I slammed the faucet off with my elbow and reached past him to tear a towel from the dispenser, which I crinkled up and dabbed at my palm. The rough paper scratched and irritated my sensitive skin, turning it an angry red. Turning me angry red.
I let out a frustrated groan, then whirled my exasperation on him. “What are you even doing here?”
One of my pre-planned talking points came rushing back at me in the beat that followed. “You’re stalking me,” I charged. It was supposed to have been an accusation with weight, meant to have been thrown at him when I innocently discovered he was at the same banquet I was attending, and how dare he! Much the way it had come across when he’d said it to me at Orsay.
Now, spat out so sourly, it sounded lame and desperate, probably because I was lame and desperate.
Grinning like a cat that had caught the canary, Edward gently took my hand in one of his and pulled the blue paisley square from his front pocket with the other.
“Am I?” he asked, the raw timbre of his voice oddly soothing. “Stalking you?”
“Yes, you are.” Rapt, I stared as he patted my palm dry with the handkerchief. I was shaking. Could he see that? Could he see how his touch seared into me? How it boiled? How it burned?
“That’s cute that you think that. I’m not, obviously, as this is my event, which, of course, you already know.” He wrapped the printed material around my hand, fashioning it into a bandage. “And if your presence here is an attempt to hint that you expect me to court you, I shan’t do that either, so get over yourself and accept my offer.”
“You’re the one who needs to get over yourself. I’m not interested.” I jutted my chin out as if to dot the i of my disinterest.
Or to bring my lips closer to his.
He was already so near, his mouth only inches from mine and so tempting. As tempting as it was off limits, because I was certain it was. Even more tempting because it was off limits.
I wasn’t conscious of leaning in, wasn’t aware of the physical movement that brought my face to his. I only knew that there was this thing that I had to have, had to have badly, and that thing was his mouth pressed to mine. That thing was the taste of him on my tongue. That thing was the aching relief of his kiss.
My lips moved slowly against his with a cautious sort of eagerness, coaxing him open with a hint of my tongue. There wasn’t a question—my mouth was there, taking whether he gave or not—and yet, it felt like begging. Felt like I was pleading with the very shell of my soul to let me in. To kiss me back. To kiss me well.
He let me work for it, allowing me to suck and rub and beg and plead for a space of several humiliating and tortured seconds.
Then, abruptly, he twisted one arm—my uninjured arm—behind my waist and spun me so my back was pushed into the tiled wall. Pressing his palm against me, just below my neck, he held me firmly in place while he kissed me hard. Kissed me rough. Devoured me, wrenching my arm to the point of pain as he sucked my tongue and swallowed my cries and bit at my lips until I could taste the faint metallic tang of blood under the distinct flavor of Edward Fasbender.
And, God, that flavor was everything. His kiss was everything.
Everything that I didn’t own, didn’t possess. Everything outside of me and unknown to me. Every single thing, and it threatened to fill me, threatened to erase the very nothing that I professed and practiced to be with its substance. With its wholeness. With its entirety.
With its everything.
I wanted it and didn’t want it all at once. I wriggled my arm behind me, trying to break his hold, but if I wasn’t sure that, if I managed to get free, I wouldn’t just use my hand to clutch to him and bring him closer. It was awful and wonderful, I didn’t want it to go on, and I hoped it never ended, and if either of those things happened and it destroyed me, then so be it.
The damage was already done. I was already destroyed.
Then, just as suddenly as the assaulting kiss had begun, he broke it off.
“You wouldn’t be able to crawl when I was through with you,” he said, his face still only an inch away, his palm still crushing against my sternum. “And that would be just one night. You couldn’t take a marriage with my demands, and I’m more interested in being married to you than fucking you, so this is off the table.” He released me with brutal abruptness, as though he were disgusted by me and my mouth and my body and what he’d done to me and my mouth and my body.
“And so is marriage,” I snapped, as if I could have any impact in return.
He chortled. “We’ll see.”
He was gone before I could deliver any sort of comeback, leaving me mad and turned on and violated and unsatisfied.
And victorious. Because I’d gotten what I’d needed—the beginnings of an idea.
Twelve
You wouldn’t be able to crawl when I was through with you.
From those words, from the way Edward had wrenched my arm around my back, from the way his eyes had glazed when his breath stung my fresh wound, it seemed safe to assume he was a sadist.
A dominant too, a fact that made my pulse race more than I wanted to admit. I’d never been the submissive in the bedroom. Even when I let a man spank me or rough me up, I always found a way to top from the bottom. The idea of letting someone—letting Edward—have true complete control was out of the question, but letting him believe that he had control was a different story all together.
I intended to make that happen.
But first, I had to be sure the plan was genuinely feasible, and to do that, I had to find out the extent he practiced his sadism. That required either seeing him in action or speaking with someone who had. Both options could be dismissed as too difficult to orchestrate, but I was up for the challenge.
And now I had enough information to put out more precise feelers, which gave me a good place to start. Using LadyPrey, one of the profiles I’d set up to do my fishing, I posted in each of the forums I’d joined.
