by JR King
Evidently he had no idea what Peter had done to me. I just stared into the uncharted depth of his gaze. The long silence seemed to stretch for an eternity.
“Have it your way,” he finished flatly. “Goodbye.” Spinning on his heels, he stormed out of the room.
All sorts of feelings converged inside me, birthing a cacophony of sounds. I gritted my teeth until my jaw started to hurt and eventually drifted off to sleep.
When my eyes somehow opened again, it was dark outside. I inched as silently as possible to the doorframe and turned the gold knob. It gave in, and I slowly swung the door open, poking my head out into the hallway. The air in it felt heavy with the promise of reconciliation, making me cross the threshold.
Downstairs, Jillian announced that Alexander had left on a short business trip to Paris for in situ signings. Reality is a fickle bitch, the news drowned out my happiness. I’d fucked up. You only get one chance to make it work with the country’s hottest bachelor, and I’d blown mine.
Tears swam in my eyes. I staggered into his bedroom, which did nothing to soothe my mind. The en-suite bathroom was still warm and nebulized with steam from his shower, the air smelling like him and the intoxicating scent of body wash. Silly, I twisted open the cap of the Bleu de Chanel shower gel and inhaled deeply. It smelled of the sea, the same smell that permeated the whole room. The aroma woke my senses as though I was trained to recognize the fragrance as belonging to my master. Carelessly placed, a cologne bottle on the countertop caught my eye. The end of the mystery; Houbigant’s Fougère Royale. I sprayed a little in the air. Inescapable, this leathery, sweet-and-bitter oak moss aroma, an expensive scent that made me think of yachts and private jets and cigars. Just like a noxious fume, it was harmful.
I activated the louver vent, turned on the taps to fill the Jacuzzi, and added blue crystals to the bath. While it was filling, I went downstairs and poured myself a glass of rosé champagne. If life gives you lemons, squirt them and make lemonade. This is the life, fuck it, I brought the bottle upstairs with me to toast my poor fate.
I disrobed and stepped into the water slowly, ladylike, gasping as the warm water enveloped my limbs. I stretched myself and paddled a little. Taking little sips of the expensive liquid, I sighed as the alcohol settled in my stomach, warming me from the inside out. Dulling the edge. I was liberal with my use of creams and oils, and, when I finally emerged from the water, my skin and hair were perfumed with the scents of imported sandalwood and lavender; Parisian.
There was a beep of an incoming text message. Given whom I was thinking about, it wasn’t a surprise that my hands terribly shook as reached for my iPhone. My fingers clawed nervously at the hem of my bathrobe as I forced myself to read.
Elena, my sweetheart. I’m not a man who apologizes very often, particularly not for dealings with exes—but I shouldn’t have threatened to lock your room.
I like exercising absolute control over every aspect of a romantic relationship. Do you get that? I micromanage. I make every decision. What you wear, who you talk to, when we eat, where we eat, what we eat, how we go, how we get back, if we have sex, if we don’t, what type of sex, how we have it. I’m a controlling bastard and that won’t change, but I’m smart enough to comprehend the art of compromise, its spirit, and how to master it.
Baby, I’m giving you the option; would you like to see me tomorrow? I could attend a business conference on leadership that’s being held in Paris this week, that is, if you need time without me.
I stared at his message for several minutes, reading and rereading it.
I was furious. How dare he think it was this simple? That he could just go away and make it all better?
I hated him.
I loathed him.
No those weren’t the right words; I wanted him.
I was good at picking my own battles, but after all, there was the possibility, however faint, of forgiveness and gathering all the shattered pieces.
There’s more than one way to skin a cat. Reward and punishment and I’m no one’s patsy, I wrote back. I refused to be a doormat, so I made it clear that the what you wear, who you talk to, when we eat, where we eat, what we eat, how we go, how we get back, if we have sex, if we don’t, what type of sex, how we have it part was out of the question. I sat on his bed. After what felt like an eternity, the door cracked open and Jillian announced that dinner would be served in the downstairs dining room. With monsieur gone, it appeared I was queen of the castle.
