by E J Frost
See you then.
I guess that means no sexting between then and now. Disappointing. Maybe I can tempt him on my lunch break.
My phone pings again as I’m stepping out of the shower. I can’t keep in a grin as I wrap a towel around my wet bod and pick up my phone, ready to tease Mac about texting me already.
It’s not from Mac. It’s from Theo.
Rain check. Tonight. 8 pm. Medical suite.
A shiver passes through me that has nothing to do with the steamy bathroom. The last time Theo and I did a scene in the medical suite, I passed out from the combination of pain and pleasure. Urethral dilation is not usually my thing, but he made it work.
Sorry, booked up. Friday?
Working, he responds. Saturday?
Saturday, check.
Saturday, check, SIR.
I grin wickedly at the phone before I respond.
Saturday, check, Master Theo. Looking forward to it.
He sends me back a frowning emoji and a clapping hand, which makes me laugh.
As I’m dressing, I wonder if I should take sex off the table for the scene with Theo. He usually fucks me, if not during the scene, then for aftercare. I’ve never worried about having sex with more than one Blunts Dom, but they all know the deal. Mac doesn’t. On the other hand, I haven’t earned sex privileges with Mac yet. Will he care if I have sex with someone else? Nothing he said at lunch or during our phone date last night suggested he’s looking for exclusivity.
And does it matter to me if it bothers him? It’s my damn body.
I chew it over while I wrap my dreads up into a big, messy bun and secure them with silver, skull clips that Nicky gave me for Christmas.
Despite what some of the Blunts Doms think, I try not to be an asshole. I avoid drama. I stay away from the subbie cliques because I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. Okay, except maybe Briar’s. She can piss me off just by being in the same room. I’ll admit that I’ve goaded Ten into fucking with her more than once. But Briar aside, I stay out of the inevitable schoolyard bullshit. I don’t play stupid games with the Doms, either. It’s living dangerously anyway, because the stricter tops like Ten and Javier will use it as an excuse for punishment, but I never double-book scenes or try to entice a top by offering something I know they want to someone else.
Having sex with Theo while I’m trying to earn sex privileges from Mac feels like an asshole thing to do. It’s hard for me to articulate why, even in my own head. I try to recognize when I’m buying into the misogynistic crap society’s fed me about female sexuality. This doesn’t feel like that, but it could be. I might need a reality check. While I’m pulling on my third favorite leather pants, and writing myself a reminder to do dry-cleaning, I text Emily.
You free to talk?
It’s a little after eight, and Logan’s an early riser, but Emily doesn’t always get up with him.
Instead of texting me back, she calls.
“I’m always free for you,” she says.
“I bet your daddy wouldn’t agree with that. Anyway, I’m having a dilemma. Is it being an asshole if I have sex with Theo on Saturday after doing a scene with Mac tonight?”
Emily hums. “Do you want the politically correct answer or my answer?”
“Both.”
“The politically correct answer is no, because you’re a grown-bottomed woman who is free to share her body with anyone she wants.”
I’m glad I’ve finished my coffee, because I’d have spewed it. “Grown bottomed?”
“I’m not allowed to say the a-word and Daddy can hear me slip up even if he’s in a different zip code.”
I can almost hear Emily rolling her eyes in chagrin, which makes me chuckle.
“Dom hearing,” I commiserate, as I flip through the shirts hanging in my closet until I find the black Henley that cuts in at my waist and makes me look like I have a figure. It’s fine for work but unbutton a few buttons and I have cleavage as well as a waist. “Well, I am a grown-assed woman, and I can share my body with anyone I want.”
“Then why is it a dilemma?”
“Because I’ve spent too much time with you and now I have this little Emily Voice pecking away in the back of my head telling me it’s an asshole thing to do.”
She giggles. “Can I tell Daddy that? That you have an Emily Voice?”
“No. What’s your answer?”
“My answer is that I don’t think it’s a good idea. I mean, what if you have feelings for Mac after the scene? Do you want to be intimate with someone else if you’re developing feelings for Mac?”
