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Before those revelations, Gen hadn't known anything about the BDSM world except the distortions of pop culture, but once she learned--again through Chloe--more about what a Mistress was, it had certainly explained a lot about the effortless power Marguerite seemed to exercise over everyone in her world, though Chloe said that Dominants were as diverse as any other group. Not all Mistresses were like Marguerite.
Actually, I think there's no one like Marguerite, Chloe had said, with a twinkle in her eye.
Lyda exuded similar qualities. Obviously. So it made sense. She was a Mistress. Maybe she had trouble containing those boundaries within a proper environment, and Gen was just inexperienced in dealing with that kind of thing.
Even though Chloe frequently encouraged Gen to join them at The Zone, the BDSM club they frequented, and in which Tyler had an ownership interest, Gen had always declined. It wasn't her world. She wasn't drawn to that. Or rather, by not exposing herself, she was making sure she wasn't. She'd been down the sexually adventurous road in her early twenties. Two marriages had pretty much burned her out on all of it.
She had gone as far as looking up the club online. It was a classy, high-end establishment, the membership fee making her blanch. Marguerite had never encouraged her to visit it the way Chloe had, but that didn't mean anything. Marguerite really wasn't the "C'mon, girlfriend, let's get our freak on at the BDSM club tonight" type.
Gen grinned, equilibrium restored. This was her world. It was comfortable, quiet, what she knew. Things made sense. She amused herself by imagining Lyda in stereotypical dominatrix gear. Sleek, form-fitting black latex that clung to hips and trim waist. Those generous breasts would swell out the top of a corset, her long red hair loose and caressing pale shoulders. She'd be wearing gloves, the kind that fit like a second skin and went past a woman's elbows. Gen had a black, silky pair she'd picked up at a yard sale. She wore them at home sometimes for no reason, since she had nowhere to wear them.
She imagined Lyda reaching out, black-clad fingers touching Gen's face, then sliding up to her temple, into her hair, tightening there. Gen would sink to her knees, right in front of those sleek, latex-covered thighs. Would she put her lips on one and stay there, eyes closed, as Lyda stroked her hair?
She'd moved into the storeroom, was measuring out tea, but that thought brought her to a halt. Arousal dampened her panties. Weird. Another word for bizarre, peculiar and uncanny. Uncanny. She liked that one. She'd become addicted to the thesaurus as part of her collage hobby, trading out words for the patterns she created, preferring the aesthetic look of one word over another because of its combination of consonant tails and fat vowels. Other times she just liked how it fit the tone of the picture she was making. Earth instead of dirt... Rain instead of water... A choice of one versus the other made a different impression on the senses.
She was spending too much time daydreaming. The phone was going to start ringing with more orders, the door opening on the midmorning rush. She shouldn't be dallying, not when Marguerite was handling customers and a visitor.
She laid a light towel over the container holding the Ceylon, seeing no need to seal it for a quick dash. Until it was too late. She came out of the storeroom at the quick march and ran smack up against another human being.
Tea leaves did a tsunami wave over the dislodged towel, the fruit-and-molasses smell clouding the air. Oh, shit. She should have put a lid on the bowl, should have...
A pair of strong male hands caught hold of Gen to keep her from tumbling, but in so doing, the kind stranger was unable to defend himself from the onslaught and took the shower of leaves square in the face. Now he was sneezing.
"Oh God. I'm so sorry. Are you all right?" She snatched a paper towel from the storeroom, wet it down in the utility sink and came back out with it, bending down to insert it in his field of view. He had his hands on his knees, his head down. "Here, wipe this under your nose and on your face."
He managed a quick grin between another couple hard sneezes. "Sorry." He complied with her direction, took another paper towel from her to blow his nose, then one more damp one to finish things off. As he straightened, she saw he was a handsome mid-twenties, slim but charismatic, his sleek dark hair pulled back to show sharply sculpted facial features. He wore black-and-silver braided bracelets double-wrapped on his wrists, black jeans and a white T-shirt. A matching choker was wrapped around his throat, completing a somewhat Goth look. No eye makeup or black nails, though.
"Subdued Goth?" she ventured, seeking something to say other than apologies.
Brown eyes like rich cocoa sparkled at her, setting off those butterflies again. She must be going through some weird hormone surge today.
"I teach sailing at the community college," he explained. "Runny black eye liner scares the students."
"But you are a Goth?"
He shrugged, cleared his throat. "When I go to a club, I might trick myself out with the full regalia, but not so much on a day-to-day basis anymore. I'm evolving. I was never much of a music-inspired Goth anyhow."
This was the kind of eccentric conversation Chloe loved. She'd jump with both feet into someone's head, ferret out every intriguing thing about them. Usually Gen had a sideline seat to enjoy the show, but maybe today she'd try something different. Maybe she'd be the one daring to find out more.
"Is there another type of Goth?" Stepping back into the storeroom, she began to measure out more Ceylon, trying not to think of the gimlet eye Marguerite would level upon her for her carelessness. It wasn't cheap, one of the Sri Lanka teas that came from the highest elevations.
"I'm inspired by movie and literary geniuses of the genre," he said, leaning in the door, entirely comfortable. Of course, trying to asphyxiate someone with tea did bring down social barriers. "Like Edgar Allan Poe."
"I really don't know much about Goths," she admitted. "I didn't know there were different...sects."
"That's all right." He grinned again. "My perspective isn't that common. I tend to do my own thing. I was born in the wrong time period."
She replaced the lid, sealed the container and efficiently swept the counter. As she moved to the doorway and he straightened, she saw he was probably close to six feet. Not quite as tall as Marguerite's Tyler, but still a nice height.
"Maybe you weren't born in the wrong time period," she suggested. "Maybe you were alive then, and now you're here, reincarnated. You can't stay in the same time period forever."
Good God, Chloe was rubbing off on her. Not only was she talking like her, she was finding the topic engaging.
"Except during sex," he observed. "That's the only way you can make time stop, during any lifetime."
She gave him a sharp look, prepared to say something a little more distancing, but his serious expression said he wasn't flirting, just making a simple observation. "Spoken like a guy," she responded lightly.
"No," he said. "It's not like that. Everyone knows about that kind of sex. Or they should."
