TakingonTabytha

by Reese Gabriel

  “Please.” Tabytha rolled her eyes. “I never competed with you.”

  “I don’t mean you were trying to deprive me, girl, I just think at some level it was your fantasy and not mine.”

  “No, the whole thing freaked me out and you know it.”

  “All the more reason to think there was something in it, something deep, for me it would be just one more thing, but for you it was…deep,” said Nikky.

  “Whatever. And don’t tell me you heard me moaning in my sleep to be whipped and chained.”

  “Just tell me there was no chemistry with this guy today, Tab.”

  “I couldn’t stand him, he was a total…” Tabytha stopped midsentence. Everyone knew strong emotions turned quickly to their opposites. “He left me indifferent,” she corrected.

  “But you let him take your hand, you, Take-No-Prisoners Tabytha, you let him guide you to Fantasy Island and then you let him waltz right into your pants. Oh, I forgot, you weren’t wearing any.”

  Tabytha flushed red all over again, thinking how vulnerable she had been, exposing her body, rendering herself nude at the suggestion of a stranger.

  “But it wasn’t real,” Tabytha protested.

  “And that’s why you ran out of their like a scared teenager?”

  “I just decided I have better things to write about, that’s all.”

  “Right, the Arbor Day column, I almost forgot. That one will win you a Pulitzer for sure.”

  “You know, friends support each other,” Tabytha reminded.

  “I am supporting you.”

  Tabytha’s phone picked that particular moment to chirp, very injudiciously in her opinion.

  “Get it,” said Martinique. “It might be him.”

  “It isn’t him.”

  Martinique reached for Tabytha’s purse and after a brief wrestling match she took control of the phone. “Tabytha DeSade’s House of Tortures. How may we serve you up? What? Oh, you’re an associate of Mr. Blake’s? How nice.”

  Tabytha tried to tackle Martinique and was promptly pushed back. That’s what she got for turning down all those invitations of Martinique’s to play tennis and build up her arm strength.

  “What? You are calling with an invitation to Mr. Blake’s private club? You don’t say.”

  “No, absolutely not,” Tabytha whispered fiercely.

  “Tomorrow at eight you say? Absolutely, she’d be delighted. Shall I tell her what to wear? I’m afraid her leather onesies are all at the cleaner’s. Uh huh, okay, thank you…and cheerio.”

  Cheerio? Onesies? Could this get more surreal?

  “You’re going to a BDSM club tomorrow,” Martinique said, handing Tabytha back her phone.

  “Have you any idea how much I hate you right now?” Tabytha declared.

  “You won’t hate me once I find you a killer outfit. You have to wear black, all black.”

  Tabytha felt a stab of heat between her thighs as she considered the implications.

  Black panties smoothing the curves of her buttocks, black bra cups over her pert breasts.

  Did the bastard actually expect to see her that way, stripped of her outer clothes, all dolled up and sexy for his titillation, like one of his brainless little submissives?

  “I’m not going and that’s final.”

  “Really?” Martinique challenged. “And what if he comes after you?”

  “He wouldn’t dare.”

  At least he’d better not because in her current condition she might not be able to do much to stop him.

  Chapter Three

  Tabytha spent the bulk of the next day psyching herself up. She’d been ready to cancel on Harlan after leaving Martinique’s place for the night, but with the arrival of the new day she decided that regardless of how she’d been hoodwinked into the situation, she was a Quillen and Quillens were not quitters.

  “Really,” she told her Randy “You Can Do It” Rooster alarm clock at eight a.m. sharp. “How hard could this be?”

  Club or no club, dinner was dinner. As for the rest of it, the so-called consensual BDSM dungeon, that was pure hokum.

  “I mean, come on,” she told the ever-attentive Randy, her stalwart night guardian since college. “An urbanized Dracula’s castle, complete with writhing maidens on the rack, bottomless bottles and well drinks until midnight every Saturday?”

