Shades Of Obsession

by JR King

  Shortly after I drove back to Weston.

  I unbuttoned and removed my single-breasted jacket, and concentrated on the monitors mounted on the wall before me. From multiple, well-placed cameras, I watched Elena moving about earlier in the day. Kneeling down on the bluestone coping of the indoor pool, her hand first dipped then thrashed in the water on one occasion. She tipped her head back and let out a strangled cry of frustration, her back torquing back and forth. On another occasion, lips slicked with pinkish gloss, she pouted at the camera in her suite. I wanted to see the pink stain of her lipstick ringing my cock. I didn’t know how to approach her. How should one take things slow?

  Short-lived rumination, a knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts. With a click of the remote control, the screens turned from monitoring my pending acquisition to the closing stock market reviews of publicly traded companies and their plethora of subsidiaries. Then I depressed the button on the side of the doorframe.

  As Jillian came in, my fingers curled into my palms.

  “She was asking about you.”

  A grin broke through my cold façade. “What exactly?”

  “Banalities. She’s grasping at straws for interaction. Tenacious girl, I got through the questions by the skin of my teeth. What bothers me more is that she didn’t finish her lunch. Speak some sense into her.”

  Jillian left.

  Parsing what she’d told me, a tight ball of nerves bunched up inside me. Regardless of Elena’s curiosity, I’d kept my expectations low. Mutual attraction or not, if I lowered my expectations there was less chance I’d be disappointed and less chance she’d get pushed into something she was neither interested in nor ready for.

  I pressed both hands at the back of my neck and closed my eyes. No two women’s presence were ever the same, and Elena, she was something else that currently overwhelmed me. Even if there was a chalky possibility of rejection, I made up my mind with exceptional clarity that only settled in me once in a blue moon. Carina was out of the picture, so it was time to acquaint Elena with a very private part of my mansion. I knew from experience that uncomplicated, unconflicted persons with little to no emotional baggage never understand the appeal of BDSM. Sex, homosexuality, sadomasochism; all these things were here thousands of years before I existed, and they will be here for thousands of years after I am gone, so let’s not get into that debate. Dominant sexual play soaked my mind in a high I’d never experienced, no pill or drug had ever produced anything close to it. If only I could bottle that pure, natural buzz of adrenaline. To make Elena comprehend where these types of desires came from and the different kinds of needs they fulfilled meant baring my soul to her.

  Ready, set, go.

  As for you, gentle one, jump the gun or freeze the book for good.

  Elena Anderson

  The Playroom Potential

  The suite was majestic, sumptuous, and warm. Then again, no amount of rich finishings or priceless marble could make up for the fact that it was a massive prison. There was a balcony that ran along the front with French doors that led out from the common area onto it. CCTV cameras, wrought iron chairs, a round table, and wicker chaises were littered about.

  I gathered my wits. My mouth twitched into a smile as I let the sheet fall from my body. I strode to a set of doors on the opposite side of the room and pushed them open to reveal the en-suite bathroom. If Alexander expected me to shy away from his Big Brother penchant, he was sadly mistaken. Fantastic layout of amenities, the room looked even better in daylight. An enormous Jacuzzi was centered and had a big skylight above it—the steps that led into it were on the left side—and a commodious walk-in shower with a raindrop ceiling dominated the back end of the room. It was lined with a limestone bench and the walls were fitted out with massage panels. The his and hers sinks were on opposed walls across the room, the alcoves beside them harbored about ten sizes of folded towels. A wide array of beauty products filled cabinets with magnetic latch, and scented oils and round soaps were laid out in perfect order beside the Jacuzzi. Silver toiletry bottles—each one of a different size—had Molton Brown written on them.

  I returned to the bedroom and opened the other set of doors on the same wall. A palatial dressing room, worthy of a Vogue closet no less, colorful like birds of paradise. Alexander had brought me clothes on Sunday, so I hadn’t explored it yet. I read a few of the labels: Altuzarra, Balenciaga, Céline, Dries van Noten, Jean-Louis Scherrer, Jil Sander, Roland Mouret, Stéphane Rolland. Makeup, clothes, shoes, bags, jewelry, there were fashion goods to the point of infinity, all in my size.

