Orion

ORION Roscoe James

www.loose-id.com

Warning This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

***** DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither Loose Id LLC nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.

Orion Roscoe James This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author‟s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Loose Id LLC 870 Market St, Suite 1201 San Francisco CA 94102-2907 www.loose-id.com Copyright © May 2009 by Roscoe James All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

ISBN 978-1-59632-973-7 Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader

Printed in the United States of America

Editor: Georgia A. Woods Cover Artist: Anne Cain

He whispered in the dark. “Tell me where to touch you so I may drive you insane.” She smiled. He blew on her ear. “Tell me where you find the greatest pleasure.” Her skin exploded in a million tiny bumps. He trailed his finger down her spine and insisted. “Tell me of your most intimate place that I may rape and ravage you beyond all reason.” She kissed him softly and whispered back. “Touch my mind.” —Author unknown

Chapter One “Come on, Larry, do it for me.” Pamela Wilkinson pleaded, but Larry wouldn‟t budge. Voice low and sultry, she pushed her bare ass into his hard cock and tried a more direct approach. “Take me.” “No. It‟s not right.” Finally he spit out what he really wanted to say. “Bullshit. It‟s stupid. It‟s nasty.” She was shocked. Fucking had never been nasty to hunky Larry before. She pressed into his hard cock once more and asked for clarification. “This is nasty?” He turned away, taking his hard cock with him. “No, Pammy, not that. The rope. The whip. Handcuffs, for God‟s sake. It‟s stupid.” What a pussy. And stop calling me Pammy! Another in a string of summer duds. She sighed and slipped the knot between her wrists with her teeth. All dressed up and no place to go. Pam slid off the bed and slipped her black heels on. She walked to the sliding glass doors that opened onto the tenthfloor balcony above Eighty-fifth Street and fished for the curtain pull. The drapes that hid their nasty deed opened wide. Well, nasty thoughts. There’d been no deed. She looked over her shoulder and said with a modicum of disdain, “Your loss.” She slid one of the glass doors open to vigorous protestation from Summer Dud Number Three and stepped naked onto the balcony. Pam smiled at the lit windows in the building across the street. The thought of all the possible onlookers gave her a small thrill. How many are watching? She didn‟t know why. She couldn‟t explain that any more than she could explain why the feel of rope around her wrists made her moan. Summer Dud groaned when a shadowy form appeared in a window almost directly across the street from them and waved. He groaned louder when she waved back.

2

Roscoe James

Pamela, Pam to the herd at the watercooler, wanted excitement. She fisted the muggy night air with both hands, locked her knees, and spread her legs. She stretched and grinned like a banshee when the shadowy form in the window moved closer for a better look. The voyeur‟s white sheer fluttered aside, and the black outline took the form of a man. She wanted more than excitement. She wanted danger. “You gonna get in here?” She ignored Larry and planted her elbows on the stone rail. There was enough of a breeze to tease her nipples to attention while she watched the red end of her shadowy voyeur‟s cigarette glow to life and wane. “Why don‟t you get out here, Larry? Let‟s do the nasty right here where God and everyone else can see. Live a little, Larry.” Her quest, the events that brought her naked to Larry‟s balcony under the gaze of a stranger, all started during the big freeze the previous February. A friend of a friend of someone Pam didn‟t really know had dropped by her cubicle at the dungeon, the steel and carpet savanna that surrounded the watercooler at the office, and asked if she and Jolie were busy later that night. “I know this guy that‟s having a showing at Littlewood‟s in SoHo. Photography. He‟s afraid no one‟s gonna show with this weather. It‟s RSVP, and I‟ve got some passes if you two want to go.” Her oldest friend at the dungeon, the Fortune 500 they both slaved at Monday through Friday, Jolie was a tall, full-figured black girl with her hair cut close. She sported decidedly European facial features and a ready smile that made you want to do the same. Jolie had grabbed the two engraved invitations and said, “Sure, why not.” The gallery was a small beacon of light that shined bright on three feet of powdery white snow on the sidewalk in front. The place was far from empty when they checked their coats and heavy wool scarves. It smelled like sandalwood, oil paint, turpentine, and…something else. “What is that smell?” Jolie sniffed. “Money,” she whispered. “No, something else. Something…” They both took proffered wineglasses and geometrically perfect cubes of cheese, and sauntered. The work was hidden. The only hint at what lay beyond the large white partition was a larger-than-life black-and-white photo of a rather unremarkable

Orion

nude male specimen kneeling on bare concrete and licking the black vinyl-clad ass of a rather rotund black woman. The man‟s hands were intricately bound behind his back, his eyes covered with a blindfold. “Kinky,” Jolie said with a giggle as they stepped around the partition into the main gallery. “Leather,” Pam whispered. “What?” “That other smell. Leather.” “Oh.” The show space was large. The white walls were blemished not by huge exhibitions of photographs, but by small holes that people stopped to peep into before moving on. The open space between the two opposing walls where people would normally congregate to sip wine and talk was covered by a carefully manicured Japanese rock garden. Furrows and ridges of raked gravel flowed in waves until they collided with a wooden frame that marked the edge and defined where people could and couldn‟t walk. Control. One large stone stood tall, almost phallic, in one corner of the gravel garden opposite two shorter, less-dominant rock obtrusions in a delicate opposing balance of space on a single plane. “What the hell is this?” Jolie sounded indignant. She followed Jolie‟s gaze and watched the line move. Heads would lean in and people stood licking their lips or scratching their heads. They waited as a handful of laughing patrons of the arts lined up like schoolkids on a playground getting ready to go to lunch and started their trek. Pam noticed that by the fourth hole the line had quieted and marched on obediently. She said little while she followed Jolie, who lavished each peephole with a unique critique. Each photo was large and set inside the wall some distance away. Each viewed only through a crudely cut hole. Not a diorama. It was like peeping in on a secret event. Being a voyeur to what was taking place. The black-and-white photographs highlighted the contrast the subjects and props depicted. Leather, rope, chains, and vinyl. Whips and cuffs. Balls with leather straps and full head masks with zippers. Skinny, fat, voluptuous, and beautiful. A mix of black and white that went beyond definition of medium. All

3

4

Roscoe James

were photos of two people in a combination of same and opposing sexes engaged in intimate moments of dominance and submission. The viewer‟s prejudices and predilections determined how the moment in time was seen. “This shit is nasty, girl. Will you look at that?” Pam leaned in to inspect Jolie‟s idea of nasty. A woman of indefinable age, arms strapped tight up and behind her back with leather straps, a black collar around her neck, was swallowing a rather large fat cock. The woman‟s eyes were covered, and a chain not unlike a leash you‟d walk the family pet with was pulled tight between the woman‟s black collar and the balled fist of the naked man that stood over her. Their bodies were covered with sweat. The man was wearing an ornate opera mask with black-and-white feathers that shot up at odd angles. Pam had tugged on the top of her turtleneck sweater and looked around furtively to see if she was being watched. Another look, and she studied the collar the woman wore. The way it made an indent at the back of her neck. The way the chain seemed to strain. The strength in the man‟s forearm. Ropes of muscle and a black carpet of hair. Moving on, Pam searched for a Kleenex in her purse and dabbed her brow. By the time they were halfway along the opposite wall, it was obvious Jolie was thoroughly disgusted. Pam was thankful Jolie was distracted. “Now that‟s my kinda picture.” Pam stepped up and peeped through the hole. A stiletto wearing nude black woman with heavy breasts and a round, plump ass, that made you think she might topple at any moment, leaned over the ass of the prostrate form of a skinny white man nude but for a blindfold pulled around his eyes. In one hand the black dominatrix wielded a black leather riding crop that was landing on her subject‟s back while she shoved a shiny black dildo into his ass. Pam‟s shiver was not one of revulsion. At the end of the last wall they followed the line of onlookers around a corner, down a short white hallway, where they found a sign on top of a chrome stand that read: FIND YOUR PLACE IN THE UNIVERSE. A woman dressed in a leather corset, leather shorts that hugged her ass, fishnet

Orion

stockings, and black stilettos raised a riding crop to stop them while a person walked through a curtained door. “Can you believe the shit they pass off as art?” Pam laughed nervously at Jolie‟s remark, leaving her position open to interpretation. “I mean, what is all this chain and leather shit? Do they think people really get off on this stuff?” She laughed again and had a thought. Your protests are a little too heated. “Oh, c‟mon, Jolie. Don‟t tell me you wouldn‟t let that hunk with the chain and funny mask do whatever he wanted to you.” “Yeah, well, sure, girl. Or maybe I‟d rather be the one pulling the chain.” “So you‟re the black dominatrix with the hunky boy kissing your feet.” “My pappy always said, „Whatever floats your boat.‟” Pam fell quiet while the line moved up, and wondered what happened if the boat sank. Jolie broke their reverie with a stage whisper as they stepped up to the leather-clad girl. “Hell, honey, that gorgeous hunk of man meat with the feathers on his head can do anything he wants to me.” Jolie was waved through and Pam turned to look at the line. An eclectic mix of ages, races, body sizes, and dispositions. Some were chatting softly, while others were quiet to the point of reverence. Bored senseless? Scared shitless? Then it was her turn. She pushed the black drape aside and stepped into a space dominated by four full-color photographs. All bigger than life. Two propped against the wall on the floor and the other two hung a foot from the floor. They stretched nearly to the ceiling. She stopped at a photo of a young woman kneeling, a ball strapped into her mouth, a leather harness capturing her body. A real chain fell from the woman‟s collar in the photograph. In front of the large mounted poster was a small white pedestal. The model‟s eyes were unmasked; her knees were spread, her chin up, and her gaze downcast. The real chain drooped from the collar in the photograph and was draped across a small white pedestal where Pam stood. A small leather loop on the end dangled so the observer could pick it up. On the floor were two black shoe prints with a legend: STAND HERE.

5

6

Roscoe James

How much would she do? How many demands can be made of her? While intriguing, the thought wasn‟t titillating. The next photo was the same. The only difference was the subject. A man. His harness included a loop that wrapped the base of his hard cock, pointing it up at whoever stood at the podium, and lifted the leather pull of his chain. His knees were together, but the rest of his pose was identical. Chin up, eyes down, arms disappearing around his back. Would he do more than she would? Would he do me with another man? Better yet, would he do the other man for me? Am I sick because the thought titillates? The third photograph was the old woman who dominated a man in an earlier photograph. She wore a leather corset with half cups where her withered breasts rested. The triangle of a leather G-string covered her pubic bone, and long leather boots covered her legs up to midthigh. The old woman‟s arms were spindly, her skin blotched with liver spots, and her hands gnarled. The leathery skin above her breasts was brown, her neck wrinkled, her gullet covered in flappy folds of skin. But it was her eyes that captivated. Proud. Defiant. Decidedly dominant. Pam looked away. A real chain drooped from the old woman‟s gnarled outstretched hand and fell to the floor, where it ended in a leather collar that rested on a red silk pillow. In front of the pillow was a rubber mat with marks that depicted the knees of someone kneeling. Pam felt hot and uncomfortable and moved on. At the last photograph, she found him. The man of the ornate opera mask, the top half of his face hidden. He wore a leather G-string that did little to hide his manhood, his half-hard cock shoved sideways, trying to break loose. His muscled legs and strong arms were covered in a carpet of curly fur. His chin was strong, chest broad and equally muscled. Another real chain fell from one hand and ended just like the previous photo‟s chain in a leather collar on a red silk pillow. Pam looked around to make sure she was alone. With trepidation, she stepped forward and kneeled. Looking up at the imposing figure, she blushed. Her fingers trembled when she reached for the collar and brought it to her neck. Not a real collar, it was a spring-loaded faux that snapped around her neck in one size that fit all. When she looked down her body, the first

Orion

7

thing she saw was the shiny chrome chain floating below her chin. Recalling the first photograph of the woman on her knees, she moved her hands behind her back and clasped them tightly. She opened her knees, raised her chin, and looked down across her cheeks. Then she saw it. Along the floor was a strip of poster board with words printed in bold black letters. A message that would only be noticed by those who obeyed. THIS IS WHO YOU ARE. DO NOT DENY IT. EMBRACE IT. Pam shivered. She wanted to look but was afraid to. But she had to look. She needed to know the face of the man who could dominate her even through a photograph. When she finally chanced a glance, she was disappointed. The feathered opera mask was still in place. Only black was visible through the eyeholes. She cursed the figure that dominated her. I’d do anything for you, and I hate you. Another man? Four? Would I do a woman? Would I let a woman do me? Is it about the person who submits or the one who makes the demands? Someone cleared their throat and she jerked, making the chain sing. Pam blushed and looked around to find the leatherclad girl leaning around the curtain to whisper. “I‟m sorry. There are a lot of other people waiting. She grabbed the collar from her neck and threw it on the floor in front of the picture. His picture. Pam jumped to her feet and ran past the girl. She shot into another brightly lit room, where waiters circulated handing out more wine and geometrically perfect cheese cubes. Goose-stepping her way past Jolie, who was talking to someone, Pam headed for a side entrance and practically ran headlong into the cold, snowy night, where she was finally able to breathe again.

***** Pam could feel it. She wasn‟t wet. She was soaking wet. Leaning farther out over the stone rail, she looked down at the traffic. When she looked back up, her voyeur had disappeared, his window just a dark, gaping hole in the side of the building. Larry had proven to be a moderately good lover. A rich kid living off daddy‟s money, he was eight years younger and built like one of those Harlequin romance

8

Roscoe James

models. His nice apartment was really nothing more than a very expensive weekend pad the kid used between weeks of college lectures, term papers, and frat parties. Pam thought she‟d done everything right this time. She‟d found the place in the Village Voice. Leather and lace, whips and chains. A club called The Darker Side. An alternate lifestyle club that lived in a warehouse basement. And there he‟d been. A dark brooding mass of muscles wrapped in a black T-shirt, black jeans, black boots with silver rings on the outside, with a head of wavy brown hair. Yes! This is it! This is the place and this is the man. He‟d looked older than he really was, but that hadn‟t stopped her. He‟d come on strong, and when he‟d whispered in her ear, she‟d done something she hadn‟t done in ages. She‟d creamed her black leather slacks. “I know what you need.” As luck would have it, anticipation had proven much more titillating than reality. Good in bed, but the kid just didn‟t know how to get into the most important cavity a woman had. Her head. He still didn‟t understand that the greatest and most powerful sex organ was between the ears, not the legs. She wanted more than a hard, hot cock and well-mannered tongue. She didn‟t want to hold the kid‟s hand and train him for the main event that someone else would get to enjoy. She wanted the thrill, the joy, the absolute unabashed abandon of being dominated. Not later. Not next week. Now. Larry‟s idea of kinky fun had turned out to be a reverse cowgirl while he stuck his thumb up her ass. Disgusted, she strode back into the bedroom and started picking up her clothes. “Aw, come on, hon. You don‟t have to go. C‟mon back to bed.” Pam found her backpack, stuffed her clothes in, found her piece of rope, the small whip she‟d picked up in a novelty shop, grabbed the scented oil from the nightstand, dropped it all on top of her clothes, and strode from the bedroom. Larry jumped out of bed and followed her through the living room into the small foyer, dragging a sheet wrapped around his waist. “Where ya goin‟? Aren‟t you gonna get dressed?” Pam pulled the door open and turned on him. “I know you‟ve got balls, Larry. I‟ve played with them enough. Get them out and use them every once in a while.” Larry sputtered. “But…but…you can‟t go out there like that!” “Oh, I‟m not going far. Maybe your neighbor across the street knows what to do with a woman when she‟s tied up and pleads take me!” Pam slammed the door on her way out. Larry didn‟t follow. She strode past the elevator and ducked into the stairwell, where she sobbed softly while she dug her clothes out and got dressed.

*****

Orion

9

A week had passed since she‟d walked out on Larry the Wimp. The little prick hadn‟t even bothered to call so she could hang up on him. August was drawing to a close, and six months had passed since that fateful winter night at Littlewood‟s. Pam had been to her gyn for the third time since May, and she was sure the good doctor had decided she was either a professional, or worse, a casual slut. She considered her close monitoring for STDs more a sign of the times than a statement concerning her lifestyle. She folded the lab report and stuck it inside her diary with the others. She flipped more pages and found her entry after visiting the exhibition. She ran the tip of her finger across her handwriting. The indentations and ridges somehow made it all come to life. After two minutes of lurid meditation, she slammed her diary shut in frustration. It’s like some kind of exclusive club that no one has the address to. She picked up her latest copy of the Village Voice and perused the pages. ROLEPLAY. SPANKINGS. DRESS UP. FANTASY. WORSHIP. DISCIPLINE. DOMINANCE. SUBMISSION. SADISM. MASOCHISM. NIPPLE TORTURE. LATEX/LEATHER FETISH. FLOGGING. She groaned in frustration. It seemed that even smoking had become a fetish. And all women or transsexuals. Was it a rite of passage? Did a woman teach and prepare? Then you were put on the block for men to fight over? Pam was reminded of pros looking for clients. She perused the clubs with their fully equipped, super-clean, everything-you-need, reserve-with-anticipation rooms that would make your party or get-together unique and different. The photos were dark and grainy, and the rooms looked dismal at best. Do I meet him at a bar? Run into him at the grocery store squeezing melons? Is he a friend of a friend of my uncle George? Is he the waiter at my favorite restaurant, the cop on the beat, the doorman at some ritzy hotel? Maybe he doesn’t work. Maybe the only thing he does is run a harem of slaves. Maybe he sold me my Village Voice yesterday. She flung the paper at her dresser mirror and curled into her pillow. Maybe he’s just a figment of my imagination.

***** That Friday Pam officially declared herself temporarily insane, miraculously cured, and very drunk while toasting the end of summer at The Rush after work with the rest of the herd. Littlewood‟s and its salacious temptations had been put away. Duds one, two, and three became faded, jaded memories over the next few weeks, along with her social life. The Rush and occasional outings on Saturday with Jolie became high points in her subsequent weeks of living the life vanilla. Nine to five in the corporate dungeon and grazing her fridge on Sunday while watching old movies and writing in her diary became her newest alternate lifestyle. “So what gives?” Pam sipped her umbrella drink and watched Jake the bartender do his thing. They had a pool going concerning Jake‟s sexual predilection and were always on the lookout for some kind of personal contact of the amorous kind. Gay or straight? The man was

10

Roscoe James

entirely too good-looking to be allowed out in public, and he wasn‟t wearing a ring. Beth from accounting had even walked up to the bar and asked him to his face if he was married. He‟d laughed, said no, and kept on polishing a glass. Mary Jo had spent an entire evening sitting at the bar flirting with the guy while Debbie from HR shuttled back and forth with salacious tidbits concerning Marjo‟s escapades. All to no avail. Well, not completely so. Jake always smiled and waved at the group when they came in, and their drinks were never watery. Pam finally turned to Jolie. “Wha‟d‟ya mean, what gives?” “Well, what the hell happened? What was that whole Tom, Dick, and Larry thing over the summer? Hell, we didn‟t see ya for more than three months. Then just like a bad penny, you turn up again. What the hell were you doin‟ anyway?” She didn‟t know if she could tell Jolie or not. She could still recall Jolie‟s words on the sidewalk in front of Littlewood‟s. “Well, that was a waste of time. Ain’t no man gonna put a collar and chain on me and shove his cock in my ass. Bunch of kinky-ass shit if you ask me.” Pam hadn‟t asked and in the face of Jolie‟s comment hadn‟t offered a reply. She hadn‟t really talked to anyone about it in spite of the fact she sorely wanted to. She glanced one last time at Jake, leaned in, and answered with a question, “You remember that exhibition we went to down in SoHo last February?” “You mean that whip and chain thing? I remember we froze our asses off trying to find a cab.” Pam could tell from Jolie‟s reply that she might be taking a wrong turn. She fingered her straw and looked at her drink. “Yeah, that one.” “Don‟t tell me you gave up on Mr. Goodbar and been out lookin‟ for Mr. Kinkbar instead?” When Pam didn‟t answer and continued to bounce her straw in her drink, Jolie went on. “You mean to tell me you got off on that shit?” Sure, I went home and strummed myself until my clit was sore and my fingers felt like they’d fall off. “Well, I just thought it was interesting, that‟s all.” Jolie sounded like a lawyer explaining to the judge why the prosecution was being such a stupid fucking iggiot. “You think it would be interesting to have some guy put a collar around your neck and lead you around on a chain.” And then I kept frigging myself for a week until I couldn’t touch myself without it hurting like hell. “It‟s not about being led around by a chain. There‟s more—” Jolie leaned in and interrupted with a wicked smile. “Like what? Do tell.” Pam didn‟t want to fight, but she didn‟t want to run either. She avoided defiant and went for fellow conspirator. “Okay, you tell me. Have you ever wanted Jason to storm through the front door so full of desire and lust for you that he couldn‟t control himself?” Jolie looked skeptical and didn‟t say anything.

Orion

11

“So hot for you that without saying a word he grabs you, drags you to the bedroom, throws you on the bed, shoves your dress up, rips your panties off, and takes you? The only thing you get from him is grunts and groans and one hell of a big O?” Pam leaned closer and added, “But that‟s all you need. That‟s all you want to hear. Grunts. Groans. And the sloppy slap of hard fucking. You want to be used by him. You want to know that he can have any woman he wants but he only wants you. And you want to know that you make him so mad with desire he can‟t control himself.” The pause became pregnant. Finally Jolie laughed. “Hell, girl, you been readin‟ too many a them there Har-lee-kan romance novels. And besides, what the hell does getting ravished on the bed in a fit of passion have to do with chains and whips?” “What if after he finishes, you‟re lyin‟ there full of cum, and he walks to his closet and gets out a few silk ties? What if he walks back to the head of the bed and slowly, deliberately, ties one of your wrists to the corner post of the bed? What if by the time he finishes with your other wrist, his cock is already hard again? What if after he ties both your ankles to the bed and you‟re spread-eagle and helpless, he gets a knife and slowly cuts your dress off?” Pam paused for effect. “Then what if he climbs between your thighs and drives you crazy for two hours straight with his tongue before getting on top of you with that big, fat, delicious cock he‟s been saving and he rides the quivering mess you‟ve become until you pass out just as you come for the tenth time?” Jolie stared, wide-eyed, her mouth hanging open. Pam went on. “Then after he wakes you up, your thighs sore from all that clenching and pulling, he kisses you long and hard and whispers, „Just one more.‟ Then he sticks his hot, hard cock into you one more time while he tells you how much he loves you. How much he needs you. How you‟re the only one that can make him feel like this.” Jolie roared with laughter. “I‟d get his phone number ‟cause I‟d be sure by then it wasn‟t Jason. Hell, you don‟t need no chains and whips. You be lookin‟ for Superman, girl. You must be thinkin‟ you‟re Lois Lane or some shit like that. Get on outta here.” Pam let the humor ride. It seemed to make the topic more palatable to Jolie. She leaned back and finished her drink, waved the waitress over, and leaned back across the table. “Okay. Let me ask you something else. And I want the truth.” Jolie sat her own empty glass on the table, licked her lips, and waited. “We no longer live in the age of women‟s lib. We live in an age that‟s the result of women‟s lib. The bras have been burned, the panties left at home, the job force has swelled, and the tax returns are joint. I‟m not saying the fight is over. I‟m just saying we‟re well into the journey. We‟ve tasted the forbidden fruit.” “Amen to that, sista.” “We get to choose when and where. Hell, we can even decide how many if we want. We can walk up to ol‟ Jake there at the bar, look him in the eye, and ask him what time he gets off, ‟cause we‟re feelin‟ horny and we wanna fuck…”

12

Roscoe James

Jolie smiled and touched her arm. “Well, we still don‟t know about Jake, but I get the point. So what‟s the question?” “As women we‟ve become partners in crime to the demise of our own romantic dreams and fantasies. Everything‟s programmed, confirmed five times, politically correct, if not, corrected, and you can‟t get laid unless your PDA is on the same wavelength as his. Don‟t you ever just want to be chained in some guy‟s dungeon and know that the only thing he‟s gonna want when he unlocks the door is mind-blowing sex and debauchery? And that he has you locked up in his dungeon because the only one he wants it from is you?” Jolie actually looked concerned. “Sweetie, my people done tried the whole chained in the dungeon thing. It wasn‟t all that great.” “C‟mon, Jolie, you know what I mean. Don‟t you just get the urge to turn over the keys and say, „She‟s all yours. Have a ball.‟ To let them drive for a while? Just lie back and let it happen?” “Femme fatale? Save me, you hunky piece of man meat, kind of happy ever after in a Gone With the Wind sorta way?” She grabbed Jolie‟s arm. “Not save me! Use me! Make me your slave kinda use me. Cover me in the seven veils of the thousand nights and use me and abuse me until we‟re both just a puddle of mush on the tent floor. Rewrite the Kama Sutra with me. Take me out and show me off. Make demands”—and she leaned closer—“because men don‟t make demands of things they don‟t want. Men don‟t invite nice girls to be their fantasy, because nice isn‟t in their fantasy bag.” Umbrellas appeared, and she and Jolie both retreated to safety behind their drinks. A plate of celery sticks floated by and they dipped and crunched while Marjo and Beth fought over who was going to do the deed. “Fuck you, bitch. I spent two hours with the guy. I get to do it.” “C‟mon. I did the hard part. I‟m the one that had the balls to ask him if he was married or not.” “Hell, honey, I coulda asked him that on the street corner.” Divine Deloris, sometimes Catholic, always circumspect, weighed in as referee. Waving her hand between them, she yelled above the low rumble of background noise that filled The Rush every Friday, “Draw straws!” Pam turned back to Jolie and tried a new tack. “Okay. Jake. We all think Jake‟s a hunk. We all enjoy the eye candy when we come in. We all get a little thrill when he waves and smiles—” “Speak for yourself, sweetie. Not enough ass for me. I want a ten-pound sledgehammer drivin‟ me home. Not some two-pound carpenter‟s tool.” “Okay. Not Jake. Some man. Your ideal. Maybe you saw him at the supermarket last week. Maybe he‟s the cable guy that came by to fix your service. Whoever. But you know who he is.”

Orion

13

“Oh yeah, honey, I know who he is all right. He was this mover guy that carried all them boxes up and stacked ‟em real nice in my bedroom. Just the thought of him still gives me the shivers.” Jolie animated the comment and sucked the straw of her drink. “Right, so Mr. Mover. What about this? How‟d you like to put a collar on him? Pull him around by his little ol‟ chain? Have him kneel on the floor by your chair just waiting for you to need something?” “Oh yeah, Pammy Wammy, that‟s what I be talkin‟ about.” “And what if what you wanted right this instant was a good pussy lickin‟? What if the urge just hit ya? What if you could just pick up the chain, walk him to the ladies‟ room, and let him do all the heavy lifting?” “Damn, girl. Stop that. You‟re makin‟ me all squishy inside.” Pam leaned in more. “And what if he lived for just that moment? What if just the thought of you pulling on his chain made him so hard he couldn‟t walk straight? What if he didn‟t care how long he had to kneel on the floor and wait? He‟d do it because he knew that‟s what you wanted.” She took a sip and added with a rush, “No, not what you wanted. What you needed. It‟s how you‟re wired, and the only thing he wants is to make you happy. He breathes, eats, and drinks to make you happy. He dresses to make you happy. He undresses to make you happier. He‟ll prance around your apartment in nothing but a French maid‟s apron serving cucumber sandwiches and tea to all your friends if that‟s what makes you happy. He will do anything to make you happy.” “Don‟t stop now! Bring it on home girl. Oh yeah. This is gettin‟ good.” Jolie wiggled on her stool and wiped her brow. The preacher took the pulpit. “What if your word was final? What if he was to kneel naked beside the door of your apartment all day with a big old hard-on just waiting for you to come home so he could service you any way you wanted?” “Praise the Lord!” “What if he slept on the carpet beside your bed just in case you needed something during the night? Maybe you want a glass of water. Maybe you want something else. All you have to do is give his chain a tug and he‟s there.” “Take my hand, Lord! Lead me to the light!” Pam lowered her voice. “What if he was bad? What if he did something wrong?” She sucked her straw and tried to read Jolie‟s expression. “What if he did it on purpose?” Jolie‟s face became serious. “What the hell would he do that for?” “Because he wants you to make it right. Because he wants you to show him what you want him to do.” Pam munched a celery stick and watched Jolie digest the sermon. Then she completed the thought. “Because he wants you to punish him. He shivers every time your hand falls across his bare ass. You can feel how hot his naked cheeks are with each hard slap. You can feel his hard cock poking you in the thigh every time your palm meets his rawhide.”

14

Roscoe James

Jolie fanned her face furiously and wiggled in her chair. “What if just your command could make him come? What if you could stand him in the middle of the room and tell him to get hard without using his hand and he did? What if you walk up behind him and whisper the word? What if when you do he can‟t control it? He doesn‟t want to. He only wants to please you. His body jerks, he grunts, and there it is. A long white stream shoots from the end of his cock. Then another. One more for good measure. Why? Because that‟s what you wanted. Because you ordered it. Because he lives for nothing more than to see you smile. What then?” “Deeee-aaaa-mn, girl. Is that what you‟re looking for? You lookin‟ for a boy toy? You lookin‟ for your very own sex slave? Why didn‟t ya just say so?” “But who would he be to you? I mean, he‟s a slave to your love and attention. He walks this earth just for you. Who would he be to you?” “Hell, girl. He‟d be the most important thing in my life. He‟d be my prize possession.” “And how do you treat your prize possessions?” “Honey, I‟d cross the burnin‟ sands of the Sahara barefoot for him. Shit, I‟d take a bullet for that dude.” Jolie took a long draw on her drink and stared off in the distance. “Hell yeah. You better believe it. A bullet.” Pam felt her hand tremble when she picked up her drink, and she promptly put it back down. The other end of the long table erupted in a cacophony of jeers and whistles, and they turned to watch Marjo and Beth both strut off toward the bar. “You go, ladies!” “Round ‟em up, cowgirls!” Jolie yelled above the noise. “What the hell are they doin‟?” Michelle, the blonde bombshell from shipping, was laughing so hard she nearly knocked her drink over. Finally she yelled back, “They couldn‟t decide, so both of them are going to see what he‟s doing after work!” Jolie whooped. Pam cradled her drink and sucked her straw. Yeah, if only it were that easy. When their dungeon mates made it to the bar and got Jake‟s attention, they all looked down at the table and tried not to laugh. Jolie was still snickering when she asked a question of her own. “Okay, yeah, I hear ya. So what does all that hot-man-love-slave stuff have to do with the price of tea in China?” Batter up. Tied game at three to three. Top of the ninth. Bases are loaded and they’ve sent in a pinch hitter. A rookie. She steps into the batter’s box, taps the plate, and stares down the pitcher. All she has to do, folks, is get a hit. Anything. Just knock the ball away from home plate and get the runner in from third. Just one hit, and the Yankees take home the pennant. I can’t imagine what they’re thinking sending her in. It’s been a long, dry summer for her this season…

Orion

15

I want to be the sex slave. I want to be the object on the end of the chain. I want to please him, serve him, and worship him. I want to be his slut, his baby girl, his toy. I want to feel his hot, hard hand on my bare ass when I‟ve been bad and his words of praise on my neck when I‟ve been so bad it‟s good. My heart beats for him, whoever he is. I want him to tell me what he wants me to be. No, I want him to tell me what I am. I want him to whisper it in my ear just before he uses me. I want him to whisper it again when he‟s done. When I‟m a quivering pile of blubbering flesh in a pool at his feet I want him to tell me one more time. I want to be his favorite child. I want to be his choice. I want to be that nasty little fantasy he doesn‟t trust anyone else with. The crowd goes wild! They’re on their feet! Two strikes, and the pitcher steps back and winds up. I can’t believe it, folks! They may tear the place down! The pitcher pitches, she steps into the ball, and swings…and it’s all over, folks! Strike three, she’s outta here! Pam cleared her throat. “Get real. Who doesn‟t want a sex slave? I‟m just asking a question.” Marjo and Beth‟s triumphant return saved her. Michelle yelled, “What happened?” Beth looked smug. “We just came to get our things, guuuurrrrls. We‟re going to wait for ol‟ Jakey boy at the bar.” “What?” Marjo started laughing. “He‟s off at midnight. The only question left is his place or”—and she looked at Beth and laughed harder—“which one of ours!” If only it were that easy. Pam finished her drink and headed for the ladies‟ room.

***** Two weeks later, on her birthday, fate handed Pam another chance. Not exactly a red-letter day, but it definitely rated an entry into her diary. The Rush was full. The house band was hot. The place was jumping. A pile of gifts appeared on the table. Their table. The one the herd always sat at. The one Jake now made a point of setting up little RESERVED tents on every Friday. Scarves and gloves, makeup and a cliché. The silver metallic dildo hummed salaciously between her fingers. “Batteries included,” Marjo yelled as she grabbed it from Pam‟s hand and thrust the thing in the air for everyone in the bar to get a good look at. They all laughed while Pam pulled the paper off the last box. The box that had a little card that read Good Hunting from Jolie. The box rattled and was heavy, and she was distracted by Beth telling another Jake story. When the contents fell out into her palm, it was cold. Jolie grabbed it up from Pam‟s hand before she could really look at it. “Oh yeah, baby. We gonna catch us a big one tonight!”

