Dirty Seal

by Harper James

  “Thank you for joining me,” he says.

  “Yeah, sure. Of course, my pleasure.” I really have to slow down on the random talking. He’s sitting there looking as cool as can be. He’s not nervous. And why should he be? Unless buying a billion-dollar company is something that would stress a person out. Frankly I think I’m more stressed over the fifty bucks left in my account than he could possibly be running an empire.

  “So, where are we going?” I ask. This already feels oddly like a date—the limo, the clothes, the hot guy—but I have to remind myself it’s a job interview and nothing more. Beside, a guy like Weston Bridges would never go for a small-town girl like me. Just wouldn’t happen.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” he says, all coy. He shifts his body so that he’s facing me better. He makes no secret of looking at me from top to bottom, his eyes lingering for a moment on my red shoes. “You look lovely, Mia,” he says.

  I swallow hard, the intensity from his gaze pinning me to the plush seats of the limo. “Thank you. So do you.”

  A small grin plays on his lips. I bite my lower lip, and when I realize I'm doing it, I stop. This is an interview, and I have to be professional—even if the guy I’m trying to impress is totally checking me out, and I totally don’t mind. “Why haven’t you haven’t said where we’re going?”

  “I think I’d rather watch your reaction than tell you.”

  I don’t know what that means but I smile like it’s all just fine. Inside I’m really nervous and want to make a great impression, but it’s hard when you’re desperate for money and five times as hard when the person who will (or won’t) hire you looks like Weston Bridges.

  When the limo stops and the driver opens the door for me, I’m standing in front of a swanky building with lots of well-dressed people coming and going.

  “Are we having dinner?” I ask, assuming there’s a restaurant right here, although I don’t see the entrance.

  “Not quite,” he says. “Follow me. It’s just down here.”

  There’s a slim alley between two buildings that I hadn’t noticed. We walk down it, the noise from the busy streets fading away behind us.

  We get to a door that has a red light above it. Weston looks back and me, and swings the door open.

  “Welcome to Plaisir,” he says, guiding me inside.

  “What is this place?”

  “It’s a club, and the setting for your possible story.”

  Inside, the lights are the same deep red as that outside light. Music plays from somewhere deep in the club, a slow thumping with drawn-out horns.

  The walls are large leather panels, and a security guard standing by the door. He nods to Mr. Bridges but says nothing.

  “What kind of club is this?”

  “It’s a place where adults come to let loose,” he says. “Express themselves. Feel free.”

  He puts his hand on my back, gently guiding me further inside. At the hostess stand is a woman with a gorgeous body, which is wrapped tightly in a black leather dress. I can’t see her face, though, because it’s covered by an elaborate eye mask, a sort of masquerade thing.

  He still hasn’t answered my question.

  “Yes, but what kind of club is this?”

  The hostess hears me and gives me a curious look, like I’m dense or something.

  Mr. Bridges leans into my ear and says, “It’s a BDSM club.”

  Weston

  I think we’ll start off at the bar,” I say to Megan, the hostess.

  “Of course, sir,” she says, nodding to me.

  Megan knows who I am but no one uses names at Plaisir. It’s one of the many confidentiality rules.

  Mia’s eyes are wide, and just by the way she’s walking, I can tell she’s nervous or intimidated. That smart exterior she had in my office earlier has faded and her lack of experience—either in journalism or sex, I’m not sure—is already showing. Her back is rigid and she’s trying not to look anyone in the eyes. It’s sort of cute, but mostly fun to know how uncomfortable she is.

  I pull out the high-backed bar stood for her to sit. There are only a few people in the bar area talking in low voices—men and women dressed as if it’s New Year’s Eve, wearing cocktail-party attire and leaning in closely to each other. The whole vibe screams sexy.

  Red wallpaper with black velvet patterns line the walls, and a mirror runs the length of the bar.