  How does one pull this together in two weeks?

  The shower did me good. As the water cascaded over my body, I tried my hardest to think of anything but him. I couldn’t help but recall his kisses, his soft lips…his greedy tongue. Once I was properly soaked, I soaped every inch. I spent extra time on my breasts, and shook my head in disbelief as I realized I was rubbing my nipples, imagining Alexander’s hands on my chest. With trepidation, I moved my hand between my legs, finding my flesh swollen and oversensitive. It wasn’t because of the shower water.

  I’m another Patty Hearst.

  I rinsed off, toweled dry, and rubbed in essential oil. I inspected my skin, the merest blemish required attention.

  When Sara called me I let it go to voicemail. Having listened to her message, I called her back and chatted without putting myself in jeopardy. Michael told her he was seeing some girl, so they were on a break.

  My day was endless. I kept glancing at the vintage oval clock, taking stock of my new living arrangement. Admired both the looks and the smells of the Baccarat trio: Les Contes d’Ailleurs. Late afternoon, I decided on a down-at-heel look. I tossed on a cap-sleeve dress made of muslin fabric. Laughable, really, I was spiffed up in Christian Dior. I ran a comb from crown to end and opted to keep my hair loose. The Patek Philippe watch I fastened around my wrist had a rose gold bracelet band, the rim around the face decorated with filigree enamel and studded with hundreds of diamonds.

  I quivered like tuning forks when I narrowed my eyes into slits and used a trowel to reapply some pewter eyeshadow. He’d kissed me goodbye after breakfast murmuring, “6 PM, baby. Be ready, we’ll talk then.” I swiped a brush with coral gloss at my lips, and watched the vanity kit find refuge into the debris of luxury brand skincare and makeup inside a drawer. Bent at the waist, I flipped my head down, jackknifing five times to volumize my hair, fussing with it. Save for the obscene Tiffany baguette stud earrings dangling from my ears, I looked respectable.

  The sound of a door clicking into place stiffened me. It wasn’t a long time before I heard footsteps moseying toward the dressing room. Terrified as I was, I was determined not to let it show, and yet despite my conviction I reflexively shot up and backed against the wall at the sharp sound of footsteps outside. I recognized the solidified footfalls. I tried to control my breathing, measuring it to the steps.

  “Elena?” Alexander was standing in the doorway, about five feet from me, staring right into my eyes with those grey eyes that felt like quicksand. My heart pounded as I tried to read his expression. Tried to weigh if I was in trouble. He just stood there at the door, his gaze running over every inch of me before stopping at the bruise on my lip. “Good evening, Elena.”

  I had butterflies in the low of my belly as soon as I’d seen him, but I had to act cross, and so I copped an attitude and took a few steps forward. I wasn’t going to face him like a cornered animal. “Good evening, Alexander.” I lifted my chin and stared back at him.

  “How are you?”

  For some disturbing reason, I licked my lips. Definitely the wrong thing to do, I mused, as his eyes followed my tongue’s movement. Dr. Paul Weston would definitely have a field day treating me. I knew I’d started flushing under his lustful gaze. “I’m fine. And how are you?”

  “A supermarket chain outraised our position on the list.” His nose flared, as if he smelled something unpleasant. “Fucking consumer turnouts. We
’ll be back among the ranks of the top ten largest American companies by next week.” He watched me without saying anything else, as if considering what to do next. Did my outfit displease him? Offering me a weak smile, he seemed to make up his mind about something. “What would you like to do this evening?”

  The unexpected change of subject caught me by surprise. I’d heard rumors about his no-nonsense style. Unassuming. Gorgeous. Constantly evaluating people, this man had no time for niceties. If he were interested in something or someone, he didn’t play games. Because I was sure I could beat him at his own game, I decided to play.

  I smiled at him and said, almost gently, “Anything you’d like.”

  “Playing games with me, Elena? Are you sure you want to go down that road?”