16

Roscoe James

Jolie nearly knocked the waitress over running around the table. Pam‟s hair was jerked to one side and something was put around her neck. Exploring with her fingers, Pam discovered a leather dog collar. When it shifted with a jerk, she caught Jolie passing a leather loop on the end of a chrome chain to Beth. Beth squealed and jumped up, dragging Pam out of her chair and to the dance floor. They all had fun finding guys to dance with her. To pull on her chain. To wrap her up and unwind her. Two hours later she was still dancing, her leash in the hands of another total stranger, when Jolie barged in and took the leather handhold from the guy. Pulling Pam off the dance floor, Jolie yelled over her shoulder in a drunken slur. “C‟mon, bitch, I gotta go to the little girls‟ room.” Pam laughed and stumbled along, trying not to hang anyone with her chain. Jolie stopped and beat on the counter. “Jakey, boy. Where the hell are ya?” Jake showed up with a smile, and Jolie pulled Pam closer to the bar, handed the leather grip to another stranger, turned to Jake, and yelled, “Keep an eye on my bitch for me. I gotta powder my nose.” Everyone in earshot laughed, and Pam turned her back to the bar, propped her elbows on the edge, panted like the bitch in heat she was, and looked out over the crowd. No, it may not be the real thing, but it sure as hell is fun to pretend. She whipped her hair and enjoyed the weight of her chain pulling on her neck. Fuck yeah! Happy birthday to me! He was a warm breath on her neck before she saw him. Even through her drunken haze, it made her shiver. “Hi.” She looked right like some marine on the parade grounds following sergeant‟s commands. She nearly collided with the man‟s nose and leaned away awkwardly. A hand fell in the small of her back and saved her. Not just any hand. His hand. His skin was dark. Midnight olive lust, she decided. His jaw was strong, and he had a dimple in the middle of his chin. “Hi back,” she said with a decided slur. “Is this yours?” She followed his gaze down obediently and discovered the leather loop of her leash around the fingers of a very beautiful hand. Leaning down, she swayed and grabbed his arm. Once she‟d stabilized, she leaned closer and could smell cologne and something else in his palm. Pam straightened with a jerk, grinned like an idiot, and answered, “I ssssssssure hope so. That gotta be the most beeeeee-uuuu-tiful hand I ever seen. Can I have it?” He smiled. A nice smile. A warm smile. An inviting smile. What Pam liked most was the way his eyes smiled along with his mouth. Before he could answer, she leaned close, grabbed a handful of tie, and pulled him down where she could see his face again. In a slobbering bluster, she explained to him what was wrong. It didn‟t matter

Orion

17

that he hadn‟t asked. She explained anyway with all the authority only a drunk can muster. “Hey! You‟re not s‟posed to be in here. What the hell izzz you doin‟ ‟ere anywayzzzzz?” She grinned goofily and stage blinked both eyes twice for good measure. In mock surprise, taking on his role, he replied with seriousness suitable for the occasion. “I‟m not? Why‟s that?” Pam jerked his tie twice like an altar boy might ring the church bell before mass and explained. She wasn‟t really aware of the fact she was yelling and spitting all over his chin. “You got a suit on! This ain‟t no suit bar!” He laughed. Pam melted. He leaned close. She breathed deep and sighed. “Would you like me to take it off?” Her head shot back, her hair whipped from one side to the other, her chain rattled and pulled delightfully, and she whooped. “Hell yeah! Get that thing off!” When he looked down, Pam‟s gaze followed obediently a second time. His fingers slid behind his tie, the same tie she was still clinging to like a subway strap. A button slipped, revealing curls of black hair, and her head jerked up so fast it hurt. He met her stare and his smile faded. When Pam followed his eyes down a third time, another button slipped and more lush olive-colored real estate appeared. When he reached the button just above his belt buckle, her mouth shut with an audible snap. Her free hand fell on his, she fixed him with a steely-eyed stare, and she was dead serious when she said, “Jewwwww can‟t do that! This is a place…” She hiccupped and tried again. “This place is pubic!” He roared with laughter. Later that night Pam remembered the warmth of his hand when he‟d pried hers slowly off his tie, turned her palm up, and wadded her chain into it. Batteries included! She fumbled with the magic vibrating dildo man that was in her bag of goodies from their wild night at The Rush and recalled how the stranger‟s crooked finger had raised her chin and how she‟d almost leaned in and kissed the guy. Just like that! The vibrator slid in and she moaned. Pam could still feel the gentle tugs and jerks while he carefully undid the dog collar. The stranger pulled the collar from around her neck, caressed her throat, and gently massaged the red rub mark it left with the warm palm of his hand. She slipped the vibrator out and let it dance across her swollen, wet flesh.

18

Roscoe James

She could smell him just like she did when he dropped the leather pull in her hand, closed her fingers around it, and whispered goose bumps into her ear. “You should be careful. Someone might think you were serious.” He‟d smiled. Pam rolled onto her stomach, opened her knees, and pulled him into her just as she imagined the warm, gentle caress of his hand on her neck and the floodgates opened in a jerky, writhing rush of battery-included wanton debauchery that sent her off to dreams of leather collars, heavy chains, and a warm caress around her neck.

***** The following Friday, the herd was subdued. One of their own had made the announcement while grazing over lunch. “I got a new job. It‟s with the competition. I‟ll be sales coordinator for the northeast corridor.” Cheers and congratulations were followed by moments of silence while everyone turned to introspection. They all had college degrees. No one would ever guess that trash-talking Jolie had a master‟s degree in English lit from a very prestigious and expensive college somewhere farther north than New York. They all knew the business inside and out. They were all completely responsible for whatever success their boss enjoyed. But only one of them was moving on. Only one of them had been chosen for the next rung on the ladder. Some of them aspired to other ladders, to different tunes, to a louder drummer. Some of them were looking for the golden ring. Some of them wanted off the merry-goround. Some of them were looking for white picket fences, bedrooms full of little ones, and the mister to go with their missus. Not Pam. She was searching for something else completely. She was searching for the Holy Grail of Holy Grails. She was looking for true happiness. When that happiness sat at a table just over Jolie‟s shoulder, Pam didn‟t even recognize it. Pearls before swine. An hour later it was Jolie‟s trip to the powder room that set her straight. Jolie couldn‟t wait to blab when she got back to their table. “Did you see him?” Pam watched a bunch of guys leer at their waitress while the young girl walked away. They all reminded her of Larry. Jerks. “See who?” “Him.” Pam finally looked at Jolie. “Who‟s him?” “That guy. The one from last week, girl. You know. The one that I gave your chain to at the bar.”

Orion

19

Her head spun like a whirling dervish trying to find him. Him of the nice smile? Him of the gentle hands? Him that smelled like heaven and something darker? Him that seemed to be an accessory that came with the amazing Mr. Silver Bullet Man— batteries included? It didn‟t matter Pam was already on her second set of batteries. “Stop it, goofy. He‟ll see ya.” “Where the hell is he?” “Look over my right shoulder. Dark suit. Hell, you was so drunk you might not even recognize him.” She didn‟t. Well, she decided, she did but she didn‟t. Not as a whole. But several parts looked very familiar. His hand lifting an old-fashioned glass with some dark liquid to his lips definitely looked familiar. His chin. The dimple. When he caught her looking and offered a faint smile, she was sure. She saw it in his eyes. Pam ducked behind Jolie. Jolie laughed. “Dee-amn, girl, he‟s old. I guess I didn‟t catch that when I handed him your chain.” Pam sucked the straw of her drink furiously and hoped the lights were low enough Jolie couldn‟t see her blush. He’s not that old. She chanced a second glance over Jolie‟s shoulder. He was talking to his waitress. She ducked for cover when his waitress turned to walk away. “What‟s he doing here?” Jolie wasn‟t listening. Beth and Marjo were both telling a Jake tale. Something stupid and silly. Something that had little to do with real life. Something that didn‟t come close to what happened five minutes later. Just when Pam peeked around Jolie‟s shoulder, he was leaving a few bills on his table. The not-so-unfamiliar stranger pushed back, stood, and turned her way. Two extended fingers to his brow, and he gave her a discreet salute, smiled, and left.

***** It turned into a ritual. Every Friday at nine, he‟d arrive. He‟d drink two drinks in two hours, leave his change, and abandon ship. Sometimes he‟d look for her eyes and offer a slight smile. Sometimes he wouldn‟t. Once a man in a uniform, replete with shiny billed cap walked up to his table. Waited until motioned to come closer. Leaned down and whispered. And they both left in a hurry. He always sat at the same table. He always faced her. He never frowned. He never got up once he was seated. He occasionally laughed at something his waitress said. It was always two drinks unless interrupted by something urgent. And he never paid any attention to anyone other than his waitress and Pam. One night she walked past his empty table and pulled up short. There beside a small candle burning in a cheesy glass ball was a cardboard tent. RESERVED. Pam blushed and walked on. Another night he didn‟t show. She watched as the man in the

20

Roscoe James

shiny billed cap walked to the table and waited. When the waitress showed up, he explained something and handed the woman a bill. Then the strange man turned Pam‟s way and waited until he was sure she‟d seen the exchange and left. The small cardboard tent disappeared, and a bunch of guys took up post. Jolie just called him Stalker Man. No one else in the herd had noticed or was privy to their private joke. For Jolie it had become boring. Timing her powder room visits, Jolie had managed a few times to walk by his table just as he was arriving. Then she‟d return and needle Pam with remarks. “Wow, he smells like a million bucks.” “He smiled at me. See it? Right here. Look into my eyes. It’s still in there.” “The man sure has shiny shoes.” “No wedding ring.” Jolie was sure he was in his fifties. “Hell, he‟ll be on social security next week.” Pam‟s chair had slowly drifted over the weeks. Shy at first, she‟d stayed firmly planted behind Jolie. Change was measured in inches. Then one Friday, when Pam was wearing a killer dress she‟d found at a thrift store, she moved out from behind Jolie, crossed her legs beneath the table, and waited. Once he‟d settled, she‟d watched as he‟d looked from the toe of her high heel, his gaze wandering up beneath the table. He stopped at her drink, inspected the bodice of her dress, her neck, and stopped again at her eyes. His glass came up in a casual salute, and he offered a small smile of approval. “No he‟s not!” Pam cursed and toned it down. She didn‟t really want Jolie to notice just how captivated she‟d become. “Forty. Maybe forty-two.” Pam cringed when Jolie turned in her chair and stared right at the man. Turning back with a smug smile, Jolie parried with, “Forty-eight. Not a day less.” Yes, to Jolie it was a running joke. Part of the plastic plants and wallpaper. Another Joe in a bar full of Joes. A distraction in a bar in Greenwich Village that added color to their Friday night routine. Not to her. Not to Pam of the Mr. Silver Bullet Man. He‟d become the mountain to her Muhammad. The St. Peter at her pearly gates. The keeper of the key and guardian of her very locked door. But most of all, he‟d become the warm caress around her neck. Given the price of batteries, he‟d also become the reason for her visit last week to the local gizmo shop to buy rechargeable batteries and the latest in chargers. “Sure, make them lithium. They last longer.”

Orion

21

Chapter Two How many Friday nights had they spent exchanging glances? How many Friday mornings had Pam suffered over what to wear? How many times had she run ahead like a silly ninny to get her seat at the table? The same seat she always took at the same table the girls from the office always sat at in the same bar they‟d been going to every Friday night since the beginning of time. The same seat where he would come and look at her. The same seat that had become synonymous with him. Tonight was different. Tonight things had changed. Tonight he wasn‟t alone. Tonight a beautiful redhead sat at his side. Tonight she felt betrayed. His customary dark suit that, in spite of the late hour, looked fresh and sharply creased. His white shirt was a beacon that drew her eye to some version of a muted red tie that projected strength and power. Pam glanced up from her drink, ignoring the silly banter of her office mates in time to see him take the redhead‟s delicate hand, pull it to his mouth, and lightly kiss the air above the redhead‟s fingers. Her skin burned when Pam realized he was staring openly at her across a piece of glitter on one of the redhead‟s fingers. Jolie caught her expression and twisted to look over her shoulder. “There you go. That‟s what they all do.” Pam‟s eyes darted as the flush raced to her ears. She‟d read it all in his eyes. He knew she‟d be waiting for him. He knew she‟d feel betrayed. And at that exact moment, he knew she‟d look.

22

Roscoe James

Pam shifted uncomfortably in her chair and tried to pick up on the conversation. To melt into the herd. To disappear into the sparse foliage of the savanna before he came in for the kill. When another round of umbrella drinks floated into view, she grabbed one from the tray and sucked the silly short straw, licking her wounds behind her umbrella. By her third umbrella, the sting of betrayal had dulled to an annoying undercurrent and she came out of hiding long enough to graze on a nacho chip with too much hot sauce. A mundane act meant to tell him she didn‟t care. Pam didn‟t care that he was whispering into the ear of the redheaded bitch. She didn‟t care if he saw her eating. She didn‟t care that she‟d gone out and bought a sexy dress that was six inches too short and completely inappropriate for the weather just to wear for him. “I don‟t care,” she muttered to herself. Again. And again. And once more. By the fourth umbrella, the whole thing had become silly. Pam couldn‟t even recall what she didn‟t care about. Was it the hard, craggy features of his face? The web of crow‟s feet that deepened around his eyes when he acknowledged her existence with a subtle smile? Or was it the sharp line of olivecolored skin that whizzed dizzily around the top of his collar? She was through stealing glances. Heart pounding, Pam stared openly, defiantly, toward his table. She almost slipped off the edge of her chair. The redhead was gone. So was he. She‟d been acting like a stupid schoolkid obsessing on someone she didn‟t even know. Someone she‟d never met in person and whose only contact had been at the end of a chain and across a lounge floor. The only thing for Pam that softened the rebuke of betrayal was the realization that she‟d let someone control her life with a…glance? But he‟d picked her out of the herd. Not the beautiful white-skinned, smiling, blueeyed, high-strap-pumped redhead with stunningly perfect teeth. Shoving her umbrella drink away, Pam decided an overwhelming feeling of stupidity was probably the best antidote for the betrayal she still felt. She said her goodbyes and left to find solace in her den on upper Seventy-seventh. Jolie stared holes through her. Pam asked one of the gatekeepers at the entrance to the bar if he could find her a cab. Her demeanor was as chilly as the night air. A light drizzle made the black asphalt of the street look as black as her heart felt. New York weather in October was as predictable as the stock market. The yellow cab pulled up, and with a lecherous smile that said more than Pam wanted to know, the muscled gatekeeper opened the cab door and waited. She didn‟t notice the black stretch limousine stopped in traffic on the other side of the taxi until horns started blaring.

Orion

23

Then she saw the uniformed chauffeur, black billed cap smartly in place, back as straight as a board, holding the door of the long black car open. The next thing Pam noticed was the redhead. The same perfect bitch who had been hanging on his arm. She was waving from the black leather seat and scooted away from the gaping door when Pam finally looked. While horns blared and one New Yorker leaned out his car window to bless the moment as only a New Yorker could, her body was racked with feelings and emotions that defied logic and reason. Elation to hatred when she caught sight of his arm going around the redhead‟s shoulder, pulling her close. Pam felt like a deer caught in the headlights of his gaze when he leaned down across the redhead‟s lap and smiled out at her. Not exactly the moment she‟d hoped for. Certainly not the one Pam had found on her fingertips the night before just after she‟d tried on her black flimsy dress for the third time that week, conjuring thoughts of his smile, his eyes, and his salt-and-pepper close-cropped hair. “Lady, ya gonna get in or what?” She ignored the cabdriver and focused on something else. Something that conjured false courage. Something Pam could hang her hat on as she stepped carefully over the river of water in the gutter at the back of the cab and headed for the open limousine door. Betrayal. Pam settled into the lap of leather-clad luxury beside the bitch and tried to still her knees that had definitely developed a quiver. “The upper east house, James. No hurry.” The door shut with a muted thud, and Pam stared at a drop of water on the carpeted floor. She shivered. She didn‟t know if it was the fact that the inside of the limo was colder than the rainy New York October night or if it was because she‟d just heard him speak for the first time in weeks. Articulate and unhurried. A voice that made Barry White sound like a Vienna choirboy. Pam tugged at the hem of her dress as the limo glided through traffic. Her heart pounding, she waited. When nothing was said, she waited some more while she took in the soft fragrance of the redhead‟s perfume and another smell that filled the cavernous back of the car. The smell of him. She stared straight ahead, a voice within screaming, What the hell are you doing? A fit of panic settled like a hot stink around her, and Pam fought the urge to squirm on the soft leather of the car‟s crowded backseat, which seemed to caress the cheeks of her ass like a lover‟s hand. She‟d known other moments like this. Moments of agonizing anticipation. Moments of wilderness wandering, wondering where the path

24

Roscoe James

would take her. Moments of panic at the realization that dreams did come true and she was suddenly standing on a street corner naked while everyone looked and pointed. Pam could feel the heat from his hand cupping the redhead‟s shoulder an inch from her own and she experienced a rush that filled her nipples and pushed them into the flimsy material of her camisole and dress. She wanted to scream. Pam wanted to push open the door and jump out. She wanted to pummel the redhead until her perfect, perky nose was swollen and blue. But most of all she wanted him to acknowledge her existence. “You shouldn‟t be nervous, Pamela.” Her throat closed with another wave of panic. How the hell does he know my name? “It‟s quite simple to make it stop. You only have to use your safe word.” Pam was having trouble breathing but refused to rush the effort. She didn‟t want him to know that she was in the middle of a full-blown panic attack. Then she realized what he‟d said. Safe word? Make it stop? “I‟ve watched you flirt with me since that first night. And I do find you very attractive. You have such lovely eyes.” Pam‟s heart pounded and her spirits soared at his acknowledgment. Even more at his compliment. “I guess it would be a great help if you actually knew your safe word. I have been remiss. Would you like to know your safe word, Pamela?” This was the moment. Pam had to either acknowledge his existence or bolt at the next light. She could only imagine what the safe word was for, and she anguished over learning it. If she wanted to know the word, that was an admission that she might need it. Not only that, but that she was a willing participant until it was needed. Participant in what? Pam chanced a glance sideways and found the redhead‟s lips so close to hers that the earthy smell of scotch and tangy scent of lip gloss wafted by on a warm exhale. When she dared not answer, he went on. “Oh, and I forgot to compliment you on your dress. It truly is lovely. The thin material clings so nicely to the gentle swell of your breasts. It makes your nipples show as if you had nothing on at all. It‟s as if you knew my plans for the night.” The car rolled to a stop beside Central Park while James waited for a stoplight. This was it. This was Pam‟s chance. She could just pull on the shiny chrome handle and step away. Run off to safety. Skulk back to her two-room apartment and one-room life and lick her wounds while her black dress burned in the bathtub. Another word intruded. Night. Not evening. Not meeting. Night. Her voice raspy, Pam managed to swallow and whisper an answer, “My safe word?” “Please.”

Orion

25

That didn’t sound right. Why would the emergency exit, my only form of escape, be please? Pam repeated the single syllable softly, almost reverently, “Please.” “No, my dear, that‟s not your safe word. You really must understand that anything in the world can be yours as long as you ask for it properly. I know it was just a slip. You‟re new, and this is all so different. Your punishment will be light. More a tease than anything. But first you must ask properly for your safe word.” Punishment? Pam gulped again and clasped her hands in her lap to hide their shaking. She stared at the back of James‟ head and whispered again. “Could you tell me my safe word, please?” Do I add master? As much as she wanted to, she decided it was best to do exactly as instructed. “Very good, my dear. You have proven yourself very obedient and very brave.” Pam‟s heart soared at his kind words and she wasn‟t sure why. How she really felt was scared out of her wits. Who are these people? More importantly, she asked herself, who is he? “Now, as I promised, there must be a punishment. A small one indeed, but you wouldn‟t want me to fail you in your training, would you?” She didn‟t know where the word came from or the breath to expel response from her throat but come it did. Pam marveled at her own collusion in condemning herself. “No.” “Very good. Just what I‟ve expected since that first night. That night your friend handed me your leash.” “You should be careful. Someone might think you were serious.” Pam stared at her hands twisting in her lap and suddenly became very aware of how far up her thigh her dress had slipped. In an awkward rush, she smoothed the bottom of her dress out and recovered an inch of modesty. “It was Charlene‟s idea. I allowed her to decide. She earned that right on our way over to rescue you this evening.” Charlene? Has to be the redhead. Earned the right? How did she do that? “She thought it would amuse me, and to be honest, the idea does.” Her knee knocked against the other with a jerk, and Pam knew if she‟d been standing she would have crashed to the floor. “You see, Charlene has a tattoo.” He chuckled with warm familiarity before going on. “And she thought that since that tattoo is her safe word that it might be amusing if both of you shared the same safe word. What do you think, my dear? Was she right?” His voice had lulled Pam as she hung on every resonant syllable. Her body was not relaxed, but the quivering of her hands had calmed. She didn‟t care whose safe word it was. She only knew that she wanted it. No, she corrected, she needed it. Her voice was stronger this time, when the back of the limo bounced gracefully as they went over a small rise in the wet pavement. “Yes.”

26

Roscoe James

“Good,” he replied as if there‟d never really been any doubt. “Then let us begin.” A cold shiver ran up Pam‟s spine on that blustery October night in the backseat of a long black limousine while they slipped through the dark, misty night. The driver turned left, and a salacious upturn at the corner of her mouth, Charlene leaned into her. It was just a lean, a touching of their bare upper arms, but somehow seemed much more intimate than a ride in a crowded subway car. “Pamela, I believe it‟s time we get on with it. Would you agree?” Begin. A common-enough occurrence. Even a journey of a million miles has a beginning. Pam could not put a word to it. Stick it in a category. Put it in a jar and label it. She could feel it, and more importantly, what it did to her. It was soft leather, the intimacy of dark, rain-covered windows, the soft, dizzying sound of whirring tires, and him. It was a warm bare shoulder touching hers, the intoxicating smell of scotch, perfume, and cologne. The shine of the toe of his black leather shoe, but most of all, it was him. It coursed through her with the inevitable persistence of a rising tide and, Pam realized, left her just as wet. Getting on with it was why she was here. Getting on with it was why she‟d walked past the waiting taxi and crawled willingly into the leather-clad cocoon of the back of this car to start with. But some part of her, insignificant though it might be, urged caution. Urged her to say no. To pick up her purse and climb out of the car at the next light. That didn‟t happen. Pam didn‟t know where the courage came from. The word fell into her lap when, with much trepidation and no reluctance whatsoever, staring at her hands finally at peace in her lap, someone that felt vaguely like someone she used to be answered. “Yes.” The savanna grew hot and muggy when the predator leaned across Charlene‟s lap. His big hand slid red silk chiffon up a long thigh. Fingers wrapped intimately to the inside of that thigh and a small meadow of black hair on the back of his hand came into view. All in sharp contrast to a starched white cuff with a heavy gold clasp that settled nicely below charcoal-colored wool. Softly, almost intimately, he whispered. “You realize, my dear, that what you are about to do will change you forever. That crossing the abyss, while a great adventure, is not for the faint of heart.” Somewhere in the muddled, gooey mess Pam‟s mind had become, she thought he might expect an answer, but didn‟t trust her verbal skills with even a single syllable. “Very well,” was all he said before settling back, his hand retreating from Charlene‟s thigh, leaving bunched chiffon above exposed pale white skin. “Charlene has been branded. An intimate memento of eternal commitment and submission. I have left the door open for you. It is for you to take the first step and pass through that door. Once you have discovered your means of escape, of safety from the monsters you have decided to slay, we will continue. That discovery will be your first step.”

Orion

27

She knew he could smell the foul stink of fear on her. Fear and something else. When he leaned forward a second time, the right side of his lips curled up in a small lascivious twist. Pam was sure he would pounce. Instead he said, “No, my dear, I didn‟t brand her. As I said earlier, it‟s a tattoo. You must find it and read it. That will be your safe word.” Find it? The door is open? She raised her gaze from her lap and saw that Charlene‟s head had lolled back into a crush of red hair on the seat of the car. The woman‟s eyes were closed and her bottom lip undulated slowly as if some fat worm turned inside. Pam felt like a child, the doctor saying, This won’t hurt a bit, just before plunging the needle into her arm. Following the line of Charlene‟s chin, Pam found a long, slender neck that brought to mind a swan in graceful repose. The jump of a jugular drew Pam‟s eye before she looked away, her body flush with the feeling of stolen intimacy. Her travails took her to a broad expanse of bare skin stretched tight across the redhead‟s chest where two falls of silk chiffon straps suspended a plunge between the gentle swell of the woman‟s breasts. Her inspection yielded nothing but more flawless skin and a pink nipple peeking out, tucked beneath a billowy fall of bodice. A large silver ring gathered the wispy material below the breasts before the dress puckered open in an almost obscene fashion, inviting Pam‟s gaze to roam more bare skin and a belly button studded with a teardrop-shaped diamond. She found no tattoo. In all honesty, she found no imperfection at all on the woman‟s exposed creamy white skin. But then, Pam decided, she wouldn‟t. Not on exposed skin. Not easily found. Not for public perusal. “Not for the faint of heart.” This is a test. Proof of worthiness. No, she corrected, proof of willingness. Then Pam saw it. The wad of chiffon in Charlene‟s lap and bare thighs. Charlene‟s knees parted slightly, offering a hint, and the redhead‟s hands rested at her sides on the leather seat. I’ve opened the door. The car rocked and rolled to a stop. This won’t hurt a bit. Someone‟s hand with manicured red nails, surely not her own, came up and pinched red chiffon between thumb and finger and tugged. More bare skin appeared. Another tug, and red lace stretched tight across swollen, puffy folds came into view. Then Pam saw it. A dark spot, more like a stain, on Charlene‟s creamy white skin on the inside of her right thigh. Very small but very prominent given the contrast. Also very illegible from this angle. Is this for his entertainment? Mine? Charlene’s? “Not for the faint of heart.” She felt dizzy. Tea with the king? Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t do pussy, but I would enjoy a scone. Steeling her courage, Pam leaned forward just as the car pulled away from a stoplight and she unceremoniously fell back into the seat. Do I still want to do this? Do I still want to be part of this band of merrymakers? Do I still need his approval that much? Is there anything at all I’ve ever wanted more? Pam didn‟t hesitate as she slid off the seat and fell to her knees on the carpeted floor of the car. In a pose of penitence at Charlene‟s knees, Pam watched as the same

28

Roscoe James

unknown hand that had pinched and pulled on the redhead‟s dress came up and pushed a knee aside. Was that a sigh? Did Charlene moan? At last Pam could see the prize. Very small and very far away. It appeared to be a single word tattooed an inch from the swell of red lace. And she couldn‟t read it. She knew what she had to do, what he intended her to do. There was no further contemplation, no intellectual inner dialogue. This wasn‟t about intellect. This was about something else. Something that swirled around the lizard‟s tail of her id. It won’t hurt a bit. Pam‟s fingers wrapped around Charlene‟s warm calf intimately, and Pam lifted, shoving the leg to the side. The heel of a red stiletto settled up on the leather seat, opening the redhead in a lewd pose. Opening her completely to Pam‟s gaze. Yes, a single word. The only thing she could read was the first letter. An O. Chancing a glance at him, seeking his approval, Pam was shocked to find him staring out the dark, wet window of the car at passing lights. His nonchalance infuriated her. How could he? He has me here in the most intimate of poses between the thighs of another woman, every man’s fantasy come to life, and he doesn’t even have the decency to look. To watch. To enjoy. “It‟s not about me, Pam.” Her heart shuddered when he spoke. How did he know? She watched him continue to stare out the car window, feigning ignorance to what was taking place beside him. Get on with it. It won’t hurt a bit. Shoving rudely on Charlene‟s knee, Pam leaned in and squinted. The soft, pouting lips trapped in the red lace of Charlene‟s panties tried to distract. Still unable to read the word, Pam leaned farther, her right cheek pressed against the inside of Charlene‟s left thigh, her nose buried in Charlene‟s smell. A smell not unlike her own but different. The smell of him? Then she could read it. Pam felt almost giddy and smiled, puffing her cheek against the redhead‟s thigh. Orion. “Orion,” she whispered. When the leather made a staccato rubbing sound, Pam looked up from Charlene‟s lace-wrapped crotch in time to watch his hand reach up. His forefinger erect in some phallic hand dance, he pressed a small button recessed into the headliner of the car. Pam held her breath, thinking that he might be displeased. That she had done something wrong. Something he hadn‟t told her to do. Something that constituted a grave offense to the king of the muggy, humid savanna. She feared he might snap his fingers and order James to pull the car to the curb and expel her onto the cold wet Manhattan sidewalk. That the king would banish her from the watering hole. Pam‟s mind rushed headlong in a panic as she replayed in her mind what had taken place. How she might have displeased him, proven her lack of worthiness. “Yes, sir?” The voice of the driver was small and tinny on the interphone, and she felt tears well. When Charlene scooted slightly and sighed softly, Pam realized her cheek was still resting intimately on the inside of the redhead‟s naked thigh. That her mouth was

Orion

29

only inches away from forbidden fruit. Would I do it? If he told me to, would I stick my tongue out and…? Pam sat back on her heels with a jerk. “I will need a newspaper, James. Could you stop at a newsstand?” “Yes, sir.” Her heart pounded and overwhelming relief filled Pam‟s chest. The car slowed and turned a corner, causing her to sway on her knees. She became very conscious of her position kneeling between the redhead‟s splayed legs. Staring at the woman‟s scantily clad crotch was not what she‟d had in mind when she‟d crawled into the backseat of the limo. Suddenly Pam felt self-conscious and put out. Like her moment of triumph in finding the word, her word, was lost in the triviality of a newspaper. Pam leaned unceremoniously into Charlene‟s open legs one last time, pushed on the leather seat, and stooped in the back of the limo to settle herself once more beside the redhead, who obliged with a smile and lowered her leg. In a self-righteous snit, Pam sulked in her leather-clad corner and contemplated her word. Orion. She thought of using it. Showing him that she was not to be ignored. Of punishing him. “You may if you wish, but I should explain the repercussions of such a precipitous act.” The only sounds were the rush of blood in her ears and the wet whir of the car‟s tires on the pavement. The predator had found its prey on the hot, muggy savanna and was staring her in the eye, daring her to flinch. “You really must learn patience.” How does he do it? How does he always know what my thoughts are? Pam wanted to respond. She needed to. Some rebellious bone inside was twitching, urging her to act. Or more importantly, act out. But the only word she could find was the one word she dared not speak. She finally chanced a breath when the lumbering black carriage pulled to a stop at the curb under a streetlight. “Any one will do, Charlene.” Pam watched out of the corner of her eye, dumbstruck, while the redhead, sultry owner of the red lace-clad crotch, slid off the car‟s seat to her knees in front of both of them. Red chiffon straps were pushed aside and the woman‟s dress fell in a puddle on the floor of the car around her knees. Charlene then raised her ass until she was seated on the edge of the seat once more. Pam‟s mouth snapped shut audibly when Charlene extracted her wispy garment from around her feet, careful not to snag the material on her heels. The red dress was raised and carefully folded. Pam involuntarily cleared her throat when Charlene leaned forward obscenely, the line of her naked back a curl across her knees, and carefully placed the dress on the carpeted floor of the car.

