The Pleasure House

by Kitty Thomas

  Slowly he ran his fingertips over the welts he'd left. How disappointing it must be for him to have so little fresh unmarred skin to play with. If he flogged or whipped her back, he'd be competing with another man's marks in a game he could never win.

  She realized suddenly that she was still crying. This agonizing sobbing sound was coming out of her, so foreign she kept forgetting it was her. How could she make those sounds? She was sure she'd cried every tear, felt every regret, ruminated and obsessed over every grudge. She'd thought she was empty, done.

  It was that emptiness that had finally brought her to the brink of her own demise. Yet here she was, the emotion spilling out, a never-ending fountain bubbling over with rage and pain. She flinched when he started to stroke her back. She flinched because she expected to feel him flinch when he touched her. She expected his fingertips to stutter and halt against the scars in revulsion. But they didn't.

  He touched her as if she were unbroken.

  “What do you need, Shannon?”

  “Something you can't give me.”

  “You don't know until you ask.”

  She shook her head. “It can never be you.” Even though he was the only offer on the table. Even though he was the only one she'd wanted back when things were simple.

  The arousal cream continued on in its mission to drive her crazy, but her mind had become so far removed from sex that it acted as a dull background throb which she kept forgetting how to define because all she could think about was how this couldn't happen with the doctor.

  She couldn't give herself to him like that—not in the way every last insane ounce of her wanted to. She couldn't give in to the id. She'd made that mistake once. He'd already proven he wasn't a man she could trust.

  He pressed warm soft kisses against her back, trailing up to her neck. He quietly untied her, then he sat beside her on the leather table and pulled her into his arms, his mouth finding hers, lingering there, softly at first, then hungrily as if he might devour her whole. She didn't resist him. It felt too good. Even if she hated him. It was so late. She was so tired.

  He carried her up the stairs to his suite and laid her down on his giant bed in the plant room. Ralph was asleep in his cage though the parakeets still twittered quietly to each other. He covered the bird cages with a blanket, turned on a thunderstorm white noise machine, and then climbed into the bed with her.

  Shannon barely breathed as he pulled her against him and wrapped an arm around her.

  “What are we doing?” she whispered.

  “We're sleeping.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Sleep, kitten.”

  She knew what he'd said in the dungeon about wanting her, and the kiss had felt real enough. And they'd shared a moment—she thought—but she couldn't help thinking this was all some strange unconventional therapy that meant nothing beyond keeping her from killing herself. She couldn't let herself believe it was anything more.

  But if it was therapy, it might be working because suddenly dying was the last thought on her mind.

  61

  Lindsay woke to a scream and a hard kick in his shin as Shannon flailed about in her sleep. He rolled toward her, gripped her wrists, and held her tight.

  “Wake up. Shannon, wake up! It's a dream.”

  Her eyes shot open and she looked around, wild-eyed. “Lindsay?”

  “Sir,” he corrected. He didn't plan on letting her get away with the casual first name basis thing she'd been trying to pull. Eventually she would be calling him master. At least that was what he intended. But he needed to be sure before he crossed that line with her. If he truly took responsibility for her, he had to take responsibility for her. After what had happened with her last master—to think nothing of the situation with Brian—taking her and discarding her would be worse then letting her remain unhappy and lonely in the house.

  Hadn't he already made this mistake once? Bringing her here without taking responsibility?

  “Sir,” she repeated, a wary expression on her face.

  She scooted up and leaned against the headboard, pulling the blankets up around her, taking them half off him in the process. Her hair was the most adorable rumpled mess. He had to stop himself from ruffling it like a big idiot.

  “Do you remember what you were dreaming?” he asked instead, lapsing into the comfortable therapist role.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  Shannon rolled her eyes. “You know what I dreamed.”

  “That day?”

  “Yes.”

  “How often do you have this nightmare?”

  “A lot.”

  He hadn't realized she was still having the Brian dreams so frequently. But how would he? He was the last person she would have confided in about such a thing. Most of their encounters for the last several years had been awkward exhanges in hallways with monosyllabic grunts or nonchalantly looking away until the other passed.

  Lindsay glanced at the clock and sighed. It was already seven-thirty. He might as well get up and start the day. He was usually up well before this. It was pure dumb luck that his first patient in the city wasn't until eleven today.

  “Would you like me to give you something?” he asked out of habit more than anything. Pills were the easy solution—and probably the wrong one in her case. And of course whatever he gave her, he'd have to strictly monitor to ensure she took it instead of stashing it for later. A lot of drugs could kill you if you took a giant handful at once. Not just sleeping pills.

  “Y-you mean like a drug?”

  “Yes, like a drug.”

  She shook her head. “You can't fix me with a drug.”

  He had ideas about how he could fix her. Ideas that had been forming in his head since that first pretty cane welt had bloomed out over her ass the night before. He wanted to run his fingers over those welts again. They would last a couple of days at least, maybe three. It depended on the individual. There was time. He watched her for several minutes, allowing the silence to build until it was too uncomfortable for either of them to exist in, then he finally got up and started to get ready.

