by Alex Elliott
“What time?” she asks, biting the tip of her pen as she focuses on her computer screen.
“Around eight. Are you hungry? I’m going to make dinner.”
She glances up at me and this time her focus isn’t confrontational. “Yeah. Starved.”
“Then keep studying and I’ll make you something yummy. Chicken marsala sound inviting?”
“With garlic mashed potatoes?” She flashes me a grin. “Pretty paleezeee.”
“We can do that.” I return her smile and kick off my shoes. Going into the kitchen, I remove my jacket, and put on the apron I bought that hangs on the peg behind the pantry door. Gathering the ingredients, I unwrap and wash the chicken breasts. Pound them. Dredge them in herbs, olive oil, and a little bit of flour before I sauté the cutlets with fresh garlic, mushrooms and Marsala wine. I walk by the doorway and Brooke’s got her nose in a thick book, intensely focused—but then she stops reading, and begins hammering on her keyboard.
Actually she seems to be gearing up for class in a way I’ve never seen her embrace. We went to B.C. together, and while I studied like a fruit loop, she partied hard.
When our dinner is ready, I serve and set heated plates on the breakfast bar, calling her over. “Time to eat!”
I stall with a bottle of Chardonnay in my hand, then put the wine back in the cooler, opting for mineral water and ice. While we eat, and she shares that the flowers are from a director who she says—before I ask—isn’t involved in her current ‘predicament’ as she’s begun to refer to her being pregnant. She asks about my work and I fill her in on my rung jumping.
“So now instead of being Stone’s intern, you’re his press secretary? Who’d you have to threaten to get that position?” She takes a bite of chicken, waiting on my response.
“Junior press secretary,” I correct her. “And it’s only a temp position for the summer. His regular communications person is on maternity leave and a handful of his staff are on vacation.” I cringe after the word ‘maternity’ slips from my mouth.
“You never know,” she replies unfazed, cutting a slice from her chicken. Popping it into her mouth, she chews thoughtfully. When she bangs her hand on the counter, I jump.
“Are you okay?” I mumble around a mouthful of food.
She grabs my arm. “Do you remember that night we were at my uncle’s club in Manhattan? The night Clooney was there?”
I finish chewing my food, and slowly wipe my mouth with my napkin—and try not to stare at Brooke like her hair is on fire. “Yep. What a night.”
“Senator Stone was there. I saw him.” She trains her eyes on me, and her gaze burns into my brain.
Don’t look away! “Why didn’t you say something...be-e-fore now?” I stammer out.
“I didn’t put two and two together. Shit, I’m not political and he’s the senator for Georgia. I barely know who’s representing my own home state. But when you mentioned you were working for him and Jon told me what a knockout he is, I looked him up.”
“Oh dear God! I can’t believe you cyberstalked him.”
“Hey. I was bored. And yeah, he’s worth the search. Is he a prick or a sweetheart to work for?”
“What do you think?” I’m trying to buy time in which to formulate a half-believable reply. What is Bennett to me? Both. Neither. I don’t know how to qualify what I feel and after the interview today, it’s become apparent, simple terms aren’t adequate to define us.
“A guy like him...he looks demanding,” she muses.
“He’s a kaleidoscope of characteristics. I guess it depends,” I say as my voice trails off.
“On what?” she asks.
I glance over and she’s eyeing me. “Uh...it depends on his agenda and speaking points. Does it matter? He’s hardly in his office. But his staff...they’re all fun and kinda kooky.”
“Says a lot about the person who employees them.” With that she laughs and gets up. “Want seconds?”
* * *
BROOKE PASSED by my door an hour ago and announced she’s definitely going to trounce the test tomorrow. On her quest for the perfect grade, tonight she’s hitting the stacks over at the law library. Sinking onto the edge of my bed, I slip on my heels and my cell chirps. I pick it up and there’s an email alert for a message from Bennett. I click it open.
From: Bennett A. Stone
To: X.s.Kennedy
Little sub,
Attached you’ll find my instructions for tonight.
Read and follow each of my directives. They’re not hard...if you don’t argue.
I’m prepared to be reward you for your efforts. Or show you what it means to thwart my authority.
