by Lila Dubois
The sound of wheels on wet pavement made him turn his head. A black town car rolled down the street, the windows tinted. Less than a minute later a second car, nearly a perfect copy of the first, passed by.
He could have been in one of those cars, if he wanted. The interior would be plush leather, warm and dry, and there would be a white orchid somewhere inside. For some events the vehicles sported real orchids, either a cut bloom in a small vase or a potted plant. For others it was as simple as an image of an orchid showing in the headrest screen. There’d been that one event in Germany where he’d been picked up in a horse-drawn carriage and, in addition to orchids braided into the horse’s mane, each carriage had come with a woven blanket bearing the image of a purple orchid.
That was one of the last Orchid Club events he’d been to. These were events arranged by a secret a secret BDSM club for the world’s wealthiest people, for fuck’s sake, not a fairytale-themed prom. The three-night events, which took place in a different country each month, were meant to be a chance for members to safely and secretly express their sadistic dominant or masochistic submissive side. They were not supposed to have carriage rides. Solomon had felt like a grade-A jackass climbing into a carriage, his leather Master’s kit containing implements and toys in hand.
There was a reason he’d all but given up on the Orchid Club. Not totally given up—he still paid his membership dues—but he preferred to stay on his island, to host his own BDSM parties, and make people come to him.
Yet here he was in Paris, a city he hated with a passion, to attend this month’s Orchid Club event.
This was all James’s fault.
James Nolen was an acquaintance, maybe even a friend. Five months ago he’d asked to come out to Solomon’s island in the Bahamian district of Exuma. The island was two hundred acres of his own private beach paradise, the crowning jewel of which was the ballroom of the main house. He’d turned it into an elegant and versatile dungeon.
James had been to Solomon’s BDSM parties before, and Solomon hadn’t thought twice about the other man’s request to bring what Solomon had assumed was his latest fling out to the island so James could play with her at the skin party Solomon had going at the time.
Then James—a confirmed bachelor, scared of any kind of commitment, be it a collar for a submissive or a ring for a girlfriend—had fallen in love. The dumb fuck had called Solomon at some ungodly early hour and proceeded to have a romantic crisis. During the asinine conversation, James had insisted he didn’t know if he loved Christiana, because he’d never been in love before.
It had been early, Solomon had been tired, and worse, alone in bed. That meant after the call ended there’d been no warm, willing woman for him to turn to, to lose himself in before old memories and feelings could come to the surface. Despite trying to forget that morning’s conversation, every word was still crystal clear in his mind.
“Do you love her?” Solomon asked. Outside his west-facing bedroom window, the ocean was an endless expanse of dark blue-gray, with just the palest hints of dawn present in the lighter shades of cornflower and baby blue at the apex of the sky.
“I just said I’ve never been in love,” James bitched. “How would I know?”
James didn’t know how to define love. Neither did Solomon. What he did know was what love did. What it made a man do. “Do you think about her all the time? Worry if she’s had breakfast? Wonder if she slept okay? Do you see things and think about how you’d describe them to her?”
“Yes. All of that. And more.”
“Then you love her. Congratulations.”
According to gossip, James was moving to San Francisco to be close to Christana, who was, shockingly, a normal person.
What should have been nothing more than a surprising and amusing anecdote about James’s love life had left Solomon feeling restless and uneasy. The conversation with his friend, and what followed, brought up shit from his past. Shit he preferred not to think about.
When the feeling didn’t go away after a few weeks, Solomon had decided what he needed was to get off his island. He was, in essence, a homebody, just a very lucky one whose home was a tropical paradise. He traveled when he needed to for work, but that kind of travel was very different than the itchy-feet urge to see the world and explore. He’d done plenty of that when he was younger, and had the scars to prove it.
He turned right onto Rue de Richelieu. It was a long street, and at one time would have been one of the largest in Paris, before the many grand boulevards the city was now known for had been created. Four and five story buildings loomed over the two-lane road. Most were painted white, with minuscule balconies guarded by the ubiquitous black-iron railings. On the ground floor were small shops and eateries, all catering to the business people who worked on the floors above.
A line of four black sedans idled in front of a building mid-way down the street. The building, like the Paris Bourse that had defined this arrondissement, was Neoclassical in style.
Massive compared to the narrow buildings on either side, ten Corinthian columns supported the triangular roof. To him, it looked like a fancy bank or government building, but this wasn’t America, it was France, so this had probably once been either a small theater or grand private residence.
The driver’s door of the lead car opened and a slim man wearing a chauffeur’s cap circled the front of the vehicle. He popped an umbrella and held it up as he opened the rear passenger door. A man in a black suit stepped out. He could have been any generic wealthy man, about to head into a meeting as he buttoned the top button of his suit jacket and adjusted his cuffs.
The man reached into the car and drew out what looked like a leather duffle bag. A BDSM kit. Solomon had one just like it—many members of the Orchid Club did. One of the club events several years ago had featured artisans, including a leather-smith who had custom-made kits, floggers, jewelry, and more.