  “What are your plans for today?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have to go to the city. I have patients. Are you going to be okay here by yourself?”

  “I'm not by myself.”

  They both knew that wasn't true. She might be in a house surrounded by people, but Shannon was always by herself. She'd been by herself until the night before when Lindsay had decided for better or worse to insert himself into her world again.

  “Can I trust you here?” he asked.

  Shannon looked offended, which was a massive improvement from the haunted expression she'd woken with.

  “I won't do anything,” she said finally.

  Still, he felt like he should make a list of sharp objects to lock up, or make sure someone watched her constantly in his absence.

  “I'll be home by nine. I want you waiting for me here in my room.”

  “Lindsay, what is this really? I don't understand.”

  “Sir. Don't make me start the day with punishment. And yes you do. You know exactly what this is.” He got out of bed and went to the bathroom to turn on the shower.

  He knew she wanted him to say it. But if he said it would she believe it? Would he? Twenty-four hours ago he'd been following a several years' pattern of avoidance where she was concerned. He'd even managed to stop fantasizing about her... to forget the things he'd wanted.

  And now he'd never get her face out of his mind again. He shut his eyes against the shower spray, trying hard not to think about finding her nearly lifeless body in the spa the night before. But it was useless. It was the only thought that would form in his mind now that he was alone.

  When he'd realized she'd taken pills and wasn't just sleeping, everything felt like it had stopped—just like that day when he'd found her in the dungeon after Brian had finished destroying her. After that day, he'd de
cided he had to stay away from her. But after last night he'd decided the opposite. He could never be away from her again.

  A part of him wished she'd join him in the shower, but they were a long way from casual shower sharing. She still thought this was a game—that he didn't or couldn't want her.

  He'd played his disinterest far too convincingly for far too long. Not only had he nearly convinced himself, but he'd convinced her as well.

  The scars bothered him, but not for the reasons she might imagine. They bothered him because they were a glaring flashing neon sign of his incompetence. It was the condemning evidence that he'd ruined her life by bringing her here. She was still beautiful to him. Scars could never change that. But how could he convince her when she hadn't known he'd found her beautiful even before the damage Brian had done?

  Whether it was the soothing warmth of the shower spray and steam or something else entirely, eventually Lindsay's thoughts moved to more recent events. The previous night.

  Having her bound helpless on that table. Even as the guilt ate away at him, worrying he would break her even more, the crisp sharp snap of the cane against her flesh, the way the bamboo vibrated into his hand after the strike, the way she cried out, the tears. It had taken all his willpower not to just fuck her right there.

  But he couldn't yet. He needed something more from her. He didn't want to be her consolation prize. He knew what she must be thinking, that he was her last chance. Even if she hated him, she might still... Lindsay had noticed the way the other trainers had become preoccupied with the newer girls—each fresh batch more enticing than the group before.

  They'd become addicted to the novelty of it all. By that point, Shannon was no longer a novelty. It wasn't as much about the scars as she thought it was.

  Lindsay shut off the shower, got out, and finished getting ready. He spent far too much time in his head. For as much as he psychoanalyzed everyone else around him, he analyzed himself even more. Always too much in his head.

  When he re-entered the bedroom, he was disappointed to find Shannon had gone, but why would she stay? There were a lot of other girls' rooms on this floor. They would be getting up soon, and he had no doubt the last thing she wanted was for them to know she'd spent the night with the doctor.

  As soon as she heard the shower start, Shannon tossed on some clothes and raced down the hall and down the stairs to her room. She rushed through a shower and put on a little more makeup than usual. There was no reason there should be any visible signs on her face of anything that had happened the previous night—at least nothing that could be covered with concealer. Still, she tried, as if this fresh mask could cover and hide her secret from everyone.

  She lingered in the hallway near the main entry until she saw Lindsay go out the door, then she made her way to the kitchen for some breakfast. There was only one other person in the cafeteria so early. Julie. Gabe's girl.

  Shannon liked Julie. She was sweet and damaged in the way that made Shannon feel less like a freak for being in her company. Though the girl's relationship with Gabe had done a lot to heal the psychic wounds of her brief time of forced prostitution, there was something that lingered behind, like a faint perfume. If it was bottled and sold it might be called Wounded Doe.

  Julie had a sweet face and gently curling auburn hair. She smiled when she saw Shannon and nodded toward the empty seat beside her. Shannon smiled and nodded back and went through the line to grab breakfast. It was waffle day at the house which was a bigger deal than it seems in casual mention because Phyllis didn't just make waffles. She made every kind of waffle and waffle topping you could think of, all from homemade batters. She used long-held secret recipes which she refused to share with anyone. Not that anyone else really cooked much at the house.

  The whole event was so momentous that waffle day only occurred once a month.

  Shannon got a chocolate chip waffle and a blueberry waffle, loaded up with butter and Phyllis's special secret waffle syrup, grabbed a glass of milk, and joined Julie at the table.

  “Waffle day!” Julie exclaimed, as if it were a national holiday.

  “I can't believe the girls are sleeping in on waffle day,” Shannon said.

  “They probably don't track it like we do.”