  Dismay turned into resentment. Despite his kind allure, I sensed an impossibly powerful brutality lurking beneath the façade, something I instinctively knew I had to evade. Two can’t play at that game, I concluded, the adage was plain wrong.

  “Silence? You’re on fire, babe.” He was looking sardonically at me.

  My blood turned to ice. Trying to distract him, I licked my lips and took a deep breath to steady myself. “I’m not good at playing games.” I shrugged with the most mucilaginous smile ever smiled by a human. “Except for WoW. I rule in both PvE and PvP. I’ve got unattainable arena scores, really.” There, he looked like a little lost lamb. “It’s and MMORPG game,” I rushed on, stockpiling delicious disorientation in front of me.

  “You still haven’t told me what you’d like to do this evening.”

  I raised my shoulders.

  For a minute we stayed like that, lost to the abyss that seemed to yawn between us. Then his mouth curved slightly and holding my gaze, he lifted his eyebrows and pointed to the floor at his feet. “Come here.”

  Indignation boiled inside of me, steam coming out of my ears.

  “I won’t repeat myself.”

  I had to keep it together or I had no chance against him. “I thought we talked about this, Alexander. We were going to take it slow and treat each other with respect.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  I personified patience, biting back a barrage of curses as I took a breath and held my ground. “Changed your mind?”

  “I have needs.” His breath came quicker, lips parted between words. “Dire needs.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “With pleasure.” He took a step forward.

  I knew he wasn’t going anywhere, so I waited.

  He took another step, and then another one. He seemed in no hurry. My skin felt like it might erupt in fury. Or fear. Or anticipation. And then he was in front me. He clasped my neck and my wrists painfully, and murmured, “Elena,” as much in warning as in greeting. The grip on the back of my neck tightened, pinning me in place, and the hand that so easily kept my wrists immobile at the small of my back did the same. “Don’t play with fire.”

  I looked into his eyes and said, “Alexander,” with all the confidence I could muster. His lip quirked up and I took the opportunity to assert, “Perhaps this was a misunderstanding. I simply spent the weekend here. I won’t go to the authorities.”

  “Law enforcement doesn’t impress me. Never has.” He un-muzzled me and stepped back calmly. The knot in my throat grew larger as he spoke. “And there’s no misunderstanding between us, Ariel.” He smiled again and made sure I was looking at him. “What I say goes. I’ll take it slow, but steady. Things will change.”

  “You promised I could see my family and go back to work in a month. You promised to give me back my freedom, you jerkface!”

  “That still stands.”

  I swallowed involuntarily. “Oh.”

  “Oh,” he echoed through a mock whisper.

  It took me a beat to ask: “Is it sex?”

  “Nope.”

  I swallowed again. “Then what?”

  His jawline grazed against my cheek and I felt raw heat whisper against my ear, “Play.”

  I laughed, relieved. “Raids? Rape the Horde? Welcome to the team. Or whatever else you fancy. I’m in.”

  “Don’t be so quick to say yes.” Something akin to amusement played around the corners of his mouth, but what stuck with me was the dark sparkle in his eyes. Like a part of him was enjoying the moment, another part dreading it. “Follow me. I’ll show you what I mean.”

  I followed him, on feet that felt very heavy. I had no clue what to expect. We walked down the hallway, and just when I thought he was going to show me his bedroom, he led me into another corridor. He unlocked the mahogany door at the end of it by pressing the tip of his forefinger against a stainless steel touch panel. Reminiscent of a shot heard ‘round the world, the door swayed open.

  Merde alors. In a single note of breath, my jaw snapped shut. To be honest, I half-expected an all-encompassing gun safe, or Nazi memorabilia, or antique board games acquired at Sotheby’s auctions—we’d have to put on white gloves to play. Meanwhile, another part of me expected a harem full of houri girls. A small part of me even considered the gay angle. What I wasn’t expecting, at all, was Marquis de Sade’s ingenious wet dream frightening the hell out of me. Or, better said, scaring the living shit out of me.