Submissive seeking opportunity to play. Luxurious club environment preferred. No strings. Pain welcome.
Numerous responses arrived, most invitations to private hookups. I deleted all of these. I wanted the clubs. I wanted a place where I could easily talk to a variety of women about their sexual encounters without drawing any attention to myself.
It was a couple of days before I got a reply that was useful, from a profile going by the name FeelslikePAIN.
FeelslikePAIN: You want a one-on-one thing or a party situation?
LadyPrey: Party situation sounds good. As long as it’s a big party.
FeelslikePAIN: I have something. But it’s a hefty membership fee.
Hefty membership fee was less a deterrent and more a bonus. Edward would likely attend clubs that employed exclusivity.
LadyPrey: Money isn’t an object.
FeelslikePAIN: I’ll see what I can do. Watch your email.
Over the next several days, I checked my LadyPrey Gmail account obsessively. I even set up the emails to forward to my regular account so I’d get the notification on my phone when it came in. For four days, there was nothing. Well, nothing beyond spam advertisements for sex toys and strip shows and reminders from Google to finish setting up my profile. Nothing that I didn’t immediately delete.
On Sunday, though, the fifth day, there was something different. The subject line was simple and vague: Invitation to Join. A single, bold red word filled the inside of the email: Open. The word was underlined, indicating a hyperlink.
“Jesus, fuck,” I muttered to myself, my pointer hovering over the link. Was this really what I hoped it was? Or was I going to click and quickly lose my laptop to a nasty virus or hackers?
I was too invested to ignore it. Too eager to even move to another computer, preferably one that wasn’t mine. Holding my breath, I clicked.
Instantly, a web page opened up displaying a series of questions, each followed by a space to answer. At the bottom of the page was a button that read Submit for Approval.
&n
bsp; Are you over the age of 21?
Are you a New York native or just visiting?
Describe your current relationship status.
Who referred you?
I was midway through entering in my answers, taking time to make up the details of my LadyPrey persona as I typed, when a notification from FeelslikePAIN showed up in the bottom corner of my screen.
FeelslikePAIN: Type the following as your answers and nothing else: 1. Red. 2. Yellow. 3. Green. 4. Black.
Ah, clever. If an invitation ended up in the wrong email inbox, someone who hadn’t legitimately been referred to the club, the admins would know by how the respondent answered the questions. Good thing I’d been slow with my reply.
I erased everything I’d entered in already and replaced my answers with the answers FeelslikePAIN had provided then hit submit. Next came a screen asking for payment information with no indication of the membership fee. The only method of paying was through anonymous bitcoin, a method I’d used a time or two on the dark web for previous games, which was not reassuring. Sure, I’d be anonymous, but that made it just as hard to track them down, whoever they were, when the whole thing ended up being a scheme to get to my bank account.
I sent a message to FeelslikePAIN.
LadyPrey: This is requiring a lot of trust on my part.
FeelslikePAIN: Good sex always does.
There were so many reasons I shouldn’t, so many reasonable objections playing through my head. How many times had I secretly mocked people for being so gullible? So naive? I’d always promised to stay vigilantly aware. This scenario asked me to set aside that promise, and that ate at my conscience on a very base level.
But obsession had a way of undermining wise intentions. It suppressed all reason with its monomaniacal agenda.
Stupidly, I authorized payment from my bitcoin account. Before I had time to regret my decision, a new window popped up on my screen loaded with terms and instructions and dates and locations. With a victorious smile, I trained my eyes on the bold red headline:
Welcome to The Open Door.
Thirteen
My triumph was quickly overshadowed by the dread of reality. The Open Door was, as FeelslikePAIN had suggested, not an actual club. There was a membership fee, yes, but the weekly Saturday night get-togethers weren’t held in one location, but rather was hosted at various private locations, like rotating parties rather than events sponsored by an establishment.
The difference may have been slim in the eyes of most people, but, for me, it was distinct. In less than a week, I was attending a sex party.
I’d never been to a sex party.
That wasn’t true, though. I had been to a sex party, for all intents and purposes. More than one. Years ago. I’d gone, but not willingly.
Except that wasn’t true either. I’d never said no. I’d never tried to get out of it.
Still, I’d been powerless. I’d vowed never to be in that situation, or any even remotely like it, ever again.
That meant that if I was going to follow through with this ridiculous idea, I had to be extremely prepared. I had to find ways to keep the control in my hands. I had to go on my terms, and no one else’s.
Six days was almost not enough time to get ready. The physical items I needed were easy enough to gather—underwear, a stunning but sexy dress that would be easy to move in, temporary hair dye and a mask to keep my anonymity.
It was the mental preparation that was more difficult to undertake. Having never been to these particular parties, how could I know what to expect? Would it be formal and structured? Would it be casual and laid back? Would it be a combination of both? Would there be performances or games or icebreakers? Would everyone already know each other? Would I be the only newbie? Would I be put in the spotlight?
Would it be like the sex parties I’d been at in the past?
God, I hoped not. I prayed not.