30

Roscoe James

Is he going to fuck her? Is this his way of showing me he doesn’t need me? That the redheaded bitch will do just fine? Is he going to rub my nose in it like some errant puppy that needs to be potty trained? When Charlene slid off the seat in her red thong and matching red stilettos and knelt at his feet, Pam audibly gasped. A ten-dollar bill appeared in his hand, and never looking up, Charlene took it, leaned on the car door, and popped it open. The nearly naked woman dived into the soft drizzle that had now become a downpour. Pam watched the door close and the redhead‟s ghostly figure saunter away from the car and disappear around the corner of the newsstand. What is this? Are these people crazy? She couldn‟t believe what had just happened. No, she corrected herself, what he had let happen. He with his limousine and driver, his brilliantly polished leather shoes that had obviously never seen a sloppy New York gutter, his freshly pressed suit and crisp white shirt. “It is Charlene‟s desire to please me.” “But she‟s naked and wet on a New York street corner at night by herself. She could—” He didn‟t raise his voice or enter into the fray when he responded. It was as if he were discussing the possibility of snow at the North Pole, resigned to the forgone conclusion, when he finished for her, “Be attacked? Catch pneumonia?” “Of course!” The same soothing manner accompanied his rebuttal. “There are many ways to please a person. I would suspect the scope of some people‟s thoughts would be limited to things as unimaginative as fucking. Or sucking a cock. Something crude and sexual that would last a mere moment and leave both parties empty and unfulfilled two hours later. Would you agree?” “I…I…I don‟t know what I think, but she shouldn‟t be running around naked in freezing rain on the streets of New York getting you a goddamned newspaper!” “But if she died, if some unforeseen event were to occur that would remove her from my life, you‟d be happy.” When his voice raised only a decibel in rebuke and continued, she wanted to crawl into a hole and die. “Not an hour ago when this same woman was sitting beside me at my table sharing a drink, I can assure you that your eyes told a completely different story when you discovered me kissing the back of her hand. Why the sudden change of heart?” Pam shuddered and stared stubbornly out her window. His voice back to the same hypnotic level of calm, he continued. “I can assure you that Charlene, at this very moment, is extremely happy. That had you chanced trying to stop her in her quest to please me, she would have turned on you quicker than a mad dog in the street.” “But—”

Orion

31

“Do not fret, my dear. You have many things to discover and a glorious journey ahead of you.” The door popped open and a very wet Charlene tumbled into the back of the car to a chorus of catcalls and hoots from a small congregation of late-night patrons at the newsstand. And somehow, at some moment not defined but clear in nature, Pam felt herself disappear into the ether. She ceased to exist and was left to her dark and disturbing thoughts while he went into action in his methodical, unhurried, and reassuring fashion that seemed to define his being. “Turn the heat up, James.” Leaning forward, he pulled his jacket off and dropped the warm garment around the shoulders of the sopping-wet redheaded waif huddled at his feet. “There, there, my dear. I will care for you.” Reaching to the floor, he picked up the newspaper that was stuffed in a clear plastic bag along with a wad of change and added, “And I want to thank you very much for getting me my newspaper.” Pam turned and looked from the newspaper to his face. A face she hadn‟t seen before. A face that made her feel small and insignificant. A face of concern that would put a mother to shame. Looking at Charlene, she saw wet, matted hair, nipples hard as rocks, mascara running down her cheeks, and a smile of satisfaction that immediately poked and prodded the green monster that walked hand in hand with the lizard king that seemed to be ruling her id these days. “Come, Charlene. We mustn‟t let you catch cold.” Pam watched as Charlene, the redheaded bitch who basked in his favor, removed her stilettos, and with shaking fingers, meticulously brushed water off their shiny patent leather finish and set them beside her dress. Charlene came up on her knees, his coat engulfed her shoulders, and her thumbs hooked into the elastic of her wet thong and shoved it to her knees. Stooping lewdly, the woman stepped out of them and crawled into his lap, where he cradled her and rubbed her calves, chasing the cold away. Pam sat unnoticed in her corner, feeling tired and hurt. The siren‟s call of betrayal wailed in her head again, and she chanced a glance and discovered Charlene‟s eyes were closed, her face a soft, gentle mask of slumber. His highness, the imperial him, was cupping his hand gently over the outside of Charlene‟s head and humming softly. Madonna and child? The devil and his daughter? Her conjuring only made her feel worse. There was nothing sexual in the image presented. It was simply a man caring for a woman. Pam felt like a blind beggar with no tin cup groping in a dark alley for crumbs from the masses. She was sure she‟d starve before sunrise. She flinched when his eyes, the old eyes, the eyes of a predator, found hers. Pam could see it. He could read her thoughts, self-doubts, and insecurities like most people read a book. She felt as naked as Charlene and as safe as a lamb in a lion‟s den. Averting

32

Roscoe James

her eyes, she stared at the neatly folded red silk chiffon rag on the floor of the car and willed it to burst into flames. “You think she removed the dress to entice me? To excite me? As an erotic act to please me? A woman‟s trick to trap me?” She knew he required a response. She felt petulant and small, unworthy, when she whispered her response. “Yes.” “And what would have happened to that dress had Charlene worn it into the downpour?” She flushed with comprehension, and he went on. “It would be worthless now. A wet rag not even suitable for mopping the floor. And”—his voice rose only slightly—“it would certainly be discarded on the floor as it is now, and I would just as surely be keeping Charlene safe and warm.” Pam realized she was buying his warped sense of logic and that it only served to fuel her anger. “But it was only a newspaper!” His exercise in patience was apparent. “A newspaper. A cup of coffee. A scrap of litter on the street. It matters little. It was my desire and Charlene fulfilled it without hesitation, with little thought for the discomfort it might cause her. No regard for her own safety and well-being. Her only concern was making me happy.” Turning away, Pam raised a finger to her lips and touched them softly. Careful not to make a sound, she mouthed her word and took comfort from the feeling of power imparted. Orion. “It‟s not a competition, Pamela.” His voice was soft and soothing. Comforting. Pam feigned disinterest and raised her finger to the glass, drawing a squiggle in the moisture that clung to the inside. He persisted. “Charlene is not capable of such games. Not anymore.” It was a roar in her head. It’s not about Charlene! It’s about me! It was me you came to see every Friday night for the last six weeks! Me that dressed for you! Me you cut from the herd! “And we‟re here. I apologize for asking, but could you bring Charlene‟s dress, shoes, and the newspaper, please? My hands are full, and I have something I‟d like James to do for me.” The big car rocked, and Pam caught sight of a wrought iron gate swinging back as they pulled into a drive. Is this New York? Am I still on the island? Someone has a drive? His door swung open, and caretaker and waif stepped into a flood of yellow light under an overhang and disappeared up an opulent stone stairway. Pam leaned across the seat and the last thing she saw was the shiny black leather of the back of his left shoe. He was gone. It was as if the very life had been sucked from her being. She whispered the words, “He‟s gone.”

Orion

33

She grabbed the folded dress and shoes from the floor of the car, tumbled out, and started up the stone stairway like some silly schoolgirl arriving home after a hard day of carrying books and fighting off chalk dust. On the fourth step, she froze. The newspaper! His newspaper! The same newspaper the redheaded bitch had braved torrential rain and abject humiliation to retrieve. To please his whim. The next thought made her blush. To please his desire. Back at the car, Pam retrieved the clear plastic bag, careful not to spill the change nestled in the bottom. This time she walked. This time she looked. This time she wondered. Who is this man? The house was old and the air smelled of something other than rain. Salt water and the organic rot of a beach. We’re on the shore. Who can live like this? Perfectly manicured potted trees to each side of ornately carved, highly polished, double wooden doors. When she stepped across the threshold onto polished marble, she felt out of place. She had a sense of Alice stepping through the looking glass. She suddenly saw a naked Charlene babbling on in the role of Queen of Hearts. “Could you bring Charlene‟s things up here, please?” Pam stopped beneath a gold-and-crystal chandelier that filled two stories of open hall space. His voice had been distant but clear. Where is he? She looked around and found two closed doors and an archway into a front room full of chairs and couches. Across from that, another room lined with bookshelves and books. Directly in front, a marble stairway that went up to a landing and split around another gold and crystal chandelier. He‟d said up, so Pam went up the stairs and stood on the landing looking for a clue. What happens if I fail? Do I care? Do I just yell out, Where the hell are you? Failure wasn‟t an option. She felt giddy when she saw it. Pam felt as if she‟d been tied to the tracks and left to die. The hero had arrived on his white horse to cut her free and whisk her off into the night. There it was, three steps up on the right. A wet spot on the polished marble. A solitary drop that had cascaded off the naked body of his charge and fallen like a bread crumb in the big, dark forest to show her the way. At the top of the stairs, she looked down the long marble balcony and saw a door open just enough for a thin yellow slice of light to intrude on the symmetry of a long line of closed doors. When she crept closer, she paused and listened to intimate sounds that escaped. A woman‟s sigh. The rustle of bedding being moved. The metallic clink of a man‟s belt buckle. The solitary squeak of a bedspring. Pam blushed and contemplated the possibility of turning back to wait in the foyer. Of leaving Charlene‟s dress and shoes on the floor in front of the door and running as far and as fast as she could. How could he? It was all about me? “You really shouldn‟t stand there spying. I told you to bring them up. You should understand that means to bring them to me no matter where I am or what you might think I‟m doing.”

34

Roscoe James

“Not for the faint of heart.” This won’t hurt a bit. The stranger‟s hand, the same one that had pushed Charlene‟s legs open, came up and touched the doorknob. The cold brass shot a chill up her arm. “Now, Pamela.” Magically, the door opened, her fingers trembled slightly on the knob, and there he was. And there was Charlene, her face buried in champagne-colored silk pillows, her ass in the air. James, his slacks bunched around his knees, hat firmly in place, his short waistcoat flapping with each movement, was driving his very hard cock into Charlene with purpose. His royal highness, the one and only, the king of the jungle who had plucked her from the savanna, was standing off to one side watching the lewd act as a scientist might regard the crude coupling of lab rats. “Please put them on the chair by the window and wait for me in the library.” Pam completed the thought for him. While I watch them fuck. She realized she‟d ducked as she‟d walked in front of him, not wanting to interrupt his view. This is crazy! These people are crazy! I’m crazy! Charlene‟s moans interrupted, and she glanced at James working diligently. “Only once, Charlene. And remember, James. You may not.” Only once? You may not? Dropping the red dress and shoes unceremoniously on the seat of a leather wingback beside a curtain-covered window, Pam hunkered down and nearly ran from the bedroom. Moving at a brisk pace, she paused on the landing when Charlene‟s cry of agonized ecstasy spilled from the door she‟d left open in her rush. Only once. Before she made it to the last step in the main foyer, James appeared on the balcony overhead, struggling to zip his uniform trousers up around a hard, wet cock. You may not. She ducked and quick stepped for the double doors she‟d forgotten to close when she‟d first come in, cursing the light tap of her heels with each step. She dared not look up once she passed the first closed door. Why does he have to have such a damn big house? It must be fifty feet to the damn doors. The second closed door scrolled by in her peripheral vision, and she actually smiled. Almost there. Almost safe. Orion. She felt giddy. The gaping maw of the library beckoned, and she chanced a glance as she sped past. Leather, books, old tables, lit candles…and Pam stopped. What are you doing, you idiot? She knew exactly what she was doing. She stood glued to the floor in the archway into the library staring at a pedestal table covered with white linen, china, cutlery, and sparkling crystal. Two tapered candles burned around a centerpiece of white roses floating in a small crystal bowl. That wasn’t there a few minutes ago. This won’t hurt a bit. I bet Alice in Wonderland never had to face such temptations. She wasn‟t sure how it happened. How she came to be standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, running her fingers across the bindings of leather-bound tomes. It was a complete mystery to her. The aroma of leather, old parchment, and cigar filled her nose, and she chanced running a small snippet of the movie of Charlene‟s bare ass in the air through her mind. Driver James was driving his point home with a vengeance. Pam

Orion

35

listened once again to the redhead‟s lusty cry. She shivered. Not with fear. With anticipation. Is this it? Is this where it will happen? She knew she wouldn‟t deny him. All he had to do was turn his gaze on her and she would do anything he wanted. Will Charlene and James be invited to watch? Tit for tat? Is an audience a requirement? Rite of passage? Surely he has a maid or three. And a butler. Yes, an English butler standing off to the side admonishing, Jolly good show, sir. It wasn‟t a question of being aware of the needy state he‟d put her in. It was a question of ignoring it. Pam was sure she would not be able to function coherently at all if she thought about it. If she thought about him. Thought about the things that men and women did to each other in the middle of dark October nights, hiding in the library from the rain. “Ah, there you are. What dreadful weather we have for our first meeting. Just know that I would change it for you if I could.” Looking up from an ancient tome, she watched him pull the double library doors closed with a well-oiled click, and thighs trembling, she whispered to the night, “Orion.” The room was filled by his presence. This man could step into the middle of an empty football stadium and it would seem crowded. When he smiled and took a step in her direction, she had to swallow the mousy squeak that wanted to slither up her gullet. “I‟m sure you have many questions, my dear, and I promise you we will get to those. Maybe a few preliminaries first? Then I thought we might sit down and have a meal, get to know each other. Would that suit you?” How did he do it? How did he move from the door to two feet away without being seen? She stared at the knot of his silk tie, swallowed, and shifted on her feet. Pam wanted to look up, to explore his jaw, caress his lips with her gaze. To chance a stroll in his soul, but she knew she‟d never come back. One look into his eyes and she‟d be toast—butler or no butler. The savanna was full of danger and the watering hole between her thighs was brimming. Has he come to drink? A whisper on the late night air. Kind and gentle. Benevolence lurked somewhere in his words. “I‟m not a monster, Pamela. I don‟t bite. Well, not most the time.” When he chuckled, she couldn‟t help but smile back. “There. Much better. Now, how about that meal?” No denying false bravado was involved, but she felt false bravado was better than no bravado at all. She‟d heard somewhere that predators preyed on the weak and helpless. Would weak in the knees and helplessly tongue-tied count? Pam glanced at his hand relaxed at his side. The sharp crease of his slacks, the gold-and-onyx belt buckle of his belt. But there was one place she didn‟t dare glance. Some parts of the savanna were too dangerous for false bravado. Toast.

36

Roscoe James

She didn‟t know who was speaking. A woman‟s voice. Probably the same woman that had opened Charlene’s damned bedroom door. She was sure it wasn‟t her. It sounded entirely too Audrey Hepburnish accepting a breakfast at Tiffany‟s. “Why, of course. I‟d love to.” “How nice. I‟d hoped you would. I can‟t tell you how happy you‟ve made me.” There was a choice? His fingers on her elbow were warm, gentle, and enticing. His demeanor was relaxed. His crooked smile said devil may care. His hooded eyes said something completely different about the devil. His narrative was hypnotic as he guided her to their intimate table for two. He stopped beside a chair, his big hand fell on the top of the ornately carved back, and he paused. His other hand held her gently but firmly a foot from the chair. Not a gentleman? He doesn’t pull chairs out for his vict…his ladies? “…there are so many things I‟d like to show you, share with you, but time is of the essence.” She heard the distant ticking of a wooden clock and panicked when she realized there must be something she was supposed to do before being seated. Pay the price of admission? Pay the piper? Kiss his highness’s ring? Kiss his— “Just a few preliminaries; then we‟ll be seated. Right now we‟re just playing, Pamela. You might liken it to trying on a new dress. We want to see how it fits you. If you feel comfortable in it.” Pam fought the urge to fidget, choosing to dissect a candle flame instead. Not too close, dear, you might get burned. You have no idea, Mom. “It is important that our relationship is based on complete and total honesty.” Our? As in us? Relationship? “Honesty in all things at all times. Even awkward first moments like this. I do understand how some women might be confused, maybe even scared at moments like this.” Afraid that you won’t? Afraid it was all just sport? Afraid you’ll discard their broken, weeping bodies on the savanna and turn to the herd once more? “But not you. Not my lovely Pamela.” Her knees trembled at the first-person possessive. “You‟ve craved this moment longer than even you know.” The herd was running ahead, abandoning her, leaving her for dead, and the only sound on the savanna was her predator’s sure and steady run heard over her shoulder as he closed in for the kill. The gods have smiled. She felt a warm exhale on her neck and her back exploded in a million tiny bumps that wrapped around her neck in a chilly, intimate embrace and made the inside of her ear itch. “So now we pretend. Only for a few minutes. We let you try on the dress and see how it fits.”

Orion

37

Cinderella in waiting? “You will not speak unless an answer is required. You will consider any direction I might give a command, and you will comply immediately. You have your safe word and may use it at any time. There will be no chiding, belittling, or chastising. Your safe word is sacred. There is no harm, no foul in this game. Only comprehension, enjoyment, and submission to our mutual desires. You may not ask why. You may not discuss. If I ask you a question, I expect only the truth and only an answer. No explanation is required unless I request it. You may not deny me anything without using your safe word. Do you understand?” There were no distractions, no soaking-wet naked redheads to hide behind, no umbrella drinks to dull the moment, no galloping herd to mingle with. There was only him. Everything was suddenly very much about her. What she understood was that there was no place else on earth she‟d rather be. She nodded. “You must say it.” Pam swallowed and managed a raspy, “yes, I understand.” “Give that to me.” She hadn‟t realized she was still grasping his plastic-covered newspaper until he tugged gently, waiting for her to release it. “Good. Now tell me, are you wearing pantyhose?” She started to nod, then remembered. “No.” His breath was a blowtorch in her ear that seemed to be connected in some strange fashion to the sopping-wet watering hole between her thighs. She fidgeted. “Do not move.” She stood frozen to the floor like a statue, with her eyes fixed on the flame of her favorite tapered candle. “Are you wearing panties?” Not much for small talk, are you? “Yes.” “Did you select them for me?” “Yes.” “Then I will have that which you chose for me. Remove them.” She couldn‟t have resisted if she‟d wanted to. This time it was her hands that unceremoniously pulled up the short hem of her dress, her thumbs that hooked into the small elastic side straps of her black sheer panties, and her fingers that pushed them down to her knees. Her body that froze, not knowing how to accomplish his instruction without seeming unladylike. “I did not say push them down. I said remove them.” When she reached for the floor, panties in tow, her ass bumped his thigh and she nearly fell, until his big warm hand landed on the small of her back steadying her. In an

38

Roscoe James

awkward two-step, she retrieved them, straightened, and offered them at her side, letting them dangle from a finger. They disappeared. “Now we both know just how wet you are. You will never wear panties when you are with me again. You will always be open and available to me. At the same time, you will always wear panties when not with me. Your body is mine. It no longer belongs to you. It is not yours to dress as you wish. Your swollen, wet pussy belongs only to me. Is that clear?” She saw it. Off in the distance. A disembodied vision. The predator had pounced and was carrying her off to his den. A chorus was singing hallelujah, and the Holy Grail was in sight. “Yes.” When his hand—the hand of a stranger-turned-acquaintance, the hand that had coddled and cared for the redheaded bitch, the same hand that surely rocked the devil‟s cradle—lifted the back of her dress, allowing the winds of change to caress her bare ass, she shivered. Clinical at first, searching, discovery, a predator‟s recognition. His finger intruded rudely, marking his territory, and she jumped. She was unable to stifle a wanton sigh. When the errant digit retreated, she moaned in disappointment. She wanted to say something. She wanted to kneel and beg. She wanted him to forgo the verbal foreplay and ravish her where she stood. Bend her over the fine china, silver cutlery, sparkling crystal, and rut her like a whore and leave her sated and messy. She had never been so needy so long and she wanted him to fix it. “You‟re doing very well, my dear. Just a minute more and we will enjoy our meal.” Will the rest of the pride be joining us? In her mind the staunch English butler intruded. Will you be having wine with today’s catch, sir? I’ll go turn the spit and check the fire. A very fine catch, sir. Very juicy indeed. She felt his lips, soft and wet, tickle her ear when he whispered. Her breathing stopped. “You need to come.” Her spine tingled. A question? “You have to come.” A command? “You have always known it. Suspected it. We couldn‟t say you denied it, because denial would require understanding.” The monsoon swept in and filled the watering hole. The dike was breached and the barren planes of her soft naked inner thighs were slowly, uncontrollably, flooded. I’ll drown. She smiled. “You don‟t need a metro-man to say please and thank you. A beta to commune with. A missionary to kneel between your knees and show you the truth and the light.”

Orion

39

Her eyes closed, her upper lip trembled with a needy tic. The savanna faded and left a dark void with a single point of light that moved closer. She whimpered when the beast‟s jaws closed around her bare, exposed neck. “You have a symphony inside you that must be played. You need to be listened to. Your song must be heard. You are a beautiful instrument that will sing under the tutelage of the right director.” It burned and churned inside. It needed to escape. It needed to be released before it consumed her completely. “Not for the faint of heart.” “You need an alpha that will take. That will possess. That will mark his territory and defend it to the death.” This won’t hurt a bit. Her knees knocked together, her stomach clenched, and her chest exploded with a dying gasp. The death rattle of the conquered. “You need a master.” “Crossing the abyss, while a great adventure, is not for the faint of heart.” She trembled and teetered at the edge of the precipice. She swayed and nearly swooned. Then, as if in a dream, she watched him take up his instrument, lift his baton; the silence in the great hall was deafening, and he whispered the words. Her words. “You may come now, my dear.” With nothing more than the phallic caress of his words, she laughed in the face of her safe word and surrendered to the orgasmic detonation between her thighs and knew that he would be there to catch her. She exploded in an unfettered leap of faith from the edge. A graceful swan dive into the abyss. Not an orgasm. Nothing as mundane as coming on the tips of her own fingers. Her entire being was consumed by a detonation of excruciating ecstasy that transformed life into the beautiful agony of melting into the ether and staring into the face of God. The babbling masses had disappeared, and only one person was left standing on her savanna. Pam recognized him at once. Master.

40

Roscoe James

Chapter Three “Pamela?” Like a soft breeze, his whisper caressed her skin and made her feel alive. The savanna was in full bloom. The herd had returned to congratulate her and the sky was a flawless blue veil with cherubs flitting about… “Pamela?” No! She pulled her eyes tight and let the wave wash over her one more time. Not yet. Like a remnant of the big bang ripping around the center of her universe, her orgasm bounced off the far shore and rushed back to engulf her. Dark and silent, it racked her being, leaving her numb and trembling in its wake. Master. “Pamela?” He was there to catch her, and she expected no less from the king of the jungle, the master of her universe. At the least a superhero. More likely a god. His body was warm against her back and she could feel his hand still cupping her elbow. She straightened on wobbly knees. Pam followed his guiding hand to her place at the small table for two in his dark leather-bound library on a rainy October night. She felt like a Dali painting, trying not to slide off her chair. Slippery when wet. The candles had burned an inch or two of tallow away, their place settings sparkled, and she was ravenous. Have you been hunting, dear? I could eat a horse. Her tongue felt like rubber, and in sharp contrast to other more intimate places about her body, her mouth was dry. He smiled, and their small corner of the library seemed to come to life with a warm glow. A snap of his fingers and a waiter appeared. Not the English butler of her musings but just as impeccable and well-spoken. “Yes, sir?” Sir. Yes, definitely a sir to the lesser people that crossed his path.

Orion

41

An hour passed in the blink of an eye. An hour under his unwavering gaze. An hour of his unrelenting smile. An hour of his undivided attention. An hour of flirtatious quips and subtle hints. An hour of the same man who had already shown her nirvana through spoken word, who now seemed intent on conquering her in a more conventional manner. The meal had been lavish and left her with visions of a staff of many, complete with sous-chef, off in a noisy kitchen working hard to ensure their Michelin rating of haute cuisine remained intact. No longer the predator moving stealthily through the underbrush of the savanna, he transformed himself into the benevolent priest attentive to her rambling confessions when small talk became her life‟s story. A story he listened to with rapt attention. Pam had managed to learn the esoteric fact or three about the man who had ravished her. Old money. Banking. His name was Horacio Sloan. He grew up in the house they were sitting in, and was sure he would die in it as well. Red wine gave way to cognac and a Cuban cigar for his highness. She felt at ease when she reached for the dark wood humidor and plucked a fat black stogie of her own up. He seemed delighted when she rolled it between her fingers before smiling approval. Pam snipped the end and smiled around the fat business end as she sucked it into her mouth wetting the tip lavishly. He watched and finally roared with laughter. Snatching the heavy gold lighter from the table, she puffed and sucked until the end glowed red. A parlor trick to entertain the great Houdini. He shoved his chair back, crossed his ankle on his knee, and took a long draw. Pam felt brave. She pushed her own chair away from the table, enough that her legs were no longer hidden, and did the same. Her left foot came up and she splayed her thighs, mimicking his. She didn‟t have to look down. A waft of air caressing her wet folds told her that her still-sopping pussy was on display. For him. She couldn‟t tell if his hearty chuckle was one of mirth or greed. It didn‟t matter. What mattered was that hearty chuckle was his and he‟d given it to her. “So, Pam, I guess you wonder why you‟re here having an intimate meal with a total stranger.” After being verbally ravished? Naw, the thought never crossed my mind. She knocked the ashes off her cigar, sucked the end between her lips, leaving it black and wet, and took a long, speculative draw while Horacio, predator-turned-priest, went on. “In spite of appearances, I‟m a simple man. I discovered at an early age that I am different. That I have an affinity with certain people. People that are very special.” Horacio leaned forward, planted his elbow beside the heavy crystal ashtray, dropped his ashes, and took a long drag from his cigar. He then openly ravished her with his eyes. Perusal turned to something else. She watched the red tip of his tongue appear and lick the corner of his mouth while he stared between the splay of her thighs directly at the swollen lips of her pussy.

42

Roscoe James

She didn‟t flinch. This won’t hurt a bit. And it didn‟t. She‟d never felt so alive. “I‟m not a demanding person. Maybe exacting would be a better word. I do not take without giving and I do not give to those who are not worthy.” She could feel it. Smell it. Something sweeter than a cigar and heavier than a rainy spring day. Something not for the faint of heart. Pam flexed her thighs and clenched her stomach. She imagined a teaspoonful squeezing out, running down her pouting lips, and pooling on the satin seat of her chair between her thighs. Can he see it? Can he see what he does to me? His soft moan was like the growl of a lion cornered in its den. She shivered. His voice dropped into a hypnotic monotone. “You know what I‟m talking about, Pamela. I know that you‟ve been waiting for something. Something you couldn‟t define. Something you couldn‟t put a label on.” She watched his cigar come up, his lips kiss the end and suck, his head tilt back, and a gray cloud float out over the their table. “Not for the faint of heart.” She brought her foot to the floor, her knees open like a Marlene Dietrich wannabe, took a drag of her own stogie, put it on display between clutched fingers on her right knee, and continued waiting. “You knew it was out there. You just didn‟t know where to find it.” Horacio placed his cigar in the ashtray. “More importantly. You knew he was out there. The one that would make you feel safe and at ease. The one that would make you feel complete.” Yes. Yes. And yes. Her nipples felt like heavy glass beads topping out her breasts. She was sure they would shatter any moment. “The one worthy of you.” She thought she would puddle on the floor and evaporate. He stood, his demeanor different, his magic put away. He walked to her side, captured her cigar, and placed it in the ashtray beside his own. Then he pried her hand from her knee and pulled her to her feet. Her splayed stance became awkward, and when she brought her feet together, she reveled in the slick friction of her thighs pushing her swollen lips together. She teetered for a moment and smiled when his hand splayed across her back to steady her. “As much as I wish this would never end”—his crooked finger raised her chin— “I‟m afraid that it must. Charlene and I have a late meeting in Zurich, and I‟m sorry to say the jet is waiting.” The redheaded bitch of the perfect skin? The soaking-wet naked waif that curled into your arms and went to sleep? The “just once” she-cat that came like a banshee on the end of Driver James’s very hard cock? His voice was stern, but his eyes were smiling. “No, you mustn‟t be that way, Pamela. I haven‟t touched her like that. Never. She‟s my personal assistant. She knows

Orion

43

almost as much about my business as I do. What she takes and what I give are very different from what I‟m offering you.” Pam wanted to believe. “More importantly”—and the back of his fingers graced her cheek—“what I‟m asking your permission to take.” She could feel it beneath the toes of her high heels. The craggy edge of the precipice. The crash of waves against the rocks was distant but constant. “Crossing the abyss, while a great adventure, is not for the faint of heart.” A rhythmic rush filled her ears. When he leaned down and paused, his lips an inch from hers, her breath caught in her throat. He whispered. “I‟m going to kiss you.” He’s evil incarnate. He seeks no permission and has no doubt what he will do. He wants me to wait. He wants my poor muddled mind to imagine the unimaginable. He wants me to hang from the precipice a few seconds more. She would deny him nothing and teetered obediently. His lips were a warm crush against hers and she kissed him back with a fervor found only in old movies at train stations and boat docks. She feasted on his essence. His smell. His feel against her body. She reveled in his hunger. When the kiss broke, he said, “I‟ll be gone a week. You must decide.” She raised her hand and touched his cheek. His skin was sandpaper on the tips of her fingers. “But wait… You can‟t… Is it real?” He touched his finger against her lips. It smelled of cigar, cologne, and her. She licked it. “I‟ll return next Saturday. I‟ll see you at eight in the evening. You must decide. Then we will know if it is real or not.”

***** Pamela Wilkinson, thirty going on eighty according to her mother, leaned into the mirror and pulled the red lip gloss swab across her lower lip. She flexed her naked thighs and smiled. What has he done to me? One last inspection and she picked up the red silk panties from the toilet seat, inspected them, and his words came to mind. “You will always be open and available to me. At the same time, you will always wear panties when not with me. Your body is mine. It no longer belongs to you. It is not yours to dress as you wish. Your swollen, wet pussy belongs only to me. Is that clear?” “Yes,” she whispered just before sliding them on. “All yours.” She felt sexy and hot and happy. And she knew exactly why. She‟d had no idea it was possible for any woman, much less her, to feel like this. She felt like a million dollars and change. After James of the “you may not” fame had dropped her off with a bow beside her open door and not a word, she‟d slept until three in the afternoon on Saturday. She

44

Roscoe James

woke up wet and needing to pee, to the sound of someone in her building knocking a wall down. Or at least a neighbor hanging a picture from a railroad spike. Pam turned from the mirror and walked past her ratty old robe in a puddle on the bathroom floor. She sauntered naked into her bedroom. Her red camisole came out, and she slipped it on. She loved the way the satin felt sliding across her naked breasts. She glanced in the mirror over her dresser and it appeared her nipples were enjoying the sensation just as much. Gray wool socks that came halfway to her knees, black wool skirt that was entirely too short, and her favorite pink turtleneck. She finished with black leather boots with two-inch heels that were blunt and practical, a gray scarf, and her leather raincoat that had taken six months to pay for. She stood in front of the mirror on the back of her bedroom door and inspected herself. The sweater made her look soft and touchable. The short skirt made her look like she felt. Hot. She smiled. Pam picked up her purse and vacillated. Then she put down her purse. She walked to her closet and pulled out a pair of very practical black wool slacks with pleats. “Your body is mine. It no longer belongs to you. It is not yours to dress as you wish.” She picked up her purse and stopped at the mirror a second time. A quick look and she yelled to no one in particular. “Argh!” No, he may not be standing in the room, but he’s definitely standing in my head. “Your swollen, wet pussy belongs only to me.” This time she threw her purse on her bed and rifled a drawer. Her hand came out with the red bra that went with her panties. Five minutes later she ran her fingers through her hair, grabbed her purse, and flipped her mirror the bird as she walked past. How do you do it? Honest, I only dressed that way because I feel that way. Because you made me feel that way. It was for me. On the stairs she pulled her cell phone out and called Jolie. “I‟m ready. Did you get a cab?” “Got ya covered. Two blocks away.” Pam closed her phone and dropped it in her purse. A big smile for Mrs. Lowenstein as the woman came in the front entrance. “Oh, Pammy dear, it‟s going to rain. Where‟s your umbrella?” “I‟ll be okay, Mrs. Lowenstein. You have a nice night.” At the front entrance to her building, Pam grabbed the neck of her sweater and wondered how she‟d lost an entire week. That’s his car. I know it is. The long black limo was taking up three parking meters right in front of her stoop. The moment the door to her building closed behind her with a bang, a man, one she didn‟t know, practically jumped from the driver‟s door and sprinted to the back, where he pulled the door open and waited. When she‟d recovered enough to walk down the five steps to the sidewalk, a yellow cab stopped in the middle of the street and Jolie yelled from the window, “C‟mon, bitch. Get yo‟ ass over here. This guy charges by the second.”

Orion

45

Pam stopped at the open back door of the limo and looked closely at the man holding it open. “Who are you?” “I‟m Thomas. The weekend driver.” Sure. A weekend driver. Hell, everyone has one of those. She bent and looked in the back. Aside from a small gold box with a red ribbon tied neatly into a bow sitting on the seat, the back of the limo was empty. Well, not completely. His smell made her dizzy. “Hi, Thomas the weekend driver. What the hell are you doing here?” Jolie insisted from the taxi. “Hey! You! Get over here. It‟s gonna rain any minute.” She summarily ignored her friend and waited for the weekend driver to shed light. “I was told to be available for you. I‟m here to take you anyplace you want to go. I‟m to give you my card so you may call me if I‟m not here, and James will be here Monday at eight to take you to work.” He’s spying on me? How dare him! “Tell you what, Thomas. You can go back to the beach house and tell your master that I‟m a big girl now and know how to get around the big bad city all by myself.” She spun on her heels. “He said you might say something like that. He said I was to give you these.” Pam spun back around to give the weekend driver another piece of her mind when she saw a small white envelope and the gold box that had been sitting on the seat in the weekend driver‟s hand. “Come on, Pam. We just spent five dollars sitting here waiting on you.” She grabbed the envelope and small box and headed around the back of the long black car, jumped in beside Jolie, and slammed the door. “Let‟s go.” “Hey there, girlfriend. Who‟s the tuxedo tank belong to?” Pam looked at her lap and turned the small gold box over in her fingers. The envelope was small and heavy. Not from the contents, but from the linen paper it was made of. Turning in the seat, she watched the lights of the limo come on just as it started to sprinkle. “Oh, just some guy. I don‟t know.” Pam dropped the small box and envelope in her purse and stared at the back of the head of their taxi driver. “You datin‟ a limo driver?” “I‟ll tell you later. I‟m starved. How about you?”

