Authors: Christina Crooks

Rough Play (3 page)

BOOK: Rough Play

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She stared at his picture. Rich, dark hair allowed to grow unashamedly unkempt and long enough to brush his broad shoulders. A stubborn-looking face too masculine and irregular to be considered handsome—thick brows, large, slightly crooked nose, a lower lip fuller than the upper one but both lips too thin and long and sharply chiseled—but it worked on him. He didn’t smile.

He’d never be a model.

He listed “stern, compassionate dominance” as his favorite activity.

He was the most attractive thing she’d ever seen.

“Earth to Charlotte? Hello? Is your phone battery fading? Damn it, I reminded you last time to charge up for our sessions.”

Charlotte shifted the slender cell phone to the other ear, careful to keep the battery in place. She massaged her neck. She couldn’t tear her gaze from the image on the computer monitor. “No, I’m here. Gail, this one’s a dom. Completely wrong for you.”

“I don’t know. His About Me section is thoughtful and he’s articulate about seeking a true mate and friend, a complementary partner of the heart. What do you think?”

“I think you’re not complementary. You’re looking for a bottom, remember? Or at least a switch.”

“Yeah, but . . . there’s something about him.”

There certainly was.

Charlotte scanned. Aside from his obvious sex appeal, he was politically liberal, he wanted kids someday, he was handy with tools . . . “What about social responsibility? And he doesn’t say what he does for a living. And, he’s a dom. Red alert there. Dom equals bossy, bad, dangerous.”

“I want to write to this one.”

Gail didn’t understand. “You’re a feminist, even more than I am. Dom means dominant. Not just a top. Certainly not a bottom.” The idea of this man bottoming to anyone, much less to a belligerent Gail, made Charlotte smile.

Smiling, she found it easier to be professional. Master Martin wasn’t for either of them. “You know overbearing men drive you nuts.”

“They’re all fixers at this point in life,” Gail replied plaintively. “Just like I am. Thirty-five years old, not stylish or giggly, not a size-zero blonde. And, you know I have strong opinions.”

Charlotte barely kept herself from snorting at the understatement.

“Charlotte, you know I want to be pregnant like
yesterday
. . . that alone probably scares off ninety-five percent of men. And you know I’m not the easiest person to talk to sometimes.” Gail spoke with unexpected dignity.

Charlotte made soft demurring sounds.

“You know it’s true. So. Cultivating an interest in kinky sex? Not a big deal. Scoping out the weirdo dating sites to find Mr. Right? I’m not the hottest catch myself, so I can’t be picky. You should consider being more open-minded about these things.”

Charlotte laughed but immediately covered it with a cough. Gail might know herself neurotically well, but she still didn’t have a clue about some things.

Then again, what did Charlotte herself know? Last winter had seen her divorce from Cory finalized, and here she was with a dying business, single, and still dateless three seasons later. She told herself she was managing her life just fine, considering everything.

But the way her libido leapt into high gear just looking at “Martin” made her wonder.

Charlotte made herself think of Gail to get her mind off him. Gail, who was insisting on running into the lion’s den.

“Gail, please don’t be offended. Something just occurred to me. If having kids is the big priority for you, have you considered—just considered, mind you—the idea of artificial insemination?”

“No. I don’t want my kids to be fatherless. Let’s get me the date, please.”

Charlotte scrolled down. Martin seemed to smile mockingly at her.

“Okay. Okay then. If you want this one, we’ll get you the date. Just remember I advised you to stick to regular dating sites. You’ve wanted someone more . . . well, more bottomy. If we have to use terms like that. If we have to be on a site like that. Which reminds me, I’ve heard of a hot new site, Cupid’s Target, that’s really popular and getting great results—”

“Nice try.”

Charlotte had the thought she ought to feel grateful Gail was so impossible to match up. It was like having insurance.

“Okay, fine. Let me dash out a note to Martin.”

Gail’s silence acquiesced. Her dyslexia and self-admitted inability to flirt put the communication method firmly in Charlotte’s hands for first contact.

Charlotte wrote quickly, trying to avoid looking at Martin’s list of preferred sexual fetishes, but every so often her gaze drifted to it.

Belt spanking.

She imagined those curvy lips of his stretching into a sadistic smile as he brought his belt, still warm from being around his waist, sharply down on her bare ass. Not Gail’s stubborn ass. Her own, more amiable ass.