  That’s pretty much it. A chandelier, dripping with crystal, lit up above us, causing my eyes to strain. The room even had that peculiar French lavender smell. With a buzzing akin to a beehive in my eardrums, I took a couple of unsteady steps into it. I expected the door to slam shut like in a poxy horror movie, trapping me in this disturbing space with the proof that Alexander truly was a psychopath. On the other hand, this wasn’t the worst that could happen. He wasn’t a cult worshipper who sacrificed animals, he didn’t sedate people so he could drain their blood and drink it, he wasn’t a Hannibal Lecter wannabe; the list could go on forever. He just enjoyed horrific sexual practices, namely, torturing his lovers.

  Yep, it could be worse.

  I reckoned that for this type of room, the blaring absence of personal photographs and family portraits was requisite. The playroom was dark red, like an aged red wine or drying blood of victims, I couldn’t make up my mind. Made me dizzy, my vision swam a little, and my knees felt like wet sand. Heavy red velvet curtains were the first thing I noticed, more yellow light was cast from the cornices of the room, and lit ornate sconces added a sultry effect. In another type of room, the effect would most certainly appear warm and comforting, particularly combined with the overwhelming scent of polished wood and old, treated leather. It would make a fantastic library, or a study, the signature oxblood leather only accounted for that. Apparently, rich people got bored with just about anything, because it was neither a library nor a study.

  I wasn’t clueless. Dazed, petrified—a bundle of unencapsulated emotions—would be more like it. I’d vaguely heard references to this kind of practice in noir movies, a few oblique descriptions in James Patterson thrillers, but namely crime investigation serials, you know, the kind where things go haywire and someone always turns up dead. Dried blood everywhere, and CSIs have to scratch wooden surfaces and use blacklight to expose seminal fluids. So yeah, I knew what this room was for. I knew the names. There was a large St. Andrew’s cross on the longest wall, with leather cuffs hanging from its points, blacks and grays. Right above it, shackles and chains hung from a complex iron grid on the ceiling, and mahogany racks on the walls showcased paddles, whips, crops, floggers, canes, cat o’ nine tails, and other implements I didn’t want to know about. Seriously, what the hell was a Wartenberg pinwheel doing in here? I guessed elaborate torture. Christ, we could get terrorists to spill the beans just by showing them this room. Conversely, to redecorate Gitmo, I winningly concluded that Alexander Turner was the ideal hire.

  Looking at the neat rows of canes and riding crops, I realized the room could also serve as a fantastic commercial for James Smith & Sons; fine purveyors of umbrellas and Malacca walking canes. Oh, I wasn’t a connoisseur, I happened to have purchased an umbrella fo
r grandpa in one of London’s finest shops, a pleasant memory that just got butchered.

  A huge four-poster bed dominated the room and it had no bedding, just an oxblood colored leather sheet or a rubber sheet or colored plastic to protect from blood splatter, an overstuffed headboard, red suede mamasan cushions, and more, much more shackles. Not just E. Edward Grey, Dexter would enjoy bringing his victims here, the four-poster bed alone would appeal to his Dark Passenger. Everything but the kitchen sink to finish it: a sex swing, a mahogany coffee table, two tall chests of drawers, padded benches, chesterfield sofas in front of a fireplace—see, it could even be a fumoir, but no—stainless steel carabiners hung from the ceiling, and a massage table. The latter was the only thing I found useful, and the brocaded canopy of the bed was original, but the rest? In the aggregate, stick; beat dog with it, that’s what it looked like. Even without opening drawers, I could imagine the gaudily colored sex toys in them. I decided not to dwell on any of it. Logically in a month this could be over.

  Alexander stood by the chesterfield sofa facing the bed. “Say something, Elena.”

  Innocuous as it seemed, I wanted to say something cutting, hiss a landfill of insults—God knows there were enough accusations floating around in my head, but my brain was scattered all over the bloody chamber. Enjoying a playful spanking is one thing, but this? I wanted to storm out of the room to eschew its alien confines. In Épernon, Marquis de Sade was nonstop turning in his grave, for sure.

  Not gonna dwell. Like the itch of a yeast infection, this was one of these situations you had to ignore.