Elena Anderson
The Second Week
In the days that followed, I became increasingly resigned to my fate. This was real. I was cut off from Boston and utterly powerless to change it. An email exchange with Frederic confirmed that I was officially on leave from work, backup and all. Career breaks and burnouts weren’t that uncommon for graduates, so it was granted without due process. I was sequestered in a palace that belonged to one of the richest, scariest men alive, one room designed for specific torture sessions of hapless young women. You see, in most movies, the heroine would poke her head over a windowsill to get a better glimpse of what was going out outside, before rappelling down with the precious grace of Lara Croft. My arsenal of options was quite limited. I divined that Diane Knight had used this place to train for her last movie in which she brings down a drug cartel, escaping the lair and burning it down. She deserved that award.
It was four days later, and Alexander was still attending the conference on leadership. Military-grade staff waited on me hand and foot. I didn’t see much of Jillian either. We smiled when we passed one another in whichever part of the house, and occasionally we chitchatted about the weather and such, nothing more. She was always immaculately—if somewhat conservatively—attired in Prada, and kept her natural blonde hair in a neat chignon that curled inward. A gold band and diamond solitaire ring glittered on the fourth finger of her left hand. I liked her cooking and when I complimented her, she shared with me that she had certificates from Le Cordon Bleu College of Culinary Arts.
There was a small, artificial lake at the back of the property, frozen enough to ski on. Under different circumstances, I would have called it magical. Growing weary of the ass-freezing cold and the sight of snow, I wished it were summer. Exactly like the private terraces at Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc, there were outdoor oval Jacuzzis fitted in wooden decks, surrounded by comfortable lounge chairs. Even without the sprinkling of the Mediterranean Sea, I was in love.
My days consisted of swims, reading and research, long walks, and even longer raids. Mornings I went back to bed after being out for an early walk. I also discovered a fuck ton of bat-shit crazy Gor novels online with bat-shittier crazy rules and the bat-shittiest way of life, and when I numbly texted Alexander, he replied:
I don’t subscribe to Gorean ways. A doormat whose actions lay vulnerable to my whims? A submissive whose brain functions like a lava lamp? A New World Order? I can’t be fucked to deal with any of this. Please, for the universe’s sake, research the philosophy before you waste my time with unintelligent questions, pet. I’ll mansplain it to you. I’m a Catholic—Roman, not a goddamn Scientologist! Sex and religion come together FOR ME, why else would my playroom be colored liquid red? Blood and liquid sex, Elena, a decorator’s quirk it isn’t.
And, because of your stupidity, I now must go back into that cold, purgatoryesque conference room while I’d much rather rest my head between your creamy thighs and nibble on that soft patch of skin that links the inner thigh and your sex. Do you know how warm and soft this particular area feels like? Do you know how pillowy it feels when you nip it?
I suppose you don’t.
Mean and arrogant bastard. I wanted to crucify him! If only there were a safe way of doing this without killing the intended victim. That fate seemed too easy. I needed something far worse than death. I took a modicum of comfort in that fact that he’d responded.
Late Thursday night, the distant sound of Beethoven’s Moonlight sonata crept up from below. Walking down the
corridor, I reached the staircase that serpentined its way to the lower floor. I deliberated, this was unusual, and before succumbing to the span, my hands fumbled with the wrought iron banister. Was he back? Go. I descended the stairs, trailing my fingertips along the frame of the railing.
“Why, hello there. What took you so long, sweetheart?”
I gripped the railing, hands white-knuckled as I took the last steps all the way down to the floor, one quiet step at a time. This elegantly curved staircase led to a palatial double-parlor living room with soaring ceilings, and had a marble fireplace and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the home’s private garden. Classic like in movies, my kidnapper looked uber-hot and annoyingly cultured, his detached gaze roaming over me. Indeed, manipulators are extremely smart because they are very self-engaging and acuminate perfectionism and wisdom.
“Good evening, Elena.” He was looking at me, intimidatingly so.
“Hi,” I mumbled, my voice shaking, like I was afraid to talk. I cleared my throat. “Good evening, Alex.” I gave him a wide berth, as if he were a murky puddle.