  If Harlan was smart he wouldn’t let her within a hundred feet of it.

  She’d make intellectual mincemeat of the establishment.

  He had asked for it and it was gloves off from here on out.

  Did he have no idea who she was? She was Slice ’Em and Dice ’Em, Send ’Em Home To Mama, Tails Between Their Legs Tabytha Quillen, that’s who. Did he think she was one of those dishrag women, low self-esteem, craving the love of a manipulative bullying male? And the whole thing was supposed to be intimate and spiritual?

  Please.

  Fine. So she’d been a little restless the night before and lost a little sleep.

  Okay, a lot of sleep.

  But that wasn’t because of Harlan Blake. Just her own stress, all those accumulated months without a break, week after week feeding the blog and the column, always more words, having to be funnier, wittier and ever more concise.

  Was she a machine, for crying out loud, some kind of living word processor?

  And yes, maybe a little companionship would be nice, a date, a boyfriend.

  Such was the journalist’s life, though, no apologies, no regrets and no social life to speak of but hey, no one could have it all, right?

  After a hearty breakfast of bran flakes and egg whites, Tabytha settled in to work. It was a research day mostly, a new freelance piece for a website catering to agoraphobics—try arranging a meet-up for that lot—and some stuff on mystery shopping she planned to use for a column next month. Then there was the blog stuff, the social media page and so on and so on.

  About half past one she realized she was going on about two hours sleep and promptly scheduled an impromptu nap, the TV on for company.

  She was pretty sure it was Dr. Phil talking to her as she lulled off to dreamland but at a certain point the voice changed from a concerned Texas drawl to that mildly cocky, deep and vaguely dangerous voice from the café.

  His voice.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  “Tab, you really shouldn’t fight this.”

  “I will fight,” she murmured. “And don’t call me Tab.”

  “The harder you resist the more you will think about it.”

  “Want to bet?”

  She felt a hand, caressing her hip. “You belong to me.”

  “Stop…”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “I… Yes…”

  “Liar,” he teased. “You know what happens to young ladies who lie, don’t you?”

  Sighing, Tabytha gave in fully to the fantasy. Harlan Blake was with her in bed, his rock-hard body alongside hers. They were both nude.

  She turned away to her side, he moved behind her.

  “Feel that?”

  It was his cock, pulsing, erect, pressing between her buttock cheeks.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  “Please what, Tab? Please take you? Put my cock deep inside you, roll you onto your belly and have my way?”

  Invisible hands caressed her breasts, squeezing, molding them, her treacherous nipples responding to every contact, rubbery, swollen.

  “You need a spanking, Tab.”

  “No!”

  “It’s not for you to decide.”

  She shook her head, trying to free herself. She had no will, no strength.

  It was so damn real!

  “You’re wet,” he observed.

  A finger was inside her, lightly pushing against her slick open walls.

  “Take your pleasure, Tab, you have my permission.”

  “Go to hell.” She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction but holding out was next to impossible. His hands seemed to be everywhere, on her brea
sts, thighs, over her belly, pressing, pushing. He nuzzled her neck, kissed until he finally got her attention, his teeth nibbling.

  “It’s no longer a request, Tab. Move for me, show me your pleasure.”

  She moaned, releasing the tension, shaking and writhing. He’d found her clitoris, the bastard.

  “Do not come without permission.”

  “Oh…god…what do you want?”

  The invisible fingers pinched her ass.

  A hand cracked against her behind.

  “Everything, Tab, everything.”

  “Don’t call me that, I told you!”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  All at once the dream imploded.

  She awoke fighting and shaking.

  Harlan or whatever she was dealing with was gone.

  The phone was ringing. It was Martinique.

  As usual she offered no preamble. “I’ve been doing some reading. This BDSM stuff, it’s all head trips, ninety percent talk and ten percent real fucking. It’s got to be right up your alley. You need to get it on with this guy. It’s your fate, like my grandmother used to say—”

  “Goodbye, Martinique. This is me hanging up on you.”

