Going Under

by Jeffe Kennedy

  Then she’d check in, maybe work a little more and hopefully by then, she’d have something from Fox.

  * * *

  “Are you fucking with me, Phoenix?” Jared’s voice, full of nerd outrage, came stridently through the phone. “You’ve always resisted sex in the games and now you’re suggesting full kink.”

  “It’s brilliant and you know it.” Emily yawned and poured more coffee from the carafe. Rare afternoon sun, golden and full of promise, glittered on the water, turning it into a sea of fire. “Tell me you and the team have a better idea.”

  “Of course we don’t have a better idea.” Jared sounded bitter and exhausted. “The beauty of this is that it’s not all that complex. We could pull it off before Christmas, which means tidy bonuses for everyone and possibly even that mythical treasure of actual time off. Cindy, Syd and Hong Wong have already started structuring out the algorithms for progression. But you know how this will play.”

  “How?” She made sure she sounded bored and changed her avatar to the honey badger, with a trail of “don’t care” patterning around the screen.

  “Heh.” Jared actually laughed. A Christmas miracle right there. “Backlash, my genius friend. The way you’re setting this up, the game will favor female players.”

  “Correction. Not female. Anyone who’s not a troll that gets off on virtual violence.”

  “Virtual violence is what we’re about.”

  “Fuck that. We’re about puzzles. The riddle. The adventure.”

  “Well, the girls are fucking giddy over this. They say it’s troll bait and want to reel them in. They have their way, guys will get sucked into torturing their game subs and find themselves flamed out to level one.”

  “Let ’em. Cindy and Syd can run with it, as far as I’m concerned. Hong Wong if they want him. We can always reel them back,” she added, so as not to seem to favor the two women on the team.

  “What about the backlash? I’m thinking about what happened with Gametronix.”

  Her stomach clenched and she focused on the honey badger. Don’tCare Don’tCare Don’tCare Don’tCare. “Ancient history,” she ground out.

  Jared shook his head and pointed at the screen. “You weren’t there. Unless you were?” He sprang the question suddenly.

  “How the hell could I have been at Gametronix?”

  Jared shrugged, spinning his chair from side to side. “Eh, who the hell knows? Half that team scattered to the wind in the aftermath and haven’t been heard from since. I heard the woman involved went to Indonesia. Peace Corps or some such. Shit luck for her. I don’t want my girls hit with anything like it.”

  This was why she’d picked Jared. As much of a jerk as he could be, even though he called the females on his team “girls”—and treated them that way—he’d kept track of her, as best he could. He’d even called her in those weeks after, when she’d mostly sat around in numb despair, checking to see if she was okay. Something Henry had long since stopped asking.

  “I’ll take the hit, if needed. I’ll talk to Cindy and Syd, lay it out for them. Either way, I can claim all the code as mine or they can take credit and we’ll shield them from the shitstorm. Their choice. Tell them to run with it and pop me what they have. We’ll discuss in a private conference.”

  “I want in on that meet.”

  “No. They get to say their piece without management in the room. Nonnegotiable.” Never would she put someone else through a scene like that, the faceless suits, refusing to meet her eye.

  Jared stared into the honey badger avatar, as if he thought he could see through to the man he thought sat on the other side. “Are you growing a soul, Phoenix? Usually you don’t give a flying fuck about this sort of thing. I was starting to think you’re some kind of AI.”

  She laughed, torquing the voice modulator to warp it in to an evil cackle. “That’s right. I’m a sentient satellite and now I want to learn how to be a real boy. Send me something pretty for Christmas.”

  Cutting the connection, she sat back in her chair and picked up the sealed envelope from Fox. She’d wanted to clear the work decks before indulging in her new drug of choice. Less guilt about taking the time away from working.

