Orchid Club

by Lila Dubois

  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.

  “Are you still planning to host later this year?” Heinrich asked Wolf-hair.

  “If Lillian will allow me to…change…the rules a bit.”

  Solomon stared at his wine glass, now unabashedly eavesdropping. As a man who’d devoted a large part of his island mansion to a BDSM dungeon, he was always looking for new, interesting ideas.

  “There is a club in L.A. that a friend is a member of. They have a game. Their game is based on a checklist. I don’t want to do that, but something similar. A game…a game where I assign the partners.”

  Heinrich snorted. “Playing matchmaker, or perhaps you want to see people suffer?”

  “You are accusing me of schadenfreude?”

  “I am if you plan to make people suffer.”

  Wolf-hair laughed. “We like to suffer.”

  “True.”

  Solomon didn’t like to suffer. If he did, he’d spend more time in Paris.

  “Solomon?”

  The sound of his name, spoken with an English accent, jerked Solomon’s attention from the men’s conversation. James Nolen stood before him, one dark brow arched.

  “James.” Solomon rose and stuck out his hand. James shook, the bemused expression never leaving his face.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here.” James had an upper-crust British accent, not surprising since he’d grown up in England, though he was technically Middle Eastern royalty, due to his mother being a princess in the UAE.

  “I don’t want to be here.”

  “And why are you?”

  “Let’s get a drink.” Solomon lifted his almost empty glass and inclined his head toward the bar.

  James nodded, but first turned and stowed his kit and a garment bag he had over his arm in one of the lockers. He joined Solomon at the bar, ordering a club soda with lime.

  “Club soda?” Solomon asked. To the bartender he said, “I’ll have another glass of the 2010 Chateau Lafitte Rothschild Bordeaux.”

  “I intend to play tonight,” James explained.

  Solomon snorted. “Unlike at my club, this place doesn’t have a drink limit for the Doms.”

  “True, but I plan to have a glass of champagne with my fiancée once we rendezvous.”

  Solomon stilled. “Your fiancée? You’re getting married?”

  “Eventually.” James smiled, and it was the smile of a man in love.

  Fuck.

  “Actually,” James said. “Christiana turned down my proposal, at least in the interim. However, I intensely dislike the term girlfriend. She’s more than my girlfriend. Hence, fiancée.”

  “Did she accept a collar?” Solomon asked.

  “She did.”

  “Then call her your sub.”

  “She is that, but again, she is more.” James raised his glass. “To my Christiana.”

  Solomon stared at his glass and wished he’d opted for liquor. Nevertheless, he touched his wineglass to James’s cocktail glass of soda water.

  They each sipped, and Solomon was thinking about what he wanted to say next when James beat him to it. “Why are you?”

  “Why am I what?”

  “Why are you here? You said you don’t want to be here, so why are you here?”

  “I’m here to save you.” Solomon grimaced. “I sound like an ass.”

  “To save me… from what?” James set down his glass, but that was his only outward reaction to Solomon’s words.

  “From making a mistake.” Solomon looked up. “I’m here to stop you from falling in love.”

  Chapter 2

  A day of hard work should end with a good meal, better wine, and something for the soul. It was a lifestyle phi
losophy Vivienne Deschamps’ grandmother had taught her. Celeste Deschamps—her maiden name, as Celeste had been far too interesting to ever marry—had technically been Vivienne’s great-aunt, her grandfather’s sister. But Celeste had taught Vivienne most of the things she now knew that were worth knowing.

  When Vivienne had been younger, she hadn’t understood all Celeste’s lessons. She hadn’t wanted to. As much as she loved the woman she called Grandmother, young Vivienne had planned a life for herself very different than Celeste’s, so there had been no need to know how to command respect while remaining feminine, the correct way to make an enemy, or how to walk into a room as if everyone there was waiting on you even if you hadn’t even been invited.

  The woman Vivienne had planned to be would never walk into a room alone. Would never be alone. Never have an enemy.

