by Gabi Moore
He was nodding, eyes glued to mine, hanging on to every word. He smelt good. Even from way over there on his sofa, I could smell him, and it was all skin and powder and musk.
“Why don’t you tell me a little about you?” I said. “About what you want and like?”
It was awkward for me sometimes, too, these little interviews, where I didn’t have my regular bad bitch toolkit to fall back on and had to actually be a civilized, polite young woman.
But this guy made it almost feel fun. I found myself genuinely curious about his answer. Did he want me to strap him down and give him a naughty medical exam? Throw him in a dog cage? Play at being a sexy female interrogation officer who tortured him sexually in a dark room till he confessed his juicy state security secrets? In case you’re wondering, no, I didn’t make that up – in my line of work, there is no such thing as political correctness.
He shifted his weight, looked at the ground and sighed.
“Like I said, it’s complicated, and I don’t want to just jump into something. I really just needed to meet you first. If that’s alright…”
“Of course it’s alright! But I should remind you that I’m not a shrink, and don’t intend to keep boys around just to chat with them about their days,” I said playfully, and the look he gave me was so shocked I couldn’t help but giggle. “I’m kidding, of course. Mostly. But if you’re feeling shy, you really don’t need to be.”
He looked like something was on the tip of his tongue, but he was afraid to spit it out. Fine. Not everyone can be as brazen as I am.
“Um, by the way, I didn’t catch your name…”
“It’s Dean.”
“Dean. Well, Dean, let’s try something quickly, and you tell me whether you enjoy it or not, OK?”
“You mean, right now?” again he flashed me that same shocked look.
I smiled.
“Yes, right now. Don’t worry, I don’t bite,” I said, giving him a little wink. I cracked my neck first one side, then the other, then cleared my throat. “Come here,” I said coldly, changing my entire demeanor. His eyes were wide as he contemplated this order, but he was soon on his feet and standing in front of me, hands hanging awkwardly at his side.
“Get down on your hands and knees. My feet are tired,” I said casually. It took a while for him to catch my drift, but he dropped to his hands and feet before me, offering his back up as a footrest. I plonked my heels down onto him and adjusted my weight.
“You know what I really need in my life, Dean?” I said, adding a little sarcasm to his name. “I’m tired of idiot men who can’t keep up with me. What I really want is someone I can break. Completely. Till they’re shaking and weeping and ready to sacrifice their lives and bodies for me.” Then I kicked my feet off, reached down, took his chin in my hand and looked at him…
“Yes? No?” I said in my normal voice.
He blushed.
“Uh… I think no,” he said. I gestured for him to stand up. That was unusual. I raised an eyebrow at him. I was happy to do admin and small talk with a new client, but the sooner I could get back to the easy stuff, the better.
“No?”
“No. That’s just… that feels a bit mean actually.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or not. I sat back down again, and so did he. I was losing my touch, clearly, and had read him completely wrong.
“Mean?” I said. “Honey you know who you’ve come to see, right?” I said, smiling warmly. He laughed, put his hand to the back of his neck and shrugged.
“I told you, I don’t… I don’t really need that kind of thing. To be yelled at or spoken down to, that’s not really my thing at all,” he said, slowly and almost as though he was worried about offending me.
“Then…?”
He sighed and looked uncomfortable.
“Yeah, I know, then what do I want, right? Um. Fuck, I was worried this was going to be strange…”
“No, not strange. Just talk to me,” I blurted.
I wasn’t usually this kind. If some joker came in here just to mess around or push his luck, I would have thrown him out ten minutes ago. But something about this sweet stranger’s smile was truly endearing. Like I said, looking back I know why, but then I was clueless. I just knew I didn’t want him to leave, that’s all.
“Would you like to have a look at my dungeon, perhaps?” I said confidently. It’s easier for many people to show rather than tell. If he was so infuriatingly bashful, surely he could point out what he was after and spare me the guessing game. But he was shaking his head again.
“No dungeon. I won’t be requiring… instruments. Are they called instruments? Tools I mean. Or devices? Jesus, I’m messing this up aren’t I?”
“A little.”
He laughed, but was soon on his feet.
“I think I’m done actually. I’ll be leaving now.”
I was genuinely surprised.
“Leaving? But why?”
“Like I said, what I want here will take some time to explain. I guess I just needed to come here and, I don’t know, see that you were for real. And I’ll admit that I’m glad you haven’t made a big deal about who I am,” he said.
“I’m sorry… who you are?”
I was standing now, too. He gave me a quizzical expression.
“Wait, do you even recognize me?” he said, the juiciest smile on his face. I didn’t. I had no idea who he was and he had spent less than 15 minutes in my living room. He chuckled and shook his head.
“Dean Cane,” he said, and waited for my response.
My thoughts galloped.
Dean Cane?
Son of…?
It couldn’t be.
I looked at him more closely. He was right. I had seen his face around before. Yep, there he was, heir to the empire. I tried to think quickly. Did he have any idea that his father knew me? I had to play dumb. Despite everything I told you earlier on about that reporter and wanting to expose that bastard, I still take client confidentiality very seriously.