Ultimately, you have the power to decide how our evening unfolds.
Ben
Crap. My cheeks flush hot, opening the attachment. I feel my eyes widen, reading the instructions he’s provided.
“What’s going on?” Brooke asks. “I’m about to shower and after, I’m taking off for the library.”
I bolt up from the bed, closing the scathing to-do list from my senator Dom. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you?”
Her eyes drop to the floor. “No. I want you to go to your meeting, Ms. Press Secretary. Fuck, you look hot.”
“Are my shoes over the top for the Capitol?”
“Yeah, and it’s about time! I fully plan on wearing clothing that will drive the judge, the jury, and the opposing counsel bat shit crazy.”
“Well, I guess that answers my question.”
“Go get ‘em is what I say.” She hollers a victory call.
“See you later.” I hug her then watch from my doorway as she goes to her room to change.
My pulse ramps up and I barrel through the drill of arranging my hair and pulling on my submissive wig. I pick up my overnight bag, tiptoe to my doorway, and peek down the hall. Holding onto the frame, I listen and hear the shower running. With an exhalation of relief, I saunter out from my room and, out the front door.
It’s a short ride and I have little time to get lost in fantasyland. I study the list of instructions on my cell. Apparently, I have sub duties that are to be followed to the letter. A step-by-step set of directions. I reread Bennett’s instructions, detailing how I’m to dress, enter the room, remove my clothing, position my body, and greet him. Paying the driver, I tremble extending the cash onto his hand.
I enter the Franklin hotel with the magnetic key and nod to the doorman. As I cross the lobby, I smooth the bangs from my Cleopatra-styled wig sticking to my forehead as perspiration dots my skin. Entering the hotel suite, I find another single red rose, another bottle of Cristal, and a note. I lift the envelope and remove the card composed of heavy linen stock. The message reads: Change into the outfit you’ll find in the bag.
Then farther down:
Because, it pleases me.
There’s a glossy shopping bag. Black with a red bow. How’d he know I’d question him? Uh, because I do.
I spread apart the tissue paper inside and stop when I touch a smooth fetish dress. I swipe my fingers over the shiny vinyl that’s candy apple red. It’s a cheerful color. Not what the other women were wearing on Saturday. The club was filled with dark-attired members, disguised behind masks and hoods, although there were a couple of women wearing virginal white. I lift the dress and the supple material sparkles, reflecting the light. Holding it up to my chest, I raise my gaze to the mirror on the wall and cringe.
Seriously, Ben? Does he know how super short this dress is? The top is fashioned much like a corset, and the bottom is... tiny. Very tiny indeed. I’ll need a shoehorn and a tub of coconut oil to get my body wedged inside the constraints of this narrow dress.
Rereading Ben’s note, I huff. I don’t have time to engage in a mental argument. If I’m not in the lobby...oh shit. I can’t wear this dress down there. Surely, he of all people realizes that. I don’t have a coat. It’s the end of the summer... In a flurry of doubt, I dig throug
h the tissue paper, and on the bottom of the bag, I find a silky sheath and a piece of black lace I must have missed. Lifting both, I discover the scrap of lace is a thong with a tag from La Perla. I unfold the lightweight version of a cloak. Great, I’m going to look like someone out of a Goth reunion, but hell will freeze over before I’m late, and have to endure having my rear-end used by Bennett to express his dissatisfaction in absolute terms.
I’m changed and can’t meet my eyes in the mirror. Once was enough. I pull on the hem of the dress and my boobs spill over the top of the neckline—barely constrained—or worse when I pull up on the straps and my cleavage squishes together.
Why am I having a problem? Did I forget the ‘me naked in public as Bennett fucks me’ part?
It’s time to go and revisit my mental to-do list one last time. I have my mask, I pat my wig, and remind myself to breathe. With the cloak in place, I descend in the elevator and take a seat in the same chair in which I waited on Saturday. All too soon a sleek black car pulls up to the lobby doors. I focus on the floor, the pattern of the marble tile, and the pounding in my ears is in competition with the driver’s footsteps.
