Reality's Illusion

by Stephie Walls

  In high school, I’d learned quickly to always take my own vehicle. Having been stuck at too many parties, places I didn’t want to be, or things that were going to ensure I missed curfew, it didn’t take long to realize that if I didn’t want to end up grounded or in jail, I needed to drive. That spilled over into college, not the grounding, but being stuck with people who made stupid decisions. Nothing had changed. Now, here I sat in a car with a petulant ass I had to depend upon for the next five days.

  Thirteen hours and twelve grueling minutes after we’d left Greenville, Ferry and I arrived at our destination. Ferry’d made the arrangements, and by the looks of the house, he’d made them with some very affluent people. It was stereotypical—monstrous with ornate architecture—but nothing terribly appealing in terms of a home. Staff greeted us, which didn’t warm me, and neither did the hollow sounds of our footsteps on the marble floors.

  The butler showed us to our rooms, at opposite ends of a long and vast hallway, and informed us that our host would join us downstairs in thirty minutes. I just stared at the man as he excused himself, wondering why anyone would want to live like this. If they told me to dress for dinner, I was leaving.

  My idea of staying with friends was crashing on their couch with my suitcase thrown into a corner behind a door. Some of my best memories were in tiny apartments with friends who didn’t have the space for me to stay or the money for food to feed an extra mouth, but we’d always made it work. We would cram around a tiny kitchen table, playing cards, smoking pot, and laughing at nothing. This wouldn’t be like any of those experiences, and somehow, I had to find a way to enjoy it.

  Half an hour later, Ferry introduced me to Shawn, the homeowner. He, too, was exactly what I’d expected—a staunch businessman with no personality. He was as cold as his house, and I silently thanked God I wouldn’t be spending much time here. Shawn was cordial but seemed put off by our presence, and I was grateful when Ferry excused us.

  I waited until we were inside the car before I spoke, not wanting to be overheard. “Do you know Shawn well?”

  “Quite. He’s been one of my closest friends for nearly twenty years. What did you think of him?”

  Trying to eloquently describe Shawn without offending Ferry took longer than it should have, and my tone didn’t do anything to hide my indifference. “He seemed…reserved.”

  Ferry chuckled, but I seemed to have missed what was funny. “Hardly. You’ll see a different side of him tonight at the party.”

  “What party? Is he involved with Le Musée?”

  “No, not at all. He’s having a get-together tonight at his house. You’ll get to have a personal look into the lifestyle you’ve taken such an interest in.”

  Ferry didn’t have to even glance at me to feel my silent terror.

  “I’ve seen the books around your house, Bastian, and I know you’ve been meeting with Zane. It’s not a big deal. I thought you would be excited to spend some time—minus the mentor—submerged in the life.”

  “Just unexpected.” I was at a loss for words.

  My interest in BDSM wasn’t so much the lifestyle as it was Sera, but obviously, that wasn’t information I was comfortable sharing with Ferry.

  “You’ll have a great time. The people on the guest list are fantastic, and I had him invite a couple of very special ladies to show you the ropes.” Ferry winked at me like he’d done me a fucking favor.

  Ferry and I didn’t pick up women together. That wasn’t how our friendship worked. Hell, I didn’t pick up women at all, and I had no interest in exploring anything with Ferry or anyone else. Seething inside, I bit my tongue. I could put in an appearance and beg out early since we had to work tomorrow and a show in a couple days. This was a business trip; it wasn’t about pleasure.

  Aaron Dubois was the picture of professionalism. His accent was the icing on the cake—just French enough to maintain the flair without people thinking it was flair. Sophisticated and eloquent. Nothing out of place: his coal-colored hair was perfectly combed; he was impeccably groomed and professionally tailored, and his crisp blue eyes shined bright behind his tortoiseshell glasses. Oddly, standing next to him, introducing myself, I was completely at ease in a white V-neck shirt, faded dark wash jeans with holes in the knees, and dark-blue Chucks, sans socks. With tanned skin and Sylvie’s leather bracelets around my wrist, I looked as though I’d stepped off a beach rather than the streets of Manhattan.