When he tapped his hand against the sofa’s back, I saw the sinewy muscles of his forearm bulge. “Come here.” His voice unfairly sexual, he patted his lap but I didn’t budge. “Don’t disobey me.” He rocked a country club look, and through his linen pants I could see the outline of his privates.
For no reason identified, I took a deep, focused, cleansing breath. No, it was fearsomeness. I slowly scampered over to him and lowered myself onto his lap, much too aware that I was wearing a string panty beneath my dress.
“Miss me, baby girl?” he breathed. Brushing the hair off the nape of my neck, his lips ghosted past my ear. I could feel his heart beating on my clothed back. How could I fight a man like him? He turned my face sidewise, his lips on me, caressing my temple with blossom soft kisses. “I’ve fucking missed you.” A speck of arousal softened his eyes as I tried to wriggle off him, but he firmly kept his hold on my waist.
I shifted in agitation, my nervousness increasing. Through with games, I rested my elbow on his shoulder and cradled my forehead. “Why didn’t you call me?”
His chest tightened, and he inhaled raggedly. “I was angry.” I wondered if it was a display of affection when he leaned down to kiss my forehead. Tilting his head, he looked down at the face of his watch then glanced up at me. Firmly he said, “I’m going to have a glass of Pouilly Fumé, if you’d care to join me, please.”
I lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Do I have a choice?”
His eyes widened, a bark of laughter escaping him. “Do you want one?” he asked suspiciously. His amused, twinkling eyes looked straight at me, his expression poised, his lips seemingly tickled by a private joke. “I think not.”
I shrugged, and then smiled at him. It was hard not to. “Presumptuous, aren’t you?”
“My Elena, are you done punishing me?” His chuckle was silent but vibrated his body.
Hearing my name possessively on his lips sent a shiver running down my back. I didn’t contradict him. In sullen silence he led me. I caught a glimpse of myself in a faraway ornamental mirror, surprising myself with how healthy I looked. Was it because of Alexander? My skin seemed whiter because of the excessive spotlights, but my hair looked okay. Dark and thick and glossy.
I exhaled harshly and got a grip on myself. Crossing my fingers, I plunked myself down to take the load off my feet. I took in the setting of the fumoir. Mammoth five wick pillar candles were lit around us, the electric fireplace was turned on, and Alexander had put on what seemed to be a concerto. There were two bottles of white wine on the coffee table, the first being an off-the-wall Sémillon, whereas the second one was a trendier brand.
Alexander’s jagged presence was eating away at my nerves. He made no toast and said nothing. With eyes closed and feet crossed at the ankles and propped on the coffee table, he looked as arrogant as you please. The table was one of these huge dark wooden tables with two flat surfaces of different height. Its left side was lower and had drawers, the tallest side had shelves, a silver peacock statue in a tulle nest placed in the middle of the lower side.
I began, “Given your last text, I’ve been wondering. Are you religious?”
Cracking his eyes open, “Not in the strictest sense,” came his tepid response, his countenance offering no further explanation. Wholly unsatisfied, I watched him until he continued. “I’d much rather relegate religion in favor of philosophy. Hymn Nietzsche, even.”
I nodded knowingly. “God is dead.”
“I do like religious symbolism, but like Nietzsche conjectured, we killed God and in killing him resigned ourselves to chaos and decline. Now we have pedestrian social systems and Gods, and we make our own rules.”
“Alex, not everything in the universe is subjective. There are ancient laws and absolutes, science for one can contest to that.”
He smiled with much self-assurance. “Exactly my point. Constructs like that are man-made, Elena. Religion employs a concrete formula to instigate control among the masses, maintain a prescription to draw energy in the form of devotion, and offer a credible methodology for hope. Remember the Ori in Stargate SG-1?”
“I’m not prepared for this debate. I see your point, though, the Ori are a fine example. By then it should have been a spinoff.”
“They wouldn’t have made the Guinness World Records.”
“Smallville might beat them. Tell me, who or what is your God?”