We repeat the same drill. He escorts me to the car with opaque windows and asks me to slip on the blindfold that’s next to me on the backseat. We drive for a few blocks, suddenly stop, and this time I anticipate the swerving. The car door opens and I freeze, trying to figure out what Jax is doing as he gets inside.
“Good evening, Ms. Excess,” he says in his Texan drawl. He stopped by last Tuesday, sauntering into the inner offices, but Bennett was out. He greeted me with a vague hello when our paths intersected. And like then, I’m overcome by a sense of guilt mingled with apprehension in knowing that Jon’s part of his team, digging for dirt.
Now, the sound of his voice acts on my nerve endings as a chilly veil of fear spreads over my skin. I’m still in a quandary over what to do with Jon and his hunt for Hill gossip. I swallow, wishing I could shrink into the seat. There’s nowhere to hide except inside myself.
“Hello,” I reply, forcing my one-word answer to sound poised not guilt-ridden.
We’re underway and this time, I hear a pop. “Care for a glass of champagne?” he asks. “I promise, it’s good.”
“Yes. Thank you.” I twist my fingers, recalling I forgot to enjoy the champagne Bennett delivered to the hotel suite.
We sip in silence. Before I can set my flute down, I feel him steady my glass. “Topping you off. We’ll be at the House shortly.”
The champagne is better than good. It’s effervescence is silk to my senses that comes with a hazy warmth and once again, Jax is talking on his cell nonstop. And that’s when I decide I’ve got to alert the speaker to his inner-office snitch by way of an anonymous tip. By the time the car comes to a full stop, I’m hyperaware on his movements. The door to my side opens and the evening air, balmy after riding within the cool interior flows over my face and lifts the edges of the cloak, caressing my skin.
“Tonight, I’m not undressing you. So, please, relax,” Jax says as he takes my arm.
“I’m trying.” He’s no longer my keeper and I don’t know how to address him. “What should I call you?”
“Cash,” he replies, then laughs. “It’s just a nickname.”
I’m led into the House until he tugs lightly on my arm. “Wait. Your mask needs an adjustment.”
His fingers trace along my cheekbones then move upward, pulling on the strip of satin covering the eyeholes of the mask. He removes it, and I blink as my eyes adjust to the dim golden lighting of the opulent antechamber. He steers me past a large room where there’s a long bar and members congregate.
“That’s the main lounge,” he explains. “No intimate contact is allowed except during a slave or sub auction.”
Several heads turn in our direction. We continue walking along an inner hall with four distinct doorways each in a different color. All are jewel tones. Red. White. Blue. And black.
I assume we’re headed for the onyx door, but he passes it, and I follow, studying the intricate hardware and the blinking security key pad.
We walk past the ruby red room. Past the sapphire blue. And that leaves only one. Jax stops and gestures toward the white door. “Your room.”
“Thank you. Again for acting as my escort.” I stand before the pearlescent door.
My dress in the subdued lighting appears blood red and a bold contrast to the doorway where I pause. I turn the crystal knob cool against my sweaty palm. The knob turns smoothly in my grasp and I enter. The room evokes the image of a gossamer dream given the white furniture and cream-colored rugs, walls, and flooring. Where are the wooden stocks I expected? There’s no modern black leather furniture or cold cement.
“My pleasure.” Jax bows slightly before he backs away from the threshold, and I shut the door.
Acclimating to being alone, I pause as my heart beats...clatters a steady thud against my diaphragm. The surreal room takes a second to get accustomed to, and upon seeing the lavish white velvet chaise, I recall my sub duties. How I’m to disrobe, and neatly hang my clothes. Bennett instructed me on bathing. Intimate details to prepare me for tonight. I’m wearing the plug as he directed and am waxed smooth.
I undress slowly per his directive. Hang my dress. Remove my jewelry. Leave on the black lace thong and shoes. Goose bumps erupt across my skin as my nipples pebble into tight darts, standing erect and aching for his mouth.
His instructions specify that I’m to sit on the chaise—at the foot. And wait. The clock on the mantel ticks. Each click is loud in the silence as though it rebounds within my head. For minutes, I hold my position, perched at the edge. A large gilded mirror—possibly the viewing window—is off to the side of the room. Is Bennett watching me from the room next door?
