The Lingerie Shop

by Joey W. Hill

  “Yeah, but you keep more friends nursing it alone.” Not that she had a lot of those. She hadn’t left much in Boston, all in all. Three more failed relationships and a job she’d aced but that had been safe, not fulfilling.

  He squeezed her hand, as if sensing the additional punch she’d swung at her mood. “Just as an fyi, I’ve found a good spanking cures most pissy moods.”

  “I’ll find my paddle if you get pissy,” she said dryly.

  She was pretty sure her yeah right tone didn’t cover how her hand twitched in his at the provocative suggestion. The moment he said it, she saw him putting her over his knee and giving her a sound spanking for mouthing off in such a rude manner. She could even cast him in that photograph on her store wall, the severe Victorian gentleman, so proper and powerful. He’d walk with his wife in a landscaped park every evening, using his silver-handled walking cane with easy grace to clear any debris from her path, so she didn’t snag her skirt or soil her slippers. Yet when they got home, he’d yank down her perfectly arranged hair, spread and bind her to their bed. As she gasped under the demands of his hands, mouth, he’d drive away any inhibitions, all vestiges of propriety out the window as she begged him to take her, as he stroked her between her spread, bound thighs with the smooth head of that cane . . .

  Her free hand curled, finding dampness in the creases of her palm.

  “I’d give one of Troy’s testicles to know what’s going through your mind right now.”

  She snapped back out of it. Her other hand was tight on his. He was waiting on her, studying her face. It was as though she was stepping in and out of two different dimensions in his presence. He didn’t act as if there was anything strange about her pauses, her distraction, making it seem like he was right next to her on that journey.

  She rallied. “One of Troy’s testicles? Not your own?”

  “I have use for both of mine.”

  Before she could figure out how to reply to what couldn’t be anything less than a delicious threat, especially when he coupled it with a frank look at her flushed face and parted lips, he tugged her across his storeroom, taking her to a door on the far side with a key pad. As he punched in the code, she thought about the way their buildings looked from the street outside. “So the empty building on the other side of your store is yours?” she asked.

  “Not empty. Just not open to the public.”

  She recalled that building’s windows were papered with advertising for his store’s wares and others in the district, as well as flyers for community events. The mural of advertising would allow him to screen the potential eyesore of a woodworking shop, but when she stepped into the space, she saw there was a far more vital reason he preferred privacy for it.

  She thought she’d be safe looking at his creations. Sawdust, power tools, nice furniture. What she was looking at was a workshop for custom-made BDSM equipment. Her sister had probably brought him business, arranged orders for her own customers. The closest piece looked like a picnic table, only it was about half the traditional length and the space between the benches and table was too narrow to slide one’s legs between them. The benches were padded, as was the table itself, with beautifully tooled red upholstery secured with antique gold tacks. The wood was a dark cherry, polished and finished. The quality was excellent, the type that fetishists paid four figures to own.

  She thought of Logan’s hands, the calluses and rough palms, and knew where he’d acquired them.

  Her gaze moved to a St. Andrew’s Cross not yet stained, and the hand sander next to it that said it was still being prepped. No scratches from bound, straining hands yet. She tried to clear the thickness out of her throat. “Wouldn’t a power sander be faster?”

  “Electronics have their place.” Logan braced a hand on the door, hooking his thumb in his jeans pocket as he followed her gaze around the room. “They make things happen faster. But being in direct contact with the grain opens it up, lets the wood talk to you, tell you what it needs to become. Which is a lot like what happens to the people who use the finished product.”

  She folded her arms, a defensive movement. I can’t be here. I can’t. She was suddenly aware of how alone they were. When he touched her face, she jumped.

  “You keep looking at me like that,” he said quietly, “you’re going to make me think I should have made that spanking a promise instead of a tease.”

  Here he had his choice of equipment to make that happen. “Don’t,” she managed, and he took his hand away.

