I took Nate’s advice and began sending out other stories as well, to Libido, Playgirl, Penthouse, Yellow Silk, Playboy. Basically, every publication that seemed an even remotely possible match for my work, I hit with a story.
And then I started—well—hitting with my stories.
One magazine rejected my first piece because there was too much S/M throughout, but the managing editor wrote a personal letter asking me to send in something else. I was elated. I’d read my first copy when I was seventeen, and I was a true fan. Even better, I’d been aiming for the hundred-dollar fantasy section, but when the editor bought the second story I wrote, she used it as the featured story. I made more money from that one piece than I did in a week of working at the salon. But even more exciting to me, the magazine hired an artist to create original work to accompany my words.