  Instead of a list of rules or the blow-by-blow instructions she’d more than half expected, he’d written out the story. Here was her first glimpse of Fox the novelist. Rapt, she read it through, drawn in and tremendously aroused by the story. He had her as a character, too, in a way that should have set off all kinds of warning bells. Instead, he’d captured her in such a flattering light, making strengths of all those qualities she liked best in herself, that she almost didn’t recognize herself. Yet another avatar, but this one somehow glorious.

  A very odd experience.

  Surely he didn’t truly see her this way. Rather, this was the fantasy of her. This was the idea he’d developed about who she was in the absence of her telling him anything real. Partly her fabrication, partly his. And this woman who emerged from the pages didn’t actually exist. Another avatar for her to assume. Complete with suggested costume.

  At the end of the laser-printed pages sat the question he’d demanded, all alone at the top with an inviting white space below.

  Who or what are you hiding from?

  She sipped her coffee—Irish, to reward herself for handling work and to soothe the nervous flutters—and mulled it over. He’d seen through her then. She’d pretty much known that already. More important, he wanted her to know that he knew. A challenge. A kind of riddle, really.

  He’d worded it vaguely enough that she could answer in any number of ways and still be honest. She could also answer well within the public record and even an extensive background check. It helped that her “cover” identity reverted to Silar Emily Stillwell, the name her mother had planned for the socialite she’d been intended to be. She’d hated all the names enough to change them when she got to college, going by the anagram Lisa R. and taking that name legally when she married Henry White.

  Funny, that these things should be happening at the same time, that Jared should bring up stupid, doomed Lisa White at the same time that Fox asked the question with her as the answer.

  Not the answer she would give, however.

  No, she’d tell him something else. Something true, to abide by the rules of their game, but not about her life as Lisa. She was dead to the world and should stay that way.

  Thinking about it, she went to take a shower and decide. She didn’t have everything to dress as the woman in the story did, but she could come close. Only two o’clock—Trixie should be open. She called down to the salon before she lost her nerve, trusting to luck. Serendipitously, Trixie could do what she called a set of tips in half an hour. Cotton-candy pink, even.

  She was going to blow Fox’s mind.

  * * *

  At six o’clock, she knocked on his door. She’d had to improvise a bit, since she didn’t have a man’s style suit.

  She wore a three-piece suit, man’s style but tailored to her perfect figure. Her full tits showed through the sharp-edged lapels, glorious contrast to the tight vest. Even with her hair tucked under the felt fedora, she’d never be mistaken for a man. From her rounded thighs to that perfectly glossed pink mouth, she oozed sensuality. And command. His cruel mistress.

  The thigh-high, high-heeled boots more than made up for the missing pieces, in her opinion. Paired with the gray pinstriped pencil skirt and tailored suit jacket—and the gray felt fedora she just happened to have—the boots added the right amount of spice. Judging by Fox’s expression when he opened the door, she’d hit the target. He went from his resting state of sunny charm to intense in a flash, eyes darkening as he took her in.

  She surveyed him coolly from under the hat’s brim, leaning against the doorframe and crossing her ankles. “I’m bored. I want you to entertain me.”<
br />
  “Actually, I’m busy. I’m under deadline. I need to keep working.” He manufactured genuine disappointment. So much so that she thought he might be telling the truth, except for that intent arousal clear in his gaze. She’d hit right on script, so she went with it.

  “I’m not interested in your excuses.” She made her tone cool and aloof, as in his story, and tapped his chest inside the open shirt collar, pleased when his eyes widened at the sharp pink tips. Trixie had wanted to square them off, but Emily had said she needed them pointed, for a photo shoot. One of the advantages of no one knowing what she did with her time was they believed the things she made up. She pushed past Fox, letting him catch her scent—she’d even added the orange blossom perfume, which she normally considered way too heavy—and he inhaled. She raked him with a scathing look over her shoulder. “You can work later, after I’m satisfied.”

  Strolling into the living room, she felt his eyes on her and added some sway. The high-heeled boots helped. “Get me some wine,” she added.

