Rough Play (15 page)

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Authors: Christina Crooks

BOOK: Rough Play
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“Stop!” Charlotte leapt between them even as Kartane rebounded from the wall with icy fury in his eyes. “If you want to just talk to me, we’ll talk! This isn’t necessary, or civilized. Or legal. This isn’t Gor, Cory!”
“Thank God,” Amethyst said.
“Kartane,” Cory corrected.
“Whatever,” Charlotte said. “We’re all friends here . . .”
Three snorts met that statement.
“. . . and so there’s no need for violence. I’m talking to you, too, Martin.”
Martin’s head snapped toward her. Outrage coursed through his veins. “I’m trying to help you.”
“By punching people? Don’t you think there’s been enough testosterone-fueled aggression tonight?”
“‘Cory’ is past tense,” Kartane insisted. The man breathed hard as he glared at Martin, his control obviously straining.
He wasn’t alone in that. Martin had broken up his share of conflicts, been the one responsible for preventing uncontrolled violence within Subspace and subduing flare-ups. Now he wanted to fight. Had this bloodthirsty lust for battle lurked beneath the surface in him the whole time? He’d never before felt so close to losing himself to rage. “Get out.”
Kartane slowly smiled, touched his own jaw where Martin’s fist had landed. “Your inner warrior wants to play. Gor welcomes strong fighters. Consider it.”
Oh, he was asking for it. Marin ground his teeth. “Out.”
“Gladly. Charlotte? I’ll give you a ride home.”
“You can stay here,” Martin assured her. He touched Charlotte’s arm.
She flinched. Stepped closer to Kartane.
The tiny rejection actually made Martin step back. He scowled, suddenly uncertain who most deserved his anger. For he was still angry. Deeply angry. “Fine. If he’s what you want.”
Amethyst looked at Charlotte with some concern. “You think it’s a good idea to go with
him?
Are you feeling okay?”
“Peachy.” Charlotte gave a despairing sort of laugh. “I know him better than both of you. He won’t hurt me. But, thanks for your concern.”
Martin didn’t like the sound of Charlotte’s laugh. It sounded a little hysterical.
What was he supposed to do about it? Slap her, like some barbarian Gorean slave master? Force her to stay?
She should want to stay.
He tried to keep the anger stoked high, needing the emotion’s warmth. It held his hurt at bay.
“It’ll be okay,” Charlotte said in a low voice to him. “I just have a lot to think about. I was only here to look for someone and I got distracted.” She spoke as if trying to make sense of her own words. “I shouldn’t have gotten distracted. True, the phone call was dropped. It happens, connections are dropped all the time, right? But she’s still missing. We . . . Kartane knows where I live and he can take me home easily. It’ll be okay,” she repeated more loudly.
“Of course it will.” Kartane looked at her, the very image of a caring friend. His voice radiated sincerity and solicitude.
It was hard not to believe him, even knowing what Martin knew. It was those baby blues and clean-cut blond good looks. No wonder so many women fell for him. No wonder Charlotte had.
Jealousy gnawed. He ignored it as a totally unworthy and inappropriate emotion. If Charlotte still had a thing for her ex, it was her business. He barely knew her. He didn’t want to know her, he told himself.
He ignored the little voice inside that laughed at that. He clung fiercely to the anger instead. “Well? Get out. What are you both waiting for, an escort? That can be arranged.”
He watched a little shudder run through Charlotte. He’d caused that. He’d given her pleasure and pain, and now a different kind of pain.
Martin felt a twinge of remorse. Belatedly, worry rose up in him again. But as he searched for the right words to say to make her want to stay, Charlotte went to Kartane. “Let’s go.”
Without saying anything more, Kartane turned and left, seemingly confident she’d follow.
She did. Without a single glance back, she did.
“Well, you handled that one like a champ. Not.”
He glared at Amethyst. “Real mature.”
“How could you let her leave with that creep?”
“Was I supposed to throw her down and sit on her? Tie her up again? Strap her to the St. Andrew’s Cross? Do you want me to beat him senseless and get my ass sued penniless?” He was yelling. With an effort, he got himself under control. “Shit.”
“He is.”