“I’m sorry, I …I’m afraid I don’t recognize the name,” I said sweetly and shrugged. He looked long and hard at me, then nodded, and made for the door.
“That’s just as well,” he said quietly.
“But wait. We still have a whole hour together,” I said. I was surprised at how eager I sounded. That was definitely unlike me. Then he did something outrageous and placed his hand on my shoulder, just gently, just so. It was a gesture done with such care and tenderness that it nearly blew my mind. Clients didn’t touch me like that. I touched them. And then, usually, it was not so much touch as …hit. And slap. And whip.
I stared down at his hand and tried to think of something to say.
“I just mean, was there really nothing else you wanted?” I said, trying to appear aloof again and failing miserably. He removed his hand, smiled and then shook his head.
“Actually, you’ve already kind of given it to me,” he said.
I followed him as he walked back to the front door. His suit was expensive. His shoes were unnervingly clean. And he was the son of my most high-profile client. Or, ex client, I should say. Did somebody send him here? Was this some twisted ‘mind game’ that Mr. Cane was playing with me? No, it couldn’t be. What were the chances? We’d done nothing but exchange a few words and he was satisfied? Bizarre. We walked back to the front door but he stopped and looked at one of the paintings lining the hall. Nobody ever stopped to look at them.
“These are… nice,” he said. “Who’s the artist?”
For some stupid reason, I shrugged. I was the artist. Every abstract, colored swirl on these walls was my doing, and he was the first man to say a word about them.
“They make me think of something, but I’m not sure what,” he said, examining a few more of them, tilting his head to admire the chaotic swirls of color spiraling into the centre of the canvas. My face felt hot.
“I’d like another hour sometime soon, if you’re available,” he said when w
e both reached the door. “I realize I’m being very mysterious about it all, but I hope you can understand that this is important to me, and I want to do it properly. I appreciate your time. I’m very happy with our meeting and I’m sure that you’ll be just the right person to disclose the details to …when the time comes.”
Just how taboo could this big secret of his really be? Maybe he was some kind of pedophile. Maybe it was animals. I looked down at the perfectly tailored hems of his suit jacket, then at his clean-shaven, honest face. He certainly didn’t look like a bad guy serial killer type. (Are you curious as well, dear reader? In case you are as desperate as I was to figure this Mr. Dean Cane out, just forget it: you’ll never guess.)
I said goodbye, closed the door behind him and tried to catch my leaping thoughts.
I was intrigued.
Of course I was. What kind of a man pays $1400 to talk to a woman for 15 minutes? I walked slowly back to the living room and sat down in front of the scented candles, the flame in each one barely having made even the smallest dent in the thick white wax. It was probably nothing. Just a conflicted ‘fraidy cat who was having a hard time admitting to having a pretty tame kink. He was too sweet. Too polite.
I blew out the candles.
I usually didn’t bother with people who were this closeted – when men are already so tortured, it takes the fun out of torturing them, you know? – but this guy seemed so harmless I couldn’t resist. It was obvious he’d pay up, and that fact hadn’t escaped me. And as for being the son of the man I was currently trying to destroy? Well, that may not be a problem at all. In fact, if I got in the good books of this meek, innocent Dean creature, who knows all the other ‘complicated’ things he might tell me.
Chapter 6
Myth: In BDSM, people are attracted to the role most different from the one they play in normal life
Reality: BDSM is not a reverse of the normal, it’s an amplification
I woke up feeling strange.
Two mascara smears blinked back at me from my pillow, and I had a vague sense of having had nightmares all night, but couldn’t remember any of them. Groggy, I crawled out of bed and checked my phone. I examined my face in the bathroom mirror. My hair looked less like a chic Cleopatra bob and more like a Barbie doll after a toddler’s taken the kitchen scissors to her. I looked ragged.
It was Saturday, which meant I had morning clients and then Angie would come over in the afternoon to stay the weekend. My website had lurid details about how I spent my free time – I painted myself as a mysterious, in-demand socialite who was all non-stop bacchanals and international shopping sprees. The funny truth was that I had no real friends to speak of, and my free time was usually shared with my last remaining family member – Angie.
I slinked downstairs to make myself a bowl of cereal and then went further down to the dungeon, still in my pajamas, mascara smears and knotty hair. I kicked the door a few times.
“Avert your eyes, slave!” I shouted, then pressed open the heavy door and stepped inside. Ralph had obediently turned and now had his back to me, hunched in his cage, naked. Chatting to Ralph like this wasn’t in our original agreement, but fuck it, I was the boss here. Plus, I had nobody else to talk to.
I took a spoonful of my cereal and chewed thoughtfully.
“Slave, answer me a question,” I said at last.
“Anything for Mistress,” he said instantly, his voice hoarse.
Good old Ralph. Retired, loaded, and with more issues than all my other clients combined. I was pretty sure we routinely broke state health and safety laws fulfilling these little fantasies, but it worked, and if he minded these chatty interludes in the middle of his regular incarcerations, he never said so. In fact, many times Ralph seemed like the most sane person I knew, and was happy to listen. He was chained in a cage, sure. But he listened.