I thought about asking FeelslikePAIN for more detailed information, but I didn’t want to risk the chance of her—him?—trying to take me under her or his wing. I needed autonomy for this. I needed freedom.
Since there was nothing to do with the unknowns, I had to concentrate on the knowns, the things I had complete control over. By Monday, I’d reread The Open Door’s terms and bylines so many times I had them memorized, grateful that there were strict policies enforcing consent such as a restriction on liquor. On Tuesday, I scoped out the building for this week’s party. Wednesday, I studied the floor plan and researched the listed owners, a couple who’d earned their wealth in dog food. Thursday I left the office early to purchase a new dress and heels, both of a style that Celia Werner would never wear. I fine-tuned my persona as I spent Friday night weaving temporary brunette highlights into my hair.
Early in the day on Saturday, I ventured out to explore local costume shops for a mask.
The website stated a good many members chose to attend the parties in disguise so, conveniently, I wouldn’t have to worry about being the only person wearing one. The mask had to be just right, though. While I knew it was a stretch to worry that Edward would be there that night, if he were, I knew he’d be astute enough to recognize me if I didn’t really cover my face. There were many designs that only hid the eyes. Masks meant more for fun than concealment. I wanted less Mardi Gras, more Venetian. Full-face masks weren’t any better. While they did the job I wanted, they were uncomfortable and made it hard to breathe. I had a devil of a time finding something in between, and I had to leave several stores empty-handed.
It wasn’t until the fourth shop that I found what I was looking for. The mask came down over the nose, but not all the way, leaving plenty of room to breathe comfortably. The eyepiece extended up over the forehead and each side dropped lace along the jowls, almost completely covering my cheeks.
My favorite part, though, were the red and yellow plumes that swept down one entire side of the mask.
“Feathered dragon,” the shop owner said behind me as I tried it on in front of a mirror.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s the name of the mask. Feathered Dragon.”
“I thought dragons had scales, not feathers.”
The man shrugged. “Apparently not all of them.”
“Huh.” It was the right mask, though, the one that felt most like me, or who I wanted to believe I was, anyway, and I handed over my money.
That night, I examined myself in the mirror before heading out. My hair was knotted low at my neck in a new style. The red dress I wore had a slit running high up each leg, more provocative than any outfit I’d ever worn. The bodice was pure lace that only barely managed to cover my braless nipples. With the brown highlights and the mask, I looked unrecognizable.
I looked fierce.
I looked formidable.
There was nothing to worry about, nothing that could bring me down. I was ready.
I was a dragon.
Fourteen
I took a cab to the party instead of a Lyft. I didn’t want any record connecting me to The Open Door. It was bad enough that my IP address had likely been captured during the financial transactions. In hindsight, I should have been more patient and gone to a public computer somewhere, but what was done was done, and considering the type of clientele that was usually associated with these sorts of events, I had to believe my information was private.
Except for the doorman, the lobby was empty when I arrived. I’d waited to come, wanting the party to be in full swing instead of being one of the awkward first guests. As per the website’s instructions, I approached the doorman and told him the evening’s code word—exosculation. In exchange, I was given a key card for the penthouse that would work in any one of the four elevators.
Efficient. The whole process was simple yet organized, and I admired the system as I rode to the top floor, even as I wiped a bead of sweat from underneath my mask. The disguise wasn’t necessarily hot or stifling, and I didn’t want to say that I was nervous. On edge, perhaps was a more c
omfortable term. Wary.
Excited?
Yes, that too. But I always felt some level of exhilaration when initiating a new game, and, while I hadn’t exactly decided I was playing one with Edward Fasbender, my current course felt close enough to arouse that thrill.
The elevator doors opened into a private foyer where I was immediately greeted by two masked women dressed in couture lingerie and high heels.
“Good evening and welcome,” one said, a lanky bombshell with red tresses that could only have come from a bottle. She wrapped her arm through mine and I stiffened as she escorted me to a table manned by another scantily clad woman set up in front of the foyer closet. “Please check your phone and purse here.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t been expecting that, and the idea of leaving my personal items with strangers was unnerving.
Seeming to sense my apprehension, the woman behind the table smiled reassuringly and handed me a polyethylene bag with a self-adhesive tape strip at the top and a black Sharpie. “Your privacy is respected here. Write whatever identifying information you’d like to on the label. I’ll seal it in your presence and put it in the safe behind me.”
Very efficient.
I let out a slow breath and, after drawing a quick sketch from memory of my mask, I dumped my clutch and my phone into the bag. The attendant sealed it and wrote the number two-hundred-nine in the corner, then, with the Sharpie still in hand, asked, “May I have your wrist?”
Cautiously, I held my hand out toward her. She turned it over, and wrote the same number on the inside of my wrist.
“Your claim number,” she explained before turning to the safe with my sealed items.
Ignoring my tense reaction, the redhead linked her arm through mine once again and led me out of the foyer and down a short hall. “The games are being played in the main room. There’s a demonstration currently in the dining room. All other rooms that are unlocked are for play. Baskets with lube and condoms are located throughout the apartment. Please use them liberally.”