“I had feelings for Ten for a year and for Rob nearly as long and I had sex with practically every other Blunts Dom during those times,” I point out, pulling on socks and boots.
“Kinda what I’m saying.”
“Don’t be mean to me. I’m having a crisis.”
“Sorry,” Emily says, although she doesn’t sound sorry at all. Snarky little. “I haven’t ever been in your shoes, Bren, but I’m just thinking of how Daddy would have felt if I had sex with another Dom after we’d done our first scene but before we slept together. I think he’d have been really upset. Do you want me to ask him?”
“Hell to the no.”
“Daddy wouldn’t say anything to Master Mac if I ask him not to.”
“No, but he’ll hate me more than he already does.”
“Daddy doesn’t hate you. You just scare him a little bit.”
“I don’t understand where I get this reputation. I’m totally harmless. The State of New York even trusts me with needles around naked humans. I’m very misunderstood,” I say, as I head into the bathroom to throw on makeup.
Emily’s giggle rings out like Christmas bells.
“So, you think it’s a hard no to sex with Theo?”
“Gold-plated no,” she says.
“Titanium no?”
“Tungsten no.”
“Ugh,” I say, peering into the mirror as I wing my eyeliner. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think the Emily Voice is right. I’m going to tell Theo no sex.”
“I don’t want to state the obvious, but what about the other Masters? I mean, isn’t it kind of expected you’ll be available for sex if you’re working at the club?”
“I know you’re not calling me a sex worker, but it really, really sounds like you’re calling me a sex worker,” I say flatly, glaring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror like I’m staring through it at Emily.
“Even if I was, which I’m not, there’s nothing wrong with being a sex worker. I just don’t see how you’re going to be able to work at the club and date Master Mac. What if Master Ten asks for a scene? He always has sex with you.”
Ten probably won’t want to scene with me after the disaster on Friday. I shake my head at my reflection and start work on the other eye.
“Sex isn’t mandatory,” I tell Emily. “There have been lots of house subs who didn’t have sex with the club members.”
Not that I can think of any other than Ryan’s wife, and she didn’t even complete her training before Master Ryan got his collar on her.
“In the whole history of the club?” Emily asks, and I know this is a rhetorical question because she’s become the club’s little amateur historian over the last couple of months. Here it comes. “There have been three, one of whom was probably sexually dimorphic, although it was in the nineteen-hundreds, so they didn’t describe it that way. Sex might not be mandatory, but all of the current house subs do have sex with the members—”
The sudden blaring of the shop alarm drowns her words and makes me nearly stab my eye out with the mascara wand.
“Fuck, hon, I’ve got to go. Something set off the shop alarm.”
“Bye! See you at six-thirty.”
“See you then. Thanks again for making dinner.”
I hang up, shove the mascara wand back in the tube, and race down the stairs two at a time, thanking whatever Benevolence Bebe J used to pray to I’
m not wearing yesterday’s heels. The security door’s still locked. After I key in the code and turn off the alarm, I slow down a little, not wanting to race blindly into a dangerous situation. The shop hasn’t been burgled while I’ve owned it, but the bar on the corner has, twice, and anyone who has been in knows we accept cash as payment. What they don’t know is that I keep cash in a time-lock safe, so they’re not going to get to it by breaking in, unless they bring a shitload of Semtex.
I flick on the lights before I start down the hallway. No wandering around in the dark for this girl. I’ve seen that movie too many times.
I can’t see anything out of place in the hallway or, as I push through the curtain, the front of the shop. The security shutter is still down, and you’d need a blow torch to get through that bad boy.
I walk by Nicky’s station, grab the brass knuckles with “Lucky” across them that he keeps hanging over the mirror, and slip them over my fingers. They’re my brass knuckles, but I gave them to Nicky as a good luck charm when he was trying out for the drag queen shows. As I retrace my steps down the hallway, I roll my shoulders to warm up my muscles, and wish I had my old sidekick, a Brooklyn Smasher, in my hands.