Clamps and clips.

Her imagination fired again. Martin tugging gently on the nipple clips affixed with clawed edges, causing a sharp yet delightful shiver of wanting to zing through her body.

Play toy making.

He made his own sex toys? What sorts of toys? Whips? Dildos? He was good with his hands. Charlotte’s eyes narrowed in pleasure, imagining those hands manipulating instruments of torture and ecstasy. Working on them, working on her, using them on her. Perhaps a handmade cane. Perhaps just his hand.

Consensual non-consent.

Charlotte’s fingers stuttered on the keyboard, forcing her to delete and retype. Holy crap, he was into rape play?

Martin immediately flung her down onto a bed, ripped off her panties. He raised a mocking eyebrow as he waited for her to call a safe word. When she didn’t, he pried her legs open.

The violent, visceral images filled her mind like the dirtiest of movies.

Starring her. With a man who had a face. Finally.

Charlotte swallowed, watching the first full X-rated movie with her in it. She experienced everything as if she were there.

Martin spit on his hand for needed lubrication, simply smiling at Charlotte’s tearful pleading for him to stop, then shoved his cock deep into her. She screamed, humiliated and hating the way her body throbbed while pinned under his. He thrust deeper, his face twisted into a bestial grimace of pleasure.

The fantasy was so real she could smell their sweat and hear the slap of his body and the thud of the bed hitting the wall.

She made a galvanized movement. Her laptop crashed to the floor.

“Okay, okay, okay. Shit, damn. Okay.”

“What’s the problem this time?” Gail asked.

Charlotte’s vision cleared. She carefully picked up the laptop with one hand, keeping the phone to her ear.

She grimaced, stunned by the force of her reaction. Horrified by what it meant.

And annoyed by the interruption. “Not a thing. No problems here. This note to Martin is done . . . proofreading now . . . and, sending it to him. I copied it into your in-box like always.”

Charlotte shifted uncomfortably. She wished Martin were in her in-box. Flashes of her fantasy were enough to keep her wet.

She forced her fingers to remain on the keyboard. She put a smile on her face. “What do you think of the note?”

“Wow. This is pretty aggressive. Are you sure? We’re giving him my telephone number right away? ‘I’m very attracted to you’? And this, ‘I could be the complementary partner you’re looking for, so please call me at your earliest convenience’?”

“Have my notes ever failed to get you a date?”

“Well, no, but—” Gail proceeded to pick apart the note, second-guessing each line.

Charlotte listened patiently. Eventually she heard what she’d expected to hear. “Is that your call-waiting?”

“Huh. Yes, it is.” Gail clicked over without a word of thanks.

Charlotte took the opportunity to straighten her phone arm, then rolled her neck to get the cricks out. She sagged, tired suddenly. She stared at the crease where her jeans-covered thigh met the firm sofa.

It had finally happened. Her own movie.

And it starred a dom.

Unthinkable.

Maybe she needed to get away from Riverport. Get away from Martin and all he represented. Maybe the city was too haunted with memories for her to heal emotionally and sexually.

Even as she thought it, she ground her teeth. Her bad luck and her perverse sexual fantasies weren’t the city’s fault, and she wasn’t going to run away.

She thought she’d built a clean and hopeful new life post-Cory, but the buzzing between her legs at the very thought of the dominant Master Martin informed her how wrong she was.

She closed her eyes to a slit, picking at the edge of a loose thread. The sofa’s cotton lining suddenly split, cheap foam filler bursting through. Charlotte flicked the foam onto the floor. Trashed. Like her neighborhood. Like her faulty libido. Like her willpower.

She looked up and was captured anew by Martin’s picture. She felt hypnotized.

When phone static told her Gail was back on the line, she jumped guiltily.

“Hello? Hello, Charlotte? Anybody home?”

“Sorry. I’m here.”

“We have a date tonight!”

Charlotte blinked at the photo of Martin. “Good.”

“Don’t sound so worried. I’ll need a safe call. I nominate you.”

“Nominate me?” Charlotte was used to Gail’s abrupt aboutfaces, but this one was new. “A safe call?”

“I read about it online. It’s maybe not strictly necessary since I’ll be meeting him at a crowded club downtown, not going off alone with him. But it was recommended for the fetish scene, which is what this is. I’ll pay you for your time, of course.”

“Of course . . . but, Gail. What exactly do you need?”