  “Emily.” Fox had a pleading sound in his voice. A vulnerability that worked under her skin. “I’m really busy and I can’t—”

  “What?” she interrupted. “Is it my fault that you’re behind on your work? You’d better snap to it, get me that wine or I’ll make you sorry you disappointed me.”

  He actually flushed, seeming flustered. Amazing how it aroused her.

  “I’ve changed my mind. Make it a dirty martini. You know how I like it. And why are you still dressed?”

  “Well, I—”

  “You know I like my boy toys naked and at attention.” She sighed, shaking her head. Once she would have felt silly saying that, but the words clearly electrified him as much as the new feeling of power rocketed through her. She pointed at the kitchen with a sharp pink nail that riveted his attention. “Get in there. And put some hustle into it.”

  He did hurry, seeming truly chagrined. She followed at a leisurely pace, taking in the setup while he retrieved the martini supplies. In his story, the kitchen had a rack of pots his cruel mistress tied him to. This one did not. Time to improvise.

  “The cabinets over the stove—grab a hold of the handles. From now on you may only say ‘Thank you, Miss Emily’ to me or nothing at all.” She’d added that bit, because it had worked for her, as Fox put it, for him to call her that. Besides, he’d put restrictions on her, so it was only fair.

  “Thank you, Miss Emily,” he replied after a slight pause and reached for the cabinets, shuddering as he’d described himself doing, putting himself in her power.

  She scratched the back of his neck with her nails—pink as cotton candy and filed to lethal points—and he made a sound. “Good puppy,” she crooned. “Only I’m the one who gets the bone.”

  She sorted through the kitchen drawers while he stood there. “You don’t deserve to keep these clothes,” she said, hoping he’d really worn clothes that he wouldn’t mind losing. Taking a pair of sharp shears, she cut the work shirt off of him, baring his gorgeously muscled back. His jeans she reached around to unbutton, deliberately scratching him, and pulled them down to pool around his ankles. His cock sprang free, a good sign that she was doing it right. She ignored it for the time being.

  Instead she leaned against the counter near him. “Fox,” she whispered and he looked at her. She toyed with her lapel, moving it so some cleavage showed. “It’s awfully hot in here.”

  She opened the jacket and watched him take her in. Corsets were not something she had handy, but she’d modified the bustier that had gone under a long-ago evening dress, and cut out the cups. As a result, the underwires cupped her breasts and held them high and naked. She’d put pink lip gloss on them and it seemed to be what he’d had in mind, judging by his glassy gaze.

  “I don’t want my jacket getting dirty. Will you hold it?” She held the collar in front of his mouth and he gripped it in his teeth. “Lift it high. I don’t want you getting any pre-come on it.”

  He raised his chin, straining his neck to hold it away from his jutting cock. Moving behind him, she stroked his arched throat under the drape of her jacket. He moaned a little and then grunted when she pinched his nipples with her sharp nails. “Aren’t you sorry you didn’t service me when you had the opportunity? Now you’ll do it anyway, but don’t think you’ll get to come inside me. Maybe not ever again.”

  She pressed her naked breasts against his back and trailed her nails down to cage his balls, while she tickled the head of his cock with her pinky finger. He shuddered. “Thank you, Miss Emily,” he said, softly and earnestly, a wealth of emotion beneath it.

  “I have something for you.” This would be going off script—a compromise she hoped would work for him—but she liked the idea. That had been a big part of the story, her doing what she liked to him. She got that, because she’d liked it best when he seemed to revel in what he did to her. Still, amazing that such a masculine guy had the confidence to turn himself over to her like this. No fear in him at all. She took her coat from his mouth, went to the hallway and retrieved her bag, then pulled out the frilly half-apron she’d bought and tied it around his waist. His breath came harder. Excellent.

  “You can let go. Hands behind your neck and face me.”

  He obeyed, the ruffled white cotton apron a contrast to his tanned skin, tenting out where it draped over his impressive erection. He should have looked silly. Instead, the feminine bit of fabric emphasized his manly lines, his muscled thighs taut below the fanciful lace hem. The sight made her hot, too, her nipples hardening more.