The man crossed the sidewalk, the driver keeping pace, umbrella up, until the guest was under the cover provided by the roof. He started up the half-dozen steps that led from street level to the front door, which was raised and set back from the street by the steps. The driver closed the passenger door, then got in and pulled away, allowing the next car in line to pull level with the entrance.
Solomon kept walking, shoulders hunched against the rain. The hoodie he wore under his leather jacket was absorbing the rain rather than repelling it, and water was starting to wick down from the hood and neck to his shoulders and back. Once inside he’d have to towel off his hair, maybe take a warm shower, if that was an option. The set-up, and amenities, for these events were always different.
As soon as he reached the edge of the building he ducked under the cover provided by the overhand of the massive roof. He took the steps two at a time, then walked along the upper stair until he reached the double door. He’d timed it right, and the grand double doors were still open from admitting the woman who’d gotten out of the second car.
Golden light and faint music spilled from inside. An Indian woman in a black sheath dress, her hair pulled into a simple twist, stood just inside with a clipboard. Diamonds sparkled in her ears and around her throat. She looked up, her eyes widening a little when she spotted him. She made a quick gesture with her right hand. A muscular young Southeast Asian man stepped out of an alcove. He planted himself in the center of the corridor, physically blocking the entrance.
“Lillian,” Solomon said in greeting as he shoved back his hood.
Lillian blinked once, the only sign of surprise, before her lips curved in a small, elegant smile. She was the manager of their strange little society. Rumor had it that she was not just the employee of the secretive owner, but his or her submissive. Solomon didn’t care either way.
Lillian focused her gaze on his nose. She wouldn’t look him in the eye as a sign of respect—that certainly lent credence to the “she’s a submissive” theory. She gestured and the attendant stepped back.
“Mr. Carter,”
she said in greeting. “An unexpected pleasure to see you.”
“Just call me Solomon. I RSVP’d,” he pointed out. He stepped into the building and she pressed a button on the wall. The doors closed soundlessly behind him.
“You did, and we’re delighted that you’ve decided to once again enjoy the benefits of membership.”
Translation: it had been years since he’d come to one of these, and she hadn’t actually thought he’d show up.
He shoved a damp strand of hair off his forehead. “What’s the deal with this one?”
She paused, probably sorting through his idiomatic English. Solomon spoke fluent French, and given that they were in France, he probably should have used that language. “Changing rooms are on the second and third floors. Second floor for Doms and Dommes. Please follow the signs once you exit the lift. The event is taking place on the fifth floor.”
“Where’s the bar?” he asked bluntly.
“There is a small bar in the Doms’ locker room, and the main bar is on the fifth floor, in the Dungeon.”
“Is James Nolen here yet?”
“I’m afraid I cannot give out any information about members.”
“I’m not asking for his bank account numbers. I just want to know if he’s here. He said he’s coming. That’s the only reason I’m in this cesspool.”
Lillian looked around the elegant foyer of the building. The floor was marble, the walls paneled wood. A massive chandelier was positioned in the center of the lobby, over a half-circle wooden reception desk. Behind that was a grand staircase leading to the second floor. On the right was a bank of modern elevators, on the left a small waiting area. A glass-enclosed display board listed the names of businesses and their respective locations in the building. There were several empty lines, where engraved nameplates had been removed.
Solomon had been to enough of these to put two and two together. The building was probably owned by a fellow member of the Orchid Club. He or she had some empty office space, either because the tenant had left or due to renovation. Whoever owned the place was taking advantage of the vacancy to host this month’s event.
Lillian didn’t remark on his “cesspool” comment, saying instead, “The elevators are this way, and Mr. Carter—”
“Solomon.”
“—please don’t forget that the theme the host has selected for this event is black tie.”
“I read the email.”
“I have a few pieces available in the locker room, but I don’t know that—”
Solomon held up a hand to stop her. He shrugged out of his jacket and pulled off the half-damp White Sox hoodie he wore beneath. Under that he had on bespoke tuxedo shirt with black studs. His pants were also custom, with a thin line of satin down outside of each leg.
“There’s a bowtie in my pocket.” He shrugged back into his leather jacket, the damp black-and-white hoodie in one hand. “I’m drawing the line at the tux jacket.”
Lillian was far too well mannered to sigh. Instead she smiled. “Enjoy your evening, Mr. Carter.”
There was a knock on the door behind him. Not wanting to have to make small talk, he headed through the lobby, ignoring the elevator and opting to take the stairs to the second floor. He followed the signs—which were pictures of orchids with discreet arrows—past the closed doors and dark offices of various businesses, which based on their names were all in the financial sector.
Looking at the offices made him uneasy. He rolled his shoulders, trying to release the tension that was building. That fucker James had better already be here. He was going to talk to his friend and…
And warn him.
Warn him not to fall in love with his submissive. Or if he was going to insist on loving the woman, to learn to love vanilla sex.
He needed to make sure James didn’t make the same mistakes Solomon had.
Truthfully, Solomon wasn’t sure James would listen to him, but he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about their stupid conversation. About the way James had looked at Christiana.