“I don’t have any friends I can trust with this,” Gail said matter-of-factly. “One needs a person who’s aware of the meeting happening at a certain place, and who will expect a call at a predetermined time. A check-in, just in case. I don’t want anyone to know I’m meeting someone at Subspace—everyone knows that place’s reputation. So that leaves you.” She cleared her throat. “That is, if you don’t mind if I call you at nine tonight? I’ll pay you,” she repeated.

Charlotte’s exasperation faded to understanding. Then, reluctant pity.

She was nodding her head, but realized Gail couldn’t see it. “Of course. I’ll expect your call at nine. You should call on time,” she added pointedly.

“Yeah, sorry about today. I lost track of time. I’ll pay you for the fifteen minutes I was late.”

Charlotte wondered if Gail bought off all her troubles.

She shook herself to get rid of the sudden inexplicable sourness bubbling in her. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, Gail. Only, I do want to go on record as telling you the fetish-scene approach is a bad use of your time.” Charlotte tried one more last-ditch effort to change Gail’s mind. She deliberately didn’t smile. “If you’re already thinking about safety calls and stuff like that, maybe it’s a sign you shouldn’t get involved with the S and M scene. Seriously.”

“I don’t expect any trouble. I’m not getting any younger, you know. After all the dead-end dates you’ve gotten me over the last few months, I have to try something different.”

Dead-end dates?
Charlotte bit her tongue against protesting. She wanted to tell Gail it was Charlotte’s responsibility to land her the dates, not make the guys fall for her.

She smiled instead. “Your boldness is admirable.”

After a few more pleasantries—pleasant on her part, typically brusque on Gail’s—Charlotte flipped her phone closed with an exhale of relief.

She snuck another peek at Martin before closing the computer, too. He’d dominate the hell out of Gail. He’d dominate the sensible khaki pants right off her.

Charlotte grinned.

Then her grin faded. Maybe that’s what Gail secretly craved.

Foolish woman,
Charlotte thought. Then wondered if she meant Gail, or herself.

H
e was dangerous, but the sweet young vanilla—Bambie was her scene name, and “switch” her stated sexual identity—didn’t know it, or didn’t care. She looked at Master Kartane as if he were chocolate, and she was starving.

Accustomed to the reaction, Kartane gave her his most appealing crooked smile. His chosen scene name was Kartane of Gor. He liked to emphasize his Gorean mindset even though the other, less authentic Goreans at Subspace didn’t like him much and doubtless wished he’d go away.

Which just broke his heart.

His smile widened. He was approachable and sweet. He was at Bambie’s service. Until he put her at his.

Telling the single fetish ladies he identified as a switch had been a stroke of genius. They all liked to imagine they’d be the one to use him in perfect safety, to play at submission, or to collar and command him if they felt like it.

But Kartane didn’t believe in being commanded.

He got hard remembering the look on each of their faces the moment they discovered their mistake. He enjoyed their begging, their tears. He loved the sight of red welts rising on pristine ass skin.

Most sadists did.

And Subspace, with its buffet of masochists, sadists, and switches, was the perfect place for kinksters to hook up with complementary play partners. It just wasn’t the perfect place for true Goreans like himself.

Yet.

He leaned across the table to give the hot little thing a whiff of his pheromones. “You keep looking at me with those big, innocent eyes, I might start to wonder what dirty thoughts you’re hiding behind them.”

Amethyst suddenly swung down into the booth, her warm thigh pressed against his. “No need to wonder. She’s thinking the same thing I once did: what a sexy, great-looking guy. She has no idea what a pig you really are.” She smiled sweetly at him.

Kartane controlled his fury with an effort. “I don’t recall inviting you to sit down.”

Amethyst flipped up her middle finger, still smiling. “Sit on this, honey.”

Bambie started to scoot away. “Maybe I should go. . . .”

“Sit,” Kartane commanded.

Amethyst also spoke to Bambie. “See what kind of macho bullshit you’ll put up with? He’s no switch, and he’ll never be a bottom, babe. And it gets worse, trust me. He’s a Gorean. Means he’s an oinker straight out of the fifties. Eighteen-fifties. Or whenever it was that men were cavemen and women were property. His wife left him for beating on her. Not the good kind of beating.”

Kartane fought for calm. He addressed Bambie as well. “Amethyst, here, wishes she were a man, complete with penis.”

“I don’t need a penis to complete me.”