  But life had knocked Vivienne back, and the wildness and romanticism that had marked her twenties was long since gone, replaced by the cunning grace she’d learned from Celeste, even if she hadn’t bothered to practice the art until life had jaded her.

  There were some people who would say that she wasn’t jaded, but cold. Hard.

  Vivienne waited for the driver to open her door, then carefully stepped out, taking the chauffeur’s hand and allowing him to help her rise to her feet. He used his other hand to hold an umbrella over her, and escorted her to the overhang of the building in the second arrondissement where this month’s Orchid Club event was taking place.

  She’d done a hard day’s work—meetings, contracts, decisions. So many decisions. Decision fatigue was what her therapist called it.

  “Merci,” she murmured to the driver once she was safe from the rain. He bowed slightly and returned to his vehicle, pulling away from the curb at the same time the double doors in the center of the building facade opened.

  “Welcome, Mademoiselle Deschamps,” Lillian greeted her in French. “We’re glad you were able to join us.”

  “Of course. I could hardly miss it when it’s in my backyard.”

  Lillian inclined her head, her black gown and hairstyle wonderfully restrained.

  Vivienne wore a black-and-white houndstooth trench over her business attire of a plum pencil skirt and gray silk blouse. The outfit, like everything she wore, was intimidatingly expensive, bespoke, feminine yet austere.

  “Did the courier deliver my things?”

  “Yes. They are waiting for you in the dressing room.”

  The attendant who stood with Lillian, most likely acting as a guard, stepped forward. “May I help you with your coat, ma’am?”

  Vivienne held out her bag, which Lillian immediately took, cradling the designer purse gently. Turning, Vivienne allowed the attendant to draw the coat off, then, taking back both items, draped the coat over one arm. Following Lillian’s directions, she walked through the small lobby and pressed the elevator button. It was refreshing not to have someone hovering, waiting to ensure she didn’t have to push a button or open a door on her own.

  The elevator opened and she stepped in. When the doors closed, she let out a sigh and slumped back against the wall, blessedly alone for once.

  There’d been a time when she would have taken off her own coat and summarily dismissed anyone who dared hover and fuss over her—her small rebellion against the life of privilege she’d been born into. She had, of course, let her lover open doors and pull out chairs. After all, that had been chivalrous and romantic.

  Now attendants and underlings opened doors, did her errands, and took care of the day-to-day aspects of her life. Some women gave off a helpless aura, and people assisted them out of pity or compassion.

  Vivienne was far from helpless.

  Celeste had moved though life like a duchess, and Vivienne had, when she abandoned her wild rebellion and inane romanticism, channeled her grandmother, adopting the same aura of aristocratic entitlement. At first she’d only been imitating the older woman, hoping no one saw it for the facade it was, but now she owned it. Her assistant Aldric waited outside her front door in the morning, pressed the button for the elevator, and held it open for her while quietly reviewing that day’s schedule. The doorman or concierge opened the front door of the elegant apartment building in central Paris—a building she owned—where her penthouse was. The chauffeur opened the car door, security officers bowed and greeted her as she entered the lobby of her company, while still others pressed elevator buttons.

  They catered to her, took care of her, and in exchange she made the decisions that made the money that kept all of those people employed, her investors happy, and the more abhorrent members of her family far away.

  Decision fatigue. It was why she ate at the same five or six restaurants, and at each they knew what she wanted. She never looked at a menu, not because she was snotty or demanding, though she was sure that’s what some of them thought. She didn’t look at the menu because by the time she ate dinner at nine o’clock at night she was exhausted, and couldn’t stand to make one more decision.

  A day of hard work should end with a good meal, better wine, and something for the soul.

  She worked hard today, as she did every day. She’d had a lovely meal, two glasses of a bold Bordeaux, and now…

  Now it was time to find something for her soul.

  The elevator doors opened.

  Vivienne followed signs to the submissives’ dressing room.

  Submission was how she fed her soul.

