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I glanced over my shoulder to where Renata stood watching. Her expression was curious – not outraged or offended. She was as emotionally detached as a scientist studying an experiment.
I got back to my feet. April’s eyes were still screwed shut. I scraped my thumbnail along the zipper of my jeans so that it made a convincing sound. “I want you to suck my cock,” I told April. “And if I’m satisfied – if you please me – I will allow you to come.”
April lunged forward with her mouth open wide and a desperate growl of hunger in the back of her throat. When she realized it had all been a charade, her eyes flew wide. She looked up at me, and then saw Renata nearby. April blinked owlishly. She looked embarrassed and stunned by the eagerness she had revealed.
I glanced at Renata to be sure I had made my point, and then I cupped April’s chin in the palm of my hand and stooped to kiss her fondly on the cheek. “Thanks for an interesting night,” I said. “I think it’s time for me to go.”
The sun was rising by the time I finally made it back to my apartment.
I crawled into bed and slept like the dead until late in the afternoon.
Chapter 19.
The ‘Victorian’ was an upscale restaurant at the southern end of Newbury Street. The building was old, the décor ornate and lavish. The high ceiling was molded in swirling relief patterns and heavy plush drapes hung from the walls, creating a cozy, elegant atmosphere.
Huge crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the light glittering into a myriad of golden shards so that the overall effect was to create an intimate sense of timelessness – of being transported back to an era of opulent luxury.
The maître D’ and wait staff were dressed in tuxedos complete with bow ties, and there was a grand piano in a secluded corner, the music lilting around the tables like a gentle breeze. I was led to a table against a wall of the restaurant. One of the staff asked me if I would like to see the wine list. I suddenly remembered Grover telling me that Cindy was just twenty years old… and so I ordered a couple of Cokes while the waiter tried to disguise his distress.
I glanced at my watch – it was a few minutes before 7pm. To while away the time I looked casually around at the other patrons. They were mostly elderly couples – the kind of folks you find on cruise ships. The men all wore ill-fitting suits, and ties that fashion long ago forgot. The women were grey-haired and dripping with jewelry, as though this was a rare opportunity to dress lavishly and they were going to make the most of it. I was wearing a sports jacket and my best jeans.
I felt decidedly out of place.
She came from behind me so that the first thing I remember was the intoxicating scent of her perfume, and then I sensed her presence close behind my chair. I didn’t turn round.
“Hello, Jericho,” I heard a playful smile in her words, and recognized Sondra’s voice. She put her hand lightly on my shoulder and then leaned close. I felt myself stiffen. I felt the electric charge of her touch draw my nerves tight. Her lips brushed against my ear and her voice dropped to a sensual whisper. “I am so glad you decided to meet me,” she husked. “Just the sight of you has been enough to soak my panties.”
I didn’t move. I sat staring ahead into the empty space. “I didn’t have much choice,” I said, careful to drain my tone of any emotion. “But as we agreed, after this dinner, you stop calling the radio station.”
Sondra gasped a soft breath that sent a tingle jolting down my spine… and then stepped from behind my chair and stood across the table from where I sat.
I couldn’t believe it.
I shot bolt upright.
“My god!” the words were wrenched from me in utter shock as I gaped at the woman. “You’re Sondra?”
Chapter 20.
Nancy Collett waited with an enigmatic smile on her face while a flustered waiter hurried to the table and drew out her chair. She smiled up at the man’s face in polite dismissal, and then turned her gaze to me.
“Hello, Jericho,” she said again, this time all pretense of the Sondra voice was gone, but what remained, like an undercurrent to her tone, was the sultry hint of sexuality that inflected her words. Her eyes were slanted, her lips slightly parted and ripe as fruit.
She was wearing a long dress, cinched tight at the waist and cut low at the neckline so that I could see the cleft of her breasts as they pressed against the fabric. Around her throat was a thin diamond-studded choker. Her hair was different, styled straight so that it brushed the tops of her shoulders.
“Surprised?”
“Shocked,” I said – and I meant it. I frowned, still reeling in disbelief.