I move quietly down the hallway, walking on the balls of my feet, fists up and ready. I don’t hear anything, but they could be hiding somewhere, waiting. I push the door to the unisex bathroom open with my toes. Wait to see if anything moves. There’s a whisper of air as the vent fan kicks on in response to the door opening, but there’s nothing else. No sound or movement. The plywood cupboard under the sink that holds extra toilet paper, the first aid kit, and bleach is too small for anyone but a toddler to squeeze into, and I don’t see anyone hiding behind the john. I back out and cross the hallway to the kitchenette. No one hiding behind the coffee pot. I make it to the back door. A rapid series of bangs on the door makes me jump a foot and raise my fists again.
“Bren! You in there?”
Nicky. I tuck the brass knuckles into my pocket and throw the deadbolt.
“Hey, Nicky.”
“Hey, babycakes. What the fuck happened here?”
He gestures. I peer around the door. It looks like someone took my old bat to the outside lock.
“Fuck.” I’m going to have to get that replaced. “And don’t call me babycakes. It’s sexist.”
Nicky snorts. “I’m a sexy guy.”
“I said sexist.”
“I heard you just fine, babycakes. Any idea what happened here?”
Ugh, he’s such a Dom, even if he keeps refusing the title.
“No. Alarm went off about five minutes ago. I was on the phone and had music playing so someone could have taken a jackhammer to it and I probably wouldn’t have heard anything.”
“Kinda looks like someone did take a jackhammer to it.” Nicky runs his thumb over the dented metal.
“Yeah, I’ll call a locksmith.” I turn back into the store to head into the office. “You wanna put the coffee pot on? And why are you here an hour early?”
“Peter-tingle.”
“Your what is tingling? Nicky, man, get that checked.”
He swats me on the ass and yelps when he encounters the metal in my pocket. “Fuck, Bren, what’re you wearing, ass armor?”
Chuckling, I fish out the brass knuckles and hand them to him. “I borrowed these. But ass armor isn’t a bad idea.”
“Like Old Blue Eyes would let you wear armor in his scene.”
“Oh, no. No, no, no. It’s bad enough he disintegrates the panties he won’t let me wear every time he looks at me, but you cannot call him Old Blue Eyes. My gram-gram used to call Paul Newman that and the idea of being topped by Paul Newman, ugh, no, I’m not going there.”
“Liar, liar, leather pants on fire. If Paul Newman showed up right now and smiled at you with those blue eyes, you’d let him top you any way he wanted. Including up the ass.”
“Agh.” I wave my hands over my head. “Paul Newman died at least ten years ago, so you’re talking about necrophilia anal. Before I’ve even had coffee. Gross, Nicky.”
He chuckles all the way into the kitchen.
In my cubbyhole of an office, I finger-walk through the business cards in my desk drawer. I haven’t needed a locksmith since I refitted the shop, and I don’t think I have a card for one. I might have to resort to Google, which always makes me nervous. My fingers pause on a plain cream card with black lettering. “James Logan, Personal and Property Security.”
Emily’s daddy installed the shop’s CCTV system, way back when. Unfortunately, all the cameras are in the front, so I don’t have any footage of whoever tried to nuke my lock.
I pull out my phone, flip over to the contacts file I have for all the Blunts Doms, and scroll down to Logan’s number. I hesitate for a moment. Even though he’s being nice to me at the moment, Logan really doesn’t like me. Do I want to call him for this? Fuck it, I trust him more than Google.
He answers on the first ring. “Problem, Bren?”
“Hi, sir, I was just wondering if you could recommend a locksmith?”
“I can probably do whatever you need. What do you need?”
“The lock on my back door replaced.”
“What happened to the old one?” he asks.
“Someone tried to smash it.”
“Remind me, it’s a key and a deadbolt, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Give me two hours. Did you get them on tape?”
“No, the cameras are all in the front.”
“I’ll bring another camera, too. I can’t imagine why I agreed to leave you without any cover in the rear, Bren.”