  Aaron’s interest in me was surprising. I expected him to be polite, but the real draw between us was Ferry. I had assumed I was invited to tag along because Ferry and I were mentioned in tandem quite a bit recently, but Aaron showed little concern for my partner and consumed my time. It wasn’t hard to believe he knew my work from early career to the present. That was his job. But when he was able to start talking about work I’d done in high school, by name, I realized Aaron was more than just the curator’s son and heir to Le Musée. He was an art savant and had taken an interest in my work long before last week. This was not a man who had his job because his daddy owned the shop. Conversely, this was likely someone who’s daddy owned the shop because of his son’s gift.

  Aaron and I talked for quite some time as his staff unloaded the trailer with Ferry’s supervision. Ferry acted as if these people had never moved expensive art. Hell, I trusted them more than I trusted myself. I wondered if this was how Ferry acted any time he was out of town—he was intolerable. I’d been with him for roughly fifteen hours, and I was ready to pay the freight to stay in a hotel, fly home, and ship any artwork left at the end of the show to get away from him. I’d never understood why anyone would be rude, causing themselves more issues, when it was just as easy to be nice. The staff was immune to his ego, surely having seen it routinely among big-name artists. I, however, was not.

  Aaron laid a hand on my forearm, securing my attention again. “Don’t worry, Bastian. They’re unaffected by his type of arrogance. They’re well-trained and well-paid. I assure you, none of this is fazing them.”

  “It bothers me. I don’t want to be associated with that type of thing, and honestly, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him act so pious.”

  “Ahh, Mr. Thames, you’re very naïve regarding his reputation then.” The accent threw me off, he sounded so sincere, but his charisma deceived me. “He’s well known for being, what do you Americans call them—” he paused to think—“ahh, yes, a pompous ass. People tolerate it in order to get his skills. Sadly, it’s the way of the modern world.” Patting me on the shoulder like a child, he said, “Don’t let notoriety change you, Bastian. The world loves you as you are, Chuck Taylors and all.”

  My cheeks heated with his compliment. I also realized how important his assessment was. I wanted to be loved, not tolerated.

  “Bastian, you ready to get out of here?” Ferry hollered across the gallery to get my attention.

  Sadly, no. I would much rather spend the evening chatting with Aaron Dubois about the city, arts, culture, France, anything other than going back to that mansion for an evening of whips and pussy.

  Shaking Aaron’s hand, I thanked the staff for their help. “See you guys tomorrow.”

  “Au revoir.” He bowed his head just slightly as he closed his eyes.

  17

  Chapter Seventeen

  The crowd was insane. There was no way Shawn knew all these people personally, and I had to wonder why anyone would invite this many strangers into their home for an intimate sort of gathering, especially on a Tuesday night, but the explanation was clear once we got downstairs.

  Shawn’s bottom floor was lifestyle-exclusive and large enough to operate his own club. From the looks of it, that was precisely what he’d done tonight. He’d opened the bottom floor and its entrances to those who had received a written invitation. According to Ferry, they were all fully vetted and safe to play.

  Nothing about this situation felt right. My senses were all heightened, and the hair on my arms stood at attention. It might just have b
een my anxiety over people in general, but I hadn’t felt this unrest at The Warehouse or Stone Ground. No one expected me to play or even interact at either of those locations, but Ferry had made it clear that his expectations for tonight were different. That was what had me on edge.

  Or it was one thing.

  An hour or so into the mix, it occurred to me what was so radically different about this situation than the others I’d witnessed in my limited exposure to play. Alcohol flowed freely, and everyone indulged. In an attempt to keep a low profile, I nursed a beer in a dimly lit corner, watching people around me. The women were scantily clad, and some of the men were as well, but they all seem to be having a great time, no-holds-barred. As the night wore on, clothing came off, and the equipment went into use.