  Mia, despite clearly being wound tight, looks beautiful beside me. She rests her elbows on the bar and it pushes up her ample cleavage. Her skirt, already short, is hiked up high on her thigh, and I'm not sure how I’m going to keep my hands from her skin. I’ll see how the night goes, but she’s beautiful in a neophyte sort of way. And we are at a sex club—but for work, of course.

  “Good evening,” says the corseted woman behind the bar. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “Whiskey neat,” I tell her. “What would you like?” I ask Mia.

  “Just a wine, please” she says.

  “What kind, miss?” the bartender says.

  Mia looks like she’s in the middle of an oral exam she didn’t study for. “White,” she finally says.

  “Chardonnay, pinot grigio? We have a nice sauvignon blanc from the Loire Valley of France…”

  “Yes, that’s fine,” she quickly says, and I have to control myself from laughing.

  Mia doesn’t say anything as our drinks are made; she doesn’t look around the bar either. When our drinks are finally placed in front of us, she quickly goes to take a sip.

  “Wait,” I say, stopping her by placing my hand on her forearm. Her skin is warm beneath my fingers. “We have to make a toast. To your first assignment.”

  “This isn’t my first assignment,” she says.

  “To your trial assignment for Prerogative,” I amend. “Here’s to you impressing me with your reporting skills.” I clink her wine glass but she’s not looking at me. “Mia. It’s bad luck not to look the other person in the eye when you make a toast.”

  “Really?” she says, darting her eyes at me.

  “Actually, it’s bad sex if you don’t look each other in the eyes. Ten years, I believe it is.”

  I’m watching her face, the beautiful lips that she keeps nervously biting. She turns her eyes to me, wide and tinged with fear—maybe anxiety is the better word. She’s nervous and way out of her element.

  “Cheers,” she says, clinking my whiskey glass, eyes on mine. “To Prerogative.”

  We take sips of our drinks and a moment later she seems like she’s pulling herself together.

  She leans a little closer to me, giving me a better view of that cleavage. I’ve got a great view of it in the mirror behind the bar, but seeing it up close is far more incredible. I try not to stare.

  I turn my body toward her, resting my hand on the back of her chair. “You do know what a BDSM club is, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, of course,” she says quickly. “I mean, it’s been a while but…”

  Now I can’t help but laugh. This is too much. It’s too…innocent. Too cute. Which means this will be too easy, bordering on cruel. I wanted to throw her off by bringing her here, but it seems that she really has no idea what goes on in a place like this.

  “Mia,” I say. She turns her face to me, and I nod for her to move closer. I rest my hand on the exposed skin of her back and feel an immediate flash of excitement through my body. “Do you know what that stands for?” She pauses, but then slumps the slightest bit and shakes her head no as if she’s conceding defeat. “It stands for,” I say, then lean right into her neck, smelling her hair and skin, “bondage and discipline, dominance and submission, sadism and masochism.”

  I can see her skin flush red—it starts on her ample chest and rises to her face. “Good to know,” she says.

  “Are you frightened?”

  “I’m not scared,” she says.

  “Sure,” I say, sliding my hand across her skin before moving away from her. “Come on, get your drink
. I’ll show you around.”

  I guide her to the back of the bar where the club really begins. Just having my hand on her waist is enough to make my cock twitch in need; seeing her full-length in that tight skirt and top, her calves flexing with every step in those red high heels makes me want to press her up against the wall and feel every inch of her along my own body. But we have work to do—namely, showing her the ropes of this sex club.

  At the start of a long, dark, narrow hallway with almost a dozen closed doors is Mick, who nods at us.

  “Who is that?” Mia asks me, her eyes darting back to the man dressed in black.

  “He’s the dungeon monitor,” I say, and she looks at me with wide eyes.

  “Is that really what he’s called?”

  “It is,” I say. “See these little windows on the doors?” I point to the first door we pass. The slit in the door is too high for us to see in, which is the point. “He keeps an eye on the guests to make sure all is good.”

  “He looks?”