Because I was down to my last fifty cents when I refurbished Rufus’s shop, so my budget for the CCTV system was thin, and it never occurred to me to upgrade. And because Logan never has liked me. But saying so will not improve his opinion and I don’t want him to stop me from seeing Emily. Or bad-mouth me to Mac, although that’s not Logan’s style. “Sorry, sir.”
He grunts. “Two and a half hours. I’ll bring Emily with me and you know she’ll bring lunch, so be ready to eat.”
“Yes, sir.”
“See you then.” He hangs up.
Emily texts me before I even put the phone away.
Daddy says no charge. See? He likes you really.
Weeell, he might be warming to me a little.
I want meat for lunch, I text her back.
Meat for dinner. Meat twice a day isn’t good for you. Eggplant parm for lunch.
Fuck, I’d kill major portions of the greater New York population for Emily’s eggplant parm.
I hate eggplant parm.
I know. I’ll bring extra. I have cupcakes, too. But only if you eat all your veggies. That’s the rule.
Bitch.
If Daddy sees that, you’re in trouble. I’m deleting the thread.
A true friend is a friend who helps you hide the evidence.
I smile into the phone before I tuck it away and join Nicky in the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
*****
My first client is in for more work on a chest piece that he’s been adding to for over a year. It’s a massive piece, covering his barrel chest and gut. Interlinking, black and white portraits of his whole family: kids, parents, brother, two sisters, grandparents. He’s saved his right pec for his wife and I’ve been working on sketches for over a month. It has to be perfect.
I’m still working, and in my zone, when Logan and Emily arrive. I hear Nicky talking to them, then Emily pulls the curtain around my station aside, sits in the guest chair, and quietly watches me until I’m done.
“That eggplant parm better not be getting cold,” I tell her.
“I can heat it up. Bren, that’s really beautiful.”
I wipe the fresh tattoo down reverently. Sometimes what comes out of my needle doesn’t even feel connected to me. It’s not something I’ve created. It’s something I’ve pulled up out of the skin. Something that was always there and just needed the
percussion of my needle to bring it out.
“Want to see it, Bob?” I ask my client.
“Naw, Bren. I’ll see it in a couple days when I unwrap it. I felt it going down. I know it’s perfect.”
I smile at him. He’s had so much work now that he probably can feel it. I smooth gauze over it and tape it down before I hand him the printed card of aftercare instructions. He knows the drill better than I do, but I always give every client the instructions after I finish. No exceptions.
I close the shop for an hour so we can all go up into my apartment to enjoy Emily’s eggplant parm. I have no doubt she brought enough not just for the three of us but for Nicky and my piercer, Jules, as well. Hell, she probably brought enough for Bob. But Logan doesn’t like strangers being around Emily, so I don’t invite Bob, even though the guy’s practically family at this point.
Over the Tri-State’s best eggplant parmesan, green salad with lemon vinaigrette, and tiny, grilled eggplant rolls stuffed with ricotta, Logan tells me he’s replaced the back-door lock with a double-deadbolt smart lock that can be operated from my phone or a key fob. There’s no external plate, so even if the jackhammerer returns, there’s nothing to smash. He’s also installed not one but two cameras, both of which feed into my phone. Tears prick in my eyes as he shows me how the feed uploads to a cloud server, so it doesn’t chew up my phone’s memory. I couldn’t deal with a Daddy Dom, but I have to admit that in less than an hour, he’s made me feel safer than I have since I first opened the shop.
“Thank you, sir. You have to let me pay for this.”
“We’ll talk about it later. Eat your cupcake.”
I bury a “yes, sir” in the cupcake and try not to sniffle.
*****
I have a decent flow of clients through the afternoon and am beginning to regret agreeing to dinner and a scene tonight when I have to turn away two walk-ins. One schedules an appointment with me but the other walks out in a huff. While I’m brooding at the counter, Nicky finishes with a client, leans on the counter, and holds out his phone.
“Did you see this shit? Twenty bucks it was that skinhead.”
“Hmm?” I peer at the screen. It shows the name of my shop, a rating of 2.5 stars, and a one-star review posted three hours ago by someone called Patriot Warrior 99. “What the hell?”