  The crack of a whip startled me, and I turned toward the crisp noise. Ferry yielded the powerful leather, and I was instantly enthralled by how dynamic he was in this element—an entirely different person than I typically saw. I wouldn’t have recognized the man had I not known it was him.

  The beautiful redhead on the receiving end of his blows had large, expressive eyes and pale, milky skin without a blemish on it—except for the touch of his whip that left a glowing, rose-colored mark. Each movement was precise, calculated. Even with my limited knowledge, I recognized his skill.

  My attention shifted from his arms and the leather to the woman: the way her back arched with the contact, the smile on her face, the dazed look in her eyes the longer it continued. The way her body moved with each strike enamored me. Her breasts were impeccable, perfect pink nipples, her lean form dancing to music no one else could hear. I captured her image in my mind minus the equipment, without Ferry, the leather, or the audience. Tall, supple but thin, every proportion exquisite, her ass round but not overly—she was a muse.

  Unaware of my own movements, I wandered toward them, to the cross the ginger was strapped to, enduring Ferry’s treatment, which she enjoyed. I waited, for how long, I couldn’t say, when he lost focus and turned to me, smiling. Tipping his head, Ferry urged me closer. I shook my head, waiting to see how this played out.

  He hadn’t touched her with anything other than the whip. The few times I’d seen anyone endure this, they left the cross utterly exhausted, unable to move, cradled in the arms of their Dom, resting in the aftercare he provided.

  Not this girl.

  Tossing her head back, her auburn curls cascaded down her back. Her lips turned up as she swayed her head from side to side. Her hair had to sting the raw flesh, but she appeared to enjoy the heightened sensation. As Ferry released her, he whispered into her ear, and she turned to glance over her shoulder at me.

  Her crystal-blue eyes locked on mine. The woman made no effort to look away, yet there was nothing uncomfortable about her stare.

  It was intriguing, full of something I was afraid to define.

  With her ankles freed, she rubbed her wrists, intent on me. While Ferry continued to talk, she heard what he said but remained focused. I caved first, straying from her stare, and my gaze dropped, landing on the little patch of red fluff just above her pussy. My cheeks heated with embarrassment when I knew I’d been caught appraising her. But when I returned to her face, there wasn’t a hint of modesty or embarrassment on her part. And Ferry was escorting her my direction without so much as brushing up against her—there had been no skin-to-skin contact…not so much as a hand to her lower back.

  “Bastian Thames, this is Emily Walker.” Our eyes locked as I attempted to acknowledge Ferry’s introduction.

  I extended my hand, which she took. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Walker.”

  “Emily would like to get to know you better, Bastian.” His implication knocked me out of my trance, and I turned to him in confusion.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

  “Yes, you did.” He grinned, but I wasn’t impressed. “Emily’s a good friend of mine. We’ve scened together multiple times. She wants to help you have a good time tonight.”

  The man must be out of his fucking mind. I didn’t even know the woman.

  “Seriously, Bastian. The only interest Emily has ever had in me has been the whip. I’m not her type. Most men aren’t if you get my drift.”

  I had seconds to make a decision: see where this went, against my nature, everything I’d always been, a random encounter, a lone evening. Or I could play it safe and walk away from what could prove to be a pleasurable night because I was a relationship kind of guy. Sylvie flashed through my mind, smiling, encouraging me to live, take the bull by the horns and fuck the shit out of it.

  Just this once.

  Then I saw Sera—too busy looking at someone else to notice me.

  Decision made, I accepted Emily’s hand and followed her lead.

  Emily had spent a considerable amount of time in this house. She knew the layout, the twisting paths, the maze of hallways, the conglomeration of rooms. She didn’t talk much other than to let me know her room was at the end of the hall and she was in from Los Angeles, not that she mentioned why. I didn’t bother to ask. I was too enthralled by the fact that she hadn’t bothered to put on any clothes when we’d left the party.

  A step behind, I still held her hand as I watched her ass sway with each step. I’d studied the female form, painted hundreds of picture-perfect bodies, but hers—holy hell, she was stunning, flawless from an artistic perspective. My mind spun with ways to capture the grace of her steps on canvas.