Martin stared at her. “He dumped you hard, didn’t he?”
“Fuck you. If you want her undamaged, emotionally and physically, you’d best keep an eye on them. I’ll handle Subspace. It’ll be good practice for when I own it.”
Martin gave an exasperated sigh, but his mind was on Charlotte. “We’ll discuss it later. I don’t have time to argue with you.” He threw off his white coat, then grabbed his keys and wallet.
He spotted Charlotte’s coat. Good. He had an excuse for following her now.
He rushed, wanting to keep the couple within sight.
He hoped they weren’t a couple.
He nearly slammed into Ratty in the room’s doorway.
“Whoa!” Ratty danced back, nimble, not spilling a drop of his two drinks. “What’s the rush?”
“Later! No time!” Martin ran.
Ratty looked at Amethyst. “Sorry I took so long. I didn’t mean to make you guard the door so long. There was a line at the bar. So, what was that all about?”
Amethyst plucked one drink from his hand. “Charlotte left with a Gorean.
That
Gorean! And Martin let her. Men can be so stupid,” she snarled. She drained the drink in one long gulp.
She held the empty out to him. “Here.”
Instead of taking it back, Ratty poured his own drink down the front of her tight dress.
“Hey!” She stepped away from him, staring at her sodden dress. “What the fuck did you do that for!”
“Because I’m stupid.” Ratty turned, his cloak flaring in a swirl of color and sequins, and went after Kartane.
15
K
artane made sure to reveal none of his elation as he left Subspace with Charlotte in tow.
Things were going his way.
He saw Charlotte darting surreptitious glances back, as if longing for Martin to give chase. Kartane looked over his shoulder once, but all he saw was that angry older guy still pestering people for news about his missing daughter.
Amethyst would soon be kneeling at his feet. So would Charlotte. Martin would soon be completely irrelevant.
He savored the thought.
Charlotte walked by his side, just like old times. “Dearest, would you mind terribly if I made a quick stop at the office? There’s something I should attend to.”
He noted the way she started at the old term of endearment.
“But the office is all the way across town.”
“Not anymore.” He looked at his ex-wife. It bemused him, how different women could be. How distinct. They truly were treasures, and Charlotte was the treasure he’d let get away. He remembered her writhing, limber little body. He inhaled, savoring. From her scent to her colorless suburban clothes to her plain but long brunette hair starting to frizz in the night mist the way it always used to, she reminded him of how they’d been once upon a time.
Before he’d grown up into the man he was now.
“It’s only a few blocks away. I decided to move headquarters downtown. More traffic, more open minds, more opportunity. Are you cold?” Without waiting for her answer, he pulled off his own jacket and offered it to her.
“Oh! I forgot my coat. I should go back—”
“No.” He walked on when she didn’t take his coat, confident she’d continue walking after him. After only a tiny pause, she did. He smiled inside. She truly was a submissive. And so much more.
Such a shame he’d rushed things. He’d branded her prematurely. That should’ve gone very differently. But, he’d sensed her distance and dissatisfaction. He’d been afraid of losing her if he didn’t dominate her totally, conquer her utterly.
He’d made a mistake. He’d misjudged the proper moment.
Her feelings for him changed irrevocably the night he’d branded her. They cried together, after. They’d remained civil. They’d even remained friends, of a sort, sharing a few hours of time on weekends with Hoagie. But the marriage was over the instant they both smelled her flesh burning.
He’d been scared. He could admit it, now that he was a man who took responsibility for his weaknesses. Scared he’d lose her, then afterward scared he’d have to explain her terrible burns at an emergency room, scared he’d be put in jail, scared he’d lose not only Charlotte and his marriage but his business and his freedom.
Her request for a divorce, though it broke his heart, seemed a reasonable alternative at the time.
But now he could admit to himself he’d been a coward.
He’d been punished, though. He’d lost his Home Stone along with Charlotte.