He chuckled lowly. “Power, sweetheart. My family bows to power and banks on loyalty, arrogating to itself the power to create and control.”
“The Catholic Church…I see.” The evident realization silenced any further inquiry.
I watched him—the calm set of his features—poised and undeterred as ever. “So you see, baby girl, I’m religious in a sense.” He rose to his feet, three quick strides, and he joined me on the three-seater sofa, looming over me. “That a problem?” he asked, his huge palm curving around my jaw.
“It makes you more interesting and attractive. If that’s even possible.” This came with an eye roll.
While I worried about the amount of alcohol I was consuming, he restrained my arms and tugged me closer to kiss me. It was sweet, loaded with that bizarre chemistry that always crackled between us.
He paused to ask, “Playroom or bedroom?” I tore myself away, wide-eyed, and watched him pant, his eyes dark as jet, heavy with lust. “Choose, Elena.” I felt his hands tightening on my wrists, almost cutting off my circulation. “Can’t be one step forward, three steps back, tonight.”
“Promises, promises,” I brought about my small voice, trying to look as brave as possible. “If these are my only choices, I’ll let you make the decision.”
“Choose between the red pill and the blue pill. I can’t make that decision for you, the rabbit hole is fucking deep.”
The authoritative bite with which he gave me the choice had my toes flexing. “I would say red, but fuck my choice. You choose.”
He laughed openly, which was aggravating because it was a big deal to let him choose for me. “Tell me, if you had to choose between going home, playroom, bedroom?”
He was offering me an out here; I could make it up to him and collect a reward if I passed his test. I looked at him flatly. “I want you, even if it’s just for one night.”
He wound my hair around his hand and drew me closer. “Not just for one night. You really want me to choose?”
“Doesn’t matter if it’s your bedroom or Sade’s wet dream—,”
“Sade’s what?”
As uncomfortable as it was with my head held captive, I tipped the last of my drink into my mouth and swallowed it down. Licking the residue from my lower lip, I looked straight at him. “Your playroom is a conformed copy of Marquis de Sade’s wet dream.”
“Checkmate.” Chuckling, he took me to his bedroom.
His choice didn’t sit well with me. Don’t be so quick to think it was the better room, a roma
ntic, vanillaish space. No foreplay, he started by giving me a meaningful smile and then reached for the fly of his trousers, unfastened the button and lowered the zipper. He pulled out his cock, stroking it to hardness with firm pulls. “You owe me this. Lick it.” Tilting my chin up with his free hand, he did caress my cheek.
My hand flew to my mouth. Just like that Sunday morning, it looked hard enough to hurt and large enough to worry me a lot. “Ugh.” I wasn’t sure if I was saying no to his answer or to him. “I can’t do what you will ask me to do…well.”
He wagged his finger at me, his eyes glittering darkly. “Don’t play coy, Elena. You’ve given head before.”
I sucked at blowjobs, pun intended. I knew I wouldn’t be able to pleasure him, but what’s more, I disliked the idea of a monstrous penis entering my mouth. I couldn’t conceive of the scale of pain that would ensue, and to my knowledge, it was a demeaning task and not worth scoring a sore throat.
Funny, because Alexander didn’t give me time to worry about it. He tipped my face up and pinched my nose, and the next thing I knew he was in my mouth. Predictably, I choked, and he pulled out.
“Open your mouth wider. It’ll be easier with practice.” I tried to get up, but his hands had gripped my hair on each side of my head, forcing me to stay on my knees. “Don’t let me pinch your nose again.”
I looked up at him. His heavy-lidded eyes were half-shut, his breathing rapid. Taking a deep breath, I gripped the base and wrapped my lips around the shaft. After a few licks, I noticed that a large pearl of pre-come had formed and I tentatively licked it off. Carefully covering my teeth, I began bobbing my head up and down, and felt his cock grow more rigid. Maybe oral sex wasn’t so difficult after all, I mused as I paused to give the head several long licks. This scene wasn’t Lifetime, it was Penthouse and Playboy and Hustler altogether. Let me be frank, I would have laughed inanely if my mouth weren’t so full of…cock.
