The Administration Series (60 page)

"Oh, my God," he breathed.

Toreth smiled. Exactly as he'd imagined it. "What do you think?"

"What do I . . . ?"

After a few seconds, Warrick reached into the box and took out the manacles, one in each hand. Made from silky, brushed steel, they gleamed dully in the hall light. As he lifted them, the oval links of the chain joining them slid over each other with a cold, metallic music. Their hinges moved easily as he turned them over in his hands.

They were beautifully made, Toreth thought. Beautiful toys. Smooth, rounded edges, which wouldn't cut. Solid, old-fashioned-looking locks, which hid an electronic timer release. He'd played with them for a while when they'd arrived, and he'd been tempted to call Warrick then. In the end, though, he'd put them away and waited, because it would have been a waste.
This
was infinitely better.

"Next layer," he said quietly.

Without letting go of the manacles, Warrick moved the packaging beneath and his lips parted silently. The steel collar lay in a hollow in the foam, the attached chain curled in a spiral within it.

"Do you like them?"

Warrick looked between the silvery-grey bonds and their reflection in the mirror in front of him. Toreth thought they contrasted beautifully with his black evening suit.

"I had them made specially," Toreth continued. "Especially to fit you."

"They must —" Warrick cleared his throat. "They must have been expensive."

"Fairly."

Stepping up close, Toreth reached round him and took the manacles. He fitted them around Warrick's wrists and closed them, without locking them. Warrick's eyes closed, too, and he shuddered against him.

"They suit you," Toreth murmured into his ear. "Very nice."

He reached down for the collar, flicking the lock open easily, and fitted that as well. Warrick swallowed as the cool metal fastened around his throat. Excited, and perhaps a little afraid?

"Open your eyes. Open your eyes and look at yourself."

Just as Toreth thought he was going to have to repeat the instruction, Warrick's eyes opened and he stared into the mirror. And simply stared, for endless seconds. Then he touched his dry tongue to dry lips, and nodded. His hands were trembling, the chain shifting quietly.

Toreth looked, too, drinking him in, barely seeing himself in the background. Silver and black. Pale face, flushed lips, eyelids closing again. Rapid, uneven breathing. God, he looked good — the first reward from his careful planning.

Taking hold of Warrick's hands again, he ran the chain through them, stopping when his fingers closed over the single large, round link exactly halfway along.

"Feel that? That locks to a bolt in the wall."

Warrick's body went rigid against his, his breath catching in his throat.

"I've put three in the bedroom here," Toreth continued, when Warrick seemed to be listening again. "One for standing. One for kneeling. One at the head of the bed. Probably violated the hell out of the tenancy agreement. There are a couple still left over. For your flat, if you like. I thought —"

"Toreth." Warrick had wrapped the length of chain around his hands, pulling it taut, knuckles whitening. "Fuck me. Fuck me
now
."

Too utterly perfect. Toreth pressed against him, pinning him up against the edge of the table, and said, "You like them, then?"

"God,
yes,
I like them. Yes."

"Then tell me again what you want. Say it for me." Start of the familiar game.

"I want you . . . I want you to fuck me."

Toreth took hold of Warrick's hips and dug his fingers in hard, rubbing hard against him, tormenting them both with the contact through too much cloth.

"No," he whispered.

Warrick gasped. "Please —"

"No." Toreth pulled back, just a fraction, while he still could. "Because we have your very important event to get to where —" he kissed Warrick's neck, feather light, "— you have to make a presentation and a speech for which —" kiss, "— you will be late —" kiss, "— if we don't go right now."

Then he bit him, once, hard.

The response was something perfectly balanced between a moan and a whimper, wonderfully desperate, which sorely tested the strength of his resolve.

Here, in the hall, watching Warrick's face in the mirror while he . . . no.

Dangerous line of thought. Instead he focused on how very much better it would be with a few hours of anticipation added to the experience. On how Warrick would look for those few hours, knowing what Toreth would do to him when they got back.