“Tell me, what does it actually mean to submit?” I asked and took another spoonful.
“Mistress knows,” he said simply. “Slave doesn’t understand these things; he trusts Mistress to know what he needs.”
“So, it’s about your needs, then? Does ‘submit’ just mean sit back and let someone else take care of it all?”
He was silent.
“Mistress is displeased?”
“Damn straight Mistress is displeased. Mistress wants to burn everything to the ground and run away and never come back. What do you think of that?” I said, leaning against the concrete wall and staring at his naked back.
“That would make slave very sad.”
I sighed, put the bowl to my lips to slurp up the milk, then placed it with a clink on the surgical table.
“Mistress is …having breakfast?” he asked tentatively.
“Mistress is drinking the blood of her enemies,” I said, and shifted my weight.
He was silent again.
“Actually, Mistress is in some trouble,” I said. I watched the bones along his spine expand and close again as he took a deep breath.
“Mistress will find a way,” he said at last.
“Hey Ralph?”
Silence.
“Yes, Nora?”
“Do you think of me as a… a whore? A prostitute?” Again I watched the skin on his back as he inhaled and exhaled.
“I think of you as an artist.”
“Shut up, slave,” I hissed.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“You’re staying in here another hour if you think you can get away with not addressing me properly.”
“Of course.”
I turned to leave but just as I was about to close the door, I paused and looked over at him again. It’s easy to laugh at a man like Ralph. Or pity him. I’ll admit, I don’t much understand what makes him tick either.
“Hey Ralph… thank you.”
“Thank you,” he replied, and I went back upstairs.
By the time I found the energy to shower and dress, and sit down to look at the day’s schedule. I was decided. I wanted to cancel all my morning appointments. I didn’t do it often, but I just knew my heart wouldn’t be in it anyway. I had three clients, excluding releasing Ralph from his cage in an hour, and then Angie would come over.
I cracked my knuckles and began to type when I noticed: one of my appointments this morning was with that Dean guy, him of the squeaky-clean shoes and ‘complicated kink’. Hmm. The other two I could ditch, but on a whim I decided I still wanted to see him. He was scheduled to be the last of the day, just before Angie came over, and I admit, I was still pretty curious.
I poured myself another cup of coffee and went to check the mail, then scowled at what I saw in my driveway. A new car with a giant red bow on the top. Ugh. I walked outside to examine it, peeled off the note stuck in the wiper and saw that it was from Mr. Cane.
How tacky.
I tossed the card aside, took a sip of coffee and looked at it. I would sell it, just like I sold every one of his other stupid gifts. He didn’t get to say what he said to me and then simply apologize. For a man like him, buying an expensive car is nothing at all …but I sure could think of a few charities who wouldn’t mind the money.
I waltzed back inside and called up the dealership I usually work with whenever I have gifted cars to sell. While I was on hold, I took a look through my closet to find the perfect outfit for my session with the other Mr. Cane, the one who I was currently finding a little more intriguing, and a little less predictable. I would meet the reporter tomorrow to drive up the price but in the meantime, sussing out his son might be fun. If you’re wondering whether I maybe secretly possibly liked him a little bit, well, yes, I admit it. He was an attractive man, of course I was interested. But it’s no exaggeration to say that I don’t even remember the last time I had a crush on anyone, so don’t think I was into him in the least. I just found him less loathsome than some of my other clients, that’s all.
As I chatted on the phone I pulled out a skin-tight white PVC dress with sharp sci-fi looking sleeves and a cutout diamond right
at the chest. Yes, that would go nicely with a little flecked fur capelet I had just bought and my new favorite earrings: tiny silver swords that hung straight down as though they’d pierce my collarbone.
I ended the call, took my time getting dressed, let Ralph loose and then organized the folder drawers in the upstairs office for a few hours. Before I knew it, the doorbell rang.
He was here.
I took a deep breath, then went to answer, all the nightmares from the night before flat-ironed out of my hair and my lips gleaming with fresh purple gloss. I opened the door, and tried to hide the fact that my heart was skipping beats. I couldn’t even make him out behind the wall of flowers. He handed me a giant bouquet of white roses, stepped inside and closed the door himself.
“Flowers are not on my wish list, I’m afraid,” I said, placing the vase on a side table and getting a good look at him.
“Where’s the fun in a gift if you already know what you’re going to get though, right?” he said with a smile.
Flowers were the most clichéd gift for a woman in the history of anything. And yet, they were a pleasant surprise. Had I actually ever received flowers from anyone? Cars, sure. Expensive jewelry, wine, shoes. But never flowers. We both walked into the main house, and I gestured for him to sit on the same seat he had sat before.
I smiled, waiting for him to compliment me, to rush in and start talking about how he hoped I wouldn’t judge him for the thing he was about to ask me to do to him.
But he didn’t.
“Do you ever …you know, do you ever find this whole thing a little weird?” he said. He looked so much more charming today than he did the time before. I wasn’t sure what it was but he seemed a little sparklier, a little more mischievous.
“Oh, it’s constantly weird,” I said, returning his smile. “I guess I just have a high threshold for weirdness, that’s all.”