  Fortunately, he left her at the door, as if nothing unusual had happened. It gave her room to breathe, to steady herself. As he moved to the far side of the room, she saw a long wooden chest. It had carved feet, allowing a few inches of space beneath it. The piece was done in a golden pine, and the carved embellishments on it reminded her of the hinges she’d seen this morning, suggesting that was their intended place. As she drew closer she saw she was right, because he’d already screwed them in place.

  She really needed to get out of here. Instead she came to Logan’s side. He’d squatted next to the chest and unlatched the top. The front of the chest became two doors that folded back like wings along the short sides, with the help of the ornate hinges.

  “This piece is for Troy’s Mistress.”

  The chest walls were a facade for . . . a cage. A human-sized cage, if the human stayed on all fours or lay down. He or she could sit up, if the head stayed bowed.

  “She plans to put it at the foot of her bed,” Logan explained. “At the base corners are cutouts for air, so if she decides to close him in darkness, to punish or deny him the ability to see her changing clothes, she can.”

  She should act appalled, shocked, but his tone as he spoke of Troy and his Mistress, the way he passed his hand over the top with such pride in his handiwork, killed the impulse before it could form. Instead, she had an image of herself in the cage, Logan reclining in some manly chair, reading or watching cable. He’d have his ankles crossed and beer in hand while he glanced casually at her, watching her become more and more aroused, awaiting his pleasure.

  A weird flutter moved up to her throat.

  “Troy’s doing the sanding, the hardest work on a piece like this. Once it’s smooth enough, I’ll stain and finish it. It’s not ready for the hinges yet, or even the bars, but I put the pieces together tonight to make sure it’s coming together properly. And to impress you.” He gave her a disarming smile, so potent it had the opposite effect.

  “He’d sleep in a cage for her?” She was proud of her note of cynical incredulity, even if it wasn’t an accurate reflection of what was happening inside her. When Logan glanced up at her, she had a feeling he saw it, because his eyes did that delve-into-her-soul thing as he replied.

  “For some submissives, that total ownership is a deep craving. When she locks him into this cage, she’s underscoring he’s her possession. It gives him a sense of safety and reassurance as well.”

  “He doesn’t seem the timid sort.”

  Logan snorted. “Not in the least. Last year they were on a road trip and a couple of junkies tried to shake them down at a rest area. He jumped in front of her, fought both of them while she dialed 911 and grabbed her gun from the car. She shot one of them in the leg, the other in the stomach. Between Troy’s beating and that, the police pretty much only had to do cleanup. It scared her to death, though, the thought of losing him. That’s when I met them. She was punishing him at a public club session.”

  “Punishing him. For protecting her?”

  “For not protecting what was hers. Himself. The punishment wasn’t really a punishment, just a way for her to vent. But she branded him that night, made him hers permanently, which I think he considered the best of all outcomes. She really hadn’t committed to him before then. She’d treated their relationship as more of a temporary situation, denying her feelings.”

  So Troy had the toothpaste-in-the-sink relationship, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. But Madison already knew
it worked for some people. Just not her. She couldn’t figure out the right formula, the secret code to it all.

  She shook her head. “To most people, this isn’t a normal conversation. Not in the least.”

  “How about to you?”

  “You’re making assumptions about me.” She set her jaw. “I don’t know what Alice told you . . .”

  He didn’t say anything as she trailed off. When he rose, and she started to step back, he spoke the same word she had, with a very different meaning, his voice brusque, eyes direct. “Don’t.”

  She stilled, even though a quiver ran through her, telling her to run, run, run. But her mind was drowned out by emotions she couldn’t explain.

  “Better. You don’t need to run from me, Madison. Whatever Alice told me about you, it doesn’t change the fact you and I have just met, which means I’m learning everything about you from the source. You can be what you want with me, as long as you’re true to yourself.”

  Though he wasn’t touching her, less than a foot separated them and the impact of those words was more potent than a passionate kiss. She shifted her gaze to his chest. “It’s not normal,” she said.