***** The inside of the restaurant was wrapped in rough cut cedar, and the waitresses wore blue jeans, white western shirts with snap-button pockets, black chaps, and

46

Roscoe James

cowboy hats. A tourist joint in the Village that was completely out of place among wine and cheese and Italian eateries. But they had the best barbecue beef sandwich in Manhattan, and in spite of the spy who loved her, Pam was still hungry. Just before they sat down at a table by the front window, she scanned the street and smiled when she didn‟t find his tank and driver blocking the view. They ordered, and Jolie was bubbly and faux gangsta bitch, an odd combination, but it served as a nice distraction “Okay, bee-otch, you gotta give up the goods. Why‟d you leave so early Friday?” You couldn‟t be in a bad mood around Jolie. She didn‟t allow it. Maybe he wasn’t spying. Maybe he just wanted me to have a ride. Leaning across the corn chips and hot sauce, Pam gave up most of the goods. “You‟ll never believe what happened…” “Wait a minute, gurl. You, Miss I‟m a Virgin From Illinois, got in a limousine, the same limo that was in front of your place, with some stranger?” “No! He‟s not a stranger. It was that guy. The guy. The one that comes every Friday.” “Hold on! You mean that guy that‟s like old enough to be my granddaddy that always wears a suit…” “He is not! He‟s an older guy, sure. But he‟s not that old.” “Honey, is there somethin’ in your past you ain‟t told me yet? Like maybe you was raised in a trailer park or something?” “Come on, Jolie. You saw him. He‟s nobody‟s granddaddy.” “Yeah, well, more like sugar daddy if you ask me. And I saw him. He was with some redheaded bitch Friday. Hell, she looked like something right off the pages of Vogue.” Pam was getting annoyed. It was nothing like that. But what the hell was it? She grabbed Jolie‟s wrist. “Look, you want to hear this or not?” “Oh, hell yes, I want to hear every bit of this, girl. Ain‟t no way you ain‟t tellin‟ me this one. Okay, so you just plopped your skinny white ass down in the backseat of sugar daddy‟s limo along with Ms. Vogue, and you all just went to a Holiday Inn and did the nasty all night?” Pam sat back in her seat and took a bite of her sandwich. That wasn‟t it. It wasn’t like that at all… “You need to come.” She felt hot, flushed, out of sorts, and Jolie was starting to get under her skin. “Crossing the abyss, while a great adventure, is not for the faint of heart.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and took another bite. “No, you aren‟t getting away with that. Spill.” Jolie had toned things down a notch. She looked around. It was as if he were there looking over her shoulder. As if he knew every thought, every word, every sloppy little quiver. Or do I just want him to be here. With me. Close. A touch, a glance…a command.

Orion

47

“You have to come.” His lips were red and wet, the shadow on his chin black and rough. She could almost feel it against her skin as he nuzzled into her neck. Pam moaned around a swallow of beer. She glanced at Jolie and, not trusting her ability to speak, took another bite. “Well, I can see you aren‟t talking. But you have to tell me if they have color TVs in Holiday Inn yet. I mean, if the man rides around in a tuxedo tank, he should at least take you someplace a little nicer than a Holiday Inn.” Jolie took solace in her sandwich. His palm was dry and warm. His hand strong. Pam’s bare breast floated in his caress. Her nipple swelled. Her wool slacks felt bunched and damp in her crotch, and she shifted on the hardwood cane-back chair, trying to find more space. The savanna grew dark and she could hear his pant on her back. Pam cleared her throat and took a drink of draft. Her voice belied the mush her insides had become when it came out in a sultry whisper. “We didn‟t go to the Holiday Inn.” Julie looked up, stopped chewing, and trash talk gone, asked, “You okay, girl? You look all flushed.” She leaned across the table, and her palm was cool on Pamela‟s forehead. Tiger, tiger, burning bright, in the darkness of the night. Pam managed a croak. “I‟m okay.” She shoved a dill between her teeth that was trying to escape mastication and sucked the tip of her finger. “Right.” Jolie looked concerned. “And I‟m Little Red fucking Riding Hood.” Pam smiled. His teeth didn’t hurt as they closed around her neck. His claws left red rips of joy on her arms and his skin was slick and sweaty when he leaned over her body. “Maybe I should ask for the check…” “No. Really. I‟m okay.” Pam couldn‟t have moved if she‟d wanted to. She‟d found the little carved hump in the seat of her chair and, sliding forward, was captivated. The wet tip of his tongue touched her ear and she shivered. His breath was hot on her neck. His hands were everywhere and nowhere. “You may come now, my dear.” Jaw slack, her breath trapped, Pam clutched the edge of the table until her fingers hurt. The only thing that felt better than the white-hot pain searing her knuckles was the small nuclear device that detonated between her thighs and the hard wooden hump of her seat. The babbling masses disappeared and only one person was left standing on her savanna. She recognized him at once. Master.

*****

48

Roscoe James

“Pam! Pamela! You okay?” First there was a scared-shitless Jolie. Then Pam saw some guy with bushy eyebrows and smoker‟s breath leaning too close. Their waitress leaned in and Pam fixed on a zit in the middle of the girl‟s chin. “It‟s me, hon, Jolie. Do we need to call an ambulance?” Call the fire department. The savanna’s on fire. Someone was pulling on her wrist, and Pam released her death grip on the edge of the table. Like a rush of backwater filling a muddy hole along the Hudson, her body relaxed and she slipped into the deep end of the pool to drown. Pam shoved the waitress away and leaned heavily into the back of her chair. The man with smoker‟s breath chimed in. “Look, lady, we can call an ambulance if you want.” “No”—and she touched her temple where the jungle drums still pounded. “No. I‟m okay.” She found a smile and looked at all three of them in turn. Jolie cradled Pam‟s head and looked her right in the eye. “You scared the shit out of me. What the hell happened?” Pam looked at her lap, her half-eaten sandwich, the zit on the waitress‟s chin, and her fingers. Her fingers hurt like hell. She knew what happened but had no idea what it had looked like. I just creamed my britches. Sitting at a table in a theme restaurant, my floodgates opened and I came. Did someone get the license number of that bus that just ran over me? Look, Ma, no hands. Pamela pulled away, still smiling. “It must be that cold medicine I took before we left.” When no one moved and all three continued to stare, she rushed to add, “The doctor told me not to operate any earthmovers or other heavy equipment while taking it. I guess I should have listened.” Pam sniffed for good measure and was relieved when Jolie stepped back and the guy with smoker‟s breath finally smiled. “Right. Well, maybe you shouldn‟t be having alcohol. How about I take this with me and send over a soft drink? We won‟t charge you for the beer.” The waitress left and Jolie dropped back into her chair. “Cold medicine, my ass.” Pam plastered innocence on her face and went back to her sandwich. Thirty minutes of silence, the check appeared, they counted out bills, left a tip, and headed for the door. The drizzle had turned to a cold downpour, and she didn‟t think twice when the long black limo pulled up, blocking traffic, and Thomas, the weekend man, appeared with an umbrella to escort them across the flooded gutter. Pam tumbled in and curled in the corner. His corner. Jolie looked in, sniffed the air to see if it was tainted with poison gas, and finally settled. When they pulled away from

Orion

49

the curb, the gangsta returned. “I ain‟t even gonna ask, gurl. I know exactly what happened in there.” The rainy night slipped by outside the car and brought to mind another rainy night just twenty-four hours earlier. Nope, not going there again. Her excuse was lame, but Pam didn‟t feel like hanging anymore. “I must be getting the flu or something.” Jolie said nothing. When Pamela finally arrived home, she dropped her leather raincoat in the middle of the floor, shucked her boots, peeled her black wool slacks off, and with them went the smell. Her smell. “Your body is mine. It no longer belongs to you.” No, she corrected, his smell. She curled into the unmade sheets and fell sound asleep. When she woke sometime late in the afternoon Sunday and saw it was still raining and felt the ache in her stomach that had nothing to do with hunger, she set her alarm and went back to sleep.

***** Monday Pam strode past the waiting James with a defiant smirk and disappeared into the subway. She managed to stay away from the savanna all day. Late afternoon was like coming down from a high. By four she was tired and cranky and only wanted to get back to her place and crawl between her still-unmade sheets. She cursed James and the limo but enjoyed every dry minute of leather-clad luxury riding home in another downpour. Digging in her purse for her keys, she found the little gold box in a corner and then went nuts culling for the envelope. When it floated to the top, she smiled and unlocked the door to her apartment. A pair of heels joined her boots in the clutter on her bedroom floor, and when she stepped in the middle of her leather raincoat, she cursed. Hiking her dress, she dug around for the top of her pantyhose and watched the neighbor‟s TV through his window across the street. Her pantyhose joined everything else she‟d worn since Friday. When her neighbor happened to glance her way, she made a show of holding her skirt up while she straightened her panties. She didn‟t know if she was tormenting white-haired Mr. Feldon or imagining someone else she would rather be tormenting. Falling in the middle of her bed, Pam grabbed the remote and flipped around until she found a Friends rerun. Then she smoothed a place out on the sheet and placed the small gold box and envelope where she could see them. An hour later she was digging around her bedroom looking for her diary. The small gold box and envelope were still untouched. Another hour and she closed her diary with a resolute snap. The one person in the world she knew she could talk to. A glance at the gold box and she decided a hot soak would help. Her favorite bath beads, something sweet pretending to be alcohol she

50

Roscoe James

found in the cabinet of her kitchenette, three candles glowing warmly, and she carried the gold box and envelope into the bathroom and sat them reverently on the cracked linoleum floor before she settled into the hot, sudsy water. Pam thumbed the flap on the envelope but put it back on the floor. Words. It has words. His words. She knew what his words could do. Instead she pulled the ribbon on the small gold box and slipped the top off. What the…? Pinching one end, Pam lifted the shiny black curl of silk strap out of the box like a long, flat earthworm and stared at it. Looking back in the box, she found nothing else. Returning the black strap to the box, she retrieved the envelope. The paper was heavy linen just like the envelope. The note was written in a bold script with broad strokes that reminded her of a man. Him. And as always his words were few, which in no way diminished the message. She placed the small note beside the box and leaned back in the old iron tub. This time Pam didn‟t leave it to her imaginings and his remembered words. She wanted to feel herself. She craved a touch. Any touch. One knee propped up on the side of the tub, she stared at the flickering yellow candle glow on the cracked paint of the ceiling and slowly, deliberately, drove herself crazy. Her back finally went rigid, her nipples peeked above the suds, her knee came down with a jerk, and she squeezed her fingers hard with her thighs. She tried to ignore them, but his words orbited the inside of her head. “You may come now, my dear.” “Yes,” she whispered and enjoyed the moment with a mellow moan that came out in staccato catches. Thirty minutes later her damp towel joined everything else on her bedroom floor and she sat naked, legs crossed in an Indian squat in the middle of her messy bed, and pulled the long silk strand out of the box. She knew what it was. It wasn‟t the heavy leather dog collar he‟d pulled from around her throat. It was a shadow. A whispered promise of all that could be. She turned it on her fingers and looked at the shine of the black silk before raising it to her neck. A double knot, and she spun it around until the knot was hidden by her hair. Pamela, While trying on the dress I felt it might be interesting to accessorize. H. She swallowed and the cool silk ribbon tightened around her throat. Curling into her sheets, she smiled and went to sleep.

*****

Orion

51

Tuesday he was everywhere. Pam couldn‟t turn her head or speak without feeling the caress of his fingers around her neck. She felt like it was Easter and her mother had turned her out in her Sunday best and new white patent leather shoes. She was sure everyone had looked at her neck at least twice, and she loved every minute of it. At noon she grazed on the savanna in the guise of Mr. Wong‟s restaurant with the rest of the herd. She caught Jolie looking at her sideways, but nothing beyond office gossip was discussed. That evening Pam stripped down to her panties and paraded around her apartment happy and wet with the thought that she was wearing the only two things that he would have her wear when he was not around. When she happened by the window and caught Mr. Feldon looking in, she flipped the senior citizen the bird and kept on strutting. After the late-night news went off, she opened her nightstand and grabbed Fred, the Silver Bullet Man, and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Then, twisting the end of Fred, the tips of her fingers were tickled with by soft hum. Careful placement, and she stood in front of her bathroom mirror and looked at the black silk band around her neck while Fred did all the heavy work. “You may come now, my dear.” Reality returned to find her kneeling on the bathroom floor, her chin hooked on the lip of the heavy enamel sink. She was gasping for air. She wondered if she‟d ever come again without hearing his words.

***** By Wednesday evening the fog started to clear and Pam spent three hours picking up after Hurricane Horacio. A weather front that had obviously been missed by the Weather Channel. She found her diary and spent an hour talking to it. She caught Mr. Feldon sitting in his overstuffed chair looking her way. You’re waiting for your show, you old pervert. A few more strokes of her pen, and Mr. Feldon became an actor in her play. Pam pulled down the blind and thought about calling Jolie. She was full of nervous energy and wanted someone to talk her down. Jolie won’t understand. She straightened her closet and mopped the small square of linoleum in the kitchenette. She sorted her socks, cleaned her medicine cabinet, dusted every horizontal surface in sight, and wondered why Horacio hadn‟t called. Not once. Not a word. It’s not like he can’t afford to make an overseas call. He probably owns a telecom…or three. She was feeling weepy and needy when she got out of her bath and, black silk band still around her throat, pulled a pair of practical cotton underwear she‟d found in the back of one of her drawers over her ass. She set the alarm, brushed her teeth, slid between her sheets, hugged a pillow, and went to sleep.

*****

52

Roscoe James

Thursday morning Pam walked past James and the open back door of the car. Instead she went to the front passenger door and let herself in. She openly perused the front of James‟s slacks while he drove her to work, just to see if he‟d say anything. She invaded the man‟s ashtray and only found change. Then she popped the glove box open and discovered nothing more sensational than the car‟s operation and service manual. She rolled her window down and let the cold morning air in. James turned up the heat. She put her window up, and James lowered the heat. When he stopped in front of her building, she watched him sprint around the front of the car to open her door. As she got out, she said cheerily, “Fuck off, James.” James stared at the pavement. Petulant child had been a totally unrewarding experience. In the elevator she felt like a storm looking for a place to happen, and when Jolie asked what was wrong with her neck, she found that place. “What the hell do you know? You weren‟t there. He didn‟t choose you. He chose me! Nobody else! Me!” The morning office prattle hushed, and the only sound she heard above the roar in her head was the copy machine winding down. “Hey.” Jolie‟s hand came up in self-defense. “I‟m guessing you mean your sugar daddy. You can keep him. I was just saying good morning.” “He‟s not my sugar daddy!” She saw it on Jolie‟s face as much as felt it. From anger to concern. When Jolie stepped closer, Pam sobbed. By the time Jolie had coaxed her to the woman‟s restroom, she was bawling. “He hasn‟t even called. He doesn‟t even care enough to call.” “It‟s okay, Pam. They‟re all the same. Once they get in your pants they don‟t want anything else from you. You don‟t need him anyway.” Pam clutched the sleeve of Jolie‟s blouse, her body quaking, and whispered. “But I do! I do need him!” Jolie stared at her and in a concerned voice asked, “What did he do to you? Did he hurt you? Is he blackmailing you?” She heard none of it and went off in another direction. “What if something‟s happened to him? What if he‟s in a hospital somewhere and needs me? What if—” “Stop it! Right now. Look at yourself. Look what he‟s done to you.” Jolie shoved her toward the sink, pointing her at the mirror. Her hair was a mess, her face red and angry, her mascara long black streaks below puffy eyes. And her black silk collar sat on a wide black smear around her throat. Pam‟s fingers came up and she pried. The skin of her neck was black where the dye in the silk had rubbed off on her skin. I washed my hair last night. I tried not to get it wet. I promise. She didn‟t notice that Jolie had left. She grabbed a paper towel, bunched it around her finger, ran some water on it, and started scrubbing. The smear only got worse.

Orion

53

When Jolie appeared in the mirror and placed a hand on her shoulder, she leaned away to get some soap out of the dispenser. Pam knew what Jolie had done as soon as she heard the snip. She spun and stared in anger. Jolie smiled and snipped the scissors in the air triumphantly. “There. Now that we got rid of that let‟s get your neck—” Pam grabbed her neck, searched the basin, and finally found the black silk strip at her feet. Plucking it from the floor, she stared daggers at her best friend. The black ribbon felt limp and lifeless between her fingers. She was too angry to cry. One last wipe of her throat with the damp paper towel, and she turned back to Jolie. “Tell Tom I called in sick today.” Pam didn‟t hear Jolie‟s protests. She also didn‟t speak to anyone as she gathered her things, took the elevator down, and walked out the front of the building. She stopped at the curb in the middle of the block and waited impatiently. She didn‟t even think about what she was doing. She didn‟t anguish over whether her long black chariot would appear. When a yellow cab pulled to the curb, she waved it on. It was his wish that it happen, and it did. She knew it would. The limo rolled to a stop, and James jumped out and opened her door. “Home, James.” She wanted to laugh. What a cliché. That evening Pam left the tattered pieces of him on a small mirror on her dresser. She took a long, hot bath and washed away the last of the black ring around her neck. Then she wandered from the bathroom naked and circled her bedroom. At the mirror on the back of her door, she stopped. Too old? Not old enough? Fat? She pinched the swell below her navel. Not fat enough? She squeezed her breast and sighed. Not worthy. At the window she raised the blind and ran her finger through the cold sweat that clung to the inside of the window‟s glass pane. She stuck her tongue out at a leering Mr. Feldon and threw herself across her bed. Her palm on her forehead, she decided she didn‟t have a fever. Well, not that kind of fever. I hate you. I hate you and your business in Europe. I hate your big black car. I hate your redheaded bitch with her perfect teeth. I hate your deep voice that makes me want to purr. I hate the crow’s feet around your eyes and the dimple in the middle of your chin. She pulled out her diary and scratched the paper furiously. James and you may not come were recruited into her cast of thespians. Then she rolled to her side, pulled her knees to her chin, and fell asleep on top of her covers with the light on. The leather glove that covered the hand of need wrapped firmly around her throat and squeezed. She woke from her dream with a start. A dream of falling off a cliff toward dark, sinister rocks at the bottom of a never- ending precipice. Pam moaned, rolled off her bed, and retrieved the two pieces of silk strap from her dresser. Finding a needle and black thread, she sat on the side of her bed and carefully sewed the pieces back together. She pulled the black slip of silk around her neck, tied it

54

Roscoe James

in place, turned the light out, and crawled between her sheets. In less than a minute she was sound asleep.

***** Friday was cold. One of those clear-sky early fall days with glaring sunlight and a chilly wind that whipped through the streets and alleys of Manhattan pushing scarves up tight under passersby‟s chins, zipping up jackets, and buttoning up sweaters. Pam‟s lip gloss was fuck-me red and looked wet enough to dribble down her chin. Thick white base and heavy black mascara completed the look. She pulled her black hair back tight and rolled it around her finger into a severe bun that she captured with bobby pins. Naked in front of her window, legs spread, feet planted, she enjoyed the heat from the sun that peeked over the top of Mr. Feldon‟s building. She caressed her black silk choker and let her fingers drop to a breast, where she tugged and teased a nipple until it hardened obediently. Mr. Feldon‟s TV was on, but he hadn‟t arrived for the show. Too bad. Pam dug black lace panties, a garter, and silk stockings with a coarse seam running from heel to thigh out of her dresser. She returned to her bedroom window and smiled when Mr. Feldon appeared and scooted his TV table away from the flickering screen. Then the old man shoved his big chair sideways with his hip and glared at her over his cornflakes. She took her time. She made a show of getting dressed and enjoyed every sloppy run of milk on Mr. Feldon‟s chin. By the time the first stocking was smooth on her leg, her audience had given up on his cereal and seemed to be fumbling in his lap. With the second stocking the movements in Mr. Feldon‟s lap became jerky. Empowered. Salacious. It was a week ago today that I crawled into his car. A week of waiting. A week of need. That week of need came down to fifteen minutes of being wanton on her window ledge. Pam leaned close to the cold glass of her bedroom window and whispered, “You may come now, my dear.” As if on cue, Mr. Feldon stood, his hand working furiously, and her expression slipped to pity. Pam turned away from the stuttering, sloppy standing ovation that decorated Mr. Feldon‟s cereal bowl and finished getting ready for another day at the dungeon. The mental image the word conjured brought a smile to her face. Dungeon. Chains and dark places for dark deeds. A place where bad people are punished for those dark deeds. A place where hearts in chains are allowed to fly. The short wool skirt she‟d discarded earlier in the week as too revealing went on, followed by a leather vest that wrapped tight against her bare breasts. Black patent leather boots that stopped just below her knees added three inches to her height.

Orion

55

No, this is not about the look. This is about the feel. Come fuck me. That’s how I feel. That’s what I want. Not just anyone. Just one man knows what to do. More importantly, how to do it. Pam tapped her toe impatiently while James nearly sprinted to the back of the car. I’m being bad. Will he punish me? Wrapped warm in her black leather raincoat and wool scarf, she rode the elevator in silence, ignoring the incessant chatter of the little people. At her cubicle, she found a smiling Jolie. “Hey there, girl. You feeling better today?” She unbuttoned her raincoat and threw it across her chair with a touch of defiance. When the scarf unwound, revealing the black horizontal slit across her throat, Jolie frowned, turned back to her desk, and didn‟t discuss anything beyond office matters for the rest of the day. The mark of the pride is strong.

***** The day‟s parade of male flesh past their cubicle became laughable until Mr. Roberts had to stop by and run a drooling duo off. He smiled at Jolie and ran like a scared rabbit when Pamela spun in her office chair, crossed her legs, uncrossed them, then crossed them again. The winds of change arrived in the morning mail cart. Federal Express overnight. The small package was innocuous in appearance and thrown in with the rest of the office correspondence. She‟d missed it. Twice. When it showed up at the bottom of the stack a third time, she recognized the handwriting immediately. Her heart pounded when she shut herself in a stall in the women‟s restroom and tore at the heavy cardboard envelope until Tear Here became an accomplishment and not an instruction. Pamela, I hope my letter finds you well. I apologize for the lack of endearment. That will come with time. I hope my intention is self-evident. The time draws near that I will measure yours. Tonight you have a task to perform. This task will bring us closer to so much more than endearments. I also apologize as well for not being in touch. I’ve been extremely busy, but know that you have not left my thoughts. H. She sat on the lid of the toilet seat, aware of her wool skirt tight against her ass, the seam of her stockings pressed into the back of her thighs, and trembled. Reading the letter for a third time, she finally folded the small note carefully and put it back inside its cardboard envelope.

56

Roscoe James

My intention. The time draws near that I will measure yours. That evening she stood on the sidewalk and watched the herd march off to catch their public transport. She caught Jolie‟s backward glance over her shoulder and felt a kind of sadness. Not for the chasm that was growing between them, but for the drab world the sightless must endure. The chrome grille swung around the corner at the end of the block, and her chariot raced to pick her up. Pam didn‟t ask. She only settled in the backseat and watched the city float by. When they rolled to a stop on a dirty, crowded street somewhere north of Central Park, she inspected a display of fruits and tomatoes until James opened her door and let the chill afternoon air in. Their first stop was a small Italian shoe shop with no front door that smelled of boot polish, leather, and sweat. “You are to pick up a package for Mr. Sloan.” Inside she found a fat man with graying hair and olive skin who spun on his stool, grunted, and searched the shelves behind him. He pulled a long box down, placed it on the counter, and short fat fingers shoved a bill across the counter. “Sign here, pretty lady.” Pam touched the black silk band across her neck. Do you not see I’m part of the pride? You wouldn’t make such comments in the presence of the master. She noticed the price, signed, picked up her package, and left. In the car she pulled them out and held them up to the outside of her leg. Too long. They’re too long. Two thousand dollars for boots that come up too high. On closer inspection she found a small dip and soft roll of leather in the lip at the top of each boot on the inside. She blushed when she realized how they were to be worn. The next stop was a long way from the barrio. James let her out in front of a Fifth Avenue furrier. “Another package,” was all he said. The place was decorated in chrome and white, old women in designer dresses, and smelled like Chanel. Pam immediately felt out of place and ratty in her off-the-rack fuck-me getup. She was afraid the salesclerk would have her thrown out when the young woman offered with a sniff, “Starbucks is around the corner, hon.” “I‟m here for a package. It‟s for Mr. Sloan.” A furtive glance at the tattered black band around her neck and the woman looked away. The mark of the pride is strong. She smiled. Someone higher up the food chain in a red dress appeared and offered, “May I take your coat for you? Would you like a coffee? Tea?” Me? Pam kept her coat and declined refreshment, which seemed to concern the woman in the red dress. The package was tucked away on a hanger beneath a heavy white drape to keep it clean. Pam‟s hand paused as she signed. She‟d never signed for something outside the office that was worth more than she earned in a year.

Orion

57

A young man followed her out carrying her package and placed it carefully on the seat while James watched from the edge of her door. “Two more stops, miss.” James pulled away from the curb. She took pleasure in not looking. Pleasure in being casual. Oh yes, Paris for lunch, Milan for dinner. We really must make that party in Monte Carlo. It can wait. It‟s only a mink of some kind. It‟s only one of the most precious and expensive pieces of clothing known to women. She watched the street roll by and tried to find boredom. An imposing task at best.

58

Roscoe James

Chapter Four Coifed and painted, armor in place, Pam locked her apartment and traversed the three flights of stairs with care. When Mrs. Lowenstein passed her on the stairway, it was obvious the woman had encountered a stranger‟s eyes behind the black veil that tickled the tip of Pam‟s nose. Pam smiled discreetly and continued on her journey. The satin lining of the black sable coat felt cool and slick against her skin. The leather was an embrace she couldn‟t escape. The tight pull of her hair against her scalp exhilarated. The knot of hair at the top of her head was hidden by a small fur hat that matched her coat. Not a question of modesty, the stiff veil that fell to the edge of her cheeks only served to draw people‟s eyes to her own. On the second-floor landing, Pam took long strides and the result made her blush. Each stride pushed the small leather rolls of the boots at the top of her thighs against her swollen lips. Just as she would step forward, her clitoris was trapped for a delightful split second between the cuffs. Just a touch. A passing caress. By the time she reached the stoop, her jaw dropped in a delicate pant. Behold the savanna in full bloom. Collar pulled up, fur tickling her neck and ears, she waited for James to arrive with an umbrella. The light mist only served to make her feel the part she played. Mysterious. Pam had left her blind open while she‟d walked around her bedroom preparing for her task. Mr. Feldon had become a fixture. His TV flickered unwatched while she traipsed from bed to dresser and back several times in her boots with a silly expression of realization and lust. There had been a moment of resistance. A moment when she‟d decided Horacio was asking too much. She‟d searched the note, boxes, and bags for more. The cupboard was bare, the mouse was trapped, and the lion grinning. It wasn‟t really a question of why. It was his wish.

Orion

59

She‟d read his instructions again with great care and attention. You are exercising something they will understand immediately. You are exercising power. The power of beauty not surrendered. A power that only you possess, and they will realize, I command. You will know what is to be done. Pam sat back in the seat of the limousine with her knees clenched. Not from discomfort, anger, or fear. Clenched because she couldn‟t escape the feeling. Clenched because the warm, intimate press of leather reminded her of another moment. A moment of possessive rifling, probing fingers, and a wanton sigh. Snug in the leather caress of the car‟s backseat, she brought her fingers touched her neck. …this is a symbol of your intention. While of little monetary value, it is the key that opens the door. It would please me if you would wear it this evening. If it is on your neck tomorrow, I will know what your intention is. If it is not, I will know how bleak my future is to be. An inch wide and heavy. More like a finely tooled watchband than a piece of women‟s jewelry, the collar was heavy. When she‟d turned it over in her hand, a small stamp declared STERLING SILVER. Pam shifted her knees and shivered. She didn‟t notice the car had stopped. Not until James opened her door. Pam felt dopey and brazen as she stepped from the back of the limousine beneath a red canopy that reached from the wide polished brass doorway of the building to the gutter. Dopey from the warm, wet mess between her thighs, and brazen because that‟s what the warm, wet mess between her thighs dictated. James left the car running at the curb, opened the polished brass door, and waited for her to pass. He carried a white business envelope and a red wooden shoe-shine box. The monsoon season has started and the savanna has filled the watering hole to the brim. She explained to the security guard on watch. “The board meeting for Madraco?” “Forty-fourth floor, ma‟am.” Do I look that old? James in tow, she made her way to a lonely reception area guarded by a frazzled woman with a phone glued to her ear. A Jersey twang addressed an unknown Bill who had her grinning until unexpected guests arrived. Pam didn‟t wait for the woman‟s attention. Instead she stepped to the chest-high counter and demanded, “The boardroom?” The woman looked annoyed and ignored her. James stepped up and whispered. Pam inquired a second time. “I am here to vote Mr. Sloan‟s proxy at the board meeting. The boardroom?” The woman‟s jaw dropped, along with the telephone handset. “I‟m sorry. Right. The boardroom. Down the hall to your left, third door on the right.” Pam‟s body was pulling at the reins. It wanted to run wildly across the open savanna and he was holding her to a gentle canter. You are exercising power. A power that only you possess and, they will realize, I command.

60

Roscoe James

She stopped at the double doors and waited. James, hand on knob, looked at his watch and waited with her. Voices, muffled but distinguishable, could be heard. “Who is this guy anyway?” “I heard he‟s some nutcase that never comes out of his house.” “Nutcase or not, he can stop the merger. Without the merger we‟re finished. He‟s got us by the balls.” “Who the hell would pay that kind of money for controlling interest in a company just to let it go under?” The room fell silent. James consulted his watch once more and Pam fidgeted. Her mind was riff with incomplete thoughts and phrases. Power. Me. Him. Them. Control. A task… Power. Pam calmed herself with one thought. His desire. “Yeah, well, the vote is at nine o‟clock and he‟s not here. So it doesn‟t mean a thing.” James continued to stare at his watch and she shifted her weight, enjoying the salacious rush it gave her. “Right, I‟m with John. I say we vote. He‟s a no-show.” “Yeah, me too. Fuck him. We got his money.” James turned the knob and pulled the door open. The room fell silent, a phone rang, and Pam strode in. She thought they made quite an impression. One fur-andleather-wrapped, lip-glossed, red-nailed she-cat. And one uniformed and shiny-blackbilled-capped Monday-through-Friday man who sometimes isn‟t allowed. And then there was him. Although not visible, the presence of Horacio Sloan was palpable. His hand rested lightly in the middle of her back, propelling her forward, his breath tickled her neck, and his eyes missed nothing. Pam smiled. At first the look of shock around the long table was like the expression you‟d find when catching a bunch of kids with their hands in the cookie jar. She counted seven. All ages and two races. All men. The boy’s club personified. Suits. A woman, complete with horn-rimmed glasses, gray wool designer suit, and too much makeup, who should have retired years ago sat at a small table off in a corner picking up a telephone. A steno pad lay in front of her, a sharp pencil pinning the pages down. The woman whispered something, returned the handset of the telephone to its base, and duckwalked Grouchostyle to the corner of the table and whispered into a skinny suit‟s ear. The news spread like wildfire. James rushed past to the head of the long table. He placed the white business envelope on the edge of the polished surface and, with a flourish, pulled the empty chair back. Ramrod straight, eyes downcast, he waited. Pam walked to her place and stood, looked out on the masses, and watched them squirm. The moment was neither enjoyable nor uncomfortable. She hadn‟t come to put on a show. She didn‟t even know who the people in the room were. More importantly, she didn‟t care. She peeked out from behind her veil for only one reason. Tonight you have a

Orion

61

task to perform. Her hand came up, and she touched the silver band around her throat. She felt shiny and pretty. She didn‟t know what was in the envelope. She only knew she was to read it and proceed accordingly. In spite of the imagined warm, comforting crush of her master‟s body on her back, her fingers shook. She hoped it wasn‟t noticeable. The hallowed walls of a boardroom had not turned Pam to mush. It was his breath on her ear. “Not for the faint of heart.” Neither note nor letter. She read, without regard for content, the declaration she‟d been given. Pam‟s only concern was delivery. “Gentlemen, “You have my money. You acquired it through vigorous campaigning and presentation of fraudulent facts. It is now no secret that saving the company, my money, and your hides is contingent on an additional infusion of cash that can only be garnered through a merger. While I think your endeavor has merit, I personally have no particular position in the matter. Now you will have my will as well as my money to deal with.” Pam took a breath and looked around the long table. Not an eye blinked. Not a finger twitched. The gray-haired board secretary scribbled furiously. She could see them poised on the precipice. Lambs to the slaughter. She went on. “The young woman delivering this message carries my signed proxy. Her decision controls the lives of thousands of employees and yourselves. Given the huge responsibility this young woman holds in her hands, it is my wish that each and every one of you prostrate yourself at her feet before she decides. Know this: if she is not satisfied, neither am I. She is worth ten times more to me than the money we would all lose should she choose to vote against the merger. The final decision is hers. “Horacio Sloan, “Esquire.” A moment of silence, and the room broke out in a cacophony of exclamations, questions, and protests. Pam heard none of it. She felt hot and dizzy. She was sure she‟d swoon had his imagined hand not been resting firmly in the middle of her back. She is worth ten times more to me than the money we would all lose… When James stepped up and placed the red wooden shoe-shine box at her feet, she didn‟t notice. His whisper at her shoulder brought her back from the savanna. When she looked up from the parchment in her hand, James was staring at the wooden box at her feet. You will know what is to be done.