  She’d been introduced to this life when she was young. Back then her Master had been her lover, her beloved, and the power exchange had been about trust. She trusted him with her heart and her body. He trusted her enough to show her what he needed when it came to sex. She’d naively thought his mild sexual sadism had been his dark side, and she’d embraced it.

  She’d walked away from this life for a time after their relationship ended. It would be more accurate to say she limped away, bloody and bruised, from the cataclysmic conclusion of that chapter of her life. She’d tried to stay away from BDSM, but she’d been barely twenty the first time she knelt at a Dom’s feet, and those formative sexual experiences had shaped her. It had taken time, but she’d come back to this lifestyle.

  Once BDSM had been about trust. Now it was about control and pain.

  Vivienne needed the power exchange that absolved her of all decision making, and the physical pain of impact play for stress relief. BDSM was a balm that offset the exhaustion of decision fatigue, and allowed her sexual release and emotional connection without the complications of a relationship.

  The changing room was well appointed, though the atmosphere tonight’s host had been striving for was diminished somewhat by the closed businesses and offices she’d had to walk by to get here. She vaguely recognized at least one of the business names, meaning her company probably had dealings with them.

  A locker bearing her name contained the items she’d sent over earlier. The dress code for this event was formalwear. That meant the Doms and Dommes would be in tuxedos and evening gowns. The interpretation of formalwear for submissives was left up to the individual. Vivienne hung her coat on a hanger, placing it in the tall locker, then took a moment to look around.

  Her fellow submissives, a few males, but mostly other women, wore an array of ensembles, from a black mesh cocktail gown with nothing underneath to an elegant black lace and satin corset paired with black-and-white lace panties. A male sub had opted for a full tuxedo, but the pants had been modified to include a codpiece, which undoubtedly could be removed to provide easy access to his cock.

  A group of three was gathered nearby, two of whom Vivienne recognized. They were speaking English, and their accents would have given them away as American, even if she hadn’t known two from previous events.

  The woman with a brown A-line bob and pink glasses was named Jenny. She wore a black sequined cocktail dress with a fat gold zipper in the front. The zipper was undone to just below Jenny’s bellybutton, showing off a healthy portion of skin and most of
the white-and-gold lace bra that hugged Jenny’s breasts.

  “Cheryl, I told you I’d take you shopping,” Jenny was saying to one of the other women.

  “It’s Paris, I thought it would be easier to find something.” Cheryl was the second of the two Vivienne recognized. Cheryl was Asian—Vivienne suspected Thai—with black hair and dark brown eyes. She was wearing a bra and panty set, nothing more.

  “You found plenty of things to buy,” Jenny countered.

  Cheryl turned to the mirror, checking to make sure her center part was perfect, and that her bright red lipstick hadn’t smudged. “Of course I bought things. I just didn’t find anything I was willing to have ripped off of me.”

  “We could have gone someplace cheaper. Printemps Haussmann, or something like that.” Jenny adjusted the edges of the cocktail gown, making sure they framed her breasts, then looked down at the third woman in their little trio, who was seated on a stool before the mirror. “You look wonderful, Christiana.”

  The third woman had long brown hair and an olive complexion. Vivienne had never seen her before, but Vivienne’s own attendance at these events had been spotty. She only attended when the need to submit overwhelmed her, or when she could align business meetings to take place before or after the event, in whatever city or locale was that month’s host.

  Vivienne swallowed, fighting back a knot of feeling, and stepped out of her shoes. She needed the release of submission tonight. It had been too long and she was holding onto her self-control so tightly she felt numb from the pressure.

  Christiana rose from the stool. “Thank you, Cheryl, Jenny. Cheryl, I have an extra outfit. I brought four and only need three, if you want one.” Christiana wore a long, cream-colored dress. It was deceptively simple, a sheath of heavy satin, fastened at the shoulders with large knots that were probably functional. A tug here and there and her Dom would have the ties undone. Then the heavy fabric would slip and slither down her body.

  Christiana’s only jewelry was a simple leather collar around her neck.

  Vivienne hated that she felt jealous.