The loss of a Gorean Home Stone was considered the most heinous shame a Ubar—a leader—could endure. A Home Stone
was
a Gorean’s home, more than metaphorically. It was his pride, his center. Theft of one, or simply misplacing it like some senile elder, that was a kind of sacrilege against manhood itself. He’d first found his Home Stone while reading the Gor series of science fiction novels. He’d been thinking about founding his own city of “Gorr” on Earth, and the stone simply appeared in his path on a nature hike. Walking and daydreaming, it had caught his eye. The small gray stone with its smooth edges seemed to call to him, and after he’d touched it and turned it over to see the faint, natural lines of a rough G, his blood surged in his veins and he gave a shout of victory. A sign!
It had to be a sign, a sanction of authority from the Priest-Kings themselves . . . if those godlike beings still influenced Earth to such an extent. Kartane still wasn’t certain about that particular detail even after studying many of John Norman’s books.
But the acknowledgment from the more forward-thinking of the local Gorean community that he was Ubar to the new city of Gorr empowered him, gratified him, and reinforced his position as a Bringer-of-Change. Soon Gorr would be a reality. A much-needed reality for so many men.
Or at least it would be a reality if he could find the damn stone. So far he’d managed to keep its disappearance secret, but a secret like that couldn’t be kept from his warriors for long.
When Charlotte disappeared from his home after the divorce, the small, flat stone with the plain initial G carved into its underside had disappeared, too. She had to have it somewhere.
He stopped under a bright streetlight illuminating the familiar men’s magazines logo of three overlapping triangles. He took out a fistful of keys, flipped through them, inserted one into the lock.
“Business must be good.”
He saw her studying the old, well-kept building. Ornate stonework and painted carved-wood trim framed each window and doorway. Surrounded by similar sturdy structures in the active part of downtown, it loomed over the others. Its architectural details pleased him.
Its expensive location pleased him more.
It would make a good Gorr city center—a worthy fortress—when he had the money to buy it outright. Which would be soon.
He smiled. “It’s been around for a century. Has character, doesn’t it? I rent the entire first floor, which has plenty of room. As you’ll see.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but this won’t take long, will it? I’m pretty tired.”
“I’m sure you are.”
She looked at him. “I hope you’re not mad. Or jealous.”
He laughed. “Of Martin? He obviously has no control over his impulses. I pity him. He plays the part, but he’s not a real master. Most men aren’t. Not even most Goreans. Only the honest ones. Coming?” he asked as he held the door.
He saw her shiver, a delightful tremble. Yes, he’d made a mistake letting this one go.
As he entered the building, he heard them.
“Ubar has returned! Tal, Kartane!”
He grinned at the number of people he heard in the background. And at the music. It was perfect.
Kartane gave her an impish smile. “You’ll be safe with me, I promise. Just a quick peek in at the party. I promised them I’d come. And you know I always honor my promises. Five minutes, then we can go. If you want.” He winked at her.
“You’ve changed,” she said suddenly. She scrutinized him. “I didn’t realize how much. It suits you.” She shrugged, smiled. “I’m glad we’ve stayed friends.”
Pride swelled inside him. Certainty grew. He was Ubar of Gorr, chosen of the Priest-Kings, and he had the power to make his vision a reality. A vision that included Charlotte. Even Charlotte sensed it. “I’m glad, too,” was all he said. He waited a moment. “Come inside.”
“Okay. Yes.” She entered.
 
Charlotte was so lost in thought she barely noticed the vaulted entryway with its glass receptionist desk and the hall beyond with its enormous framed photos of Old Riverport. Her ex-husband’s presence didn’t frighten her at all. He seemed content with their platonic relationship. Plus, Cory . . . no, his club name was Kartane, and he preferred the club name, she had to remember . . . did always keep his promises.
His Gorean friends, however, were an unknown.
While he went to greet them, she turned and surreptitiously twisted the front door’s latch to the unlocked position.
She’d seen and experienced too much violence in a single night.
Some of it had been directed pleasurably at her.
Just remembering Martin and his exquisite, sadistic touch made her knees weak.
But the last bit, Martin punching Kartane, was too much.
She needed to think.
She’d avoided thinking about her desires for too long.
The passion in violence both drew and repelled her. In some circumstances, it provided a rare and wonderful spice. The rapture of being conquered and tamed dominated her fantasies completely. But in reality, it didn’t work. The wildcard of violence could flare into something horrible.
Or heavenly.