62

Roscoe James

She didn‟t. How could he be so wrong? She was scared and felt inadequate. Not because she was standing in front of a red shoe-shine box in the heady atmosphere of a corporate boardroom with a bunch of strange men. No. Pam felt scared and inadequate because she wanted to please. Because he could have the mink and boots. He could take his millions and give them to a beggar on the street. He could have his driver and fancy limousine. The only thing she wanted was to please him, and she was afraid she‟d fail. How can he do this? How can he saddle me with the fate of so many and not explain? How can he expect me to know? How can the savanna be so cruel? Survival of the fittest. She looked down, careful not to tip forward, and raised her right foot. She stepped resolutely on the shoe rest of the small wooden box. The room spun back into focus in a roar of protests and sniveling whining. “This is bullshit!” “What the hell is he talking about?” “Nuts! Completely crazy!” “He can‟t do this! It‟s not in the corporate covenant!” “If he thinks I‟m going to… Well, it‟s just nuts. She‟s just some woman with a piece of paper.” Expressionless, Pam looked from face to face, taking the measure of each man. The room quieted. James stepped up and placed something on the table in front of her. She didn‟t bother to look. Instead she asked, “So we are ready to vote?” The only sound was the scratch of a pencil from the tribal scribe who sat in the corner taking notes. Pam lowered her foot and stepped to the edge of the table. Picking up the piece of paper, she read carefully. The details were few and weren‟t important. Two large squares at the bottom of the page required a selection. A check mark. Yes or no. Below that her signature was called for and that of a witness. “I‟m not kissing the boot of some tart just because Horacio Sloan says so.” “Yeah, me either.” Tart? They think me a tart? The lioness of the pride is recognized as the pinnacle of hunting prowess. The savanna is full of danger. “You think me a tart?” The tribal scribe gasped. Someone snickered and someone else cleared his throat. Stepping back to the table, Pam turned to the tart hater and held her hand out. “Your pen, please.” The man pulled on his collar, squirmed in his seat, and crossed his arms over his chest. Pam looked down the long table and found Mr. Me Either. “I can see the decision is made. I have no pen. If you could loan me yours, I‟ll cast his vote and you gentlemen can get on with the meeting.”

Orion

63

Mr. Tart was furious. “You can‟t do that. You can‟t just vote whatever you want. You don‟t even know what you‟re doing. You‟re just some silly girl he sent in here so he could vote no and screw all of us.” It was true that her greatest wish was to serve him and only him, but she was not and never would be subservient to just anyone. Much less a card-carrying member of the good ol’ boys club who walked on women just because he could. Pam did not respond with just words, she put the full weight of her disdain behind her response. “What? Just because I have tits and a cunt I don‟t get to play?” The guy only smirked while he looked her over head to toe. The scribe had stopped scribbling. Probably having trouble with cunt, tit, and political correctness. “So some guy calls you sir, buys you a drink or two, gets you a whore, and he‟s okay. But let some woman, some tart, come in and wield a little power and you get all bent out of shape?” The prick smiled openly. She‟d had enough. “You guys are pathetic. Someone give me a pen. It‟s obvious a little sexist woman bashing is much more important than doing the right thing.” Mr. Tart reached inside his coat, pulled out a Montblanc, and slid it in her direction. “Wait! Wait! What the hell do you want us to do?” The man was fat, bald, and sweating like a pig. Pam stepped back, raised her right foot, and planted it decisively on top of the shoe-shine box. She enjoyed every word like a connoisseur enjoys each bite of a five-star meal. “Well, since some of you have decided kissing the boots of some tart is below you—” Mr. Tart growled from the peanut section. “Got that right, sweetie.” “—you will each come and lick my boot until I‟m happy.” Mr. Me Too had to add his two cents worth. “Yeah, right, like we‟re all going to kneel at your feet and lick your boot. Get real.” The absolute power and control was like a narcotic. Pam shook her shoulders, flaunting her body, and waited. Mr. Feldon can go jump in a lake. This is prime time. A short man in a poorly fitting suit shoved back from the table, threw his own pen at Mr. Tart, and started walking. “You know, Fred, you can be a real shit sometimes.” The man nearly fell getting down on his knees. With no preamble whatsoever, he bent and started licking. She waited a minute while watching everyone sitting at the table squirm and had to tell the man three times that he could stop. His wet licks and slurps were the only sound in the room. Thirty minutes later, five bald and graying pates had paid homage to a lowly nineto-fiver who slaved in one of the dungeons of corporate America. A woman. His woman. Thirty minutes of her toes growing warm. Thirty minutes of the cuffs of her boots

64

Roscoe James

pressing salaciously into her wet, swollen lips. Thirty minutes of the tribal scribe documenting the coronation of the tribe‟s new queen. When the line ended, her worshippers subdued at their places around the table, Pam searched out Mr. Me Either. He looked away. She shifted her hips, enjoyed the ride, and waited. The man was like a petulant child. He stared across the room at a window and sulked. She looked at Fred the tart hater and he just smiled. She slid off her soapbox and stepped to the table. Spying the pen that had been thrown at Fred, she picked it up and bent to complete her task. Petulant child jumped up in a huff and nearly ran. “Okay. Whatever. Where do I lick?” Pamela smiled and let the man complete his task without the aid of the shoe-shine box. One more glance at Fred, she scribbled her name with a flourish and X marked the spot. She sailed the piece of paper across the smooth surface of the tabletop, where it came to rest in front of her most ardent worshipper. The man who hadn‟t wanted to stop licking. She turned to signal their departure. Turning back to the good old boys club she‟d almost whipped into submission, she said plainly, “I have given you your merger—” “Ha! I knew it!” Tart hater marked his triumph with a fist on the table.” “—and I am sure disobedience does not go unpunished.” Pam turned on her heel and, James in tow, left.

***** Pam didn‟t know how she felt. As the tuxedo tank pulled away from the curb, she watched strangers on the sidewalk fade to black. A test? Initiation? Trial by stale-old-man fire? She felt tired. The well had gone dry and she was left with a dull throb. He‟d taken her to the edge and only let her look over. Pam gazed out the tinted window at nothing. Rain. A wet blanket to hide under or a depressing reminder of sunnier days, warmer nights? The tank still impressed and made moving around comfortable as hell, but it no longer intimidated. She squatted in front of the bar, swaying, and nosed around. This must be it. Talisker. She covered the bottom of a heavy crystal old-fashioned glass and scooted back to his leather-clad corner. A sip, and her tongue blossomed in tastes. Sweet. Smoky. Something else. What is it? Whatever it was, it burned like hell. She sucked her tongue and watched Central Park slip by. Another sip, and she trapped the liquid against the roof of her mouth. Her lips parted and Pam breathed deep. The forest. Yeah, deep in a big green rotting forest. Peat. That’s it. She swallowed and leaned back. Pam stared into the bottom of the heavy crystal glass and wondered. Is this really me? Am I the leather-booted, mink-wrapped mistress to a master of the universe? Or am I just a girl playing on the dangerous side of the tracks? Teasing fate? She downed the last drops of

Orion

65

Talisker and dropped her crystal glass to the carpeted floor and let it roll away in a fit of rebellion. She blushed. Am I playing in Daddy’s things? No, none of that. It’s not an older guy kinda thing. She recalled the old woman in the photograph at Littlewood‟s. It was in the eyes. The stance. Age didn‟t matter. She exhaled long and hard between her lips and enjoyed the taste of his scotch a second time. She felt like a balloon deflating. Pulling her knees up, the spikes of her boots digging into the leather, she curled into his perch and closed her eyes. She felt like an obscene cross between a very expensive scotch ad and a wispy nymph showing off the wonders of Chanel No. anything. Pam smiled and felt good.

***** “Third floor, Miss. Three-oh-two,” was all James said. The savanna is a broad, rolling expanse with many places for the predator to hide. Pam rubbed her eyes, wiped the corner of her sleepy mouth, and stared at her Monday-through-Friday man holding the door open in front of a building she didn‟t recognize. When her feet came down, she kicked the crystal glass and it thudded against the base of the bar. “What?” “You have one last appointment. Third floor. Three-oh-two. I‟ll be waiting. Oh, and bring your package, please.” Pam unfolded and brought her hand to her mink cap, righting it. She stepped out under a wide umbrella and had to stop when one of her heels got tangled in a piece of wet, wadded newspaper that littered the sidewalk. She liberated her heel and finally managed a step toward the dirty three-step stoop of the old brick building. She stopped clutching her grocery bag wrapped package under her arm, looked at James, who was watching the concrete in front of them, and went on. The ratty purple door of the old building opened before she could search the interphone for 302. When no one stepped out, she stepped across the threshold of the decrepit building to discover an old woman wrapped in a shawl, holding the tattered brass handle. Her heavy breasts and pasty white wrinkled face reminded her of a fat Russian momma. She strode past the woman and up the stairs. The building smelled of generations of human infestation, strange food, and urine. The first-floor landing was dark and she could hear someone‟s TV blaring. A bare bulb on the second-floor landing added dark corners to the gloom. On the third floor, she found 302 and knocked on the cracked paint beside the number. The door opened with a creaking sound. “Come in, dear.” The old woman who opened the door was thin as a waif, her robe swallowed her up, and she moved in small bursts of speed like a bird strutting. The short hallway was

66

Roscoe James

covered in framed black-and-white photos and gave way to a living room with heavy dark furniture. The photos were of a proud and beautiful younger woman in different poses. Some with men. As many with women. In all the photographs, the proud and beautiful woman stood over her costars in a dominating pose. Sometimes with a whip. Sometimes with nothing more than a pointing finger. She dominated not only the photos, but her subjects. “You must be Pamela.” The true strength of the withered old woman came to bear when she turned her eyes on Pam. They bore through her into places not for public perusal. Pam looked away and searched the floor around the old woman‟s ratty pink house slippers. “Yes, I am.” “Yes.” The old woman‟s voice was dry but strong. “I can see that now. I can see what he sees in you. Here, I‟ll take that.” A gnarled hand came up and waited. How can he ask me to do this? How can he ask me to share my thoughts, my most intimate musings, with a total stranger? She knew the answer before the question floated to the top of her brain. Pulling the package from beneath her arm, she removed the plastic grocery bag and handed her diary over. Because it is his wish. The old woman walked around Pamela with another burst of speed. Pamela could smell something sweet. A cake in the oven? “I am to prepare you for tomorrow, dear. Nothing elaborate. Just a way of saying what you feel without words. Here. Step into the light where I can get a look at you.” Come into my parlor, my pretty. “Prepare me?” “This won‟t hurt a bit, dear.” Pam shivered in the icy breeze of déjà vu. A dry cough racked the old woman‟s body before she went on. “You must think of my words as his. A command from the lips of God.” The old woman was swallowed up by a La-Z-Boy covered in cracked and torn vinyl. Beside the old chair stood an old floor lamp with a lamp shade yellowed from years of use and as many years of cigarette smoke. A gray cat was curled around the lamp‟s heavy brass base. Pam stepped into the pool of yellow light and got a good look at her cake-baking host. The woman from the photo at Littlewood’s! Pam coughed to hide her surprise. “Yes,” the old woman mused to no one in particular. “Not beautiful like Charlene, but I can see the allure. Better. Much better.” She wanted to kick the old woman in the teeth and stomp out, slamming the door off its hinges on her way. “Oh, don‟t worry, sweetie. Perfect beauty is a bore. Now let me get a good look at you. Take your coat off.”

Orion

67

What the fuck did she have to mention the redheaded bitch for? Pamela‟s hand came up, but she stopped short of slipping the catch on her mink. He has left me naked. Is this his wish? She glanced nervously around the ratty apartment. His command? The metallic sound of an old Zippo‟s top being flipped open, the spin of a striking wheel, and the robust sound of a wick igniting brought her back. The woman‟s eyes were dead. Lifeless? Her withered old fingers had a parkinsonian tremble when she pinched her cigarette and pulled it from her lips. “A command from the lips of God.” Pamela slipped the catch of her mink. She stood in her leather boots, silver collar, and held her mink high in one hand waiting. “And you‟re obedient as well. Yes, I can definitely see what attracts him.” Pam cleared her throat. “May I ask a question?” “Why, dear, you‟re not here to please me. You may ask anything you want.” Please her? She cringed at the thought. There was a bite in the words when the old woman stated flatly. “You‟d be surprised, honey.” Pam blushed. The old woman laughed. “Why, you are an absolute delight. Now sit down here on the couch and let‟s talk.” Pam looked around the room. Doilies, knickknacks, a muted TV, a matching cracked vinyl couch covered in a hideous green afghan, and a footstool. She glanced at the gray cat. She wasn‟t sure what to do with the mink. Everything looked suspect. “Oh, you don‟t know about money yet.” The old woman pulled out a half-empty pack of Virginia Slims and lit up again. She regarded her through a billow of smoke and said, “Drop it on the floor.” Pam stared openmouthed at the beautiful black mink. The woman‟s voice was stronger and a menacing undertone came through. “Now.” She dropped it. “Now step on it.” Pam didn‟t move. “Put your boot in the middle of damned thing and grind a hole through it with the spike of your boot.” Anger made Pam‟s hand jerk. What the hell has he done? How could he send me here? Does she hate him? The old woman‟s laugh was more like a bark. She took a drag on her cigarette and asked lightly, “Is it the money or him?” “Who the hell are you?” Pam was trembling with anger. The old woman cooed. “Defiance. Good. At least you aren‟t some wishy-washy nothing like that train wreck a few years back. Oh yes, let me tell—”

68

Roscoe James

Pam didn‟t care who the woman was. She put all her vocal talent behind the demand. “Do you hate him?” “And smart.” The old woman took another drag before laughing around a soggysounding cough. “No, dear, I don‟t hate him. And I‟m starting to like you a lot. Pick up your coat and sit down here on the couch. Just keep it in your lap. Jasper works hard at keeping the place covered in cat hair.” A bell chimed and the old woman came out of her La-Z-Boy like a cannonball shot from a cannon. “I‟ll be right back. You just make yourself at home.” Ten minutes of sitting naked on the old couch and the woman returned with a tray. She swatted Jasper off the coffee table after she placed the tray down in front of Pam. “Damn, cat. He did that. The great and magnanimous Horacio Sloan thought I needed company. I think he did it just to antagonize me. He‟s like that you know.” Pam blanched at the old woman‟s sarcastic dig at the center of her universe. Crumpets and tea with the queen. Pam balanced her small plate on top of her wadded mink and sipped her Lipton‟s while the old woman rambled. “Yeah, he‟s a good one. Hell, I changed the guy‟s diapers. His mom was good-fornothin‟. Only thing she knew how to do was spend money. His father was my Dom.” She’s talking about him. About the Supreme Being. The king of the jungle. Pam smiled and sipped. She almost giggled out loud at the cartoon in her head of a dirty diaper coming off her tormentor‟s ass. Just a couple’a girls sittin’ around in ratty old bathrobes and mink talkin’ trash. “Oh, and believe me, he was a handful. Smart little bugger too. Course, you already know he‟s absolutely irresistible.” The old woman slurped her tea. The cake was bundt and warmed her hands. Pam cleared her throat. “His father was a Dom? But aren‟t you the one in the pictures? The Domme, I mean?” “We‟re all sub to someone. Submissive, I mean. His father trained me, collared me, and kept me until the day he died. Unfortunately that was entirely too young. Then the coin flipped and I put all that training to use. It‟s what I do. I‟m a dominatrix. The mistress to the slave. The yin to a lotta people‟s yang.” “You…” She wasn‟t sure how to respond. “Whips and chains, honey. Boot-licking, runny-nosed, red-assed submissives. That‟s my game. What‟s yours?” Pam nearly choked on her tea. “Well, tell me this. Why wouldn‟t you step on the coat? I guess it would be a shame to ruin something that expensive. I bet a girl like you has never had anything that expensive on her shoulders before.” The remark pissed Pam off. “It has nothing to do with what it cost. It‟s not mine. It belongs to him. He wanted me to wear it, that‟s all.” The old woman mumbled around her cake. “Damn.”

Orion

69

Pam was fed up. She scooted to the edge of the old couch and sat her saucer of half-eaten cake back on the table. The old woman‟s saucer balanced on the arm of her decrepit La-Z-Boy. She lit up another cigarette before chiding, “Don‟t get your dander up. I just wanted to know.” Pam stared defiantly. “What?” “About you.” She‟d had enough and shoved up from the couch. “Well, I guess you do now. Thanks for the cake.” Pam was two strides into the short hallway when the woman‟s words stopped her. “I already know quite a bit about you.” Pam didn‟t return to the couch. She filled the mouth of the hallway, mink draped carefully over her arm, hand on hip, and waited. “Don‟t be surprised. He told me all about you. And you told me all about yourself.” Pam shifted on her feet. Defiance had filled the watering hole, and the savanna thundered with the pounding of a thousand hooves. “I just wanted to know if it was all about the money.” “It‟s not.” Pam ground her teeth. The old woman put her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, picked up her tea, and ventured, “Anyone can say it. The difference is you believe it. Now get back in here. You were brought here for a reason. We can chitchat some other time.” Pam was pissed and not satisfied with the outcome. The leather boots were pushing, massaging, and her already tired lips were swollen and wet. She stopped at the end of the coffee table and waited. “I‟m going to tell you a few things and find out a few more. No, I‟m not being some nosy old busybody. I want to help both of you. Right now I want you to kneel.” Pam looked around the room. “Right here. At my feet. If it helps, you can imagine it‟s his royal highness sitting here. Just kneel.” She started to comply. “Here, give me that coat. I‟ll keep Jasper off of it.” Pam reluctantly surrendered the mink and knelt. “Jasper! Get outta that!” The old woman swatted the air and Pam looked in time to catch Jasper running off with cake crumbs in his whiskers. “No, don‟t look at Jasper. Look at the floor.” She was no longer sure why she complied, but comply she did. “So tell me, dear, what turns you on?”

70

Roscoe James

Pam‟s head jerked up. “No! I told you to look at the floor.” Her head jerked down and she found a cigarette burn in the carpet to stare at. “Good. Think that I‟m him. Think that he‟s asking these things.” The room fell quiet. “It‟s like he told you. This is like trying on a dress. Right now you‟re with the seamstress and we‟re going to see if his dress fits you or not. We might need to make a few adjustments.” He told her? How much did he tell her? “Of course he told me. He wanted my advice. Now, I am him and you have no choice but to answer. Tell me what turns you on. What trips your trigger? No, I don‟t want to know your favorite dessert or what you like to watch on TV. I want to know about sex. What makes you hot?” Jasper walked in front of her. The sound of the old woman‟s Zippo flicking announced another cigarette, and raindrops smattered the front window. She flinched. “I…I…well, sex.” The old woman was patient. “That‟s vanilla. That‟s what God was talking about when he told us all to go forth and procreate. Anybody can do that. Hell, even ol‟ Jasper gets a little every once in a while. I want to know what you think about when you‟re alone. What you think about when it‟s just you and your fingers.” Pam hesitated but finally gave up the goods. “Him.” “Right. Big surprise. This isn‟t about cocks and cunts. This is about you. About what‟s inside your head.” When she didn‟t answer, the old woman came out of the old La-Z-Boy and her pink house slippers disappeared. Pam whispered, “The smell of leather.” Somewhere in the back of the apartment the old woman yelled, “Good. That‟s good. Go on.” Pam stared at the burn in the floor and cringed. She hadn‟t thought she‟d be heard. “The smell of a burning candle. Dressing sexy—” “Dressing sexy or being looked at like you are sexy?” Pink house slippers walked past and disappeared to one side. Pam blushed. “Being looked at.” “What else?” A hand on Pam‟s bare ass made her jump. “Hang on. What else?” No. No, I cannot do this. But she did. “Making him happy.” Fingers touched the inside of one thigh and Pam almost bolted. “Spread your knees.” Pam looked over her shoulder and regretted the action immediately. The old woman‟s look said it all. She immediately turned her eyes back to the floor and opened

Orion

71

her knees until the insistent fingers withdrew. She felt more naked than she ever had in her life. “Happy? Cheesecake makes him happy. Now open your knees as much as you can.” “Not for the faint of heart.” Pam obeyed. Her pussy bloomed like a wet, meaty flower opening its petals to the sun. “A smile from you makes him happy. What‟s happy have to do with making anyone hot?” The pink house slippers appeared and the La-Z-Boy wheezed when the old woman sat back down. The petals of the flower swelled. The blossoming tickled. Pam wanted to shift her weight or scratch her itch. “Look at me.” She obeyed. “One thing you should know. This isn‟t a life. It‟s a lifestyle. Too many people get the wrong idea. They see you dressed up in leather and spikes and the first thing that comes to mind is kinky. Sure, it‟s about kink. It‟s how we get our rocks off. But we‟re all just normal people. Maybe even more normal than most. Now stick your ass out.” Pam blinked. “Just let your knees bend and your ass settle back a little.” She settled slightly. “Good, now lean forward and stick your chest out. So, tell me, is it really about happy?” Pam tried to find the point of balance. She dropped her gaze when she answered. “No, not happy. I want to know I please him.” “Very good. That‟s it exactly. It‟s not about fucking and sucking. It‟s not about ropes, chains, and leather. It‟s not even about you. If this lifestyle is the one that trips your trigger, it‟s because there is nothing that makes you happier than pleasing him. So, at the end of the day, what makes you hot is whatever makes him hot.” She felt like the teacher had placed a gold star on her forehead. “Now, place your hands behind your back and grab one wrist, raise your chin like you‟re looking just above my head, and at the same time, look down your nose at the floor.” It was complicated and uncomfortable. Pam fidgeted and tried several times until she had the pose right. Her breasts hung free, her nipples heavy, hard jewels dripping from each breast. Her cunt was sopping wet, her lips swollen and parted. She knew her ass was lifted. Presented like a ripe fruit to anyone that walked behind her. He would only have to kneel between my knees and slide his hard cock in. She bit her lip. “Head back, keep the eyes down, chest out.” Her task became more complicated.

72

Roscoe James

“Eyes down!” Pam teetered. The old woman lowered her voice as if to share a confidence. “Now. Close your eyes and imagine that he is behind you. Imagine that he can see you. Knees open, hands out of the way, mouth at just the right height to take his cock if that‟s what he wants. And your cunt open and ready for him. This is the pose of a submissive waiting for her master. This is how you tell him that you want to be his. That you want him to use you. That you exist for only one thing. To pleasure him.” Pam couldn‟t breathe. The thought was like a band pulled tight around her chest. His caress. The caress of the words of his message. It was a junkie‟s high, a drunk‟s full bottle, and manna from heaven. Pam smiled at the lion and anticipated the hunt. His breath was a warm promise on her ear… “Open your eyes.” Jasper sneezed and the old woman walked away. “Sorry, sweetie, you‟ve been like that for an hour. That‟s long enough for a first timer.” Pam blinked her eyes and saw Jasper sitting in the old woman‟s chair staring at her. Not nearly.

***** Pam woke with a jerk that came from the sensation of falling in a dream. She couldn‟t breathe, but she did. She couldn‟t move, but she managed to. She couldn‟t open her eyes, but they were open. Her bedroom was a gray gloomy box that suffocated. Mr. Feldon‟s window was empty, and the wet swish of tires on the rainy pavement below was punctuated by car and truck horns. Once on her feet Pam was a bundle of energy wrapped tightly in a ball of nerves. She took a bath, got dressed, and called Jolie. They met at a coffee shop a few blocks away. The weekend guy dropped her off. “Hey, girlfriend, how ya been?” On edge on the edge? Needy? A bundle of nerves and impressions? Wanting? Wanton? Pam touched the shiny collar around her neck. “Good, Jolie. How are things with Jake and crew?” They talked for an hour over coffee and strudel. Jolie grew quiet as the hour waned while Pam talked entirely too much. Drizzle turned to rain. The wind picked up and their small talk became tedious. “Listen, Jolie. I wanted to talk. Well…” Jolie was distracted by her purse. Pam just spit it out. “I want you to know that I‟m okay.” Jolie looked up, her hand stopped digging.

Orion

73

Pam forged ahead. “I just don‟t want you thinking I‟ve gone off the deep end or anything like that.” “Girl”—Jolie drew it out—“the first thing a crazy person will tell you is that they aren‟t. Crazy, that is.” “C‟mon, Jolie, I just want something a little different.” “Right. Think about that when you‟re all tied up in the trunk of that limousine of Mr. Stalker Guy and you can‟t get to your cell phone to call the police.” She pleaded. “It‟s not like that! He‟s a guy just like Jason. Just like your mover guy.” Jolie went gutter. “I ain‟t seen my mover guy sittin‟ at no table every Friday night givin‟ me no evil eye. My mover guy ain‟t took me to no mansion and… What the hell is wrong with you, gurl? Do you really wanna be the playthang of some rich guy with more kinks than an unironed shirt?” Pam shifted against the back of her chair, lowered her hand, and touched Jolie‟s. With resolve and quiet words, she answered, “I want what everyone wants. I want to be happy. I want to see a man smile every time he sees me just because he‟s happy I‟m there. I don‟t want passion. I want undying passion. I want to share his secrets and I want someone I can confess mine to.” “Hell, girl, what you want is a priest.” She leaned across the open sugar bowl and whispered, “If I can tell that priest that it turns me on that my neighbor gets off on seeing me prance around my bedroom naked, and he doesn‟t throw my ass out of the confessional, then fine. Because that‟s what the bed is. It‟s a confessional. It‟s the intimate meeting ground between two minds. The stage. The place of secret acts. Unfortunately, we all seem to think they‟re state secrets and forget to share them.” Jolie‟s interest was piqued. “Really?” Pam was confused. “Really what?” “Do you really get off on your neighbor watching?” They both laughed. It took another thirty minutes for Jolie to stop looking at her like a bug. “So what you really want is to be a slut. You just need someone to say that‟s okay.” Pam stirred the dregs of her coffee. She looked up at Jolie‟s tight pink cashmere sweater. Her nipples were standing out like points of interest. “So that sweater was the only thing you had to put on?” Jolie smirked, waved for the waiter, and ignored the question. “Why‟d you wear a tight wool skirt instead of bib overalls? Why the matching leather boots with three-inch heels instead of tennis shoes? What‟s with putting on a dash of eyeliner to have coffee with a woman you know at the office? You a lesbian?”

74

Roscoe James

“Okay, I get it. I see your point. We all like looking good, and when people look, it‟s an affirmation of that.” “You could have looked good in a gray business suit. Pink cashmere, tight skirt, and leather boots aren‟t about looking good. They‟re about being alluring. They‟re about titillation. They‟re about some guy off in the corner whispering to his buddy, „Damn, she looks hot.‟ The only problem you have is you may not hear him when he says it.” “Okay, you win. So what gives with Mr. Stalker? Does he like to have his women looked at?” “I don‟t know.” She smirked. “Not yet.” “C‟mon, I wanna hear it all.” Pam didn‟t give a full confession, but it was a start. The closet door creaked open and a few moths fluttered out. By the time they said good-bye she had unwound and felt like she still had a friend.

Orion

75

Chapter Five Pamela inspected her face closely. She‟d chosen pale. Porcelain. Powdery white. The look of unblemished innocence. Black eyeliner. Dark and mysterious. Her lips pouted red and wet. Aroused. She put his small mink cap in place with bobby pins and shaped the stiff veil in front of her face. Demure. She walked into her bedroom, his boots chaffing salaciously. She paid no attention to Mr. Feldon standing at his window in his wrinkled, baggy polyesters with grungy suspenders looping over his old dirty T-shirt. She moved on another plane. She glided in a vacuum no longer of the earth. With red tapered nails, she plucked a small bottle of perfume from her dresser and dabbed her pulse points. She dipped the stem in the bottle a second time and dragged it between the swollen lips of her pussy and smiled. His pussy. Did you see that, Mr. Feldon? Pam stood in front of the mirror on the back of her bedroom door and whispered the words she had not spoken to Jolie. “I want to be his slut, his baby girl, his toy. I want to be the object on the end of the chain. His choice, his favorite child, his nasty little fantasy.” “You will always be open and available to me.” She pulled his mink off the hanger and wrapped it resolutely around her shoulders. She‟d never been someone‟s toy, the object of someone‟s whim. She wondered what whims her tormentor might harbor. She asked herself again if she was willing to do anything. Anything he might ask. No, anything he demands. But will he? Does he know? Will he shame Larry and redeem me? Will he take me to his dungeon and chain me to the wall where he’ll spend his passion, lust, and desire like a miser handing pennies to starving street waifs? Or will he lavish me with all the gold in his treasure chest and send the banker out for more? On the street, Pam bundled into the back of the limo while Thomas held the door. The streets of Manhattan seemed drab and cold. More so than usual. And there he was. A titillating ghost from her past. Mark. She didn‟t know what had brought him to mind,

76

Roscoe James

but to mind he‟d definitely come. She shifted uncomfortably and recalled a drunken night in her college boyfriend‟s shabby apartment. The night they‟d shared a bottle of tequila and his flatmate Todd. The closest she‟d come to slutdom. To being someone‟s girl toy, someone‟s nasty little fantasy. The closest she‟d come to the edge. She knew that Mark had enjoyed it as much as she had. She had measured that mutual enjoyment by the wane and subsequent resurrection of Mark‟s cock. By his vigorous words of encouragement while Todd hammered her from behind, Mark‟s own cock a slippery wet willy in her mouth. “You’re just a fucking slut! You just want to be fucked and used! Oh yeah, baby, you just love it. Do it, baby, suck it. Fuck him, baby.” And she had. She couldn‟t get enough of the two men‟s attentions in spite of the lurid accusations and loud protestations the morning after when Mark woke up hungover and bleary-eyed and found her riding Todd in the bed beside him, the party still hanging on. It seems Mark‟s courage had come from a bottle. Another dud. Does he have a Todd somewhere? Pam glanced out the car window at a couple kissing on a stoop and knew it wasn‟t real. There was no passion, no furtive touches. It was the fulfillment of an obligation. A quiet reassurance for the bland of heart. Then Dan, another ghost from her past, appeared beside her with his two cents worth. How could you, Pam? I was offering a lifetime of love and security. Seems the only thing you wanted was a kinky fuck. Dan of her senior year at college. Daniel. Uncircumcised, premed. He‟d loved studying her anatomy. Unfortunately he‟d decided she needed saving. It was never clear what he wanted to save her from, but his intentions were clear. White picket fence, three bedrooms, two-point-five kids, and PTA meetings. His idea of hot debauchery had been propping her ass up on two pillows while they watched a bootleg copy of Behind the Green Door. A watcher not a doer. She‟d discovered sweet and reliable wasn‟t her style. She touched the fur cap perched on her head, straightened it, surveyed her nails, and parted the front of the mink for one last perusal. Her nipples were ruby jewels, her own fur trimmed and manicured. The smell of leather and sex filled the back of the car. Pam smiled. The car floated when they passed through the gated entrance and she felt like a lab rat. This won’t hurt a bit. Eyes bright with excitement and anticipation, she pressed her lips together and enjoyed the wet, sticky tug of her lip gloss when they relaxed. Thomas was at the door and chilly air fell in. Her march was stately, elegant, as she climbed the stone stairway. The door opened magically and the waiter from the previous Friday night‟s activities stood to one side, eyes downcast, and waited for her to pass. The heavy wooden door closed with a solid, well-oiled click, and she was in the lion‟s den. “Your coat, Miss?” Do I? Do I drop my armor and walk naked into the jaws of death? She said and did nothing.