He found the right door—marked with yet another orchid—opening it to reveal a large room. The remnants of its former life as a cubicle-filled office space were there if you looked—commercial blinds still hung in the half-dozen narrow windows that looked out over the street, a fire suppression system and suspended fluorescent lights interrupted the pattern of the coffered ceiling, and there was a poster just inside the door that showed fire exists and other safety information.
For all that, if Solomon hadn’t cynically been looking for those signs, he might not have realized what the space had once been. Lillian, and whoever tonight’s host was, had done an excellent job of transforming this into not just a changing room, but a plush lounge where Masters and Doms, and the more rare in this club Mistresses and Dommes could get ready for a night of play and debauchery.
A set of elegant wooden lockers had been brought in and set up against one long wall. On the opposite wall, under the windows, were several sideboards which displayed a collection of still-in-their-package toys, lube, and various BDSM necessities. Chairs and couches were arranged in small groupings in the center of the open space. The floor was polished hardwood, marked but not marred by age and use, proclaiming it to more-than-likely be the original floor, a testament to how lovingly the building had been cared for.
The fluorescent lights were off, and instead the room was lit by the golden glow of candles and Tiffany table lamps. Sheer black curtains hung over the windows, partially hiding the commercial blinds.
Doors with discreet signs led to several single-stall bathrooms. To his right, near the entrance, two masseuses were working in the glass-walled rooms that had probably been managerial offices, naked men lying facedown on portable massage tables as dark-haired women dug elbows into their back muscles.
Solomon rolled his shoulders and considered heading over there to put his name on the list hanging on the wall. Massage was one way to dispel the tension that had been building on his walk from the Metro stop, but there was another.
In what had probably once been a kitchenette was a small bar. A woman who could have been the twin of one of the masseuses stood at attention. On the counter behind her bottles of top-shelf alcohol sat ready to be poured.
Solomon found an empty locker, dumping his jacket—which contained his hotel key, wallet, phone, and a few euros—and damp sweatshirt into the locker. At the last minute he remembered to pull his bowtie out of the pocket. He lopped the bowtie over his neck, tucking it under his collar, but not tying it.
Closing the locker, he made a beeline for the bar. Grabbing a rolled towel as he passed a stack of them, he scrubbed at his damp hair.
He could feel a few people staring as he went past. He was used to that.
The scar that marred one side of his face—from his mouth horizontally across his cheek toward his ear—had a lot to do with it. Maybe that was most of the reason people gawked at him now. His size was another. Even before the scar, people had done double takes. He was a big guy; some of that was genetic—his height, the breadth of his shoulders—but some of it was by choice. His preferred physical activity was weightlifting. He’d had more than one health-conscious guest to his island inform him that he really needed to do cardio. Fuck cardio. He liked lifting heavy shit. Sometimes throwing heavy shit.
“What would you like, Sir?” the bartender asked in French.
The hard alcohol was calling his name, but there were also some very nice bottles of wine on display, and he rarely bothered to stock his own bars with wine. There were several bottles of Château Rossolina—all good years, but he studiously ignored those.
“A glass of the 2010 Chateau Lafitte Rothschild Bordeaux.”
The bartender inclined her head, then began the ritual of uncorking and pouring a taste. Solomon did the obligatory swirl, raising the glass to inspect the legs, sniffing, and finally sipping. He’d been taught how to taste wine by a legitimate master vintner, right here in France.
Now that he thought about it, it wasn’t just Paris he hated, but the whole country. He did it more for the bartender’s benefit than for his own. He knew what he liked and he drank it. If it had been up to him he would have popped the cork, splashed some in a glass, and been on his way. He liked to imagine every time he did that the people who’d taught him all that he knew about wine—which was far too much—died a little inside. But doing that to a thousand-euro bottle of wine probably would have scandalized someone, probably the poor innocent bartender.
The flavor was mellow and rich, the scent strong and familiar. Solomon took another sip. The taste and smell triggered memories. The part of him that was both masochistic and stupid reveled in the first hint of panic and pain as his past tried to surface. He forced the memories away.
He stayed at the bar, sipping his wine and brooding—he was self aware enough to know that he was brooding, even though he’d turn on anyone who dared point that out—until he finished that first glass.
Cradling his second glass, he selected an armchair and settled in to wait for James, while casually eavesdropping on the conversation of the two men seated not far from his own chair.
“Have you been up to the fifth floor?” The speaker was a dark-haired man seated in one of the leather club chairs near Solomon’s own. Solomon was fairly sure he’d seen the man before, and he spoke French with a faint Germanic accent—the consonants were guttural. Solomon was going to call him Heinrich. It was possible that was actually the man’s name, but equally possible that was just a stereotypical German name he’d pulled out of his ass.
“Yes. It’s nice. Not as large a space as some of the parties.” The other man had hair that reminded Solomon of a timber wolf’s pelt—a mix of black, brown, and tawny blond. His accent was harder to place. Maybe something Mediterranean. Solomon was sure he hadn’t met this guy before.