“No, you need one in your mouth to shut you up.”

Amethyst presented him to Bambie. “See? Goreans should come with a sign or a tattoo or something so people know what they’re getting.”

Bambie scooted off the seat. “Leaving now. Have a nice life, Kartane.”

“You fucking bitch,” Kartane snarled at Amethyst.

“You think all women are either bitches, or for fucking. When I own this place, you will so not be allowed inside.”

“You won’t ever own it,” he snapped. “Not if I have anything to do with it.” Then he shut his mouth. He shouldn’t let anyone know his plans. Subspace was nearly his. The perfect location and the perfect recruiting ground. Stupid to jeopardize it by blabbing his plans. His gaffe in revealing too much increased his fury at Amethyst. “You really do wish you had a dick, don’t you. To mark your territory? Bitch like you’d piss down your own leg if you didn’t squat.” He heard the bitterness in his own voice, saw the others who’d gathered around their small booth, and knew he’d lost even before she delivered her zinger:

“True. I don’t have two whole inches to point with like you do.”

Kartane shoved her aside, pushed through the crowd with reckless disregard. He had to flee the battering explosion of laughter. The taste of humiliation filled his mouth, thickened his throat.

Clenched his fists.

Kartane controlled his rage. Later, he promised himself. Soon, so very soon. The time for disciplinary hitting approached.

He could wait a little longer.

So many things frustrated him lately. Ever since realizing his Home Stone no longer resided in its customary place. And how long had it been before he’d even noticed? Weeks? Months? He’d snapped at people and been off his game from that moment of discovery.

He supposed his frustration was only appropriate. Such a loss should naturally bother him. With his Home Stone gone, he’d lost his Gorean honor. It was as if the Priest-Kings were punishing him for his mismanagement of Charlotte.

For his softness in dealing with her.

He saw her every week when she visited Hoagie at what had been their home together. Soft feelings for Charlotte still infested him, he knew. Her kindness, beauty, and grace still had the power to render him unmanly. He couldn’t help remembering how uninhibited she’d once been with him. How eager to explore the realms of dominance and submission, pain and pleasure.

He had her to thank for introducing him to S and M.

He was pretty sure she had his Home Stone. It had to have been an accidental acquisition. He couldn’t imagine her willing to face his wrath over deliberately stealing anything of his.

But when he’d called her the week before, she’d denied seeing the small flat gray rock with a G carved on its underside. He’d described it as a paperweight and let her think it was worthless, just a thing that had sentimental value. She replied she’d never seen it.

She wouldn’t lie to him about such a trivial item, would she? During the divorce, she’d remained honorable and proud, not even asking alimony of him. All she’d accepted was a token sum to start her small business.

And yet . . . most women were flaky, greedy, and devious. As he’d discovered over and over again before and after Charlotte, they lacked a man’s sense of honor.

Perhaps Charlotte had discovered what the stone meant to Goreans and was punishing him by withholding it? He had to concede the possibility.

Women.

He didn’t belong in this feminized culture, he belong on Gor. Where men were warriors and women trembled in fear.

He’d studied the biology of the sexes when Charlotte brought her sexual proclivities to his attention. She’d certainly opened his eyes, though not the way she’d expected.

Real Goreans utilized simple Darwinism: The strong dominated and protected the weak. The natural system worked to everyone’s benefit. The misery all around him in the whole country—in this entire modernized society—showed how feminized relationships built on so-called equality made nobody happy for long. Frustration and alcohol addiction and misery for men. Anxiety and bitchiness and desperation for women. That was all the system provided. That was all anyone had to anticipate from the opposite sex.

He was the enlightened one, thanks to Charlotte. Not that she’d known what she’d begun at the time, of course. The rising number of dissatisfied guys attending his Gorean meetings proved it. They were learning a better way. The Gorean way.

Kartane knew what people needed, deep inside. He knew what they were because he’d once been one of them.

Women like Charlotte would ultimately accept their inner desires. And women like Amethyst would grovel on their bellies, fearing the lash and living to please.

He could still feel the lingering warmth of Amethyst’s thigh against his, but it was Charlotte’s accusing gaze in his mind’s eye.

What was this emotion he was feeling? Guilt again? Shame for fleeing Amethyst? He dismissed the guilt and acknowledged the shame’s lesson. He shouldn’t flee a woman. Ever. Warriors had higher concerns. Such as the loss of a Home Stone. And the unacceptable state of feminine liberties.