  “Deep inside all of us are vulnerabilities,” Logan said, low. “Things we only reveal to the person capable of stripping us bare and yet cherishing the nakedness they find, not exploiting it. That’s a common thread beneath a lot of the Dominant and submission sexual fantasies people have, whether or not they’re actual Dominants or submissives.”

  She lifted her lashes, met his gaze, and earned a look of approval. “Good,” he said. “I like it when you look me in the eye.”

  “Is this how you teach people? As a training Master?”

  Despite her earlier aversion to the idea, she decided—with a spurt of bravado—maybe it was time to toughen up. He was practically giving her an engraved invitation to explore things with him, and he wouldn’t judge, right? It wouldn’t get personal. At least as far as he knew. It was always personal to her.

  He shrugged. “Depends on the person. I do one-on-ones, like with Troy, but I also do talks about BDSM to interested groups, and orientation for club newcomers. I’ve even addressed a group of erotic romance authors. They asked a lot of interesting questions.”

  “I’ll bet.” At her nervous chuckle, he smiled at her. His expression shifted then, becoming more practical.

  “Earlier today, you implied selling at Naughty Bits would be like selling cars or appliances. But you’re selling a fantasy, a wish, an emotion realized, a hope or a dream. So that makes a difference in how you sell it.” His gaze met hers. “Most importantly, you have to believe in what you’re selling.”

  “You don’t think I believe in it?” she asked, stiffening.

  His brown eyes kindled with . . . interest, challenge? “I think it’s hard to believe in it when you’ve dealt with men who’ve made you believe it’s a scam, not a fantasy. A fantasy connects to your reality in a way that gives the fantasy wings, but it always returns to your heart, to who you are. Madison.”

  The man could overcome a woman’s senses with nothing but words. The way he said her name, like punctuation at the end, made her want to hear him say it again. Each time he did, she’d be bound to him even further, as if he were a sorcerer.

  She’d tried to become a pragmatist, and in business, she’d succeeded. Most of the people who knew her in Boston would agree that was one of her strongest traits. But Alice had never bought it as more than a skin-deep act. You’re a romantic, MadGirl. Jesus, it’s obvious in every decision you’ve made. You can’t change who you are by putting on a different coat of paint. It’s always the same house beneath.

  He tilted his head toward the cage. “Would you like to try it out, see what it feels like?”

  “Sorry. I try not to let men I barely know lock me into cages. Especially in windowless rooms. Falls under the whole only if I’ve lost my freaking mind category.”

  He grinned at that. It helped dial back her discomfort, yet her gaze lingered on the cage. The hinges and carved embellishments gave a feminine touch to the piece, making it a proper fit for a woman’s bedroom, even though it was built to hold a strong, tall man like Troy.

  “I made one last year for a tester bed,” Logan said, leaning against the St. Andrew’s Cross. “Since the bed sits up so high, it was easy to build it to fit beneath. The customer had a live-in sub, but wanted a detachable cell wall that could be added to divide the cage in case she ever had a second, additional sub staying over. She could watch her pets play with each other through the bars, if she ordered them to do so. She called her subs her pets,” he added, as if she needed that clarification.

  What a Master could require two submissives to do to one another through those bars was whirling around in her head like leaves on a fall day. Encouraging her to jump into the raked piles. “What do you call your subs?” she asked with a note of desperation. “Pets? Slaves?”

  “Mine.” His attention slid over her face. “Though I have none right now. What would you want to be called, if you belonged to a Master?”

  “I wouldn’t . . .” She tried to scoff, cleared her throat instead. “I’ve never given it thought.”

  “But now you will. Let me know what you come up with.”

  She gave him a quelling glance, an attempt to convey that she had no interest in being part of such a conversation. “What’s the picnic bench?”

  He looked puzzled, then he followed her gesture toward it. “It’s a modified spanking bench. The sub lies down on her stomach on the platform and her legs are folded beneath her, shins resting on the side pieces. That one over in that opposite corner”—he nodded toward it—“is another version of it. It has two different levels, so the submissive can brace herself at different angles, depending on what the Dom desires.”