  Julie seemed suddenly lost in thought. Shannon only had to follow her line of sight to see what had caught her attention: Gabe crossing the expansive cafeteria space and heading their way. Gabe was the most laid back trainer at the house. Shannon had more than a few amazing nights with him in the years before Julie had arrived. He had always been Shannon's favorite. Out of all the men there, he somehow always came off as the least criminal.

  Sun-bleached surfer-blond hair, well-muscled, tall, beautiful with an easy way about him that you could trust.

  He sauntered over to their table. “Waffle day!” he said, as excited about it as Julie had been—or else teasing her because he'd probably heard her nearly shout it moments before he'd entered the room. He pulled her out of her chair and swept her into a romance-novel embrace, dipped her, and kissed her dramatically.

  “Have breakfast with us?” she asked shyly.

  It didn't matter how long Julie had been with Gabe, she still got giggly and shy around him. It was cute. But it always made Shannon long for what she knew she would never have. She hated how jealous it made her feel of Julie. She didn't want to resent someone she genuinely liked so much.

  “Can't,” he said. “I'll have to take mine to go. I've been tasked with the errands for the house today.”

  “Can I come?” she asked.

  Gabe got an evil glint in his eye. “Oh yes, you can come, but it will have to wait until I get back.”

  She blushed. “You know what I mean!”

  “Sorry. Can't. Top secret house stuff. I'll bring you back a toy surprise if you're a good girl while I'm gone. Will you be a good girl?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  He kissed her again, then went to grab some food. “Hey Phyllis! I need one of those Styrofoam to-go thingies!” he shouted over the bar. “And coffee, black!”

  Julie sat back down, a sort of dazed starstruck look in her eyes. She sighed in a dreamy way, and then dug into her waffles. Shannon took that as her cue to dig in as well.

  “Oh. My. God!” Julie said.

  “What?”

  Julie lowered her voice. “Who are you playing with?”

  “Huh?”

  She pointed. “The rope burns.”

  Oh shit. Shannon had spent a good twenty minutes putting on makeup to cover something that wasn't coverable and hadn't even noticed the damn rope marks on her wrists.

  “No one,” she said.

  “Oh come on. I promise I won't tell. Is it Jake? He's hot. And he looks at you sometimes.”

  “He looks at me because he thinks I'm a freak,” Shannon said.

  “You're not a freak.”

  Mina seemed to appear out of nowhere then, like a vampire reforming out of mist. She put her tray down on the other side of Julie. “I swear, I woke up this morning to my period and I just knew it was waffle day.”

  Both Shannon and Julie looked at Mina like she'd grown a second head.

  Mina plopped down in the chair. “Judge all you want. I swear to you I am cycling with waffle day, which works for me.”

  Shannon tensed when she noticed what Mina was wearing. Black leather pants. Black corset. Boots. It was what Shannon thought of as Mina's murder-wear: The Sadistic Sophisticate Collection. She always wore it when she and Brian went out on a job—supposedly getting rid of dangerous people who compromised the house or had broken the house's rules and contracts.

  How could there be this many people for them to kill? Shannon thought the guys were careful with everything. She suspected Brian and Mina had developed their own projects that were independent from the house though she couldn't begin to guess how they compiled their kill lists.

  Brian had some serious issues that went well beyond what he'd done to Shannon so many
years ago. He seemed to have a need or just a deep enjoyment not just of hurting people, but taking life. And apparently Mina had a growing taste for it as well.

  Mina was a strange one. When she'd first come to the house, Shannon had some insane idea that somehow they would bond and be best friends. After all, Mina had awful scars on her back, too. She'd seemed to be just as wounded as Shannon in many of the same ways. So of course they'd be the closest of friends, right?

  At the time, Shannon had been enraged Lindsay had brought somebody already scarred—both physically and emotionally—to the house to sell. If Mina was still good enough to sell, why had that option been taken off the table for Shannon? Why had she become the property of the house? An indentured spa worker? This wasn't exactly the type of enslavement she'd fantasized about. It was her own personal elevator music hell.

  When Brian first bought Mina, Shannon had felt scared for her. But when he didn't hurt her, and instead seemed to love her, Shannon was once again back to What the hell is so wrong with me?

  Shannon wasn't good enough to sell, but Mina was. She wasn't worth enough to be spared torture from Brian, but Mina was. And now Mina was just like him. Some switch had flipped inside her. There had been some interpersonal drama Shannon hadn't been privy to, whereupon Brian had released Mina. While free and presumably getting her life back, she'd been kidnapped by a guy in Japan named Matsumoto—a repeat customer of the house who had been very interested in buying Mina and hadn't taken it well when he'd been outbid by Brian.

  Whatever had happened to her in his care... she'd changed. When she returned to the house, she'd gone—seemingly overnight—from a wardrobe of sweet and normal to Queen of the Damned.

  “Looks like somebody played rough last night,” Mina said, pulling Shannon from her thoughts.

  Shannon put her hands in her lap. It was hard to eat waffles that way, but it seemed like her wrists had become a neon sign of nosy inquiry.