  “Yes,” I say. “But just to make sure everyone is playing fair and no one is in danger.”

  “People could be in danger here?” she asks.

  I chuckle. She really doesn’t get it. “It’s possible, but unlikely.”

  Just then we hear a pop, and then a cry of ecstasy—Mia probably interprets it as pain as she sucks in a breath at the sound.

  “And people like this?” she asks.

  “Very much,” I say.

  As we walk slowly down the hall, more noises fill the air. I keep my hand on the waist of her skirt, a light touch to let her know I’m here. I wonder if she takes it as comforting or dominance. Or maybe she’s so rattled she doesn’t even feel my hand there.

  A man’s cry of more, yes, give it to me comes out from one of the rooms. We hear what sounds like a whip snap, and then the man moans out.

  Mia wraps her arms around her waist as if she’s cold, but the way her shoulders are practically raised to her ears, I’m pretty sure she’s just nervous. I give her back a slight rub—as much for her as for me.

  “Do you enjoy this?” she asks. We’re outside a room in which we can hear the slapping of flesh on flesh, fast and hard.

  “What I enjoy is beside the point,” I say. One thing this Mia Cassidy does not need to know is what I enjoy. She will certainly never have access to that part of me. I’m not even sure I have access anymore, it’s buried so deep. But this is pleasurable enough for now. In fact, it’s quite fun.

  “Then what is the point?” she asks. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “To see how you can handle yourself,” I tell her, which is partly true. I’m surprised she hasn’t run screaming out of here yet. She deserves some props for that alone. “I need someone who can write about the kinds of topics that will garner notoriety and wider readership. I want stories that get people talking, even if they’re talking in secret.”

  Just then, the couple who is in the room we’re just outside of seem to explode in total ecstasy, crying out while slapping the floor, the wall, flesh…we can’t know for sure.

  Mia stops suddenly. She leans back against the wall, puts her hand over her forehead and closes her eyes. For a moment, I think she’s going to pass out.

  “Are you okay?” I ask her. I take her wine glass and set both our glasses on a small nearby table.

  She opens her eyes, looking at me. Her eyes trail down me for a brief second. She swallows hard, nodding her head yes. I place my forearm on the wall next to her, almost boxing her in. I lean close to her ear, making no secret about purposely being close to her.

  “Are you sure, Mia?” I ask so close that her hair brushes my nose.

  She turns her face slightly to me, and for a moment I think she’s going to kiss me. My dick is beginning to strain in my pants.

  “Mr. Bridges,” she says softly. “Please.”

  “Please what?” I ask, and there’s no answer I’ve ever been more excited to hear. I just hope she’s asking for what I think she is.

  Mia

  He’s so close I can smell him, and not just his cologne and soap—although that is making my head spin almost as much as the cries of pleasure I hear behind these doors. I can also smell him—the true scent of Weston Bridges, the smell of his skin and clothes and just him. His face is so close to mine that if I turn my head one inch to the left our lips will surely meet. I part my lips as the image races through my mind.

  “Please what, Mia?” he asks again. He shifts closer to me, his arm still blocking me in on one side. Without moving my head I look down and see that his belt and that part of his body is a half-inch from me. I picture him pressing up to me, and wonder what he feels like. Is he able to control his body in a place like this?

  Because I am wet.

  The walls of my sex are positively alive, clenching and feeling the desire beneath my lacy panties. My body is telling me what it wants, and I can’t help but be curious, especially when I hear the sound of chains in one of the rooms. The moans of pleasure and sex ring out of all of them, it suddenly seems, as if it’s a strange soundtrack to the club.

  Weston—I can’t keep calling him Mr. Bridges, it’s ridiculous now that we’re in a place like this—shifts slightly closer to me. He’s waiting for me to say what I was going to say, but I’ve lost the words. I can feel the energy coming from him, which penetrates me and he’s not even touching me. But I imagine he is, or that he might. I imagine myself saying, “Please take me into one of these rooms.” I don’t know what he’d do with me in there, but I want him to show me exactly what he means when he said what he enjoys is beside the point. What would he do to me to ensure I enjoyed myself?