She’d done violence of her own too this evening. She’d hurt Martin with his torture tools. Well, she’d halfheartedly tried. She smiled, remembering his bored eyebrow raise.
Then the smile left her face. He’d called her a “submissive all the way through.”
Was it true?
A submissive was acted upon. A submissive agreed to give up choice, control, shame, and honor. A submissive seemed just another type of slave.
It definitely didn’t sound like the type of person who’d build a successful matchmaking business.
Why did her movies have to pair Martin with her?
She noticed Kartane was halfway down the hall. She hurried after him. Five minutes of socializing, she promised herself. Then she’d be able to go home and make sense of it all.
The noises grew louder. How many Goreans were at this party?
She felt her forehead crease in a frown. A Gorean gathering here, at midnight? The men’s magazines had always been a bit on the wild side, with models traipsing through, photos of legs and panties and boobs and bondage gear plastered over all the production layouts. The subject matter ensured a certain amount of political incorrectness in the workplace.
So long ago. So much had changed in the two years since she’d first laid eyes on the blue-eyed boss and lost her heart. And yet it suddenly felt like just yesterday. Things had been so much simpler before her sexual proclivities ruined everything.
How big was Kartane’s business now? It had grown. The cubicles went on and on, and one glass-walled conference room was bigger and stranger than she’d have expected. It might have been a converted warehouse, it was such a surprisingly open space. The only furniture was a bunch of chairs and a few tables curved in a half-circle around what all the men watched with avid fixation.
Women, of course. Women on furs. Women dressed in short, skimpy red silk dresses. About ten women posing and preening.
“A midnight photo shoot?” She looked from Kartane to the other men.
He cleared his throat. “May I present Charlotte, a free woman!”
Chairs scraped and mugs frothy with beer thumped to tables as the men stood. All of them. There were at least thirty of them, most around Kartane’s age. “Greetings, Free Woman!”
They seated themselves again, courtesy executed.
“All right. That was weird,” she said under her breath.
“Come on,” Kartane said, amused. “They salute your status. On Gor, free women are honored. Though, of course . . . all free women secretly crave to be slaves.” His eyes twinkled.
“You’re nuts,” she said, but with affection. If he wanted to role-play with willing partners, who was she to judge? She’d indulged recently herself.
The men had gone back to talking among themselves, darting glances at the women. The music faded, then began again with a new beat. One man stood. He carried a bullwhip.
No one carried cameras and lighting, or a video camera. “Not a layout or an ad shoot then,” she murmured to herself.
“No. Watch,” Kartane said, even as the music increased in volume. Its rhythmic drumbeat reminded her of Subspace. “The Whip Dance is starting.”
“Wouldn’t want to interrupt the Whip Dance,” she grumbled. When Kartane gave her quelling stare, she stuck her tongue out at him. His lips curved into a cute smile, reminding her why she’d fallen for him.
“Quiet, you,” he commanded gently. “I promise I’ll take you home as soon as you ask to go. But you’ll want to watch this.” He indicated the woman rising sinuously to her knees, then her feet. “Talia’s quite talented.”
It was on the tip of Charlotte’s tongue to ask to go immediately.
But just then, a sharp crack filled the air, making her jump.
The bullwhip.
She stared at the spectacle despite herself. The woman moved with the lithe grace of a trained dancer, gyrating and undulating with a restrained sensuality far more effective than blatant bumping and grinding. With each crack of the whip, she flinched with a different part of her body.
“He’d better not miss.”
Kartane’s eyes remained glued to the slave girl. “He won’t hit her. Yet.”
“Yet?” She turned to look at Kartane.
“She doesn’t currently merit discipline.” His face was flushed, his eyelids lowered to the half-mast she remembered indicated lust. He watched the dancer for a moment, then checked Charlotte’s reaction. His expression changed at her look. “Don’t worry. She’s willing.”
The beat changed, increasing tempo. Charlotte looked at the other men.
The man with the whip wore a leather vest and wielded the weapon with a savage smile. His ash gray hair and craggy face indicated maturity, but his body seemed as fit as a man in his prime, especially the rock-hard bulge of his biceps and ropy muscles and tendons of his arms.

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