  Martinique called back a second later. It would go on like this all day if Tabytha didn’t give in.

  “Just tell me that you’re going to the club, Tab. And you’re going to follow his instructions.”

  Tabytha bristled. “I don’t follow anyone’s instructions.”

  “You still have that lacy push-up number, don’t you, the black one? How hot would that be with your silk thong, the one we got in Bermuda?”

  “I’m not wearing a fucking thong for this guy,” she fumed.

  “It makes you pissed off, doesn’t it? Finally, some passion, I knew I was onto something.”

  “You’re onto nothing. I’ll wear red or white or…nothing.”

  “Ooh, gonna be a bad girl, huh? Maybe he’ll put you over his knee. Or cuff you to his bed and teach you a real lesson.”

  Images flashed in Tabytha’s brain, like raging fires too fast to put out.

  What would Harlan Blake do with a girl…handcuffed to his bed?

  He wouldn’t beat about the bush, giggle or apologize like handcuff boy back in college would have.

  “Face it, Tabytha, he’s chosen you for whatever reason, he’s sending a car tonight to take you to his club. You know what goes on there, right?”

  “For all you know this guy could be a serial killer. Has that ever occurred to you?”

  “He went to Harvard, remember? Besides, I checked him out. You forget the contacts I have.”

  Five years with the district attorney’s office, three in private practice, not to mention the resources of her father that went deep on both sides of the law.

  “BDSM is for insecure, maladapted people,” Tabytha pronounced, determined to put the thing to rest once and for all.

  “Like I said,” Martinique quipped. “It’s the perfect thing for you.”

  “Ha ha, frigging ha.”

  “Remember, the black push-up bra.”

  “When hell freezes over.”

  “I can call his assistant and find out later if you complied, you know.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Martinique laughed. It was her devil’s laugh, pure salt and green-blue sea, island rum and pure grandmother voodoo.

  If Tabytha hadn’t felt doomed already this most certainly sealed the deal.

  “The hell I won’t. And I’ll be over in a half hour to supervise getting you ready, no argument.”

  Tabytha sighed. “You know, Nikky, I really don’t need another dominant in my life, I have you.”

  “Guess you’re just lucky, girl. Put on some black tea for me, will you?”

  Tabytha didn’t bother putting up a fight. She hadn’t won one yet so what made her think she would start now?

  * * * * *

  Harlan watched keen eyed as the limousine pulled up in front of the club, right on time, his prize safe and sound in the backseat. The scrumptious Tabytha Quillen looking distinctly wary—and wearing a black dress no less.

  He was right there to open the door for her.

  Smoothly, he took her hand, bringing her to her feet, the very picture of reluctant grace.

  She frowned slightly as he drank her in. It was all he could do to keep focus on those fierce green eyes and not on her body, the way that dress hugged her curves, the bodice thrusting her breasts up and out, the tight waistline emphasizing her hourglass figure.

  Really it was a bit risqué, off the shoulder, above the knee.

  What effect was she going for? In-your-face inaccessibility? Or was it a taunt?

  If so it was working. He would give just about anything for a taste of those full lips, cherry red, just a little appetizer to the main course. And why stop there when he could run his hands down her rib cage, cradling her waist, holding her tight and then reaching behind for that ass—the impertinent, saucy, spectacular ass of Tabytha Quillen.

  “What the hell is that look for?” she demanded.

  As if she didn’t know.

  Clearly she did.

  Still, the game deserved to be played.

  “You’ve dressed for me.”

  Her eyes shot fire. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s called the little black dress. Every woman has one, they are practical and neutral and ninety-nine percent of the time we wear them it has nothing to do with the stupid thoughts on men’s minds.”

  “Dare I hope I’m in the one percent?” Harlan took her hand and kissed it, taking advantage of her momentary confusion in the wake of his charming smile.