  Weston’s fingers lightly touch my arm. He slides two fingers down my skin, sending chills through me. Even in the darkened hall he can surely see the goosebumps he’s given me. He’ll know instantly what he’s doing to me, how my body is reacting almost against my will. This is supposed to be a professional outing but I’m paralyzed against the velvety wall, my panties getting more soaked by the second. He can probably smell me.

  He leans even closer to me, his chest touching my breasts the smallest bit, a whisper of a touch, so light I wonder if he’s even touching me. I want to arch my back to really feel him, but I don’t. My heart pounds in my ears, my breathing is shallow and hard.

  “Mia, if there’s something more you want,” he says in my ear, his breath hot on my skin, “all you have to do is ask.”

  I suddenly realize how serious he is being—how I could tell him right now to take me in one of these rooms and he’d do it. And then what? What really happens behind these doors? Only Mick down the hall knows, who is still there but politely not watching. I’ve barely kissed a man, much less had sex, much less had all this. Being alone with a man like Weston Bridges would only show what a novice I am—in other words, a total and complete virgin. I could never handle a man like Weston; I could certainly never please him. But the want my body is urging from me is too intense. The smell of Weston is too much. His hand on my skin makes me feel like I’m falling. I have to get out of here.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, and I move away from him and quickly make my way down the hall, past Mick and through the bar. I don’t even know if Weston is following me or not. All I know is that I have to get out of here before I have a full-blown panic attack.

  The front door is opened for me, and I step out into the narrow alley. I don’t get the fresh air I was expecting. It’s still so hot out, and there’s no breeze in the alley.

  “Mia,” I hear. I don’t even turn to look at Weston. I’m embarrassed and overwhelmed. I feel so naïve, but at the same time knowing Weston is coming closer to me makes me excited. I’ve never felt so conflicted, wanting two things that make no sense together. “Hey, are you okay?”

  I turn to face him. The light from the club illuminates behind him, casting strange but somehow sexy shadows over him. He slowly walks closer to me, and I feel myself take a step back until the cool b
rick of the alley touches my bare skin. I’m not afraid of Weston—I’m afraid of the way my body is reacting to him, of the way I want him in ways I’ve never wanted, or had, a man before in my life.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him, a lie we both know.

  “You look a little pale,” he says, worry in his eyes. “I thought you might pass out back there.”

  There’s no need to hide how I feel, since it seems clear I’m not fooling anyone.

  “I can’t do that,” I tell him, nodding toward the club’s entrance. I can hear the sounds of the city moving along without anyone noticing us even though we’re just ten feet from the bustle of the night.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “It can be a little overwhelming at first.”

  “You don't understand,” I say, knowing I need to be frank, totally honest with him. “Mr. Bridges—”

  “And stop calling me that,” he says. “It’s really not necessary.”

  I hadn’t meant to, and I feel even smaller once it’s escaped my lips.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Don’t be,” he says. He’s standing before me, his hands in his pockets. He’s watching me closely. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Mia.”

  I press the palms of my hands against the cool brick behind me, steadying myself.

  “I’m a virgin,” I say. I just blurt it out. If I felt stupid before, I feel like the city’s biggest idiot now. Oh my god. I’ve never been so close to such a gorgeous man before, and I just blurted out the very real status of my sexual history, which is nil. I can’t even look at him.

  I hear him laugh softly, but I don’t think it’s a mean laugh. “Mia,” he says. “That’s nothing to be sorry for.”

  “I’m not. I mean, it’s just…that was a lot to take in. You could have warned me.”

  “I wanted to get an honest reaction out of you,” he says. “Sometimes in reporting, you walk into situations you aren’t prepared for. But you shouldn’t give that away. You should always at least act like you’re prepared.”