Taking a deep breath, just about convincing himself, Toreth forced himself to let go of Warrick's hips and lift his hands to unclasp the collar and return it to the box. He took his time, coiling the chain neatly back into the hollow in the foam. Then he removed the manacles, uncurling Warrick's hands, finger by finger, to free the chain, and carefully packed the whole thing away. Finally he stepped back.

"Time to go."

Warrick leaned heavily on the table, his breathing ragged.

"No. You can't . . .
I
can't." He looked up at Toreth's reflection in the mirror, his eyes hot and his voice thick with need. "I
can't
." Then a tiny smile creased the corner of his mouth, acknowledging the perfection of the plan.

"
Bastard
," he said, with feeling.

Toreth couldn't have asked for more. He laughed as he slipped his shoes on. "Flattery won't get you anywhere. But I promise I'll remember it later."

Toreth had attended a couple of SimTech events before; both times he had brought Sara along with him for company and arrived with her, separately to Warrick. Not exactly Warrick's idea, or his — he'd never given it much thought, in fact. Tonight would be a slight variation on the theme, because Warrick had arranged to pick Sara up on the way. A good job, Toreth thought, that he seemed to have preprogrammed the route, because Warrick didn't look up to remembering his own name, never mind an offer of a lift.

For the first ten minutes in the car, Toreth did his best to make the situation worse, until Warrick finally moved from the seat beside him to the one opposite.

"Please," Warrick said.

"What?"

"I — leave it for a while. It's an important evening. If I turn up like this . . ." He looked out of the window and shook his head sharply. "No more."

"Sure. Whatever you want, of course."

The ready agreement made Warrick look round again, openly suspicious, but Toreth merely smiled at him and sat back. Warrick could stop this — or any game — whenever he chose, but pushing it so far that he needed to wasn't as much fun as keeping it on the edge of the acceptable.

When they reached Sara's building Toreth volunteered to fetch her, to give Warrick a chance to compose himself. She must have been waiting in the entrance, though, because by the time he had the door open, he saw her coming down the steps.

She wore a dress that, on a per-square-centimetre basis, was probably astonishingly expensive. Lucky, from that point of view, that there weren't that many square centimetres involved. What fabric there was seemed to be mostly at the sides, held together across front and back by a web of strategically placed strips of gossamer fabric that gave the teasing impression they could be translucent if you caught them in just the right light. Her golden skin, peeping through the gaps in the web, made a beautiful contrast to the pearly fabric.

"Nice frock. What's your hourly rate?" Toreth asked as the car started again.

She glared. "I borrowed it from my sister."

"What does she charge, then?"

The glare intensified. "It's a handmade indi." When he looked blank, she elaborated. "Independent. Non-corporate freelance designer. Fee could only afford it because she knows someone who works for him. She said if I spilled anything on it, she'd kill me."

Warrick examined her with care, and then smiled. "Don't worry. If you do spill anything, I expect it will miss."

Sara managed to keep the indignation going for another few seconds, and then laughed. "Yeah, probably. Is it all right? Not too much?"

"It's delightful," Warrick assured her.

"Yeah. Eye-catching." Toreth reached out and straightened the thin strap threatening to slide off Sara's shoulder. "And the last thing you could accuse it of is being too much."

The flying insults lasted until the car began to slow in front of a large, brightly lit building, and Warrick said, "Now, children, be good. We're here."

They walked through the impressive entrance together, with Sara between them, and stopped for Warrick to speak to the manager waiting there for them. The atrium wasn't as large as it looked at first, Toreth realised, as one entire wall was mirrored in a single, flawless sheet, doubling the apparent size. Toreth studied their reflections, watching himself smile.

The back of Sara's dress was as revealing as the front, appearing even more nearly translucent in the brighter lights. Her glossy black hair made a startling contrast to the fragile-seeming fabric. The ten-centimetre difference in his and Warrick's heights gave the picture a pleasing asymmetry as they stood flanking Sara, blond and dark.

I'd fuck us, he thought. Any of us. Hell, all of us.