Orion

77

The uniformed man dropped his hand and led the way past the library, the closed doors, the heavy chandeliers, the staircase. Deeper and deeper she went into his lair. The savanna was hot and humid. The sky was a burnt orange, and she was sure a lesser god or two was looking down in delight. Then, like the prey she was, all senses finely tuned to its surroundings, she heard him. “I agree. I think we should. Then maybe we can get on with this.” His voice. His words. His presence. Pam‟s body betrayed her with uncontrollable quivers and quakes. The fingers on her right hand trembled. The watering hole gushed to overflowing. He only had to say the words, her words, and she would. Just wrap them in the velvet cloak of his voice and throw them out. “You may come now, my dear.” She bunched the collar of the mink up around her neck and stepped through the door that fate and a late-winter‟s visit to Littlewood‟s had opened. “Ah, Pamela. How good to see you again.” He was standing behind his desk in his standard-issue charcoal suit and muted red tie, his deep, rich baritone was manna. Her first thought was that he looked tired. His eyes smiled, but his face didn‟t keep up. Her second thought was completely selfish. Just say the words. Tell me I can and I will. I’ve been locked and loaded for a week. Pull my trigger and let me fly. “And how lovely. Do come in. I must apologize. I thought I‟d be finished by now. I can‟t tell you how good it is to see you. That will be all, Phillip.” The door clicked shut. Horacio Sloan was standing at a dark wood desk that looked as old and stately as the house. A fire popped and hissed in front of it, and a grandfather clock ticked in the corner. A gaudy red backless divan with only one armrest and a silly sausage pillow with a big black button on the end sat off to the side. Two leather wingbacks framed the fireplace. She didn‟t trust herself to actually have a complete coherent thought that didn‟t involve her needy state. She trusted herself less to actually form words and project them from her mouth. Instead she went for stoic. His wilted smile wilted more when she didn‟t speak. He became resolute. “I see,” was all he said. “Not for the faint of heart.” She turned her back on him, strode to the fireplace like a Milan runway model, struck a pose, unclasped her mink, and let it drop to the polished marble floor. A slick spin on the toe of her boot, and she looked him right in the eye. Any pretense of confidence on her part was just that—pretense. Pam fell to her knees and spread them as far as possible, settled her ass toward the fire, leaned forward, clasped her wrist with her hand behind her back, raised her chin, looked him dead in the eyes, and then lowered her gaze to a spot on the floor. Please don’t turn away. Please don’t disappoint. Please don’t say I’m being nasty. Please, please, please, make your intentions clear. She was not above begging. Her pussy was swollen and wet. Her bare ass was warmed by the fire. Her scent was in the air where it danced with his. Her nostrils flared with each breath and her

78

Roscoe James

pupils were deep pools of bottomless black. She couldn‟t see him, but she could hear him. She could hear the muffled tap of leather heels as he came closer. Then she could feel the fall of his slacks against her shoulder as he towered over her. The tip of his finger was like a pebble in a pond, sending ripples through her body when he touched her lightly between her shoulder blades. “I see you‟ve decided.” Pam‟s heartbeat pounded in her head. His finger traced her spine to the loose hair at the back of her neck where he teased. “You want to make the journey.” His finger disappeared, and she heard the muffled rush of cloth. The finely pressed jacket of his charcoal suit fell on the mink she‟d discarded. Pam trembled. His finger found its way back to her neck, where he fingered the back of the silver collar she wore. His breath was warm on her ear when he whispered, “Do you remember your safe word? Your means of escape?” She dared not say it, even in her own mind. She was afraid he‟d hear her and reality would come crashing back. She whispered her answer. “Yes.” The rustle of more material and his tie fell on the floor at the edge of her vision. Pam shivered, her body rife with goose bumps, and she could feel her pubic hair stand on end. He passed in front of her and disappeared. His body blocked the heat radiating off the fire and his open palm was cool on her ass. “Beautiful.” Not the clinical search of their last encounter. This time his finger found her wet, swollen lips and slid in with ease. My heart beats for him. “You want this.” His finger slid out, and he entertained himself playing with his new toy. A breath caught in her throat and a small delicate grunt pushed it out. Horacio Sloan stood, walked into view, and pressed his finger to her lips. Her mouth opened and she suckled his slippery digit obediently with a throaty moan. He mimicked her moan and added a sigh. When he pulled his finger away, Pam panted softly. He stepped to the spot in the floor where her gaze fell and toed his shoes off. More rustling material, the slow pull of a zipper, and slacks and suspenders fell around his feet. Then he was gone. A warm, wet whisper in her other ear. “Do you trust me?” Her response was immediate. “Yes.” “Are we safe?” “Yes.” A flutter and she saw the shadow of his shirt fall on his jacket and his bare thigh pressed into her shoulder. She felt like she‟d pass out. A small squeak slithered past her lips. The lion was about to eat the mouse and she wanted to shout for joy to the world.

Orion

79

When next she saw him, Pam fell out of character long enough to run her gaze from his navel to his knees. He stood in front of her, his big cock was swollen and heavy but not completely hard. He was close enough she could smell him and feel the heat off his skin on her lips. His voice boomed. “Look at the floor!” Dry and hot on the outside, she was a quivering, wet mess on the inside and complied immediately. The lion‟s den became quiet. Her nose filled with his scent. The steady ticktock of the grandfather clock was punctuated by the occasional crack and fizz of the logs on the fire. Her chest felt tight and she opened her mouth and exhaled until she‟d emptied her lungs completely. His cock responded to the wash of hot breath and bounced off the point of her chin. The result was laughable. She panted harder and he obliged by becoming more aroused. Take me! Use me! Fuck me hard and fuck me again! Make me your slut, your baby girl, your toy. Put me on the end of your chain and dangle me from your finger. Show me off, tie me up, and chain me down. Put me in your dungeon and drive me slowly, deliberately, insane with the demands of the damned. His silence was a deafening roar in her ears. Then he was gone. Just say it. Tell me I can. Tell me to do it. His fingers found hers and he tried to pry them away from her wrist. Pam was so set in her pose of absolute total submission that she resisted. When his cock bounced up against her pussy with a squishy thud and she realized what his intention was, she released her wrist and swallowed a primal grunt of triumph. Just four words. Say them! He teased. “You have thought of nothing else all week.” She ground her jaw and willed him once again. The words! Instead he shoved firmly in the middle of her back and she leaned down obediently while one of her arms was drawn up behind her back. When he grabbed her other arm and pushed it up below the first, the side of her face obediently pressed into the cold marble and she bit her lower lip. A dry rustling and fumbling, and her arms were tightly bound. The rasp of the rough rope against her arms and back were like a fix to a junkie. Her thighs ached. Not with the strain of the position but with need. “Know this”—and his knee knocked one of hers farther to the side—“there is only one thing that can save you now.” His hands were warm touches and teases. Her silver collar fell away and another rope was tied around the back of one knee at the bottom of her thigh. Pam felt his hot breath on her bare ass. The rope stretched beneath her naked body, looped once around her neck, came back beneath her body on his finger, and pulled tight until she slid her knees forward and lowered her ass. Pam felt herself open completely to him. The rope was tied tightly in place. Pam‟s panting was no longer soft. Horacio Sloan‟s warmth disappeared to be replaced by the hot fire from the fireplace. The only thing she could see was their coats piled together a few feet away.

80

Roscoe James

He tormented her some more with a harsh whisper. “You have lived your life for this moment.” The rains came like a huge wet gray sheet being whipped across the savanna, and the watering hole became a muddy, sloppy mess. Pam‟s fur cap was tugged until it pulled away. His hand cradled the side of her head and he lifted and shoved something soft and warm between her temple and the hard floor. A flash of color she recognized as his tie, the room went black, and a knot was drawn behind her head. The dungeon door shut with a loud bang. The herd gathered and tsk-tsked in pity. Such a shame. She was so young and one of our own. “Now you will know how real it can be.” She heard a metallic click, the room grew quiet, and her head became a cacophony of doubts and protests. Where are you? Am I alone? She stretched her back and felt the rope around her neck tighten. Am I to die waiting for you? I’m yours! I have obeyed! You have bound me! Now you must take me! Use me! Fuck me! Make it real! Pam heard the creak of a spring, something was tapped, and the sleepy, metallic voice of a woman filled her head. “Yes, sir?” “I want that prick from Madraco over here. Now! Find Phillip and tell him the meal will be delayed forty-five minutes. Bring me my robe and have my chamber prepared.” The English butler tried to rescue her. Shall I turn the spit, Sir? I do believe the hindquarter is about to overcook. More creaking springs. Pam decided it was his chair behind his desk. A minute of silence; then his hot breath fell on her cheek and he chided, “No, dear, you have not been forgotten.” His hand fell on the crack of her ass and he beleaguered her with teasing stabs to her puckered anus. He taunted. “You should see yourself, Pamela. Your skin glows from the fire. Not the one in the fireplace. The one that burns inside you. The cheeks of your ass are spread, your cunt pouts for me. Your smell fills the room. Have you found it yet? Has the door clanged shut, trapping you inside?” Shivers turned to trembling. The rope around her neck chafed and she felt a tear well to be trapped by his necktie. She froze when she heard a knock on the door. He yelled even while his hand slid along the curve of her ass and his finger slipped into her wet, starving pussy. “Come in.” The screech of a door hinge was followed by the click of a woman‟s heels on the floor. “Just lay it on my desk, Charlene.” Pam struggled against her ropes. She’s here. The redheaded bitch is here and can see me. His finger tormented her some more. She jerked her head when he purred into her ear. “Your word. Just use your safe word. This will end. I only have to hear it.” A second finger was added and sloppy, wet sounds punctuated her heavy breathing. She could feel a puddle of drool wet at the corner of her mouth on the marble floor. She

Orion

81

ground her teeth and strained to listen. She wanted to press into his hand. She wanted to rock with encouragement, but every time she moved, the rope around her neck slipped, reminding her who was in control. “I spoke to Phillip. Everything will be prepared. What do I do with Mr. Jackson when he arrives?” Her tormentor ignored Charlene‟s question, taking more interest in his victim. “Is the dungeon dark? Are the chains heavy and cold? You have the key. You only have to use it. Just say your safe word.” She could no longer hold it in. Her mouth opened and she mewed like a trapped animal. His fingers worked slowly but relentlessly. “Just say it,” he whispered. Then he answered Charlene. “Bring him to me the minute he arrives.” Every exhale was a hot rush. Her tormentor returned. “You may not come.” Pam whimpered and her nose was runny with snot. No! The click of heels came close. “Will that be all, Sir?” The redheaded bitch is standing over me. She can see everything. The English butler appeared with a request. I think we’ll be needing more wood on the fire. Just a truckload or two. His fingers‟ due diligence provoked a cold sweat on her back. She felt the ropes cut into her arms and her left knee slipped a fraction of an inch. Anticipation, she decided, was a slow, merciless killer. $The dungeon was indeed dark. The shackles on her arms were an errant lover’s salacious embrace. The hard marble floor was perdition’s bed. His fingers retreated; her pussy clenched nothingness and she wanted to cry. I will beg! I will kiss your feet! I will lick the redheaded bitch’s stilettos! I will supplicate myself to the goddamned man at the newspaper stand! Just say the fucking words! Something teased and she grunted. The lion’s jaws closed around her neck and she rejoiced. A soft, salacious tease in her ear. “Is there something you want?” The words! Can’t you hear me? Can’t you see me teetering obediently on the edge? Just give me the words! The scintillating push on the swollen lips of her pussy retreated. The lion toyed with its prey. Fuck me! Take me! She gulped and gasped. His stomach was warm against her skin when he bent over her. He sneered. “I could let you tell me what you want. Or you could use your safe word. I would cut you loose, James would take you home, and it would all be over. You‟d be safe.” Pam felt like a drunk trying to form the words and push them out her mouth. The predator returned and her tormented pussy was invaded again. Just enough to drive her mad before Horacio Sloan‟s cock retreated. Her entire body, her whole being, had

82

Roscoe James

become a superhighway of nerves that ended in a small swollen, wet bundle that hung from the gaping halo her cunt had become. It was a command. “Tell me what you want!” Her body shook, her rope pulled. She could only whimper. He yelled, “You have to say it or use your safe word!” She found it. Her voice. She didn‟t say it; she yelled it. “Fuck me! Take me! Now! I can‟t stand it!” She started sobbing and her words fell, jerking on the cold marble like fallen soldiers. “Just tell me my words. Tell me I can. Please. I‟m begging.” His cock filled her and she grunted amid her sobs. It retreated and filled her again. You may not come. She bit her lip hard and tasted blood when he nailed her to the cross a third time. She could hear the key in the dungeon door and her chains rattled and clanked as she strained to get free. His voice was punctuated by labored breaths as he rode her hard. “Is…that…all…you…want?” “I…” Her tongue was heavy and fat; her jaw seemed to flap uselessly. Her mind spiraled into the primal quagmire where Pamela Wilkinson died a million deaths and her tormenter mercilessly brought her back to life every time. His cock was unremitting, his breathing loud, windy gasps, his words chewed out in a rushed clench. “Tell me!” She sobbed and felt the rope tighten when her body strained against it. He rode her with the abandon of disregard. Taking but never giving. He used her and used her again. He growled, “Tell me. Now!” “Come! I have to come! Tell me I can come. Please.” Her sobbing turned to crying. He stabbed deep, ground his hips, and fell over her back, his voice a gentle caress. “You may come now.” Like a countdown, her heart beat three times and paused. The marble floor buckled beneath her bound, prostrate body, the rope pulled tight around her neck, and she exploded around the hot piece of pig iron he‟d shoved into her cunt. The stars came out, her world fell into a strange pulsating black hole, and the thundering herd came to a stampeding stop on the savanna. He was a dark silhouette against the setting sun as she came so hard it hurt. The last thing she heard was his soft, gentle words in her ear. “Let go. I will catch you.” Heaven was indeed a place of untold beauty. Even in the hands of the devil.

***** Pamela‟s revival started as a trickle. A tickling of her mind. Her resurrection was slow and went unwitnessed. First she heard a heavy thud followed by a vigorous

Orion

83

crackle. Then a rhythmic tapping that floated around in the dark. Soft murmuring. Rain on glass. The delicate tinkle of ice in a glass. The acrid smell of a Havana. Her eyes opened and the first thing she saw was Charlene. The woman was dressed in practically nothing. Something black that came to her hips. All legs and red bushy hair. When the woman leaned across his desk to pluck up a piece of paper, her lace-covered ass appeared. When she turned and walked away from his desk, the rhythmic tapping floated away with her. Pamela found the crackling sound in the fireplace. Her hand came to her neck and she discovered slick cream on her skin and felt a welt that circled her throat. She swallowed. Three things came into focus simultaneously. The rope was gone. She was lying on the divan, her head propped on the sausage pillow. And the only thing she was wearing was the leather boots that now annoyed more than titillated. Fucked hard and put up wet. She swallowed again and cleared her throat. As if by magic he appeared. His smile was mischievous, his chin dimpled, his eyes shining. He no longer looked haggard and tired. He‟d come to life. “You‟re awake. Good.” His fingers touched her forehead and his smile widened to a grin. “Just one more thing to take care of and we will continue. The night is still young.” Horacio Sloan‟s smile deepened even more. She reached for his five o‟clock shadow and stopped. Her hand retreated and so did he. His burgundy paisley robe floated away and she sighed. She needed to pee and her body throbbed. Then she remembered. He had made it real. Frankenstein had taken his bride on the marble floor in front of the fireplace under the watchful eye of the redheaded bitch of the east…so hard it hurt. She smiled, stretched, pulling the skin on her naked breasts tight, her nipples flat and uninterested, and fisted the air above the divan. He chose me. Continue? The night is still young? Charlene came tap-tapping into the room, and Pam rolled to her side, every bit the pampered child, and regarded them both lazily. She‟d never noticed how broad his shoulders were. The sash at his waist was looped casually, and as he moved behind his desk, olive skin peeked out. She looked at the back of Charlene‟s dress and wished her dead while something was said. Then his gaze fell on her and he smiled. She smiled dreamily and finding a bathroom moved from the abstract to the figurative. She was about to ask when he turned back to Charlene and said, “Show him in.” Faster than a speeding bullet she was on the edge of the divan searching the floor for the mink. It wasn‟t there. When she jumped to her feet, he stopped her with a word. “Wait.” Pam froze. “What are you doing?” “That guy! That prick from Madraco! I‟m…I‟m… I need to put something on!” His look was not one of anger, only casual displeasure. “That was all you wanted?”

84

Roscoe James

She stared openly in disbelief. What’s he talking about? He chided, “Now that you have stolen it from me you would slip into the night to gloat? Your diary indicated otherwise.” She blushed furiously at the mention of her scribbled words. Mad! Completely mad! He jerked a drawer open on his desk, fished, and pulled a wad of black material out. In quick strides he stepped around the desk, his silk robe flapping, his fat cock an obscene punctuation between his thighs, and was in front of her in three strides. His hand came up and he waited while his eyes bored holes through her. Pam looked away. She feigned curiosity and stared at his fist hovering at his side. The king has gone completely mad! Is he pissing purple? Is it dementia after breakfast and hanging from the belfry after lunch? The tap-tapping of Charlene‟s heels haunted the hall outside the door. The fire cracked and popped, the grandfather clock ticked its tock, and the mad king waited. Her hand came up, palm open beneath his fist, and his hand opened. A wad of black fell into her hand and he leaned down. “To save you from naked humiliation, you will wear this.” He leaned closer. “There is a way to stop it. A way to make it all go away. Just use your safe word.” You have only to sign the confession! Make your mark and God will forgive you! I will hear your confession, child! Then his eminence, by the good grace and gentle guidance of God, will decide! If he is merciful, it will be by beheading. If he is angered, you will suffer the fires of hell on earth and burn at the stake! Horacio Sloan leaned closer. He smelled of sweat and sex. He smelled of man. His breath burned her ear. Her pulse quickened. The king‟s patience was strained. “Say the word. Say your safe word and it will all go away. It was only a dream and you were only a curious child. There is no shame in it. Not everyone is worthy. Say your word.” He was gone. Pam bent quickly and rushed to untangle the black panties. She froze. What is this? She pulled and stretched the black material between her hands. Charlene‟s tap dance entered the room, and Pam straightened with a rush and pulled the black mask onto her head, stretching and twisting it like a sock on her foot. “What the hell is this shit, Sloan? You can‟t do this to me! I was in the middle of a very import—” She jerked the side of her spandex hood and lined up the eyeholes. The prick‟s eyes moved in nervous jerks from the robed figure behind the desk that stood casually, expressionless, waiting. They fell on Charlene, who had stepped away from the desk. Then they found Pamela and ran from tightly stretched hood, down her naked body, and stopped at the toes of her leather boots. “This is bullshi—” She watched a plain manila envelope fall with a slap on the king‟s desk. “Shut up!” She hailed her mad king and took solace in her mask.

Orion

85

“What the fuck is this?” “That is the key to your future.” Fat, grubby fingers came out and plucked the offending this off the desk. “Will you bring the rail, Charlene?” The man fumbled with the clasp. “Look, Sloan, I don‟t know what this is all about, but you have no right—” A robed arm cut the air and a fist fell hard on top of the desk. Pam jumped. The words were chewed and spit onto the leather blotter beneath the fist. “I have every right!” The envelope slipped from nervous fingers and floated away. The prick chased after. Charlene tapped her way into the room pushing an odd wooden construction that squeak-squeak-squeaked along on metal casters. The wood was rough and unfinished. The base was as large as a card table and covered with more rough boards that threatened splinters to anyone who dared touch. Dividing the base was a thick rail supported at each end by two posts. The prick was too intent on getting the envelope open and hadn‟t noticed. Pam willed her body to shrink. Her hood to swallow her up and her boots to carry her to a corner where she could hide. As if sensing her rebellion, the mad king looked her way. She knew immediately what he was waiting for. He wanted her word. He wanted her to admit it had only been foolish flirtation. He wanted her to admit she was not worthy. She shifted her feet, spreading them slightly, put her hands behind her back, stuck her chest out, raised her chin somewhat, and stared back. His smile was faint but just as real as the rush she felt as the lips of her pussy blossomed. I need to piss! She bit her lip. “I don‟t get it.” The prick stood holding a short stack of black-and-white glossies. “You will.” A sinister promise. “A picture of me with my wife?” The prick flipped the picture away. It floated to her feet and she chanced a look. The prick was hugging the shoulder of an elegantly beautiful woman a few years his junior. She was smiling and he was kissing her cheek. “And this? What is this crap?” The pictured sailed away and she didn‟t get to see it. “Look, Sloan, if this is about that tart you sent to the…” The ticking clock and frying fire competed with rain on the windows for attention. The picture sailed away. The next did the same. And the next. “She‟s beautiful, isn‟t she?” First incredulousness. Then nervousness. The prick‟s face said it all. He was scared shitless. That glossy didn‟t sail across the room. The prick found a new sentiment and it was a mistake. Defiance didn‟t fit well with the mad king.

86

Roscoe James

“I didn‟t fuck her. You‟ve just got a bunch of nudie pictures of some whore!” The robe floated, the king‟s entourage bowed as he passed, and the lion roared with just a few well-placed words. Standing at the prick‟s side, he took the remainder of the pictures and moved the show along. “No. I‟ll give you that. You didn‟t. But you have to admit she is beautiful. A man would do anything for a woman like that.” The prick nibbled at the cheese with no regard for the hard steel spring that was poised at his back. “Yeah, well, sure.” “No, you didn‟t fuck her.” Another picture moved to the back of the stack. “I mean, I would think a man would fuck a woman like that. She cost me enough money. I had to call in some real favors to find her. That was prime grade. That was a whore to die for, don‟t you think?” The prick took a half step away and looked at Charlene. When his gaze fell on Pamela, she took a deep breath and stuck her chest out farther. “What‟s the point, Sloan?” Another glossy flipped, and the prick stared. “Yes, a man might do anything to please a goddess like that. Absolutely anything.” Another glossy flipped, and the prick grimaced. “It is confusing to me. Whores are for fucking. That‟s where your prick goes.” Another glossy shuffled to the back. “What on earth is your prick doing in this guy‟s mouth?” Another glossy gone. “I mean, a blowjob‟s a blowjob, I guess, but this one has me confused. Isn‟t that his prick in your mouth? And what about this one? Yes, she is a woman a man would do anything for to please. Wait, is he—” With a slap from the prick‟s beefy hand, the glossies fell like a house of cards. His face was red and Pam was sure the man would explode. The paisley robe fluttered and the king fell into his throne behind his desk. “Of course, it‟s obvious in the video that this was your first offense. Well, with a man, anyway.” “What the hell do you want?” Springs creaked and the magnanimous king leaned across his desk and let the mouse squirm before enlightenment. “You have two choices. You can sign all your shares in Madraco over to the tart who represented me at yesterday‟s board meeting. The same one you offended—” “Now I know you‟re fucking nuts. This is blackmail. I‟m calling the police.” A phone was shoved in front of him while the jaws of the lion closed tightly around his neck. “If I‟m not mistaken, it‟s your wife who has all the money. All the real money. She‟s the one who made your career. The one who opened the doors, who has

Orion

87

the contacts. Go ahead. Call the police. We‟ll see who weathers the storm better. Me, the mad recluse, or you, the sniveling little wimp who sucks cocks behind his wife‟s back. She might forgive you the beautiful whore. She probably does on a regular basis. But will she forgive you the choking swallows at the end of the movie?” “Fuck you, Sloan. I‟m not giving ten million dollars to some tart just ‟cause you say so.” “Your ten million dollars was worth about fifty thousand until that tart approved the merger. There is a second option.” The possibility hung like a foul stink in the air. Pam watched the fat prick‟s jowls work every time he swallowed nervously. A pudgy digit came to his neck and slid around the wilted crease of his shirt‟s collar. The jury came in, and the prick relented. “What is it?” “Take the punishment.” “Punishment?” “Charlene, would you help our guest?” Pamela‟s eyes darted from behind her hood. Small white quarter moons moved from corner to corner in their eyeholes. Her nipples had been nudged awake by the flower blooming between her thighs. And she was dying to pee. Charlene grabbed Mr. Prick‟s upper arm and pulled. The man turned and saw the wooden platform, rail in place. “What the hell is that?” Charlene pulled until he followed her up on the platform. She turned him toward the rail and stepped down. “What the fuck is this, Sloan?” The king smiled. “Why, your redemption, of course. Now drop your pants.” “What?” Pam cringed when the king shot up from his chair and yelled, “I said drop your pants! I want them around your ankles! And anything else you might have on. Or do we call the police or your wife?” The prick looked at Pam again, measuring his audience, and recognition dawned like a hot morning sun peeking over jagged mountains in the distance. His hand came to his belt and stopped. “You! It was you! You fucking tart!” Sloan yelled, “Shut up and get your ass out here where we can see it!” The belt was jerked, a scowl was sent her way, and Mr. Prick‟s slacks fell on top of his shoes. “The boxers too.” Charlene tapped her way out of the room. Resistance was minimal. Thumbs hooked, elastic stretched, and Snoopy boxers dropped obediently.

88

Roscoe James

There was no further need for loud voices and harsh words. The king commanded and it was done. “Step to the rail.” Pam snickered in her hood when Mr. Prick waddled a foot to the rail, his cock a small red turtle‟s head in a nest of gray hair riding above shriveled balls. “Bend over the rail and touch the platform on the other side.” Charlene came tap-tapping back while Mr. Prick negotiated a resting place for his fat stomach and bent over the rail. His hands out as if to gracefully slide into a handstand, his cell phone slid from the inside of his jacket with a dead thud on the wooden platform. Ass up, head down, feet in a tangle, Mr. Prick stared back between his legs. Charlene approached and held something long and white out for Pam to take. A cane. Three feet of white polished redemption. The bottom half was split into four pieces and clattered when she took it. Pam looked toward the desk for instruction. Her tormentor, inquisitor, ravisher, and defender of her royal realm only nodded. It was no longer a question of needing to pee. It was a question of not letting it happen. Pam was pissed as well. Pissed as in mad. Mad at the prick for taking so much time. Madder at the red-faced slob for his sleazy little smirk at the board meeting and most recent comment. Mad at Charlene for being beautiful and prancing around with her panty-clad ass hanging out. Mad because Jolie would never understand. Mad at herself for going to Littlewood‟s. Mad at the old woman for saying she understood. For saying she saw what he saw, knew what he knew, could see the attraction, and not explaining it. Mad at him for being him. Pam caught the prick peeking around the dangling lapel of his coat, face red, eyes bugging, as she took three naked steps to the edge of the platform. That’s right. Take a good look. Know that it’s a woman who will provide your punishment. Not inclined to just hit a line drive, she grabbed the end of the cane whip with both hands and swung for the fence. A clattering whap was followed by a throaty grunt. The high cuffs of her boots chafed. She took another swing. The cuffs pushed. This time the grunt from Mr. Prick was choked and swallowed. Another and another. One of the cuffs managed to trap a swollen lip. Eyes blazing, she looked toward the desk and found the king watching the proceedings with no show of emotion. Pam took another swing and smiled at the red glow of the prick‟s hairy ass. The leather cuffs of her boots no longer chafed. They caressed salaciously. She took a step back and brought the cane down again. Hell yes! Her arms were hot and the palms of her hands hurt with the next blow. Then she heard it. A whining mewl. A little kid crying. “Stop! I”—a deep breath was drawn—“I can‟t. No more.” Pam smacked his ass again. When she looked up, the king only smiled. She so wanted to pee. She smacked again and embraced the cuffs of her boots like a lover‟s fingers. The prick‟s hand came up to cover his ass, and she stepped in and knocked it away. Smack. The cane broke.

Orion

89

Pam stood panting. The king watched. The punished blubbered. And Charlene stepped up and coaxed the broken cane from her hand. Pam stared blankly and panted like a panther after a good run from behind her hood. She was afraid her nipples would crack and fall off. Mr. Prick struggled and pushed, and the rail creaked. She watched him stand and was shocked. The turtle had come out of its shell. His little prick stood proud. She and Charlene both stared. Charlene covered her mouth and laughed. Mr. Prick looked down for the source of their entertainment and pulled his shirttail quickly to hide it. You liked it, you asshole. “Now lick her boots.” Disdain had never sounded so sweet. The man was defeated. He leaned drunkenly to pull up his modesty and was immediately told not to. “I didn‟t tell you to cover up. I said lick her boots.” The prick waddled and shuffled. Charlene, still smirking, raised her hand so he could balance as he hopped off the platform. To a chorus of grunts and exasperated sighs, all thoughts of modesty gone, his hard little dick waving and poking, Mr. Prick got down on the cold marble on all fours, crawled a foot to her leather-wrapped toes, bent his arms, stuck his bare red ass in the air to a round of applause from corporate America, and licked her boots with long, wet slobberings. “You now understand the order of your universe. You will never disrespect this woman again.” Pam pulled her boot from beneath his tongue and enjoyed his quick lick of the floor. The prick stopped and the king stood. “Now get out of my house and pray you are never summoned here under these circumstances again.” Pam pulled one knee in front of the other, trying to cross her legs and remain standing. Her teeth nearly chattered while she watched Mr. Prick waddle out of the room, long red lash marks across his hairy ass. The fireplace wheezed, the grandfather clock struck the first of ten, and her sweet, divine, abominable director of Shakespearean farce and tragedies extraordinaire, her Phantom to her nightingale‟s song, her Beast to her Beauty, left the stage with a curt quip. “Charlene. Prepare her for dinner.” The theater erupted in unrestrained applause and the audience came to their feet as one. The house lights came up. Echoes of bravo! bravo! filled the air. Someone in the cheap seats yelled, Author! Author! The applause swelled. A harried reporter ran by licking the tip of his pencil, scribbling furiously on a steno pad, and trying to hold his hat on. Deadlines are a bitch! Boots driving her crazy, she bolted. The second closed door in the long entryway was a bathroom. Pam wondered just how young the night was while she found relief.

90

Roscoe James

Chapter Six The dark side of the moon was a mysterious place. Cold and full of unseen danger. A danger that was intoxicating. A danger that would not let her mind or her body rest. “Spread your feet.” The redheaded bitch‟s breath was warm on her bare ass. Pam didn‟t care. She was exhausted. Looking down, she opened her legs and felt the zippers on the back of her boots slide down one at a time. Fingers pulled and teased a heartbeat away from the salacious feeling at the apex of her thighs, and the tops of her boots were peeled away. Pam didn‟t recognize herself in the vanity mirror. Her mascara had run down her cheeks in long black streaks. Her red lipstick was a smear around her mouth. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was hanging in wispy fluffs and sweaty curls. The redheaded bitch was fussing in a walk-in closet. “Prepare her for dinner.” Is she sharpening the carving knife? Caring was the least of it. Pam had come to surrender herself and cared less what his desires would be. She only cared that she was the one that he chose to satisfy those desires. Fifteen minutes later Pam‟s face was back in place. Bobby pins came out and her hair fell. She was brushing it when Charlene finally emerged from the closet. With a clatter, chrome-studded leather belts fell on the vanity in front of her. Charlene took the brush from her hand and held Pam‟s arm out while a wide leather cuff closed around her wrist. Two leather straps were cinched on the back of the belt through heavy metal rings. While Pam‟s other wrist was being strapped, she inspected the first. The cuff was tight. When she rested her hand on the vanity, she saw a big metal ring that appeared to be strongly fixed to the leather belt on her wrist. The fit wasn‟t uncomfortable, but there was no way of removing it or escaping without the use of a second hand. Charlene

Orion

91

finished her second wrist and Pam held both wrists up. When she opened her hands and followed the delicate line from the tip of her red manicured fingers down the back of her hands, her breath caught when she came to the rough, heavy cuffs with their black shiny rings that she knew could be used to restrain her hands. Charlene touched her shoulder, bringing her back from the dungeon. The redheaded bitch knelt at her feet and placed a similar cuff above each ankle. By the time the second leg cuff was in place, Pam was trembling. She found the mirror when her hair was lifted out of the way and watched fascinated while an equally thick and heavy collar was cinched around her neck. This one had weighty unfinished studs and a single ring bigger than the ones on her wrists and legs. Pam allowed her fingers to wander while Charlene pulled her hair back in a ponytail that fell from the crown of her head. Fingers on her shoulder urged Pam up, and Charlene guided her to three tall mirrors in a corner that gave her a full-length view of her nude body, and left her standing there to gawk. She stood transfixed by the image. Nothing was particularly different. Her hair was up and out of the way. Her nipples were dark with the flush of excitation. The lips of her pussy were swollen and drooped slightly below her neatly trimmed pubic patch. A view of herself she‟d seen more than once. But the difference was undeniable. It wasn‟t the crude, heavy cuffs that made her look different. It was what the crude, heavy cuffs with their thick rings implied. Restrained. Helpless. Subject to his will. The back of her left knee twitched and she was afraid she‟d fall. Pam‟s maid-in-waiting returned, and she watched while the redheaded bitch knelt at her feet, lifting each in turn, sliding leather sandals in place. Rough, ugly sandals. Sandals no self-respecting woman would be caught dead in. The sandals of a slave. A small strap was tied around her ankles just below her cuffs to hold them in place. Her last salacious accessory was a leather belt of the same rough, heavy quality as the others. It was cinched above her hips and crossed her stomach just above her navel, where another heavy ring dangled, framing the deep dimple. Her fingers trembled when she touched the crude metal fixture. Pam shifted from one foot to the other and noted the added weight, the pull on her limbs. That pull moved with her when she swung her arms. He moved with her. He was spreading her legs and pinning her arms. He was tugging on her neck, bending her to his will. He was everywhere. She was having trouble breathing. Charlene held both hands out and said, “Choose.” In one was a white cane not unlike the one she‟d used on Mr. Prick‟s ass. In the other a leather riding crop. “But—” “Choose.” Pam took the leather riding crop and watched the leather loop on the end flop back and forth when she turned the thing from side to side. Charlene went into the closet and Pamela hefted the crop. A weave of leather around the grip was chilly on her

92

Roscoe James

fingers. The business end of the crop was light and the grip felt heavy in her palm. When she gave it a swing, the crop whistled menacingly. Charlene returned with a bolt of cloth wadded in her arms that brought to mind an oversize rag. The redhead draped and pulled, spread and gathered, until Pamela was mostly covered by something akin to a very short toga that didn‟t come to the bottom of her ass. A soft cotton rope gathered the improvised garment around her waist, leaving wide gaps front to back on each side. Pam had given no thought whatsoever to her nakedness since donning the spandex hood earlier. Now she found herself tugging and pulling, trying to cover her ass and pubic patch. Her efforts were useless. Both peeked out equally, and she felt completely naked and exposed. Charlene gave her a quick perusal and declared her ready. For the slaughter? Bring the fatted calf? To hang from her ankles on the meat hook? Pam caught one last glimpse in the mirror and marveled at the effect. Her cuffed legs and arms, heavy rings for restraint, the deep plunge of her raggedy garment barely hiding her breasts, the shock of black pubic hair at the torn edge of the rag she wore, and her sandals. Everything spoke of a slave in waiting to be used at her master‟s whim. Taking a whiff, she realized she even smelled like a slave. A heady combination of dried sweat from the evening‟s activities and her wet sex that yearned for more than visuals that held the promise of things to come. “We‟re late.” Charlene left at a brisk pace and Pam followed. The sandals tended to slip on the marble floor and she had to be careful not to fall. Her riding crop swinging in one hand, they went down the stairway and Charlene stopped in front of wide double doors that were closed. The woman rapped softly. Pam could hear music and the clink of crystal. The music was a small string ensemble but strange. Baroque? A harpsichord and other instruments. She heard murmuring, and her gaze darted about nervously. He has dinner guests. Pam tugged at the front of her rag and tried to find a modicum of modesty. She felt the cloth creep up on her ass and reached behind to pull some more. The doors slid apart and Horacio Sloan appeared in all his tuxedo-clad glory. He smelled of tobacco and cologne. He was freshly bathed and impeccable. She was filthy and wearing rags. Fresh from the dungeon. His gaze started at the floor. It was as if she could feel every ocular caress as he made his way up her body. The disappearance of Charlene through the parted doors drew her eye. She caught a glimpse of two men, both clad in tuxedos just as he was, and heard the lilting laugh of a woman. Doors slid shut and he was on her. “You are lovely.” It was a statement of fact that came just before his head was in the crook of her neck where he bit a rope of muscle below her collar. “I want you.” His hand played brusquely between her thighs and her eyes opened wide when he pushed his finger deep in her sopping cunt and started fingering her. Pam dropped the riding crop. Her arms came up, and tentative at first, she clutched the back of his jacket and clung to him.