  Her skin tasted sweet. He inhaled the familiar perfume and with it the smooth scent of vanilla. Bath gel, maybe? He pictured her all soaped up, reclined in the tub, the bubbles up to the top of her breasts. He needed to be there, of course, to watch…to tell her what to do, how to move.

  Touching, caressing, and arching her back, surrendering to the softness.

  Harlan let the kiss linger.

  She wanted to pull away but she didn’t. Good.

  He held her prisoner, just a moment or two longer, but well past the time of conventional propriety.

  “If you don’t mind.” Tabytha wrenched her hand free.

  There it was again, the look from yesterday. All that emotion bottled up. Was she on the beach again with her mystery man? Is that where the kiss had taken her?

  He liked his odds now. She was close, so very easy to sweep into his arms. Nice heels, he thought, letting his eyes sweep down, lingering on those beautiful long legs. Just made to wrap around a man’s torso.

  “Dinner is waiting,” he said.

  “I hope so,” she replied pointedly. “I’m on deadline.”

  “Your experience awaits,” he declared with a sweep of his arm across the backdrop of the subtly named Traveler’s Club. Occupying the better part of a twenty-room Victorian mansion, it represented a work of art all its own.

  Built originally for a general from the early Indian Wars, it had passed through generations of dominant men before finally being sold to a cooperative on whose board Harlan now served as chairman.

  “Feel free,” he said, “to be impressed. I certainly was the first time I saw it.”

  Taking her arm, he led her through the carved, antique door into the foyer with its red velvet settee and mahogany fixtures, including a priceless umbrella stand that had once belonged to an Indian maharaja. Personally, he’d become inured to such things, but he could see Tabytha pretending not to look.

  “Not exactly the dive you expected?”

  “I had no expectations. I’m a journalist.”

  “Oh yes, of course, you’re totally objective.”

  From the walls eyes watched, stern as they had been in life. These were the portraits of past members of the club, all the way back to its roots, when maids in petticoats could be ever so easily turned over the master’s knee—and the wives for good measure.

&n
bsp; The main dining room was quiet tonight, only a few couples along with a table of four. He knew them all but it wasn’t really club form to go about slapping backs and waving.

  A special table had been prepared in the corner, dimly lit, with a candle already in place.

  “What do you think?”

  Tabytha frowned, a definite victory in his book. “I won’t be able to take notes.”

  “I’ll make sure you get the cheat version on the way out. Besides I thought you used a recorder?”

  “I couldn’t fit it in my purse.”

  “Yes.” He noted the tiny black clutch. “It is rather small.”

  Harlan held her chair out for her. She offered no resistance and no complaint.

  Another small victory.

  He took his place across from her, promptly unfurling his napkin and placing it on his lap. Harlan would rather have her in its place, ass up, subject to his itching, spanking hand.

  “I took the liberty of selecting our menu for the evening, Tabytha.”

  “Of course you did.”

  He signaled for the waiter to bring the wine. “You doubt my tastes?”

  “Why should that concern you? I’m only a female.”

  “Oh I care a great deal. I want to know you, your likes and dislikes, everything.”

  She squirmed slightly. “We’re not here for me. Why don’t you tell me how this little club works?”

  “Why don’t you tell me? You see the couples here. Do they look like BDSM players to you?”

  “Do you mean would the women hop down off these fancy chairs and bark like dogs if their masters asked?”

  Harlan laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that. But obviously you have.”

  “Oh no.” She leveled her gaze. “Don’t go twisting this. I am employing sarcasm. I am sure it’s foreign in your mumbo-jumbo world but it’s quite real in mine.”

  “What is the mumbo jumbo? BDSM people are very direct. We don’t hide behind false jokes.”

  “I am not hiding,” she said, trying not to sound defensive.

  The waiter was standing behind him, waiting for him to approve the selection. He watched her the whole time, enjoying her annoyance.

  “This will do nicely,” he said.

  “I am not having any,” said Tabytha.

  “Suit yourself,” said Harlan.