  She moved to touch the wood of the “picnic” bench, as well as the upholstery covering the side pieces. The wood felt like silk. “It’s beautiful work,” she allowed. “I’ve been in Boston furniture galleries where designer pieces aren’t as well made as this. It must take hours to sand properly.”

  “It does. But it’s a meditative process. You get into a rhythm and your mind goes into good places. You work out problems, come up with new ideas, defuse from a stressful day. I can show you the proper way to sand if you’d like to give it a try sometime.”

  “Does anyone actually fall for that? To help you get out of sanding?”

  He chuckled. “It’s the truth, but it does occasionally result in some help. I’m very particular about how it’s done, however. Troy’s gotten his knuckles rapped more than once.”

  And of course that converted Logan into a stern schoolteacher in her mind, the next page of the fantasy volume she was building around him. She tried to suppress the resulting ridiculous tingle at the base of her spine. Her praise had obviously pleased him, and that made their discussion feel less one-sided. She wasn’t totally a wide-eyed newbie. She was in control here.

  “What did you do before the hardware store?” she asked. She stepped away from the piece, winding her way through the different items with a flick of her glance here and there, neutral interest. It put space between the two of them.

  Logan let her get away with it, bracing his very fine ass on a sawhorse, crossing his arms. “I went into the Army from high school. I’ve done woodworking and construction all my life, so after my tour was up, I worked as a building inspector. Then I became a private contractor, building houses on a resort island. That’s where I pulled together the money for the hardware store. Once I had the hardware store up and running, I started this as a hobby.”

  He nodded to one of the pieces. “As to the quality of the furniture, it has to be well made. There’s risk involved in BDSM, so a good Dom’s top priority is safety. Making sure the equipment’s sound is a big part of that.”

  “Did Alice send you business from her customers?”

  “She did.” Logan gave her an even look. “But that’s not why I�
��m showing it to you.”

  “Though it’s a nice side benefit,” she pointed out. He didn’t smile, and she turned away to study the item in the last corner, not able to meet his penetrating gaze. She swallowed as he came up behind her, his fingers wrapping around her elbow again, only this time it wasn’t to guide her. Their bodies overlapped, his upper thigh brushing her buttock where he stood behind her and to her left. She didn’t pull away.

  When his other hand came to rest on her hip, her breath started shortening. He was about half a foot taller than her, so he bent his head, close enough she felt his breath pass over her temple. “What are you doing?”

  “Learning you. Watching you react. Watching the wheels spin in your fascinating mind. What do you think of this one?”

  It was a short-legged, three-foot-long rectangular bench, with two round cutouts a third of the way along the horizontal surface. Beneath the center of the bench was a crescent-shaped support piece.

  “The Master who wanted this specified the two round cut outs so when his slave is lying on her stomach on the bench, her breasts fit through the holes. It’s low enough to the ground, her knees and palms can reach the floor. She has pierced nipples, so he’ll run a chain between them so she’s bound to the bench. The crescent piece beneath is high enough he can also have her lie on the floor on her back, and he can position the arch of that piece over her throat, without it pressing on her windpipe. We’ve designed a track system so he can lock the bench to the floor of the playroom. She won’t be able to shift it or accidentally turn it over.”

  “Of course,” she said. When she swayed, his hand tightened on her hip. He continued as if he hadn’t noticed.

  “Anything involving the throat requires critical safety precautions. I made this stool capable of holding over three hundred pounds. But no matter what I do, he has to care for her as well. Locked beneath it, she has no way to protect her face, making her very vulnerable.”

  Madison had a wholly different view of that vulnerability. She visualized herself beneath that bench, staring up into Logan’s face, through his spread knees. He might blindfold her. Or perhaps he’d take his cock in hand and masturbate over her face until he came. The lock system would hold her there when he decided to get up, kneel between her legs, scoop up her hips and fuck her. Or eat her pussy. Or take her to climax over and over with a vibrator.