  “The lines are ruined.” She sulked. “Make it go down.”

  “Thank you, Miss Emily.” He filled the words with chagrin, unable to explain that he could not.

  She tapped her foot impatiently and folded her arms, cradling her breasts together so his fascinated gaze stayed glued to them. “You realize this means I have to take steps. Don’t move.”

  In the bedroom she found everything laid out for her. Every toy and apparatus he’d mentioned in the story. At this point she could take it in one of several directions. A real-life choose-your-own-adventure. He’d added enough detail for her to know how to use everything. Fortunately, because the cock-cage looked like a strange beast and not something she’d have thought of herself. Taking that and several cuffs with her, she returned to find him standing exactly as she’d left him.

  “Take off those stupid jeans,” she snapped and he toed them off his ankles—impressively following instructions without taking his hands off his neck. Setting the things on the kitchen table where he could see them, she adjusted the apron, turning it so the white bow draped decoratively around his very red and eager cock. “I should take a picture of that, it looks so pretty.” She dragged her nails along his shaft. “And send it to all of my girlfriends. Maybe post it to Tumblr. Wouldn’t you like that?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Thank you, Miss Emily,” he murmured, unbearably excited. The floppy white bow framed his cock in the most deliciously humiliating way. The apron itself—unreal in the images it evoked in his head. Amazingly, she seemed to have grokked exactly what this scenario hooked into, in the depths of his psyche. She was a natural genius of sex.

  Of course, he’d been attracted to her—literally at first sight—because she embodied his dream mistress in her physicality and attitude. The details she added, though—it was as if she’d truly read between the lines of the story. She reached into the bag she’d brought and pulled out a pretty blue faceted glass jar and set it next to the cock cage and cuffs. He couldn’t take his eyes off it.

  His cock throbbed almost painfully and nothing would get it in that little cage. Ingenious of her, really, to think of a reason why he needed to wear it. The apron fucked with his mind in a sublime way. So did the wide black patent-leather belt she unbuckled from her waist. It would sting a lot more tha
n the leather one he’d detailed in the story, but she couldn’t know that. And he wouldn’t kill the moment by telling her. At this point, he’d suffer far more to see this scenario out.

  “Make it go down,” she ordered. “Or I’ll punish you until it does.”

  So help him, he had already tried. But from the moment he saw her in the doorway, all that glorious hair tucked up in the fedora that suited her demonically well, and now, with her nipples as glossy pink as her pretty mouth, on display...well, he’d lost any hope of cooling himself.

  “Fine.” She managed to fill her tone with remote disdain. “We’ll try this. If that doesn’t work, I’ll have to milk you and save it in my perfume bottle. Then I’ll take it out at parties and show all the ladies what a bad puppy I have.”

  God, she did it well. Her society girl background adding that lofty, lady-of-the-manor tone. The belt cracked against his thigh, stinging unmercifully. She hadn’t bound him. The panic rose. He’d never be able to stay still. Breaking out into a sweat, he withstood the additional strikes by winding his fingers together and holding tight. If she hadn’t prohibited him from saying the words, he would have begged her to restrain him.

  To his shock, he whimpered, pleading with her, and she rolled her eyes. “No whining. You can’t control your cock, then I have to do it for you.” She walked around him, those viciously high heels clicking on the tile, making his skin tighten in anticipation of the random places she whipped the belt against him.

  She had no technique, and the innocent quality affected him more than he’d expected. The belt struck him in the wrong places, not expertly placed, with sharp stings that teased more than anything. A whipping from a lady, delicate, almost prim.

  It maddened him.

  He couldn’t hold still, nearly dancing in place, each little lash of her belt sending him up on tiptoes, making him grit his teeth. Of course it only excited him further, the erection, if anything, swelling. Half in fear, half in fantasy that she would, he watched it strike his chest and thighs, thinking she might strike his cock with it.