Kartane pivoted with a snarl, then headed back to Subspace.

Charlotte didn’t immediately notice the buzzing vibration of her phone in her purse.

Walking to work, putting together cheeseburgers for six hours, then walking to the supermarket,
then
carrying back two heavy bags of groceries as it started to rain . . . It made her legs hurt and her shoulder ache. It made her damp down her awareness of extremities and her mind just to keep from being depressed. But small spikes stabbed the center of her heels with each step despite her determination and her comfortable Burger Town work sneakers. By the time she neared home, she all but growled. As she hauled herself upstairs she bent nearly in half with strain, hunched and not caring she probably looked like a cranky, bedraggled old homeless lady.

Who had the stamina for this? She wasn’t a teenager anymore. Or even in her early twenties. Adding insult to injury, the afternoon shift cadre of coworkers all sported the zits and youthful features of high schoolers. They flipped the burgers and dipped the fry baskets with far more speed and energy than she did. They treated her kindly at least. Probably pitied her for working fast food at her age. Even thin, shy Rollie had talked to her, and he barely spoke to anyone. He seemed a little older, a little more cynical than the rest. A possible friend.

Getting to know him better might be one of the few compensations for working at Burger Town.

Even so, the fast-food job had gone on entirely too long. It was supposed to be a stopgap, a way to get a few paychecks while waiting for the matchmaking business to lift off. If only she’d had more time, she knew her business would already be taking the online dating world by storm. No one else had X-rated visions that came true, after all.

She hauled the bags inside and shut the front door. As she pondered which to do first, unload the groceries or revise her business plan again, she finally felt the vibration from her cell phone.

Gail.

Charlotte wiped off the phone with the dry inside of her jacket. The lingering scent of burgers puffed up from her clothes as she checked the caller ID, then tapped the batteries to make sure they were still lodged where they belonged. She flipped the phone open.

“Hi, Gail. I’m glad to hear you’re safe. How’s the date going?”

Static.

Then, two thumps.

Silence.

Charlotte pressed the phone more tightly to her ear, but she heard nothing further. “Hello? Gail?” Charlotte waited a few moments, straining to hear something. Anything. Then she held the phone up to stare at it. Blank screen. A lost connection.

She called Gail back.

It went to voice mail.

“Weird.” The sound of her own voice in the small apartment was a comfort. Her home stood guard, tiny though it was, against a world wanting pieces of her. Of her body, or of her peace of mind. What sort of game was Gail playing? She’d probably just fumbled the phone onto the ground. Or got distracted with someone else. Gail was occasionally rude that way.

Charlotte redialed.

This time she left a message. “Gail, this is Charlotte. You just called. Um, I guess the connection was dropped. Or maybe your phone ran out of juice.”

Gail always kept her phone charged up.

“Okay. Anyway, I’ll try to reach you again. Give me a call when you get this, please? Thanks.”

The cold from her wet clothes began to seep into her bones. Charlotte shivered violently. Why had Gail wanted to get involved with those people anyway? No reason was good enough.

The most likely scenario was that Gail had pissed off her date within the first few minutes, then stormed home. It had happened before. More than once.

She huffed her impatience. The woman treated her too poorly to put up with this.

Charlotte redialed. This time after the voice mail message, she added, “Call anytime. In the middle of the night is fine. Just a quick call so I know everything’s okay. Okay?”

She pushed herself from the door, her aching muscles protesting. She skidded on a puddle of water. She threw her hands out to avoid a fall, and the phone nearly went flying. Her fist hit the corner juncture of the living area and the kitchen bruisingly hard.

She looked up sharply. “Okay, that’s enough for one day, don’t you think?” She spoke furiously to the cottage-cheese acoustic ceiling, but the only answer was a voice echoing from her past.

Pain is an effective deterrent. A useful training tool for animals. And what is Woman but the most graceful and lovely of animals?

“Shut up, Cory,” she muttered aloud.

Charlotte pondered what to do. If anything. Gail
was
habitually inconsiderate. She often called late, cut short sessions, canceled at the last minute, and let Charlotte know in a thousand small ways she considered Charlotte a disposable employee.

But she had her good points. Plus, Gail might be in trouble. Maybe. It was hard to tell.

Charlotte flipped open her laptop. She typed in “Subspace.”

The screen lit up with definitions.

BOOK: Rough Play

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