Orion

93

As much a wish as a whisper, she replied, “Yes.” His mouth found hers and she could feel it start. A lightness in her stomach. A pulling of the muscles along the insides of her thighs even as he pushed her legs apart with his foot. A wave of pleasure that wrapped around his errant digit and tried to capture it, hold it hostage. He didn‟t leave her panting with a simple kiss. Instead he left her swallowing gulps of air with the promise of a ravishing yet to come when he stepped away, withdrawing his finger. “You want it.” Pam swallowed and she leaned precariously trying to follow his retreating form. Horacio Sloan smiled, said nothing, and walked behind her. She wanted to turn, to pursue, to capture him in her arms again. But the leather cuffs bound her as surely as any chain. The tips of his fingers tickled when he ran them along the bare skin of her ass just below the hem of the rag she wore. His question sounded more like a taunt. “Are you sure?” The question seemed out of context with his wandering hand, his finger sliding down the crack of her ass to tease some more. Pam closed her eyes and said nothing. His breath was hot on her ear when she heard him speak again. “You can still say no.” The fat tip of his finger intruded, and his ministrations were slow and sloppy. “I have guests. They‟re looking forward to meeting you.” Pam trembled. So close. Her toes curled over the edge and she poised to leap. His finger retreated, and he wiped it on the cheek of her ass before stepping to her side. He reached into the makeshift bodice of the rag she wore, captured a nipple with his fingers, and squeezed. “Maybe you know some of them.” She didn‟t care about them. She didn‟t care about the music or the smell of fine cuisine that pushed through the small crack between the two doors. Pam only cared about one thing. He twisted and turned, squeezed, then cupped her breast. “There‟s Madame Worthington. I don‟t believe you‟d know her.” He withdrew his hand and stepped in front. “And a Mr. Winslow. A business associate from Prague.” Pam looked down when he pulled on the rope holding her modesty in place. His finger hooked on the leather belt beneath her rag and ran its length until he found the heavy ring in front. “I doubt you‟d know either of them.” She leaned when he tugged on the ring. “Oh, and Tom Johnston…” Pam‟s eyes came up in lazy recognition. “Yes, I thought so. I‟m thinking about stealing him away from the company he works for. He‟s very good at what he does.” The ring fell with a bounce against her stomach. His hand wandered down parting her short toga as it went. A tug on a tuft of pubic hair, and the blunt tip of his

94

Roscoe James

finger squished between the swollen lips of her pussy and pressed salaciously on her clitoris while he amended his thought. “Well, the company the two of you work for.” Tom Johnston of the long-cock Johnstons from parts unknown. The VP who was charged with the sacred task of squeezing blood from turnips in his department. The same Tom Johnston who was a constant source of babble at the watercooler. Him with his flashy blue eyes and distinct bulge snaking down his right pant leg like some obscene wiener promotion. Him with his year-round tan and stable of wannabe Mrs. Johnstons who called or dropped by constantly. The company wunderkind who could always squeeze another half percent out of a quarterly report. The very same Tom Johnston who rated an entry in her diary when she‟d first arrived at the savanna. Back in the Stone Age. Back when Mr. Horacio Sloan was just some sleeping giant in her subconscious. Page twelve, halfway down the page. Tom Johnston was always such a willing pussy licker in her diary dreams. He would do such wonders when between her thighs, his tongue a licking dervish, her fingers twisted in his hair. Well, that‟s what her diary said. “But—” He taunted. “Your word?” Pam‟s eyes closed, she mumbled, and her jaw fell slack. His tongue grazed her ear even as his finger became more determined. “What? I couldn‟t hear you.” Pam‟s eyelids were as heavy as lead weights. She tried with all her might to push them up. Stuck at half-mast, she panted, her plea a staccato whisper, “Wh-why…?” He ignored her plea. Horacio‟s mouth a hairbreadth from hers, his voice a baritone drip that ran down her chin, the length of her neck, and settled between her breasts, teasing her nipples. “What do you want, Pamela? What will it be?” Take me! Fuck me! Use me! Make me your slave! Make me your whore! Make me anything you want, but make me! Pam‟s head pounded and she struggled to breathe. Her heart rushed until she felt dizzy and her pulse jumped against the collar around her neck. The pregnant pause of inaction brought a smile to his lips. “Do you want a love story? A white picket fence? Do you need flowers in the morning and soft kisses at night?” Pam‟s eyelids were no longer heavy, and her wide-eyed stare matched the drop of her jaw. Horacio Sloan‟s laugh was a taunting bark. “I think not. I think the ring you seek circles more than your anatomy. I think the leather collar around your neck has found the mark and traps your very soul.” The devil walks the savanna and knows all my secrets. The movement was quick, the click rang of finality, and the tug pulled her lips to his and they kissed the kiss of the damned. When he stepped away, she watched the chain pull up and stretch. A white starched man‟s handkerchief appeared and he wiped

Orion

95

the red mess of her lip gloss away from his lips. The handkerchief disappeared and his hand emerged from inside his jacket with something else and shoved it into her hand. “You wouldn‟t want Tom Johnston to recognize you. Or would you?” Her expression said it all. “Ah. I see. A working girl‟s fantasy? Or maybe more? Did you actually consummate? That wasn‟t in your diary.” Her skin burned. She was on fire. Hate and embarrassment were great motivators. But she couldn‟t find her tongue. He smiled. “I think not. You would not have dared. Not then. But this is now. So remember, you can end it at any time. Say your word.” Pam looked away. She squeezed and turned something in her hand nervously. Finally, she looked at it. The heavy straps on her wrists pulled and tugged as she raised Horacio Sloan‟s tie, the same tie he‟d placed over her eyes earlier, to her head and made a knot at the back of her head. She found a new emotion. Determination. He seemed genuinely concerned. “Really, Pamela. There is no shame in it. This will all end the minute you say your word.” She said nothing. His voice softened. “Know this. Nothing will be done in this room that does not bring me pleasure.” Pam swallowed and willed the hot flush off her skin. His lips came closer, promised to touch but squelched. “And that I know that by asking these things of you I will please you as well. That is the only reason I exist. To please you.” Fingers trembling, she reached blindly and trapped the edge of his tuxedo jacket. He obliged by following her hand but stopped short of letting her kiss him. “Not yet.” Pam felt him turn and heard a metallic click followed by the low rumble of rollers as the doors parted. His back to her, he offered apologies to his guests. “I‟m sorry. I had some business to attend to.” There were not three guests. Pam was sure of that. There was too much talking. She could almost feel the eyes in the room as they explored every inch of her exposed skin. The audience‟s perusal was followed by murmurs. This was not her bedroom window and she was not teasing Mr. Feldon. Nor was she whacking the bare backside of a virtual stranger while the redheaded bitch looked on. When she felt the tug of her chain, she knew the master of her universe, Horacio Sloan, late of her darkest and most tawdry fantasies, had stepped to one side and every eye in the room wasn‟t on the two of them. Every eye in the room was riveted firmly to her.

96

Roscoe James

Her chain tugged a second time and Pam followed blindly as the crowd went back to their meals and conversations. She heard Tom Johnston‟s comment as she was led past. “Oh yeah. What I wouldn‟t give for an hour with her.” Pam tuned it out. The insides of her thighs were wet and slippery. Sweat? Or something else? “Do tell, Horacio. Is she half as good as this soup? Absolutely divine,” a rather pompous-sounding man commented. “Oh, Roger, what do you know of soups? And women, for that matter. I always thought you stalked the other side of the tracks.” A woman was putting Roger in his place. “What can I say, Edna? A good cock sucking is good no matter who gives it.” The sordid conversation slipped away as strong hands grabbed Pam‟s arms and her chain went limp. She was manhandled and shoved about in her small dark world. Her arms were lifted over her head and she heard metallic clicks as both wrists were snapped into place. She knew her slave girl rag had lifted with her arms and she was on display for Horacio Sloan‟s dinner guests. Dessert, anyone? “Oh, how lovely. Look at how her lips pout and droop. Hell, I can see how wet she is from here. My God, Sloan, where do you find them?” Pam‟s feet were jerked apart and she felt fumbling around her ankles as they were snapped in place. Are you sitting at the dinner table, Mr. Feldon? She knew the man wasn‟t talking about her mouth. She shivered. Horacio Sloan was a warm press against her skin before he spoke. “They‟re all enamored. They all want you. Can you tell? Can you smell it in the room? Pure, unadulterated desire. They‟d give anything for an hour with you.” Pam could only imagine the picture she must present. Chained to a rough wooden pole, legs spread, her pussy weeping for the onlookers. Then his presence receded. Fingers danced and she heard snips. Scissors! A tug. Another. And Pam knew she was completely naked. Completely on display. Should I feel guilt? Shame? Neither word suited her mood. Am I depraved? A smattering of applause. When he returned, he came bearing gifts. A cool touch to her lips, a gentle shove, and she let the grape pop into her mouth. The sweet nectar quenched a thirst she hadn‟t realized existed. She found his finger lingering at the corner of her mouth and sucked it like a small teat. A woman at the table whispered reverently, “Yes…” The rim of a glass was next. Pam‟s nose detected wine. Red. When the crystal tilted, she wasn‟t able to get all the liquid past her lips. She could feel the wet trail fall

Orion

97

from the corners of her mouth around the lip of the glass and run down her chin. The wet trail found its way to her chest and dribbled between her breasts. “Should I ask them?” Pam wanted to ask what, but the answer came without bidding. “Should I ask them what they‟d give? But the question would be…what are they buying? What would you do for their payment?” Horacio Sloan. My pimp. She squirmed on the spit he had her chained to and followed his smell until she found warm skin with her nose. Pam reached with her mouth, but he moved away. “So what is it?” She felt befuddled. The good fucking Horacio Sloan had given her earlier was still bouncing around her body. There was a funny tickle at the tip of her swollen clitoris that sorely wanted to be scratched. Her nipples were excited to the point of aching. And I don’t give a shit! Just say the words! I’ll come right here in front of God and everyone if you say the words. I’ll writhe and moan and try like hell to jerk my knees together. Just say my goddamned words! Pam‟s chest heaved as she waited, panting. She had no idea what he was asking. She could smell him lurking. The only thing she knew for sure was that she was doing what he wanted. To please him. The music that had stopped when they‟d entered the room chose that moment to start. The music wasn‟t nearly as startling as the realization that live music required real, live musicians. That her audience was more than those sitting around the dinner table. She tried to count individual instruments. “Tell me.” His question startled her, bringing her back to the here and now. For the first time in what seemed an eternity, she found a word. Yes, a vowel for three hundred, please. She whispered, “What?” A clink of silver, the scrape of a knife, soft murmuring, and the gang at the dinner table moved on to other diversions. Pam let her legs turn in and tried to bring her knees closer together. She was unable to. Damn. “Tell me what you would do for the highest bidder.” His nose nuzzled the inside of her upturned arm and she moaned. “I…” She shimmied and pulled up with her arms. I just want my legs to touch. I just want the warm squeeze of my thighs going together. “What would you do?” he cajoled. “I… Ah, I would…” Just a little farther. She jerked at her bindings and felt the soft pull of her bare breasts bouncing. “What would you do?” Pam jumped. His question had been a demand. A hard jerk on her leash. Before she could answer, she felt a hand on her breast. Wet lips followed and sucked until the

98

Roscoe James

ache turned to the most delightful pain she‟d ever experienced in her entire life. Someone at the table intruded. “Very nice, Sloan. Look at her. Her body‟s begging for it.” She missed her cue and answered out of turn. “Anything…” Her second nipple got the licking it deserved. She gritted her teeth when a finger pushed into the folds of her pussy and slid around before withdrawing. “I can‟t hear you.” “Anything. I‟ll do anything you want. Anything to make you happy…” Her babbling trailed off when the errant digit returned and took another dip into her wet, swollen folds. The laugh was evil, which only made her want to hear it again. “Anything covers a lot of ground. Is that what you really want?” It wasn‟t that she didn‟t care who was watching as her tormentor slowly drove her insane. She did care. She cared because she wanted them to watch. Because she wanted them to bear witness to the extent she would go to please her master. Yes, Master. He is my master. He owns me. They’re not looking at my naked body. My body belongs to him. They’re looking at his naked body. Horacio pressed into her with a tuxedo-clad crush, and his lips consumed her. Not a kiss shared. A kiss stolen. She stretched and pulled against her leather cuffs. She had to hold him. Pull him close. She died a thousand deaths trying to put her arms around him, her hands on his body. She had to be able to take what she wanted. Her legs twisted, her chest heaved into his, and her hips pushed and gyrated. When his lips left hers, his body followed. Pam was left wanting and panting like a panther after a hard run. Somewhere in the din she heard a small bell ring. Dessert was formally announced. Sure. I’m sweet and juicy and tart. Still hot from the oven. Come and get me. “Stunning.” Pam jerked upright and stopped moving at the voice in her right ear. She knew exactly who was talking. What she wanted to know is what Tom Johnston was doing so close. “Isn‟t she?” A ring of pride in Horacio‟s voice. She tried to lean left. To find him. To find escape. “How long have you had her?” Okay, boys, I’m not a baseball card. A kiss on the left side of her neck made that point perfectly clear. Her thighs gave a little quiver and she tried not to teeter to the right. “Not long enough.” Horacio Sloan‟s whispered response sent a shiver up her spine. His lips on her left nipple turned that shiver into a small earthquake that racked her body. Pam was dying to cradle his head. To get her hands free and hold him close. To keep him there forever. She squeaked when his free hand traversed the no-man‟s-

Orion

99

land between breast and pussy and a fat finger applied just enough pressure to make its presence known. Deprived of visual input and having been tormented for what seemed an eternity, Pam‟s sense of touch and feel was riding on the edge. Cranked up, tuned in, and turned on, her squeak became a soft whimper when his lips evaporated. A finger slipping down her right ribs demanded her attention. Is this it? The moment of truth? Am I to become public domain? Royalty free, subject to international copyright laws. She could feel her pulse in her right nipple. Each pound of her heart seemed to be driven right to the dusky pink end of the small hard appendage. This is so wrong. This is so wrong. This is so wrong. The finger turned into a splayed hand, thumb extended into the soft flesh of the side of her breast. Just do it! “Don‟t.” Pam wanted to cheer. She also wanted to bite Horacio Sloan‟s head off. She didn‟t know what she wanted beyond satisfaction. She felt dizzy. Hot. Put out and put on. She pulled on her restraints. “Not there. Here.” She felt Horacio Sloan‟s finger pull away from the lips of her pussy only to be replaced by another. No gentle touch. No curious exploration. The finger sawed across her clitoris before curling in to the hilt. Just as she was about to give in and try to pull her knees together, she felt a second finger slide in. Not from the same hand. Not from the right side of her body. She bit her lip and trembled. Her face felt flushed. She could feel sweat running down her back, trickling through the crack of her ass. When both fingers pulled out, she tried to follow. When they pushed back in, she pulled on the restraints around her wrists, lifting her body an inch or two, and unabashedly rode them. The music paused. Pages fluttered. A different melody filled the spacious room. Soft murmuring packed the air in her immediate vicinity and she heard the master of her universe giving direction. “Here. You. This nipple. Suck it. Play with it with your tongue.” Pam grunted and followed the traverse of the fingers that worked her cunt. “Yes. Here. You. Suck the other one. That‟s it. Pull it between your lips and let it slide out slowly. The occasional bite might be appreciated.” Sensory overload. Both nipples and her cunt tended to at the same time. By four people. Her head lulled and she nearly laughed when a thought tried to intrude but her lord and master commanded her full attention. “That‟s right, Tom. On your knees. We need your tongue. Find her clit. Lick it. See if you can suck it.” Page twelve of her diary floated into view and she wanted to pull a hand down and grab a handful of Tom‟s hair.

100

Roscoe James

“I need a hand here.” Somewhere in the din of debauchery fluffing her mind, she heard the scrape of chairs being pushed away from the table. Silver being dropped on china. Unintelligible words and exclamations. “That‟s right. Your finger. Slide it in deep and keep it there.” Her eyes rolled behind her blindfold. She felt hands of distinct sizes cupping her ass. Fingers curling into the cleft between her ass cheeks and exploring. More hands started touching, petting, anyplace there was bare skin. Pam held her breath and willed it not to happen. He hasn’t said the words yet. “Here, quick. You have to kiss her. Kiss her like you mean it.” The crush of warm, wet lips on her mouth filled her to the brim. The taste of cherry lip gloss and scotch did not go unnoticed. His words whispered in her ear tried to push her out of the cup and over the edge. “I‟ve read your diary. All of it.” She couldn‟t breathe. Tom was laboring, his tongue reaching, cherry lip gloss smashing her lips, a tongue teasing. She only needed one thing. His tongue teased her ear, and he added, “Yes, even in a dungeon the mind can soar.” Her lower lip was trapped between teeth and being stretched. Please. Say them. Even in her own mind she sounded pathetic. Sniveling. Begging for a scrap from the dinner table. Individual hands and mouths slipped away in the dark. Her body trembled with restraint. Any attempt at breathing had been abandoned. Then they came. Doled out like an allowance from her parents. Be sure and save some, sweetie. You never know what might come up. “You may come.” Pam grunted and huffed. Her body was not her own. Her legs were tense and she clinched hard on the finger that was buried to the hilt in her cunt. As if on cue, every effort to drive her insane intensified. Tom licked and sucked, tormenting her to no end. A second finger found the small pink pucker of her ass and pressed until it slid in to the first knuckle. Cherry lip gloss was sloppy and slippery on her mouth. Both nipples were sucked hard while fingers and hands roamed her body at will. She could see the words. Handwritten. A pink highlighter had painted over them on a later visit. She knew when she‟d written them. Just a few months ago while in search of Mr. Goodkink. She knew where she‟d written them. My diary. …there is no love in the moment. The moment wouldn’t be about love. The moment would be about only one thing. Sexual satisfaction. Mine… The kiss was beautiful. A delicate tongue teased and retreated. Pam grunted obscenely. Page 112 of her diary swam into view.

Orion

101

…will it be an orgy? Will he want me to perform for him? For them? What would it be like to come on a thousand tongues and fingers all dedicated to one thing… Her arms numb from their uncomfortable position above her head, her legs trembling, her extremities seemed to disappear. She was only aware of one part of her body. Her stomach pulled tight, her thighs became as hard as stone, and her universe undulated in a ring of concentric energy that exploded outward like a huge exhale. Pam had no choice in the matter. She obeyed.

102

Roscoe James

Chapter Seven “Shhhh. Wait. Let me help you.” Pam felt like a wet rag. She couldn‟t even find the rest of her body, much less make it move. Something warm pressed against her cheek, and she felt a tingle. The first thing she saw was his chin receding. The light in the room was low and a pull of white satin came into view in place of a ceiling. The canopy of a bed. She became aware of her legs and clinched her knees together. The afterglow still rumbled around inside and she tried to capture it. “Be careful, my darling.” My darling. Her sigh was one of contentment, and when she discovered her arms were still attached, she tried to pull one up and cross it over her forehead. Her arm was captured, and she watched as Horacio Sloan worked carefully to remove her leather cuff. His hands rubbed across her skin, and she smiled lightly when he kissed her wrist. The same treatment was applied to her other arm. “Are you thirsty?” She hadn‟t been thirsty, but his question told her otherwise. A glass appeared and water was tipped into her mouth. “Slowly. That‟s it.” The glass disappeared along with Horacio. She felt tugs and pulls and knew that her ankles were being freed. She looked around the room while he worked. A beautiful antique writing desk sat beneath a window. Twin chest of drawers against a wall. An elegant makeup desk with oval mirror against another. Three doors, a fireplace, and a rocking chair. “There.”

Orion

103

He‟d returned and was smiling. He rolled her gently and worked to remove the belt around her waist. When he rolled her back and reached for the collar around her neck, her hand came up and her look questioned his intentions. “It will be okay. Trust me.” Pam‟s hand fell away and she watched his eyes as he worked to remove her final restraint. He smiled. She smiled back. Finally she spoke, “Where am I?” His smile deepened. “Why, your dungeon, of course.” She rotated her head and perused the room a second time. Some dungeon. Horacio‟s big, strong hands imposed themselves between the mattress of the bed and her body, and he lifted her gently into his arms. Her head fell against his chest and she realized he was still wearing his tuxedo. Was it all a dream? The sound of water running intruded and became louder as he carried her through another room with a fireplace, leather wingbacks, and other sundry pieces of furniture. Then they were in a large bathroom with a bathtub big enough to be taxed as a small swimming pool. She started to say something but stopped when he stepped over the edge of the marble tub, shoes, tux, and all, and walked right into the sudsy water. Her body relaxed as he placed her gently in the warm water. Dripping water and soapsuds, he stood at the edge of the huge tub and inquired, “Are you okay?” So overwhelmed by his gesture, she couldn‟t speak. She nodded, which brought another smile to his face just before he disappeared. “Just soak a few minutes. I‟ll be right back.” My dungeon? Is this it? Journey’s end? Have I found my calling? My other half? The yin to my yang? She pushed her hands through the water and touched her body. She didn‟t feel any different to the touch. Her body still felt like her body. And he appeared again. It was the first time she‟d seen him completely naked, relaxed, and at ease. The tux and accessories had been shed and he was standing in the doorway to the bathroom speaking softly to someone. “Put it in the bedroom. Take my wet things when you leave. That‟s all we‟ll need tonight.” His body was impressive. Yes, older. Not that old. Just older than she was. His olive skin was defined by thick patches of black curly hair. His cock, even flaccid, was impressive. His balls hung low and were fuzzy. His chest was broad, his muscles defined, his arms big, but not overly so, and his waist trim. His eyes looked out in the room he‟d carried her through, and when he finally turned his gaze on her, she felt as if her world had come to life. The sun rose when he smiled. Again.

104

Roscoe James

As he settled in the water beside her, his arm fell around her shoulder. “How do you feel?” She hadn‟t felt anything but awe and wonder until he‟d asked. And she wasn‟t sure if his question referred to the physical or the emotional. Pam felt the physical was the safer of the two options. She let her body relax a little and melted into his. “Tired. I think I could sleep for a week.” He laughed. Another first. Not his first laugh, but the first time she‟d actually heard him laugh out loud with no other distractions. Warm and full of mirth. She couldn‟t help smiling. “And if that‟s what you want, then you will.” Pam couldn‟t stop her hand. Her fingers found his upper arm, and she pinched a little. When she said nothing, he filled the quiet. “Yes, Pamela. It was all real. It still is.” “And…” Horacio pushed her out of his embrace to the middle of the big tub. A loofah appeared, and he started rubbing her back. “That was a glimpse. Trying on the dress. Actually, it was a lot for one night.” “So…” A rash of goose bumps covered her body. “So…now it‟s up to you. Was that enough for you? Too much? Are you interested in a stronger commitment?” She shivered. The water splashed and his body pressed into hers. The loofah moved down her arms, and he continued to massage her skin. “Stronger commitment?” The loofah was replaced by a washcloth that caressed her breasts and came up to her neck. She closed her eyes and leaned into him. “There‟s so much more to it. Last week, tonight, they were about intention. Showing our intentions to each other. Understanding the implications. If we are in agreement, then the next step is training.” She tried to look over her shoulder and read his eyes. If we are both in agreement? The washcloth dabbed at the edge of her mouth and gently pushed her gaze away. “Training is like an engagement. A period of learning for both of us. Learning about each other, our wants, our desires. Not just in bed. It‟s about life. Our lives. Commitments.” The washcloth was gone and she felt his fingers in her hair. Her eyes closed again and she leaned into his hands. Water was splashed, shampoo was applied, and she rolled her head from side to side while Horacio Sloan, master of her universe, gently, lovingly, washed her hair. The spacious bathroom fell quiet but for the sound of lapping water at the edge of the bathtub.

Orion

105

Training. Life. Our lives. As in both of us. As one? Master and slave? In charge and subordinated? It was a lot and more than she‟d anticipated. She hadn‟t got past the first night in bed with the man and he was talking commitment. His whisper in her ear popped her eyes open. “No need to concern yourself. All that is in the future, and only if you‟re interested. This is here and now. Nothing to do but enjoy ourselves.” He embraced her from behind and hugged her close. She didn‟t know how her world felt but did know that she had never felt more at ease in her entire life. It was like coming home.

***** The fire crackled and Pam lounged on the bed. She‟d actually fallen asleep in his arms in the warm water and missed their trek back to the bedroom. Her eyes had opened when Horacio had placed her gently on top of the mattress. She‟d watched him fuss with the wood in the fireplace until a fire crackled and burned. Then she‟d watched him push a tray closer to the bed and uncover two covered dishes. They‟d sat naked on top of the bed and eaten. There‟d been few questions about the evening‟s activities, and only when a clock somewhere in the suite chimed did she realize it was three in the morning. By the time their meals were finished and Horacio had cleared the bed, her hair was dry and the blanket was soggy. He‟d leaned in to pull her off the bed and she‟d rolled away. He‟d chased and laughed and she‟d lunged and giggled. He‟d pursued her from corner to corner of the playing field, always letting her get away. At last she‟d fallen in a heap and watched the twinkle in his eyes turn to a dark smolder. His cock was hard and his gaze steady. “I will have you.” Pam opened her legs and offered her wish in the form of a reply. “Yes, you will.” His entry was gentle, but his lovemaking was ardent. His eyes would not release hers, his mouth teased her own. She was exhausted and was sure her greatest hope was to satisfy him but he proved her wrong. When exhaustion turned to desire followed closely by selfish lust, she stared in wonder into the windows of his soul. His jaw was pulled tight in a clench of determination and the moment the first whimper pushed up her throat, he grunted and redoubled his efforts. Her legs were too tired but defied gravity by finding his hips and coming up to trap his ass. Her jaw fell open in a silent scream and she came on his cock. “Yes!” His exclamation was followed by a grunt. And then another as he rode her into oblivion. Tears came and she pulled his shoulder down to hide them. He refused her. Instead he kissed them away as he continued to stretch the moment, his cock never relenting.

106

Roscoe James

***** “Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You‟re living with him. The stalker guy. You sleep in the same room—” “Not always. I have my own room. Well, rooms.” “You‟ve quit your job and let go of your rent-controlled apartment—” “I still have my apartment. It‟s sitting there in case I need it. Kind of a safety net.” Jolie pulled her coffee closer, stirred, shoved the mug away, and harrumphed. “But how could you do that? I mean, okay, he‟s rich. Not bad looking for an old gu—” “He‟s forty-three.” “Okay. A kinda old guy. And…” Jolie picked up a macaroon and nibbled while she put her thoughts together. “And you‟re in, ah… What did you call that?” Pam took a sip of her espresso. She could hear it in Jolie‟s voice. The tone of her delivery. Her best friend didn‟t understand. “Training.” “Training. Training for what? You his secretary? His lap bitch? He teachin‟ ya how to turn tricks down at the Holiday Inn?” This was their second outing in as many months. The first hadn‟t gone much better. Pam watched a man push the front door open and dust snow off his shoulders with his open hands. The circle would close in less than a month. The one-year anniversary of her visit to Littlewood‟s would be upon her. She planned something special for that night. She didn‟t know what, but she certainly knew whom with. She turned her spoon over on the table and tried to find words. Of all people, she wanted Jolie to understand. Her best friend didn‟t have to agree…just know. “Well, you remember the moving guy on the end of the chain?” Jolie looked skeptical but nodded. “Remember how important h—” “I remember all that shit. Yeah, he‟d do anything for me. Sleep on the floor, serve goddamned tea in nothing but a French maid‟s apron, all of it.” “Right. That‟s him. Well, and that‟s me. I‟m the one on the end of the chain.” “I figured that much out by myself. What I wanna know is why?” She‟d always thought Jolie would be an easier audience than her mother. Pam was starting to have her doubts. She cocked her head and flipped her hair. Manicured nails tapped the tabletop and she looked Jolie right in the eye. “Because that‟s what I want. What I am.” She thought Jolie‟s face would crack and break off with incredulity. “You tellin‟ me you serve his friends tea in nothing but a French maid‟s apron and—” “Actually I did once. But it wasn‟t tea. It was scotch. And they weren‟t friends. They were two business associates.”

Orion

107

Jolie picked up another macaroon and bit off half. Spitting crumbs, she finally asked, “Why the hell did you do something like that?” “Well, actually, it was your fault.” “My fault?” The café was suddenly quiet following Jolie‟s outburst. “Yeah. After that night at The Rush, I wrote down what you and I talked about in my diary. I guess he read—” “He read your diary?” A tray of dishes clattered somewhere in the back. “This guy steals your—” “He didn‟t steal it. I gave it to him.” Jolie fanned her face and stared at a few nosy onlookers until they went back to their coffee and conversation. Leaning across the table, she whispered, “Are you nuts, girl? Ain‟t no man gonna read my most secret and personal thoughts. No man.” Pam smiled slightly, sipped, set her cup down, and offered her own ideas on the matter. “Maybe that‟s the problem, Jolie. Too many state secrets. You‟d be surprised what some men will do to make a woman‟s fantasies come true if you give them half a chance.” Her ex-cubicle mate took that little gem of knowledge in, eyed Pam like she had the plague, and her tone went from angry skeptic to curious inquisitor. “And do you still let him look in your diary?” “I‟m sure he does. I write in it almost every day. It sits on my writing desk. And then things happen.” “Things happen?” The skeptic had returned. “Are you completely off your rocker?” “That I can‟t tell you. But it‟s not about the fantasies. It‟s about communication. When‟s the last time you told Jason about one of those hot little movies that runs through your head when you think about the mover guy?” Jolie worked on her macaroon and chewed. A sip of coffee and she finally answered, “Okay. Yeah. I hear ya. But Jason would just get pissed and mope around the apartment for a week. What good‟s that do me?” Pam dabbed her lips with a napkin and waved for the waiter. She took a twenty from her billfold and pulled her black leather gloves on. “You never know. Could be Jason deserves a little more credit than you‟re giving the man. Who knows? Maybe he‟s dying to make all your fantasies come true.” “Right, that‟ll be the day.” The waiter left Pam‟s change and cleared the table. They both pushed up, and she put her mink around her shoulders. Together they headed for the door. When Jolie reached for the doorknob, Pam put her hand on her friends. “Who knows? Maybe it works the other way for you two. Maybe you should look around for his diary and make his fantasies come true.” “Now I know you‟re nuts.” The nervous undertone in Jolie‟s laugh said otherwise.