Then the manager, all smiles and attentiveness, escorted them through the corridors of the corporate entertainment complex. SimTech was obviously splashing out; normally, Toreth only saw this kind of place when he was on duty. The suite of rooms included a large hall decorated in swaths of fabric in tasteful, muted metallic shades of the SimTech logo's blue and grey. The grey reminded him of the manacles, and from the way Warrick caught his breath as they entered, he wasn't alone.

Toreth knew many of the SimTech employees and a few sponsors by sight from the investigation. If that made any of them uncomfortable, Warrick had never mentioned, and Toreth didn't care. Asher Linton and Lew Marcus were already there, and Linton at least greeted Toreth's appearance with politeness, if not exactly enthusiasm. Marcus nodded to him, and then remembered something he had to do elsewhere.

They'd arrived early, before the majority of the sponsors and other guests, in order that Warrick could be there to greet them. Therefore, the first part of the evening went as Toreth had expected, with him rapidly growing bored while Warrick was occupied with corporate business.

After a while, he went off with Sara to try the sim demos before too many of the important guests turned up and sessions were limited to a few minutes.

They were in luck. The technicians setting up the equipment were running late and looking for experienced volunteers to test the system. Toreth had seen all the demo rooms in use before, so the most entertaining part was watching the attending technician fitting the sim couch straps onto Sara while trying not to touch too much bare flesh.

Still, the sim killed half an hour or so. When the technician in charge finally kicked them off the machines to make way for sponsors, they acquired some drinks and went in search of Warrick again. They found him in the main room, on the otherwise empty dais at one end where the speeches and presentations would take place, leaning on the ornate balustrade and surveying the crowd.

Leaving Sara down on the main hall floor and in charge of his glass, Toreth climbed up to stand behind Warrick. Careless of witnesses, he put his hands on Warrick's waist — it wouldn't be too obvious.

Warrick made no objection, so Toreth said, "The sponsors'll be impressed — it all looks very good."

"Yes. I'm very pleased with —"

"Not as good as you in that collar, mind." Toreth leaned in a little, pressing against him, and whispered, "If I'd brought the chains, I could cuff you to that rail and fuck you right now."

He felt the shiver. "Not here," Warrick said quietly.

"No one would know. I could blindfold you."

"There is a difference between . . . between not seeing and not being seen."

"You want it, though, don't you?"

Long, low intake of breath. "Yes."

"How long before we can go back to the flat?"

"Toreth, we've only just —"

"How do you want to do it, for the first time? Standing? Kneeling?"

"Oh,
God.
"

The helpless desperation in Warrick's voice was so perfect, it actually hurt, a pain in Toreth's chest that left him breathless.

"Shall we use a mirror?" he asked when he could speak again. "Or a mirror for me and a blindfold for you. Not seeing and being seen. I think —" He tightened his hold. "I think I'd like to watch you come while I fuck you."

"I —" Warrick stood up abruptly, taking a pace away from him. "Dillian should be here, somewhere. Can you see her?"

Toreth grinned and looked out over the crowd. He was good at faces, especially Dillian's, and it took only a few seconds before he said, "Over there."

Collecting Sara, they crossed the room. The crowd was an interesting mixture of the humbler SimTech employees and volunteers, and the obviously wealthy corporates. SimTech was a great deal more egalitarian than most corporations were, although Toreth thought that might be due more to size than any deliberate policy on the part of the directors.

As they came up to Dillian, Toreth noticed a woman standing beside her he didn't recognise, which was a pity. Early- to mid-thirties at a guess, rich brown hair, trim figure in a flattering dress, glass of something clear with ice in one hand. Certainly not someone he'd turn down in a bar.

Dillian smiled at them. "Sara. What an incredible outfit — it's beautiful! Nice to see you, Toreth."

After greeting Dillian, he turned to the stranger, who offered her hand. Toreth approved — slender, strong fingers, with squared-off nails and natural polish. No wedding band, he noted automatically, feeling the first prickings of interest despite the fact, and despite Warrick's presence beside him. He noticed her returning his appraisal intently, and wondered if she was returning his interest, too.