For minutes I sit, spine straight as he’s directed—no slouching. Knees and ankles together, hands in my lap, fingers folded. As I wait and wait, the muscles over my shoulders begin to tighten. It’s hard work to remain in one spot and not move. Shifting my gaze around the room, I observe my whereabouts from under my lashes.
The sumptuous bed is covered by a white fluffy comforter and several pillows and cushions. Wrought iron spindles compose the four-poster bedframe, painted in a glossy white. From the canopy, gauzy curtains float downward. This isn’t the type of room anyone would envision in a dungeon where the name of the game is hardcore domination. It’s more apropos for a scene of seduction with the ornate candelabras ablaze, bedecking several tables. Besides candles, there are vases of fresh flowers, and rose pedals strewn over the surfaces. My gaze doesn’t stop. The details of the expansive room are subtle. The more I stare, the more I see.
There’s a bathtub on this side of the room, copper with claw-feet behind a semi-opaque screen. Fluffy bath towels are hung on what I recognize as rod warmers and the shelves are stocked with all sorts of bath accessories. A bottle of Cristal chills in an ice bucket with flutes off to the side. A tray of strawberries is nearby. No expense in attention was spared from the design and execution of the fine details within the confines of this room.
As I admire the elements on the other side of the bedroom, the door opposite me opens. The corridor beyond is dark, and I hold my breath as Bennett comes through the doorway. His skin glistens and in the flickering light, the corrugated muscles of his torso ripple as he moves. When he walks toward me, the corded sinew over his shoulders flexes and contracts.
His hips roll with catlike grace as he strides forward on long, muscular legs encased in leathers, and my eyes eat up every bit of his tall frame. One hand hangs at his side where he holds a coil of white rope that slaps against the side of his leg with each of his steps. A low smack. Smack. Smack.
There’s a gleam in his eyes and when his gaze fuses with mine, I’m breathless. Absolutely on fire. Oh no. What am I thinking? I’m not supposed to make eye contact and quickly, I drop my gaze to the floor.
“Well, well, aren’t you a sight?” he pronounces in
a gravelly voice that fills me like ether, expanding within my body.
“Thank you, Master.” I remind myself to remain still. Wait for his directions. He stands before me and I tremble in anticipation.
“Little sub, open your legs and show me what I own.” Without looking up, I spread my legs, and before I can think twice, he kneels in front of me, wedging my legs wider. Rubbing his large palms along my thighs, he inhales slowly; his shoulders rise and fall as he positions my legs on either side of his muscular torso. “Tonight, I claim you on many levels. Are you surprised by this room?”
“Yes. It’s not what I expected. It’s lovely.” From my periphery, I see him lift his arm and remove a band of silver-colored metal.
Holding the loop out, he shows it to me, turning the metal full circle until a clasp is visible. “You’ll wear this collar. It doesn’t come off while you’re my property. Ever.”
“Yes, Master.” I fight the urge to look up at him. His directions clearly defined that I’m to keep my eyes averted until he orders me to do otherwise. I look instead at the collar he holds and now has open. The metal is shiny and I’d bet it’s white gold or platinum. He raises it and slips it around my neck, pushing aside the tips of my wig as he secures the clasp. It’s weighty yet loose, encircling my neck and my nipples grow tighter than before as his breath caresses my skin.
“Beautiful...” He feathers his fingers along my face as his thumb flicks along my bottom lip. “You’ll wear it as a sign that you’re mine. Understand? Do you want to touch the collar? You’re free to do so.”
I stroke the smooth metal at my neck. “Master, I think I understand.”
His touch grows firmer. “With my collar, no one here can touch you. You’re strictly off-limits. But you’re also free to walk around, and explore the House without an escort and enter the viewing rooms.”
Running my fingers along the band of metal, I understand the irony of being collared, yet he’s giving me freedom. His trust. By wearing his collar, I’m bestowing my acceptance of his dominance. A visceral pull contracts within me. Something so foreign blossoms, filling an empty part of me, and I question if I’m hallucinating. I feel this draw, this urge...that I can only describe as a form of erotic supplication to him.