Nancy seemed pleased by my reaction. There was a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. She set down a little glittering clutch bag on the edge of the table and leaned closer. Her gaze never left me.
“I’m a submissive,” she said, “… or at least I was a long time ago. It’s something that has never left me – that deep compelling desire to surrender myself to the right man. When you walked into my world, I simply knew I had to have you.”
I sat back and scraped my fingers through my hair. Suddenly all the air seemed to have been sucked from the room. I glared at Nancy, my face somehow impassive, but behind the blank expression my mind was lurching between shock and dread.
“Why the charade?” I spat the words out. Slowly my surprise was turning into a simmering anger. I felt somehow betrayed. She had deceived me.
Nancy detected the edge to my voice. She flinched. Her eyelids beat like a butterfly’s wings, but she remained composed, now eager to explain herself before my anger turned to outrage.
“I’m a forty-one year old woman, Jericho. I’m not the kind of woman that normally interests a man like you – I know that,” she shrugged her shoulders and softness came into her eyes. “I knew I wouldn’t be able to compete with all the pretty young things that would be drawn to you – women like Cindy or April…”
Her voice trailed off into a reflective silence.
I said nothing.
Nancy searched my face for some sign of understanding. I doubted what she saw there gave her any encouragement. She went on in a tortured torrent of words.
“I knew I had to find a way to create an opportunity – that’s all I wanted. An opportunity for you to see the real me – the passionate submissive that has lurked, too long neglected, beneath the everyday exterior.”
I shook my head. None of this was making sense. “But you’re a hard brutal bitch – that’s your work reputation. You’re a ball breaker with your staff. I just can’t believe that you would have a single submissive tendency in that body of yours.”
I took a closer look at that body. It was in good shape. Nancy clearly worked out. She was slim, her figure with the kind of lean muscle tone that comes from long hours on a Stairmaster.
I was still shaking my head. “It just seems too out of character…”
Nancy pursed her lips. “Far from it,” she assured me. “A lot of high-powered executive men in the business world are secret submissives. They become that way because of the constant stress of their work. All day long they are the hard no-compromising bastard with an eagle-eye on the bottom line… so when they get home, they see submission as a release – a relief. For them it’s a chance to let someone else have control. That’s what I want. That’s what I need you to give me.”
I started shaking my head slowly, hearing the words but not under
standing. Everything was a turmoil that set my instincts scrambling into utter confusion.
“You want to submit to me? You want me to become your Master?”
“Jericho, you make it sound like something utterly bizarre, but what I want is not uncommon. There are millions of women in the world like me,” Nancy’s words were raw and heartfelt. “Some are business executives, others work full-time jobs. Others are full-time mothers. They spend all day being someone else – shouldering the burdens of their careers, their livelihoods and their families. Eventually we become numbed. We forget the sheer simple delight of being a woman and the relief many women feel at being able to surrender to someone else. Daily life consumes us. We end up becoming who we need to be to survive, and forget to connect with who we instinctively are.”
Nancy’s gaze was steady. She was leaning across the table, tense and earnest. Her hand fluttered on the table like a bird with a broken wing.
“I want you to give me the chance to experience submission again,” she went on. I had the feeling she was slipping into a speech that had been carefully rehearsed. I didn’t think Nancy was the kind of woman who would argue emotionally. She would be practical. That’s what bothered me.
I sat way back in the chair as though to give myself space. A waiter came to the table with menus clutched to his chest. He gave me a smarmy pretentious smile and laid the leather folders down on the table before us with a flourish.
“Are madam and sir enjoying themselves?”
Nancy looked up into the man’s face and her expression became bleak. “Go away,” she said. There was an icy frost on her lips. The waiter faltered and the blood drained away from his face. His eyes widened for an instant in shock, and then he turned on his heel and disappeared.
“Well?” Nancy tried to reach for my hand as if to seize back my attention. “What do you think?”
I wasn’t thinking anything. My mind was still reeling. I took a deep breath and tried to work through how I felt.