  I stopped at the threshold, unsure of where to take this. So much for any confidence booster that Zane might have tried to instill. I stood like an awkward teen virgin. Beer bottle in one palm, I stuffed my free hand into my pocket and leaned against the doorframe. Emily moved throughout the room, pulling pillows from the bed, drawing down the comforter. And when she was done, she came to me and encouraged me inside. The click of the door closing behind us echoed in the large space, and I quickly downed what was left of my beer and set aside the bottle.

  The tips of her fingers wrapped around the hem of my shirt, and my chest heaved with anticipation as she lifted the fabric over my head. Her hands skimmed my sides, sending chills down my arms. A woman’s touch was almost foreign at this point, and the emotions that came with it nearly had me hyperventilating. Swallowing hard, I cleared my mind and with it the emotions. Having sex was like riding a bike. The fact that it had been more than six years should be insignificant. It was human nature to procreate—our bodies just knew what to do. I simply had to make myself available to let it happen.

  As Emily explored, I relaxed into her, allowing myself to enjoy the sensations of intimate touch. She was everywhere and nowhere. Her palms slid over my chest, her fingers were in my hair, then trailing down to the tops of my jeans.

  Soft.

  Complaisant.

  Gentle.

  And then she added her mouth to the mix, peppering my skin with delicate kisses, working her way from my neck to my chest. I was lost in sensation until my jeans hit my ankles, pooling at my feet. I toed off my shoes and stepped out of my pants.

  Her caress suggested something familiar, and I closed my eyes. Oddly, my mind didn’t lead me to Sylvie; it was Sera who lit up my imagination. And with the recognition that she’d chosen another man, I refused to give her any part of this and forced open my eyes to the woman on her knees in front of me.

  Her clear blue eyes met mine as my dick disappeared between her lips. My confidence soared with her submission, the power I held in just my stature, standing over her. Emily’s eyes were wide as she moved, her lips, her tongue, her hands, they all worked together while she waited for my approval, indications of what I enjoyed, what felt good.

  Still unwilling to speak for fear my voice might crack, I squeezed the hand she had wrapped around my cock with my own, stroking along with her, applying the right amount of pressure. And when her tongue swirled around the head of my cock, a moan seeped past my lips, and my head dropped back. The warmth, the wetness, the suction, all threat
ened to send me over prematurely as I fucked her face. The struggle to hold on became more than I could bear, and I tangled my fingers into her hair, reluctant but determined to pull her off. She released with a pop and a satisfied grin I could barely see through narrowed eyes.

  Lifting her by the elbow, I encouraged her to stand and turn her back to me, remembering the lashing she’d taken earlier. “Does it hurt?” The first three words I’d managed to say came out as a croak.

  “It stings in a good way.” She glanced at me over her shoulder with a coy smile.

  “Do you want me to try to keep from touching it?”

  The shake of her head wouldn’t have been noticeable had I not been looking for it. Everything she did was subtle and sexy as fuck. “Not at all. It heightens the experience.”

  I wondered what kind of experience she expected in this pity fuck Ferry had arranged.

  She watched me for a moment, eyeing me with an innocence I had no doubt was feigned. “Quit overthinking this and just enjoy it.”

  “It’s been a long time.”

  Emily turned to face me and laid her hand on my chest. The vulnerability in her gaze would have broken me had I not seen her take a whip like she owned it. “I know your story. That’s why Ferry chose me.” She searched my face and licked her lips. “I’m more of a switch than a sub and tend to prefer females to males. I like to sub for men who administer pain. My understanding is you need someone to tend to your pleasure, not necessarily submit. Just allow me to do that…in my own way.”

  I took that to heart and didn’t worry about the role I was supposed to play or what I should do. Instead, I succumbed to the pleasure of the moment, not thinking one second beyond exactly what was in front of me. It was reckless, but my dick throbbed, and there was a beautiful pink pussy waiting for me to get my head out of my ass and act.