108

Roscoe James

“Oh! I almost forgot. Horacio and I would like to invite you two over for dinner one night. He really wants to meet you.” “Mr. Stalker Guy wants to meet me? What? Am I in your diary too?” Jolie‟s joke dissipated in the face of Pam‟s smile. “You weren‟t part of anything in particular. Let‟s just say I talked about you a little.” Before Jolie could respond, Pam pulled her mink tight below her chin and added, “I‟m sorry, Jolie. I really have to go. But I‟ll call you next week.” The January air was cold, and Pam pulled the collar of her mink up when she stepped out on the sidewalk. She waited with Jolie for a cab and watched it leave. Stepping closer to the curb, she looked down the street and raised her hand. The shiny chrome grille of the long black limousine appeared and stopped in traffic. The driver grabbed her door. His gaze never left the sidewalk as she stepped over the gutter and bundled into the empty backseat.

***** “Your taxi has arrived, Miss.” Pam punched a button on the multiline phone in her drawing room. “Thanks, Phillip. I‟ll be right down.” She picked up her black leather gloves, Gucci handbag, and threw her old leather coat around her shoulders. She‟d decided to go incognito and was dressed in jeans, black boots, and a turtleneck that came up high enough to cover her simple black choker. In the taxi she handed a piece of paper to the driver and settled in the seat. New York was a winter wonderland of ice-covered trees that shined in the stark, cloudless morning sky. The streets were etched in black and gray, and billowy wisps of steam from manhole covers and storm sewers animated an otherwise static street scene. She couldn‟t deny that since moving into the Sloan mansion her lifestyle had changed. You couldn‟t live in the lap of luxury without being affected by that lifestyle. But deep inside she knew that it was she who had changed much more than her lifestyle. She saw things differently. No longer through the rose-colored glasses of complacency. Horacio Sloan had jerked the rose-colored glasses away and was slowly, methodically, showing her the harsh realities of the real world. The simple fact that the decisions of a few could impact the lives of the many and that a responsible person did not take decisions of that caliber lightly. And it was exactly that insight that had brought Pam out on this cold January morning. She knew Horacio would be upset if he knew she‟d taken a taxi instead of using the car and driver. But she also knew that such luxuries could get in the way of finding the truth. The last thing she wanted this morning was special treatment. And his majesty and Charlene were off in Japan for the week. Yes. An act of rebellion. What price

Orion

109

will he extract for this? She could only hope the price would be hefty. Pam smiled at the thought and watched traffic literally slide by. Unbidden, her word popped into her head. Not out of fear or anticipation that the word would be needed. Pam could see the letters on a page. That’s it! The great hunter from Homer’s Odyssey. Recognized for his strength and sexual prowess. Sexual prowess that, according to one of the many stories about the great huntsman, resulted in his death. She shivered and her heart pounded at the thought. She made a mental note to search the leather-bound library at the Sloan mansion. She was sure she would find Homer‟s writings tucked away. More than just a safe word. Orion is his word. She enjoyed the rush of accomplishment at having unraveled another tidbit of information about the master of her universe. How many more are there? Just after she moved into the Sloan mansion in November, he‟d sent her home to family and friends for Thanksgiving. A trip that she dreaded for the simple reason he refused to accompany her. “You need this. You need to get away from everything, from me, and think. I’ll be here waiting. I’ll only be a phone call away.” Christmas had been a completely different story. They‟d jetted off to a chalet in the south of France where they‟d passed four glorious days without servants, cooks, drivers, and the infamous Charlene. Four glorious days in each other‟s arms searching for the key to the dungeon. The taxi pulled to the curb, and Pam swiped her hand through the wet, clingy patch of humidity on the inside of the cab window. The building looked plain, unembellished. A brick construction from the fifties. An awkward period at best for New York architecture. She paid the cabbie and pulled her coat tight against her chest. On the sidewalk, she stopped and looked up. Several floors of windows. Some with the curtains drawn shut and others open. Like a hotel. Pam slipped her gloves on and watched people enter a door off to one side at the corner of the building. All were dressed in an array of winter clothing. One man was wearing a woman‟s wool coat with faux-fur collar that he had pulled up tight against the cold. Another man in something green that looked like army surplus. The one thing both men had in common was filth. They were both dirty. A woman appeared scooting her two small children along in front of her. The little boy was more interested in the slushy snow that covered the sidewalk than whatever was inside the building. Pam looked at the double front doors with THE SLOAN HOUSE on a small plaque beside them and decided to explore the smaller entrance instead. Inside she found a large room full of tables and chairs, a line formed at a steamer table full of food, and people sitting around eating. Pam ventured farther into the cavernous, well-lit room. She wasn‟t sure how to achieve her objective or even what that objective was. They‟d been on their way to an event, something Horacio Sloan didn‟t lack in, just after Christmas. Horacio had been turned out in a tuxedo and Pamela was dressed to the nines in an evening gown by Chanel, Jimmy Choo nosebleed heels, and the mink.

110

Roscoe James

He‟d been warm and full of smiles, his attention seemingly unwavering, when something had happened. Something that had changed his demeanor and stolen his attentions. He‟d punched the button and commanded James to stop. He‟d apologized for interrupting their evening and promptly disappeared into the cold night air. Pam watched him be swallowed up by an unlit alley and became concerned when he still hadn‟t returned ten minutes later. “James, you must check on him. Where did he go?” James hadn‟t answered her question or taken up her quest. Less than a minute later, the master of her universe had returned herding a woman and her small child into the back of the limousine, both wrapped in rags. The woman was unapologetic about the smell that filled the back of the car from the filth that covered her and her child from head to toe. He‟d immediately taken the small child into his arms to keep him warm. Horacio had offered a hearty laugh and produced a handkerchief when the child had coughed and managed to leave spittle and phlegm on the lapel of his tuxedo. “The house, James.” He‟d chatted incessantly with the woman and poked and tickled the small child. Pam realized his objective was to make the woman feel comfortable and unthreatened. After a few minutes, he‟d produced a small cell phone and placed a quick call to Charlene. Ten minutes later their tuxedo tank had rolled to a stop in front of a dark, imposing building instead of the Sloan mansion she had started calling home. He‟d left Pam alone in the back of the car while he‟d accompanied the woman and her child through the wide front entrance of the plain-looking building. Five minutes later he‟d returned to the car and immediately picked up the conversation they‟d been having before the interruption. No explanation had been offered and none requested. She‟d watched him finger his lapel. Not in an attempt to clean or remove the white stain that was there. She saw it more as a point of ongoing contact with the child he‟d been holding. “Are you the new volunteer?” Pam hadn‟t seen the woman approach and was taken by surprise. Volunteer? “Ah, yes.” “That‟s great. We‟re always shorthanded around here. I‟ll take you to Mr. Sloan‟s office for your interview.” The woman reminded Pam of her father‟s old car. Small, boxy, and practical. They left the great hall and Pam followed the woman down a carpeted hallway to a small reception area. Mr. Sloan? Is Japan a ruse? Some strange double life? “Let me tell him you‟re here. Debbie, right?” “Sure,” Pam lied. A woman sat behind a desk working at a computer. She only glanced briefly at Pam before going back to her work. “He‟ll see you now. I need to get back to the kitchen. Just go on in.”

Orion

111

Pam returned the woman‟s smile and steeled herself for a confrontation she hadn‟t yet defined with a Horacio who she suddenly doubted she knew at all. Stepping into the office, she was just as surprised as the man behind the desk. “I‟m sorry, Miss. But you‟re not Debbie. Debbie‟s the wife of a friend of mine.” “And you‟re not Horacio Sloan.” The office was comfortable and warm but not ostentatious. The furnishings were modern and Mr. Sloan was a slight caricature of the Horacio Sloan she knew as the keeper of the key. “H? You know H? Did he send you?” A deliberate act of rebellion was not below her. She‟d even decided that Horacio expected a modicum of acting out. They both took pleasure in the punishment that would follow. But blatant misrepresentation seemed dangerous. She had broken no laws other than taking a taxi, and she saw no reason to lie. “No. He didn‟t. I came—” “You‟re Pamela, aren‟t you?” The man‟s knowledge of her existence was another surprise. “Yes. I am.” He stood and reached across the desk offering his hand. “Very nice to meet you, Pamela. I‟ve heard so much about you.” “And I‟ve heard absolutely nothing about you.” The man had a nice laugh. Not unlike Horacio‟s but more inviting. He sat back in his chair. “Doesn‟t surprise me. H has always been a little eccentric. And where is he? Did you come with him?” “Mr. Sloan is in Japan on business. I came on my—” “Mr. Sloan? I believe you two are well past the formalities by now. And you want to know what this place is all about, don‟t you?” “Would it be too much to ask who, exactly, you are?” The man came out of his chair with a hearty laugh, walked around the desk, and offered his arm. “But of course, dear. Here. Let me give you the tour. Oh, and my name is Clarence Sloan.” They walked out of Clarence Sloan‟s office and wandered back toward the dining room. “I‟m H‟s first cousin, and I bet he didn‟t tell you about his sister either.” “Sister?” “A sad story, that one. She was as headstrong as Horacio when they were kids. She left home when she was fifteen. Rebellious, pregnant, and penniless. Their father wanted her to get an abortion. She refused. She‟s the reason the Sloan House exists. H has been looking for her ever since. There are sixteen Sloan houses in as many cities. They‟ve been in existence since H took over the family affairs. He always hoped she‟d walk into one with her child. Never happened, though. And frankly, I believe he gave up hope about ten years ago. But by then he had been touched. Touched by the struggle

112

Roscoe James

of the homeless. I think he just feels guilty because he has so much and they have nothing.” In the kitchen, Clarence steered her toward the line at the steamer table. “Today is beef Stroganoff day. You‟ll love it. Of course, we always have chili in the winter. You might want to try that. H‟s own recipe. He‟s very proud of his chili.” Pam felt a little overwhelmed by the other side of the leaf that was Horacio Sloan. The hard-driving lord of business and women‟s hearts‟ soft underbelly was showing, and she had this overwhelming urge to tickle him. She took a tray and asked for a small sampling of everything, including the chili. She noticed that interspersed among the homeless were well-dressed people holding clipboards. Each one was chatting with a homeless person and taking notes. “It really is sad. A lot of them won‟t let you help them. They‟ll give you false names and make up stories about their past. They‟ve lost all trust in society. That‟s why we have the kitchen. People drop in and we assess them. We make the offer and some hurry with their meal and leave. But a few stay. A few take a chance on us.” Pam followed Clarence to a table where they sat with a group of homeless men who spoke in murmurs and incomplete sentences. Clarence greeted some by name and offered his hand and asked for the names of a few others. “We have room to house two thousand here on a permanent basis. We have medical and dental offices, a small team of social workers, and psychologists. A full-size gymnasium with basketball court and pool. Three squares a day and cable TV.” Pam tried the Stroganoff. The rice was perfect, the beef tender and full of seasoning, and the gravy rich and filling. A dinner roll was hot and buttered, cooked to a golden brown perfection not achieved in a lot of restaurants. “But what‟s not to like? You should be fighting them off with clubs at the front door.” “Ah, but there‟s more. Here‟s how it works. Any homeless person that shows up at a Sloan house can find residence and start rebuilding their lives. They can live free in one of our dorms. We have both men and women dorms. Clean sheets, clean clothes, really good food…anything they could need. But they have to do one thing. They have to go to school. We have a two-year trade school here that covers a wide range of abilities. Everything from executive secretary to diesel mechanic to computer programmer to long-haul trucker. If they have children, they have to send the children to a public school every day. The whole idea behind Sloan house is to give people a chance to reincorporate back into society. To get a life, find a job, a place to live, and pick up the journey where they got off.” She tried some applesauce. “But I‟m detecting a problem. Who wouldn‟t accept an offer like that?” “Well, there‟s Jake here.” Clarence hit the arm of a very big black man sitting beside him. The man looked over and scowled before going back to his meal. “Jake was in Desert Storm. Has a Purple Heart to show for it. He also has a drinking problem, a wife who left him, and a small-town job that abandoned him. Society abandoned him,

Orion

113

and he still doesn‟t trust us. But he will. We won‟t give up on him.” Clarence hit Jake‟s arm again and was rewarded with another scowl. But there was no hiding the mirth in the big man‟s eyes. Two hours later, Horacio Sloan‟s first cousin was standing with Pam at the front entrance. “It was really nice to meet you, Pamela. Don‟t be a stranger.” “It was nice to meet you too, Clarence. And put me on the roster. I‟ll have to work out my schedule with Mr. Sloan, but I‟d love to do volunteer work at the Sloan House.” Pam glanced out the entrance and saw it was snowing. Turning back to Clarence, she leaned in and planted a small kiss on the man‟s cheek, which provoked a schoolboy blush that was both charming and amusing. Pulling her collar up, she went outside to find a taxi. The appearance of James and the limousine didn‟t really surprise her. Driver James‟s apologetic attitude when he opened her door did. “I‟m sorry, Miss. He would be very upset if anything happened to you.” “Don‟t worry about it, James. I don‟t know where I‟d get a taxi on a day like today anyway.” Sitting in the backseat, warm and dry, Pam tried to find the master of her universe, king of her jungle, and key holder to her dungeon. The task was daunting in the face of the humanitarian that she felt plucking away at her heartstrings.

114

Roscoe James

Chapter Eight Pam closed her diary, placed her Montblanc on top, and pushed away from her writing table, which sat beneath a tall window in her bedroom. Standing, she walked to another window and looked at the night sky. The moon was low in the east. Full of itself and grinning. The back lawn was a long white blanket of snow. When he‟d found the entry in her diary, he‟d surprised her with his proposition. She‟d balked. It didn‟t seem right. The idea didn‟t jive with how things had been working. He had stopped short of making it a command. He‟d stated his desire and left it to her to decide. She dropped the floor-to-ceiling satin drape and sauntered from bedroom to sitting room, shedding clothes as she went. There were no panties to shed. Pam kicked her high heels off and sat in a leather wingback in the sitting room beside the fire. With slow, languid movements, she pushed her silk stockings down her legs to her ankles. A rap on the door, and Phillip walked in carrying a silver tray. “The grapes and champagne, Miss. As you requested.” “Put them beside the bed, Phillip.” Pam sat naked beside the fireplace and watched Phillip come and go. A bath first? Or after? The mantel clock struck two, and she picked up the phone that sat on a small table at her left elbow. “Charlene?” She watched the flames waiting for Charlene to make her way back from dreamland. “Have the driver come up.” She listened to Charlene patiently. “I really don‟t care what time it is. You shouldn‟t either. This is my wish and you will do as I wish.” Pam placed the phone back in its cradle and walked back to her bedroom. She dug around in the walk-in closet until she found what she was looking for. Walking past the

Orion

115

elegant four-poster bed, she threw them in the middle of the bedspread. Then she knelt in front of an ornate trunk at the foot of the bed and pulled four red silk ropes out. A black leather riding crop followed. When she heard a rap on her sitting room door, she pulled an elegant white silk robe from her closet, stuffed her arms into the billowy sleeves, pulled the sash tight, and took up post in the same leather wingback where she‟d shed her silk stockings earlier. “Yes?” A well-oiled metallic click, and the door opened. Replete with shiny boots and a buttoned cap on his head, the chauffeur stood in the open doorway, eyes downcast, hands behind his back, waiting. “You wanted to see me, ma‟am.” “You took your time getting here.” There was no anger in her voice. Just the conveyance of a fact. The man didn‟t look up. His reply was clearly spoken, well enunciated. Repentance wrapped in a deep baritone. “I apologize, ma‟am. It won‟t happen again.” “You may enter.” The driver stepped into the room, closed the door, and waited. “And how are you finding your new job? Everything as you expected?” “Yes, ma‟am. Everything as expected.” “Good. That‟s always good. And the apartment above the garage? Is that as expected as well?” “Yes, ma‟am. Much more than expected. Thank you for asking, ma‟am.” Pam pushed up and walked to the fire, turning her back on the driver. She plucked a heavy brass poker up from beside the fireplace and bent to poke the two heavy oak logs, which popped and whizzed in the black iron grate. Her thin white robe billowed around her legs. Are you watching? Is the light from the fire bright enough? Do you see the line of my bare legs beneath my robe? She spun, deliberately trying to catch him. She smiled when his gaze fell back to the floor, and he cleared his throat, trying to hide his intentions. She ignored the breach and settled back into her chair. Pam brought her right leg up and crossed it dramatically over her left knee. Her robe parted all the way to the sash, leaving her flesh bare and on display. Settled, she proceeded. “You may be wondering why you were called to my chambers at this late hour.” “Not at all, ma‟am. I‟m sure you have a very good reason.” “I must admit, I do. I wasn‟t sure if you could help me or not. I know your job is driving. But I thought you might be able to help me with something else.” The driver cleared his throat before answering, “Anything to please you, ma‟am.” “Anything covers a lot of ground. I certainly hope you‟re up to the task.” “I‟m sure I am, ma‟am.”

116

Roscoe James

Smug bastard. We’ll see. She settled back in her chair and uncrossed her legs. “On my bed you will find a pair of leather boots. I would like to put them on, but that‟s very difficult to do without help. I would like you to bring them here and help me put them on.” Her manservant said nothing. She followed the broad expanse of his back as he disappeared into her bedroom. A few seconds later, he returned carrying the boots. “Are these the boots, ma‟am?” She pointed at the floor in front of her chair. “Yes. Bring them here.” He placed them at her feet and stepped back. She watched his gaze run across her bare lap, lingering at the small patch of manicured pubic hair at the top of her thighs. Yes, how willing are you to please? “Did I say you could look at me?” Pam made no effort to hide her anger or her lap. His gaze fell to the floor immediately. “I‟m sorry, ma‟am.” “That‟s the second time you‟ve apologized in the space of fifteen minutes. Am I to tolerate your incompetence all the time?” “Really, ma‟am. I‟m sorr—” She jumped to her feet in a rage. Her robe billowed and settled, exposing a breast. She pointed at the bedroom door. Her manner was that of a mother scolding her small son. “You will march back into that room and bring the riding crop that was on the bed beside my boots.” She watched him skulk away and paced impatiently in front of the fire. He looked on purpose. I know he did. “Would this be it, ma‟am?” Pam snatched the leather riding crop up. “Now. You will help me with my boots, and there will be no more of these bungling apologies. Do you understand?” The riding crop slapped into her palm and she waited. “Yes, ma‟am. I‟m sorr—” She could tell the driver was rattled. That was what she wanted. And she didn‟t want him to find time to recover. “On your knees.” When the man hesitated, she barked, “Now!” Pam stepped in front of her kneeling driver, spread her feet, and put her free hand on her hip. The whip snapped the white silk of her robe against her leg. She was in a mood to taunt. “Well, you wanted to look. There it is. Take a good look.” The driver‟s cap slowly tipped up, and she could see the end of his nose just inches from her pussy. She pulled her sash loose and let her robe fall open. His gasp was divine. Her voice was low and sultry. Her demeanor went from she-cat bitch to soft, purring kitten fast enough to make his head spin. “And does my driver like looking at my pussy?”

Orion

117

He stumbled on the words but managed to answer. “Ye-ye… Yes, ma‟am.” “And would my driver like to smell my pussy?” He didn‟t answer. Pam swatted his shoulder with her riding crop. The sound was muffled by his uniform jacket and shirt. The she-cat returned, “I asked if you‟d like to smell my pussy.” “Yes I would, ma‟am. If you would let me.” She grabbed the cap from his head and threw it across the room. Her fingers twisted in his black curls and she jerked his face close enough that the tip of his nose was buried in pubic hair. She whispered, “Can you smell it? Can you tell how wet I am?” She felt his connoisseur‟s exhale followed by a deep inhale between her naked thighs. Goose bumps ran down the insides of both her legs. His voice sounded dreamy. “Yes. Yes I can, ma‟am.” With a snap of her wrist, she jerked his face away. “I need my boots. Get my boots.” He fumbled for one. His hand was warm when he caressed the back of her calf and gently lifted. He slid her foot into the boot and sat it back to the floor. The leather teased her skin as he leaned close again, chased the leather up her leg with one hand, and drew the zipper up with the other. The push of the soft roll at the top of the boot into the swollen lip of her pussy was ecstasy. The brush of his finger brought an unbidden moan to her lips. She scrambled to recover. “Did I say you could take such liberties?” He started to answer. It was clear he wanted to answer. She didn‟t give him a chance. She snapped his shoulder a second time with twice the force. “Get the other boot.” Her foot settled into the boot, and his hands were warm through the leather on her leg. Her touch was gentle, her fingers twisted in his hair, and she tilted his head back until she was looking into his eyes. “Are there other liberties my driver would like to take? Does my driver think he‟s worthy of such liberties?” “I—” “We will see.” Pam was all business when she snapped her palm with the riding crop and headed for her bedroom. “Follow me.” Her thoughts wandered, only for a second. How does he do it? How does the master of my universe manage to stay so distant? So clinical. She wasn‟t sure she could control herself. She wasn‟t sure she could complete the task. Give the commands without ravishing her victim. Her fantasy. Will I ever be as good at this as he is? Do I want to be? At the bed, she instructed her driver to get undressed. When he hesitated, she snapped the whip and chided, “What? Would my driver be shy? You aren‟t up to the

118

Roscoe James

task? You want to look, even smell, but no tit for tat? I imagine I can get Phillip in here to take care of this. Obviously, you aren‟t—” “No, ma‟am. That won‟t be necessary, ma‟am.” She‟d never seen a man remove so much clothing so fast before in her life. He stood straight as an arrow, eyes downcast, his cock an obscene exclamation point punching the air. She smiled triumphantly. Hard as a fence post. “You will not speak again until I give you permission. Is that clear?” Her driver said nothing. Obedient. Very good. Pam walked slowly; her riding crop swung at her side. His ass was firm. The back of his legs firmer. She stopped and raked her nails across his back. His muscles twitched. She continued her perusal. Standing at his side, she leaned close and whispered, “Do you think you‟re worthy? I mean, you are nothing but a driver. The go-to man that takes me places. What if you aren‟t good enough?” He said nothing. She smiled, stepped back, and continued walking. “There are some rules you should know if you are going to take on, shall we say, other responsibilities.” Pam surveyed his bare chest and stepped close enough that the end of his hard cock bumped against her stomach. She watched his jaw clench and eyes narrow. “You will not speak unless an answer is required. You will consider any direction I might give a command and you will comply immediately. You will have a safe word and may use it at any time. There will be no chiding, belittling, or chastising. Your safe word is sacred. There is no harm, no foul in this game. Only comprehension, enjoyment, and submission to our mutual desires. You may not ask why. You may not discuss. If I ask you a question, I expect only the truth and only an answer. No explanation is required unless I request it. You may not deny me anything without using your safe word. Do you understand?” She could see him trying to decide if he should respond or not. She took pity. “You may answer my question.” “Yes, ma‟am. I do. But—” “You need your safe word? You may pick one. Any word. One you‟re comfortable with. Once you have decided, you will tell me what it is.” “Orion, ma‟am.” Pam flicked the whip, the leather tip danced across her driver‟s ass. The man showed no reaction. Steel. The man is made of steel. Her driver stood and said nothing. “And one other thing, Mr. Driver. When in private, you will address me as Mistress or Mistress Pamela. Do you understand?” “Yes, ma—Mistress.” “Good. Then we will start. Your safe word for the night is Orion. I assume that‟s a word you‟re familiar with?”

Orion

119

When he didn‟t answer immediately, she slapped his bare thigh with her riding crop. He didn‟t flinch. “Yes, Mistress Pamela.” The mantel clock in her sitting room chimed three. Ten minutes later, Mistress Pamela‟s driver was tied to the four corners of her bed, cock up, with four red silk ropes. Pam opened her nightstand and pulled out Mr. Silver Bullet Man. The robe fell off her shoulder and she climbed onto the bed. Straddling her driver‟s stomach, she leaned down until her breasts were pressed hard against his chest. She ran the smooth surface of her dildo across his cheek and whispered, “Here‟s my problem, Mr. Driver. My batteries have run out. You see, I used them up earlier in the evening. Here, taste.” She pushed the tip against his lips until they parted obediently. Two inches slid in and she commanded, “Suck.” He did. “Suck it like you mean it. Suck it like you think a cock should be sucked.” Lips wrapped, his tongue peeked out below, and efforts were redoubled. Pam smiled and explained, “So I need you to act as, let‟s say, a stand-in.” With that, she pushed the dildo deeper as he sucked before pulling it out of his mouth and placing it back the drawer she‟d taken it from. Scooting back, she found his rock-hard cock and impaled herself with a grunt. “Yes, you‟ll do nicely. There is something you need to know, though.” She lifted slowly letting his cock slide out before sliding back down. The facade broke and he grunted. Pam leaned across his chest again and looked him straight in the eyes. “I will come three times. You will not move unless it is to assist me in that accomplishment.” She straightened up and rode him a second time. His jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed when she sat. She leaned across his chest once again and gave her final instruction. “One last thing. You will not come unless you have my permission.” He groaned. She nibbled his earlobe and found a rope of muscle on his neck to bite. His cock was magic. Hard and fat. Unwavering. Majestic. She expected no less from a god. His hips came up to meet her ass. Her palms fell on his chest and she found a rhythm that suited her. Her long red nails dug into his skin and she left eight angry red welts as she searched for perch. Her fingers curled in the mat of hair on his chest and she stared unblinking into her driver‟s eyes. Pam didn‟t make love to the man. This was about satisfaction. Mutual when possible. She rode him hard and clenched her thighs each time she pushed up. She milked him and rocked her ass. As much as pursuing satisfaction, she watched for a crack in the facade. She wanted to make not coming the biggest challenge her driver had ever faced. The occasional grunt and pursing of the lips said little. What’s he

120

Roscoe James

thinking about? His eyes never leave mine. He doesn’t peruse my body. Is he paying the bills? Fixing a sink? Shopping for tuna fish in a can? She could feel it starting. She knew the freight train was on the tracks and that she was tied across the rails. She closed her eyes and heard her words. His words. A soft whisper in the room. “You may come.” Her breath caught, her eyes clenched, and she tensed as the freight train tore through her. That didn‟t stop her unrelenting pounding as she milked every second of pleasure possible out of the moment. “Fuck,” she yelled, followed by a grunt. She fell panting across her driver‟s chest and licked his chin. Her body trembled against the hot, hard cock still stuck deep inside her. She didn‟t want to. She didn‟t have to. Pam was perfectly content enjoying the shock wave that rattled around her body while she licked across the driver‟s chest and sucked a nipple. But she pushed up and pulled off the driver‟s cock. A stumbling step or two, she glanced over her shoulder and smiled at the sight. Her driver was breathing hard, his cock standing tall and proud, glistening in the dim light that fell in from the sitting room. Pam stood at her writing desk and steadied herself with one hand before picking up her diary. She wasn‟t ready for the second course of the night‟s meal. Her breathing still hadn‟t settled. Her legs still felt a little like rubber. She returned to the bed and straddled her newfound stallion. She walked her knees along his body until her wet, swollen pussy was snuggled just below his chin. Opening her diary to her earlier entry, she looked across the top of the book to see if she had her driver‟s attention. His eyes smoldered with lust…and something else. Pam rolled her hips and pressed her pussy against the point of his chin. “You have permission to eat my pussy. And I really believe you should give some thought to your earlier offer. Anything implies no limits. No taboos. Anything.” She raised her ass and walked her knees another six inches, squeezing his restrained arms close to his head. She sat her pussy lightly against his mouth and went on. “And anything means exactly that. That you will do anything I ask. Anything I want. Anything I need.” His tongue explored and she couldn‟t stop the quiver of her thighs. He said nothing. But then I didn’t give him permission to, did I? Well, and his tongue seems to be occupied right now. “There‟s something else you should know.” Pam held her diary close to her face for reading in the dim light. “I like to write my fantasies down. I‟ve written my most recent. Unless I hear your safe word, you will be part of this fantasy very soon.” She let her knees slide some and planted her pussy solidly on her driver‟s mouth. There was no denying his enthusiasm. She searched the page and found the entry. Her voice was soft. The library storyteller had come to visit. “He must prove himself worthy. More than discovering his safe word discreetly tattooed on the other man’s body, he must be willing to fulfill any desire I might have. Absolutely

Orion

121

anything. He must prove that as well. That willingness will set him free. Crossing the abyss, while a great adventure, is not for the faint of heart.” Pam‟s breath caught when he found her clitoris and sucked. She shuddered, cleared her throat, and went on as best she could. “Once his safe word is secured, I will demand he fulfill a whim. Nothing outrageous. Fellatio will suffice. His sucks and swallows will quench my salacious curiosity as I sit on the edge of the bed whispering words of encouragement…” “You‟ve stopped. I didn‟t tell you to stop eating me.” She snapped her diary shut and looked down at her driver‟s nose trapped at the apex of her thighs. She smiled. Sliding from her perch on his chin, she slid down his chest until she could look the man right in the eye. His hard cock bounced between her thighs and she sighed in resignation. “Of course, by then you would have your safe word. By then you could deny me my wish with the utterance of that word. The decision will be yours.” Pam sat a second time on her stallion‟s phallic saddle horn and settled as slowly and salaciously as possible. Her driver‟s chin glistened; his lips were puffy and flushed red. His tongue came out and he licked. Is this it? The pinnacle? Total control? Able to demand and have it be so? Is this where I belong? While titillating, and given the driver‟s performance, so far sexually fulfilling, it seemed to fall short of other more satisfying moments she‟d experienced recently at the hands of her own master of the universe. He had called this topping. A chance for her to see the grass from the other side of the fence. Work out a kink or two of your own if you wish. She was brought back from her thoughts by her driver‟s movements beneath her. His hips rolled, his ass lifted, and he was fucking her. Does he want to come? Or does he want to satisfy me? She clung to the second thought and joined in. In spite of her position of power and control, she fell into a rhythm with him and they grunted and fucked as one. She looked at his chest, chased beads of sweat with her eyes, found his hard nipples, and tried to divine what had made them that way. Me. Twenty minutes later, she was impressed. His cock was still hard as a rock, his hips still rolling, and muscles in his arms still bulging with each pull to find perch and hump her. The moment was close, the watering hole as wet and as messy as ever, and she threw herself across his chest, her head nestled beside his on his shoulder. Her breathing was forced and raspy. With each breath, each grinding hump, she chanted. “Yes…yes…yes…” But it wouldn‟t happen. She chanted and teetered on the edge, her toes curled, her heart pounding, and waited. Obediently? “Yes…” She bit a rope of muscle. “Yes…” She sucked his earlobe between her lips and bit. “Yes…” She slid her bare breasts across the expanse of his chest in his sweat. His breathing was forced but steady. His mouth open, his eyes shut.

122

Roscoe James

Then his breathing stopped. She bit his neck and felt him swallow. She closed her eyes and hoped against hope. Her driver, going against her wishes, spoke. “You may come.” Like a gun, the trigger squeezed, she shot off in a flailing mass of trembling flesh and clenched around Horacio Sloan‟s cock so hard she thought she might hurt him. Delirious delirium and she sank into the primal muck and lost touch with the mundane to find her world. This is not right! This is not the order of my universe. My place in the world. You must make it right! She didn‟t know if she actually said the word or if it was just a scream inside her head that died on the tip of her brain stem. But she did know what the word was. Orion.

Roscoe James Indulge yourself in a sumptuous taste of mystery with a dash of heart pounding thriller. Perhaps a sprinkling of science fiction will be what teases your palate as you feast on Roscoe James' brand of romance. And don't forget the spicy wickedness that makes his stories Hot with a capital "H". Roscoe James (RJ to his adoring fans) writes romance with a delicious twist. Born along the dusky red banks of the Ohio River, RJ grew up in a sleepy little town in southern Indiana where the sounds of cicadas and whippoorwills marked the arrival of summer and cruising the town square on a Friday night was a rite of passage. From law enforcement to the hallowed corporate halls of two Fortune 500s he draws from a deep well of life experience. With Spanish as his second language and the dayto-day of living in one of the largest cities of culture in the world, RJ infuses his stories with a raw reality that makes the characters memorable forever. Most days you‟ll find RJ sitting at his desk overlooking one of the concrete jungle‟s lush city parks trying to dream up new ways to captivate and titillate your imagination…in the most wicked way possible, of course.